The Hanging Girl (35 page)

Carl looked over at Lars Bjørn, who was watching his head of communications switch between different effects on the screen with a straight face.

All this ought to feel like a relief. A chain of information that put things into context and triggered new possibilities for investigation. Still, Carl felt nothing but displeasure, his jaw muscles now working away uncontrollably.

How long had Lars Bjørn kept this knowledge to himself? How many times had he chosen not to inform Carl? Why hadn’t Carl been the first person he went to?

While the people next to him talked their way through a series of possible scenarios and motives, which they knew absolutely nothing about anyway, rebellion started to stir inside him.

Weren’t they just sitting there presenting unsubstantiated hypotheses to gather points in the great performance lottery? Was it the case that Lars Bjørn wanted to demonstrate that despite his anonymity, he was a man of leadership, impact, and perspective? That he was a worthy successor to Marcus Jacobsen, the man who hadn’t granted Carl as much as a few minutes to explain himself in one of the TV police report programs?

“Do you have anything you’d like to add?” Lars Bjørn suddenly asked his colleagues. Carl must’ve been in another world for a minute, because their Dutch colleague was already standing.

Carl bent down to pick up his briefcase.

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

He rummaged through the briefcase before he found the right papers.

“I’m investigating another case, a road casualty, and in that
connection we’re looking for this man. About six-one, dimple in his chin, husky voice, blue eyes, strong features, dark eyebrows, and wide front teeth with a small light mark. He speaks fluent Danish.”

Carl avoided Bjørn’s eyes, but noticed Terje Ploug sending him a worried look, while he held up his photocopy of the man next to the VW Kombi directly in front of the TV2 News camera.

“This is the man. Please note the VW Kombi, light blue with a wide fender. What you can’t see is the big peace sign painted on the roof. We know he’s called Frank, and that he’s since changed his name to something more exotic.”

Bjørn grasped his forearm. Rather hard for a white-collar worker. “
Thank you,
Carl Mørck,” he said. “I think that’s enough already! Today we’re talking about another . . .”

Carl freed his arm. “He was staying on Bornholm in 1997, and took part in the excavations of timber circles. They were a type of platform resting on thick posts, designed for sun worship and offerings of stone and animal bone. We know for certain that he’s a sun worshipper, and that he might still be practicing as one. All tips in regard to this . . .”

“Stop right there, Carl Mørck!” Bjørn held his hand up toward the press. “We’d like to save this case until we have a bit more to go on. Allow me to thank you all for coming. Regarding the nail-gun case, we’ll get back to you when there is progress in the Danish part of the investigation. Meanwhile . . .”

“You can contact Department Q directly. The phone number is here under the photo.” Carl pointed. “We’re working at full throttle, waiting only for
your
tip.” Carl looked directly in the camera and held the photo right in front of it.

If he’d had the chance, he would’ve liked to show other items from his briefcase, but he reckoned he’d pushed his luck enough if he wanted to hang on to the hope of still having a job tomorrow.

Carl left his copy of the photostat for everyone to see on the table in the briefing room, but Bjørn managed to remove it before the journalists got to it.

“My office, immediately,” he ordered Carl.

Sunday, May 11th, 2014

“A penny for your
thoughts, Shirley,” said Pirjo. She took her arm and leaned into her. It felt good. “Are you happy?” she asked.

“Happy? Yes, I think so.” She nodded.

It all felt so strange. Only nine months ago, she’d walked up the staircase in one of the flashiest houses in the exclusive Chelsea area with Wanda by her side, excited like a child before Christmas. And what she’d experienced there had been wondrous, a big leap forward in her life. That day she’d really felt that for once it wasn’t just some silly fad, like doing courses in stress management, or trying to communicate with spirits, or something like that. This time she’d decided that she was really going to challenge herself, and listen to the ideas and instructions of a great man about how you could turn your life around completely. And afterward, back in the apartment, she’d been joking with Wanda about the fabulous impression Atu had made on her. She’d really felt in mind and body how the encounter with Atu’s world had satisfied her expectations, but for Wanda there’d been more to it than that. In fact, she’d been completely absorbed.

And now
she,
Shirley from Birmingham, was the one who’d walk those stairs every day. Now
she
was Atu’s appointed one, who’d welcome new applicants like Wanda had once been welcomed.
She
was the one who’d arrange Atu’s stays and make him feel comfortable when he visited the London office.

Wasn’t that reason enough for her to feel proud and happy? Yes, why
not? And yet, there were still some big, unanswered questions. Where was Wanda? What had become of all
her
dreams of lasting change?

