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First published in Denmark as Fasandræberne by Politikens Forlag, 2008

This translation first published 2012

Copyright © Jussi Adler-Olsen, 2008

Translation copyright © K. E. Semmel, 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-14-196252-8

Read on for an extract from the next novel in the Department Q series …

Redemption

Jussi Adler-Olsen

Translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken

Available from Penguin in spring 2013

Prologue

It was the third morning, and the smell of tar and seaweed had got into his clothes. Under the boathouse floor, the mush of ice lapped against the wooden stilts and awakened memories of days when everything had been all right.

He lifted his upper body from the bedding of waste paper and pulled himself sufficiently upright as to be able to make out his little brother’s face, which even in sleep seemed tormented, perished with cold.

Soon, he would wake and glance around in panic. He would feel the leather straps tight around his wrists and waist and hear the jangle of the chain that constrained him. He would see the snowstorm and the light as it struggled to penetrate the tarred timber planks. And then he would start to pray.

Countless were the times desperation had sprung forth in his brother’s eyes. Through the heavy-duty tape that covered his mouth came the repeated sound of his muffled beseechings that Jehova have mercy upon them.

Yet both of them knew that Jehova no longer paid heed, for blood had passed their lips. Blood that their jailer had let drip into their cups. The cups from which he had allowed them to drink before revealing to them what they had contained. They had drunk water, but in the water was blood, so forbidden, and now they were damned for ever. And for that reason, shame pierced deeper even than thirst.

‘What do you think he’ll do to us?’ his brother’s frightened eyes seemed so incessantly to ask. But how could he ever know the answer? All he knew was the instinctive feeling that it would all soon be over.

He leaned backwards and scanned the room once again in the dim light, allowing his gaze to pass across the collar beams and through the formations of cobwebs, noting each and every projection, each and every knot. The frayed paddles and oars that hung from the apex of the ceiling. The rotten fishnets that had long since made their last catch.

And then he discovered the bottle. A gleam of sunlight playing momentarily on the blue-white glass to dazzle him.

It was so near, and yet so hard to reach. It was just behind him, wedged between the thick, rough-hewn planks of the floor.

He stuck his fingers through the gap and tried to prise the bottle upwards by the neck, only for the air to freeze to ice upon his skin. When the thing came loose he would smash it and use the shards to cut through the strap that held his hands tied tight together behind his back. And when it succumbed, his numb fingers would find the buckle at his spine. He would loosen it, tear the tape from his mouth, remove the straps from around his waist and thighs, and as soon as the chain that was fastened to the leather strap at his waist no longer constrained him, he would lunge forward and free his brother. He would draw him towards him and hold him tight until their bodies ceased to tremble.

Then, he envisaged, he would use all his strength to dig into the timber around the door with the broken glass. He would see if he could hollow out the planks where the hinges were placed. And if the worst should happen and the car came before he was finished, he would stand in wait for the man. He would wait behind the door with the broken glass in his hand. That was what he told himself he would do.

He leaned forward, folded his freezing fingers behind his back and prayed for forgiveness for his wicked thought.

Then he scraped again in the space between the planks in order that the bottle might come free. He scraped and scratched until the neck angled sufficiently for him to grab hold of it.

He listened.

Was that an engine? Yes, it was. The powerful engine of a large car. But was it approaching or simply passing by in the distance out there?

For a moment, the low sound seemed to become louder. He began to pull so desperately at the neck of the bottle that his knuckles cracked. But then it died away. Had it been the wind turbines, rumbling and whirring? Maybe it was something else entirely. He had no idea.

He expelled warm breath from his nostrils. It steamed the air around his face. He wasn’t so afraid any more, not now. As long as he thought about the grace of God, he felt better.

He pressed his lips together and kept on. And when finally the bottle came free, he struck it so hard against the timber of the floor that his brother lifted his head with a startled jolt and looked around in terror.

Again and again, he brought the bottle down against the floor. It was hard to get a swing with his hands behind his back. Too hard. Eventually, when his fingers were no longer able to maintain their grip, he let the bottle slide from his hand, turned himself around and stared emptily at it as dust gently descended through the cramped space from the beams.

He couldn’t break it. He simply wasn’t able. A pathetic little bottle. Was it because they had drunk blood? Had Jehova abandoned them?

He looked at his brother, who rolled deliberately back into his blanket and fell back on to his bedding. He was silent, not even attempting to mumble a word through his adhesive tape.

It took a while to gather the things he needed. The hardest part was to stretch himself sufficiently within the confines of his chain as to be able to reach the tar between the roofing planks with the tips of his fingers. Everything else was at hand: the bottle, the sliver of wood from the timbered floor, the paper on which he was seated.