Mercy (6 page)

11

2002

Over the next two days the messages began piling up. Merete’s secretary tried to hide her annoyance and pretended to be amiable. Several times she sat and stared at Merete when she thought her boss wouldn’t notice. She once asked if Merete would like to play squash with her on the weekend, but Merete declined. She had no desire for any sort of camaraderie with her staff.

After that the secretary resumed her usual morose and aloof demeanour.

On Friday Merete took home the last messages that her secretary had left on her desk. After reading through them several times, she tossed them in the wastebasket. Then she tied the strings of the bin liner in a knot and carried it out to the dustbin. She needed to put an end to this, once and for all.

And she felt mean and miserable.

The home help had left a casserole on the table. It was still lukewarm when Merete and Uffe were done dashing about the house. Next to the ovenproof dish was a little note on top of an envelope.

Oh no, she’s going to quit, thought Merete and then read the note.

‘A man brought this letter to the house. I suppose it has something to do with the ministry.’

Merete picked up the envelope and tore it open.

‘Have a nice trip to Berlin,’ was all it said.

Uffe was sitting next to her with an empty plate, smiling in anticipation as his nostrils quivered at the delicious aroma from the food. Merete pressed her lips together and scooped up some of the casserole for her brother as she tried not to cry.

The rushing of the east wind was getting louder, whipping up the waves so the foam splashed halfway up the sides of the ship. Uffe loved to stand outside on the sun deck and watch the wake form alongside the ship while the seagulls soared on outspread wings overhead. And Merete loved seeing Uffe happy. She was looking forward to their weekend. It was good that she’d decided they should go after all. Berlin was such a marvellous city.

Up ahead on the deck an elderly couple was looking in their direction; behind them a family sat at one of the tables close to the smokestack, with Thermoses and sandwiches that they’d brought along. The children had already finished eating, and Merete gave them a smile. The father looked at his watch and said something to his wife. Then they began packing up what was left of their lunch.

She remembered going on this sort of excursion with her parents. That was a long time ago. She turned around. People were already heading below deck to where their cars were parked. They would soon reach the harbour at Puttgarden; only ten more minutes, but not everybody was in a rush. Two men were standing over near the huge picture windows in the stern, with scarves wrapped snugly around their necks as they calmly gazed out to sea. One of them looked frail and gaunt. Merete estimated that they were standing at least six feet apart, so they probably weren’t together.

A sudden impulse made her take the note out of her pocket and look at the six words again. Then she put it back in the envelope and held it up in the air, letting it flutter in the wind for a moment. Then she let it go. The envelope flew upwards and then dived down, slipping inside an opening in the side of the ship, underneath the sun deck. For a moment she thought they’d have to go downstairs and retrieve it, but then the note suddenly reappeared and began dancing over the waves. It spun around a few times and vanished into the white foam. Uffe laughed. He’d been watching the envelope the whole time. Then he gave a shriek, took off his baseball cap, and tossed it after the envelope.

‘No, don’t!’ was all she managed to shout before the cap plunged into the sea.

It was a Christmas present and Uffe’s most-beloved possession. The minute it was gone, he regretted what he’d done. It was clear that he was considering jumping after the cap, in an attempt to get it back.

‘No, Uffe!’ she yelled. ‘You can’t do that. It’s gone!’ But Uffe had already set one foot on the metal barrier of the railing. He stood there bellowing over the wooden rail, his body’s centre of gravity far too high up.

‘Stop it, Uffe! There’s nothing you can do,’ she shouted again, but Uffe was strong, much stronger than she was, and he was far away. His consciousness was down in the waves with the baseball cap that had been a Christmas present. It was a relic of his simple, godless life.

Then she slapped him hard in the face. She’d never done that before, and she instantly pulled back her hand in fright. Uffe couldn’t understand what was happening. He forgot about his cap and touched his cheek. He was in shock. It was years since he’d felt pain like that. He didn’t understand. Then he looked at her and struck back. He hit her harder than he’d ever done before.

