Mercy (9 page)

At the clinic Hardy had been moved to another ward, and he wasn’t looking good. His skin was OK, but darkness lurked in his blue eyes.

Carl put his hand on Hardy’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said last time, Hardy. But it’s not going to work. I’m really sorry. I just can’t do it. Do you understand?’

Hardy didn’t say a word. Of course he understood; at the same time, of course, he didn’t.

‘How about if you help me out instead, Hardy? I’ll give you all the facts, and you can take your time thinking them over. I could use some extra input, you know? I don’t give a flying fuck about any of it, but if you help me out, then at least we’ll have something to laugh about together.’

‘You want me to laugh, Carl?’ said Hardy, turning his head away.

All in all, it had been a really shitty day.

16

2002

All sense of time vanished in the darkness, and with it the rhythms of her body. Day and night merged like Siamese twins. There was only one fixed point in the day for Merete, and that was the click from the retractable hatch in the arched door.

The first time she heard the distorted voice on the loudspeaker, the shock was so explosive that she was still trembling when she lay down to sleep.

But if she hadn’t heard the voice, she would have been dead of thirst and hunger; she knew that. The question was whether that might have been a better alternative.

She had noticed the thirst and dryness in her mouth disappearing. She’d noticed the fatigue dulling her hunger, the fear being replaced by sorrow, and the sorrow by an almost comforting acknowledgement that death was approaching. And that was why she lay there calmly, waiting for her body to give up, when a grating voice revealed that she was not alone and that she ultimately was going to have to surrender to someone else’s will.

‘Merete,’ said the woman’s voice without warning. ‘We’re sending in a plastic container. In a moment you’ll hear a clicking sound and a hatch will open over in the corner. We’ve seen that you’ve already found it.’

Maybe she’d imagined that a light was turned on, because she pressed her eyes closed and tried to gain control over the shock waves that were flashing along her nerve endings. But there was no light in the room.

‘Can you hear me?’ shouted the voice.

She nodded, breathing hard. Now Merete noticed how cold she was. How the lack of sustenance had sucked all the fat out of her body. How vulnerable she was.

‘Answer me!’

‘Yes. Yes, I hear you. Who are you?’ She stared into the darkness.

‘When you hear the click, go over to the hatch at once. Don’t try to crawl inside. You won’t be able to do it. After you take out the first container, there will be another. One of them is a bucket that you can use as a toilet to relieve yourself. The other bucket holds water and food. Each day we’ll open the hatch, and then we’ll exchange the old containers with new ones. Do you understand?’

‘What is this all about?’ She listened to the echo of her own voice. ‘Have I been kidnapped? Is it money you want?’

‘Here comes the first one.’

There was a scraping in the corner, and a slight whistling sound. Merete moved towards that sound and noticed that the bottom of the arched door set into the wall opened to deliver a hard container the size of a wastebasket. When she pulled it out and set it on the floor, the hatch closed for ten seconds and then reopened, this time revealing a slightly taller bucket that was presumably supposed to serve as a dry toilet.

Her heart was pounding. If the containers could be exchanged so swiftly, that meant someone had to be standing on the other side of the door. Another human being very close.

‘Won’t you please tell me where I am?’ She crawled forwards on her knees until she was sitting right under the place where she thought the loudspeaker was located. ‘How long have I been here?’ She raised her voice a bit. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘There’s a roll of toilet paper in the food box. You’ll get another one each week. When you need to wash, use water from the container that’s inside the toilet bucket. Remember to take it out before using the toilet. There’s no drain in the room, so be sure to lean over the bucket to wash.’

The sinews in her neck were stretched taut. A shadow of anger fought with the tears, and her lips quivered. Snot ran from her nose. ‘Am I supposed to sit here in the dark … the whole time?’ she sobbed. ‘Can’t you turn on a light? Just for a moment? Please!’

Again the clicking sound and a little whistle, and the hatch shut.

