1. Uffe
2. Unknown postman-the letter about Berlin
3. The man/woman from Cafe Bankerat
4. “Colleagues” at Christiansborg-TB +?
5. Murder resulting from a robbery-how much money in her purse?
6. Sexual assault
CHECK:
The telegram
The secretaries at Christiansborg
Witnesses on the ferry
The foster family after the accident-old classmates at the university. Did she have a tendency to get depressed? Was she pregnant? In love?
Next to “Unknown postman” Carl now wrote in parentheses: “Atomos as Daniel Hale.” Then he crossed out item number four with Tage Baggesen’s initials and the question about her being pregnant at the bottom of the second page.
In addition to item number three, he still had items five and six left on the first list. Even a small amount of money could have tempted the sick brain of some robber. But item number six, the possible sexual-assault motive, seemed unlikely, given the circumstances and time frame on board the ferry.
With regard to the items on the second list, he still hadn’t talked to the witnesses on the ferry, the foster family, or university classmates. As for the witnesses, their statements had offered nothing useful, and the other points he’d written down were no longer relevant. It was obvious that Merete had not committed suicide, in any case.
No, these lists aren’t going to get me any further, thought Carl. He studied them for a few more minutes and then tossed them in the wastebasket, which had to be put to good use, after all.
He picked up Merete’s phone book and held it close to his eyes. Assad’s contact had certainly done a hell of a job. The crossed-out line was completely gone. It was really unbelievable.
“Tell me who did this!” Carl shouted across the hall, but Assad stopped him from saying anything else with a wave of his hand. Carl saw that his assistant had the phone glued to his ear as he sat at his desk, nodding his head. He didn’t look very animated; on the contrary. No doubt it hadn’t been possible to find out the name of the subscriber for the old mobile number listed in the telephone registered under the name of Hale.
“Was there a prepaid calling card in the mobile?” he asked when Assad came in holding a scrap of paper and fanning away the cigarette smoke with disapproval.
“Yes,” he replied, handing Carl the note. “The cell phone belonged to a girl at Tjornelys middle school in Greve. She reported it stolen from her coat, which she hung up outside the classroom on Monday, February 18, 2002. The theft was not reported until a few days later, and no one knows who did it.”
Carl nodded. So now they knew the name of the subscriber, but not who stole the mobile and then used it. That made sense. He was now convinced that everything was connected. Merete Lynggaard’s disappearance was no accident. A man had approached her with dishonest intentions, and set off a chain of events that ended with no one having seen the beautiful Folketing politician since. In the meantime, more than five years had passed. Naturally Carl feared the very worst.
“Lis is asking now if she should keep going on the case,” said Assad.
“What do you mean?”
“Should she look for a link between those conversations there from the old phone in Merete’s office with this number?” Assad pointed at the little scrap of paper where he had neatly printed in block letters: “25772060, Sanne Jonsson, Tv?rager 90, Greve Strand.” So Assad was capable of writing something that was legible after all.
Carl shook his head at himself. Had he really forgotten to compare the lists of phone calls? Damned if he wasn’t going to have to start making notes for himself before Alzheimer’s Lite took over.
“Of course,” he replied in an authoritative tone. In that way they might be able to establish a timeline in communication that showed a pattern in the course of the relationship between Merete and the Daniel Hale impostor.
“But you know what, Carl? It will take a couple of days, and Lis does not have time right now. She says that it will be fairly so difficult after such a long time then. Maybe it cannot even be done.” Assad looked downright mournful.
“Tell me now, Assad. Who do you know that does such nice work?” said Carl, weighing Merete’s appointment diary in his hand.
But Assad refused.
Carl was just about to explain that this sort of secrecy wasn’t helping his chances of keeping his job, but then the phone rang.
It was the director from Egely, and his disdain for Carl practically dripped out of the receiver. “I want you to know that Uffe Lynggaard took off a short time after your utterly insane assault on him last Friday. We have no idea where he is right now. The police in Frederikssund have been alerted, but if anything serious happens to him, Carl Morck, I promise I am going to torment you for the rest of your career.”
Then he slammed down the phone, leaving Carl in a thundering void.
Two minutes later the homicide chief called and asked Carl to come upstairs to his office. He didn’t need to elaborate; Carl recognized the tone.
He’d been summoned. Now.
33
The nightmare started as soon as he passed the newsstand outside the Allerod station, headed for work. The expanded Easter issue of
A couple of locals moved aside in embarrassment as they bought sandwiches and fruit. “Police Detective Threatens Journalist” screamed the headline. And underneath in smaller letters it said: “The Truth about the Fatal Shots.”
The clerk seemed truly disappointed when Carl chose not to personally invest his hard-earned money in a copy of
Quite a few people on the train stared at Carl, and again he felt the pressure settling in his rib cage.
Things didn’t get better at police headquarters. He’d finished the previous workday listening to the homicide chief reprimand him because of Uffe’s disappearance. Now he was summoned upstairs again.
“What are you staring at, you morons?” he snarled as he walked past a couple of colleagues who didn’t exactly look as if they were aggrieved on his behalf.
“Well, Carl. The question is: What are we going to do with you?” said Marcus Jacobsen. “I’m afraid that next week I’ll be seeing headlines saying you’ve been psychologically terrorizing some poor handicapped person. I’m sure you realize that the media is going to have a field day if anything happens to Uffe Lynggaard.” He pointed at the newspaper. There was a picture of a scowling Carl, taken years earlier at a crime scene. Carl recalled how he’d kicked the press out of the cordoned-off area, and how furious the journalists had been.
“So let me ask again: What are we going to do with you, Carl?”
Carl picked up the tabloid with annoyance and scanned the text in the center of the yellow-and-red layout splotches. They really knew how to drag a man through the mud, those gossip-spewing, low-life reporters.