12

2007

Homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen had spent yet another night without much sleep.

The witness in the case of the cyclist murdered in Valby Park had tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. Jacobsen couldn’t understand what the hell could have pushed her so far. She had children and a mother who loved her, after all. Who could have threatened a woman into taking such extreme measures? The police had offered her witness protection and everything else within their powers. She was under surveillance day and night. Where on earth had she got those pills?

‘You should go home and get some sleep,’ said his deputy when Marcus came back from his usual Friday-morning meeting with the police chief in the commissioner’s conference room.

He nodded. ‘Well, maybe just for a couple of hours. But you and Bak need to go out to the National Hospital and see what you can get out of that woman. And make sure to take her mother and children along, so she can see them. We need to try and bring her back to reality.’

‘Uh-huh, or away from it,’ said Lars Bjørn.

All phone calls were supposed to be redirected, but the phone rang anyway. ‘Don’t let anybody through except the queen or Prince Henrik,’ he’d told his secretary. So it was probably his wife. ‘Yeah?’ he said, feeling suddenly more tired than ever.

‘It’s the police commissioner,’ whispered Bjørn, holding his hand over the receiver.

He handed the phone to Marcus and tiptoed out of the room.

‘Marcus,’ said the commissioner in her distinctive voice. ‘I’m calling to tell you that the justice minister and the committees have made fast work of things. So the extra allocation of funds has been approved.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ replied Marcus, immediately trying to work out in his mind how the budget could be divided up.

‘Yes, well, you know the chain of command. Today Piv Vestergård and the Judicial Committee of the Denmark Party met with the justice minister, so now all the wheels will start turning. The chief of police has asked the head of the National Police to find out if you’ve got the new department set up yet,’ she said.

‘Yes, I believe we have,’ he said with a frown as he pictured Carl’s weary face.

‘That’s good. I’ll let them know. So what’s the first case you’re going to tackle?’

That was not exactly a question he found particularly energizing.

Carl was just getting ready to head home. The clock on the wall said 16:36, but his inner clock was several hours ahead. So it was undeniably a disappointment when Marcus Jacobsen rang to say that he’d be coming downstairs to pay Carl a visit. ‘I need to report what you’re working on.’

Carl looked with resignation at the blank bulletin board and the row of used coffee cups standing on his little meeting table. ‘Give me twenty minutes, Marcus. Then you’re welcome to come down here. We’re right in the middle of something at the moment.’

He put down the phone and puffed out his cheeks. Then he slowly exhaled as he stood up and went across the hall to the room where Assad had made himself at home.

On his abnormally small desk stood two framed photographs showing a big group of people. On the wall above the desk hung a poster with Arabic script and a lovely picture of an exotic building that Carl couldn’t immediately identify. From a hook on the door hung a brown smock of the type that had gone out of fashion along with leg warmers. Assad had neatly arranged his cleaning implements in a row along the far wall: a bucket, mop, vacuum cleaner, and a sea of bottles containing caustic cleaning fluids. On the bookshelves were rubber gloves and a little transistor radio with a cassette player that was emitting muted sounds that were reminiscent of the bazaar in Sousse. Next to the radio lay a notebook, some paper, a pencil, a copy of the Koran, and a small selection of magazines with Arabic text. Spread out on the floor in front of the bookshelf was a multicoloured prayer rug that hardly looked big enough for Assad to kneel on. All in all, quite a picturesque scene.

‘Assad,’ said Carl. ‘We’re in a hurry. The homicide chief will be here in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get things ready. When he arrives, I’d appreciate it if you could be washing the floor at the other end of the hall. It’s going to mean a little overtime, but I hope that’s OK.’

‘I must say, I’m impressed, Carl,’ said Marcus Jacobsen, nodding at the bulletin board with tired eyes. ‘You’ve certainly got this place organized. Are you getting back on your feet?’

‘Back on my feet? Yeah, well, I’m doing what I can. But you need to realize it’s going to be a while before I’m up to speed.’

