“You know what, my dear?” said the woman. “If this was about money, it would have been handled very differently. Don’t you think?”
Then there was a whistling sound from the hatch door, and the first bucket appeared. Merete pulled it out as she racked her brain about what to say that might win her some time.
“I’ve never done anything bad in my life. I don’t deserve this. Don’t you understand?”
Another whistling sound, and the second bucket appeared in the hatch.
“You’re getting close to the heart of the matter now, you stupid girl. Oh yes, you certainly do deserve this.”
She wanted to object, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t say another word, Merete. You haven’t helped yourself the least bit, as it is. Try looking inside the bucket instead. I wonder if you’ll be happy to get your present.”
Merete slowly took off the lid, as if the container might be holding a cobra with its hood distended, its poison glands tensed to the bursting point, ready to strike. But what she saw was worse.
It was a flashlight.
“Good night, Merete. Sleep well. Now we’re going to give you another atmosphere of pressure. Let’s see if that helps your memory.”
First came the whistling sound from the hatch and the fragrance from outdoors. The scent of flowers and traces of sunshine.
And then the darkness was back.
19
The photocopier they got from the NIC (the National Investigative Center, as the Rapid Response Team of the National Police was now called) was brand new, and only intended to be on loan. A clear sign that they didn’t know Carl, because he never gave back anything once it was transported down to the basement.
“Make a copy of all the case documents, Assad,” he said, pointing at the machine. “I don’t care if it takes all day. And when you’re done, drive over to the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries and give my old partner, Hardy Henningsen, a summary of the case. He’ll probably treat you like you’re not even there, but don’t let that worry you. He has a memory like an elephant and ears like a bat. So just forge ahead.”
Assad studied the symbols and buttons on the monster machine in the basement corridor. “How does one do with it then?” he asked.
“Haven’t you ever made photocopies before?”
“Not on one like this with all these drawings, no.”
Hard to believe. Was this the same man who had put up the TV screen in less than ten minutes?
“Good Lord, Assad, look. You put the original here, and then you press this button.” That much he seemed able to understand.
Bak’s voicemail message on his cell phone spouted the expected bullshit about the deputy detective superintendent not being available to take the call due to a homicide case.
Lis, the lovely secretary with the overlapping teeth, supplied the information that Bak and a colleague had gone out to Valby to make an arrest.
“Give me a heads-up when the idiot gets back, OK, Lis?” he said, and an hour and a half later she did.
Bak and his partner had already made a good start in the interrogation room when Carl barged in. The man in handcuffs was a completely ordinary-looking guy. Young and tired, with a terrible cold. “Blow your nose,” said Carl, pointing at the thick streams of snot pouring down over the man’s lips. If he were this guy, wild horses wouldn’t be able to force him to open his mouth.
“Don’t you understand Danish, Carl?” This time Bak’s face had turned bright red. It took a lot to make that happen. “You’ll have to wait. And don’t ever interrupt a colleague in the middle of an interrogation again. Understand?”
“Five minutes and I’ll leave you in peace. I promise.”
It was Bak’s problem if he wanted to spend an hour and a half telling Carl that he’d been brought into the Lynggaard case very late in the game, so he didn’t know shit. Why the hell all this absurd beating about the bush?
But at least Carl got a phone number for Karen Mortensen, who was once Uffe’s caseworker in Stevns, now retired. Also the phone number for Police Chief Claes Damsgaard, who was one of the officers in charge of the Rapid Response Team at the time. He was now on the police force for central and western Jutland, according to Bak. Why not just say that the man worked in Roskilde?
The other officer in charge of the team leading the investigation was dead. He’d lasted only two years after retiring. That was the reality when it came to the survival rate of police officers after retiring in Denmark.
A statistic that might even be something for the
Police Chief Claes Damsgaard was nothing at all like Bak. Friendly, accommodating and interested. Oh yes, he’d heard about Department Q, and yes, he certainly did know who Carl Morck was. Wasn’t he the officer who solved the case of the drowned girl at Femoren, and that fucking murder out in the Nordvest neighborhood where an old woman was thrown out of a window? Oh yes, he certainly did know Carl, at least by reputation. The merits of good police officers weren’t something to be overlooked. Carl would be welcome to come out to Roskilde for a briefing. The Lynggaard case was a sad business, so if he could help in any way, Carl should just ask.
Nice guy, Carl managed to think before the man told him that he’d have to wait three weeks because he and his wife were just heading off on a trip to the Seychelles with their daughter and son-in-law. And then he added with a burst of laughter that they wanted to get there before the islands were inundated by water from melting icebergs.
“How’s it going?” Carl asked Assad, taking in the expanse of photocopies neatly stacked up along the hall, stretching all the way out to the stairs. Were there really that many documents in the case?
“I am sorry it is taking such long hours, Carl, but these magazines, they are the worst.”
Carl looked at the stacks of papers again. “Are you copying the whole magazine?”
Assad tilted his head to one side like a puppy thinking about making a run for it. Good God.
“Look here. You just need to copy the pages that are relevant to the case, Assad. I don’t think Hardy will give a damn which prince shot which pheasant during a hunting party in Smorumbavelse, do you?”
“Shot who?”
“Forget it, Assad. Just stick to the case and throw out the other pages that aren’t relevant. You’re doing a good job.”
He left Assad and the rumbling machine and then sat down to phone the retired social worker in Stevns municipality who had handled Uffe’s case. Maybe she’d observed something that might give them a lead.
Karen Mortensen sounded nice. He could practically see her sitting in a rocking chair and crocheting tea cozies. The sound of her voice would fit in perfectly with the ticking of a grandfather clock. It was almost like phoning home to his family in Bronderslev.
But with the next sentence Carl changed his mind. In spirit she was still a civil servant. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“I can’t say anything about the Uffe Lynggaard case, or any other case, for that matter. You’ll have to contact Social Services in Store Heddinge.”
“I’ve already tried that. Now listen here, Karen Mortensen, I’m just trying to find out what happened to Uffe’s sister.”
“Uffe was acquitted of all charges,” she snapped.
