Someone from the Godhavn children’s home called to tell Carl they’d got hold of the retired teacher, John Rasmussen, and that on the following day he’d be in Copenhagen to visit his sister. He wanted to pass on the message that he’d always been interested in seeing police headquarters, so he’d be happy to pay Carl a visit between ten and ten-thirty, if that was OK. Carl couldn’t call him back, because it was the home’s policy not to give out private phone numbers, but he could leave a message if he wouldn’t be able to meet with Rasmussen.
It wasn’t until after Carl put down the phone that he returned to reality. His failed efforts with Mona Ibsen had disconnected certain parts of his brain, and the job of reconnecting them had only just started. So the teacher from Godhavn, who’d been on holiday in the Canary Islands, was going to come and see him. It might have been reassuring to hear that the man actually remembered the boy known as Atomos before Carl agreed to play tour guide at police headquarters. But what the hell.
He took a deep breath and tried to chuck Mona Ibsen and her catlike eyes out of his system. There were plenty of threads in the Lynggaard case that needed to be tied up, so he’d better get started before self-pity sank its claws into him.
One of the first tasks was to ask Helle Andersen, the home help from Stevns, to take a look at the photos he’d borrowed from Dennis Knudsen’s house. Maybe she too could be persuaded to come down to headquarters for a tour guided by a deputy detective superintendent. Anything so he wouldn’t have to drive across the Tryggev?lde River again.
He called her number and got hold of her husband, who claimed to still be on sick leave with unbelievably bad pain in his back, but who otherwise sounded surprisingly fit. He said “Hi, Carl” as if they’d gone to Scout camp together and shared all their meals.
Listening to him was like sitting next to an old aunt who’d never snagged a husband. Of course he’d be happy to get Helle to come to the phone if she were at home. No, she was always busy with her clients until at least. . But wait a minute, he thought he heard her car in the driveway. She’d bought herself a new one, by the way, and he could always hear the difference between a 1.3- and a 1.6-liter engine. And it was true what the man on TV said; damned if those Suzukis didn’t deliver what they promised. At any rate it was great to get rid of their old Opel for a good price. The husband’s voice churned on and on while his wife could be heard announcing her arrival in the background with a shrill: “Hi, O-o-o-le! Are you home? Did you stack up the firewood?”
Lucky for Ole that Social Services didn’t hear that question.
Helle Andersen was cordial and obliging when she finally caught her breath. Carl thanked her for talking to Assad the other day and then asked if she would be able to receive by e-mail some photos he’d scanned.
“Right now?” she asked, and in the next breath was probably going to explain why this wasn’t the most favorable moment. “I’ve brought home a couple of pizzas.” Here it came. “Ole likes them with lettuce on top, and it’s not much fun when the lettuce has a chance to sink into the cheese.”
Carl had to wait twenty minutes before she called him back, and it sounded as if she hadn’t quite swallowed the last mouthful.
“Did you get the e-mail I sent?”
“Yes,” she told him. She was sitting there looking at the three files.
“Click on the first one and tell me what you see.”
“That’s Daniel Hale. Your assistant already showed me a picture of him. But I’ve never seen him before.”
“Then click on the second file. What about that one?”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. His name is Dennis Knudsen. Have you ever seen him before? Maybe a few years older than in the picture?”
She laughed. “Not wearing a silly cap like that, at any rate. No, I’ve never seen him before. I’m sure of it. He reminds me of my cousin Gorm, but Gorm is at least twice as fat.”
It seemed to be a family trait.
“What about the third picture? It shows a person talking to Merete at Christiansborg shortly before she disappeared. I know you can only see him from the back, but is there anything about him that seems familiar? His clothes, hair, posture, height, body type, anything at all?”
She paused for a moment, which was a good sign.
“I’m not sure, since the picture only shows him from the back, as you said. But I may have seen him before. Where did you think I would have seen him?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Come on, Helle, thought Carl. How many possibilities could there be?
“I know you’re thinking about the man who delivered the letter. I did see him from behind, but he had on very different clothes, so it’s not easy to tell. He looks familiar, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Then you shouldn’t say anything, dear,” said the allegedly backdamaged pizza eater in the background.
Carl had to make an effort not to sigh. “OK,” he said. “I have one last photo that I’d like to send you.” He clicked on his e-mail.
“It’s here,” she said ten seconds later.
“Tell me what you see.”
“I see a picture of the guy who was also in the second picture, I think. Dennis Knudsen. Wasn’t that his name? Here he’s only a boy, but that funny expression on his face is unmistakable. What odd cheeks he has. Yes, I’ll bet he drove go-karts when he was a boy. My cousin Gorm did too, strangely enough.”
That was probably before he weighed a thousand pounds, Carl was tempted to say. “Take a look at the other boy standing behind Dennis. Do you recognize him?”
There was silence on the phone. Not even the malingerer husband said a word. Carl waited. Patience was supposedly a virtue for detectives. So it was just a matter of living up to this maxim.
“This is really creepy,” Helle Andersen said at last. Her voice seemed to have shrunk. “That’s him. I’m positive that’s him.”
“The man who brought the letter to you at Merete’s house? Is that who you mean?”
“Yes.” Another pause, as if she needed to gauge the photo against the ravages of time. “Is he the man you’re looking for? Do you think he had something to do with what happened to Merete? Should I be scared of him?” She sounded genuinely worried. And maybe at one time she would have had reason to be.
“It was five years ago, so you have nothing to fear, Helle. Take it easy.” He heard her sigh. “So you think this is the same man who brought the letter. Are you sure now?”
“It has to be. Yes, I’m sure of it. His eyes are so distinctive, you know what I mean? Oh, this is making me feel weird.”
It’s probably just the pizza, thought Carl as he thanked the woman and put down the phone. Then he leaned back in his chair.
He looked at the tabloid photos of Merete Lynggaard that were lying on top of the case folder. Right now Carl felt more strongly than ever that he was the link between the victim and perpetrator in this case. For the first time he felt that he was on the right track. This Atomos had lost his grip on life during childhood and grown up to do the devil’s work, to use a colorful phrase. The evil inside him had led him to Merete; the question was why and where and how? Maybe Carl would never find the answers, but he was going to try.
Mona Ibsen could sit and polish her wedding ring in the meantime.
Next he sent the pictures to Bille Antvorskov. In less than five minutes Carl had an answer in his e-mail inbox. Yes, one of the boys in the pictures did look like the man who’d been part of the group at Christiansborg. But Antvorskov couldn’t swear that it was the same person.
That was enough for Carl. He was sure that Antvorskov was not the sort to swear to anything without first examining it from head to toe.
The phone rang. It wasn’t Assad or the man from the Godhavn children’s home, as he expected. Of all people on earth to be calling him at this moment, God help him, it was Vigga.
“What happened to you, Carl?” she said, her voice quavering.
He tried to decipher what was going on but didn’t come up with anything before she launched into him.
“The reception started half an hour ago, and not a soul has turned up. We have ten bottles of wine and
