At last Ditlev nodded calmly to Ulrik and turned his attention towards the man’s legs. In a moment, when Ulrik cut his face, he would see them jerk in fright.
And now. Now the leg spasms, this wondrous seizure in which the victim’s powerlessness was more evident than ever. Nothing else in Ditlev’s life could equal this kick.
He watched blood drip on to the gravel, but Frank Helmond didn’t utter a peep. He’d acknowledged his role. Ditlev would give him that.
They left him groaning at the edge of the lake. They’d done a good job. He would survive, but he would be dead inside. It would take years before he dared walk the streets again.
The two Mr Hydes could go home, and the Dr Jekylls could re-emerge.
By the time he got home to Rungsted, half the night was gone and he was relatively clear-headed. He and Ulrik had cleaned up, thrown their hats, gloves, coats and sunglasses in the fire and hidden the Stanley knife under a stone in the garden. After that they’d called Torsten and agreed on the course of events for the rest of the evening. Torsten, understandably enough, was livid. Complained that it hadn’t been the right time to do something like that, and they knew he was right. But Ditlev didn’t need to apologize to Torsten, nor did he need to beg him. Torsten was well aware that they were all in it together. If one went down, they all went down. It was as simple as that. And if the police drew close, it was just a question of having their alibis ready.
For that reason alone Torsten agreed on the story the other two had concocted: Ditlev and Ulrik had met at JFK in Hillerød fairly late in the evening, and after a single beer they’d headed up to Torsten’s in Ejlstrup, arriving at 11 p.m. That was the basis of their alibi. In other words, half an hour before the attack occurred. No one could prove otherwise. Maybe someone had seen them in the bar, but would they remember who was where, when, and for how long? Then the three old friends had drunk cognac up at Torsten’s place. Talked about the old days. Nothing special. Just a cosy Friday evening together. That was what they’d say, and what they’d stick to.
Ditlev entered the hallway and confirmed to his satisfaction that the entire house was dark, and that Thelma had retreated to her lair. Then he stood by the fireplace and emptied three snifters of Cypriot brandy, one after the other, so the blissful buzz of his act of revenge could gradually return to a more natural level and he could regain control of his thoughts.
He stepped across the ceramic-tiled kitchen floor to open a tin of caviar, which he could consume while picturing Frank Helmond’s terrified face. These tiles were the housekeeper’s Achilles heel. Thelma’s inspections always ended with a scolding, and no matter how much of an effort the woman made, she could never satisfy Thelma. When it came down to it, who could?
So it was as obvious as blinding sunlight that something was wrong as he stared down at the chequered pattern and discovered the footprints. They weren’t large, but they weren’t a child’s, either. Dirt-smudged.
Ditlev pursed his lips. Stood a moment with his senses on high alert. Yet he detected nothing. Neither smell nor sound. He edged to the knife block and chose the biggest of the Misono knives that could fillet sushi like no other. It would be very unfortunate for anyone who got in its way.
Carefully he stepped through the double doors into the arboretum, instantly aware of a draught coming from the windows, even though they were all closed. Then he noticed the hole in one of the windows. It was small, but there it was.
He scanned the arboretum floor. Additional footprints, more havoc. Chaotically spread shards of glass that bore witness to a simple burglary. Since the alarm hadn’t gone off, it must have happened before Thelma had gone to bed.
Suddenly he felt panic spreading through him.
On his way back to the hall he grabbed another knife from the block. The feel of their handles in each hand gave him a sense of security. He didn’t fear the force of an attack so much as the sheer surprise of it, so he held the knives raised on each side and glanced over his shoulder with each step.
Then he walked upstairs and stood at Thelma’s bedroom door.
A narrow strip of light seeped out from beneath it.
Was someone in there, waiting for him?
Gripping the knives hard, he cautiously pushed the door inward. There sat Thelma in the centre of the bed. Wearing her negligee and looking very much alive, her eyes large and angry.
‘Did you come to kill me, too?’ she said, with intense loathing in her expression. ‘Is that it?’
Then she drew a pistol from under the duvet and aimed it at him.
It wasn’t the weapon but the iciness of her voice that stopped him and caused him to drop the knives.
He knew Thelma. If it had been anyone else it might have been a joke. But Thelma didn’t joke. She didn’t possess a sense of humour. He stood stock-still.
‘What happened?’ he said, sizing up the pistol. It looked real, big enough to shut anyone up. ‘I can see that someone broke into the house, but there’s no one here now, so you can put that thing down.’ He could feel the after-effects of the cocaine swirling round in his veins. The mixture of adrenalin and drugs was potentially an incomparable combination. Just not right now.
‘Where the bloody hell did you get that gun? Come on now, be a good girl and put it down, Thelma. Tell me what happened.’ But Thelma didn’t move an inch.
She looked sexy, lying there. Sexier than she had in years.
He tried to come closer, but she stopped him by clutching the pistol tighter. ‘You attacked Frank, Ditlev. You just couldn’t let him be, could you, you monster?’
How the hell could she know? And so quickly?
‘What do you mean?’ he said, trying to hold her gaze.
‘He’s going to survive, you know. Which is not to your advantage, Ditlev, as I’m sure you understand.’
Ditlev took his eyes off her and glanced at the knives on the floor. He shouldn’t have dropped them.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I was at Torsten’s this evening. Call him and ask.’
‘You and Ulrik were seen at JFK in Hillerød this evening. That’s all I need to know, do you hear?’
In the old days he would have felt his defence mechanisms steering him towards telling a lie, but right now he felt nothing. She already had him right where she wanted him.
‘That’s correct,’ he said without blinking. ‘We were there before we went to Torsten’s. What about it?’
‘I can’t be bothered to listen to you, Ditlev. Come here. Sign your name. Otherwise I’ll kill you.’
She pointed at a few documents lying at the foot of the bed, then fired off a shot that blasted a hole in the wall behind Ditlev. He turned and estimated the extent of the damage. The hole was as big as a man’s hand.
Then he cast a quick glance at the top sheet of paper. It was a rather tough pill to swallow. If he signed, she would get a good thirty-five million kroner per year for the twelve years they’d circled each other like beasts of prey.
‘We won’t report you, Ditlev. Not if you sign this. So do it now.’
‘If you report me, then you won’t get anything, Thelma. Did you consider that? I’ll let the fucking business go bankrupt while I’m in prison.’
‘You’ll sign. Don’t you think I know that?’ Her laughter resounded with contempt. ‘You know as well as I do that things don’t move so quickly. I’ll still get my share of the spoils before you go broke. Maybe not as much, but enough. But I know you, Ditlev. You’re a practical sort. Why throw away your business and sit in jail when you can afford to rid yourself of the wife in a normal fashion? So you’ll sign. And tomorrow you’ll admit Frank to the clinic, understand? I want him as good as new in a month. Even better than new.’