And what about herself? Was this what she’d wanted most, only a few hours ago? After all, she’d hoped to be invited permanently into their circle here at the Nature Absorption Academy. But then again, wasn’t it true what Pirjo had made her so painfully aware of—that it wasn’t for her?

When you thought about all the unjustified words and the suspicion, all the venom she’d brought to this glorious place, it probably was true.

And still they’d shown incredible faith in her with this assignment. Was she really worthy of it?

She thrust her lower lip forward, and looked at Pirjo. Seeing her there, so fine and immaculate, how could Shirley ever have thought she could have done the things she’d suggested? Done what? Shirley didn’t even know. All she knew was that Wanda had gone missing, and that a belt that looked like hers had been found. Why would she ever have pestered these wonderful people with her unfounded and horrible ideas? Why would she even have pestered herself with them?

And now they rewarded her with this trusted assignment.

Shirley grabbed the bag, which they’d packed together, looked over her shoulder, and said good-bye to her small room. Side by side, they stepped out into the sea air, and headed for the place that would help Shirley achieve a purer attitude toward life.

From this moment on, she would do anything to deserve Atu and Pirjo’s trust, and put all her strength into developing spiritually and rising to the occasion. From now on, she’d simply be as irreproachable and loyal as the cream of the crop here at the center—no more, no less. She promised herself that.

She put her hand on Pirjo’s arm. “Yes, I’m happy, but that’s such a small word. I can hardly describe my true emotions.”

Pirjo smiled. “Then don’t, Shirley. I can tell by looking at you.”

She pointed out toward the meadow area, where a cluster of pointed houses were being built. In this area, they would be building a second center with its own timber circle, assembly room, and eating facilities.
This would enable them to accept more than twice as many course participants, explained Pirjo. And the plan was that the course members and permanent residents in the old center would only meet those in the new center during the morning assembly. It was a wide-scale project.

“They’ll soon have the timber circle finished over there,” said Pirjo, pointing at the half-finished roof that rose above the grass field.

She nodded with contentment. “And when they’re finished in just over a month and a half, the team will continue finishing the houses and the assembly rooms down here. For the time being, you’ll actually only need to stay in the finished purification house in the new quarters. And it’s a very nice house, let me tell you. At least, no one’s made any complaints yet. Perhaps because you’ll have the privilege of breaking it in.” She let out a little laugh.

And it
was
indeed a privilege; Shirley clearly sensed that. Still, she had to stop for a moment and compose herself when Pirjo unlocked the door to the high-ceilinged, wood-clad room.

“Yes,” said Pirjo. “The light streaming in from the ceiling, the light woods, the beautifully colored tiles, and all the details are fantastic, don’t you think?” asked Pirjo. “And it’s thermally built, so it preserves heat in winter.”

“Yes, it really is very beautiful,” said Shirley quietly. She’d already noticed the things Pirjo was talking about, but she’d also noticed that apart from the skylights about seven or eight meters above the floor, there was no light coming into the room. In other words, she’d be spending weeks without being able to see what was going on outside. Every day, no other colors than these yellowish walls and grey-speckled tiles.

“It’s pretty bare,” she said, slightly worried.

Pirjo gently patted her shoulder. “You’ll be all right, Shirley, I’m sure you will. Your senses can rest here. By the end of your stay, you’ll look back at this as one of the best times in your life. Find peace, read your texts, meditate on the creeds, and think about your life. You’ll see. Time will pass much quicker than you think.”

Shirley nodded and put down her bag on the small bunk, beside which there was only an unpadded chair and a round pinewood table in
the room. At least there was somewhere for her to play solitaire. “You’ve got the toilet and shower out here, and it’s also where you get your water from,” said Pirjo, pointing at a door. “We’ll bring clean clothes, towels, and bedding once a week. And like the rest of us, you’ll eat three times a day. I’ll probably be the one who brings food over to you, although it might also be someone from the kitchen team.” She smiled, taking Shirley’s hand and putting a small blue, handwritten notebook in it.

Shirley opened it carefully, letting one finger, as light as a feather, slide across a page.

“It doesn’t look like Atu’s handwriting,” she said.

“No, it isn’t, but Atu dictated it all, word by word. All his clear instructions to the purification period rituals are here,” said Pirjo. “They’re very easy to follow, as always when it comes to Atu’s thoughts. If for some reason you should have any questions, it isn’t unknown for Atu himself to come over here to ease the way to a better understanding.”

Shirley pulled her head back. She was astonished. Would Atu really do something like that?

