Mercy (20 page)

There was a lot of crackling on the line, but it was still possible to hear that Baggesen’s voice sounded anything but enthusiastic.

‘I’ve got some old messages here, and I just need to have an explanation from you,’ said Carl, his tone mild. He’d already seen how the guy could react. ‘It’s nothing special; just a formality.’

‘Go ahead.’ The sharp tone of voice was clearly trying to distance itself from their conversation three days ago.

Carl read the messages, one after the other. By the time he got to the last one, Baggesen seemed to have stopped breathing on the other end of the line.

‘Baggesen?’ said Carl. ‘Are you still there?’

And then he heard only a beeping on the phone.

I hope he doesn’t throw himself into the river now, thought Carl, trying to remember which one ran through Budapest. He took down the piece of paper with the list of suspects and added Tage Baggesen’s initials to item number four: ‘ “Colleagues” at Christiansborg.’

He had just put down the phone when it began to ring.

‘Beate Lunderskov,’ said a woman’s voice. Carl had no idea who she was.

‘We’ve examined Merete Lynggaard’s old hard drive, and I’m sorry to say that it has been very efficiently wiped clean.’

Now it dawned on Carl who she was. One of the women from the Democrats’ office.

‘But I thought you kept hard drives because you wanted to save the information on them.’

‘That’s true, but apparently nobody informed Merete’s secretary, Søs Norup.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, she’s the one who erased it, according to the note printed very neatly on the back. It says: “Formatted on 20 March 2002, Søs Norup.” I’m holding it in my hand.’

‘But that was almost three weeks after Merete disappeared.’

‘Yes, so it would appear.’

Damn Børge Bak and his gang. Had they done anything in this investigation by the book?

‘Couldn’t we send it in for closer analysis? There must be people who can retrieve erased data that’s been buried deep,’ said Carl.

‘I think that’s already been done. Just a minute.’ He could hear her rummaging around, and then she was back, a note of satisfaction in her voice. ‘Yes, here’s the report. They tried to reconstitute the data at the Down Under shop on Store Kongensgade in early April 2002. There’s a detailed explanation as to why they weren’t successful. Do you want me to read it to you?’

‘That’s not necessary,’ he replied. ‘Søs Norup apparently knew how to make a proper job of it.’

‘Apparently. She was a very meticulous sort of person.’

Carl thanked her and hung up.

He sat there staring for a moment before he lit a cigarette. Then he picked up Merete Lynggaard’s worn diary from the desk and opened it with a feeling that bordered on reverence. That was the way he always felt when he had the chance to examine a lifeline to the last days of a murder victim.

Like the notes he’d already seen, the handwriting in the diary was almost illegible and showed signs of great haste. Capital letters written down in a hurry.
N
s and
G
s that weren’t closed up; words that ran into each other. He started with the meeting with the placenta special-interest group on Wednesday, 20 February 2002. Further down on the page it said: ‘Café Bankeråt 6:30 p.m.’ That was all.

On the following days there was hardly a line that wasn’t filled in; quite a hectic schedule, he could see, but no remarks of a personal nature.

As he approached Merete’s last day at work, a feeling of desperation began settling over him. There was absolutely nothing that might give him any leads. Then he turned to the last page. Friday, 1 March 2002. Two committee meetings and another with lobbyists. That was all. Everything else had been lost to the past.

He pushed the book away and looked down at the empty briefcase. Had it really spent five years behind the furnace for no good reason? Then he picked up the diary again and leafed through the rest of the pages. Like most people, Merete Lynggaard had used only the calendar and the phone list in the back.

He began running through the phone numbers from the beginning. He could have skipped to
D
or
H
, but he wanted to keep his disappointment at bay. Under
A
,
B
and
C
he recognized ninety per cent of the names. There was little similarity with his own phone book, which was dominated by names like Jesper and Vigga and a sea of people who lived in Rønneholt Park. It was easy to conclude that Merete hadn’t had many personal friends. In fact, none at all. A beautiful woman with a brain-damaged brother and a hell of a lot of work – and that was it. He reached the letter
D
, knowing that he wouldn’t find Daniel Hale’s phone number there. Merete didn’t list her contacts by their first names, the way Vigga did; different strokes for different folks. Who the hell would look up Sweden’s prime minister under
G
for Göran? Besides Vigga, that is.

