gauge pointing to empty. The forty-five minutes that he then spent sitting in the exhaust fumes of the small stretch of motorway between Nymollevej and V?rlose didn’t do much to encourage the side of his personality that might manifest charm, amiability, and patience.
When he was finally sitting at his desk in the basement of police headquarters, he found himself staring at the sparks of energy apparent in Assad’s morning-fresh face. That was when he considered going upstairs to Marcus Jacobsen’s office and smashing a few chairs so he’d be sent off someplace where they’d take good care of him. Where he would only need to pay attention to all the world’s misfortunes when the evening news appeared on TV.
Carl nodded wearily to his assistant. If he could only get the man to contain his high spirits for a moment, then perhaps his own inner batteries might have a chance to recharge. He glanced at the coffeemaker, saw that it was empty, and then accepted the tiny cup that Assad handed him.
“I do not entirely understand it, Carl,” said Assad. “You say that Daniel Hale is dead, but he was not the one who came to the meeting at Christiansborg. So who was that man then?”
“I have no idea, Assad, but Hale had nothing to do with Merete Lynggaard. Whoever came in Hale’s place did, however.” He took a sip of Assad’s mint tea. Without the four or five spoonfuls of sugar, it might actually be drinkable.
“But how could this other guy know that the billionaire who was boss of the meeting up at Christiansborg had never seen Daniel Hale in reality then?”
“That’s a good question. Maybe this man and Hale knew each other somehow.” Carl set his cup on the desk and looked up at the bulletin board, where he had pinned up the brochure from InterLab A/S with Daniel Hale’s well-groomed likeness.
“So it was not Hale who delivered the letter, was it? And he was not the man who had dinner with Merete Lynggaard at the Bankerat, right?”
“According to Hale’s colleagues, he wasn’t even in the country at the time.” Carl turned to look at his assistant. “What did the police report say about Daniel Hale’s car after the accident? Do you remember? Was everything a hundred per cent in order? Did they find any defects that might have caused the accident?”
“You mean, were the brakes fine?”
“The brakes. Steering mechanism. Everything. Was there any sign of sabotage?”
Assad shrugged. “It was difficult to see anything, because the car burned up, Carl. But it was then probably believed to be an ordinary accident, as I can understand that report.”
That was how Carl remembered it too. Nothing suspicious.
“And there were no witnesses who can say otherwise?”
They exchanged glances.
“I know, Assad. I know.”
“Only him, the man who drove into him.”
“Exactly.” Without thinking, Carl took a gulp of the mint tea, which made him shudder. He certainly wasn’t going to get addicted to this swill.
Carl considered taking a cigarette or a throat lozenge out of the desk drawer, but he didn’t have enough energy even for that. It was a hell of a development. Here he was, just about to close up the damn case and now this turn of events had to happen, pointing to unexplored aspects. An endless workload suddenly loomed before him, and this was just one case. There were forty or fifty more stacked on the desk in front of him.
“What about him, the witness in the other car, Carl? Shouldn’t we talk to that man who Daniel Hale crashed into?”
“I’ve got Lis trying to track him down.”
For a moment Assad looked thoroughly disappointed.
“But I’ve got a different assignment for you.”
An oddly blissful change in mood brought a smile to his lips.
“I want you to drive down to Holtug in Stevns and talk to the home help, Helle Andersen, one more time. Ask her if she recognizes Daniel Hale as the man who personally delivered the letter. Take his picture with you.” He pointed at the bulletin board.
“But he was not the one, it was him, the other one who-”
Carl stopped Assad with a wave of his hand. “You know that, and I know that. But if she says no, as we expect her to do, then ask her whether Daniel Hale looked anything like the guy with the letter. We need to get a better description of the man, OK? And one more thing: Ask her whether Uffe was there and might have caught a glimpse of the man who brought the letter. And finally, ask her whether she remembers where Merete used to put her briefcase when she came home. Tell her it’s black and has a big rip on one side. It was her father’s, and he had it in the car when the accident happened, so it must have meant a lot to her.” Carl raised his hand again as Assad was about to say something. “And afterward, drive over to see the antique dealers who bought Merete’s house in Magleby and ask them if they’ve seen a briefcase like that anywhere. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow, OK? You can take the car home with you. I’ll take cabs today, and later I can catch the train home.”
By now Assad was flailing his arms about.
“Yes, Assad?”
“Just a minute, right? I have to find a writing book. Will you please just say everything one more time?”
Hardy had looked worse. Previously his head resembled something that had melted into the pillow, but now it was lifted enough so that the fine blood vessels were visible, pulsing in his temples. He lay there with eyes closed, and he seemed more peaceful than he had in a long time. For a moment Carl thought maybe he should leave. Some of the equipment had been removed from the room, even though the respirator was of course still pumping. All in all, it seemed a good sign.
He turned carefully on his heel and was just taking a step toward the door when Hardy’s voice stopped him.
“Where are you going? Can’t you stand to see a man flat on his back?”
Carl turned around and saw Hardy lying exactly as when he’d entered the room.
“If you want people to stay, you ought to make some sort of sign that you’re awake, Hardy. You could open your eyes, for example.”
“No. Not today. I don’t feel like opening my eyes today.” Carl needed to hear that one again. “If there’s going to be any difference in my days, then I should be allowed to decide whether or not to open my eyes, OK?”
“Yeah. OK.”
“Tomorrow I’m planning on looking only to the right.”
“OK,” said Carl, even though Hardy’s words hurt deep in his soul. “You’ve talked to Assad a couple of times now, Hardy. Was it all right with you that I sent him over here?”
“It sure as hell wasn’t,” he said, hardly moving his lips.
“Yeah, well, I did. And I’ve been thinking of sending him over here as often as I need to. Do you have any objections?”
“Only if he brings those spicy, grilled things again.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Something that might be interpreted as laughter slipped out of Hardy’s body. “They made me shit like I’ve never shit before. The nurses were really upset.”
Carl tried not to picture the scene. It didn’t sound pleasant.
“I’ll tell Assad, Hardy. No spicy, grilled things next time.”
“Is there anything new in the Lynggaard case?” asked Hardy. This was the first time since he was paralyzed that he’d expressed curiosity about anything. Carl could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. In a moment he’d probably have a lump in his throat too.
“Yeah, you bet.” And then he told Hardy about the latest development with Daniel Hale.
“You know what I think, Carl?” Hardy said afterward.
“You think the case has got a new lease of life.”
“Exactly. The whole thing stinks to high heaven.” He opened his eyes for a moment and looked up at the ceiling before he closed them again. “Do you have any political leads to investigate?”