“Well, in that case there’ll probably be a lot I don’t understand.” She allowed herself to shake her head slightly and smile at her own joke.

Pirjo smiled, too. “I think you’re good to go, don’t you, Shirley?”

Shirley hesitated. “Yes, but what if I can’t go through with the purification. Can I stop?”

“Let’s not meet trouble halfway, Shirley. I’m sure you’ll manage. Otherwise Atu wouldn’t have appointed you. He
knows
things like that. He has
seen
you, Shirley.”

She smiled. Had he really? It felt so good.

“Give me your watch, Shirley. Otherwise you’re just going to look at it every fifteen minutes for the first day. I’d like to spare you that.”

Shirley took off the watch and handed it to Pirjo. She felt so naked now that time had also been taken from her.

“I’m just thinking, Pirjo . . . what if I get sick? I mean, not that I plan to,” she said with a smile. “But can I get in contact with someone? Will anyone be able to hear me from outside if I shout when they walk past?”

Pirjo put the watch in her pocket, stroking Shirley’s cheek. “I’m sure they will, sweetie. Take care till I see you again.”

And then she said good-bye and left.

She locked the door behind her, turning the key twice, which seemed a bit exaggerated.

Shirley was all alone.

Monday, May 12th, 2014

“Have you gone completely
insane, Carl?” The attack was launched already in the reception area.

All his colleagues were staring at him. Some faces showed how happy they were that they weren’t in the line of fire. Across others, the word “idiot” was painted, and Bjørn’s niece even had the nerve to laugh behind the reception desk, but he could deal with her when he came out again.

“You’re
this
close to a suspension, Carl” was the first thing the chief of homicide said once they were in his corner office, demonstrating the statement with a paper-thin space between his long, sinewy fingers.

Then came the tirade about lack of loyalty and a sense of priority, followed by disobedience and disrespect for the work of his good colleagues. Carl didn’t utter a word. He was only thinking about how many people might have been watching TV2 News at this ungodly time of day.

“Are you listening to me, Carl?”

He looked up. “Yes. And I’d like to know if
you
would’ve seen it as an example of a good sense of priority, respect, and loyalty if you’d been dragged out of your bed and into the spotlight, and confronted with the weapon that ruined several of your friends’ lives, not to mention your own?”

“Don’t try to sidestep me here, Carl. You’ve disobeyed my orders, and I’ll need to consider what to do about that.”

“You could begin by giving me better working conditions and
thanking me for taking the investigation of our cases so seriously.” He turned toward the door. He wasn’t going to take any more from that idiot.

“Stop right there, Carl.” Lars Bjørn’s face was white, his voice icy. “You and I are not on the same level—I’m the one who manages your professional life, and you’re the one who has to comply with that. If you ever humiliate me in public again, or speak to me again in that manner, I’ll send you straight back to the sticks where you came from, is that understood? There are still good positions vacant in Ølsemaglegård, from what I hear.”

When Carl was eventually kicked out, the niece was still there, ready to flash both teeth and dimples.

Carl stepped over to the reception desk and looked at her with dead eyes.

“My sweet little troll. I assume you’re showing your pretty, porcelain-covered front teeth so clearly because you want to announce that you enjoyed the show. That it was great fun to see Uncle Bjørn so hot under the collar, isn’t that right? Because if not, then . . .”

“You’re completely right,” she continued with a smile. “It was hilarious. My mom is going to love it. She can’t stand him either.”

Carl’s eyebrows leapfrogged. “Your mom?”

“Yeah, my dad is Lars’ brother, and he’s just like Lars. That’s why he and Mom got divorced.”

Lis, the uncrowned queen of reception, patted the girl’s shoulder. “You can go and help out downstairs now, Louise. I can hear Catarina, who you’re filling in for, coming up the stairs.”

Both the niece and Lis flashed smiles at Carl: an effective way to turn stiff legs to jelly.

The change of guard between temporary and permanent secretary, on the other hand, was not particularly pleasant. From Miss Baywatch behind the reception desk to Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS, with her shining forehead, moist eyelashes, flat greasy hair, and eyes that could suck all joy out of you from far off.

Her eyes commanded him to stop staring. Actually, he’d sooner throw
himself off a bungee jump with a barrel over his head than clash verbal swords with the irritable Catarina Sørensen during a hot flash, so Carl gave up on his compulsory flirt with Lis and ducked.

“It’s not amusing to feel like I do just now, if you were in any doubt, Mr. Protruding Front. Why don’t you speak to our head psychologist about it?”

Carl frowned. Was that how Mona felt? Was it the menopause?