‘Let me know if you need to have a talk with a crisis counsellor again. You shouldn’t underestimate the amount of trauma that can result from the type of experience you’ve been through.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.’

‘That’s good, Carl. But don’t hesitate to speak up.’ Jacobsen turned to look at the far wall. ‘I see you’ve got your flat-screen up,’ he said, staring at the forty-inch image of the news programme on Channel 2.

‘Yes, we have to keep up with events in the world,’ said Carl, thinking gratefully of Assad. It had taken his assistant all of five minutes to set up the whole damn thing. Apparently that was something else he was good at.

‘By the way, it was just reported that the witness in the case of the murdered cyclist tried to commit suicide,’ Carl went on.

‘What? For Christ’s sake, how did that leak out already?’ exclaimed the homicide chief, looking even more knackered.

Carl shrugged. After ten years as head of the homicide division, the man must be used to the game by now. ‘I’ve divided up the cases into three categories,’ he said, pointing at the piles of folders. ‘They’re big, complicated cases. I’ve spent days reading through the material. This is going to take a lot of time, Marcus.’

Jacobsen shifted his gaze away from the TV screen. ‘Take however much time you need, Carl. Just as long as you produce results once in a while. Let me know if anyone upstairs can assist you.’ He attempted a smile. ‘So which case have you decided to work on first?’

‘Well, er, I’m looking at several initially. But the Merete Lynggaard case will probably be the first.’

Jacobsen’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, that was a strange one. The way she disappeared from the Rødby–Puttgarden ferry. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. And without a single eyewitness.’

‘There are plenty of strange aspects to the case,’ said Carl, trying to recall just one.

‘I remember that her brother was accused of pushing her overboard, but the charge was later dropped. Is that a lead you might follow up?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know where he is now, so I’ll have to track him down first. But there are also other lines of inquiry that spring to mind.’

‘I seem to remember the documents saying the brother was committed to an institution in northern Zealand,’ said Jacobsen.

‘Oh, right. But he might not be there any more.’ Carl tried to look pensive. Go on back to your office, Mr Homicide Chief, he thought. All these questions, and so far he’d spent only five minutes reading the case report.

‘He is in something called Egely. In the town of Frederikssund.’ The voice came from the doorway where Assad stood, leaning on his mop. He looked like someone from another planet, with his ivory smile and his green rubber gloves and a smock that reached to his ankles.

The homicide chief stared in bewilderment at this exotic being.

‘Hafez el-Assad,’ he said, holding out a rubber-gloved hand.

‘Marcus Jacobsen,’ said the homicide chief, shaking the man’s hand. Then he turned to give Carl an inquiring look.

‘This is our new assistant in the department. Assad has heard me talking about the case,’ said Carl, giving Assad a look that he chose to ignore.

‘I see,’ said Jacobsen.

‘Yes, my Deputy Police Inspector Mørck has really worked hard so. I have just helped a little here and so there, and where one can.’ Assad smiled broadly. ‘What I do not understand is then why Merete Lynggaard was never found in the water. In Syria, where I come from, there are tons of sharks in the water that eat the dead bodies. But if there are not so many sharks in the sea around Denmark, the bodies should probably be found at some point. The bodies get as big as balloons because of all the rotting from inside that blows them up.’

The homicide chief tried to smile. ‘Yes, well. The waters around Denmark are deep and wide. It’s not unusual that we fail to find the bodies of people who have drowned. In fact, it’s quite common for someone to fall overboard from a passenger ship in those waters. And often the body is never found.’

‘Assad,’ said Carl, looking at his watch. ‘You can go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Assad nodded briefly and picked up the bucket from the floor. After some clattering across the hall, he reappeared in the doorway and said goodbye.

‘Seems like a real character, that Hafez el-Assad,’ said Jacobsen when the sound of the man’s footsteps had died away.

13

2007

After the weekend Carl found a memo from the deputy chief on his computer.

I’ve informed Bak that you’re working on the Merete Lynggaard case. Bak was assigned to the case as part of the Rapid Response Team during the final phase of the investigation, so he’s familiar with the details. Right now he’s slogging away on the cyclist homicide, but he’s prepared to discuss the case with you, preferably as soon as possible.

