“There, there!” was the only thing he could think of to say.
“I can hardly bear to think about it,” Morten sobbed in Carl’s ear. “I’m so miserable! And at Whitsun of all times. We were supposed to be going to Sweden together.”
“Tell me what happened, Morten.” He held him at arm’s length and looked directly into his tearful eyes.
“Mika wants to study medicine,” he cried, snot running from his nose. It didn’t really sound so drastic.
“And he says he doesn’t have time for a serious relationship anymore. But I know there must be another reason.”
Carl sighed. Now they’d have to clear the basement again so Morten could move back to his old quarters. His stepson’s things would have to go. And not too soon. How many years had it been since Jesper actually moved out?
“You can stay in the basement if you want,” he said, trying to change the subject. “Jesper still has some stuff down there, but I’ll get him to . . .”
Morten nodded and thanked him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand like a little boy. His once plump body looked starved, Carl noticed now for the first time. He almost didn’t recognize him.
“Are you ill, Morten?” he asked tentatively.
Morten grimaced. “Yes. I’m dying of a broken heart. Where in the world will I find a guy as divine as Mika? I won’t, because he’s a dream. Heavenly. So groomed and handsome and extremely adventurous in bed. He has the stamina, strength, and dominance of a stallion. If only you knew how . . .”
Carl held up the palms of his hands to stop him. “Thanks, Morten. You don’t need to explain further. I think I get it.”
After dinner, which Morten had managed to serve despite his recurring hysterics and tears, though he himself had been unable to muster the appetite to eat, Hardy looked intensely at Carl. A look Carl knew only too well. It was the look of a seasoned investigator.
“Yeah, yeah, Hardy. You’re right. I do actually have something to tell you,” he said. “I’ve met up with Marcus.”
Hardy nodded without seeming surprised. Had they already spoken?
“I think I know why, Carl,” he said. “I was just waiting for it to happen, but I’d anticipated you being the one to start the ball rolling.”
“I’m confused. Help me out here. What are you talking about?”
Hardy pulled at his control, moving his chair a bit away from the dining table. “Coincidences, Carl. The attack in the King’s Garden in 2016 and the attack in Østre Anlæg in 2004. Am I right?”
Carl nodded. “Okay, spot-on. But if you have any more of these well-founded hunches, give me a heads-up straightaway, all right?”
Hardy had had this hunch for almost three weeks, he said. Three weeks in the life of a man with a lot of time on his hands and no one to disturb his mysterious train of thought. He had laboriously thought through and listed the details of the attack on Stephanie Gundersen twelve years ago and that on Rigmor Zimmermann almost three weeks ago, finding the coincidences noticeably significant.
“We could also take the trouble to focus on the differences between the two attacks, but there aren’t many. The most notable is probably that Rigmor Zimmermann’s body had been urinated on but not Gundersen’s. And the urine was from a man, Tomas told me.”
Carl nodded. Of course he had spoken to the canteen manager at HQ, Tomas Laursen, the former and usually well-informed forensic technician.
“Okay, so the theory is that Rigmor Zimmermann was killed by a man? But was that also the case with Stephanie Gundersen? I don’t know much about that case, and Marcus Jacobsen said that it was all kept a bit hush-hush back then.”
“That it was supposedly a man who murdered Stephanie Gundersen? No, not exactly. The blow to her head was severe and delivered with extreme force, but as they never figured out what murder weapon was used, they could never determine how heavy or effective it was. So it’s impossible to conclude anything specific about the fatal blow that would indicate the gender of the killer.”
“Hardy, I can tell by your face that you think it’s the same killer. Am I right?”
He shook his head again. “Who knows? But the coincidences are significant.”
Carl got it now. Hardy wouldn’t let either case go before the question had been answered.
“But there was also another difference between the two murders,” he added.
“Are you thinking about the victims’ ages? There must have been thirty-five years between them.”
“No. I’m thinking about the fatal blows again. In Gundersen’s case, the back of her head was bashed halfway into her brain, whereas the blow that killed Rigmor Zimmermann was more precise and controlled. A blow to the back of the head a little farther down toward the neck bones, almost cutting the spinal cord in two but not damaging the skull quite so severely.”
They both nodded. There could be many reasons for that. A different murderer, differences in the weight and surface of the murder weapons, or simply that the murderer had become more skilled.
“But, Hardy, you know just as well as I do that there isn’t much I can do about the Zimmermann case because it’s still up with homicide. And this is not the time for me to make waves with Bjørn.”
He explained the current situation with Bjørn and the cutbacks facing Department Q.
At this, Morten suddenly stopped in his mission of almost scrubbing the enamel off a pot. “Then you need to steal the Zimmermann case from Lars Bjørn, Carl!” he shouted from the kitchen. “Man up and solve both cases. That’s my advice.”
Rich coming from him.
Carl shook his head and looked at Hardy, who just smiled. He obviously agreed with Morten.
—
After a few peaceful days off without any worry other than Morten’s occasional crying fits, Carl was back in his office discussing with Assad whether to take on the Gundersen case even though it hadn’t reached the depths of the basement yet. Both Hardy and Marcus were eager for him to look into it, but Carl was still a little skeptical.
