‘Perhaps you know her whereabouts?’

He shook his head, an odd expression on his face. Carl had seen his share of odd expressions, but he didn’t understand what this one meant.

‘You’re certain?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely. I haven’t seen Kirsten-Marie since 1996.’

‘We have a lot of evidence connecting her to these events.’

‘Yes, my solicitor told me. Neither he nor I know anything about the cases you’re talking about. I must ask you to leave. I’m busy today. Remember a warrant if you come by another day.’

His smile was incredibly provocative, and Carl pressed him with additional questions. But Torsten Florin moved aside and three dark-skinned men who must have been waiting behind the door stepped forward.

Two minutes later Carl and Assad were back in their car. Threatened with death and destruction, the media, the public prosecutor and the whole kit and caboodle.

If Carl had previously thought Torsten was weak, then it was high time he considered revising his view.

38

On this morning, the day of the fox hunt, Torsten Florin had woken as usual to classical music and the light pattering of feet that announced the arrival of the young black woman, bare-chested and with outstretched hands, who stood before him now. As always, she was holding the silver tray. Her smile was stiff and feigned, but Torsten Florin didn’t care. He had no use for her affection or devotion. He needed order in his life, and order was created when daily rituals were followed to the letter. That’s how he’d lived for eleven years now, and that’s how he planned to continue. For some wealthy people rituals were a way of marketing themselves. Torsten used them to survive daily life.

He took the napkin from the tray, enjoying its scent, laid it on his chest and received the plate on which lay four chicken hearts, freshly slaughtered organs without which he remained convinced he would waste away.

He ate the first heart in one bite and prayed for a successful hunt. Then he polished off the remaining three and had his face and hands dried with a camphor-scented cloth, a procedure the woman executed with practised hands.

Then he waved the woman and her husband – who’d been on guard duty all night – out of the room and savoured the emerging day’s first rays of sun as they illuminated the forest. In a few hours it would begin. At nine o’clock the pack of hunters would be ready. This time they weren’t hunting their prey at sun-up; the animal was too sly and crazed for that. It would have to be done in broad daylight.

He imagined how the rabies and survival instinct would rage within the fox when they set it loose. How easily it would be able to stick close to the ground and wait for the right moment when the beaters were close. A single lunge for the groin and it would be gone again.

But Torsten knew his Somalis; they wouldn’t let the fox get that close to them. He was more concerned for the huntsmen. Well, concerned was probably the wrong word. Most of them were shrewd enough people who had partaken in his games often before, who burned with a desire to live on the edge. All of them influential men who’d made their mark. Men whose ideas were greater and more far-reaching than those of the man on the street. That’s why they were here today. They were folk of the right mould. No, he wasn’t so concerned for them, he was more absorbed by a nagging uneasiness.

If it hadn’t been for Kimmie and that fucking cop who’d approached Bent Krum, and if those cases that should’ve been long forgotten hadn’t been reopened – like the assaults on Langeland and on Kyle Basset and Kåre Bruno – this day would have been perfect.

These were thoughts he would be revising a few hours later.

How the hell was it that this jumped-up policeman who suddenly appeared on his doorstep could actually know about these things?

He stood inside the glass hall, surrounded by the din of the animals, and stared at the fox as the Somalis pulled its cage from the corner. Its eyes were wild, and it kept lunging at the bars, gnawing at them as though they were living flesh. The thought of these teeth and the deadly bacteria that was slowly killing the animal sent a shiver down Torsten’s spine.

To hell with the police, to hell with Kimmie and all other trivialities in this world. Stepping towards the edge of eternity, which was what setting the animal free in their midst would represent, made everything else seem insignificant.

‘You’ll soon be meeting your fate, Fantastic Mr Fox,’ he said, launching his fist against the cage.

He glanced around the hall. It was a sight fit for the gods. More than a hundred cages, containing every imaginable animal. The last addition had been the predator’s cage from Nautilus. It had been placed on the floor, and inside it, scowling, was an enraged hyena with a crooked back. It would soon take the fox’s spot in the corner, along with the other exotic quarry. The hunting expeditions from now until Christmas had already been arranged. He had things under control.

He heard the cars glide into the courtyard and turned, smiling, towards the hall entrance.

Ulrik and Ditlev had arrived, on time as usual. Yet another detail that separated the sheep from the goats.

Ten minutes later they were down in the shooting tunnel with crossbows and watchful eyes. Ulrik was in a masochistic mood, quivering blissfully after their discussion about Kimmie and her uncertain whereabouts. Maybe he had taken one line too many of the white powder that morning. Ditlev, on the other hand, was clear-headed, with especially alert eyes. The crossbow lay in his arms like an organic extension of himself.

‘Yes, thank you, I slept wonderfully last night. Kimmie and everyone else can bring it on,’ he said, in answer to Torsten’s question. ‘I’m ready for anything.’

‘That’s good,’ Torsten replied. He wasn’t about to ruin his hunting companions’ high spirits by telling them about Deputy Detective Superintendent Mørck and his digging around in the past. That could wait until after they’d shot a practice round. ‘I’m glad you’re ready for anything. I think you’re going to need to be.’

39

They’d been sitting in the car for a few minutes by the side of the road, discussing their meeting with Torsten Florin. Assad thought they ought to drive back and reveal what they’d found in Kimmie’s metal box. He believed it would deflate Florin’s self-confidence, but Carl was in total disagreement. They would not mention the box until they had an arrest warrant.

This elicited some grumbling from Assad. Contrary to popular perception, patience apparently wasn’t all that widespread in the desert regions he’d trod in his childhood sandals.

Carl looked down the road and saw two vehicles driving towards them at a speed well over the limit. They were four-wheel-drives with tinted windows – the kind of vehicle that teenage boys only came close to when staring longingly at glossy brochures.

‘I’ll be damned!’ he shouted when the lead car roared past. He started the engine and swung around behind the second one.

When they reached the road branching off towards Dueholt, they were only twenty yards behind.

‘I’m certain I caught a glimpse of Ditlev Pram in the lead car. Did you see who was in the rear one, Assad?’ he asked, after the two vehicles had turned down the gravel road to Florin’s estate.

‘No, but I’ve taken down the registration numbers. I’ll check them now.’