torture you. On the contrary, we’re going to give you a chance to avoid what could be even worse for you. All you have to do is answer your own very relevant question: Why are you having to endure all this? Why have we put you in a cage like an animal? Answer your own question, Merete.”
She leaned her head back. This was terrible. Maybe she should just keep quiet. Sit down in a corner and let them say whatever they wanted.
“Answer the question, Merete, or you’re going to make things even worse for yourself.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say! Is this something political? Or are you blackmailing somebody for money? I don’t know. Tell me!”
The voice behind the grating sound grew colder. “That’s not the correct answer, Merete. So now you’ll have to take your punishment. It’s not too bad. You can easily handle it.”
“Oh God, this can’t be happening,” sobbed Merete, sinking to her knees.
Then she heard the familiar whistling from the door hatch become a hissing sound. She instantly noticed the warm air from outside streaming down on her. It smelled of grain and plowed fields and green grass. Was this supposed to be a punishment?
“We’re pumping the air pressure in your chamber up to two atmospheres. Then we’ll see if you can answer the question next year. We don’t know how much pressure the human organism can stand, but we’re going to find out as time goes by.”
“Dear God,” whispered Merete as she felt the pressure in her ears. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
17
The sound of boisterous voices and clinking bottles could clearly be heard from the garage, giving Carl plenty of warning. Things were jumping at his house.
The barbecue gang was a little group of fanatics who all lived close by and who thought that beefsteak was so much better if it first languished for a while on a charcoal grill until it tasted neither of beef nor steak. They got together year round whenever the opportunity presented itself, and preferably on Carl’s patio. He enjoyed their company. They were lively, but in moderation, and they always took their empty bottles back home with them.
He got a hug from Kenn, who liked to supervise the grill, and was handed an ice-cold can of beer. He put one of the scorched-meat briquettes on a plate and went into the living room, feeling everyone watching him indulgently. They never asked him questions if he didn’t volunteer any comments; it was one of the things that he really appreciated about his neighbors. Whenever a case was rummaging around in his brain, it would be easier to track down a competent local politician than to make contact with Carl, and they all knew it. This time it wasn’t a case knocking around in his brain; the only thing preoccupying his thoughts was Hardy.
Because Carl felt genuinely torn.
Maybe he should reconsider the situation. He could certainly find a way to kill Hardy without anyone raising the alarm afterward. An air bubble in his IV, a firm hand placed over his mouth. It would be over quickly, because Hardy would offer no resistance.
But could he do it? Did he want to? It was a hell of a dilemma. To help or not to help? And what was the right kind of help? Maybe it would help Hardy more if Carl pulled himself together and went up to see Marcus and demanded to have his old cases back. When it came right down to it, he didn’t give a damn who he was assigned to work with, and he didn’t give a shit what
“Carl, could you lend me a C-note?” It was his stepson, Jesper, forcing his way into Carl’s thought processes. The boy evidently had one foot out the door already. His pals in Lyngby knew that if they invited Jesper, there was a good chance he would arrive with some beers in tow. Jesper had friends in the neighborhood who sold beer by the case to kids under sixteen. They cost a few kroner more, but what did that matter if he could get his stepfather to pay for the party?
“Isn’t this the third time in a week, Jesper?” said Carl, pulling a hundredkroner bill out of his wallet. “No matter what, you’re going to school tomorrow, got it?”
“OK,” he said.
“Have you done your homework?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
So he hadn’t.
Carl frowned.
“Relax, Carl. I don’t feel like doing my tenth year at Engholm. I’ll just transfer to Allerod.”
That was little consolation. Then Carl would have to keep an eye on Jesper to make sure he did well in school.
“Keep smilin’,” intoned the boy on his way to the bicycle shed.
That was easier said than done.
“Is it the Lynggaard case that’s worrying you, Carl?” Morten asked as he gathered up the last of the empty bottles. He never went back downstairs until the whole kitchen sparkled. He knew his limits. The next morning his head was going to be as big and sensitive as the prime minister’s ego. If anything needed cleaning, it had to be done now.
“I’m thinking mostly about Hardy, not so much about the Lynggaard case. The leads have gone cold, and nobody gives a shit about it, anyway. Including me.”
“But wasn’t the Lynggaard case solved?” said Morten, sniffling. “She drowned, didn’t she? What more is there to say about it?”
“Hmm, is that what you think? But why did she drown? That’s the question I keep asking myself. There was no storm, no rough seas, and she was apparently quite healthy. Her finances were good, she was attractive, she was on her way to building a big career for herself. Maybe she was a bit lonely, but at some point she would have solved that problem too.”
He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Of course the case interested him. Just like all cases in which the questions piled up, one after the other.
He lit a cigarette and grabbed a can of beer that one of the guests had opened but never drunk. It was lukewarm and tasted slightly flat.
“What annoys me the most is that she was so intelligent. It’s always difficult when victims are as smart as she was. As I see it, she had no real reason to commit suicide. No obvious enemies. Her brother loved her. So why did she disappear? If that was your background, Morten, would you jump into the deep?”
He looked at Carl, his eyes red-rimmed. “It was an accident, Carl. Haven’t you ever felt dizzy when you leaned over a boat railing and looked down at the sea? But if it really was murder, then either her brother did it, or there was some political motivation, if you ask me. Why wouldn’t a prospective leader of the Democrats have enemies, especially one who looked so stunning?” He nodded ponderously and had trouble raising his head again. “Everyone hated her. Can’t you see that? All the people she’d outstripped in her own party. And the ruling parties. Do you think the prime minister and his cronies were happy to see that luscious babe getting all that airtime on TV? You said yourself that she was brilliant.” Morten wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the tap. “Everybody knew that she’d be the one to form the opposition coalition at the next election. She knew how to pull in the votes, damn it.” He spat into the sink. “Next time I’m not drinking any of Sysser’s retsina. Where the hell does she buy that rotgut? It makes my throat as dry as a desert.”
Outside in the circular courtyard, Carl ran into several colleagues who were on their way home. Over by the