Lars Bjørn

Carl snorted. ‘Preferably as soon as possible.’ Who the hell did Bak think he was, that sanctimonious son of a bitch? Self-righteous, self-important, self-promoting. A bureaucrat and yes-man all in one. His wife probably had to fill out a form in triplicate to apply for any erotic fondling below the belt.

So Bak had investigated a case that had
not
been solved. How nice. Carl almost felt motivated to try to untie the knots himself.

He picked up the case file from his desk and asked Assad to make him a cup of coffee. ‘Not as strong as last time, Assad,’ he requested, thinking about the distance to the toilet.

The Lynggaard case file was undoubtedly the most organized and comprehensive file that Carl had seen yet. It included copies of everything from reports on the health of the brother, Uffe, to transcripts of police interviews, clippings from the tabloids and gossip columns, a couple of videotapes of interviews with Merete Lynggaard, and detailed transcripts of statements from colleagues, as well as from passengers on the boat who had seen the brother and sister together on the sun deck. There were photos showing the deck and the railing and the distance down to the water. There were fingerprint analyses taken from the spot where she disappeared. There were addresses of countless passengers who had taken pictures on board the Scandline ferry. There was even a copy of the ship’s log, which revealed how the captain had responded to the whole incident. But there was nothing that could give Carl a real lead.

I need to watch the videotapes, he thought after reading through the material. He cast a defeated look at the DVD player.

‘I’ve got a job for you, Assad,’ he said when the man returned with a steaming cup of coffee. ‘Go up to the homicide division on the third floor, through the green doors and over to the red hallway until you come to a bulge where –’

Assad handed Carl the coffee mug, the smell of which from a distance already hinted at likely stomach troubles. ‘A bulge?’ he said with wrinkled brow.

‘Yes, you know, where the red hallway gets wider. Go over to the blonde woman. Her name is Lis. She’s OK. Tell her that you need a videotape player for Carl Mørck. We’re good friends, she and I.’ He winked at Assad, who winked back.

‘But if the dark-haired one is the only one there, just forget about it and come back.’

Assad nodded.

‘And remember to bring back an adaptor,’ he called after Assad as he ambled down the fluorescent-lit basement corridor.

‘It was the dark-haired who just was up there,’ said Assad when he returned. ‘She gave me two video machines and said they do not want them back.’ He smiled broadly. ‘She was also beautiful.’

Carl shook his head. There must have been a change in personnel.

The first video was from a TV news programme that was broadcast on 21 December 2001, in which Merete Lynggaard commented on an informal health and climate conference she had attended in London. The interview dealt primarily with her discussions with a senator named Bruce Jansen regarding the American attitude towards the work of WHO and the Kyoto Protocol, which in Merete’s opinion warranted great optimism for the future. I wonder if she’s easy to fool, thought Carl. But aside from a certain naivety, which was no doubt attributable to her age, Merete Lynggaard seemed otherwise level-headed, professional and precise. She outshone by far the newly appointed interior and health minister, who was standing next to her, looking like a parody of a high-school teacher in a film from the sixties.

‘A really elegant and pretty lady,’ remarked Assad from the doorway.

The second video was from 20 February 2002. Talking on behalf of her party’s environmental spokesperson, Merete Lynggaard offered comments on the conceited environmental sceptic Bjarke Ørnfelt’s report to the Committee Pertaining to Scientific Deception.

What a name to give to a committee, thought Carl. To think that anything in Denmark could sound so Kafkaesque.

This time it was an entirely different Merete Lynggaard who appeared on the screen. More real, less of a politician.

‘She is really, really so beautiful there,’ said Assad.

Carl glanced at him. Apparently a woman’s appearance was a particularly valuable factor in his assistant’s world-view. But Carl agreed with him. There was a special aura about Merete during that interview. She exhibited a surplus of that incredibly strong appeal that almost all women are capable of emanating whenever things are going especially well for them. Very telling, but also confusing.

