Mercy (28 page)

‘During a search of the suspect’s residence, we found more than six hundred and fifty pounds of various types of narcotics, which are now being identified by our technicians.’ He paused for a moment to let the reaction die down. ‘There is no doubt that the doctor has built up a large and extensive network of colleagues, and they’ve all made significant sums from the sale of various types of prescription drugs – from methadone to diazepam, phenobarbital and morphine – and from the importation of drugs such as amphetamines, zopiclone, THC, or acetophenazine. As well as large quantities of neuroleptics, soporifics and hallucinogens. Nothing was too big or too small for the accused. Apparently he had customers for everything.

‘The man who was murdered in Valby Park was the ringleader behind the distribution of these drugs to people who went to clubs, in particular. We’re guessing that the victim tried to blackmail the doctor, and the latter made short work of things, but that the murder was not premeditated. Annelise Kvist witnessed the killing, and she happened to know the doctor. Because of this, the doctor was able to track her down and force her to keep quiet.’ The officer stopped, and Bak took over.

‘We now know that right after the murder, the doctor went to see Annelise Kvist at her home. He specializes in bronchial diseases and Annelise’s daughters were two of his asthma patients; both are very dependent on the medicine they take. On that evening at Annelise’s flat, the doctor displayed a dramatically violent behaviour, and he forced her to give her children pills, or he said he would kill them. The pills caused their alveoli to constrict, which was life-threatening. He then gave them an injection, which was the antidote. It must have been extremely traumatic for a mother to watch her daughters turn blue in the face, unable to communicate with her.’

Bak looked around the room. Everyone was nodding at what he said. He went on.

‘Afterwards the doctor claimed that the girls would have to make regular visits to his office to receive the antidote, or they would suffer a fatal relapse. That was how he kept the mother quiet.

‘We can thank Annelise’s mother for the fact that we eventually located our key witness. She knew nothing about the intervening scene that had been played out in her daughter’s flat that night, but she did know that her daughter had witnessed the murder. She got Annelise to say so the next day when she saw what a state of shock her daughter was in. The only thing the mother didn’t find out was who the murderer was; Annelise refused to tell her. So when we brought Annelise Kvist in for questioning at her mother’s insistence, she was a woman undergoing a deep inner crisis.

‘Today we also know that the doctor went to see Annelise again a couple of days later. He warned her that if she talked, he’d kill the girls. He used words like “flay them alive” and pushed her so far that he was able to force 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 Mørck.’

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 towards him and attempted to wring smiles out of their stony faces, but the others didn’t budge.

Lars Bjørn 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.’

Børge 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 work day 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 petrol 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 oesophagus 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 Mørck 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?’

‘Maths.’

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?’

His stepson turned to look at him. ‘It means that if I don’t do well, I might not quality for the fifth and sixth forms at Allerød. Too bad!’

Carl pictured Vigga’s reproachful face and lowered the newspaper. The acid revolt in his system was really starting to hurt.

Out in the car park folks were already joking about yesterday’s database breakdown. A couple of people had no idea what they were going to do at work. One’s job was dealing with building permits, and the other’s was medical reimbursements, and both of them usually spent their time staring at computer screens all day.

On the car radio Carl heard several mayors express criticism of the municipal government reforms, which had indirectly sparked the whole mess. Other people called in to rant about the fact that the ongoing miserable situation with overworked and overburdened municipal employees was now going to get even worse. If the culprit who had shut down the databases ever dared to show up at one of the many hard-hit city halls, the closest emergency ward would no doubt have its hands full.

At police headquarters everyone was more hopeful; the individual who had caused the problem had already been arrested. As soon as they’d received an explanation from the accused – an older woman who was a computer programmer in the Interior Ministry – to explain how to repair the damage, they would make the whole story public. It would only be a few more hours before everything would return to normal. Total control of society by government bureaucrats, which so many people were sick and tired of, had been re-established.

Poor woman.

Oddly enough, Carl managed to make it down to the basement without running into any of his colleagues, and that was a good thing. The news in the morning papers about Carl’s clash with a psychologically handicapped man in an institution in northern Zealand had undoubtedly already spread to even the lowliest office in that enormous building.

He just hoped that Marcus Jacobsen’s Wednesday meeting with the commissioner and the other police chiefs wouldn’t focus entirely on the news story.

He found Assad in his office and wasted no time launching into him.

