you think you should finish your economics degree first?” Carl couldn’t help asking.
Morten tossed some salt into the pot and began stirring. “Almost everybody in economics votes for the government parties, and that’s just not me.”
“How the hell do you know that? You never even go to class, Morten.”
“I was there yesterday. I told my fellow students a joke about Karina Jensen.”
“A joke about a politician who started out as an extreme left-winger and ended up joining the Liberal Party? Shouldn’t be hard to make a joke about that.”
“‘She’s an example of how to hide a Neanderthal behind a high-brow,’ I said. And nobody laughed.”
Morten was different. An overgrown adolescent and androgynous virgin whose personal relationships consisted of remarks exchanged with random supermarket customers about what they were buying. A little chat by the freezer section about whether spinach was best with or without cream sauce.
“What does it matter if nobody laughed, Morten? There could be lots of reasons for that. I didn’t laugh either, and I don’t vote for the government parties, in case you’d like to know.” Carl shook his head. He knew it was no use. But as long as Morten kept on making a good salary at the video store, it really didn’t matter what the hell he studied or didn’t study. “Political science, eh? Sounds deadly boring.”
Morten shrugged as he sliced a couple of carrots and added them to what was cooking in the pot. He didn’t say anything for a moment, which was unusual for him. Carl knew what was coming.
“Vigga phoned,” said Morten at last with a hint of concern in his voice. In this situation he normally added in English: “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the piano player.” But this time he didn’t say it.
Carl didn’t reply. If Vigga wanted something from him, she could wait to call until he got home.
“I think she’s freezing over there in that garden cottage,” Morten ventured as he shoved the spoon around in the pot.
Carl turned to face him. It smelled damned good, whatever Morten was cooking on the stove. It had been a long time since he’d had such an appetite. “She’s freezing? Maybe she should stuff a couple of her well-fed lovers into the woodstove.”
“What are you guys talking about?” said a voice in the doorway. Behind Jesper, the cacophony from upstairs was again blasting from his room, making the walls in the hallway vibrate.
It was a miracle they could hear each other at all.
Carl spent three days staring alternately at Google and at the walls in the basement room. He’d made himself familiar ad nauseam with the walk down the hall to the toilet, and realized he felt more rested than ever before. Then he counted off the four hundred and fifty-two paces up to the homicide division on the third floor, which was the domain of his former colleagues. He was going to demand that the workmen finish what they were doing in the basement and hang the door back on its hinges so he would at least have something to slam if he was so inclined. And then he would circumspectly remind them that he hadn’t yet received the promised case files. Not because there was any rush, but he had no intention of losing his job before he’d even started.
Maybe he’d expected his former colleagues to stare at him with curiosity when he entered the homicide premises. Was he on the verge of a breakdown? Had his face lost all color after his sojourn in the eternal gloom? He’d expected inquisitive and also scornful looks, but not that everyone would simultaneously slip inside their offices with such a well-orchestrated closing of doors.
“What’s going on here?” he asked a man he’d never seen before who was unpacking moving boxes in the first office.
The man held out his hand. “Peter Vestervig. I’m from City Station. I’m going to be part of Viggo’s team.”
“Viggo’s team? Viggo Brink?” Carl asked. A team leader? Viggo? He must have been appointed the day before.
“That’s right. And you are?” the man asked.
Carl managed a brief handshake and then glanced around the office without replying. There were two other faces he didn’t recognize. “They’re on Viggo’s team too?”
“Not the one over by the window.”
“New furniture, I see.”
“Yes, they just brought it up. Aren’t you Carl Morck?”
“I used to be,” he said and then walked the rest of the way over to Marcus Jacobsen’s office.
The door was ajar, but even a closed door wouldn’t have stopped Carl from barging in. “So you’re bringing in more staff, Marcus?” he said without preamble, interrupting a meeting.
The homicide chief’s face took on a resigned expression as he glanced at his deputy and one of the office girls. “OK, Carl Morck has emerged from the depths. We’ll continue in half an hour,” he said, stacking up his papers.
Carl gave Jacobsen’s deputy a surly smile as the man went out the door; the smile he got in return was equally scathing. Vice-Superintendent Lars Bjorn had always known just how to keep the icy feelings between them warm.
“So, how are things going down there, Carl? Are you getting a handle on how to prioritize the cases?”
“You might say that. At least with regard to the ones I’ve received so far.” He pointed behind him. “What’s happening out there?”
“You might well ask.” Marcus raised his eyebrows and straightened the Leaning Tower of Pisa, as everyone called the pile of newly received cases on his desk. “Due to the overwhelming case load, we’ve had to put together two more investigative teams.”
“To replace mine?” Carl smiled wryly.
“Yes, plus two others.”
Carl frowned. “Four teams? How the hell are you going to pay for them?”
“A special appropriation. Allocated as a result of the police reform, as you know.”
“I do? Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Was there anything specific you wanted, Carl?”
“Yes, but I think it can wait. I need to look into something first. I’ll be back in a while.”
It was common knowledge that plenty of the members of the Conservative Party were businesspeople who hobnobbed with each other and did whatever the trade organizations asked them to do. But Denmark’s slickest party had always attracted police officers and military personnel as well-only the gods knew why. Right now Carl knew that at least two of the former type were members of parliament, voted in by the Conservatives. One was a real prole who had pushed his way up through the police hierarchy only to find just as swift an exit; but the other was a nice old deputy police commissioner whom Carl knew from his days in Randers over in Jutland. He wasn’t particularly conservative, but the constituency included his home district, and the job was undoubtedly well paid. So Kurt Hansen from Randers became a member of parliament, representing the Conservatives, and a member of the Judicial Committee. He was Carl’s best source for any information of a political nature. Kurt wouldn’t discuss everything, but it was easy to get him started if the issue in question was at all interesting. Carl wasn’t sure whether his would qualify.
“Mr. Deputy Commissioner Kurt Hansen, I presume,” he said as soon as the man answered the phone.
His words prompted a deep and genial burst of laughter. “Well, what do you know? It’s been a long time, Carl. Great to hear your voice. I heard you got shot.”
“It was nothing. I’m OK, Kurt.”
“Didn’t go so well for two of your colleagues, though. Any progress in the case?”
“It’s moving forward.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Really, I am. Right now we’re working on legislation that will expand the sentencing parameters by fifty per cent for assaults on civil servants while on the job. That ought to help matters. We need to support you guys who are out on the barricades.”
“Sounds good, Kurt. I hear that you’ve also decided to support the homicide division in Copenhagen with a special appropriation.”
“No, I don’t think we’ve done anything like that.”
“Well, maybe not the homicide division, but something else over here at police headquarters. It’s not a secret, is it?”