And then he saw it. The moment he turned the page to
H
, he knew that the whole case had reached a turning point. They’d talked about an accident, they’d talked about suicide, and finally they’d ended up high and dry. Along the way there had been indications that something was odd about the Lynggaard case, but this page in the phone book practically screamed it out loud. The whole appointment diary was filled with hastily jotted notes. Letters and numbers that even his stepson could have written neater, and that told him nothing. There was nothing pretty about her handwriting; it wasn’t at all what might be expected of a rising star like Merete. But nowhere had she changed her mind about what she’d written. Nothing had been corrected or edited. She knew what she wanted to write every time. Carefully considered, unerring. Except here in her phone book under the letter
H
. Here something was different. Carl couldn’t be certain that it had anything to do with Daniel Hale’s name, but deep inside, where a cop plumbs his last reserves, he knew that he’d hit the bull’s-eye. Merete had crossed out a name with a thick line of ink. It was no longer possible to read, but underneath it had once said ‘Daniel Hale’ and a phone number. He was sure of it.

Carl smiled. So he was going to need the help of the forensic team after all. They’d better do a good job of it, and quickly.

‘Assad,’ he called. ‘Come in here.’

For a moment he heard some clattering out in the corridor, and then Assad was standing in the doorway holding a bucket and wearing green rubber gloves.

‘I’ve got a job for you. The tech guys need to find a way to read this number.’ He pointed to the crossed-out line. ‘Lis can tell you what the procedure is. Tell them we need it asap.’

Carl knocked cautiously on the door to Jesper’s room, but of course got no response. Not home, as usual, he thought, noting the absence of the hundred and twelve decibels that normally bombarded the door from inside. But it turned out that Carl was mistaken, which became apparent when he opened the door.

The girl whose breasts Jesper was groping under her blouse let out a shriek that pierced right to the bone, and Jesper’s furious expression underscored the gravity of the situation.

‘Sorry,’ said Carl reluctantly as Jesper got his hands untangled, and the girl’s cheeks turned as red as the background colour of the Che Guevara poster hanging on the wall behind them. Carl knew her. She was no more than fourteen, but looked twenty. She lived on Cedervangen. Her mother had probably looked just like her at one time, but over the years had come to the bitter realization that it wasn’t always an advantage to look older than one was.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Carl?’ shouted Jesper as he jumped up from the sofa bed.

Carl apologized again and mentioned that he had, in fact, knocked on the door, as the generation gap echoed through the house.

‘Just go on with … what you were doing. I just have a quick question for you, Jesper. Do you know where you put your old Playmobil toys?’

Jesper looked as if he was ready to hurl a hand grenade at his stepfather. Even Carl could see that the question was rather ill-timed.

He nodded apologetically to the girl. ‘I know it sounds strange, but I need them for my investigation.’ He turned to look at Jesper, who was glaring at him. ‘Do you still have those plastic figures, Jesper? I’d be happy to pay you for them.’

‘Get the hell out of here, Carl. Go downstairs and see Morten. Maybe you can buy some from him. But you’ll need a fat chequebook for that.’

Carl frowned. What did a fat chequebook have to do with it?

It might have been a year and a half since Carl had last knocked on the door to Morten’s flat. Even though his lodger moved about upstairs like one of the family, his life in the basement had always been sacrosanct. After all, he was paying his part of the rent, which made all the difference, so Carl didn’t really want to know anything about Morten or his habits that might damage the man’s standing. And that was why he stayed away.

But his worries turned out to be groundless, because Morten’s place was unusually boring. If you disregarded a couple of very broad-shouldered guys and some girls with big tits on posters that were at least three feet high, his basement flat could have been any senior citizen’s home on Prins Valdemars Allé.

When Carl asked him about Jesper’s Playmobil toys, Morten led the way to the sauna. All the houses in Rønneholt Park were originally equipped with a sauna, but in ninety-nine per cent of the cases they had either been torn down or now functioned as a storage room for all sorts of junk and debris.

‘Go ahead and have a look,’ said Morten, proudly throwing open the sauna door to reveal a room filled from floor to ceiling with shelves bulging with the type of toys that flea markets couldn’t even give away a few years back. Kinder Egg figures,
Star Wars
characters, Ninja Turtles and Playmobil toys. Half of the house’s plastic content was on those shelves.

‘See, here are two original figures from the series at the toy trade show in Nürnberg in 1974,’ said Morten. He proudly picked up two small figurines wearing helmets.

‘Number 3219 with the pickaxe and number 3220 with the traffic cop’s signs intact,’ he went on. ‘Isn’t it insane?’

