Life and Limb (25 page)

W
agner turned his office chair to face Dicte Svendsen, with only his desk separating them. He looked straight into her eyes; the green and blue colours stared deep into his in their usual forceful manner.

She didn't seem shocked, but he knew she was. He had noticed it the moment she turned up at the police station, pulling the shoulder strap of her messenger bag against her chest and asking for him. It was the little details that gave her away: the clutching of the bag; the pitch of her voice slightly higher than normal, and the clear diction, like a reporter's on a battlefield. She was also angry, and anger always acted as a fuel, so she seemed to be holding a lit fuse in her hand.

Again he looked at the piece of paper she had placed in a clear plastic bag so that he could read the handwritten text:
Let the dead rest in peace
.

He couldn't help thinking that whoever wrote it ought to have known better. You should never say that to Dicte Svendsen. Not unless you were trying to provoke the opposite reaction.

‘Why didn't you call the police last night?'

She was still staring at him.

‘He was over the hills and far away. It wouldn't have been any use.'

‘What would you know about that?'

She leaned back as she held his gaze. There was something in her eyes that made him feel guilty, even though he owed her nothing.

‘Can't you just see it this way: you're under pressure following the Police Reform, so you don't have the manpower to send officers into the middle of nowhere just because someone gets a brick thrown through their window?'

‘You're not anyone. And it wasn't just a brick – it was accompanied by a threat.'

She nodded.

‘That's the reason I'm here now. I thought that your crime-scene investigators should be allowed to play with it. I wore gloves when I handled it. There was an elastic band around it.'

She laid her hand flat on the plastic bag. Perhaps he did owe her something. He had never thanked her for the mobile phone, but right now he couldn't bring himself to say it. There was, as always, something about her which both drew him to her and pushed him away, so he just responded with a curt nod.

‘I'll pass it on to the guys upstairs. Do you have anything else to tell me?'

It was like a Mexican stand-off, waiting to see who would blink first. All of a sudden he appeared to find the view from his window very interesting, standing up and positioning himself side-on.

‘I hear you're looking for Arne Bay. That must mean you've got something on him,' she said.

‘Perhaps.'

He spoke to the vehicles in the car park.

‘Now listen.'

She took a breath so deep he could hear all the way from the window.

‘I don't know what it is you have. But I'm fairly certain that Bay's involvement in the Mette Mortensen murder is only superficial. There's something else going on. It's business. Trade, probably across borders. Something to do with people – a form of trafficking, perhaps. Right-wing extremists might be doing the dirty work but other people run it. Nice people with respectable jobs and no criminal records, is my guess – at least, when we get to the top of the food chain.'

He turned to her. She could be very irritating, but she could also be right.

‘Where've you heard that?' he said.

She shook her head.

‘You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Let's just say that my source is reliable. Incidentally, do you remember Lublin? Have you heard anything else about the case?'

He hadn't. Their Polish colleagues had been very helpful – that wasn't the problem – but the local investigation team had reached same conclusion that the police in Aarhus were close to reaching themselves.

‘They think right-wing extremists were behind it,' he said, ‘There's a lot of anti-Semitism in Poland.'

‘It's got nothing to do with that, I'm quite sure of it.'

She told him a slightly disjointed story about her conversation with Petra Jakobowski, the victim's wife, and the mysterious deaths at a private clinic. Wagner couldn't help thinking that it all sounded like a hotchpotch of several people's conspiracy theories and certainly not something they could use right now in their investigation. But then she began to rummage around in her handbag and produced a small bag with two lumps.

‘Glass eyes,' Dicte Svendsen said. ‘I was contacted by a very distressed couple. Her father was cremated and when they went to scatter the ashes, these lumps landed in their rose bed.'

She stared at him.

‘Do you think it's a coincidence that the Mette Mortensen murder also involved glass eyes? Something very strange is happening somewhere between the hospital and the crematorium. I think this case revolves around corpses.'

Again she laid her hand on the plastic bag.

