The Purity of Vengeance (49 page)

“Good gracious, Gitte! What on earth has happened?”

Gitte held her breath and turned slightly so the matron could see not only that her white smock had been torn, but also that she was not wearing underclothes.

She described briefly how the mentally deranged, sexually deviant psychopath Rita Nielsen had torn the clothes off her behind the washhouse, wrestling her to the ground and parting her legs.

She forced her voice into a trembling stutter and stared in shame at the floor as she told of the assault and her futile attempts to defend herself.

“I recommend Rita Nielsen be put into the punishment cell for ten days and furthermore that she be stripped of all privileges,” she said, concluding from the matron’s fluttering hands and shocked expression that her request would be granted.

“Moreover, I think we ought to consider sterilization and then send her away from here. The girl is sexually obsessed and in my view she’ll become an intolerable burden on society if we fail to act.”

The matron’s fists clenched as she stared stiffly at the marks on Gitte’s throat.

“Of course,” she said, and got to her feet.

 • • • 

Rita kicked up a fuss, but her charges against Gitte were all dismissed. She was clearly astounded that her scheme had not only failed but also had been turned against her. Gitte reveled in it.

“Of course you can tell me what Gitte’s body looks like,” said the matron. “You assaulted her yourself. Callous and malicious as you are, I am in no doubt that you will endeavor to twist any situation to your advantage, but I’m afraid you can’t pull the wool over my eyes, young lady. What else can be expected of a feeble-minded girl with such a despicable history as your own?”

News of these events spread like wildfire, and before the day was over gossip had long since reached the stables, the fields, the henhouses, and every conceivable nook and cranny within the institution’s walls. Rita yelled and screamed from her cell, and sedatives were administered. Many of Gitte’s colleagues, and even a number of the girls, gloated.

Her release turned out to be but a brief respite, for Rita was as tough as nails and found it hard to keep a civil tongue in her head. Only a week later she was again confined to the cell, restrained to the bed, shouting like a woman possessed.

“Nete Hermansen is a good girl. She shouldn’t be sharing with a monster,” Gitte said to the matron. And so they moved all of Rita’s things out and let Nete have the room for herself.

All of this made Nete see Gitte in a different light, a fact Gitte sensed immediately.

It was Nete who took the initiative. Naive, full of hope, and so utterly desirable.

They had been put to work unloading sacks of coal from the boat, and one of the girls twisted her ankle and fell, yelping like a dog in distress. Everyone gathered round, though the wardens shouted and lashed out, and in the middle of all this commotion Nete and Gitte found themselves standing next to each other, in close proximity.

“I’ve been sent here by mistake,” Nete whispered, her eyes bright and clear. “I’m not stupid, and I know there are others here who aren’t, but I’m not a slut either, like they say I am. Can’t they review my case?”

She was gorgeous. Full lips and a body as firm and alluring as no other on the island. Gitte wanted her and had known as much for a long time. Now was her chance.

They stood for a moment as blows were meted out and cries filled the air. It was enough for Nete to begin to weep. But then Gitte took her hand and led her away. The effect was electrifying. A tingle ran through the girl’s body, as though Gitte’s touch and attention were the key to everything she desired. And Gitte brushed away Nete’s tears, drawing her down toward the marsh and nodding considerately in all the right places as the girl let out her troubles.

It was all quite innocent. Within ten minutes Gitte had won her full confidence.

“I’ll do what I can, though I can’t promise you anything,” Gitte told her.

She had never seen a smile as big in all her life.

 • • • 

Things didn’t go quite as easily as Gitte had thought they might. Though they talked freely on their walks down to the marsh, Nete seemed unwilling to surrender herself.

In a roundabout way it was the lighthouse keeper’s cat that came to Gitte’s aid.

Intense rivalry between two cockerels in the lighthouse keeper’s hen-house had wreaked havoc on the man’s sleep for several nights in succession, and the culprits had hitherto resisted all efforts to be seized. Accordingly, the lighthouse keeper’s assistant was dispatched into the meadows to gather dried-up henbane so they could anesthetize the entire population of the henhouse with the smoke from the burning plant, thereby facilitating the capture and subsequent throttling of one of the offending fowl.

