Mercy aka The keeper of lost causes

“What are these kinds of cases then, that you have there?”

Carl peered up at Assad’s dark eyebrows through the slits of his eyelids, which refused to open any further. The man was bending over the desk, holding the Handbook for Crime Technicians in one hand. He’d stuck his finger inside as a bookmark, indicating that he’d made quite a bit of headway in his reading. Or maybe he was just looking at the pictures; that was what a lot of people did.

“You know what, Assad? You’ve interrupted my train of thought.” Carl suppressed a yawn. “Oh well, what’s done is done. OK, so these are the cases that we’re going to be working on. Old cases that other people have given up on. You get it?”

Assad raised his eyebrows. “It is very interesting,” he said, picking up the folder on top. “Nobody knows anything about who did what, and like that?”

Carl stretched the muscles in his neck and looked at his watch. It wasn’t even three o’clock. Then he took the folder from Assad and studied it. “I’m not familiar with this case. It has something to do with the excavation on the island of Sprogo, when they were building the Great Belt Bridge between Zealand and Funen. They found a body out there, but that’s about as far as they got. The police in Slagelse handled the case. A bunch of slackers.”

“Slackers?” Assad nodded. “And this comes first for you?”

Carl looked at him, uncomprehending. “You’re asking me if this is the first case we’re going to work on? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. Is this it then?”

Carl frowned. Too many questions at once. “I need to study all of the files before I make up my mind.”

“Is this very secret?” Assad carefully placed the folder back on the stack.

“The case documents? Yes, it’s likely that they contain information not meant for anyone else’s eyes.”

The dark man was silent for a moment. He looked like a boy whose request for an ice cream cone had been refused, but knows that if he stands there long enough, there’s still a chance he might get one. They stared at each other for so long that Carl ended up feeling confused.

“What?” he asked. “Is there something specific you want?”

“Since I am here and I promise to keep my lips sealed and locked and never say anything about what I read, can I look at the folders then?”

“That’s not your job, Assad.”

“No, but what is my job right now? I’ve came just to page forty-five in the book, and now my head wants something different.”

“I see.” Carl looked around to find some other challenges, if not for Assad’s head, then for his well- proportioned upper arms. He could see that there really wasn’t much for Assad to do. “Well, if you promise me on all you hold sacred that you won’t talk with anyone else but me about what you read, then go ahead.” He pushed one of the stacks of folders a couple of inches toward Assad. “There are three piles here, so don’t get them mixed up. I’ve worked out an excellent system, which has taken me a long time to devise. And just remember: No talking to anyone else about these cases, Assad.” He turned to his computer. “And one more thing, Assad. They’re my cases, and I’m really busy; you can see for yourself how many there are. So you shouldn’t expect me to discuss the cases with you. You’ve been hired to do the cleaning and make the coffee and drive me around. If you don’t have anything to do, it’s all right with me if you want to read the files. But that has nothing to do with your job. OK?”

“OK, yes.” He stood there a moment, staring at the center pile of folders. “It is some special cases that lie by themselves. I can understand it. I will take the top three folders. I will not get them mixed all up. I will keep them in the folders by themselves over in my room. When you need them, then just shout, I then bring them again.”

Carl watched Assad leave the office with three folders under his arm, and the Handbook for Crime Technicians at the ready. It had him really worried.

No more than an hour later Assad was once again standing next to Carl’s desk. In the meantime, Carl had been thinking about Hardy. Poor Hardy, who had asked his colleague to kill him. But how could Carl do that? These were not the sort of thoughts that would lead to anything constructive.

Assad placed one of the folders in front of Carl. “Here is the only case that I remember for myself. It happened exactly while I was taking Danish language lessons so we read about it in the newspapers. It was so very interesting. That was what I thought back then. Also now.”

He handed the document to Carl, who glanced at it. “So you came to Denmark in 2002?”

“No, in ’98. But I took Danish lessons in 2002. Were you working on that case then?”

“No, it was the Rapid Response Team’s case, before the reorganization within the police force.”

“And the Rapid Response Team did it because it had to be fast?”

“No, because it was…” He studied Assad’s alert face with the dancing eyebrows. “Yes, that’s right,” he corrected himself. Why should he encumber Assad, who had absolutely no background knowledge, with all the intricacies of police procedures?

“She was a pretty girl, that Merete Lynggaard, I think.” Assad gave his boss a crooked smile.

“Pretty?” Carl looked at the beautiful, vital woman in the photograph. “Yes, she certainly was.”

11

2002

Over the next two days the messages began piling up. Merete’s secretary tried to hide her annoyance and pretended to be amiable. Several times she sat and stared at Merete when she thought her boss wouldn’t notice. She once asked if Merete would like to play squash with her on the weekend, but Merete declined. She had no desire for any sort of camaraderie with her staff.

After that the secretary resumed her usual morose and aloof demeanor.

On Friday Merete took home the last messages that her secretary had left on her desk. After reading through them several times, she tossed them in the wastebasket. Then she tied the strings of the garbage bag in a knot and carried it out to the garbage can. She needed to put an end to this, once and for all.

And she felt mean and miserable.

The home help had left a casserole on the table. It was still lukewarm when Merete and Uffe were done dashing about the house. Next to the ovenproof dish was a little note on top of an envelope.

Oh no, she’s going to quit, thought Merete and then read the note.

“A man brought this letter to the house. I suppose it has something to do with the ministry.”

Merete picked up the envelope and tore it open.

“Have a nice trip to Berlin” was all it said.

Uffe was sitting next to her with an empty plate, smiling in anticipation as his nostrils quivered at the delicious aroma from the food. Merete pressed her lips together and scooped up some of the casserole for her brother as she tried not to cry.

The rushing of the east wind was getting louder, whipping up the waves so the foam splashed halfway up the sides of the ship. Uffe loved to stand outside on the sun deck and watch the wake form alongside the ship while the seagulls soared on outspread wings overhead. And Merete loved seeing Uffe happy. She was looking forward to their weekend. It was good that she’d decided they should go after all. Berlin was such a marvelous city.

Up ahead on the deck an elderly couple was looking in their direction; behind them a family sat at one of the tables close to the smokestack, with Thermoses and sandwiches that they’d brought along. The children had already finished eating, and Merete gave them a smile. The father looked at his watch and said something to his wife. Then they began packing up what was left of their lunch.

She remembered going on this sort of excursion with her parents. That was a long time ago. She turned