from the woman’s wrists. The article was illustrated with a blueprint of the building and a cross-section drawing of the Drager Duocom unit with the rescuer inside, giving the woman oxygen and first aid. There were also photos of the doctors standing before the National Hospital’s huge pressure chamber and of Senior Sergeant Mikael Overgaard, who tended to the patient-gravely ill with the bends-inside the chamber. Finally, there was a grainy photo of Carl and Assad on their way out to the ambulances.
In big type it said in Norwegian: “Excellent coordinated efforts between naval diving experts and a newly established police division resolves Denmark’s most controversial missing-persons case in decades.”
“Well,” said Marcus, putting on his most charming smile. “Thanks to that article, we’ve been contacted by the Oslo police department. They’d like to know more about your work, Carl. In the autumn they want to send a delegation to Denmark, and I’d like you to meet with them.”
Carl could feel his mouth turn down at the corners. “I don’t have time for that,” he objected. He’d be damned if he was going to have a bunch of Norwegians running around downstairs. “Keep in mind that there are only two of us in the department. And exactly how much did you say our budget was, boss?”
Marcus nimbly evaded the question. “Now that you’ve recovered and returned to work, it’s time for you to sign this, Carl.” He handed Carl the same stupid application for the so-called qualification courses.
Carl made no move to pick it up. “I’m not doing it, chief.”
“But you have to, Carl. Why don’t you want to?”
Right now both of us are thinking about having a smoke, thought Carl. “There are plenty of reasons,” he said. “Just think about the welfare reform. Before long the retirement age will be seventy, depending on rank, and I have no desire to be some doddering old cop, and I don’t want to end up a desk jockey either. I don’t want lots of employees. I don’t want to do homework, and I don’t want to take exams. I’m too old for that. I don’t want to have a new business card, and I don’t want to be promoted. That’s why.”
Jacobsen looked tired. “A lot of the things you just mentioned aren’t going to happen. It’s all guesswork, Carl. But if you want to be head of Department Q, you have to take the courses.”
He shook his head. “No, Marcus. No more books for me; I can’t be bothered. It’s bad enough that I have to help my stepson with his math homework. And he’s going to fail anyway. I say that from now on the head of Department Q should be a deputy detective superintendent. And yes, I’m still using the old title. Period.” Carl raised his hand and held the plastic folder in the air.
“Do you see this, Marcus?” he went on, taking the paper out of the folder. “This is the operations budget for Department Q, exactly as it was approved by the Folketing.”
He heard a deep sigh from the other side of the desk.
Carl pointed to the bottom line. It said five million kroner per year. “According to my calculations, there’s a difference of more than four million between this number and what my department actually costs. Don’t you think that’s about right?”
The homicide chief rubbed his forehead. “What’s your point, Carl?” he asked, obviously annoyed.
“You want me to forget all about these figures, and I want you to forget all about the course requirements.”
Jacobsen’s face visibly changed color. “That’s blackmail, Carl,” he said in a carefully controlled tone of voice. We don’t use those kinds of tactics here.”
“Exactly, boss,” said Carl, taking a lighter out of his pocket and holding it to the corner of the budget sheet. Figure by figure the flame swallowed up the whole document. Carl dumped the ashes on top of a brochure advertising office chairs. Then he handed the lighter to Marcus Jacobsen.
When Carl returned to the basement he found Assad kneeling on his rug, deep in prayer, so he wrote a note and placed it on the floor just outside Assad’s door. It said: “See you tomorrow.”
On his way out to Hornb?k, Carl brooded over what to tell Hardy about the Amager case. The question was whether he should say anything at all. During the past few weeks, Hardy had not been doing well. His saliva secretion was down, and he had difficulty talking. They said it wasn’t permanent; on the other hand, that’s what Hardy’s depression had become.
Therefore they had moved him to a better room. He was lying on his side and presumably could just catch a glimpse of the convoys of ships out there in the sound.
A year ago the two of them had been sitting in a restaurant in the Bakken amusement park, eating huge portions of roast pork with parsley sauce as Carl griped about Vigga. Now he was sitting here, on the edge of Hardy’s bed, and couldn’t permit himself to gripe about anything at all.
“The police in Soro had to let the man in the checked shirt go, Hardy,” he said, deciding not to beat around the bush.
“Who?” Hardy asked hoarsely, not moving his head a millimeter.
“He had an alibi. But everybody is convinced he’s the right man. The man who shot you and me and Anker and committed the murders in Soro. But they still had to let him go. I’m sorry to tell you this, Hardy.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Hardy coughed and then cleared his throat as Carl went over to the other side of the bed and wet a paper towel under the tap. “What good would it do me if they caught him?” said Hardy with saliva in the corners of his mouth.
“We’ll catch him and the others who did it, Hardy,” Carl said, wiping his colleague’s mouth and chin. “I can tell that I’m going to have to get involved soon. Those shits aren’t going to get away with this; no fucking way.”
“Have fun,” Hardy said, and then swallowed, as if preparing to say something else. Then it came: “Anker’s widow was here yesterday. It wasn’t nice, Carl.”
Carl remembered the bitter expression on Elisabeth Hoyer’s face. He hadn’t spoken to her since Anker’s death. She hadn’t said a word to him even at the funeral. From the second they informed her about her husband’s death, she had directed all her reproaches at Carl.
“Did she say anything about me?”
Hardy didn’t answer. He just lay there for a while, slowly blinking his eyes. As if the ships out there had taken him on a long voyage.
“And you still won’t help me die, Carl?” he asked finally. Carl stroked his friend’s cheek. “If only I could, Hardy. But I can’t.”
“Then you have to help me go home. Will you promise me that? I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“What does your wife say, Hardy?”
“She doesn’t know yet, Carl. I just decided.”
Carl pictured Minna Henningsen in his mind. She and Hardy had met when they were both very young. By now their son had moved out, and she still looked young. At this point in her life, she probably had enough to attend to.
“Go and talk to her today, Carl. You’d be doing me an awfully big favor.”
Carl looked at the ships in the distance.
The realities of life would probably make Hardy regret that particular request.
After only a few seconds, Carl could see that he’d been right.
Minna Henningsen opened the door to reveal a group of jovial, laughing women. It was a scene that couldn’t possibly fit in with Hardy’s hopes. Six women wearing colorful outfits and pert hats who were making wild plans for the rest of the day.
“It’s the first of May, Carl. This is what we girls in the club always do today. Don’t you remember?” He nodded to a couple of them as she led him out to the kitchen.
It didn’t take Carl long to explain the situation to her, and ten minutes later he was once again out on the street. She had taken his hand and told him how difficult things were for her, and how much she missed her former life. Then she put her head on his shoulder and cried a bit as she tried to explain why she didn’t have the strength to take care of Hardy.
After she dried her eyes, she’d asked him with a timid smile if he might want to come over and have dinner with her sometime. She needed to talk to somebody, she said, but the intent behind her words was as blatant and direct as could be.
Standing on Strand Boulevard, he took in the noise coming from over in F?lled Park. The festivities were in