After that came many, many days when she heard only the fan, turned on weekly for ventilation, and the daily clattering and whistling of the hatch door. At times the intervals in between seemed interminable; at other times it felt as if she’d just lain down after a meal when the next buckets arrived. The food was the only physical bright spot for her, even though it was a monotonous diet without any real flavour. A few potatoes and overcooked vegetables along with a scrap of meat. The same every day. As if there were a bottomless pot of stew, always simmering out there in the light, in the world on the other side of the impenetrable wall.

She had thought that at some point she would get so used to the dark that the details of the room would emerge, but that didn’t happen. The darkness was irrevocable, as if she were blind. Only her thoughts could send any light into her existence, and that wasn’t easy.

For a long time she was truly afraid of going mad. Afraid of the day when all control slipped out of her hands. She made up images of the world and the light and the life outside. She took refuge in all the nooks and crannies of her brain – those areas that usually become silted up with the ambitions and trivialities of life. And memories of the past slowly surfaced. Tiny moments with hands that held her. Words that caressed and comforted. But also memories of loneliness and yearning and tireless striving.

Then she fell into a rhythm in which day and night consisted of long periods of sleep, eating, meditation and running on the spot. She would run until the slamming of her feet on the floor began to hurt her ears, or until she fell over with fatigue.

Every fifth day she received new underwear and tossed the used ones into the dry toilet. It was disgusting to think that strangers were handling the garments. But they never replaced the other clothing she wore, so she took good care of it. Took care when she sat down on the bucket or lay down carefully on the floor to sleep. Cautiously smoothed out her clothes when she changed her underwear, and rinsed with water any pieces of the fabric that she could feel were getting dirty. She was glad that she’d had such good-quality clothes on the day they took her. A down jacket, scarf, blouse, underwear, trousers and thick socks. But as the days passed, her trousers hung looser and looser, and the soles of her shoes began to feel thin. I need to run in my bare feet, she thought, and she yelled into the darkness: ‘Couldn’t you turn up the heat a little? Please?’ But the ventilator in the ceiling hadn’t produced a sound for a long time now.

The light in the room was switched on after the buckets had been changed one hundred and nineteen times. An explosion of white suns blasted down on her, making her topple over backwards with her eyes closed tight and tears trickling out of their corners. It felt as if the light were bombarding her retinas, sending waves of pain up into her brain. All she could do was sink down into a squatting position and hold her hands over her eyes.

As the hours passed, she slowly moved her hands from her face and opened her eyes ever so slightly. The light was still overwhelming. She was held back by the fear that she’d already lost her sight, or that she would now lose it if she moved too quickly. And that was how she was sitting when the loudspeaker with the woman’s voice hammered shock waves through her body for the second time. She reacted to the sound like a gauge that jumps too quickly. Each word sent a stab right through her. And the words were terrifying.

‘Happy birthday, Merete Lynggaard. Congratulations on reaching the age of thirty-two. Yes, today is the 6th of July. You’ve been sitting here for one hundred and twenty-six days, and our birthday present to you is that we won’t be turning off the light for a year.’

‘Oh God, no. You can’t do this to me,’ she moaned. ‘Why are you doing this?’ She stood up, holding her hands over her eyes. ‘If you want to torture me to death, then just do it!’ she screamed.

The woman’s voice was ice-cold, a bit deeper than the last time. ‘Take it easy, Merete. We don’t want to torture you. On the contrary, we’re going to give you a chance to avoid what could be even worse for you. All you have to do is answer your own very relevant question: Why are you having to endure all this? Why have we put you in a cage like an animal? Answer your own question, Merete.’

She leaned her head back. This was terrible. Maybe she should just keep quiet. Sit down in a corner and let them say whatever they wanted.

‘Answer the question, Merete, or you’re going to make things even worse for yourself.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say! Is this something political? Or are you blackmailing somebody for money? I don’t know. Tell me!’

The voice behind the grating sound grew colder. ‘That’s not the correct answer, Merete. So now you’ll have to take your punishment. It’s not too bad. You can easily handle it.’

‘Oh God, this can’t be happening,’ sobbed Merete, sinking to her knees.

Then she heard the familiar whistling from the door hatch become a hissing sound. She instantly noticed the warm air from outside streaming down on her. It smelled of grain and ploughed fields and green grass. Was this supposed to be a punishment?

