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Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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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 wouldhis 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.
When Hjorth’s hound returned with a third bird and again snapped its jaws at the other dogs, Ditlev nodded to Torsten, who was already watching. The combination of its muscle, instinct and lousy training were terrible traits in a hunting dog.
Everything happened just as Ditlev had predicted. The other dogs had caught on and no longer let Hjorth’s dog retrieve the birds falling in the clearing, and so it disappeared into the forest to ferret out what it could.
‘Take care now,’ Ditlev called to the two riflemen. ‘Remember, there’s a fully furnished flat in Berlin at stake.’ Laughing, he discharged both chambers at a new flock that soared from the hedgerow. ‘The best shot wins the big prize.’
At that point, Hjorth’s hound was just trotting out of the dark underbrush with another bird. A single shot from Torsten’s rifle felled the animal before it reached the open. Probably only Ditlev and Torsten had seen what happened, because the hunters’ only reaction to the blast was Saxenholdt’s gulping for breath, followed by a chorus of laughter – with Hjorth leading the way – when they thought the rifle shot had missed its mark.
But in a little while, when Hjorth found his dog with a hole in its cranium, the laughter would come to an end,and hopefully he’d have learned his lesson. There would be no poorly trained dogs on their hunts when Ditlev Pram said so.
Ditlev caught Krum shaking his head at the same moment they heard new sounds emerging from the thicket behind the grove. So he, too, must have seen Torsten kill the dog.
‘Don’t shoot until you’re certain, understand?’ he quietly told the men at his side. ‘The beaters cover the entire area behind the grove, so I imagine the animal will come out of the thicket down there.’ He pointed at some towering junipers. ‘Aim a yard or so above the ground, directly at the target’s mid-section. In that way a missed shot will hit the ground.’
‘What is that?’ whispered Saxenholdt, nodding at a cluster of overgrown trees that had suddenly begun to shake. There was the sound of crackling twigs, faint at first, then stronger, and the beaters’ shouts behind the creature grew more and more shrill.
And then it jumped.
Saxenholdt and Torsten fired simultaneously, and the dark silhouette stumbled a little to one side before bounding clumsily
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 wouldhis 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.
When Hjorth’s hound returned with a third bird and again snapped its jaws at the other dogs, Ditlev nodded to Torsten, who was already watching. The combination of its muscle, instinct and lousy training were terrible traits in a hunting dog.
Everything happened just as Ditlev had predicted. The other dogs had caught on and no longer let Hjorth’s dog retrieve the birds falling in the clearing, and so it disappeared into the forest to ferret out what it could.
‘Take care now,’ Ditlev called to the two riflemen. ‘Remember, there’s a fully furnished flat in Berlin at stake.’ Laughing, he discharged both chambers at a new flock that soared from the hedgerow. ‘The best shot wins the big prize.’
At that point, Hjorth’s hound was just trotting out of the dark underbrush with another bird. A single shot from Torsten’s rifle felled the animal before it reached the open. Probably only Ditlev and Torsten had seen what happened, because the hunters’ only reaction to the blast was Saxenholdt’s gulping for breath, followed by a chorus of laughter – with Hjorth leading the way – when they thought the rifle shot had missed its mark.
But in a little while, when Hjorth found his dog with a hole in its cranium, the laughter would come to an end,and hopefully he’d have learned his lesson. There would be no poorly trained dogs on their hunts when Ditlev Pram said so.
Ditlev caught Krum shaking his head at the same moment they heard new sounds emerging from the thicket behind the grove. So he, too, must have seen Torsten kill the dog.
‘Don’t shoot until you’re certain, understand?’ he quietly told the men at his side. ‘The beaters cover the entire area behind the grove, so I imagine the animal will come out of the thicket down there.’ He pointed at some towering junipers. ‘Aim a yard or so above the ground, directly at the target’s mid-section. In that way a missed shot will hit the ground.’
‘What is that?’ whispered Saxenholdt, nodding at a cluster of overgrown trees that had suddenly begun to shake. There was the sound of crackling twigs, faint at first, then stronger, and the beaters’ shouts behind the creature grew more and more shrill.
And then it jumped.
Saxenholdt and Torsten fired simultaneously, and the dark silhouette stumbled a little to one side before bounding clumsily
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