The Hanging Girl (47 page)

Friday, May 16th, and Saturday, May 17th, 2014

The information from Kalmar
Hospital was completely unambiguous. Assad needed to have his left thumb amputated, and Assad had said no. If it had to come off, then he’d be the one to do it, he said.

Carl felt sick at the thought and stared at the unfortunate hand. If a usable finger ever came from that thing, which on the surface looked totally charred, he must have good connections with the powers up above.

“Are you sure, Assad?” he asked, pointing at the marbling on the skin some way up the heel of his hand.

He confirmed without hesitation. He claimed to have had similar burns to this before. And he’d weathered the storm himself just fine back then.

The doctor then delivered unveiled admonitions about what would happen if gangrene set in, adding some instructions of varying character about what he shouldn’t do under any circumstances in this unpleasant situation.

Carl could tell that Assad was in pain, but he took it on the chin. The doctor wasn’t going to have that trump.

Then the staff checked their kidney and heart function, took a number of neurological tests, asked them to perform a series of muscle exercises, and finally asked them at least a hundred questions before they were finished.

“We’re keeping you here tonight because Carl’s cardiogram is still showing some irregularities. When it isn’t any worse than this, our experience tells us that it’ll sort itself out within a few hours, but we’d like to take an ECG tomorrow morning to be on the safe side.”

Assad and Carl looked at each other. It wouldn’t exactly make their hunt for Atu any easier.

The consultant, a stereotypical-looking smart Swedish man in his prime, pushed his rimless glasses back in place. “I can sense that you’re hesitant to accept the offer, but you shouldn’t be. You’ve both been extremely lucky. Assad here, to the best of my knowledge, has sacrificed his finger, quite certainly saving your lives and definitely sparing you from any number of serious injuries. If it hadn’t been direct current, and if you hadn’t been so lucky with the bad weather, you wouldn’t be here now. You would’ve been boiled alive. Your brain and nervous system would have suffered irreparable damage. And, best-case scenario, your muscle tissue would’ve been subjected to far more damage, resulting in far greater pain than what you’re suffering now.”

They protested when they were asked to put on hospital robes. Grown men in bed gowns that were too long, all bare asses and hair, were a sight no one wanted to see.

“I’d ask you to be aware that in the coming twenty to thirty months, there can be delayed injuries following such a violent and traumatic case of physical stress. So if you notice any significant changes in memory, sensory irregularities, impaired vision or hearing, you must seek medical attention. Are we agreed?”

They nodded. Who would dare to disagree with a doctor wearing rimless glasses?

“One thing more,” said the white coat on his way out the door. “Your Swedish colleagues have been here with your cells and car keys, and they’ve parked your car down in the parking lot.”

Now,
that
was information they could live with.

*   *   *

It was hard to get out of bed the next morning, their bodies protesting as they did. Carl looked over to Assad, who was asleep on his back in the hospital bed. He’d taken his dressing off, lying with his thumb in his mouth. Almost like a baby comforting itself.

And he was still sitting like that when three quarters of an hour later
they were in the car en route to Copenhagen. Despite an ardent search, the Swedish police had no news about Atu’s whereabouts.

“Do you really think that will save your finger, Assad?” he said finally when they’d driven between forty and fifty kilometers.

Assad took his thumb out of his mouth carefully, rolled down the window, and spat.

Then he pulled a small brown bottle from the Body Shop from his pocket.
Tree Tree Oil
was written on the label.

“I always carry one of these with me. It’s something Rose taught me. It disinfects. You just can’t swallow it,” he said, pouring a few drops in his mouth followed by his thumb.

“It looks like a third-degree burn, which means the nerves are dead, Assad. So it won’t help, no matter what you use.”

Assad repeated the procedure, spat out, and turned toward him.

“I can feel life in it, Carl. It might be a bit black, but that’s just the skin. If there’s anything that isn’t in full working order, it’s only the top joint.” With which, he took some drops, and stuck his thumb back in his mouth.