‘We’re pumping the air pressure in your chamber up to two atmospheres. Then we’ll see if you can answer the question next year. We don’t know how much pressure the human organism can stand, but we’re going to find out as time goes by.’

‘Dear God,’ whispered Merete as she felt the pressure in her ears. ‘Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.’

17

2007

The sound of boisterous voices and clinking bottles could clearly be heard from the car park, giving Carl plenty of warning. Things were jumping at his house.

The barbecue gang was a little group of fanatics who all lived close by and who thought that beefsteak was so much better if it first languished for a while on a charcoal grill until it tasted neither of beef nor steak. They got together year round whenever the opportunity presented itself, and preferably on Carl’s patio. He enjoyed their company. They were lively, but in moderation, and they always took their empty bottles back home with them.

He got a hug from Kenn, who liked to supervise the grill, and was handed an ice-cold can of beer. He put one of the scorched-meat briquettes on a plate and went into the living room, feeling everyone watching him indulgently. They never asked him questions if he didn’t volunteer any comments; it was one of the things that he really appreciated about his neighbours. Whenever a case was rummaging around in his brain, it would be easier to track down a competent local politician than to make contact with Carl, and they all knew it. This time it wasn’t a case knocking around in his brain; the only thing preoccupying his thoughts was Hardy.

Because Carl felt genuinely torn.

Maybe he should reconsider the situation. He could certainly find a way to kill Hardy without anyone raising the alarm afterwards. An air bubble in his IV, a firm hand placed over his mouth. It would be over quickly, because Hardy would offer no resistance.

But could he do it? Did he want to? It was a hell of a dilemma. To help or not to help? And what was the right kind of help? Maybe it would help Hardy more if Carl pulled himself together and went up to see Marcus and demanded to have his old cases back. When it came right down to it, he didn’t give a damn who he was assigned to work with, and he didn’t give a shit what
they
said about it. If it would help Hardy to nail the bastards who had shot them out in Amager, then he was the man to do it. Personally, he was sick of the case. If he did find those arseholes, he’d just shoot them down, and who would benefit from that? Not him, at any rate.

‘Carl, could you lend me a C-note?’ It was his stepson, Jesper, forcing his way into Carl’s thought processes. The boy evidently had one foot out the door already. His pals in Lyngby knew that if they invited Jesper, there was a good chance he would arrive with some beers in tow. Jesper had friends in the neighbourhood who sold beer by the case to kids under sixteen. They cost a few kroner more, but what did that matter if he could get his stepfather to pay for the party?

‘Isn’t this the third time in a week, Jesper?’ said Carl, pulling a hundred-kroner bill out of his wallet. ‘No matter what, you’re going to school tomorrow, got it?’

‘OK,’ he said.

‘Have you done your homework?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

So he hadn’t.

Carl frowned.

‘Relax, Carl. I don’t feel like doing my tenth year at Engholm. I’ll just transfer to Allerød.’

That was little consolation. Then Carl would have to keep an eye on Jesper to make sure he did well in school.

‘Keep smilin’,’ intoned the boy on his way to the bicycle shed.

That was easier said than done.

‘Is it the Lynggaard case that’s worrying you, Carl?’ Morten asked as he gathered up the last of the empty bottles. He never went back downstairs until the whole kitchen sparkled. He knew his limits. The next morning his head was going to be as big and sensitive as the prime minister’s ego. If anything needed cleaning, it had to be done now.

‘I’m thinking mostly about Hardy, not so much about the Lynggaard case. The leads have gone cold, and nobody gives a shit about it, anyway. Including me.’

‘But wasn’t the Lynggaard case solved?’ said Morten, sniffling. ‘She drowned, didn’t she? What more is there to say about it?’

‘Hmm, is that what you think? But why did she drown? That’s the question I keep asking myself. There was no storm, no rough seas, and she was apparently quite healthy. Her finances were good, she was attractive, she was on her way to building a big career for herself. Maybe she was a bit lonely, but at some point she would have solved that problem too.’

He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Of course the case interested him. Just like all cases in which the questions piled up, one after the other.

He lit a cigarette and grabbed a can of beer that one of the guests had opened but never drunk. It was lukewarm and tasted slightly flat.

