The tabloids loved everything about the Democrats’ vice-chairperson, Merete Lynggaard, and everything she stood for. Her sharp comments at the podium in the Folketing, the Danish parliament. Her lack of respect for the prime minister and his yes-men. Her feminine attributes, mischievous eyes, and seductive dimples. They loved her for her youth and success, but above all they loved her for the fodder she gave to speculations about why such a talented and beautiful woman had still not appeared in public with a man.
Merete Lynggaard sold a hell of a lot of newspapers. Lesbian or not, she was truly great material.
And Merete was fully aware of this.
“Why don’t you go out with Tage Baggesen?” her secretary urged, as they headed for Merete’s small blue Audi, avoiding the puddles forming in the Christiansborg parking lot, which was reserved for members of parliament. “I know there are plenty of men who’d like to take you out on the town, but he’s completely crazy about you. How many times has he tried to ask you out? Have you even counted how many messages he’s left on your desk? In fact, he left one today. Just give him a chance, Merete.”
“Why don’t you date him?” Merete glanced down as she dumped a pile of folders onto the backseat of her car.
“What am I supposed to do with someone who’s chair of the Traffic Committee and also a member of the Radical Center Party? Can you tell me that, Marianne? What am I? Some sort of traffic roundabout in the provinces?”
Merete raised her eyes to look over at the Royal Arsenal Museum, where a man in a white trench coat was photographing the building. Did he just snap a picture of her? She shook her head. The feeling of being watched had begun to annoy her. Of course it was sheer paranoia. She really needed to relax.
“Tage Baggesen is thirty-five years old and he’s fucking gorgeous,” said Marianne. “Well, OK, maybe he could stand to lose a few pounds, but on the other hand he owns a country house in Vejby. Plus a couple of others over in Jutland, I think. What more could you want?”
Merete shook her head skeptically. “Right. He’s thirty-five years old and lives with his mother. You know what, Marianne? You should take him yourself. You’ve been acting really strange lately. Take him. Be my guest!”
She grabbed all the folders her secretary was holding and flung them onto the seat with the others. The time on the dashboard clock was 5:30. She was already late.
“Your voice will be missed in the Folketing this evening, Merete.”
“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. Ever since she’d entered politics, there had been a firm agreement between herself and the chairman of the Democrats that after six p.m., her time was her own, unless it was a matter of crucial committee work or a vote. “Not a problem,” he’d told her back then, fully aware of how many votes she pulled in. So it shouldn’t be a problem now, either.
“Come on, Merete. Tell me what you’ve got planned.” Her secretary tilted her head. “What’s his name?”
Merete gave her a quick smile and slammed the door. It was about time she found a replacement for Marianne Koch.
3. 2007
Homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen was a slob when it came to keeping his office in order, but that didn’t bother him. The mess was just an external phenomenon; on the inside he was meticulously organized. There, in his shrewd mind, everything was neatly arranged. He never lost sight of the details. They were still razor sharp ten years later.
It was only in situations like the one that had just occurred, when the room was crammed with superattentive colleagues who had been forced to sidle around worn-out document carts and heaps of case materials, that he regarded the ragnarok of his office with a certain dismay.
He raised his chipped Sherlock Holmes mug and took a big gulp of cold coffee as he thought for the tenth time that morning about the half pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. It was no longer even permitted to take a damned smoke break out in the courtyard. Fucking directives.
“OK, now listen up!” Marcus Jacobsen turned to look at his deputy, Lars Bjorn, whom he’d asked to stay behind after the general briefing was over. “The case of the murdered cyclist in Valby Park is going to drain all our resources if we don’t watch out,” he said.
Lars Bjorn nodded. “Then this is a hell of a time for Carl Morck to rejoin the team and monopolize four of our very best detectives. People are complaining about him, and who do you think they’re complaining to?” He jabbed at his chest, as if he were the only one who had to listen to people’s shit.
“He shows up hours late,” he went on. “Rides his staff hard, rummages around with the cases, and refuses to return phone calls. His office is utter chaos, and you won’t believe this, but they called from the forensics lab to bitch about a phone conversation with him. The boys from forensics — can you believe it? It takes a lot to aggravate those guys. We need to do something about Carl, Marcus, regardless of what he’s been through. Otherwise I don’t know how the department is going to function.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. He pictured Carl in his mind. He actually liked the man, but those eternally skeptical eyes and caustic remarks could piss anybody off; he was well aware of that. “Yeah, you’re right. Hardy and Anker were probably the only ones who could stand working with him. But they were kind of strange too.”
“Marcus. Nobody’s coming right out and saying so, but the man is a total pain in the butt, and actually always has been. He’s not suited to working here; we’re too dependent on each other. Carl was hopeless as a colleague from day one. Why did you ever bring him downtown from Bellahoj?”
Marcus fixed his eyes on Bjorn. “He was and is an outstanding detective, Lars. That’s why.”
“OK, OK. I know we can’t just throw him out, especially not in this situation, but we’ve got to find some other solution, Marcus.”
“He’s only been back from sick leave for about a week, so why don’t we give him a chance? Maybe we should try going easy on him for a while.”
“Are you sure? In the last few weeks we’ve had more cases dumped on us than we can handle. Some of them are major ones too, as you well know. The fire fatality out on Amerikavej — was it arson or not? The bank robbery on Tomsgardsvej, where a customer was killed. The rape in Tarnby, where the girl died; the gang stabbing out in Sydhavnen; the murder of the cyclist in Valby Park. Need I say more? Not to mention all the old cases. We haven’t even made a dent in several of those. And then we’ve got a team leader like Morck. Indolent, surly, morose, always bitching, and he treats his colleagues like crap, so the team is about to fall apart. He’s a thorn in our side, Marcus. Send Carl packing and let’s bring in some fresh blood. I know it’s harsh, but that’s my opinion.”
The homicide chief nodded. He’d noticed his colleagues’ behavior during the briefing that had just ended. Silent and sullen and worn out. Of course they didn’t want someone dumping on them.
Marcus’s deputy went over to the window and looked out at the buildings across the way. “I think I have a solution to the problem. We might get some flack from the union, but I don’t think so.”
“Damn it, Lars. I haven’t got the energy to go head-to-head with the union. If you’re thinking of demoting him, they’ll be on our backs in an instant.”
“No, we’ll kick him upstairs!”
“Hmm.” This was where Marcus needed to be careful. His deputy was a damned good detective with tons of experience and plenty of solved cases to his credit, but he still had a lot to learn when it came to managing personnel. Here, at headquarters, you couldn’t just kick someone up or down the ranks without a good reason. “You’re suggesting we promote him, is that what you’re saying? How? And who were you expecting to make room for him?”
“I know you’ve been up almost all night,” Lars Bjorn replied. “And you’ve been busy this morning with that damned murder out in Valby, so you probably haven’t been keeping up with the news. But haven’t you heard what happened in parliament this morning?”