‘Was she pregnant then?’ asked Assad. Judging by a number of family members in his photos, it was a feminine condition with which he was quite familiar.

Carl lit a cigarette and leafed through the case file again. For obvious reasons, there was no autopsy report that might help him answer that question, since the body had never been found. And when he skimmed through the gossip columns, there were blatant hints that she wasn’t particularly interested in men, although of course that didn’t preclude her from getting pregnant. But when he took a closer look, he realized that she hadn’t been seen in intimate contact with anyone at all, man or woman.

‘She was probably only just fallen in love,’ concluded Assad as he waved the cigarette smoke away. He had now moved so close to the screen that he was practically crawling inside it. ‘That little patch of red on her cheek there. Look!’

Carl shook his head. ‘I’ll bet it was only two degrees Celsius that day. Outdoor interviews always make politicians look healthier, Assad. Why do you think they’d put up with them, otherwise?’

But Assad was right. There was a marked difference between the previous interview and this one. Something had happened to Merete in the meantime. There was no way that Bjarke Ørnfelt, a crackpot professional lobbyist who specialized in splitting facts about natural disasters into unrecognizable atoms, could have made Merete Lynggaard glow so tastily.

Carl stared into space for a moment. In every investigation there was always a moment when a detective fervently wished that he could have met the victim alive. This time it was happening earlier than usual.

‘Assad. Phone that institution, Egely, where Merete Lynggaard’s brother was placed, and make an appointment on behalf of Deputy Detective Superintendent Mørck.’

‘Deputy Detective Superintendent Mørck? Who is that?’

Carl tapped his finger to his temple. Was the man just plain stupid? ‘Who do you think?’

Assad shook his head. ‘Well, inside my head I thought you were deputy police superintendent. Is that not what it is called now, since the new police reform?’

Carl took a deep breath. That fucking police reform. He didn’t give a shit about it.

The director at Egely called back ten minutes later, not even trying to hide his curiosity about what this might concern. Evidently Assad had improvised a bit, but what the hell could Carl expect from an assistant with a doctoral degree in rubber gloves and plastic buckets? After all, everybody had to crawl before they could walk.

He glanced over at his assistant and gave him an encouraging nod when he looked up from his Sudoku puzzle.

It took only thirty seconds for Carl to explain things to the director, whose reply was swift and brief. Uffe Lynggaard never spoke a word, so the deputy detective superintendent would gain nothing by trying to talk to him. In addition, although Uffe was both mute and difficult to reach, he had not been placed under legal guardianship. And since Uffe Lynggaard had not given permission for anyone at the institution to speak on his behalf,
they
couldn’t say anything either. It was a real Catch-22.

‘I’m familiar with the procedures. Of course I’m not trying to commit a breach of confidentiality. But I’m investigating his sister’s disappearance, so I think that Uffe might actually benefit a great deal from speaking to me.’

‘But he doesn’t talk. I just told you that.’

‘Actually, a lot of people that we interview don’t talk, but we manage all the same. We’re good at deciphering non-verbal signals over here in Department Q.’

‘Department Q?’

‘Yes, we’re an elite investigative team here at police headquarters. When can I come out to see him?’

Carl heard the man sigh. He wasn’t stupid. He recognized a bulldog when he met one.

‘Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you,’ he said then.

‘What exactly did you tell that man when you called him up, Assad?’ yelled Carl when he put down the receiver.

‘That man? I told him that you would talk only to the chief and not to a director.’

‘The director
is
the chief, Assad.’

Carl took a deep breath, got up, and went over to his assistant, looking him in the eye. ‘Don’t you know the word “director”? A director is a kind of boss.’ They nodded to each other; all right then. ‘Assad, tomorrow I want you to pick me up in Allerød, where I live. We’re going to take a drive. Do you understand?’

He shrugged.

‘And there’s not going to be any problem with that when we’re out driving around, is there?’ Carl pointed at the prayer rug.

‘I can roll it up.’