A few of these plants were tossed aside in a puddle, where they remained fermenting for some time until the cat, whose name was Mickey, found himself attracted by the smell, cautiously lapping at the stagnant water by way of investigation.

A short time later, the bemused lighthouse keeper and his assistant observed the feline tearing up and down a number of trees for an hour or so before eventually lying down outside the pantry, where it rotated a couple of times on its own axis and then expired.

Everyone but the lighthouse keeper’s wife found the story hysterically amusing, and so it was that Gitte learned of the rare plant that grew wild on Sprogø and whose properties had the most peculiar effects on those who ingested it.

She ordered books on the subject from the mainland and was soon knowledgeable enough to be able to conduct her own experiments.

Gitte became fascinated by the notion of possessing power over life. It was a fascination that was to prove near-fatal for one girl in particular, whom the wardens found to be especially insolent. Gitte dipped a cigarette into an extract of the plant and allowed it to dry. And when the time came, she planted it in the pocket of the girl’s tartan dress.

They heard how she began to wail and cry out the strangest utterances down by the Cairn, the pile of stones that marked the midpoint between Sjælland and Fyn, where the girl would often go for a smoke on her own. And yet they were not unduly alarmed when suddenly she fell silent.

The girl survived, though she was never the same obstreperous delinquent as before. Fear of death had gripped her forever.

Gitte was pleased, for now she possessed a means by which to make Nete comply.

Her threats to make her insane or even end her life for good, coupled with the knowledge of what Gitte really wanted from her, shocked Nete to such an extent that she was unable even to cry. It was as though all the malice in the world had taken up residence in her savior, and now all the dreams she harbored of returning to a normal life were at once extinguished.

Gitte understood her reaction, and it suited her well. She tricked her with assurances that as long as Nete was willing to please her, Gitte would do all she could to convince the matron to review her case. Thus Nete acquiesced, and though Gitte was reluctant to admit it, she found herself growing dependent on their relationship. It made tolerable her isolated life among these embittered, vengeful, and unsavory women so different from herself. Indeed, it made her believe that she wanted nothing to change.

With Nete lying at her side in the tall grass, she could shut everything else out and breathe freely in her island prison.

 • • • 

Unsurprisingly, it was Rita who drove a wedge between them, although Gitte didn’t learn this until later.

By the time Rita was finally released from the contemplation room, the matron had begun to waver.

“In matters of sterilization I’m obliged to consult the head physician,” she declared. “He’s coming to the island soon, so let’s wait for his opinion.”

But the intervals between the physician’s visits were long, and Rita made use of the time to plot revenge, opening Nete’s eyes and convincing her that Gitte Charles could on no account be trusted, and that the only way out was for the two of them to escape.

From then on it was mayhem.

39

November 2010

“I’ve called him a
dozen times now, Carl, and there’s still no answer. I’m sure he’s switched off his mobile. But why would he do that? He’s never done it before.” Rose seemed genuinely concerned. “It’s all your fault, you big oaf. Just before he went he said you’d accused him of murdering that Lithuanian, Verslovas.”

Carl shook his head. “No, I didn’t, Rose. But that fax raised a number of questions. None of us is beyond suspicion when it comes to matters like that.”

She stood in front of him, fists planted firmly on her hips. “Now you listen to me. We’re having none of that here, thank you very much. If Assad says he had nothing to do with that sicko Linas Verslovas getting snuffed, it means he’s telling the truth, right? The problem here is that you’re pressuring us, Carl, without a thought for anyone’s feelings. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

It was a rant and a half. The girl had managed to turn everything on its head, which was definitely one of her strong points in an ongoing investigation, but a major drawback when it came to personal relations. At any rate, these were allegations he could well do without.

“OK, Rose, keep your hair on. As far as I can see, you and Assad take care of all the emotional stuff quite nicely on your own. And if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t really got time for Love Thy Neighbor at the moment. I’ve got an appointment for a bollocking from Marcus Jacobsen.”