“What if we start at the other end with the Zimmermann case?” asked Assad.
“Hmm. That particular case is still well and truly up on the second floor,” said Carl. But he could sense that he was growing increasingly curious. It was certainly more interesting than what they were otherwise engaged with.
“We could bring Laursen on board, Carl. He keeps talking about how boring it is in the canteen.”
Carl nodded. Yeah, why not? he thought as Rose arrived in a getup none of them had seen before.
She almost jumped down the stairs to the basement in her bright trainers and skinny jeans, introducing herself as Rose’s sister Vicky Knudsen while smoothing down her cropped hair.
Gordon, who had stuck his head out of his office, stood gawping. “What on earth are you doi—” Assad pulled at his arm, stopping him midsentence.
“Would you come with me for a minute, Gordon, while Carl talks with Vicky? I think you and I need a good cup of coffee,” insisted Assad.
Gordon was about to protest but suddenly raised his lanky leg in pain due to the full force of Assad’s pointy boot against his shin. He got the message.
Carl sighed about the absurdity of the situation but invited Vicky into his office. If he had to get used to another one of her disguises, he would first have to explain to this self-created reincarnation, or Rose, that she couldn’t expect to be able to just barge in from the street and be reckoned with if she wasn’t an employee at HQ.
“I know what you’re going to say,” the transformed woman preempted him. Maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as the time when Rose had imitated her sister Yrsa.
“I’m Rose’s younger sister. The second of four girls.”
Carl nodded. Rose, Vicky, Yrsa, and Lise-Marie. He had heard about them enough, and according to Rose, Vicky was the most carefree and vivac
ious of them all. This would be fun.
“If you think that I’ve come here to be drowned in meaningless work in your musty catacombs like Yrsa, you’re much mistaken. I’m only here to tell you that you need to treat my sister Rose with more respect. Don’t tease her and don’t assign her depressing or boring work, or work that brings back unpleasant memories for that matter, okay? She’s been feeling like shit over Whitsun because of you lot.”
“I—”
“I’m giving you the opportunity to apologize on behalf of Department Q for all the stress you’ve put Rose under, and then I’ll head over to her with your apology. And I sincerely hope for your sake that Rose, the most efficient employee in this pool of stupor, can find a grain of mercy in her abused soul.”
Then she stood up and looked at Carl energetically with her fists clenched on her hips and a fierce expression. Any lover of B movies would have been impressed.
“Then I apologize profusely!” said Carl without hesitation.
“What just happened there, Carl? Did she leave?” Assad’s eyebrows twitched with concern.
“Yes. I’m worried that Rose is even more disturbed than last time.” He sighed. “I don’t know what that character who was just here was thinking, but my gut feeling is that, in the moment, Rose firmly believed that she was Vicky. I just don’t know what to make of it, Assad. Maybe it was all just an act.”
Assad took a deep breath and placed a big pile of printouts on Carl’s desk. It was so obvious how hard it was on him when there was trouble with Rose. The two of them had worked well together for seven years now, but lately there had been one issue after another, what with Rose being committed and her mood swings. You never knew where you were with her.
“Do you think this is the end of the line for Department Q?” Assad asked with a frown. “Because if Rose doesn’t come back, we might as well do what Bjørn says. That is, if you aren’t thinking of using those,” he said, pointing to the pile of printouts.
His expression seemed to be daring Carl. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t look like a man who had given up.
—
“He’s busy just now,” said Lis, to no avail, as Carl stormed past the desk and burst into Bjørn’s office like a madman. While the door was still swinging on its hinges, he slammed down Assad’s printouts of Rose’s reports on the table between Bjørn and his visitor, whoever that was.
“Now you can damn well read some reports you haven’t tampered with, Bjørn. You can’t run rings around me.”
The head of homicide remained surprisingly calm, looking at his visitor. “Allow me to introduce you to one of our most creative investigators,” he said calmly, pointing from one to the other. “Carl Mørck, head of Department Q, our team in the basement who investigates all the cold cases.”
Bjørn’s visitor nodded to Carl. An annoying type. Red beard, saggy belly, and glasses, all of which seemed to have been with him for years.
“And Carl, this is Olaf Borg-Pedersen, the producer of Station 3. I’m sure you’re familiar with the brilliant show.”
The man offered his sweaty hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Yes, we know exactly who you are.”
Carl didn’t give a damn what he knew and turned to face his boss. “Have a good look through this lot, Bjørn, and I’ll look forward to a brilliant explanation about how you could have got it so wrong.”
Bjørn nodded approvingly. “A really stubborn, snappy dog we have in our pack here,” he said to his visitor. He turned toward Carl. “But if you’ve got something to complain about, I suggest you talk directly with the police commissioner. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the update.”
Carl frowned. What the hell was Bjørn up to?
Then he took the pile of papers from the table and left without shutting the door behind him.
Now what? he thought as he leaned up against the wall in the archway. Several of his colleagues from homicide walked past without Carl returning their perfunctory greetings.