Carl nodded. He couldn’t have thought of a better word.

‘I’m only missing number 3218, and then I’ll have the complete set of workmen. I got box 3201 and 3203 from Jesper. Look, aren’t they fantastic? It’s hard to believe that Jesper ever played with them.’

Carl shook his head. He had definitely thrown away his money on Muscleman Max, or whatever the hell the figure was called; that much was very clear.

‘And he only charged me a couple of thousand. That was so nice of him.’

Carl stared at the shelves. If it were up to him, he would have hurled a few well-chosen remarks at both Morten and Jesper, about how he used to get two kroner an hour for spreading manure, back when the price of a hot dog with two pieces of bread rose to one krone and eighty øre.

‘Could I borrow a few of them until tomorrow? Preferably those over there,’ he said, pointing to a little family with a dog and lots of other stuff.

Morten Holland looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. ‘Are you crazy, Carl? That’s box 3965 from the year 2000. I’ve got the whole set with the house and balcony and everything.’ He pointed at the top shelf.

He was right about that. There stood the house in all its plastic glory.

‘Do you have any others I could borrow? Just until tomorrow night?’

Morten had a strangely stunned look on his face.

Carl probably would have got the same reaction if he’d asked permission to kick him hard in the nuts.

29

2007

It was going to be a busy Friday. Assad had a morning appointment at the offices of the Immigration Service, which was the new name the government had assigned to its old system of sorting out aliens, the Immigration Administration, in order to put a nice face on the situation. In the meantime, Carl would be running all over town taking care of business.

The previous evening he had slipped the little Playmobil family out of Morten’s treasure chamber while his lodger was on duty at the video shop. Right now, the toys were lying on the seat next to him, giving him cold and reproachful looks as he headed into the wilds of northern Zealand.

The house in Skævinge, where the driver Dennis Knudsen had been found after suffocating on his own vomit, was like all the other houses on the road. None of them had even a trace of beauty, yet in their slovenly, workmanlike way, they seemed oddly harmonious with their worn terraces and breeze-block construction. In terms of durable material, the Eternit roofing appeared to match the ready-to-discard, lustreless windows.

Carl had expected a solid-looking construction-worker to open the door, or at least the female equivalent. Instead, he found himself facing a woman in her late thirties with such an indeterminate and delicate appearance that it was impossible to determine whether she frequented the corridors of management or worked for an escort service in expensive hotel bars.

Yes, he was welcome to come in; and no, unfortunately both of her parents were dead.

She introduced herself as Camilla and led the way to a living room where traditional Christmas plates, skinny, triangular Amager shelves and knotted rya rugs made up a significant part of the scenery.

‘How old were your parents when they died?’ asked Carl, trying to ignore the rest of the hideous decor.

She sensed what he was thinking. Everything in the house was from a past era.

‘My mother inherited the place from my grandmother, so it’s mostly her things in the house,’ she said. It was obvious that this was not how her own residence would look. ‘I inherited everything and just got divorced, so I’m going to fix the place up, if I can find the right builder to do the job. So you’re lucky to find me here.’

Carl picked up a framed photograph from the best piece of furniture in the room, a bureau in walnut veneer. It was a picture of the whole family: Camilla, Dennis and their parents. It had to be at least ten years old, and the parents were beaming like suns in front of a silver wedding anniversary banner. It said: ‘Congratulations on 25 Years, Grete and Henning.’ Camilla was wearing tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination, and Dennis had on a black leather vest and a baseball cap with the logo for Castrol Oil. So all in all it was banners and smiles and happy days in Skævinge.

On the mantelpiece stood a few more photographs. Carl asked who everyone was, and from what she said, he got the feeling that the family hadn’t had a large circle of friends.

‘Dennis was crazy about anything that drove fast,’ said Camilla, taking him to the room that had once belonged to Dennis Knudsen.

A couple of lava lamps and a pair of massive speakers were to be expected, but otherwise the room was very different from the rest of the house. The furniture was made of light wood and it all matched. The wardrobe was new and filled with nice clothes on hangers. The walls were covered with a sea of certificates, all neatly framed, and above them, on birchwood shelves up near the ceiling, stood all the trophies that Dennis had won over the years. By Carl’s rough estimate there were at least a hundred, maybe more. It was pretty overwhelming.

‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘Dennis won every competition he entered. Motorcycle speedways, stock-car races, tractor pulls, rallies, and all classes of motor racing. He was a natural talent. Good at almost everything that interested him, even writing and maths, and all sorts of other things. It was very sad that he died.’ She nodded, her eyes welling up. ‘His death took the life out my father and mother. He was such a good son and little brother. He really was.’

Carl gave her a sympathetic look, but he was puzzled. Could this really be the same Dennis Knudsen that Lis had described to Assad?

‘I’m glad you’re going to look into the circumstances of his death,’ Camilla said. ‘I just wish you’d done it while my parents were still alive.’

Carl looked at her, trying to figure out what was behind her words. ‘What do you mean by “the circumstances”? Are you thinking about the car accident?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, the accident and then Dennis’s death a short time afterwards. Dennis would sometimes go on a drinking binge, but he’d never taken drugs before. And that’s what we told the police. It was unthinkable, as a matter of fact. He’d worked with teenagers and warned them against taking drugs, but the police wouldn’t listen. All they saw was his criminal record and how many speeding tickets he’d had. So they’d already convicted him in their minds before they even found those disgusting ecstasy pills in his sports bag.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But it didn’t make sense, because Dennis never touched anything like that. It would have slowed down his reactions when he drove. He hated that kind of shit.’

‘Maybe he was tempted by the idea of making some quick cash and planned to sell the drugs. Maybe he was just going to try them out. You wouldn’t believe the sort of things we see at police headquarters.’

Now the lines around her mouth hardened. ‘Somebody got him to take those drugs, and I know who it was. That’s what I told the police back then.’

Carl pulled out his notebook. ‘Is that right?’ His inner bloodhound raised its head and sniffed at the wind, catching the scent of something unexpected. He was fully alert now. ‘And who might that be?’

She went over to one end of the room and took down a photograph hanging from a nail sticking out of the wallpaper that obviously hadn’t been changed since the house had been built in the early sixties. Carl’s father had taken a similar photo when Carl won a swimming trophy in Brønderslev. It was a dad’s proud documentation of how great and talented his son had become. Carl guessed that Dennis was ten or twelve in the photo, looking handsome in his go-kart gear, and proud as punch about the little silver shield he was holding in his hand.

‘That kid there,’ said Camilla, pointing to a blond boy standing behind Dennis, with one hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘They called him Atomos, but I don’t know why. They met at a motocross track. Dennis was crazy about him, but Atomos was a little shit.’

‘So the two of them kept in touch after they grew up?’

‘I’m not really sure. I think they lost contact when Dennis was sixteen or seventeen, but during his last years I know they were seeing each other again, because Mum was always complaining about it.’

‘And why do you think Atomos might have had something to do with your brother’s death?’

She looked at the photograph with a sorrowful expression. ‘He was just a real prick, and ugly deep down in his soul.’

‘That’s a strange way of putting it. What exactly do you mean?’

‘He was fucked up inside his head. Dennis said I was talking nonsense, but it was true.’

‘So why was your brother friends with him?’

‘Because Atomos was always the one who encouraged Dennis to drive. Plus he was a couple of years older. Dennis looked up to him.’

‘Your brother suffocated on his own vomit. He’d taken five pills and had a blood-alcohol level of four point one. I don’t know how much he weighed, but no matter what, he made a good job of it. Do you know whether he had any reason to drink? Was this new behaviour for him? Was he particularly depressed after the accident?’

She looked at him with sad eyes. ‘Yes, my parents said that the accident had a terrible effect on him. Dennis was a fantastic driver. It was the first accident he’d ever been involved in, and a man died, besides.’

‘According to my information, Dennis was in jail twice for reckless driving, so he couldn’t have been all that fantastic.’

‘Ha!’ She gave him a scornful look. ‘He never drove recklessly. When he was speeding on a motorway, he always knew how far ahead the lane was free. The last thing he wanted was to endanger the life of anyone else.’

How many sociopaths would never have been hatched if their families had only been paying attention? How many idiots were allowed to cling to the bonds of blood? Carl had heard the same story a thousand times before. My brother, my son, my husband is innocent.

‘You seem to have a high regard for your brother. Don’t you think you’re being a little naive?’

She grabbed Carl’s wrist and leaned so close that he could feel her fringe brushing the bridge of his nose.

‘If your investigative work is as limp as your dick, you might as well leave right now,’ she snarled.

Her reaction was surprisingly fierce and provocative. So it probably wasn’t the corridors of management that she frequented, Carl thought, drawing his face away.