After a few seconds Assad started looking groggy. Cheerful assistant that he was, he’d never seen this side of Carl before. But his boss now let him have the full brunt of his anger.

‘You lied to me, Assad,’ Carl barked, fixing his eyes on the man. ‘You never even mentioned the cyclist murder to Hardy. You came up with all those conclusions yourself, and yes, they were good ones, but what you said to me was something else altogether. I simply won’t have it. Do you hear me? This will have consequences.’

He could almost hear the wheels creaking inside Assad’s head. What was going on in there? Did he have a guilty conscience or what?

Carl chose to really let him have it. ‘Don’t bother saying anything, Assad! You’re not bullshitting me any more! Who the hell are you, really, Assad? I’d like to know. And what were you doing since you weren’t visiting Hardy?’ He waved off Assad’s objections. ‘Yeah, all right, I know you went there, but you never stayed very long. So spit it out, Assad. What’s going on?’

Assad’s silence couldn’t hide his nervousness. Carl caught glimpses of a hunted animal in the man’s calm expression. If they’d been enemies, Assad presumably would have leaped up to strangle him.

‘Just a second,’ said Carl. He turned to look at the computer and brought up Google onto the screen. ‘I’ve got a couple of questions for you. You get me?’

Assad didn’t answer.

‘Are you listening at all?’

Assad murmured something even fainter than the hum of the computer. It was apparently meant as an affirmative reply.

‘It says in your file that you and your wife and two daughters came to Denmark in 1998. You were in the Sandholm refugee camp from 1998 until 2000, and then you were granted asylum.’

Assad nodded.

‘That was fast.’

‘Not back then, Carl. Things are different now.’

‘You’re from Syria, Assad. What city? It doesn’t say in your file.’

He turned around and saw that Assad’s expression was darker than he’d ever seen it.

‘Am I under your interrogation, Carl?’

‘Yes, you could say that. Any objections?’

‘There are many things I will not tell you, Carl. You will have to respect that then. I have had a bad life. It is mine, not yours.’

‘I understand that. But what city are you from? Is that such a hard question to answer?’

‘I come from a suburb of Sab Abar.’

Carl typed in the name. ‘That’s in the middle of nowhere, Assad.’

‘Did I say it was not, Carl?’

‘How far would you say it is from Damascus to Sab Abar?’

‘A day’s journey. More than two hundred kilometres.’

‘A day’s journey?’

‘Things take time there. First you have to go through the city, and then there are the mountains.’

That matched with what Carl saw on Google Earth. It would be hard to find a more desolate place. ‘Your name is Hafez el-Assad. At least that’s what it says in the Immigration Service’s documents about you.’ He typed in the name on Google and found it instantly. ‘Isn’t that a rather unfortunate name to be carrying around?’

Assad shrugged.

‘The name of a dictator who ruled Syria for twenty-nine years! Were your parents members of the Baath Party?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘So you were named after him?’

‘Several people in my family have that name. I can tell you that.’

Carl looked into Assad’s dark eyes. The man was in a different state than usual.

‘Who was Hafez el-Assad’s successor?’ Carl asked abruptly.

Assad didn’t even blink. ‘His son Bashar. Should we then not stop this now, Carl? It is not good for us.’

‘You might be right. So what was the name of the first son, the one who died in a car crash in 1994?’

‘I do not remember right now.’

‘You don’t? That’s odd. Here it says that he was his father’s favourite and chosen successor. His name was Basil. I’d think that everyone your age in Syria would be able to tell me that without hesitation.’

‘That is correct. His name was Basil.’ Assad nodded. ‘But there are so quite many things that I have forgotten, Carl. I do not
want
to remember. I have …’ He searched for the word.

‘Suppressed them?’

‘Yes, that sounds right enough.’

OK, if that’s how he’s going to act I’m not going to get any further like this, thought Carl. He was going to have to shift gears.

‘You know what I think, Assad? I think you’re lying. Your name isn’t Hafez el-Assad at all. It was just the first name that came into your head when you applied for asylum. Am I right? I can just imagine that the guy who falsified your papers had a good laugh over it, didn’t he? Maybe he’s even the same man who helped us with Merete’s phone book. Am I getting warm?’

‘I think we should make a stop now, Carl.’

‘Where are you really from, Assad? Well, I’m used to the name, so why change now, even though it’s really your surname, isn’t it, Hafez?’

‘I am Syrian, and I come from Sab Abar.’

