“Did anyone ever try to make a pass at her, here at Christiansborg?”
“Oh, yes. Men were always leaving her messages, but there was only one who made a serious attempt.”
“Would you care to reveal who that might be?”
She smiled. She was willing to reveal anything if it pleased her.
“Of course. It was Tage Baggesen.”
“OK, I’ve heard that name before.”
“That would really make him happy to know. I think he’s held chairman positions for the Radical Center Party for at least a thousand years.”
“Have you ever mentioned this to anyone else?”
“Yes, to the police, but they didn’t seem to think it was relevant.”
“Do you?”
She shrugged.
“Were there others?”
“Lots of others, but nobody serious. She took what she needed whenever she was traveling.”
“Are you saying she was an easy lay?”
“Good Lord, is that how you interpret it?” She turned away, trying to suppress her laughter. “No, she definitely was not. But she was no nun either. I just don’t happen to know who she went into the convent with. She never told me.”
“But her preference was for men?”
“Well, put it this way, she always laughed when the gossipmongers hinted otherwise.”
“Could you think of any reason why Merete might want to put her past behind her and create a whole new life?”
“You mean whether she might be sitting out there in Mumbai, soaking up the sun?” Marianne looked indignant.
“Some place where life might be less problematic, yes. Could you picture her doing anything like that?”
“That’s totally absurd. She was extremely conscientious. I know that some people collapse like a house of cards and one fine day they just disappear, but not Merete.” She paused for a moment, looking pensive. “But it’s a lovely thought.” She smiled. “I mean, that Merete might still be alive.”
Carl nodded. Plenty of psychological profiles had been done of Merete Lynggaard just after she disappeared, and all of them had come to the same conclusion. Merete had not simply run away from her old life. Even the tabloids dismissed that possibility.
“Did you ever hear anything about a telegram that she received during her last week here at the castle?” he asked.
“A valentine telegram?”
The question seemed to annoy Marianne. Apparently she was still upset that she hadn’t been part of Merete’s life at the end. “No. The police asked me about that, but just as I told them I have to refer you to Sos Norup, who took over my job.”
He raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. “Are you bitter about that?”
“Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be? We’d worked together for two years without any problem.”
“Do you happen to know where Sos Norup is today?”
She shrugged. Nothing could have interested her less.
“What about this Tage Baggesen? Where can I get in touch with him?”
She drew Carl a little map showing the way to Baggesen’s office. It didn’t look easy to find.
It took Carl nearly half an hour to find his way to the domain of Tage Baggesen and the Radical Center Party, and it was no cakewalk. It was a mystery to him how the hell anybody could work in such a hypocritical environment. At least at police headquarters you knew what you were dealing with, where friends and enemies weren’t afraid to show their true colors, and yet everyone was able to work side by side toward a common goal. Here it was just the opposite. Everybody pretended to be the best of friends, but they were all thinking only of themselves when it came to settling scores. Everything was based on kroner and ore and power, not so much on results. A big man in this place was someone who made the others seem small. Maybe it hadn’t always been this way, but that’s how it was now.
Tage Baggesen was obviously no exception. His role was to safeguard the interests of his distant constituency and handle the traffic policies of his party, but after one look at him, you knew better. He’d already secured himself a nice fat pension, and whatever he took in before he retired was spent on expensive clothes and lucrative investments. Carl looked up at the walls that were covered with certificates from golf tournaments and detailed aerial photographs of Baggesen’s country homes all over Denmark.
He considered asking whether the man might have misunderstood which party he belonged to, but Tage Baggesen disarmed him with a friendly slap on the back and a cordial welcome.
“I suggest that you close the door,” said Carl, pointing to the corridor.
That prompted a jovial squint from Baggesen. A little trick that he used successfully in negotiating new motorways in Holstebro but it had no effect on a deputy detective superintendent whose specialty was bullshit.
“I don’t think we need to do that. I’ve got nothing to hide from my fellow party members,” said Baggesen.
“We’ve heard that you took a great interest in Merete Lynggaard. You sent her a telegram among other things. And it was a valentine telegram at that.”
The man’s complexion turned a bit paler, but his self-confident smile was back.
“A valentine telegram?” he said. “I don’t remember that.”
Carl nodded. The lie shone out of the man’s face. Of course Baggesen remembered. Now Carl had an opportunity to really go to work on the MP.
“When I suggested that you close the door, it was because I wanted to ask you bluntly if you were the one who murdered Merete. You were in love with her. She rejected you, and you lost control. Was that what happened?”
For a split second every cell in Tage Baggesen’s brain, otherwise so self-confident, considered whether he should stand up and slam the door or whether he should work himself up into an apoplectic fit. His complexion was suddenly almost the same shade of red as his hair. He was deeply shocked, completely exposed. Sweat trickled from every pore of his body. Carl knew all the tricks in the book, but this reaction was something entirely different. If the man had anything to do with the case, and judging by his response he did, then he might as well write his own confession. If he didn’t, then there was still something pushing him to the wall. His mouth gaped. If Carl wasn’t careful, the man would clam up for good. Never before in his finely tuned life had Tage Baggesen heard anything like this; that much was certain.
Carl tried to smile at the man. Somehow his dramatic reaction also seemed conciliatory. As if somewhere inside that body, nourished on highclass reception delicacies, there still might be a human being.
“Now listen here, Baggesen. You left notes for Merete. Lots of notes. I can tell you that her previous secretary, Marianne Koch, kept a close eye on your advances.”
“Everyone writes notes to each other in this place.” Baggesen tried to lean back nonchalantly, but the distance to the back of his chair was too great for it to look casual.
“So you’re saying the notes contained nothing of a personal nature?”
At this point the MP hauled his bulk out of his chair and went over to quietly close the door. “It’s true that I harbored strong feelings for Merete Lynggaard,” he said, looking so sincerely mournful that Carl almost felt sorry for him. “It’s been very difficult for me to get over her death.”
“I understand. I’ll try to make this brief.” Carl’s words were met with a grateful smile. Now the man was getting realistic.
“We know that you sent Merete Lynggaard a valentine telegram in February 2002. We received confirmation of this from the telegram company today.”
Now Baggesen looked dejected. The past was truly gnawing at him.
He sighed. “Of course I knew that she wasn’t interested in me in that way. Unfortunately. I’d known that for
