There was more than enough to keep them busy.
“Are you going over to F?lled Park today, Carl?” asked Assad from the doorway.
Carl looked up with an apathetic expression.
“You know. May first? Lots of people on the streets and drinking and dancing and carrying on? Is that not how you say it?”
Carl nodded. “Maybe later, Assad. But you go ahead if you want to.” He glanced at his watch. It was noon. In the old days getting half the day off was a human right in most places.
But Assad shook his head. “It is not for me, Carl. Too many people that I do not want to meet.”
Carl nodded. It was up to him. “Tomorrow we’ll look through this pile of cases,” he said, giving the folders a pat. “All right with you, Assad?”
Assad smiled so broadly that the bandage on his temple almost came off. “That’s good, Carl!” he said.
Then the phone rang. It was Lis with the usual request. The homicide chief wanted to see him up in his office.
He pulled open the bottom desk drawer and took out a thin plastic folder. He had a feeling that this time he was going to need it.
“How are things going, Carl?” This was the third time in a week that Marcus Jacobsen had had occasion to ask that question.
Carl shrugged.
“Which case are you working on now?”
He shrugged again.
Jacobsen took off his reading glasses and set them on top of the paper chaos in front of him. “Today the prosecutor agreed on a plea bargain with the lawyers representing Ulla Jensen and her son.”
“Is that so?”
“Eight years for the mother, and three years for the son.”
Carl nodded. Only to be expected. “Ulla Jensen will most likely end up in a psychiatric institution.”
Again Carl nodded. No doubt her son would soon land in the same place. That poor guy would never survive a prison sentence in one piece.
Jacobsen lowered his eyes. “Is there any news about Merete Lynggaard?”
Carl shook his head. “They’re still keeping her in a coma, but there’s little hope. Apparently her brain was permanently damaged from all the blood clots.”
Marcus nodded. “You and the diving experts from the Holmen naval station did everything you could, Carl.”
He tossed a newspaper over to Carl. “It’s a Norwegian publication for divers. Take a look at page four.”
Carl opened the paper and glanced at the photographs. An old photo of Merete Lynggaard. A picture of the pressure container that the divers had attached to the airlock door so the rescuer could move the woman out of her prison and into the mobile pressure chamber. Underneath was a brief article about the rescuer’s role and the preparations that were made inside the mobile unit. About how it was attached, about the pressure-chamber system, and about how initially the pressure in the chamber had to be raised slightly, partly to stop the bleeding from the woman’s wrists. The article was illustrated with a blueprint of the building and a cross-section drawing of the Drager Duocom unit with the rescuer inside, giving the woman oxygen and first aid. There were also photos of the doctors standing before the National Hospital’s huge pressure chamber and of Senior Sergeant Mikael Overgaard, who tended to the patient — gravely ill with the bends — inside the chamber. Finally, there was a grainy photo of Carl and Assad on their way out to the ambulances.
In big type it said in Norwegian: “Excellent coordinated efforts between naval diving experts and a newly established police division resolves Denmark’s most controversial missing-persons case in decades.”
“Well,” said Marcus, putting on his most charming smile. “Thanks to that article, we’ve been contacted by the Oslo police department. They’d like to know more about your work, Carl. In the autumn they want to send a delegation to Denmark, and I’d like you to meet with them.”
Carl could feel his mouth turn down at the corners. “I don’t have time for that,” he objected. He’d be damned if he was going to have a bunch of Norwegians running around downstairs. “Keep in mind that there are only two of us in the department. And exactly how much did you say our budget was, boss?”
Marcus nimbly evaded the question. “Now that you’ve recovered and returned to work, it’s time for you to sign this, Carl.” He handed Carl the same stupid application for the so-called qualification courses.
Carl made no move to pick it up. “I’m not doing it, chief.”
“But you have to, Carl. Why don’t you want to?”
Right now both of us are thinking about having a smoke, thought Carl. “There are plenty of reasons,” he said. “Just think about the welfare reform. Before long the retirement age will be seventy, depending on rank, and I have no desire to be some doddering old cop, and I don’t want to end up a desk jockey either. I don’t want lots of employees. I don’t want to do homework, and I don’t want to take exams. I’m too old for that. I don’t want to have a new business card, and I don’t want to be promoted. That’s why.”
Jacobsen looked tired. “A lot of the things you just mentioned aren’t going to happen. It’s all guesswork, Carl. But if you want to be head of Department Q, you have to take the courses.”
He shook his head. “No, Marcus. No more books for me; I can’t be bothered. It’s bad enough that I have to help my stepson with his math homework. And he’s going to fail anyway. I say that from now on the head of Department Q should be a deputy detective superintendent. And yes, I’m still using the old title. Period.” Carl raised his hand and held the plastic folder in the air.
“Do you see this, Marcus?” he went on, taking the paper out of the folder. “This is the operations budget for Department Q, exactly as it was approved by the Folketing.”
He heard a deep sigh from the other side of the desk.
Carl pointed to the bottom line. It said five million kroner per year. “According to my calculations, there’s a difference of more than four million between this number and what my department actually costs. Don’t you think that’s about right?”
The homicide chief rubbed his forehead. “What’s your point, Carl?” he asked, obviously annoyed.
“You want me to forget all about these figures, and I want you to forget all about the course requirements.”
Jacobsen’s face visibly changed color. “That’s blackmail, Carl,” he said in a carefully controlled tone of voice. We don’t use those kinds of tactics here.”
“Exactly, boss,” said Carl, taking a lighter out of his pocket and holding it to the corner of the budget sheet. Figure by figure the flame swallowed up the whole document. Carl dumped the ashes on top of a brochure advertising office chairs. Then he handed the lighter to Marcus Jacobsen.
When Carl returned to the basement he found Assad kneeling on his rug, deep in prayer, so he wrote a note and placed it on the floor just outside Assad’s door. It said: “See you tomorrow.”
On his way out to Hornb?k, Carl brooded over what to tell Hardy about the Amager case. The question was whether he should say anything at all. During the past few weeks, Hardy had not been doing well. His saliva secretion was down, and he had difficulty talking. They said it wasn’t permanent; on the other hand, that’s what Hardy’s depression had become.
Therefore they had moved him to a better room. He was lying on his side and presumably could just catch a glimpse of the convoys of ships out there in the sound.
A year ago the two of them had been sitting in a restaurant in the Bakken amusement park, eating huge portions of roast pork with parsley sauce as Carl griped about Vigga. Now he was sitting here, on the edge of Hardy’s bed, and couldn’t permit himself to gripe about anything at all.
“The police in Soro had to let the man in the checked shirt go, Hardy,” he said, deciding not to beat around the bush.
“Who?” Hardy asked hoarsely, not moving his head a millimeter.
“He had an alibi. But everybody is convinced he’s the right man. The man who shot you and me and Anker and committed the murders in Soro. But they still had to let him go. I’m sorry to tell you this, Hardy.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Hardy coughed and then cleared his throat as Carl went over to the other side of the
