Soro yesterday didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the case out in Amager. Even on TV shows they used nail guns as weapons these days.
“Will you take it from here, Terje?” he heard Marcus Jacobsen say, as if from far off.
“Sure. We’re convinced that it’s the same perpetrators who killed Georg Madsen in the barracks out in Amager.”
Carl turned to face him. “And why is that?”
“Because Georg Madsen was the uncle of one of the victims in Soro.”
Carl turned back to watch the birds again.
“We’ve got a description of one of the individuals who apparently was at the scene when the murders were committed. Police Detective Stoltz and his team in Soro want you to drive down there today to compare your description with theirs.”
“I didn’t see shit. I was unconscious.”
Terje Ploug gave Carl a look that he didn’t care for. He of all people must have studied the report in detail, so why was he playing dumb? Hadn’t Carl insisted that he was unconscious from the moment he was shot in the temple until they put the IV drip in his arm in the hospital? Didn’t they believe him? What possible reason could they have for wanting to speak with him?
“In the report it says that you saw a red-checked shirt before the shots were fired.”
The shirt. Was that all this was about? “So they want me to identify a shirt?” he replied. “Because if that’s what they need, I think they should just e-mail me a photo of it.”
“They’ve got their own reasons, Carl,” Marcus interjected. “It’s in everyone’s interest that you drive down to Soro. Not least your own.”
“I don’t really feel like it.” He glanced at his watch. “Besides, it’s already getting late.”
“You don’t really feel like it? Tell me, Carl, when is it that you have an appointment to see the crisis counselor?”
Carl pursed his lips. Did Marcus really have to announce that to the whole department?
“Tomorrow.”
“Then I think you should drive to Soro today, and you’ll have your reaction to the experience fresh in your mind when you see Mona Ibsen tomorrow.” He flashed Carl a phony smile and picked a file off the top of the tallest stack on his desk. “Oh, and by the way, here are copies of the documents we received from Immigration regarding Hafez el-Assad. You can take them with you.”
Assad ended up doing the driving. He’d brought along some of the spicy rolls and triangles in a lunch box and shoveled them in his mouth as they shot along the E20. Sitting there behind the wheel, he was a happy and contented man, as evidenced by his smiling face. He moved his head from side to side in time to whatever music was playing on the radio.
“I got your papers from the Immigration Service, Assad, but I haven’t read them yet,” Carl said. “Why don’t you tell me what they say?”
For a second his driver gave him an alert look as they roared past a procession of trucks. “My birth date, where I come from, and then what I did there. Is that what you mean, Carl?”
“Why were you granted permanent residency, Assad? Does it say that too?”
He nodded. “Carl, I would be killed if I went back. That is how it is. The government in Syria was not really very happy with me, you understand.”
“Why not?”
“We did not just think the same. And that is enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Syria is a big country. People just disappear.”
“OK, so you’re sure that you’ll be killed if you go back?”
“That is how it is, Carl.”
“Were you working for the Americans?”
Assad turned his head sharply to look at Carl. “Why do you say that?”
Carl looked away. “No reason, Assad. Just asking.”
The last time Carl visited the old Soro police station on Storgade, it was part of District 16, under the Ringsted police force. Now it belonged to southern Jutland and Lolland-Falster’s police district, but the bricks were still red, the mugs behind the counter were the same, and the workload hadn’t got any lighter. What benefits were achieved by moving people from one box into another was a question worthy of
Carl was expecting one of the detectives at the station to ask him for yet another description of a checked shirt. But they weren’t that amateurish. A welcome party, four men strong, was waiting for him in an office the size of Assad’s, looking as if each of them had lost a family member in connection with the violent events of the night before.
“Jorgensen,” announced one of them, holding out his hand. It was ice cold. A few hours earlier this same Jorgensen had undoubtedly been staring into the eyes of a couple of men who’d had their lives blown away with a pneumatic nail gun. And in that case, he probably hadn’t slept a wink all night.
“Do you want to see the crime scene?” asked one of the officers.
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s not completely identical to the scene in Amager. They were killed in a car-repair shop. One in the garage and one in the office. The nails were fired at close range, since they went all the way in. We had to look closely even to see them.”
One of the other officers handed a couple of A4-size photos to Carl. They were right. The heads of the nails were just barely visible in the skull. There wasn’t even any significant bleeding.
“As you can see, they were both working. There was dirt on their hands and they were wearing boiler suits.”
“Was anything missing?”
“Zilch!”
Carl hadn’t heard that expression in a while.
“What were they working on? Wasn’t it late at night? Were they moonlighting, or what?”
The detectives exchanged glances. This was clearly a question they were still working on.
“There were footprints from hundreds of shoes. Looks like they never cleaned the place,” Jorgensen added. This wasn’t going to be an easy case for him. “We want you to have a close look at this, Carl,” he went on as he picked up a corner of a cloth that was covering the table. “And don’t say anything until you’re sure.”
He took off the cloth to reveal four shirts with big red checks, lying side by side like lumberjacks taking a nap on the forest floor.
“Do any of these look like the one you saw at the crime scene in Amager?”
It was the strangest lineup Carl had ever taken part in. Which of these shirts did it? That was the question. It was almost a joke. Shirts had never been his specialty. He wouldn’t even be able to recognize his own.
“I realize it’s difficult after such a long time, Carl,” said Jorgensen wearily. “But it would be a big help if you could try.”
“Why the hell do you think the perp would be wearing the same shirt months later? Even you lot must change your gear once in a while out here in the sticks.”
Jorgensen ignored the remark. “We just want to try everything.”
“And how can you be sure that the witness who saw the alleged killer from a distance and, to cap it all, at night, would be able to remember how a red-checked shirt looked with such accuracy that you could use it as a lead in the investigation? These shirts look like four peas in a pod, damn it! OK, they’re not identical, but there must be thousands of other shirts that look just like them.”
“The guy who saw the shirt works in a clothing shop. We believe him. He was very precise when he drew a picture of it.”
“Did he also draw a picture of the man inside it? Wouldn’t that have been better?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. Not a bad drawing, but not great either. It’s not as easy to draw a person as it
