A ruddy-faced man displaying the unmistakable signs of a massive hangover opened the door and tried to focus on Carl in the blinding sunlight.
“What the hell’s the time?” he asked, as he let go of the doorknob and retreated inside. There was no need for a court order to follow him in.
The living room was of the type shown in disaster movies after the comet has split the earth in two. The homeowner threw himself onto a sagging sofa with a satisfied sigh. Then he took a huge gulp from a whisky bottle as he tried to localize Carl out of the corner of his eye.
Carl’s experience told him this man would not exactly be an ideal witness.
He said hello from Pelle Hyttested, hoping that would break the ice a bit.
“He owes me money,” replied Hess.
Carl was about to show the photographer his badge, but changed his mind and stuck it back in his pocket. “I’m from a special police unit that’s trying to solve mysteries about some unfortunate people,” he said. A statement like that couldn’t possibly scare anyone off.
Hess lowered the bottle for a moment. Maybe that was too many words for him to process, considering his condition.
“I’m here to talk to you about Merete Lynggaard,” Carl ventured. “I know that you sort of specialized in her.”
Hess tried to smile, but acid indigestion prevented it. “There aren’t many who know that,” he said. “And what about her?”
“Do you have any pictures of her that you haven’t published?”
Hess doubled over, trying to suppress a laugh. “Jesus, how can you ask such a stupid question? I’ve got at least ten thousand of them.”
“Ten thousand! That sounds like a lot.”
“Listen here.” He held up his hand with the fingers splayed out. “Two or three rolls of film every other day for two to three years-how many photos would that make?”
“A lot more than ten thousand, I would think.”
After an hour, and helped along by the calories contained in neat whisky, Jonas Hess was finally alert enough that he could lead the way, without staggering, to his darkroom, which was in a little building made of breeze blocks behind the house.
Here things were quite different from inside his house. Carl had been in plenty of darkrooms before, but none as sterile and neat as this one. The difference between the man in the house and the man in the darkroom was unsettling.
Hess pulled out a metal drawer and dived in. “Here,” he said, handing Carl a folder labeled: MERETE LYNGGAARD: NOVEMBER 13, 2001 TO MARCH 1, 2002. “Those are the negatives from the last period.”
Carl opened the folder, starting at the back. Each plastic sleeve contained the negatives from a whole roll of film, but in the last sleeve there were only five shots. The date had been meticulously printed on it: MARCH 1, 2002 ML.
“You took pictures of her the day before she disappeared?”
“Yes. Nothing special. Just a couple of shots in the parliament courtyard. I often stood in the gate, waiting.”
“Waiting for her?”
“Not just for her. For all the Folketing politicians. If you only knew what surprising groupings I’ve seen appear on that stairway. All it takes is waiting, and one day it happens.”
“But there were apparently no surprises that day, as far as I can see.” Carl took the plastic sleeve out of the folder and placed it on the light table. So these pictures were taken on Friday, when Merete Lynggaard was on her way home. The day before she disappeared.
He leaned down to get a closer look at the negatives.
There it was: She had her briefcase under her arm.
Carl shook his head. Incredible. The very first picture he looked at, and he already had something. Here was the proof in black-and-white. Merete had taken the briefcase home with her. An old, worn-out case with a rip on one side and everything.
“Could I borrow this negative?”
The photographer took another gulp of whisky and wiped his mouth. “I never lend out my negatives. I don’t even sell them. But we can make a copy; I’ll just scan it. I assume the quality doesn’t have to be fit for a queen.” He took in a big breath, then hawked a bit as he laughed.
“Thanks, I’d really appreciate a copy. You can send the bill to my department.” Carl handed the man his card.
Hess looked at the negatives. “Yeah, well, that day there wasn’t anything special. But there hardly ever was when it came to Merete Lynggaard. The biggest deal was in the summertime if it got cold and you could see her nipples through her blouse. I got good money for those shots.”
Again there was that hawking laughter as he went over to a small red refrigerator propped up on a couple of containers that had once held darkroom chemicals. He took out a beer, and seemed to offer it to his visitor, but the contents vanished before Carl even had time to react.
“Of course the scoop would be to catch her with a lover, right?” Hess said, looking for something else to toss down his throat. “And I think that’s what I caught on film a few days earlier.”
He slammed the fridge shut and picked up the folder to leaf through it. “Oh yeah, then there are the ones of Merete talking to a couple of members of the Denmark Party outside the Folketing chambers. I’ve even made contact prints of these negatives.” He chuckled. “I didn’t take the pictures because of who she was talking to but because of the woman standing over there, behind them.” He pointed to a person standing close to Merete. “I guess you can’t see it very well when the image is this size, but just take a look when it’s blown up. That’s the new secretary, and she’s totally gaga about Merete Lynggaard.”
Carl leaned closer. It was definitely Sos Norup. But with an entirely different air about her than there had been in her dragon’s lair in Valby.
“I have no idea whether there was anything going on between them, or whether it was just all in the secretary’s imagination. But what the hell! Don’t you think that photo would have brought in a nice sum one day?” Hess mused as he turned the page to the next set of negatives.
“Here it is,” he said, placing a moist finger in the middle of the plastic sleeve. “I remembered it was on the twenty-fifth of February, because that’s my sister’s birthday. I thought I could buy her a nice present if that picture turned out to be a goldmine. Here it is.”
He took out the plastic sleeve and placed it on the light table. “See, that was the shot I was thinking about. She’s talking to some man out on the steps of the parliament building.” Then he pointed at the photo just above it. “Take a look at that picture. I think she looks upset. There’s something in her eyes that shows she’s uncomfortable.” He handed Carl a magnifying glass.
How the hell could anyone see something like that in a negative? Her eyes were nothing but two white dots.
“She noticed me taking pictures, so I split. I don’t think she got a good look at me. Afterward I tried to photograph the man, but the only shot I got was from behind because he left the courtyard in the other direction, toward the bridge. But it was probably just some random guy who tried to accost her as he went by. There’d be plenty of others if they thought they could get away with it.”
“Do you have contact prints of this series too?”
Hess swallowed a couple more acid eruptions, looking as if his throat were on fire. “Prints? I can make you some if you run down to the offlicense and buy me some beer in the meantime.”
Carl nodded. “But first I have a question for you. If you were so obsessed about getting a picture of Merete Lynggaard with a lover, you must have taken photos of her at her house in Stevns. Am I right?”
Hess didn’t look up as he studied the pictures they’d been looking at.
“Of course. I was down there lots of times.”
“So there’s something I don’t understand. You must have seen her with her handicapped brother, Uffe. Yes?”
