was playing on the radio.
“I got your papers from the Immigration Service, Assad, but I haven’t read them yet,” Carl said. “Why don’t you tell me what they say?”
For a second his driver gave him an alert look as they roared past a procession of trucks. “My birth date, where I come from, and then what I did there. Is that what you mean, Carl?”
“Why were you granted permanent residency, Assad? Does it say that too?”
He nodded. “Carl, I would be killed if I went back. That is how it is. The government in Syria was not really very happy with me, you understand.”
“Why not?”
“We did not just think the same. And that is enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Syria is a big country. People just disappear.”
“OK, so you’re sure that you’ll be killed if you go back?”
“That is how it is, Carl.”
“Were you working for the Americans?”
Assad turned his head sharply to look at Carl. “Why do you say that?”
Carl looked away. “No reason, Assad. Just asking.”
The last time Carl visited the old Soro police station on Storgade, it was part of District 16, under the Ringsted police force. Now it belonged to southern Jutland and Lolland-Falster’s police district, but the bricks were still red, the mugs behind the counter were the same, and the workload hadn’t got any lighter. What benefits were achieved by moving people from one box into another was a question worthy of
Carl was expecting one of the detectives at the station to ask him for yet another description of a checked shirt. But they weren’t that amateurish. A welcome party, four men strong, was waiting for him in an office the size of Assad’s, looking as if each of them had lost a family member in connection with the violent events of the night before.
“Jorgensen,” announced one of them, holding out his hand. It was ice cold. A few hours earlier this same Jorgensen had undoubtedly been staring into the eyes of a couple of men who’d had their lives blown away with a pneumatic nail gun. And in that case, he probably hadn’t slept a wink all night.
“Do you want to see the crime scene?” asked one of the officers.
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s not completely identical to the scene in Amager. They were killed in a car-repair shop. One in the garage and one in the office. The nails were fired at close range, since they went all the way in. We had to look closely even to see them.”
One of the other officers handed a couple of A4-size photos to Carl. They were right. The heads of the nails were just barely visible in the skull. There wasn’t even any significant bleeding.
“As you can see, they were both working. There was dirt on their hands and they were wearing boiler suits.”
“Was anything missing?”
“Zilch!”
Carl hadn’t heard that expression in a while.
“What were they working on? Wasn’t it late at night? Were they moonlighting, or what?”
The detectives exchanged glances. This was clearly a question they were still working on.
“There were footprints from hundreds of shoes. Looks like they never cleaned the place,” Jorgensen added. This wasn’t going to be an easy case for him. “We want you to have a close look at this, Carl,” he went on as he picked up a corner of a cloth that was covering the table. “And don’t say anything until you’re sure.”
He took off the cloth to reveal four shirts with big red checks, lying side by side like lumberjacks taking a nap on the forest floor.
“Do any of these look like the one you saw at the crime scene in Amager?”
It was the strangest lineup Carl had ever taken part in. Which of these shirts did it? That was the question. It was almost a joke. Shirts had never been his specialty. He wouldn’t even be able to recognize his own.
“I realize it’s difficult after such a long time, Carl,” said Jorgensen wearily. “But it would be a big help if you could try.”
“Why the hell do you think the perp would be wearing the same shirt months later? Even you lot must change your gear once in a while out here in the sticks.”
Jorgensen ignored the remark. “We just want to try everything.”
“And how can you be sure that the witness who saw the alleged killer from a distance and, to cap it all, at night, would be able to remember how a red-checked shirt looked with such accuracy that you could use it as a lead in the investigation? These shirts look like four peas in a pod, damn it! OK, they’re not identical, but there must be thousands of other shirts that look just like them.”
“The guy who saw the shirt works in a clothing shop. We believe him. He was very precise when he drew a picture of it.”
“Did he also draw a picture of the man inside it? Wouldn’t that have been better?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. Not a bad drawing, but not great either. It’s not as easy to draw a person as it is to draw a shirt.”
Carl looked at the sketch they now placed on top of the shirts. An ordinary-looking guy. If he didn’t know better, the man could be a photocopier salesman in Slagelse. Round glasses, clean-shaven, innocent-looking eyes, with a boyish set to his mouth.
“I don’t recognize him. How tall did the witness say he was?”
“At least six feet, maybe more.”
Then the detective took the drawing away and pointed at the shirts. Carl studied each of them. Offhand, they all looked pretty much the same.
Then he closed his eyes and tried to picture the shirt in his mind.
“What happened then?” asked Assad on the way back to Copenhagen.
“Nothing. They all looked the same to me. I can’t really remember that damn shirt anymore.”
“So maybe then you got a picture of them to take home?” Carl didn’t answer. He was far away in his thoughts. At the moment he was seeing Anker lying dead on the floor next to him, and Hardy gasping on top of him. Why the fuck hadn’t he shot those men? All he’d had to do was turn around when he heard them on their way into the barracks, and then none of this would have happened. Anker would be sitting next to him behind the wheel of the car instead of this strange being named Assad. And Hardy! Hardy wouldn’t be chained to a bed for the rest of his life, for fuck’s sake.
“Could they not just send you the pictures right away first, Carl?”
He looked at his driver. Sometimes those eyes of his had such a devilishly innocent expression under the inch- thick eyebrows.
“Yes, Assad. Of course they could have.”
He checked out the signs posted above the motorway. Only a couple of kilometers to Tastrup.
“Turn off here,” he said.
“Why?” asked Assad as the car crossed the solid lines and took the exit ramp on two wheels.
“Because I want to take a look at the place where Daniel Hale died.”
“Who?”
“The guy who was interested in Merete Lynggaard.”
“How do you know about that, Carl?”
“Bak told me. Hale was killed in a car crash. I have the police report with me.”
Assad gave a low whistle, as if car wrecks were a cause of death reserved only for people who were very, very unlucky.
Carl glanced at the speedometer. Maybe Assad should let up a little on the speed, before they ended up in the statistics as well.