“We’ve had some feedback from the police in Ystad,” informed one of his colleagues from Police Headquarters on the car phone. “The man you’re looking for was seen driving on board the night ferry from Ystad to Rønne.”

What
did he say?

“Why are we only hearing about this now?”

“They tried yesterday but there was no response from your cells.”

“We didn’t have them. They brought them to the hospital themselves, damn it. Why didn’t they call the hospital?”

“You were sleeping.”

“Then they could have called this morning.”

“Look at your watch, Mørck, it’s only seven thirty. I doubt their office hours have even started.”

Carl said thanks and ended the call. Atu was on Bornholm, but what the hell was he doing there? Wasn’t that the last place
he
would go if he were Atu?

Assad spat out of the window again.

“He’s gone there to get rid of some clues we’ve overlooked, if you ask me. He knows we can’t pin anything on him without evidence.”

Then they’d just have to stop him in his tracks.

Carl looked out the window. The decision he had to make wasn’t easy. He looked at his partner, fighting to save his thumb, keeping it stuck in his mouth, and felt a momentary twinge of shame. What hadn’t
he
sacrificed over the last twenty-four hours? So couldn’t Carl sacrifice himself a little?

“I’ll hire a private jet,” he decided.

Assad’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine. Maybe the hypnosis has worked, too, who knows?” He looked at the GPS. “It isn’t too far to Ronneby Airport, so we can be there in half an hour. I’ll try to see if Copenhagen AirTaxi can help us.”

Ten minutes went by and an extremely polite man apologized that they couldn’t find a free plane on such short notice. “But ask one of our former Swedish pilots, Sixten Bergström,” he suggested. “He has a private jet, an Eclipse 500, at Ronneby Airport. It’s got six seats and does seven hundred kilometers an hour, so maybe it’s just what you’re looking for. With a distance between the two airports of approximately a hundred and twenty kilometers, the trip to Bornholm can be done in no time at all.”

*   *   *

Never in his life had Carl thought he’d do something like this voluntarily. With his legs shaking, he sat in an extremely comfortable beige leather window seat, staring paralyzed at the older gentleman preparing for takeoff.

“Shall I hold your hand?” said his wingman, comfortingly, having rolled a huge dressing around his left thumb.

Carl took deep breaths.

“I’ve already said a prayer for you, Carl, it’ll be okay.”

Carl pressed himself back in his seat, oceans of sweat on his forehead, instinctively lifting his arms with the jet.

“No, you don’t really need to do that,” said the pilot with a glance backward. “We’ve got wings enough as it is. Just take it easy.”

Did Assad suppress a laugh just then? Was he sitting there with a burned-up finger and beaten-up body, laughing?

Carl turned toward him and noticed, strangely enough, that it was infectious. When he thought about it, it was very comical.

He let his arms fall and relaxed his shoulders. Actually, he wasn’t at all scared. It was just something he imagined.

And then he laughed so much and so unexpectedly that the pilot nearly had a heart attack. What a twist of fate that would’ve been if they’d crashed.

Just as quickly as they’d gone up, they were down again. Carl sent Kazambra a few gentle thanks, crossing over to Police Superintendent Birkedal, who was waiting for them.

“We haven’t traced the man yet. None of the hotels have put him up, and none of the campsites think they’ve had anyone staying who fits the description.”

“So he’s either stayed in a bed-and-breakfast, his car, or with someone we don’t know. Do you have a car for us?”

Birkedal pointed over to a small red Peugeot 206. “You can borrow the wife’s. She’s left everything anyway.”

He looked a little bitter, but then he should have known better than to accept Rose’s strange advances.

They agreed to keep in contact all day, because the man they were looking for shouldn’t have any chance to get off the island. They’d put the ferries and airport under observation, too.

“Can you manage, Assad?” he asked as they squeezed themselves into the car. He got a bandaged thumbs-up.

Tough guy, that Assad.

“The circle’s complete for Atu and Frank, then,” said Assad. “He’s back on Bornholm, but where do you think he is?”

“There’s certainly no reason to believe he’s gone back to the scene of the crime. That wouldn’t make any sense. And if he does, he won’t find
anything that the investigators didn’t find. I’m more inclined to think he might contact someone or other on the island who knows more than is good for them.”

