was going to die alone, like an animal, silently and unaccounted for, while Uffe and everyone else would have to live on without knowing. And when she had exhausted all her tears, it occurred to her that maybe this wasn’t over yet. And things might get worse. She could be in for a cruel death. She might have been relegated to a fate so horrible that death would come as a relief. But first she might have to endure pain and bestiality. She’d heard all about such things. Exploitation, rape, and torture. Maybe eyes were watching her right now. Cameras with infrared sensors observing her through the glass. Eyes that meant to harm her. Ears that were listening.
She looked toward the glass panes and tried to appear calm.
“Please, have mercy on me,” she whispered softly into the darkness.
15
A Peugeot 607 is considered to be a relatively quiet vehicle, but that was hardly the case during Assad’s frantic parking maneuvers on the road directly outside Carl’s bedroom window.
“Awesome,” muttered Jesper as he stared out the window. Carl couldn’t recall the last time his stepson had said even one word so early in the morning. But it sure as hell was appropriate.
“I left you a note from Vigga,” Morten called out after Carl as he headed out the door. But he wasn’t about to read any note from Vigga. The prospect of receiving an invitation to look at galleries in the company of an undoubtedly narrow-hipped artist named Hugin who painted big blotches on canvas wasn’t exactly at the top of Carl’s list right now.
“Hello,” greeted Assad as he stood leaning against the driver’s door. On his head he wore a camel-hair cap of unknown origin. He looked like anything but a private chauffeur assigned to the criminal police department, if such a title even existed. Carl glanced up at the sky. It was pale blue and clear; the temperature was tolerable.
“I know just exactly the location of Egely,” said Assad, pointing at the GPS as Carl got into the passenger seat. Carl cast a weary glance at the image on the screen. He saw an X on a road that was a comfortable distance from the waters of Roskilde Fjord, so that the residents of the nursing home wouldn’t be likely to fall in, but close enough so the director would have a good view of most of the delights of northern Zealand, if he ever bothered to look out of the window. That was where institutions for mentally disturbed patients were often placed. God only knew for whose sake the location had actually been chosen.
Assad started the engine, put the car in reverse, and sped backward along Magnolievangen, stopping only when the rear of the vehicle was halfway up on the grass embankment on the other side of Ronneholt Parkvei. Before Carl’s body could even react, Assad had slammed through the gears and was now cruising along at ninety kilometers an hour, where the speed limit was only fifty.
“Stop, damn it!” yelled Carl just before they entered the roundabout at the end of the road. But Assad merely gave him a sly look, like a cab driver in Beirut, and yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The next second they were headed for the motorway.
“Fast car!” shouted Assad, flooring the accelerator as they entered the slip road.
Maybe it would put a damper on him if Carl pulled that cap down over his rapturous face.
Egely was a whitewashed building that splendidly proclaimed its purpose. No one ever entered voluntarily, and it was far from easy for anyone to get out. It was obvious that this was not a place for finger-painting or guitar lessons. This was where people with money and status placed the weak members of their families.
Private care, in the spirit of the government itself.
The director’s office matched the overall impression, and the director himself, an unsmiling, bony and pallid- looking man, suited the interior as if specifically designed for it.
“Uffe Lynggaard’s expenses here are paid by the proceeds from funds deposited in the Lynggaard trust,” replied the director to Carl’s question.
Carl glanced at the bookshelf, which held numerous case files, many of them labeled with the word “trust.”
“I see. And how exactly was the trust created?”
“An inheritance from his parents, who were both killed in a car accident which also injured Uffe. And an inheritance from his sister, of course.”
“She was a member of parliament, so I don’t imagine we’re talking about large sums of money.”
“No, but the sale of their house brought in two million kroner, when a presumption of death was handed down by court order not too long ago. Thank God for that. At the moment the trust is worth about twenty-two million kroner, but I’m sure you already know that.”
Carl whistled softly. He hadn’t known that. “Twenty-two million, at five per cent interest. I suppose that would pay for Uffe’s expenses, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, yes, it just about covers things, after taxes.”
Carl gave him a wry look. “And since he’s been here, Uffe hasn’t said anything about his sister’s disappearance?”
“No, he hasn’t spoken a word since the car accident, as far as I’ve been told.”
“Have you done anything to help get him going?”
At that the director took off his glasses and peered at Carl from under his bushy eyebrows. He was the epitome of seriousness. “Uffe Lynggaard has been thoroughly examined. He has scar tissue from bleeding in the speech center of his brain, which is explanation enough for his muteness. But he also suffered severe trauma from the accident. The death of his parents, his own injuries. As you may know, he was seriously hurt.”
“Yes, I read the report.” He hadn’t actually, but Assad had, and the man hadn’t stopped jabbering about it as they cruised along the motorways of northern Zealand. “He spent five months in the hospital with severe internal bleeding in his liver, spleen, and lung tissue. His vision was also impaired.”
The director gave a brief nod. “That’s correct. It says in his medical file that Uffe Lynggaard was unable to see for several weeks. He had massive retinal bleeding.”
“What about now? Is his body functioning as it should, from a physiological perspective?”
“By all indications, yes. He’s a strong young man.”
“He’s nearly thirty-four years old. So he’s been in this condition for twenty-one years.”
The pale man again nodded. “So you can understand why you’re not going to get anywhere with him.”
“And you won’t let me talk to him?”
“I don’t think it would serve any purpose.”
“He was the last one to see Merete Lynggaard alive. I’d like to see him.”
The director straightened up. Now he looked out at the fjord, as Carl had predicted he would. “I don’t think I’m going to allow it.”
Pompous idiots like him deserved to be stabbed with a blunt knife. “You don’t trust me to behave myself, but I think you should.”
“Why is that?”
“Are you familiar with the police?”
The director turned to look at Carl. His face was an ashen gray, his brow furrowed. Years spent behind a desk had worn him out, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He had no idea what Carl meant by that question, only that silence would not be to his benefit.
“What exactly are you getting at?”
“We police officers are an inquisitive lot. Sometimes we’ve got a question burning in our minds and we just have to find an answer. This time it’s obvious.”
“And the question is?”
“Where do your patients get their money? Five per cent of twenty-two million, minus taxes of course, is just a drop in the bucket. Do your patients receive full value for their money, or is the price too high when the state funding is added in? And is the price the same for everybody?” Carl nodded to himself, drinking in the light coming off the fjord. “New questions always keep popping up when we can’t get an answer to the one we’re initially