‘Hence the threat. At
Avisen
we've been writing articles about what happens to us after death – I mean literally and not whether or not there is life after death,' she added with what might have been a smile if she hadn't been so angry. ‘Not everybody is pleased with that.'

He examined the lumps in the bag. They could be anything, but he believed her. He knew she would already have checked with an expert.

‘Could I borrow them and take them upstairs to the fourth floor?' he said.

‘Be my guest.'

She stood up.

‘I have to go.'

He knew it was pointless asking her if she wanted some sort of protection. He couldn't see who would provide it, because she was right: they were overworked and understaffed as it was.

‘You take care of yourself,' he had time to say before she was out the door.

After she had gone he looked at his watch. He had time to visit the canteen before he and Ivar K were due to visit Kamm at Hammershøj Accountants. He tempted fate and bought himself a cinnamon whirl, telling himself it was just an experiment. If Gormsen was right about that pain being only heartburn and that cinnamon might be a trigger, he would put it to the test using the process of elimination.

He had just sat down with his pastry and a cup of coffee when his mobile phone rang. From the number he could see that it was Forensics on the fourth floor.

‘Wagner speaking,' he said as he chewed and swallowed.

‘Enjoying your pastry?' Haunstrup asked.

‘How did you know?'

‘It's that time of day, isn't it,' the voice teased.

‘Not every day.'

‘We both know the odds were in my favour.'

Wagner grunted something unrepeatable, then said, ‘What's up? Any news?'

Haunstrup cleared his throat away from the phone.

‘Our accountants have just postulated a theory about Mette Mortensen's columns of numbers and the strange letters. They think she discovered a kind of shadow accounting. She might have stumbled across it on a computer belonging to one of the clients she was working for, or possibly more than one client. You wouldn't believe how careless people can be, according to our number crunchers.'

Wagner looked at the rest of his cinnamon whirl, mesmerised. The fruit salad Ida Marie had made him for breakfast was very healthy – and with yoghurt really quite filling – but there was something missing. Nonetheless, he decided to leave the rest of the pastry.

‘Do we know which client we're talking about yet?'

Haunstrup grunted what sounded like a ‘no'.

‘They haven't been able to match the letters to anything, but then again the possibilities are endless. Perhaps we should start from the other end and find out which clients she was working for?'

‘We're on our way to the accountancy firm now, but it might be difficult,' Wagner said. ‘Her boss secretly forced her to work overtime, unpaid. I imagine he's not very keen to explain that side of his business.'

‘How about a search warrant?'

Wagner considered the suggestion. It was an option, although one he wanted to avoid.

‘We'll try the softly-softly approach once more,' he decided aloud. ‘Surely they must be aware we can go down that route if they refuse to cooperate. But thank you for your help, it's handy to have some ammunition.'

‘Don't mention it. Enjoy the rest.'

‘The rest of what?'

‘Your pastry, of course.'

Carsten Kamm had swapped the snakeskin boots for pointy white shoes to match his light-coloured linen suit. His pate shone like varnish and this time he wasn't wearing a shirt but a pale green T-shirt.

‘You should have called. I've got an appointment in town in ten minutes,' he said, fiddling with the neckline of his T-shirt.

‘We happened to be passing by,' Ivar K lied. ‘We have a couple of follow-up questions.'

‘What do you want to know now? I assume you received my message regarding Mette's desk. Maintenance turned up and collected her effects that same day, along with some other stuff waiting to be removed.'

‘How very convenient,' Ivar K said in a friendly tone, examining the office. ‘All right if we sit down?'

He pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable. Wagner followed suit.

‘We understand Mette worked overtime for you,' Ivar K said after a long pause during which the colour of Kamm's face had changed several times. ‘A lot of overtime. Is that right?'

Kamm shrugged.

‘Who told you that?'

‘A little bird,' Ivar K said. ‘One prepared to repeat it in court.'

Kamm looked bewildered. He had clearly been under the impression he had everyone under his thumb. It occurred to Wagner that perhaps he was blackmailing his staff. Perhaps he had something on everyone – possibly he'd even had something on Mette, though Wagner couldn't imagine what it could be. Apart from the power to sack her.