‘My brother was all right. Do you hear me?’ she went on. ‘And if you want to make any progress in what you’re farting around with, I advise you to remember what I just said.’ Then she patted him on the crotch and stepped back. It was a shocking metamorphosis. Suddenly she seemed gentle and open and credible again. It was a hell of a profession he’d got himself involved in.

He frowned and took a step towards her. ‘The next time you touch my equipment, I’m going to puncture your silicon boobs and then claim it happened because you resisted arrest after threatening to slug me with one of your brother’s ugly trophies. When I slap the cuffs on you, and you’re waiting for the doctor as you stare at the blank white wall of a prison cell in Hillerød, you’ll dream about taking back that pat you gave me. Shall we proceed, or do you have anything to add regarding my nobler parts?’

She kept her cool. Didn’t even smile. ‘I’m just saying that my brother was OK, and you’ll just have to believe me.’

Carl gave up. It was no use trying to make her change her mind.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘So how do I find this Atomos?’ he asked, taking a step back from the chameleon. ‘Don’t you remember anything else about him?’

‘You know what? He was five years younger than me. I couldn’t have cared less about him back then.’

Carl smiled wryly. Interests could certainly change over the years.

‘Any distinguishing marks? Scars? What about his hair? His teeth? Is there anyone else in town who knew him?’

‘I don’t think so. He came from a children’s home up in Tisvildeleje.’

She paused for a moment, thinking with her eyes averted. ‘Wait a minute. I think the place was called Godhavn.’ She handed the framed photograph to Carl. ‘If you promise to bring it back, you can try showing the picture to the staff at the home. Maybe they can answer your questions.’

Carl had come to a stop at an intersection sparkling with sunlight. He was sitting in the car, thinking. He could drive north to Tisvildeleje to talk to the staff at the children’s home, in the hopes that somebody still remembered a boy named Atomos who lived there twenty years ago. Or he could drive south to Egely and play a game about the past with Uffe. Or he could park his vehicle on the side of the road and set his brain on cruise control while he took a nap for a few hours. The last option was especially tempting.

On the other hand, if he didn’t put the Playmobil figures back on Morten’s shelf in time, there was a real risk that he might lose his lodger, along with a big chunk of rent money.

So he released the handbrake and turned left to drive south.

It was lunchtime at Egely, and the aroma of thyme and tomato sauce had settled over the landscape as Carl parked his car. He found the director sitting alone at a long teak table on the terrace outside his office. As on the previous occasion, he was impeccably dressed, with a sun hat on his head and a napkin tucked into his collar. He was tentatively nibbling at a small serving of lasagne that took up only a corner of his plate. He was clearly not the sort who lived for worldly pleasures. The same could not be said of his administrative co-workers and a couple of nurses who sat thirty feet away, chattering vociferously as they attacked the food piled on their plates.

They saw Carl come round the corner and suddenly fell silent, which made other sounds suddenly seem very loud: the nest-builders, giddy with spring, noisily fluttering about in the bushes; the clattering of dishes from inside the dining hall.

‘Bon appétit,’ said Carl as he sat down at the director’s table without waiting for an invitation. ‘I’m here to ask you something about Uffe. Did you know he played a game where he was supposedly reliving the accident that left him handicapped? Karen Mortensen, a caseworker in Stevns, observed him playing that game shortly before Merete Lynggaard died. Did you know about it?’

The director nodded slowly and took another bite of his food. Carl looked at the plate. Evidently the last bites would have to disappear before the undisputed king of Egely deigned to carry on a conversation with a mere commoner.

‘Is there anything about it in Uffe’s case file?’ asked Carl.

Again the director nodded, as he continued to chew very slowly.

‘Has it ever happened since?’

The man shrugged.

‘Did it happen again or didn’t it?’

The director shook his head.

‘I’d like to see Uffe alone today. Just for ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible?’

The director didn’t reply.

So Carl waited until the man finished his lunch, wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin, and licked his teeth with his tongue. A single gulp of ice water and then he looked up.

‘No, you can’t be alone with Uffe,’ was his answer.

‘Dare I ask why not?’

The director gave him a condescending look. ‘Your profession is a pretty far cry from what we do here, isn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for Carl to respond. ‘We can’t risk having you cause a setback in Uffe Lynggaard’s development. That’s the way it is.’

‘Is he in a period of development? I didn’t know that.’

Carl noticed a shadow fall across the table and turned around to face the supervisory nurse, who gave him a friendly nod, immediately stirring up memories of better treatment than the director was willing to offer.