in Sousse. Next to the radio lay a notebook, some paper, a pencil, a copy of the Koran, and a small selection of magazines with Arabic text. Spread out on the floor in front of the bookshelf was a multicolored prayer rug that hardly looked big enough for Assad to kneel on. All in all, quite a picturesque scene.
“Assad,” said Carl. “We’re in a hurry. The homicide chief will be here in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get things ready. When he arrives, I’d appreciate it if you could be washing the floor at the other end of the hall. It’s going to mean a little overtime, but I hope that’s OK.”
“I must say, I’m impressed, Carl,” said Marcus Jacobsen, nodding at the bulletin board with tired eyes. “You’ve certainly got this place organized. Are you getting back on your feet?”
“Back on my feet? Yeah, well, I’m doing what I can. But you need to realize it’s going to be a while before I’m up to speed.”
“Let me know if you need to have a talk with a crisis counselor again. You shouldn’t underestimate the amount of trauma that can result from the type of experience you’ve been through.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
“That’s good, Carl. But don’t hesitate to speak up.” Jacobsen turned to look at the far wall. “I see you’ve got your flat-screen up,” he said, staring at the forty-inch image of the news program on Channel 2.
“Yes, we have to keep up with events in the world,” Carl said, thinking gratefully of Assad. It had taken his assistant all of five minutes to set up the whole damn thing. Apparently that was something else he was good at.
“By the way, it was just reported that the witness in the case of the murdered cyclist tried to commit suicide,” Carl went on.
“What? For Christ’s sake, how did that leak out already?” exclaimed the homicide chief, looking even more exhausted.
Carl shrugged. After ten years as head of the homicide division, the man must be used to the game by now. “I’ve divided up the cases into three categories,” he said, pointing at the piles of folders. “They’re big, complicated cases. I’ve spent days reading through the material. This is going to take a lot of time, Marcus.”
Jacobsen shifted his gaze away from the TV screen. “Take however much time you need, Carl. Just as long as you produce results once in a while. Let me know if anyone upstairs can assist you.” He attempted a smile. “So which case have you decided to work on first?”
“Well, er, I’m looking at several initially. But the Merete Lynggaard case will probably be the first.”
Jacobsen’s face brightened. “Oh yes, that was a strange one. The way she disappeared from the Rodby — Puttgarden ferry. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. And without a single eyewitness.”
“There are plenty of strange aspects to the case,” said Carl, trying to recall just one.
“I remember that her brother was accused of pushing her overboard, but the charge was later dropped. Is that a lead you might follow up?”
“Maybe. I don’t know where he is now, so I’ll have to track him down first. But there are also other lines of inquiry that spring to mind.”
“I seem to remember the documents saying the brother was committed to an institution in northern Zealand,” said Jacobsen.
“Oh, right. But he might not be there anymore.” Carl tried to look pensive. Go on back to your office, Mr. Homicide Chief, he thought. All these questions, and so far he’d spent only five minutes reading the case report.
“He is in something called Egely. In the town of Frederikssund.” The voice came from the doorway where Assad stood, leaning on his mop. He looked like someone from another planet, with his ivory smile and his green rubber gloves and a smock that reached to his ankles.
The homicide chief stared in bewilderment at this exotic being.
“Hafez el-Assad,” he said, holding out a rubber-gloved hand.
“Marcus Jacobsen,” said the homicide chief, shaking the man’s hand. Then he turned to give Carl an inquiring look.
“This is our new assistant in the department. Assad has heard me talking about the case,” Carl said, giving Assad a look that he chose to ignore.
“I see,” said Jacobsen.
“Yes, my Deputy Police Inspector Morck has really worked hard so. I have just helped a little here and so there, and where one can.” Assad smiled broadly. “What I do not understand is then why Merete Lynggaard was never found in the water. In Syria, where I come from, there are tons of sharks in the water that eat the dead bodies. But if there are not so many sharks in the sea around Denmark, the bodies should probably be found at some point. The bodies get as big as balloons because of all the rotting from inside that blows them up.”
The homicide chief tried to smile. “Yes, well. The waters around Denmark are deep and wide. It’s not unusual that we fail to find the bodies of people who have drowned. In fact, it’s quite common for someone to fall overboard from a passenger ship in those waters. And often the body is never found.”
“Assad,” Carl said, looking at his watch. “You can go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Assad nodded briefly and picked up the bucket from the floor. After some clattering across the hall, he reappeared in the doorway and said good-bye.
“Seems like a real character, that Hafez el-Assad,” Jacobsen said when the sound of the man’s footsteps had died away.
13. 2007
After the weekend Carl found a memo from the deputy chief on his computer.
I’ve informed Bak that you’re working on the Merete Lynggaard case. Bak was assigned to the case as part of the Rapid Response Team during the final phase of the investigation, so he’s familiar with the details. Right now he’s slogging away on the cyclist homicide, but he’s prepared to discuss the case with you, preferably as soon as possible.
Carl snorted. “Preferably as soon as possible.” Who the hell did Bak think he was, that sanctimonious son of a bitch? Self-righteous, selfimportant, self-promoting. A bureaucrat and yes-man all in one. His wife probably had to fill out a form in triplicate to apply for any erotic fondling below the belt.
So Bak had investigated a case that had not been solved. How nice. Carl almost felt motivated to try to untie the knots himself.
He picked up the case file from his desk and asked Assad to make him a cup of coffee. “Not as strong as last time, Assad,” he requested, thinking about the distance to the toilet.
The Lynggaard case file was undoubtedly the most organized and comprehensive file that Carl had ever seen. It included copies of everything from reports on the health of the brother, Uffe, to transcripts of police interviews, clippings from the tabloids and gossip columns, a couple of videotapes of interviews with Merete Lynggaard, and detailed transcripts of statements from colleagues as well as from passengers on the boat who had seen the brother and sister together on the sun deck. There were photos showing the deck and the railing and the distance down to the water. There were fingerprint analyses taken from the spot where she disappeared. There were addresses of countless passengers who had taken pictures on board the Scandline ferry. There was even a copy of the ship’s log, which revealed how the captain had responded to the whole incident. But there was nothing that could give Carl a real lead.
I need to watch the videotapes, he thought after reading through the material. He cast a defeated look at the DVD player.