He looked down at himself. Protruding front? Was she being naughty, or was his shirt just too tight?

There was a vibration in his back pocket. He took out his cell, and looked at the glowing display. It was Hardy.

“I saw it all on TV2 News,” he said.

“I got quite an earful for it afterward,” answered Carl. “But I suddenly had a chance to call for witnesses who might know something about the guy we’re after.”

“Yes, you took a chance of course, and you’ll have to live with the consequences. But I was talking about the press conference. The murdered man in the drainpipe, Rasmus Bruhn, doesn’t that name mean anything to you?”

“Not a damn thing.” He looked at Mrs. Sørensen, who commented on his language by rolling her eyes.

“I’m surprised, Carl. It worries me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was wondering why you didn’t comment on it when they showed the photo of the dead man on the screen.”

Carl pulled away from the reception desk. “Comment? How? I’ve never seen him before, Hardy.”

“Yes, you have. You burned his driver’s license in the middle of the street.”

“I did wh . . . ?” Carl waved at the women behind the reception desk, and they disappeared out into the stairway. “Help me out here, Hardy. I only have a vague recollection. Was it during an arrest?”

“Oh, come on, Carl. You and me and Anker were eating roast pork ad libitum at Montparnasse. Your birthday in 2005, Carl. We wanted to
celebrate, but Vigga had just moved out. You were pouring your heart out when this drunken man sat down at our table and began tugging at Anker’s sleeve.”

“It’s slowly coming back to me. Then what happened?”

“He was drunk as a lord, talking a lot of bull that only Anker could understand. Then Anker slapped him, and you separated them. You and me, together with one of the waiters, managed to get him out on the street, but then he tried to punch us and began threatening us with his car keys.”

“Yes, and I took them from him, I remember it vaguely now. Did I give the keys to the waiter?”

“You did, so the jerk could come and get them when he was sober.”

“And then he punched me in the eye. Damn it, it’s coming back to me ever so slowly.”

“That’s good, Carl. Anything else would’ve been strange.” He sounded sarcastic; Carl didn’t like that. Did he think he was lying? “You punished him by taking his driver’s license and setting it on fire with your Ronson.”

“Was that him? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Carl nodded to Bente Hansen, one of the best investigators at headquarters, who walked past him and down the stairs. She’d gained a bit of weight on the backside after her last pregnancy, he noticed with a hint of sadness. She used to flirt with Anker. That was a long time ago. It all was.

He tried to concentrate. “Hardy, you mentioned long ago that you suspected Anker had some part in the shooting out on Amager.”

“Yes, and I’m more convinced now than ever. There’s just one thing I need to add to the story.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know what.”

“Not at all.”

“When you burned his license, Rasmus Bruhn pointed straight at you. Don’t you remember what he said?”

“No.”

“He threatened you, shouting
I’ll remember this, Carl!
He knew your name, and I know for certain it hadn’t been mentioned at any time during the incident.”

Carl closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Why the hell had Hardy never mentioned that before? If they’d talked about it back then, he would’ve been able to find an explanation.

“Listen, Hardy. If Anker and that man had some unfinished business, we might both have been mentioned as his colleagues.”

“He didn’t know my name, Carl. He told me to stay out of it, but he used a random name.”

“Listen to me, Hardy. I think you’re starting to go cuckoo. I don’t know the man, and I didn’t recognize him today, okay? It’s been a long time, Hardy, and unlike you, I have to constantly take in new inf . . .”

There was a sigh at the other end, and then Hardy hung up.

Damn it, why did he have to say that!

*   *   *

“Lord almighty, here’s my hero!” Those were the words Rose welcomed him with in the hallway. Had she gone mad? Had Assad’s incense sticks, Gordon’s horniness, and all her strange ideas finally caused the relays in her weird, winding brain to short-circuit? Because it couldn’t possibly be . . . admiration?

“That was brave, Carl. We’ve already received a few calls because of what you did. One of them looks promising. Assad is talking with her now.” She pointed at the door opening, where Assad could be seen with the receiver glued to his ear.

“Okay, that sounds good. Did she recognize the man?”

“No, but I think she recognized the VW.”

“What do you mean? There must’ve been hundreds like it.”

“Not with a peace sign painted on the roof.”

Carl stepped into Assad and Gordon’s broom closet of an office. “Let me talk to her,” he whispered, but Assad waved dismissively with his free hand.

Across from Assad, Gordon leaned over the table. “Carl, I’ve connected our phones to our respective computers,” he said quietly. He pointed at a thin cable that went from the audio exit socket on the phone to the PC. “Just click on the arrow there on the screen, then it records.” He pointed at his screen. It looked fairly simple, so Carl nodded knowingly.

