Disgrace (7 page)

‘Do you see the shears on the table?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘They’re always there. They use them to cut the gauze.
And the tape that secures my probes and syringes. They look sharp, don’t you think?’

Carl looked at them. ‘Sure, Hardy.’

‘Couldn’t you take them and stab me in my carotid artery, Carl? It’d make me very happy.’ He laughed briefly, then stopped suddenly. ‘My arm is twitching, Carl, right below my shoulder muscle, I think.’

Carl frowned. So Hardy felt some twitching, the poor man. If only it were so. ‘Do you want me to scratch it for you, Hardy?’ Pulling the blanket a bit to the side, he considered whether he should yank the shirt down or scratch over it.

‘Damn it, you dumb bastard. Listen to what I’m saying. It’s twitching. Can you see it?’

Carl moved the shirt. Hardy had always made it a point to look attractive. Well groomed and tanned. Now, apart from delicate, pale blue veins, his skin was white as a maggot’s.

Carl touched Hardy’s arm. There wasn’t a muscle left; it felt like tenderized hung beef. And he didn’t notice any twitching.

‘I can feel you in one small spot, Carl. Take the shears and prick me, but not too fast. I’ll tell you when you hit it.’

Poor man. Paralysed from the neck down. Just a touch of feeling in one shoulder was all that was left. Everything else was just the hope of a person in despair.

But Carl did as Hardy asked. Quite systematically, from his elbow down and then up and all the way round. When he neared the back of Hardy’s armpit, he gasped.

‘There, Carl. Use your pen to mark it.’

He did. A friend was a friend, after all.

‘Do it again. Try to trick me. I’ll tell you when you hit the mark. I’m closing my eyes.’

When Carl reached the spot again, Hardy grinned, or perhaps it was a grimace. ‘There!’ he cried. It was goddam unbelievable. Enough to give you the shivers.

‘Don’t tell the nurse, Carl.’

Carl wrinkled his brow. ‘Huh? Why not, Hardy? This is wonderful news. Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope in spite of everything. Then they’ll have something to work from.’

‘I’m going to try to enlarge the spot. I want my one arm back, do you hear?’ Only then did Hardy look at his old colleague for the first time. ‘And what I use the arm for isn’t anyone’s business, got it?’

Carl nodded. Whatever improved Hardy’s mood was fine with him. The dream he had of picking up the shears by himself and stabbing himself in the throat was apparently all he’d been living for.

The question was whether or not that little sensitive spot on Hardy’s arm had been there the whole time. But it was better to let it lie. In Hardy’s case, it hardly made any difference.

Carl adjusted Hardy’s shirt and pulled the blanket up to his chin. ‘Do you still see that lady psychologist, Hardy?’ Carl imagined Mona Ibsen’s delectable body. A vision that was balm for his soul.

‘Yes.’

‘And? What do you talk about?’ he asked, hoping his name would be wedged somewhere in the response.

‘She keeps poking around in the shooting episode out in Amager, though I don’t know what good it’ll do. But
whenever she visits, that damn nail-gun case is what interests her most.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘You know what, Carl?’

‘What?’

‘She’s got me thinking, in spite of myself. I mean, what’s the fucking use? And yet, the question lingers.’

‘Which question, Hardy?’

He looked directly into Carl’s eyes. In the same way they would cross-examine a suspect. Not accusatory, and not the opposite – just unsettling.

‘You and I and Anker were out at the shed at least ten days after the man was murdered, right?’

‘Right.’

‘The culprits had oceans of time to remove any traces. Oceans. Then why didn’t they? Why did they wait? They could have set the fucking house on fire. Taken the body and burned the place down.’

‘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.

‘You insist on taking the dog along, Hjorth? OK, then,’ Ditlev said, avoiding Hjorth’s wife’s stare.

He didn’t care to argue with the bitch. This was exclusively between him and Thelma.

When they reached the clearing at the top of the hill, the smell of humus from the undergrowth decreased. Fifty yards below was a little fog-enshrouded grove, and behind it a thicket extended all the way to a dense forest, which lay like a wide sea before them. It was a magnificent sight.

‘Everyone spread out a little,’ Ditlev said, and nodded with satisfaction when there were seven or eight yards between each of them.

The noise of the beaters in the grove wasn’t loud enough yet. Just a few of the released pheasants had taken flight before softly gliding back into the undergrowth. The footfalls of the hunters near Ditlev were muted but
expectant. Some of the men were thoroughly addicted to the kick they got out there in the morning fog. Squeezing the trigger could satisfy them for days. They earned millions, but it was the killing that made them feel alive.

Young Saxenholdt, pale with agitation, walked at Ditlev’s side. His father had been the same, back when he was a regular participant in the hunts. The son walked cautiously, his sights set on the grove, the thicket behind it, and the forest a few hundred yards further ahead, knowing full well that a good shot could reward him with a love nest his parents would have no control over.

Ditlev held up his hand, and everyone stopped. Hjorth’s bird dog whined and spun round with excitement while its dolt of a master tried to shush it. Just as he’d expected.

Then the first birds flapped up from the grove and there was a volley of gunfire followed by the thud of dead fowl hitting the ground. Hjorth could no longer manage his dog. When the man beside him shouted ‘Fetch!’ to his hound, Hjorth’s ran off, tongue lolling from its mouth. At that moment hundreds of birds flew up at once, and the hunting party ran amok. The gunfire, and the echo it made in the thicket, was deafening.

This was what Ditlev loved: ceaseless gunfire, ceaseless killing, flapping specks in the sky terminated in an orgy of colour. The slow drizzle of birds’ bodies falling from above. The eagerness of the men to reload their weapons. He detected Saxenholdt’s frustration at not being able to shoot along with those who carried shotguns. His glance shifted from the grove, to the edge of the forest, and then across the flat, thicket-overgrown terrain. Where would
his quarry come from? He didn’t know. The more bloodthirsty the hunters became, the tighter he held his rifle.

Hjorth’s dog suddenly leaped for the throat of another dog, which let go of its quarry and retreated, whining. Everyone except Hjorth noticed. Having yet to score a kill, he continued to reload and fire, reload and fire.