‘All right. But how do you know which way Mecca is?’

Assad pointed to his head, as if he had a GPS system implanted in his temporal lobe. ‘And if a person is still a little like he does not know where, then there is this.’ He picked up one of the magazines from the bookshelf to reveal a compass underneath.

‘Huh,’ said Carl, staring at the massive conglomeration of metal pipes running along the ceiling. ‘But that compass isn’t going to work down here.’

Assad again pointed at his head.

‘So, I suppose you just have a sense of where it is. And you don’t have to be precise, is that it?’

‘Allah is great. He has such wide shoulders.’

Carl stuck out his lower lip in a pout. Of course Allah did. What was he thinking, anyway?

Four pairs of eyes with dark rings underneath turned to look at Carl as he entered team leader Bak’s office. No one could have any doubt that the team was under extreme pressure. On the wall hung a big map of Valby Park showing crucial aspects of the current case: the crime scene; where the murder weapon, an old-fashioned cut-throat razor, had been found; the place where the witness saw the victim and the suspected perpetrator together; and finally, the route the witness took through the park. Everything had been measured and thoroughly analysed, and none of it made any sense.

‘Our talk is going to have to wait until later, Carl,’ said Bak, tugging at the sleeve of the black leather jacket that he’d inherited from the former homicide chief. That jacket was Bak’s most treasured possession, proof that he was particularly fantastic, and he rarely took it off. The rumbling radiators were pumping out at least forty degrees of heat into the room, but it didn’t matter. Besides, he was probably counting on heading out the door at any moment.

Carl looked at the photos pinned up on the bulletin board behind the team members, and it was not an encouraging sight. Evidently the body of the victim had been mutilated after death. Deep gashes in the chest, half of one ear cut off. On his white shirt a cross had been drawn with the victim’s own blood. Carl assumed that the cut-off ear had served as the pen. The frost-covered grass around the bicycle had been trampled flat, and the bike had also been smashed, so the spokes in the front wheel were completely crushed. The victim’s satchel lay open on the ground, and textbooks from the business school were scattered all over.

‘Our talk has to wait until later, you say? OK. But before then could you just ignore your brain-death for a moment and tell me what your key witness says about the individual she saw talking to the victim right before the murder?’

The four men looked at him as if he’d desecrated a grave.

Bak’s eyes had a dead expression. ‘It’s not your case, Carl. We’ll talk later. Believe it or not, we’re really busy up here.’

He nodded. ‘Oh sure, I can see that in your well-fed faces. Of course you’re busy. I imagine that you’ve already sent people out to search the witness’s place of residence after she was hospitalized, right?’

The others exchanged glances. Annoyed, but also with a questioning look.

So they hadn’t. Excellent.

Marcus Jacobsen had just sat down in his office when Carl came in. As usual, the homicide chief was well groomed. The parting in his hair was sharp as a knife, his eyes attentive and alert.

‘Marcus, did you search the witness’s residence after her suicide attempt?’ asked Carl, pointing at the case folder that was lying in the middle of Jacobsen’s desk.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You haven’t found the piece missing from the victim’s ear, have you?’

‘No, not yet. Are you saying that it might be in the witness’s home?’

‘If I were you, I’d go and look for it, boss.’

‘If it really was sent to her, I’m sure she got rid of it.’

‘So look through the rubbish bins down in the yard. And take a good look in the toilet.’

‘It would have been flushed away by now, Carl.’

‘Haven’t you heard the story about the shit that kept reappearing no matter how many times the toilet was flushed?’

‘OK, Carl. I’ll take it under advisement.’

‘The pride of the department, Mr Yes-man Bak, didn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Well, then you’ll just have to wait, Carl. Your cases aren’t about to run off anywhere.’

‘I just wanted you to know. It’s going to set me back in my schedule.’

‘Then I suggest you take a look at one of the other cases in the meantime.’ He picked up his pen and tapped it on the edge of the desk. ‘So, about that strange guy you have working for you downstairs … You’re not involving him in any of the investigative work, are you?’