want?’
Torsten breathed deeply. ‘They wanted to know about the brother and sister up at Dybesø. Nothing specific. If the old fool understood correctly, someone contacted the police and sowed doubt on Bjarne’s guilt.’
‘Kimmie?’
‘I don’t know, Ditlev. As I recall, they didn’t say who.’
‘Warn Bjarne, OK? Immediately. What else?’
‘Dad suggested the police contact Krum.’
The laughter on the other end of the line was classic Ditlev: totally ice-cold. ‘Krum? They won’t get anything out of him,’ he said.
‘No. But apparently they’ve begun some sort of investigation, and that’s bad enough.’
‘Were they from Holbæk Police?’ Ditlev asked.
‘I don’t think so. The old man thought they were from Copenhagen’s Homicide Division.’
‘Jesus Christ. Did your father get their names?’
‘No. As usual, the arrogant bastard wasn’t listening. But Krum will get them.’
‘Forget it. I’ll phone Aalbæk. He knows a couple of blokes at police headquarters.’
After the conversation, Torsten sat staring blankly into space for a while as his breathing grew deeper. His brain was permeated with images of terrified people begging for mercy, screaming for help. Memories of blood, and the laughter of the others in the gang. Them all talking about it afterwards. Kristian’s photo collection that brought them together night after night, smoking until they were high or pumped up with amphetamines. In such moments he recalled everything and he both revelled in it and hated himself for doing so.
He opened his eyes wide to sink back into reality. Typically it took a few minutes for him to get the frenzy of rage out of his bloodstream, but the erotic arousal always remained.
He put his hand to his crotch. His cock was hard again.
Shit! Why couldn’t he control these feelings? Why did it continue, on and on?
He locked the door to the adjacent suites, from which the voices of half of Denmark’s fashion barons and baronesses could be heard.
He inhaled sharply and sank slowly to his knees.
Then he folded his hands and let his head fall forward. Sometimes it simply felt necessary. ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ he whispered a couple of times. ‘Forgive me. For I cannot help myself.’
12
Ditlev Pram quickly updated Aalbæk on the situation, ignoring the fool’s complaints about late nights and lack of manpower. So long as they paid his price, he better just keep his trap shut.
Then he swivelled his office chair and nodded pleasantly at his trusted colleagues around the conference table.
‘Excuse me,’ he said in English. ‘I have a problem with an old aunt who’s always straying from home. This time of year, we obviously need to find her before nightfall.’
They smiled agreeably, understanding what he meant. Family comes first. That’s how it was where they came from, too.
‘Thank you for a good briefing.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m very pleased that this team has become a reality. Northern Europe’s best doctors congregated in one place – could one wish for anything more?’ He smacked his palms on the tabletop. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Will you begin, Stanislav?’
His head of plastic surgery nodded, flicking on the overhead projector. Stanislav showed them a man’s face on which lines had been drawn. ‘We will make incisions here, here and here,’ he said. He’d done the procedure before. Five times in Romania and twice in the Ukraine. In every case but one the feeling in the facial nerves had
returned startlingly fast. He made it sound uncomplicated. A facelift, he claimed, could now be done with just half the incisions doctors typically used.
‘Take a look here,’ he said, ‘right at the top of the sideburns. A triangular area is removed and the skin is pulled up and sewn together with only a few stitches. Simple and straightforward.’
At this point Ditlev’s hospital director interrupted. ‘We have submitted descriptions of the operation
Torsten breathed deeply. ‘They wanted to know about the brother and sister up at Dybesø. Nothing specific. If the old fool understood correctly, someone contacted the police and sowed doubt on Bjarne’s guilt.’
‘Kimmie?’
‘I don’t know, Ditlev. As I recall, they didn’t say who.’
‘Warn Bjarne, OK? Immediately. What else?’
‘Dad suggested the police contact Krum.’
The laughter on the other end of the line was classic Ditlev: totally ice-cold. ‘Krum? They won’t get anything out of him,’ he said.
‘No. But apparently they’ve begun some sort of investigation, and that’s bad enough.’
‘Were they from Holbæk Police?’ Ditlev asked.
‘I don’t think so. The old man thought they were from Copenhagen’s Homicide Division.’
‘Jesus Christ. Did your father get their names?’
‘No. As usual, the arrogant bastard wasn’t listening. But Krum will get them.’
‘Forget it. I’ll phone Aalbæk. He knows a couple of blokes at police headquarters.’
After the conversation, Torsten sat staring blankly into space for a while as his breathing grew deeper. His brain was permeated with images of terrified people begging for mercy, screaming for help. Memories of blood, and the laughter of the others in the gang. Them all talking about it afterwards. Kristian’s photo collection that brought them together night after night, smoking until they were high or pumped up with amphetamines. In such moments he recalled everything and he both revelled in it and hated himself for doing so.
He opened his eyes wide to sink back into reality. Typically it took a few minutes for him to get the frenzy of rage out of his bloodstream, but the erotic arousal always remained.
He put his hand to his crotch. His cock was hard again.
Shit! Why couldn’t he control these feelings? Why did it continue, on and on?
He locked the door to the adjacent suites, from which the voices of half of Denmark’s fashion barons and baronesses could be heard.
He inhaled sharply and sank slowly to his knees.
Then he folded his hands and let his head fall forward. Sometimes it simply felt necessary. ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ he whispered a couple of times. ‘Forgive me. For I cannot help myself.’
12
Ditlev Pram quickly updated Aalbæk on the situation, ignoring the fool’s complaints about late nights and lack of manpower. So long as they paid his price, he better just keep his trap shut.
Then he swivelled his office chair and nodded pleasantly at his trusted colleagues around the conference table.
‘Excuse me,’ he said in English. ‘I have a problem with an old aunt who’s always straying from home. This time of year, we obviously need to find her before nightfall.’
They smiled agreeably, understanding what he meant. Family comes first. That’s how it was where they came from, too.
‘Thank you for a good briefing.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m very pleased that this team has become a reality. Northern Europe’s best doctors congregated in one place – could one wish for anything more?’ He smacked his palms on the tabletop. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Will you begin, Stanislav?’
His head of plastic surgery nodded, flicking on the overhead projector. Stanislav showed them a man’s face on which lines had been drawn. ‘We will make incisions here, here and here,’ he said. He’d done the procedure before. Five times in Romania and twice in the Ukraine. In every case but one the feeling in the facial nerves had
returned startlingly fast. He made it sound uncomplicated. A facelift, he claimed, could now be done with just half the incisions doctors typically used.
‘Take a look here,’ he said, ‘right at the top of the sideburns. A triangular area is removed and the skin is pulled up and sewn together with only a few stitches. Simple and straightforward.’
At this point Ditlev’s hospital director interrupted. ‘We have submitted descriptions of the operation
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