you having trouble with your memory, Hardy? It’s OK to tell me.”
“Aww, fuck off, Carl. I don’t feel like listening to this bullshit. My memory is my worst enemy. Can’t you understand that?” Hardy sputtered, his eyes crystal clear.
Carl raised his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Hardy. I must have been misinformed by Assad. It happens.”
But deep inside he wasn’t taking it nearly as casually.
That sort of thing couldn’t and wouldn’t happen again.
36. 2007
He sat down at the breakfast table with his esophagus burning from acid indigestion and sleep still weighing heavily on his shoulders. Neither Morten nor Jesper said a word to him, which was standard procedure for his stepson but definitely an ominous sign when it came to his lodger.
The morning paper was lying neatly on a corner of the table, and the top story was Tage Baggesen’s voluntary resignation from his parliamentary position, citing health reasons. Morten kept his head bowed silently over his plate, steadily chewing, as Carl reached page six and sat gaping at a grainy photo of himself.
It was the same picture that
“The head of Department Q, in charge of the investigation of ‘cases deserving special scrutiny,’ as designated by the Denmark Party, has appeared in the news in the past two days under particularly unfortunate circumstances.”
The article didn’t focus on the
It would be hard to find a more evil villain than Carl Morck in a spaghetti Western. An amazing piece of reporting, considering what had really happened.
“I’ve got a final exam today,” said Jesper, rousing Carl from his reverie.
Carl looked at him over the top of the newspaper. “In what?”
“Math.”
That didn’t sound good. “Have you studied for it?”
Jesper shrugged and got up. As usual, he paid no attention to the plethora of utensils he’d slathered with butter and jam or the rest of the mess he’d left on the table.
“Just a second, Jesper,” Carl said. “What does that mean?”
His stepson turned to look at him. “It means that if I don’t do well, I might not quality for the fifth and sixth forms at Allerod. Too bad!”
Carl pictured Vigga’s reproachful face and lowered the newspaper. The acid revolt in his system was really starting to hurt.
Out in the parking lot folks were already joking about yesterday’s database breakdown. A couple of people had no idea what they were going to do at work. One’s job was dealing with building permits, and the other’s was medical reimbursements, and both of them usually spent their time staring at computer screens all day.
On the car radio Carl heard several mayors express criticism of the municipal government reforms, which had indirectly sparked the whole mess. Other people called in to rant about the fact that the ongoing miserable situation with overworked and overburdened municipal employees was now going to get even worse. If the culprit who had shut down the databases ever dared to show up at one of the many hard-hit city halls, the closest emergency ward would no doubt have its hands full.
At police headquarters everyone was more hopeful; the individual who had caused the problem had already been arrested. As soon as they’d received an explanation from the accused — an older woman who was a computer programmer in the Interior Ministry — to explain how to repair the damage, they would make the whole story public. It would only be a few more hours before everything would return to normal. Total control of society by government bureaucrats, which so many people were sick and tired of, had been reestablished.
Poor woman.
Oddly enough, Carl managed to make it down to the basement without running into any of his colleagues, and that was a good thing. The news in the morning papers about Carl’s clash with a psychologically handicapped man in an institution in northern Zealand had undoubtedly already spread to even the lowliest office in that enormous building.
He just hoped that Marcus Jacobsen’s Wednesday meeting with the commissioner and the other police chiefs wouldn’t focus entirely on the news story.
He found Assad in his office and wasted no time launching into him.
After a few seconds Assad started looking groggy. Cheerful assistant that he was, he’d never seen this side of Carl before. But his boss now let him have the full brunt of his anger.
“You lied to me, Assad,” Carl barked, fixing his eyes on the man. “You never even mentioned the cyclist murder to Hardy. You came up with all those conclusions yourself, and yes, they were good ones, but what you said to me was something else altogether. I simply won’t have it. Do you hear me? This will have consequences.”
He could almost hear the wheels creaking inside Assad’s head. What was going on in there? Did he have a guilty conscience or what?
Carl chose to really let him have it. “Don’t bother saying anything, Assad! You’re not bullshitting me anymore! Who the hell are you, really, Assad? I’d like to know. And what were you doing since you weren’t visiting Hardy?” He waved off Assad’s objections. “Yeah, all right, I know you went there, but you never stayed very long. So spit it out, Assad. What’s going on?”
Assad’s silence couldn’t hide his nervousness. Carl caught glimpses of a hunted animal in the man’s calm expression. If they’d been enemies, Assad presumably would have leaped up to strangle him.
“Just a second,” said Carl. He turned to look at the computer and brought up Google onto the screen. “I’ve got a couple of questions for you. You get me?”
Assad didn’t answer.
“Are you listening at all?”
Assad murmured something even fainter than the hum of the computer. It was apparently meant as an affirmative reply.
“It says in your file that you and your wife and two daughters came to Denmark in 1998. You were in the Sandholm refugee camp from 1998 until 2000, and then you were granted asylum.”
Assad nodded.
“That was fast.”
“Not back then, Carl. Things are different now.”
“You’re from Syria, Assad. What city? It doesn’t say in your file.”
He turned around and saw that Assad’s expression was darker than he’d ever seen it.
“Am I under your interrogation, Carl?”
“Yes, you could say that. Any objections?”
“There are many things I will not tell you, Carl. You will have to respect that then. I have had a bad life. It is mine, not yours.”
“I understand that. But what city are you from? Is that such a hard question to answer?”
“I come from a suburb of Sab Abar.”
Carl typed in the name. “That’s in the middle of nowhere, Assad.”
