Carl looked at her, trying to figure out what was behind her words. “What do you mean by ‘the circumstances’? Are you thinking about the car accident?”
She nodded. “Yes, the accident and then Dennis’s death a short time afterward. Dennis would sometimes go on a drinking binge, but he’d never taken drugs before. And that’s what we told the police. It was unthinkable, as a matter of fact. He’d worked with teenagers and warned them against taking drugs, but the police wouldn’t listen. All they saw was his criminal record and how many speeding tickets he’d had. So they’d already convicted him in their minds before they even found those disgusting Ecstasy pills in his sports bag.” Her eyes narrowed. “But it didn’t make sense, because Dennis never touched anything like that. It would have slowed down his reactions when he drove. He hated that kind of shit.”
“Maybe he was tempted by the idea of making some quick cash and planned to sell the drugs. Maybe he was just going to try them out. You wouldn’t believe the sort of things we see at police headquarters.”
Now the lines around her mouth hardened. “Somebody got him to take those drugs, and I know who it was. That’s what I told the police back then.”
Carl pulled out his notebook. “Is that right?” His inner bloodhound raised its head and sniffed at the wind, catching the scent of something unexpected. He was fully alert now. “And who might that be?”
She went over to one end of the room and took down a photograph hanging from a nail sticking out of the wallpaper that obviously hadn’t been changed since the house had been built in the early sixties. Carl’s father had taken a similar photo when Carl won a swimming trophy in Bronderslev. It was a dad’s proud documentation of how great and talented his son had become. Carl guessed that Dennis was ten or twelve in the photo, looking handsome in his go-kart gear, and proud as punch about the little silver shield he was holding in his hand.
“That kid there,” said Camilla, pointing to a blond boy standing behind Dennis, with one hand on his friend’s shoulder. “They called him Atomos, but I don’t know why. They met at a motocross track. Dennis was crazy about him, but Atomos was a little shit.”
“So the two of them kept in touch after they grew up?”
“I’m not really sure. I think they lost contact when Dennis was sixteen or seventeen, but during his last years I know they were seeing each other again, because Mum was always complaining about it.”
“And why do you think Atomos might have had something to do with your brother’s death?”
She looked at the photograph with a sorrowful expression. “He was just a real prick, and ugly deep down in his soul.”
“That’s a strange way of putting it. What exactly do you mean?”
“He was fucked up inside his head. Dennis said I was talking nonsense, but it was true.”
“So why was your brother friends with him?”
“Because Atomos was always the one who encouraged Dennis to drive. Plus he was a couple of years older. Dennis looked up to him.”
“Your brother suffocated on his own vomit. He’d taken five pills and had a blood-alcohol level of four point one. I don’t know how much he weighed, but no matter what, he made a good job of it. Do you know whether he had any reason to drink? Was this new behavior for him? Was he particularly depressed after the accident?”
She looked at him with sad eyes. “Yes, my parents said that the accident had a terrible effect on him. Dennis was a fantastic driver. It was the first accident he’d ever been involved in, and a man died, besides.”
“According to my information, Dennis was in jail twice for reckless driving, so he couldn’t have been all that fantastic.”
“Ha!” She gave him a scornful look. “He never drove recklessly. When he was speeding on a motorway, he always knew how far ahead the lane was free. The last thing he wanted was to endanger the life of anyone else.”
How many sociopaths would never have been hatched if their families had only been paying attention? How many idiots were allowed to cling to the bonds of blood? Carl had heard the same story a thousand times before. My brother, my son, my husband is innocent.
“You seem to have a high regard for your brother. Don’t you think you’re being a little naive?”
She grabbed Carl’s wrist and leaned so close that he could feel her bangs brushing the bridge of his nose.
“If your investigative work is as limp as your dick, you might as well leave right now,” she snarled.
Her reaction was surprisingly fierce and provocative. So it probably wasn’t the corridors of management that she frequented, Carl thought, drawing his face away.
“My brother was all right. Do you hear me?” she went on. “And if you want to make any progress in what you’re farting around with, I advise you to remember what I just said.” Then she patted him on the crotch and stepped back. It was a shocking metamorphosis. Suddenly she seemed gentle and open and credible again. It was a hell of a profession he’d got himself involved in.
He frowned and took a step toward her. “The next time you touch my equipment, I’m going to puncture your silicon boobs and then claim it happened because you resisted arrest after threatening to slug me with one of your brother’s ugly trophies. When I slap the cuffs on you, and you’re waiting for the doctor as you stare at the blank white wall of a prison cell in Hillerod, you’ll dream about taking back that pat you gave me. Shall we proceed, or do you have anything to add regarding my nobler parts?”
She kept her cool. Didn’t even smile. “I’m just saying that my brother was OK, and you’ll just have to believe me.”
Carl gave up. It was no use trying to make her change her mind.
“Right,” he said. “So how do I find this Atomos?” he asked, taking a step back from the chameleon. “Don’t you remember anything else about him?”
“You know what? He was five years younger than me. I couldn’t have cared less about him back then.”
Carl smiled wryly. Interests could certainly change over the years.
“Any distinguishing marks? Scars? What about his hair? His teeth? Is there anyone else in town who knew him?”
“I don’t think so. He came from a children’s home up in Tisvildeleje.”
She paused for a moment, thinking with her eyes averted. “Wait a minute. I think the place was called Godhavn.” She handed the framed photograph to Carl. “If you promise to bring it back, you can try showing the picture to the staff at the home. Maybe they can answer your questions.”
Carl had come to a stop at an intersection sparkling with sunlight. He was sitting in the car, thinking. He could drive north to Tisvildeleje to talk to the staff at the children’s home, in the hopes that somebody still remembered a boy named Atomos who lived there twenty years ago. Or he could drive south to Egely and play a game about the past with Uffe. Or he could park his vehicle on the side of the road and set his brain on cruise control while he took a nap for a few hours. The last option was especially tempting.
On the other hand, if he didn’t put the Playmobil figures back on Morten’s shelf in time, there was a real risk that he might lose his lodger, along with a big chunk of rent money.
So he released the handbrake and turned left to drive south.
It was lunchtime at Egely, and the aroma of thyme and tomato sauce had settled over the landscape as Carl parked his car. He found the director sitting alone at a long teak table on the terrace outside his office. As on the previous occasion, he was impeccably dressed, with a sun hat on his head and a napkin tucked into his collar. He was tentatively nibbling at a small serving of lasagne that took up only a corner of his plate. He was clearly not the sort who lived for worldly pleasures. The same could not be said of his administrative coworkers and a couple of nurses who sat thirty feet away, chattering vociferously as they attacked the food piled on their plates.
They saw Carl come around the corner and suddenly fell silent, which made other sounds suddenly seem very loud: the nest-builders, giddy with spring, noisily fluttering about in the bushes; the clattering of dishes from inside the dining hall.
“Bon appetit,” said Carl as he sat down at the director’s table without waiting for an invitation. “I’m here to ask you something about Uffe. Did you know he played a game where he was supposedly reliving the accident that left him handicapped? Karen Mortensen, a caseworker in Stevns, observed him playing that game shortly before Merete Lynggaard died. Did you know about it?”
The director nodded slowly and took another bite of his food. Carl looked at the plate. Evidently the last bites