Kamm looked defiant.

‘Why are you wasting your time on that? It's nothing. It's less than nothing.'

Wagner leaned towards him.

‘But she did do overtime?'

‘Nothing significant.'

‘I think you should let us be the judge of that,' Ivar K suggested with ominous affability.

Kamm shifted in his chair.

‘But why would it even matter? I simply don't understand. It's a minor thing. Everybody does it.'

‘The union wouldn't like it,' Ivar K said.

Kamm got to his feet and started pacing up and down the room.

‘It's not crime squad business, either, I believe. If it concerns anyone, surely it's the union. They might have a case, and they're welcome to join the queue.'

Wagner thought that so far Kamm was right. He was certain that there was more to it, but in view of the small admission they had just been given, there was nothing else for them to pursue in that direction.

‘You claimed that Mette wasn't working on any special projects for you,' Ivar K said. ‘You lied.'

Kamm sighed and hunched his shoulders.

‘Of course I did,' he said. ‘What harm did it do? There was no reason to involve anyone else, especially not valued clients who have nothing to do with your enquiry.'

‘Who are they?' Ivar K asked. ‘We need their names and we need them now.'

Kamm looked at his watch, but perhaps he had learned from past experience, as he nodded before Ivar K lost his temper.

‘Okay. But there's nothing sinister about it.'

Ivar K had already produced his notepad.

‘Out with them. And if we discover you've omitted so much as one single name, we'll put you in the nick.'

Wagner watched with interest as Kamm reeled off the names of seven private individuals and firms. He exchanged glances with Ivar K at the mention of the last name. It was one they both recognised.

J
anos Kempinski took the car from the garage and drove to Skejby Hospital. He had no surgery scheduled for today, although there could always be emergencies. In fact, it was one of those days where he had a little bit of freedom. Not that he had planned to do anything other than go to work. He always had appointments and meetings to attend.

He had reached the Q8 petrol station, where he filled up and bought a packet of Gajol liquorice pastilles, when he made up his mind. He took out his mobile, rang directory assistance, jotted down the number, then called Vejle and spoke for five minutes. Then he rang his office at Skejby Hospital and Lena Bjerregaard's voice wished him a good morning.

‘Cancel all my appointments until 1 p.m. and meet me by the exit in ten minutes.'

He didn't give her a chance to ask questions because he knew she would only say no. It was better this way: she couldn't refuse a direct order from her boss.

It was raining and he turned on the wipers as he left the petrol station, looking at the world through a wet curtain, distorted, never to be the same again. His preparedness now to do things he never thought he would surprised him. This insight announced itself in a brief flash and he spent a couple of minutes saying goodbye to his old self. The truth was that events were beyond his control.

She was standing under a shelter wrapped in her red raincoat. His unease vanished when he opened the door to her and she slipped onto the passenger seat.

‘Hello. Where are we going?'

‘Vejle,' he said and kissed her, not caring if anyone was looking.

She turned her eyes to him and he saw they were watering as if she was crying.

‘How are you?'

He pulled out from the kerb.

‘Okay.'

She sat in silence while the car found its way out to Randersvej.

‘I'll have to take sick leave,' she said eventually. ‘It's no good. I can't carry on working.'

He took her hand.

‘No, of course not. You do what you think best. But let's just get to Vejle first, okay?'

‘What's happening in Vejle?'

‘Wait and see.'

They drove down the motorway, mostly in silence, with her hand in his. It was so warm and so alive, and he marvelled that the mere touch of a finger could have such an effect on him. No woman had ever managed that before. He had never understood love; had always avoided romantic fiction and films, preferring thrillers and action instead. How life could surprise you.

The clinic did indeed have a view of Vejle Fjord. The clinic was part of a larger medical complex; the building was brand new and designed by an architect in a contemporary style to make the most of the light. At the reception he asked to speak to Palle Vejleborg. They waited for half an hour before a short, round, balding man in a white coat bounced towards them with energetic steps.