Why on earth hadn’t Bjørn reacted more severely to Carl’s aggressive attack? Of course, he had probably held himself in check because of his visitor, but it still felt different from usual. Was this about the relationship between Bjørn and the police commissioner? Had Carl become Bjørn’s puppet—a useful idiot chosen to lead a revolt against their boss so that Bjørn didn’t have to do it himself?
His eyes moved toward the police commissioner’s office.
He would have to put it to the test.
“No, you can’t talk to him now, Mørck. The police commissioner is in a meeting with the judicial committee,” said one of the commissioner’s two well-kept secretaries. “But I can schedule a meeting for you. What about May 26th at quarter past one?”
Did she just say the 26th? I’ll show her where she can stick her quarter past one meeting in nine days, he thought, grabbing the door handle and entering the office.
A group of faces turned inquisitively toward him from across the eight-meter-long oak table. The police commander was sitting at the end of the table, erect and expressionless in his leather chair; the police commissioner was standing over by the bookcases frowning, while the group of politicians were sitting with their usual arrogant expressions, annoyed at not being taken seriously.
“I’m sorry, he slipped past me,” apologized the secretary from behind him, but Carl couldn’t care less.
“Okay,” he said with a menacing voice as he looked around. “Now that the whole gang is present, I want to make it clear that the percentage of solved cases from Department Q over the past year has been no less than sixty-five.”
He slammed Rose’s reports down on the table.
“I don’t know who it is up here in the tower that came up with the idea of sabotaging our figures, but if there’s anyone present who dares to voice the opinion that Department Q should be disbanded or subjected to cutbacks, you should know that it won’t happen without a fight.”
Carl noticed the confused expression of the police commissioner, but then the police commander—an authoritative man with a stoic face and large eyebrows—stood up and addressed the group.
“Excuse me a moment while I discuss this matter with Inspector Carl Mørck.”
—
Carl laughed all the way down to the basement. What a drama.
Clearly he had brought something to the table that the high and mighty on the committee did not know about. They had been close to disbanding a department that carried out effective investigations and had solved many cases, and someone had to take the fall for this mistake. Carl pictured the police commissioner’s face and laughed again. The police commissioner alone would be held responsible for this. In polite circles, one would call it a loss of prestige, but Carl called it being in deep shit.
“We’ve got visitors, Carl,” said Assad as soon as he met him in the hallway.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”
“Yes, I . . . So how did it go?”
“Well! Now that you ask, I think Lars Bjørn pulled a number on our commissioner, because I’m dead certain that Bjørn was fully aware of the real percentages but still allowed the wrong information to make its way to the commissioner’s office. And the commissioner took the bait, giving instructions to Bjørn to cut back Department Q, and subsequently informed the politicians about the changes.”
“Okay, sorry if this is a stupid question, but why would Bjørn do that?” asked Assad.
“I’m fairly certain that Lars Bjørn has always defended Department Q to the commissioner and has now stressed that he was right that Department Q is justified despite the large running costs. Because I don’t think Bjørn has told him that his department snatches more than half our budget. But now the police commissioner knows that he needs to be careful about giving explicit orders to Bjørn. It’s a mutiny against the police commissioner, Assad, and Bjørn knows
me. I react when I’m provoked enough, and then it hits the fan.”
Assad frowned. “It wasn’t very nice of Bjørn to use us.”
“No, but I’m planning to take revenge.”
“How? Are you going to stroke him the wrong way?”
“You mean rub him the wrong way, Assad.” Carl smiled. “Yes, something like that. In a way, Bjørn stole our figures for his own ends, wouldn’t you say? So then it’s also okay if I steal some cases from homicide for my ends, when and if it suits me.”
Assad raised his hand to give Carl a high five. He was in.
“Who did you say was waiting for me?” Carl asked.
“I definitely didn’t say anything about who it was, Carl.”
Carl shook his head. While Assad was finally picking up on the finer nuances of Danish, no one was perfect.
He had only managed to reach the doorway to his office before the full horror of the situation was revealed.
Sitting in Carl’s office chair was none other than the renowned red-bearded TV man Olaf Borg-Pedersen, looking as if he ought to have something to say for himself.
“Haven’t you taken a wrong turn?” asked Carl. “The toilets are down the corridor.”
“Ha-ha. No, Lars Bjørn has spoken so highly of you that we decided together that Station 3 would shadow Department Q and watch you at work for a few days. Just a small film crew of three men. Me, a cameraman, and a sound technician. Won’t it be fun?”
Carl glared and was about to give him a piece of his mind but thought better of it. Maybe this would present him with an opportunity for sabotage and Lars Bjørn would be sorry.
“Yes, it sounds like fun.” He nodded with his eyes fixed on the notes Marcus Jacobsen had given him and which were now scattered unread on his desk. “Actually, we’re investigating a case that might interest you. A very current murder case that could be perfect for your program, and which I happen to think is connected to one of our cold cases.”
That caught his attention.
“I’ll let you know when we get started.”
—
“We’re really worried about Rose, Carl.”
The Scarred Woman Page 11
