Fortune smiles on the clueless, thought Carl, and then asked if they might have a tour of the house.
It turned out to be an odyssey in quirky furniture and huge gilded frames. The obligatory amassing of things from a life spent working in an auction house. But the kitchen had been completely remodeled; all the walls painted and the floors refinished. If there was anything left from when Merete Lynggaard lived in the house, it could only be the silverfish skittering about on the dark floor of the bathroom.
“That Uffe, he was so sweet.” A stocky face with dark circles under her eyes and ruddy, plump cheeks were Helle Andersen’s trademarks. The rest of her was covered by a light blue smock in a size that was unlikely to be found in the local clothes shop. “It was crazy to think that he would do anything to hurt his sister, and that’s what I told the police. That they couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“But witnesses saw him hit his sister,” said Carl.
“He could get a bit wild at times. But he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“But he’s a big, strong man. Maybe he happened to push her into the water by accident.”
Helle Andersen rolled her eyes. “Impossible. Uffe was the epitome of gentleness. Sometimes he’d get so upset about something that it would make me upset too, but not very often.”
“You cooked for him?”
“I took care of all sorts of things. So that everything would be nice and neat when Merete came home.”
“And you didn’t see her very often?”
“Once in a while.”
“But not on any of the days right before she died?”
“Oh yes. There was one evening when I took care of Uffe. But then he got so upset, like I said before, that I called Merete to say she had to come home. And she did. He was really in a bad way that time.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen that evening?”
“Only the fact that Merete didn’t come home at six o’clock like she usually did. Uffe didn’t like that. He couldn’t understand it was something we’d already talked about and arranged.”
“But she was a member of parliament. Surely this must have been a frequent occurrence?”
“No, not really. Only once in a while, if she had to take a trip. And then it was only for a night or two.”
“So she’d been out traveling on that evening?”
At that point Assad shook his head. It was damned annoying, how much he knew.
“No, she’d gone out to eat,” said Helle.
“I see. Who did she eat with? Do you know?”
“No, nobody knows.”
“Is that also in the report, Assad?”
He nodded. “Sos Norup, the new secretary, saw Merete write down the name of the restaurant in her diary. And someone inside the restaurant remembered that he saw her there. Just not with who.”
There was clearly a lot that Carl needed to study in that report.
“What was the name of the restaurant, Assad?”
“I think it was called Cafe Bankerat. Could that be right?”
Carl turned back to the home help. “Do you know if Merete was on a date? Was she out with a boyfriend?”
A dimple an inch deep appeared in the woman’s cheek. “She might have been. But she didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“And she didn’t mention anything when she came home? After you called her, I mean?”
“No, I left. Uffe was so upset.”
They heard a clattering sound, and the present owner of the house came into the room wearing an expression of pathos, as if the tea tray he was carrying contained all the secrets of gastronomy. “Homemade” was his only remark as he placed several cupcakes on silver plates in front of them.
They stirred memories from a lost childhood. Not good memories, but memories all the same.
Their host handed out the cakes, and Assad demonstrated immediately that he appreciated the offering.
“Helle, it says in the report that someone gave you a letter the day before Merete Lynggaard disappeared. Can you describe it in more detail?” Her statement was undoubtedly included in the report, but she was just going to have to repeat what she’d already said.
“It was a yellow envelope, and the paper was almost like parchment.”
“How big was it?”
She showed them with her hands. Apparently an A5.
“Was anything on the envelope? A stamp or a name?”
“No, nothing.”
“So who brought it over? Did you know the person?”
“No, I didn’t. The doorbell rang, and a man was standing outside. He handed me the envelope.”
“That’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Normally letters come with the post.”
She gave him a little, confidential nudge. “We do have a postman. But this was later in the day. It was actually right in the middle of the news on the radio.”
“At noon?”
She nodded. “He just handed me the envelope, and then he left.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“Yes, he said that it was for Merete Lynggaard. That was all.”
“Why didn’t he put it in the letter box?”
“I think it was urgent. Maybe he was afraid that she wouldn’t see it as soon as she came home.”
“But Merete must have known who brought the letter. What did she say about it?”
“I don’t know. I had left by the time she came home.”
Assad nodded again. So that too was in the report.
Carl gave his assistant a professional look, which meant: It’s standard procedure to ask these types of questions multiple times. Let him chew on that for a while.
“I thought that Uffe couldn’t be left at home alone,” he then interjected.
“Oh yes, he could,” she replied, her eyes shining. “Just not late at night.”
At that point Carl wished he was back at his desk in the basement. He’d spent years having to drag information out of people, and by now his arms were feeling very tired. A couple more questions and then they had to be on their way. The Lynggaard case was obviously hopeless. She’d fallen overboard. Things like that happened.
“And it might have been too late if I hadn’t put the envelope where she’d find it,” said the woman.
He saw how her eyes shifted away for a moment. Not toward the little cupcakes. Away. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she died the next day, didn’t she?”
“That wasn’t what you were just thinking about, was it?”
“Of course.”
Seated next to Carl, Assad put his cake down on the table. Strangely enough, he’d also noticed her evasive maneuver.
“You were thinking about something else. I can tell. What did you mean, that it might have been too late?”
“Just what I said. That she died the next day.”
He looked up at the cake-happy host. “Would you mind if I spoke to Helle Andersen in private?”
The man didn’t look pleased, and Helle Andersen didn’t either. She smoothed out her smock, but the damage was done.
“Tell me, Helle,” Carl said, leaning toward her after the antique dealer had left the room. “If you know anything at all that you’ve been keeping to yourself, now is the time to tell me. Do you understand?”
“There wasn’t anything else.”
“Do you have children?”
The corners of her mouth drooped. What did that have to do with the case?
“OK. You opened the envelope, didn’t you?”