‘Janos! You haven't changed a bit. Always the Latino!'

He held out his hand. ‘Welcome to my humble abode. How long has it been?'

Kempinski shook the offered hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me. I want you to meet Lena Bjerregaard, my secretary.'

Lena stood up and held out her hand. Jonas noticed that she fumbled a little in the air. She can't judge distance, he realised, and he felt another dart to his heart or wherever this sort of feeling was located. It was a notion he had started pondering of late. He who thus far had had only a clinical relationship with internal organs and had never conferred any special status on the heart.

‘If you would like to come with me, we can have a look at things.'

‘Things?' Lena whispered, glancing nervously at Kempinski.

He squeezed her hand, but said nothing until she stopped him. ‘Janos, what things?'

It took him several minutes to convince her. At first she didn't want to go with Vejleborg, but when he presented it as an order from boss to employee, she relented.

‘Come on,' he urged. ‘A second opinion never hurt anyone. It'll be very quick.'

He took both her hands and she followed him reluctantly. Vejleborg had walked ahead of them down the corridor and into his state-of-the-art consultation room with instruments that looked as if they had just left the factory and barely been used.

‘Right,' Vejleborg said. ‘If you leave the young lady with me, you can go and enjoy the view from the waiting room.' Lena sent Kempinski a look that could have meant anything from a protest to a plea for help. He nodded to her in an encouraging manner.

‘You go with Palle, I've known him since college, he's entirely harmless.' He said this hoping to receive a smile, but he got nothing from either her or Palle.

‘See you very soon.'

The waiting room was furnished with Arne Jacobsen furniture and half full of people. Kempinski took the business section from a newspaper on the table, but he couldn't concentrate. His gaze wandered to the tall windows and out across Vejle Fjord; he started counting the yachts on the water. When he finished his thoughts continued to drift and he remembered their first night and the way she had reacted to him.

It was after their visit to the restaurant in Skolegade, where he had felt as clumsy as a thirteen-year-old boy. He was her boss and he had told her in the most inept way possible that he was in love with her. She could have accused him of sexual harassment, but she had taken control and guided him through this most awkward of situations.

After the meal he had driven her home and she had invited him in. Then she had taken his hand, right there, just inside the front door, and her lips had moved closer to his.

‘I'm about to kiss you,' she whispered, as if she thought he needed a warning.

The fact that she had taken the first step, that she had kissed him, had removed the responsibility and the fear from him. His managerial hat had landed on the floor with an almost audible noise. Her lips had tasted sweet and savoury at the same time.

She had led him into a comfortable living room and seated him on the sofa.

‘Coffee?'

She hadn't given him time to reply before she was gone and he could look around the room, which was cosy with no expensive modern furniture to signal status. There were small objects everywhere: tiny coloured glass figures, nightlight holders and knick-knacks. There were also Royal Copenhagen porcelain figurines that looked like heirlooms. The bookcase – which in his house was relegated to a room on the first floor – took up an entire wall. An old television sat on the TV shelf of the shelving system. Landscape paintings and abstract art of varying quality, but no reproductions, decorated the walls.

He looked at his watch. Even though she had only been with Vejleborg for five minutes, he was overcome by a sudden urge to fetch her and drive her home. To distract himself, he thought again about their first night.

She had returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits. While they had chatted she stroked his hand from time to time, and they had kissed chastely. He remembered the pressure of her body against his. She was so tiny and fragile and disappeared completely in his arms. He had been seized by an overwhelming tenderness and urge to protect her, as though she was one of the little coloured glass figures on the shelves.

They had sat like this for a long time and he had let himself be guided by his instinct, which had told him to let her take charge. He had been far too nervous for anything else and had also started to wonder how to go about the next stage in the process. He wondered if his body wanted the same thing his mind did. Did she want it too? Would he be able to control himself like he normally did when he was with Annelise?

