The Keeper of Lost Causes

memories of loneliness and yearning and tireless striving.

Then she fell into a rhythm in which day and night consisted of long periods of sleep, eating, meditation, and running in place. She would run until the slamming of her feet on the floor began to hurt her ears, or until she fell over with fatigue.

Every fifth day she received new underwear and tossed the used ones into the dry toilet. It was disgusting to think that strangers were handling the garments. But they never replaced the other clothing she wore, so she took good care of it. Took care when she sat down on the bucket or lay down carefully on the floor to sleep. Cautiously smoothed out her clothes when she changed her underwear, and rinsed with water any pieces of the fabric that she could feel were getting dirty. She was glad that she’d had such good-quality clothes on the day they took her. A down jacket, scarf, blouse, underwear, trousers, and thick socks. But as the days passed, her trousers hung looser and looser, and the soles of her shoes began to feel thin. I need to run in my bare feet, she thought, and she yelled into the darkness: “Couldn’t you turn up the heat a little? Please?” But the ventilator in the ceiling hadn’t produced a sound for a long time now.

The light in the room was switched on after the buckets had been changed one hundred and nineteen times. An explosion of white suns blasted down on her, making her topple over backward with her eyes closed tight and tears trickling out of their corners. It felt as if the light were bombarding her retinas, sending waves of pain up into her brain. All she could do was sink down into a squatting position and hold her hands over her eyes.

As the hours passed, she slowly moved her hands from her face and opened her eyes ever so slightly. The light was still overwhelming. She was held back by the fear that she’d already lost her sight, or that she would now lose it if she moved too quickly. And that was how she was sitting when the loudspeaker with the woman’s voice hammered shock waves through her body for the second time. She reacted to the sound like a gauge that jumps too quickly. Each word sent a stab right through her. And the words were terrifying.

“Happy birthday, Merete Lynggaard. Congratulations on reaching the age of thirty-two. Yes, today is July sixth. You’ve been sitting here for one hundred and twenty-six days, and our birthday present to you is that we won’t be turning off the light for a year.”

“Oh God, no. You can’t do this to me,” she moaned. “Why are you doing this?” She stood up, holding her hands over her eyes. “If you want to torture me to death, then just do it!” she screamed.

The woman’s voice was ice cold, a bit deeper than the last time. “Take it easy, Merete. We don’t want to torture you. On the contrary, we’re going to give you a chance to avoid what could be even worse for you. All you have to do is answer your own very relevant question: Why are you having to endure all this? Why have we put you in a cage like an animal? Answer your own question, Merete.”

She leaned her head back. This was terrible. Maybe she should just keep quiet. Sit down in a corner and let them say whatever they wanted.

“Answer the question, Merete, or you’re going to make things even worse for yourself.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say! Is this something political? Or are you blackmailing somebody for money? I don’t know. Tell me!”

The voice behind the grating sound grew colder. “That’s not the correct answer, Merete. So now you’ll have to take your punishment. It’s not too bad. You can easily handle it.”

“Oh God, this can’t be happening,” sobbed Merete, sinking to her knees.

Then she heard the familiar whistling from the door hatch become a hissing sound. She instantly noticed the warm air from outside streaming down on her. It smelled of grain and plowed fields and green grass. Was this supposed to be a punishment?

“We’re pumping the air pressure in your chamber up to two atmospheres. Then we’ll see if you can answer the question next year. We don’t know how much pressure the human organism can stand, but we’re going to find out as time goes by.”

“Dear God,” whispered Merete as she felt the pressure in her ears. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

17. 2007

The sound of boisterous voices and clinking bottles could clearly be heard from the garage, giving Carl plenty of warning. Things were jumping at his house.

The barbecue gang was a little group of fanatics who all lived close by and who thought that beefsteak was so much better if it first languished for a while on a charcoal grill until it tasted neither of beef nor steak. They got together year round whenever the opportunity presented itself, and preferably on Carl’s patio. He enjoyed their company. They were lively, but in moderation, and they always took their empty bottles back home with them.

He got a hug from Kenn, who liked to supervise the grill, and was handed an ice-cold can of beer. He put one of the scorched-meat briquettes on a plate and went into the living room, feeling everyone watching him indulgently. They never asked him questions if he didn’t volunteer any comments; it was one of the things that he really appreciated about his neighbors. Whenever a case was rummaging around in his brain, it would be easier to track down a competent local politician than to make contact with Carl, and they all knew it. This time it wasn’t a case knocking around in his brain; the only thing preoccupying his thoughts was Hardy.

Because Carl felt genuinely torn.

Maybe he should reconsider the situation. He could certainly find a way to kill Hardy without anyone raising the alarm afterward. An air bubble in his IV, a firm hand placed over his mouth. It would be over quickly, because Hardy would offer no resistance.

But could he do it? Did he want to? It was a hell of a dilemma. To help or not to help? And what was the right kind of help? Maybe it would help Hardy more if Carl pulled himself together and went up to see Marcus and demanded to have his old cases back. When it came right down to it, he didn’t give a damn who he was assigned to work with, and he didn’t give a shit what they said about it. If it would help Hardy to nail the bastards who had shot them out in Amager, then he was the man to do it. Personally, he was sick of the case. If he did find those assholes, he’d just shoot them down, and who would benefit from that? Not him, at any rate.

“Carl, could you lend me a C-note?” It was his stepson, Jesper, forcing his way into Carl’s thought processes. The boy evidently had one foot out the door already. His pals in Lyngby knew that if they invited Jesper, there was a good chance he would arrive with some beers in tow. Jesper had friends in the neighborhood who sold beer by the case to kids under sixteen. They cost a few kroner more, but what did that matter if he could get his stepfather to pay for the party?

“Isn’t this the third time in a week, Jesper?” said Carl, pulling a hundredkroner bill out of his wallet. “No matter what, you’re going to school tomorrow, got it?”

“OK,” he said.

“Have you done your homework?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

So he hadn’t.

Carl frowned.

“Relax, Carl. I don’t feel like doing my tenth year at Engholm. I’ll just transfer to Allerod.”

That was little consolation. Then Carl would have to keep an eye on Jesper to make sure he did well in school.

“Keep smilin’,” intoned the boy on his way to the bicycle shed.

That was easier said than done.

“Is it the Lynggaard case that’s worrying you, Carl?” Morten asked as he gathered up the last of the empty bottles. He never went back downstairs until the whole kitchen sparkled. He knew his limits. The next morning his head was going to be as big and sensitive as the prime minister’s ego. If anything needed cleaning, it had to be