“I also have something else for you,” he said, pushing a note over to Carl.

It read:

1. Health & Well-Being Fair, Tuesday May 13, 2014, to Friday May 16, 12–9 PM, Frederiksborg Sports Center, Hillerød.
   
2. Laursen will come down to your office if you call him.
   

Carl nodded, and then Assad put down the receiver.

“Hey, what are you doing, Assad? I would’ve liked to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, she’s a surgical nurse and was calling from work, so it wasn’t possible, Carl. Kitte Poulsen—funny name, isn’t it? She lives in Kuala Lumpur, and the only TV she watches is TV2 News on the Internet during her lunch break. So we were very lucky there.”

Kuala Lumpur? How lucky was that really?

“The Kombi probably belonged to her father. She told me he was a very active peace activist up until the mideighties. He was called Egil Poulsen. He died way back, but his wife still lives in their old house, and Kitte said that the last time she saw the Kombi was when she came home for Christmas. It’s been put on blocks in their garden in Brønshøj.”

Carl thought that of all things true and holy at police HQ, this was the most amazing. What half the population on Bornholm and most of the island’s police force hadn’t managed to do in seventeen years, Department Q had done in less than two weeks. Only about an hour had passed since the press conference, and already they had a bite. It was going to feel wonderful presenting this to Bjørn.

Carl almost laughed out loud.

“Did the daughter know anything about the Frank guy?” he asked.

“No, but as far as she knows, all the files concerning her father’s peace friends and all the events he went to are still sitting on the shelves in his old office, so we can check ourselves.”

“Let’s get going. Have you got the address, Assad?”

“Yes, but hold your horses, Carl. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because the wife has just been to visit her daughter in Malaysia, and she’s on her way back with British Airways. She’ll be landing in Kastrup tomorrow at twelve fifty
P.M.
, so maybe we should pick her up at the airport.”

“All right, Assad. And you, Gordon, call Laursen and say that I’m in my office. He’s welcome down whenever it suits.”

Gordon’s, Assad’s, and all the other phones in the basement rang at the same time. Now the ball was rolling.

Brilliant!

*   *   *

A hundred and eighty calls and one and a half hours later, Carl was considerably less cocky. So was Rose.

“This is bloody awful,” she said, standing in the doorway when her phone rang again. “There are all sorts of loonies calling, and they’re getting on my nerves. Some call because they want to buy the VW, others to ask if we know the brand of the really cool classic car in the foreground. People are completely shameless, and stupid, and annoying. Can’t we just take the receiver off the hook and leave it on the table, Carl?”

“Haven’t you got anything more substantial?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Then redirect all the numbers to Gordon, and go get Assad.”

Twenty seconds later he heard a roar from Assad’s office. Apparently Gordon had realized that he was trapped now.

“I have a couple of assignments for you,” said Carl to the odd couple standing in his office. “A call has been recorded confirming that the VW Kombi in Brønshøj is indeed the one with the peace sign on top. Listen.” He pressed the PC recorder.

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat and then a dark female voice. “Hello, my name is Kate Busck—not Kate Bush, although I’m a good singer, too.” She laughed huskily, more like you’d expect from guys like Rod Stewart or Bryan Adams. “I remember the van with the peace sign. It was used during the demonstration outside the American Embassy in 1981. I remember we used it as our administrative van. I think it was someone called Egil who owned it. Egil Poulsen, that’s it, but I think he’s dead now. He’d painted a peace symbol on the top. If you’re interested, you can see it on the poster we made from an aerial photo of the American and the Russian embassies in Copenhagen. Funny enough, and quite symbolically, the two embassies were only separated by a cemetery.” She laughed.

Carl pressed the recorder’s stop function. “The entire recording is over five minutes long, and concerns all kinds of other stuff, too. She must have had plenty of time,” he snorted. “So I’d like you to call her, Assad, so we can check if she knows more. Maybe Frank was a volunteer at some of the demonstrations and met Egil Poulsen there. He can’t have been very old in the early eighties, so it’s not very likely, but ask anyway.”

Assad nodded. “I’ve also had a call. I recorded the whole thing on this.” He held up his smartphone. So that was also possible?

He tapped the play button, and a cranky woman’s voice—the type you’d rather not listen to for more than a minute—delivered a torrent of complaints of the type Carl hadn’t heard since his mom had explained to his dad why it wasn’t okay to sit shirtless at the dinner table, even if it was 30 degrees Celsius.