Mercy aka The keeper of lost causes

her to take a deadly cocktail of pills.

“You all know the rest of the story. The woman was hospitalized, her life was saved, and she clammed up completely. But what you don’t know is that our investigation received a great deal of help from our new Department Q, which is headed by Carl Morck.”

Bak turned to Carl. “You didn’t participate in the actual investigation, Carl, but you set in motion several trains of thought. My team and I would like to thank you for that. We’d also like to thank your assistant, whom you used as a messenger between us and Hardy Henningsen, who also provided us with valuable input. We’ve sent Hardy some flowers, just so you know.”

Carl was dumbfounded. A couple of his former colleagues turned toward him and attempted to wring smiles out of their stony faces, but the others didn’t budge.

Lars Bjorn took over. “A lot of people have worked on this case. We also want to thank you boys,” he added, pointing to the two narcotics cops. “Now it’s up to you to unravel the ring of drug-dealing doctors. We know it’s going to be a huge job. On the other hand, those of us in homicide can now turn our attention to other matters, and we’re glad about that. There’s plenty to keep all of us busy up here on the third floor.”

Carl waited until almost everyone had left the room. He knew how hard it must have been for Bak to give him any sort of praise. So he went over to shake hands with him. “I didn’t deserve that, but I’d like to say thanks, Bak.”

Borge Bak looked at Carl’s outstretched hand for a moment and then started packing up his papers. “Don’t thank me. I would never have done it if Marcus Jacobsen hadn’t ordered me to.”

Carl nodded. So once again they knew where each of them stood.

Out in the hall, panic was spreading. All the office workers were clustered around the boss’s door, and everyone had a complaint.

“OK, OK. We don’t yet know what’s wrong,” said homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen. “But from what the police commissioner has told us, no official database can be accessed at the moment. Somebody has hacked into the central servers and changed all the passwords. We don’t know yet who’s behind it. There aren’t many who’d be capable of doing something like this, so we’re pulling out all the stops to find the culprits.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” someone said. “How can it be possible?”

Jacobsen shrugged. He tried to look calm and composed, but probably wasn’t.

Carl told Assad that the workday was over since there was nothing more they could do. Without the information from the Civil Registration System they wouldn’t be able to track Lars Henrik Jensen’s movements. It would just have to wait.

As Carl drove north to the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries, he heard on the radio that a letter had been sent to the media by an angry citizen who claimed to have infected all the official government databases with a virus. It was assumed the individual was a civil servant who held a key position but may have been laid off due to municipal reforms. But so far nothing could be confirmed. Computer experts tried to explain how it was possible to access such well-protected data, and the prime minister called the culprits “the worst kind of bandits one can imagine.” Security experts specializing in data transmission were already in full swing, he claimed, and everything would soon be back in working order. Of course whoever was to blame could expect a very long prison sentence. The prime minister was just about to compare the situation to the attacks on the World Trade Center, but stopped short of doing so.

The first smart thing he’d done in a long time.

There was, in fact, a bouquet of flowers from Bak’s team on Hardy’s bedside table, but even the smallest gas station kiosk could have come up with something nicer. Hardy didn’t care. He couldn’t see the flowers anyway since the nurses had moved him over to the window so he could look out.

“I’m supposed to say hello from Bak,” Carl told him.

Hardy gave him a look that might be described as surly, but in reality was indefinable. “What does that fucking creep have to do with me?”

“Assad gave him your tip, and now they’ve made an arrest that’s going to stick.”

“I haven’t given anybody a damn tip about anything.”

“Sure you did. You said that Bak should take a look at everyone who might be giving medical treatment to the key witness, Annelise Kvist.”

“What case are we talking about?”

“The cyclist murder, Hardy.”

He frowned. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Carl. You’ve tossed that idiotic case about Merete Lynggaard in my lap, and that psychologist bitch keeps harping on the shooting incident out in Amager. That should be plenty. I have no idea what this cyclist murder case is about.”

Now it wasn’t only Hardy who was frowning. “Are you sure Assad didn’t mention the cyclist case to you? Are you having trouble with your memory, Hardy? It’s OK to tell me.”

“Aww, fuck off, Carl. I don’t feel like listening to this bullshit. My memory is my worst enemy. Can’t you understand that?” Hardy sputtered, his eyes crystal clear.

Carl raised his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Hardy. I must have been misinformed by Assad. It happens.”

But deep inside he wasn’t taking it nearly as casually.

That sort of thing couldn’t and wouldn’t happen again.

36

2007

He sat down at the breakfast table with his esophagus burning from acid indigestion and sleep still weighing heavily on his shoulders. Neither Morten nor Jesper said a word to him, which was standard procedure for his stepson but definitely an ominous sign when it came to his lodger.

The morning paper was lying neatly on a corner of the table, and the top story was Tage Baggesen’s voluntary resignation from his parliamentary position, citing health reasons. Morten kept his head bowed silently over his plate, steadily chewing, as Carl reached page six and sat gaping at a grainy photo of himself.

It was the same picture that Gossip had used of him the day before, but this time it was next to a slightly faded outdoor photo of Uffe Lynggaard. The caption was far from flattering:

“The head of Department Q, in charge of the investigation of ‘cases deserving special scrutiny,’ as designated by the Denmark Party, has appeared in the news in the past two days under particularly unfortunate circumstances.”

The article didn’t focus on the Gossip story, but the reporter had conducted interviews with staff members at Egely, and they all complained of Carl’s heavy-handed methods. They also blamed him for Uffe’s disappearance. The supervisory nurse was portrayed as especially furious. She used phrases such as “abuse of our willingness to help,” and “psychological rape” and “manipulation.” The article ended with the words: “As of press time, it has not been possible to get any comment from the police department.”

It would be hard to find a more evil villain than Carl Morck in a spaghetti Western. An amazing piece of reporting, considering what had really happened.

“I’ve got a final exam today,” said Jesper, rousing Carl from his reverie.

Carl looked at him over the top of the newspaper. “In what?”

“Math.”

That didn’t sound good. “Have you studied for it?”

Jesper shrugged and got up. As usual, he paid no attention to the plethora of utensils he’d slathered with butter and jam or the rest of the mess he’d left on the table.

“Just a second, Jesper,” Carl said. “What does that mean?”