It had turned out not to be an issue at all. The importance of physical performance had melted into the background when she had finally asked him if he would find it off-putting if she invited him into her bedroom on their first date. She had said it in such an endearing and girlish voice, and he hadn't seen it as anything other than an extension of what they already had together – which he had to call love because he could think of no other word. It was love. Eternal, all-consuming love. He had known it at that moment, deep in the pit of his stomach – the pit that had always been there, and which was now being filled like a dried-up well drinking a shower of rain.

Kempinski looked out of the window and saw a yachtsman turning his boat around in the breeze. He didn't know what was going to happen next, as regards her illness and his career, but something was about to happen, that much was certain. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Palle Vejleborg emerged twenty minutes later and called Kempinski into his office.

Lena said nothing. She was surrounded by a silence that made Kempinski take her hand and he was relieved when, after a moment's hesitation, she pressed herself against him.

‘Sit down, please.'

They sat down and Vejleborg began,

‘Lena is suffering from a genetic eye disease. There is no doubt that she needs new corneas. Her own have deteriorated badly because, to put it bluntly, the cells are dying.'

He paused briefly as if to give one of them the chance to speak up before continuing.

‘In my opinion she needs a deep lamellar transplant, as it's known, whereby the whole cornea is replaced using corneas from dead donors.'

‘There in lies the problem,' Kempinski said.

Vejleborg nodded.

‘There's a massive shortage of donors, but there are ways to get around it. Allow me to explain because it is, of course, a procedure we offer here at the clinic. First you have an examination, like now. The surgery itself is carried out under local anaesthetic. Then you stay with us for a couple of days to recover.

‘There may be bleeding in the eye or an increase in pressure in the eye or inflammation of the iris during surgery,' Vejleborg continued before Kempinski had time to ask about complications. ‘This clears up by itself or we prescribe some eye drops. Cataracts may develop later, but they can be removed surgically. There is a permanent risk of rejection or rupture of the eye.'

He looked at Lena.

‘I'm giving you the worst-case scenario. I'm sure there won't be any problems.'

‘And her sight?' Janos asked. ‘How quickly will it improve?'

Vejleborg shook his head.

‘Difficult to say. The sutures aren't removed for fifteen months and improvements to the sight may not be experienced until later.'

He looked at Lena.

‘You have to be patient with such a serious eye disease. But it's possible to help you so that you can live a normal life.'

She gave a half-smile. Her eyes were still watering.

‘But I don't suppose any of that matters when there are no corneas to be had.'

She put it more like a statement than a question. Vejleborg put his arm around her and guided her towards the door.

‘Don't you worry about that. You just concentrate on getting better when the time comes – and it could happen sooner than you think. If you would like to wait outside, Janos and I will have a little chat about the old days.'

He closed the door behind her and turned to Kempinski.

‘It's a real mess. The cornea bank in Aarhus used to receive corneas from dead bodies until three or four years ago. But following a change to the legislation in 2001, the numbers have literally halved and there are nowhere near enough to meet the demand now.'

He went over to the window and stood with his back to him, looking across the fjord. It was the same view as from the waiting room. Kempinski joined him and followed the progress of a couple of rowers.

‘So corneas are now regarded as organs? I didn't know that,' he said.

Vejleborg nodded. He, too, was watching the rowers, who were right in front of the clinic now.

‘While they were still regarded as human tissue, pathologists were allowed to remove corneas during post-mortems. Now you need permission, either via the deceased's donor card or from their next of kin. And for some reason people are extremely reluctant to donate anything relating to the eyes.'

Janos understood.

‘Eyes have always been special.'

Vejleborg shrugged and turned to him.

‘Anyway, let me be straight with you,' he said. ‘I can get your girlfriend a pair of fresh corneas.'

‘But how? If the cornea bank doesn't have enough?'

Vejleborg hunched his shoulders. Patronising him, Janos thought, but he was unable to react.

‘You leave that to me. It's better this way.'

‘And your price?'

They both knew what it was. Even so, Vejleborg led Kempinski to the door as he had done a few minutes earlier with Lena. ‘We'll talk about it later,' he said.