“Tomorrow is Saturday, and it’s my day off. When I’m done sleeping, I’m going to get up and make myself a cup of coffee and then go back to bed. I may do that all day long, you never know. Besides, I never saw the perps out in Amager, which I’ve actually said many times, in case you take a look at the reports. And since the man’s face wasn’t revealed to me in my dreams, you can conclude that I haven’t seen him since. So I’m not coming in. Is that OK with you, Jorgensen?”
Another pause, for Christ’s sake. This was more enervating than politicians who constantly inserted an “er” or “um” between every other word in their nauseating, long-winded sentences.
“Only you can decide whether it’s OK or not,” said Jorgensen. “It was your friends who suffered at the hands of this man. We’ve searched the suspect’s place of residence, and several of the things we found indicate a connection between the events in Amager and Soro.”
“That’s good, Jorgensen. Good luck, then. I’ll follow the story in the newspapers.”
“You do know that you’ll be asked to testify in court, don’t you? It’s your identification of the shirt that helps to link the two crimes.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there. Happy hunting.”
Carl cut off the connection and noted an unpleasant feeling in his chest. A much stronger sensation than before. Maybe it was due to the unbelievably offensive odor that had seeped into the car, but it could also be a sign of something more serious.
For a minute he just sat and waited until the pressure in his rib cage eased up a bit. Then he returned the wave the farmer had sent him, and started the motor. After Carl had driven about five hundred yards along the road, he slowed down, opened the window, and began gasping for air, arching his back as much as he could to release the tension. Then he pulled over and began sucking the air deeper and deeper into his lungs. He’d seen other people suffering from this type of panic attack, but experiencing it inside his own body was totally surreal. He opened the car door, cupped his hands around his mouth to decrease the effect of hyperventilation, and flung the door all the way open.
“Damn it!” he shouted, doubling over as he staggered along the ditch with a piston pounding in his bronchial tubes. Overhead the clouds were spinning, the sky closing in around him. He dropped to the ground with his legs off to the side and fumbled after the cell phone in his jacket pocket. He was damned if he’d die of a heart attack without having anything to say about it.
A car slowed down on the road. The people inside couldn’t see him in the ditch, but he could hear them. “That looks odd,” said a voice, and then the car drove on. If I had their license number, I’d show them, all right. That was the last thought Carl had before everything went black.
When he came to, he was holding his phone pressed to his ear, with an awful lot of dirt around his mouth. He licked his lips, spat out some grime, and looked around in confusion. He put his hand to his chest; the pressure was still there but not as bad, and he concluded that things may not be as dire as he’d thought. Then he hauled himself to his feet, staggered back to the car, and tumbled into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t even one-thirty, so he hadn’t been out for long.
“What’s going on, Carl?” he asked himself. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt twice as thick as normal. His legs were like ice, while his torso was drenched in sweat. Something had gone very wrong with his body.
“You’re about to lose control,” he heard a voice bellow inside of him. And then his mobile rang.
Assad didn’t ask him how he was feeling. Why should he? “We have now a problem, Carl” was all he said as Carl swore to himself.
“The technicians do not dare remove the crossed-out line in Merete Lynggaard’s phone book,” Assad continued, undaunted. “They say that the number and the crossed-out line were made with the same ballpoint pen, so even though they have dried up different, there is much too big a risk that both layers disappear.”
Carl put his hand on his chest again. Now it felt as if he’d swallowed air. It hurt like hell. Was he really having a heart attack? Or did it just feel like he was?
“They say we have to send it all to England. Something about combining some kind of digitalizing process with a chemical emersion, or whatever they said.” He was probably waiting for Carl to correct the terms that he’d used, but Carl wasn’t correcting anything at the moment. He had enough to deal with as he squeezed his eyes shut and summoned all his willpower to get rid of the awful spasms that were pumping through his torso.
“I think it takes too long, the whole thing. They say that we will not have the results until three or four weeks. Don’t you agree?”
He tried to concentrate, but Assad didn’t have the patience to wait.
“Maybe I should not tell you this, Carl, but I think I can count really good on you, so I will tell you anyway. I know a guy who can do this for us.” Assad paused for some sort of acknowledgment, but he waited in vain. “Are you there now still, Carl?”
“Yes, damn it,” he snapped. Then he inhaled deeply, expanding his lungs to the limit. It hurt like hell for a moment before the pressure eased. “Who is he?” Carl asked, trying to relax.
“You do not want to know that, Carl. But he is very good. He is from the Middle East. I know him real well enough, and he is good. Should I set him on the job?”
“Just a minute, Assad. I need to think.”
Carl stumbled out of the car and stood there for a moment, doubled over, his head hanging and his hands on his knees. That sent the blood flowing back to his brain. His face was ablaze but the pressure in his chest faded. Oh, that felt good. In spite of the stench from the farmer’s field that wafted past him like a disease, the air out there felt almost refreshing.
When he straightened up, he felt fine.
He picked up his cell. “OK, Assad, I’m back. We can’t have a passport counterfeiter doing work for us. Do you hear me?”
“Who says he is a passport counterfeiter? I did not say that.”
“So what then?”
“He was just good at doing this kind of thing, where he came from. He can remove stamp marks so you cannot see them. It should be simple for him to remove a little ink. You do not need to know more then. And I will not tell him what he is doing this for. He is fast, Carl. And it will cost nothing. He owes me favors.”
“How fast?”
“We have it on Monday if we want.”
“Then go ahead and give him the shit, Assad. Go ahead.”
Assad muttered something on the other end of the line. Presumably “OK” in Arabic.
“Just one more thing, Carl. Mrs. Sorensen from upstairs in the homicide department wants me to tell you that the witness, that woman in the cyclist case, has started to talk a little bit. And she-”
“Stop right there, Assad. That’s not our case.” Carl got back in the car. “We have enough to do as it is.”
“Mrs. Sorensen did not say it exactly to me, but I think upstairs they want your opinion, I mean without asking you, like directly.”
“Go up there and pump her for information, Assad. And then go and visit Hardy on Monday morning and tell him about it. I’m sure it would amuse him more than me. Take a cab out there, and then I’ll see you back at headquarters later. OK? In the meantime, keep your chin up, Assad. Say hello to Hardy for me and tell him I’ll be out to visit him sometime next week.”
Carl ended the conversation and peered out the windshield, which looked as though it had been through a shower. But it wasn’t rain; he could smell what it was from inside the car. It was pig’s piss, a la carte. The springtime country menu.
Sitting on Carl’s desk was a sumptuously decorated monster of a tea apparatus, sputtering away. If Assad had thought that the oil flame would keep the mint tea good and hot until his boss returned, he was mistaken, because by now all the water in the kettle had boiled off and the bottom was making creaking noises. Carl blew out the flame and dropped heavily onto his chair, noticing the pressure in his chest again. He’d heard it all before. A warning, then relief. Then maybe another brief warning and after that: you’re dead. Bright prospects for a man who had buckets full of years that had to be poured out before he could retire.
He took out Mona Ibsen’s business card and weighed it in his hand. Twenty minutes next to her soft, warm body and he’d probably feel much better. The question was whether he’d feel just as good if he had to make do
