Merete Lynggaard offered comments on the conceited environmental skeptic Bjarke Ornfelt’s report to the Committee Pertaining to Scientific Deception.
What a name to give to a committee, thought Carl. To think that anything in Denmark could sound so Kafkaesque.
This time it was an entirely different Merete Lynggaard who appeared on the screen. More real, less of a politician.
“She is really, really so beautiful there,” said Assad.
Carl glanced at him. Apparently a woman’s appearance was a particularly valuable factor in his assistant’s worldview. But Carl agreed with him. There was a special aura about Merete during that interview. She exhibited a surplus of that incredibly strong appeal that almost all women are capable of emanating whenever things are going especially well for them. Very telling, but also confusing.
“Was she pregnant then?” asked Assad. Judging by a number of family members in his photos, it was a feminine condition with which he was quite familiar.
Carl lit a cigarette and leafed through the case file again. For obvious reasons, there was no autopsy report that might help him answer that question, since the body had never been found. And when he skimmed through the gossip columns, there were blatant hints that she wasn’t particularly interested in men, although of course that didn’t preclude her from getting pregnant. But when he took a closer look, he realized that she hadn’t been seen in intimate contact with anyone at all, man or woman.
“She was probably only just fallen in love,” concluded Assad as he waved the cigarette smoke away. He had now moved so close to the screen that he was practically crawling inside it. “That little patch of red on her cheek there. Look!”
Carl shook his head. “I’ll bet it was only two degrees Celsius that day. Outdoor interviews always make politicians look healthier, Assad. Why do you think they’d put up with them, otherwise?”
But Assad was right. There was a marked difference between the previous interview and this one. Something had happened to Merete in the meantime. There was no way that Bjarke Ornfelt, a crackpot professional lobbyist who specialized in splitting facts about natural disasters into unrecognizable atoms, could have made Merete Lynggaard glow so tastily.
Carl stared into space for a moment. In every investigation there was always a moment when a detective fervently wished that he could have met the victim alive. This time it was happening earlier than usual.
“Assad. Phone that institution, Egely, where Merete Lynggaard’s brother was placed, and make an appointment on behalf of Deputy Detective Superintendent Morck.”
“Deputy Detective Superintendent Morck? Who is that?”
Carl tapped his finger to his temple. Was the man just plain stupid? “Who do you think?”
Assad shook his head. “Well, inside my head I thought you were deputy police superintendent. Is that not what it is called now, since the new police reform?”
Carl took a deep breath. That fucking police reform. He didn’t give a shit about it.
The director at Egely called back ten minutes later, not even trying to hide his curiosity about what this might concern. Evidently Assad had improvised a bit, but what the hell could Carl expect from an assistant with a doctoral degree in rubber gloves and plastic buckets? After all, everybody had to crawl before they could walk.
He glanced over at his assistant and gave him an encouraging nod when he looked up from his Sudoku puzzle.
It took only thirty seconds for Carl to explain things to the director, whose reply was swift and brief. Uffe Lynggaard never spoke a word, so the deputy detective superintendent would gain nothing by trying to talk to him. In addition, although Uffe was both mute and difficult to reach, he had not been placed under legal guardianship. And since Uffe Lynggaard had not given permission for anyone at the institution to speak on his behalf,
“I’m familiar with the procedures. Of course I’m not trying to commit a breach of confidentiality. But I’m investigating his sister’s disappearance, so I think that Uffe might actually benefit a great deal from speaking to me.”
“But he doesn’t talk. I just told you that.”
“Actually, a lot of people that we interview don’t talk, but we manage all the same. We’re good at deciphering nonverbal signals over here in Department Q.”
“Department Q?”
“Yes, we’re an elite investigative team here at police headquarters. When can I come out to see him?”
Carl heard the man sigh. He wasn’t stupid. He recognized a bulldog when he met one.
“Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you,” he said then.
“What exactly did you tell that man when you called him up, Assad?” yelled Carl when he put down the receiver.
“That man? I told him that you would talk only to the chief and not to a director.”
“The director
Carl took a deep breath, got up, and went over to his assistant, looking him in the eye. “Don’t you know the word ‘director’? A director is a kind of boss.” They nodded to each other; all right then. “Assad, tomorrow I want you to pick me up in Allerod, where I live. We’re going to take a drive. Do you understand?”
He shrugged.
“And there’s not going to be any problem with that when we’re out driving around, is there?” Carl pointed at the prayer rug.
“I can roll it up.”
“All right. But how do you know which way Mecca is?”
Assad pointed to his head, as if he had a GPS system implanted in his temporal lobe. “And if a person is still a little like he does not know where, then there is this.” He picked up one of the magazines from the bookshelf to reveal a compass underneath.
“Huh,” said Carl, staring at the massive conglomeration of metal pipes running along the ceiling. “But that compass isn’t going to work down here.”
Assad again pointed at his head.
“So, I suppose you just have a sense of where it is. And you don’t have to be precise, is that it?”
“Allah is great. He has such wide shoulders.”
Carl stuck out his lower lip in a pout. Of course Allah did. What was he thinking, anyway?
Four pairs of eyes with dark rings underneath turned to look at Carl as he entered team leader Bak’s office. No one could have any doubt that the team was under extreme pressure. On the wall hung a big map of Valby Park showing crucial aspects of the current case: the crime scene; where the murder weapon, an old-fashioned cut- throat razor, had been found; the place where the witness saw the victim and the suspected perpetrator together; and finally, the route the witness took through the park. Everything had been measured and thoroughly analyzed, and none of it made any sense.
“Our talk is going to have to wait until later, Carl,” said Bak, tugging at the sleeve of the black leather jacket that he’d inherited from the former homicide chief. That jacket was Bak’s most treasured possession, proof that he was particularly fantastic, and he rarely took it off. The rumbling radiators were pumping out at least forty degrees of heat into the room, but it didn’t matter. Besides, he was probably counting on heading out the door at any moment.
Carl looked at the photos pinned up on the bulletin board behind the team members, and it was not an encouraging sight. Evidently the body of the victim had been mutilated after death. Deep gashes in the chest, half of one ear cut off. On his white shirt a cross had been drawn with the victim’s own blood. Carl assumed that the cut-off ear had served as the pen. The frost-covered grass around the bicycle had been trampled flat, and the bike had also been smashed, so the spokes in the front wheel were completely crushed. The victim’s satchel lay open on the ground, and textbooks from the business school were scattered all over.
“Our talk has to wait until later, you say? OK. But before then could you just ignore your brain-dead efforts for a moment and tell me what your key witness says about the individual she saw talking to the victim right before
