“Mr. Deputy Commissioner Kurt Hansen, I presume,” he said as soon as the man answered the phone.
His words prompted a deep and genial burst of laughter. “Well, what do you know? It’s been a long time, Carl. Great to hear your voice. I heard you got shot.”
“It was nothing. I’m OK, Kurt.”
“Didn’t go so well for two of your colleagues, though. Any progress in the case?”
“It’s moving forward.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Really, I am. Right now we’re working on legislation that will expand the sentencing parameters by fifty per cent for assaults on civil servants while on the job. That ought to help matters. We need to support you guys who are out on the barricades.”
“Sounds good, Kurt. I hear that you’ve also decided to support the homicide division in Copenhagen with a special appropriation.”
“No, I don’t think we’ve done anything like that.”
“Well, maybe not the homicide division, but something else over here at police headquarters. It’s not a secret, is it?”
“Do we have any secrets here when it comes to funding appropriations?” asked Kurt, laughing heartily, as only a man with a big fat pension could do.
“So what exactly have you decided to fund, if I might ask? Does it come under the National Police?”
“Yes, the department actually comes under the auspices of the Danish Criminal Investigation Center, but we didn’t want the same people to be investigating the same cases all over again, so it was decided to establish an independent department, administered by the homicide division. It’s going to handle cases deserving ‘special scrutiny.’ But you know all about that.”
“Are you talking about Department Q?”
“Is that what you’re calling it over there? That’s an excellent name for it.”
“How much funding was allocated?”
“Don’t quote me on the exact figure, but it’s somewhere between six and eight million kroner annually for the next ten years.”
Carl looked around at the pale green walls of his basement office. OK, now he understood why Jacobsen and Bjorn were so intent on exiling him to this no-man’s-land. Between six and eight million, he’d said. Straight into the pockets of the homicide division.
This was damned well going to cost them.
The homicide chief gave Carl a second look before taking off his reading glasses. It was the same expression he wore whenever he was studying a crime scene and the clues were indecipherable. “You say you want your own car? Need I remind you that the Copenhagen Police Force doesn’t provide vehicles assigned to specific individuals? You’ll have to get in touch with the motor-pool office and request a car whenever you need one. Just like everybody else, Carl. That’s the way it is.”
“I don’t work for the Copenhagen Police. You’re just acting as the administrator for my department.”
“Carl, you know full well that the officers up here are going to raise a real stink if we give you that sort of preferential treatment. And you say you want six men for your department? Are you crazy?”
“I’m just trying to build up Department Q so it will function according to its mandate. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing? It’s a big job to take all of Denmark under my wings; I’m sure you understand that. So you won’t give me six men?”
“No, damn it.”
“Four? Three?”
The homicide chief shook his head.
“So I’m the one who’s going to do all the work?”
He nodded.
“Well, then I’m sure you realize I’m going to need a vehicle at my disposal at all times. What if I have to go to Aalborg or N?stved? And I’m a busy man. I don’t even know how many cases are going to end up on my desk, do I?” He sat down across from his boss and poured coffee into the cup left behind by the deputy. “But no matter what, I’m going to need to have an assistant down there, a jack of all trades. Somebody with a driver’s license who can take care of things for me. Send faxes and stuff like that. Do the cleaning. I’ve got too much to do, Marcus. And we need to show results, right? The Folketing wants value for its money, don’t you think? Was it eight million kroner? That’s a hell of a lot of money.”
7. 2002
No calendar was big enough to hold all the appointments for the vice-chair of the Democrats’ parliamentary group. From seven in the morning until five in the afternoon Merete Lynggaard had fourteen meetings with special-interest groups. At least forty new people would be introduced to her in her position as chairperson of the Health Committee, and most of them would expect her to know their backgrounds and positions, their hopes for the future, and their professional support base. If she’d still had Marianne to provide assistance, she would have had a reasonable chance of managing it all, but her new secretary, Sos Norup, wasn’t as sharp. On the other hand, she was discreet. Not once over the course of the past month since Sos had been hired as secretary had she broached any subject of a personal nature. She was a born robot, although lacking in RAM.
The organization representatives now sitting in front of Merete had been making the rounds. First with the ruling parties and after that with the largest of the opposition parties, which meant it was Merete’s turn. The reps seemed pretty desperate, and rightfully so, since not many in the government were concerned with anything other than the scandal in Farum and the mayor’s diatribe against various ministers.
The delegation did its utmost to inform Merete about the possible negative health effects of nanoparticles, magnetic guidance of particle transport in the body, immune defenses, tracking molecules, and placenta studies. The latter, in particular, was their key issue.
“We’re fully aware of the ethical questions that need to be addressed,” said the head of the delegation. “For that reason we also know that the government parties represent population groups that are particularly opposed to wholesale collection of placentas, but we still need to discuss the matter.” The spokesperson was an elegant man who had long since earned millions in the field. He was the founder of the renowned pharmaceutical company Basic-Gen, which primarily conducted basic research for other, larger pharmaceutical corporations. Every time he had a new idea, he appeared at the offices of the Health Committee. Merete didn’t know the rest of the delegates, but she noticed a young man standing behind the spokesman, staring at her. He wasn’t supplying his boss with very much data, so maybe he was merely there to observe.
“Oh yes, this is Daniel Hale, our best collaborative partner on the laboratory front. His name may sound English, but Daniel is Danish, through and through,” the spokesman said afterward, as Merete greeted each delegate in turn.
She shook Hale’s hand, noticing at once the blazing heat of his touch.
“Daniel Hale, is that right?” she asked.
He smiled. For a moment her gaze wavered. How embarrassing.
She glanced over at her secretary, a neutral entity in the office. If Marianne had been there, she would have hidden a gleeful smile behind the papers she was always holding. There was not a hint of a smile from the new secretary.
“You work in a laboratory?” Merete asked.
At that point the spokesman broke in. He needed to make use of the few precious seconds allocated to him. The next delegation was already waiting outside Merete Lynggaard’s office, and no one ever knew when there’d be another chance. It was a matter of money and a costly investment of time.
“Daniel owns the finest little laboratory in all of Scandinavia. Well, it’s not really little anymore, since you