‘What annoys me the most is that she was so intelligent. It’s always difficult when victims are as smart as she was. As I see it, she had no real reason to commit suicide. No obvious enemies. Her brother loved her. So why did she disappear? If that was your background, Morten, would you jump into the deep?’

He looked at Carl, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘It was an accident, Carl. Haven’t you ever felt dizzy when you leaned over a boat railing and looked down at the sea? But if it really was murder, then either her brother did it, or there was some political motivation, if you ask me. Why wouldn’t a prospective leader of the Democrats have enemies, especially one who looked so stunning?’ He nodded ponderously and had trouble raising his head again. ‘Everyone hated her. Can’t you see that? All the people she’d outstripped in her own party. And the ruling parties. Do you think the prime minister and his cronies were happy to see that luscious babe getting all that airtime on TV? You said yourself that she was brilliant.’ Morten wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the tap. ‘Everybody knew that she’d be the one to form the opposition coalition at the next election. She knew how to pull in the votes, damn it.’ He spat into the sink. ‘Next time I’m not drinking any of Sysser’s retsina. Where the hell does she buy that rotgut? It makes my throat as dry as a desert.’

Outside in the circular courtyard, Carl ran into several colleagues who were on their way home. Over by the far wall behind the colonnade, Bak was having an intense conversation with one of his men. They gave Carl a look as if he’d spat on them and offended their honour.

‘Buffoon briefing?’ he fired off, his words echoing among the pillars as he turned his back on them.

An explanation came from Bente Hansen, who had been a member of his former team. He met her in the vestibule. ‘You were right, Carl. They found the piece of the victim’s ear in the witness’s flat. Congratulations, old boy!’

Fine. At least something was happening in the murdered cyclist case.

‘Bak and his men have just been out to the National Hospital to make the witness cough up the whole story,’ she went on. ‘But they didn’t get anywhere. She’s terrified.’

‘Then maybe she’s not the one they should be talking to.’

‘Probably not. But then who?’

‘When would you be most likely to commit suicide? If you were under an insane amount of pressure, or if it was the only way to save your kids? I’d say it has something to do with her children.’

‘The children don’t know anything.’

‘No, I’m sure they don’t. But the witness’s mother might.’

He looked at the bronze lamps on the ceiling. Maybe he should ask for permission to trade cases with Bak. That would undoubtedly shake things up in this colossal building.

‘So, Carl. The whole time I have gone around, thinking thoughts. I think we should go on with the case then.’ Assad had already set a steaming cup of coffee in front of Carl. Next to the case files sat a couple of sweet pastries on top of the paper they’d been wrapped in. Apparently he was launching a charm offensive. At any rate, Assad had cleaned up in Carl’s office, and several documents from the case were lined up on his desk, almost as if he was supposed to read them in a specific order. Assad must have been on the job since six in the morning.

‘What have you found for me?’ Carl pointed to the papers.

‘Well, here is a bank account statement that tells just what Merete Lynggaard took out during her last weeks. But there is nothing at all with food at any restaurant.’

‘Somebody else paid for her, Assad. It’s not unusual for beautiful women to get off cheaply in such situations.’

‘Yes, exactly, Carl. Very smart. So she got somebody else to pay. I think maybe a politician or some guy.’

‘No doubt. But it wouldn’t be easy to find out who it was.’

‘Yes, I know that, Carl. It was five years ago.’ He tapped another piece of paper. ‘Here is a summary of the things that the police took from her house. I do not see any appointment diary like the woman, her new secretary, talked about. No. But maybe there is diary at Christiansborg. Maybe it will show who she was going to meet at the restaurant then.’

‘She probably had her diary in her purse, Assad. And the purse disappeared along with her, didn’t it?’

He nodded, looking a bit chagrined. ‘Yes, but, Carl. Maybe we could ask her secretary then. There is a transcribing of her statement. She did not say anything then about the person who ate with Merete. So I think we should ask her again.’

‘It’s called a transcript, Assad! But that’s still five years ago. If she couldn’t remember anything important at the time she was asked, I’ll guarantee she won’t remember anything now.’

