‘Yes, it does make you wonder. I do, too.’

‘But why did they come back to the house right when we were there?’

‘Yes, that also makes you wonder.’

‘Wonder? Do you know what, Carl? I don’t wonder so much. Not any more.’ He tried to clear his throat, but didn’t succeed.

‘Maybe Anker could have said more if he were still alive,’ Hardy continued.

‘What do you mean?’ Carl hadn’t thought of Anker in weeks. Only eight months had passed since their best colleague had been shot before their eyes in that rotten house, yet he had already floated out of Carl’s consciousness. It made him wonder how long he would be remembered if the same happened to him.

‘Someone was waiting for us at the house, Carl. What happened there doesn’t make sense any other way. I mean, it wasn’t a typical investigation. One of us was involved, and it wasn’t me. Was it you, Carl?’

9

Ditlev stuck his head out the passenger window and signalled the drivers of the six four-wheel-drives parked in front of the yellow-washed facade of Tranekær Inn to follow him.

The sun was wavering on the horizon as they reached the forest and the beaters disappeared behind the hedgerow boundary of the hunting ground. The drivers knew the routine and after a few minutes they were standing beside Ditlev with their coats buttoned and their gun barrels broken open. A few had dogs trotting at their side.

As always, the last to step forward was Torsten Florin. Plaid knickerbockers and a tailored, snug-fitting hunting coat was his unique combination for the day. He could attend a formal ball in that get-up.

Ditlev looked warily at a bird dog that had hopped from the rear of one of the four-wheel-drives at the last moment, and then he scanned the faces at the gathering. There was one participant he certainly hadn’t invited.

He leaned close to Bent Krum. ‘Who invited her, Krum?’ he whispered. Bent Krum, lawyer for Ditlev Pram, Torsten Florin and Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen, was also the one who coordinated their hunts. He was a versatile man who’d been putting out their fires for years and was now totally dependent on the ample sum they transferred into his bank account each month.

‘Your wife invited her, Ditlev,’ he responded softly. ‘She said Lissan Hjorth was welcome to come with her husband. Just so you know, she’s also a better shot than Hjorth.’

Better shot? Bloody hell, that had nothing to do with it. There were plenty of reasons why women weren’t allowed on Ditlev’s hunts – as if Krum didn’t know. Thelma, that bitch.

Ditlev put his hand on Hjorth’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, old boy, but your wife can’t come with us today,’ he said. Though he knew it would cause problems, he asked Hjorth to give the car keys to his wife. ‘She can drive down to the inn. I’ll call ahead and have them open up. And have her take your unruly dog with her. This is a special battue, Hjorth. You ought to know that.’

A few of the others tried to mediate, as if they had any say in the matter. They were old-money idiots without proper fortunes. But maybe they didn’t know what that damned bird dog was like.

He kicked the toe of his boot against the ground and repeated: ‘No women. Goodbye, Lissan.’

Ditlev handed out orange scarves and avoided Lissan Hjorth’s eyes when he skipped her. ‘Remember to take that creature with you,’ was all he said. He was sure as hell not letting them change his rules. This was not going to be your average hunt.

‘If my wife can’t come with us, Ditlev, then neither will I,’ Hjorth tried to argue. He was a pathetic little man in a pathetic, worn Moorland coat. Had he not felt Ditlev Pram’s wrath once before when he’d tried to contradict him? Didn’t his relationship to Ditlev benefit his business? And didn’t he almost go bankrupt when Ditlev re-routed his granite purchases to China? Would Hjorth really want Ditlev to punish him again? He could of course do that.

‘That’s your decision.’ He turned his back on the couple and looked directly at the others. ‘Each of you knows the rules. What you experience today is no one else’s business, do you hear?’ They nodded, as he expected. ‘We’ve put out two hundred pheasants and partridges, both cocks and hens. Enough for everyone.’ He grinned. ‘OK, so it’s a little too early in the season for the hens, but does anybody care?’ He turned towards the men from the local hunting club. They would certainly keep quiet. Everyone worked for him in one way or the other. ‘But why bother discussing the poultry? You’ll score some kills, no matter what. What’s more interesting is the other game I’ve brought for the lot of you today. I won’t tell you what it is. You’ll see for yourselves.’

Eager faces followed his movements as he turned and accepted a bundle of sticks from Ulrik. ‘Most of you know the routine. Two of you will draw a shorter stick than the others. These lucky individuals get to lay down their shotguns for a rifle. There’ll be no birds for them. Instead, they’ll have the opportunity to bring home the prey of the day. Are we ready?’

A few of the men tossed their cigars on the ground and stamped them out. Everyone had his own method of preparing for the hunt.

Ditlev smiled. This was the ruling class at its best: merciless and selfish – by the book.

‘Yes, normally the two chosen riflemen share the kill,’ he said, ‘but that’s up to the one who downs the animal. If Ulrik bags the trophy, we all know what will happen.’ All of them laughed, except for Ulrik. Whether it was shares of stock, women or boars released in the wild, Ulrik shared with no one. They knew him.

Ditlev leaned over and picked up two rifle cases. ‘Look,’ he said, dragging the rifles into the morning light. ‘I’ve taken our old Sauer Classics back to Hunter’s House so we can try these two small wonders.’ He raised one Sauer Elegance rifle above his head. ‘They’re broken in, and they’re damn lovely to hold. You can look forward to it!’

He thrust out the bundle of sticks, ignoring the heated exchange taking place between the Hjorths, and gave the two lucky winners the rifles.

Torsten was one. He seemed agitated, but Ditlev knew it was hardly because of the hunt. This was something they would have to discuss afterwards.

‘Torsten has done this before, but not Saxenholdt, so congratulations are in order.’ He nodded at the young man and raised his hip flask to him along with the others. With his cravat and pomaded hair, Saxenholdt was a real boarding-school lad, and would be until his dying day. ‘You two are the only ones who may shoot at today’s special game, so it’s your responsibility to see to it that it is done properly. Remember to keep firing until the animal is no longer moving. And remember that whoever downs it receives the prize …’

He took a step back and removed an envelope from his inner coat pocket.

‘The deeds to a fine little three-bedroom flat in Berlin with a view of the landing strips at Tempelhof Airport. But don’t worry, the airport will be gone soon, and you’ll have the pier right under your window.’ When the men began clapping, he smiled. His wife had pestered him for months to buy that damned flat, but had she bothered to visit it even once? Hell, no. Not even with her bastard lover. Now was his chance to rid himself of it.

‘My wife is leaving, Ditlev, but I’m taking the dog with me,’ a voice behind him said. Ditlev turned and looked directly into Hjorth’s stubborn visage. Clearly, he was trying to negotiate so that he wouldn’t lose face.

Ditlev glanced over his shoulder, catching Torsten’s eye for a split second. No one overruled Ditlev Pram. If he told a man he couldn’t take his dog with him, then that man would have to suffer the consequences of disobeying.