 • • • 

“You mean it’s a write-off? And you want a new car?” The chief gawped at him in disbelief. “It’s November, Carl. Haven’t you ever heard of a thing called a budget?”

“Funny you should mention that, Marcus. I’m quite up on the subject, as it happens. Department Q was allocated eight million this year, yeah? Where the hell’s it all gone?”

Marcus Jacobsen’s shoulders drooped. “Are we really going to have that shouting match again, Carl? You know perfectly well those funds are divided between our two departments.”

“
My
department’s funds, Marcus, and I get about a fifth. Isn’t that right? Pretty cheap setup the nation’s got going down there in the basement, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s as may be. But there’ll be no new car, I can tell you that much. The money’s not there, it’s as simple as that. You’ve no idea the cases we’ve got swallowing resources at the moment.”

Carl said nothing. He knew it was true, even if it was beside the point.

Marcus extracted another piece of nicotine gum from his pack. His mouth was almost full now. Good for him, packing in the smokes, but the copious amounts of their substitute that he’d been chewing had been making him hyper after his cold had gone away.

“I think there’s another Peugeot 607 in the motor pool,” he said eventually. “You’ll have to share it, but I’m afraid I can’t see any other way out until the new financial year, Carl.”

“Think again.”

Jacobsen let out a weary sigh. “All right, give me the whole story. You’ve got five minutes.”

“Five minutes isn’t enough.”

“Try anyway.”

A quarter of an hour later Marcus almost hit the roof. “First you break in to Nørvig’s place and steal his archives. Then you force your way into the home of a well-known politician while his wife’s on her deathbed. Not to mention at least a hundred other breaches.”

“We don’t actually know if his wife’s dying or not. Haven’t you ever used that one yourself? Your nonexistent auntie’s funeral when you felt like a day off?”

Marcus almost choked on his lump of gum. “Certainly not, and I hope to God you haven’t either, at least not on my watch. But listen to me, Carl. I want Nørvig’s archives up here sharpish. And as soon as Assad gets back you’re going to explain to him that he can be out of HQ on his arse as quickly as he got in. Moreover, you’re dropping that case as of now! Otherwise you’re going to end up in the kind of trouble I haven’t got time to get you out of again.”

“Oh, really? Well think about this for a second: if we kick this case into touch, you’re going to be six-point-eight million down on next year’s budget.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning what’s the point of having a Department Q if we’re to leave well alone?”

“Carl, all I’m trying to say is that you’re on thin ice, and that’s putting it mildly. So unless from the relative safety of your desk you can come up with some hard evidence of Curt Wad and other leading members of the Purity Party having committed criminal acts, you stay away. No further close encounters with him. Understood?”

Carl nodded reluctantly. So that was it. Did everything in this world come down to politics?

“We were talking about a car,” he said, changing tack.

“Yes, all right, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, get downstairs and fetch those files up.”

Carl kicked every baseboard in sight all the way to the front desk. Bollocks.

“Miffed, are we, Carl,” said Lis, as she handed a pile of documents over the counter to a dark-skinned guy with black curly hair in one of the force’s standard-issue winter jackets.

He turned toward Carl and nodded. He knew the face.

“Samir,” Carl blurted. Assad’s best mate in person. “Business slow in Rødovre, is it?” he quipped. “Did Antonsen finally retire and take everything home with him?”

He laughed at his own one-liner, and laughed alone.

“We’ve plenty to be getting on with, but thanks for asking all the same. Just some paperwork we need to exchange,” Samir replied, weighing the stack in his hand.

“Quick word, Samir, now you’re here, yeah? What’s all this with you and Assad? And don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong. I just want to know the score, that’s all. You’ll be helping me out.”

“The only thing that’ll help you out is realizing how dysfunctional he is.”

“Dysfunctional? What are you talking about? Assad’s not dysfunctional. What makes you say that?”

“Ask him yourself, I’m staying well out of it. He’s off his head, and I’ve told him so. It’s the truth, and he can’t hack it.”