‘OK! But it says she could remember that Merete Lynggaard got a telegram for Valentine’s Day, but it was some time after, so. I think one could find out about something like that, couldn’t one?’

‘The telegram doesn’t exist any more, and we don’t have the exact date. So it would be hard to track down since we don’t even know the name of the company that delivered it.’

‘It was TelegramsOnline.’

Carl looked at him. Was it possible this guy was a diamond in the rough? It was difficult to tell as long as he was wearing those green rubber gloves. ‘How do you know that, Assad?’

‘Look there.’ He pointed at the transcript of the statement. ‘The secretary remembered that it said “Love & Kisses to Merete” on the telegram, and there were also two lips. Two red lips.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it had to be a telegram from TelegramsOnline. They print the name on the outside of the telegram. And they always have those two red lips.’

‘Show me.’

Assad pressed the space bar on Carl’s computer, and the TelegramsOnline home page appeared on the screen. And there it was, the telegram just as Assad had described it.

‘OK. And are you positive that this is the only company that makes these types of telegrams?’

‘Really positive, yes.’

‘But you still don’t have the date, Assad. Was it before or after Valentine’s Day? And who was it from?’

‘We can ask the company. Maybe they have a list of when telegrams were sent to Christiansborg Castle.’

‘That was all done during the first police investigation, wasn’t it?’

‘There is nothing about this in the case file, no. But you have maybe read about something else?’ He gave an acidic smile that stopped just short of insubordination.

‘OK, Assad. Fair enough. You can check with the company. That’s a perfect job for you. I’m a little busy right now, so why don’t you use the phone in your own office.’

Carl gave him a pat on the back and ushered him out. Then he shut the door, lit a cigarette, picked up the Lynggaard file, and sat down in his chair, propping his feet on the desk.

He might as well dive in.

It was a stupid case, full of inconsistencies. They’d been searching high and low without any real prioritizing. In short, they had no plausible theories. No clear motive. If her death was suicide, what was the reason for it? The only thing that could be verified was that her car had been parked at the back of the line on the car deck. And that Merete Lynggaard had disappeared.

Then it occurred to the investigators that she had not been alone. A couple of witnesses had stated that she had argued with a young man on the sun deck. This was documented in a chance photo taken by an elderly couple on a privately arranged shopping trip to Heiligenhafen. And when the photo was made public, word came from City Hall in Store Heddinge that the man in the picture was Merete Lynggaard’s brother.

Carl actually remembered it all quite well. Reprimands were handed out to the police officers who had overlooked the existence of this brother.

And new questions arose: If the brother killed her, why did he do it? And where was the brother now?

At first they thought that Uffe had fallen overboard, but then they found him a few days later, exhausted and confused, a good distance out on the flatlands of Fehmarn. It was an alert German police officer from Oldenburg who identified Uffe. They never found out how Merete’s brother had managed to get so far. And Uffe himself had nothing to add to the case.

If he knew anything, he wasn’t letting on.

The subsequent harsh handling of Uffe Lynggaard revealed just how far up shit creek Carl’s colleagues had been.

He listened to a couple of cassette tapes from the police interviews and concluded that Uffe had remained as silent as the grave. At first they’d tried the ‘good cop, bad cop’ ploy, but nothing worked. Two psychiatrists had been called in; then later a psychologist from Farum who specialized in that sort of thing. Even Karen Mortensen, a social worker from Stevns municipality, had been brought in to try to pump information out of Uffe.

To no use.

Both the German and the Danish authorities had trawled the waters. Police divers had searched the area. A body that washed ashore was put on ice and later autopsied. Fishermen were told to pay particular attention to any objects they found floating in the water – items of clothing, purses, anything at all. But nothing was found that could be traced back to Merete Lynggaard, and the media went even more berserk. Merete was front-page news for almost a month. Old photographs from a secondary-school excursion when she posed in a snug swimsuit came out of hiding. Her high marks at the university were made public and became the subject of analysis by so-called lifestyle experts. New speculation about her sexual preferences made otherwise decent journalists follow in the wake of the tabloid press. And more than anything else the discovery that she had a brother provided plenty of fodder for the sleazy reporters.