‘You mean a suburb of Sab Abar?’

‘Yes, north-east of downtown.’

It all sounded very plausible, but Carl had a hard time accepting the information at face value. Maybe ten years and hundreds of interrogations ago. But not any more. His instincts were grumbling. The way Assad reacted wasn’t quite right.

‘You’re actually from Iraq, aren’t you, Assad? And you’ve got skeletons in the closet that would get you deported from Denmark and sent back to where you came from. Am I right?’

Assad’s expression changed again. The lines on his forehead were erased. Maybe he’d caught sight of a way out; maybe he was just telling the truth.

‘Iraq? Not at all. Now you are sounding dumb, Carl,’ he said, offended. ‘Come home and see my things, Carl. I brought a suitcase from home. You can talk to my wife. She understands a little English. Or my girls. Then you will know that what I am telling you is right then, Carl. I am a political refugee, and I have been through a lot of bad things. I do not want to talk about it, Carl, so, could you please leave me in peace? It is true that I did not spend a lot of time with Hardy, the way I said, but it is very far, up to Hornbæk. I am trying to help my brother come to Denmark, and that takes time too, Carl. I’m sorry. I will tell you things straight in the future.’

Carl leaned back. He was almost to the point where he wanted to smother his sceptical brain in the sugar water that Assad was dishing out. ‘I don’t understand how you could acclimate yourself so quickly to doing police work, Assad. I certainly appreciate your help. You’re a spooky kind of guy, but you do have skills. Where does it come from?’

‘Spooky? What is that? Something to do with ghosts and things like that?’ He gave Carl a guileless look. Yes, he did have skills, all right. Maybe he had a natural talent. Maybe everything he’d said was true. Perhaps it was just Carl who was turning into a sulky grouch.

‘It doesn’t say anything about your education in the file, Assad. What kind of training did you have?’

He shrugged. ‘There was not very much, Carl. My father owned a small company that sold tinned goods. I know everything about how long a tin of stewed tomatoes can last at fifty degrees Celsius.’

Carl tried to smile. ‘And then you couldn’t keep out of politics, and you ended up with the wrong name. Is that it?’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘And you were tortured?’

‘Yes. Carl, I do not want to talk about that. You have not seen how I can get when I feel bad. I cannot talk about it, OK?’

‘OK.’ Carl nodded. ‘And from now on you’re going to tell me what you’re doing during work hours. Do you get me?’

Assad gave his boss a thumbs-up.

The expression in Carl’s eyes allowed Assad’s gaze to relax. Then he held up his hand for a high-five, and Assad smacked it.

So that was that.

‘OK, Assad. Let’s move on. We’ve got other things to think about,’ said Carl. ‘We need to locate this Lars Henrik Jensen. I’m hoping it won’t be long before we’ll be able to log on to the Civil Registration System, but until then, let’s try to find his mother, Ulla Jensen. A man out at Risø …’ He saw that Assad wanted to ask him what Risø was, but that could wait. ‘A man told me that she lives south of Copenhagen.’

‘Is Ulla Jensen an unusual name?’

Carl shook his head. ‘Now that we know the name of the father’s company, we have more angles we can check. To start off, I’m going to call the Registry of Companies. We can only hope that it hasn’t been shut down too. In the meantime, go through the address-finder directory and look for the name Ulla Jensen. Try Brøndbyerne and then move south. Vallensbæk, maybe Glostrup, Tåstrup, Greve-Kildebrønde. Don’t search all the way to Køge, because that’s where the company was located before. Try north of there.’

Assad looked relieved. He was just about to go out the door but turned around to give Carl a hug. His beard stubble was like needles, and his aftershave was some cheap knock-off brand, but the sentiment was genuine.

Carl sat at his desk for a moment, letting the feeling wash over him after Assad had waltzed across the hall to his own office. It was almost like having his old team back.

The answer came from both sources at once. The Registry of Companies had been functioning without interruption throughout the computer crash, and it took only five seconds on the keyboard for them to identify HJ Industries. It was owned by Trabeka Holding, a German firm, and they’d be happy to look for more information if Carl was interested. They couldn’t see who the owners were, but that could be found out if they contacted their German colleagues. After they gave Carl the address, he shouted over to Assad that he could stop his search, but Assad shouted back that he’d already found a couple of possible addresses.

They compared results. There it was. Ulla Jensen lived on the site of the bankrupt HJ Industries, on Strøhusvej in Greve.