“Who could it be good for?”

He had a point. Definitely not for the person Atu was after. Carl credited Atu with a lot of determination, maybe a bit too much.

“Do you think he could kill someone, Carl?”

“Aren’t we looking for someone we think has done it once before?” Hadn’t they seen the man being worshipped by a mob of white-clad people, and wasn’t that a position of power he’d do anything to maintain?

“Inge Dalby’s in Copenhagen, so we don’t need to worry about her. So I’m thinking mostly about June Habersaat just now. What do you say?”

Assad nodded. “That’s right. She wouldn’t talk about him either. You were right about her knowing something.”

Carl reached for his cell, like a reflex, but instead stuck his finger in a stuffed animal with
Mommy is the best
written across the tummy.

He doubted Birkedal’s wife felt like that just now.

“You need to call June Habersaat, Assad. Pass me the cell when you’ve got hold of her. Something tells me she won’t want to talk to you.”

After half a minute he shook his head. No cell contact.

They called her workplace at Joboland and were told that she was currently on sick leave, which you could easily understand given the way one disaster had followed another with the deaths of both her ex-husband and son. But it didn’t matter, the friendly woman concluded, the high season didn’t start for another five weeks yet.

The next stop was June Habersaat’s house in Jernbanegade in Aakirkeby.

*   *   *

“That’s the second time today someone has asked about her,” said a young guy in overalls and bare chest, in the process of moving things into the house next door.

“Who?” asked Carl, marveling at his enormous, disheveled beard that
couldn’t possibly be practical with that job. He looked more like a teacher from the sixties. He just needed the corduroy jacket, but that probably came when he was finished. Strange fashion at the moment.

“He was an older guy dressed totally in yellow.” He laughed. “He looked like a bad TV ad for a travel agency. Tanned, dimpled, the whole nine yards.”

Assad and Carl looked at each other.

“How long ago was this?”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead while he was thinking. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes ago, I think.”

Damn it. Twenty minutes earlier and they would’ve had him.

“But I don’t suppose you know where June Habersaat’s gone?” asked Assad.

“I don’t know anything. But she said she was on her way up to collect something that she could place on her son’s grave. Very strange. I think she got the idea from something I carried in.” He looked at Assad’s hand. “You look like you got your hand caught in something. What was it, caught with your fingers in the jar?” He laughed. Hopefully, Assad didn’t get the insult.

“What was it you carried in that you think gave her the idea?” asked Assad, clenching his healthy right fist. So he did know that figure of speech.

Carl grabbed his arm so he didn’t give in to the temptation to sock the guy one.

“Yeah, I don’t really know. It was one of the first things I carried in. Normally, we have quilts and clothes on the top of the load in black plastic bags, but I think it was a collection of magazines in a box. Still, I can’t be sure.”

Carl pulled Assad over to the car.

“Where on earth can she find something that was Bjarke’s? Shall we take a guess at their old house in Listed or at that woman’s place in Sandflugtsvej, where he rented a room?”

Assad nodded. “The landlady’s name was Nelly Rasmussen,” he said. Well remembered.

Then Assad pulled himself free, turned on his heel, and aimed directly back to the removal man. Were they going to fight now?

“What did she say exactly?” he shouted already from a distance of ten meters.

The guy stared at him, uncomprehending, with a removal box on his shoulder.

“About what?”

“She was on her way
up
to collect something. Wasn’t that what she said? Are you completely sure that was it?”

“Yes, what the heck does it matter if she said it one way or another?”

“She didn’t say that she had to go up to town, did she?”

“Then I must have been deaf.”

Carl came up behind him. “That’s right. It’s important for us to know if she was driving to Listed or Rønne to collect the thing she thought of. Do you know anything about that?”

“Well, then it was probably Rønne. At least she pointed that way when she said it. Women do that all the time without thinking about it.”

“You didn’t say that to the guy in the yellow clothes, too, did you?”

He looked unsure of what to say. So he had, then.