18

During the time Ulrik worked as a stock market analyst he had made many investors richer than anyone else in his line of business, and the key words were ‘information, information, information’. In this field, wealth was created neither through coincidence nor luck. Certainly not luck.

Nobody in the business had as many contacts, and there wasn’t a single media conglomerate where he didn’t know someone. He was confident and careful, and he scrutinized the publicly traded companies thoroughly and by every imaginable means before he estimated the profitability of their stocks. Sometimes he was so thorough, in fact, that businesses asked him to forget what he’d learned. And his acquaintances with people who were caught in a bind, or who knew someone who knew someone who needed help getting out of an ugly situation, spread like ripples in the water until they eventually covered the entire ocean upon which society’s largest platforms floated.

In some less advanced countries this would have made Ulrik an extremely dangerous man who for many would have been a much better ally with his throat slashed – but not here. In tiny Denmark the system was so ingenious that if you knew some dirt about somebody, they also knew something just as bad about you. If it wasn’t hushed up the one person’s offence quickly infected the other’s. A strange, practical principle which meant that no one would say anything about anyone else, not even if they were caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

Because nobody wanted to spend six years in prison for insider trading. And nobody wanted to saw off the branch they were sitting on.

Up in his slowly growing money tree, Ulrik spun a spider web that in polite circles was called a ‘network’ – this wonderful, paradoxical word that functioned as intended only if the net filtered out more people than it caught.

And Ulrik made exceptionally good catches in his network. The kinds of people others read about. Respected people. The crème de la crème. All of them people who’d risen from their origins and were now soaring towards a stratum where one needn’t share the sunlight with riff-raff.

These were the people he hunted with. The ones he walked arm in arm with at the Freemason’s lodge. The ones who understood the importance of sticking with their own kind.

Ulrik was thus a vital cog in the boarding-school gang’s wheel. He was the gregarious one everyone knew, and behind him stood his childhood pals, Ditlev Pram and Torsten Florin. It was a strong, albeit oddly matched, triumvirate, one that was invited to everything worth being invited to.

This afternoon they had begun their high jinks at a reception in a downtown gallery that had connections to both the theatre scene and the royal family. Afterwards they’d wound up at a lavish soirée in the company of parade uniforms, medals and knightly orders. The event featured well-prepared speeches written by underlings who had not been invited, while a string ensemble tried to draw those present into Brahms’ world, and the champagne and self-praise flowed generously.

‘Is it true what I’m hearing, Ulrik?’ the cabinet minister at his side asked, his alcohol-dulled eyes trying to measure the distance to his glass. ‘Is it really true that Torsten killed a couple of horses with a crossbow on a hunt this summer? Just like that, in an open field?’ He tried again to pour a few drops in his much-too-tall glass.

Ulrik reached out in support of the man’s efforts. ‘Do you know what? Don’t believe everything you hear. And, by the way, why don’t you come and hunt with us sometime? That way you can see for yourself what it’s all about.’

The minister nodded. This was exactly what he’d wanted, and he would love it. Ulrik knew such things. Another important man snared in his net.

Then he turned to his dinner companion, who’d been attempting to get his attention all evening.

‘You look beautiful tonight, Isabel,’ he said, laying a hand on her arm. In another hour she would learn what she’d got herself into.

Ditlev had assigned him the task. They didn’t get a bite every time, but this was a sure thing. Isabel would do whatever they asked her to – she seemed to be up for a little of everything. Of course she would whimper along the way, but the years of boredom and lack of satisfaction would certainly be a plus. Perhaps she’d find it more difficult bearing Torsten’s method of handling her body than that of the others, but on the other hand they’d seen evidence that it was precisely this way of Torsten’s that made them dependent. Torsten understood women’s sensuality better than most. In any event, she’d keep it to herself. Rape or not, she wouldn’t run her mouth off. Why hazard the risk of losing access to the many millions her impotent husband controlled?

Ulrik stroked her forearm, up along her silken sleeve. This cool fabric, primarily worn by warm-blooded women – he simply loved it.

He nodded to Ditlev at one of the tables across from him. It should have been the signal, but a man was standing at Ditlev’s side, stealing his attention. He was whispering something to Ditlev, who sat there holding a forkful of salmon mousse, ignoring all else. His eyes were staring blankly into space as the wrinkles on his forehead deepened into furrows. It was impossible to misinterpret these signs.

With an appropriate excuse, Ulrik stood up and tapped Torsten on the shoulder as he passed his table.

The neglected woman would have to wait until next time.

He heard Torsten excuse himself to his dinner companion. In a moment he would kiss her hand, which was expected of a man like Torsten Florin. A heterosexual man who dressed women ought to also know how best to undress them.

The three of them met in the foyer.

‘Who was the guy you were talking to?’ Ulrik asked.

Ditlev’s hand fidgeted with his bow tie. He hadn’t fully recovered from what he’d just heard. ‘That was one of my people from Caracas. He came to tell me that Frank Helmond has told several of the nurses that we were the ones who attacked him.’

It was precisely this kind of mess Ulrik hated. Hadn’t Ditlev sworn he’d had the situation under control? Didn’t Thelma promise that she and Helmond would keep their mouths shut if the divorce and his plastic surgery went smoothly?

‘Shit!’ Torsten exploded.

Ditlev looked at each of them in turn. ‘Helmond was still under the influence of the anaesthetic. No one will believe him.’ He glanced at the floor. ‘It’ll work out. But there’s something else. My man also got a telephone message from Aalbæk. Apparently none of us has our mobiles on.’

He gave them the note and Torsten read over Ulrik’s shoulder.

‘I don’t understand the last part,’ Ulrik said. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Sometimes you can be so damned dim-witted, Ulrik.’ Torsten glared at him disrespectfully. Ulrik hated that.

‘Kimmie’s out there somewhere,’ Ditlev cut him off. ‘You’ve not heard, Torsten, but she was seen at the central station today. One of Aalbæk’s men heard a junkie calling her name. He only saw her from behind, but he’d observed her earlier in the day. She was wearing expensive clothes and she looked good. She’d been sitting at a café for an hour or an hour and a half. He just thought it was someone waiting for a train. At one point she also walked past them at close range while Aalbæk was briefing his men.’

‘Bloody fucking hell!’ Torsten blurted.

Ulrik hadn’t heard this last part, either. It wasn’t good news. Maybe she knew they were after her.

Damn. Of course she knew. It was Kimmie, after all.

‘She’ll get away from us again,’ he said. ‘I know it.’

They all knew that.

Torsten’s fox-face narrowed even more. ‘Aalbæk knows where the junkie lives?’

Ditlev nodded.

‘He’ll take care of her, right?’

‘Yes. The question is whether or not it’s too late. The police already paid her a visit.’