The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  When the letters were written and sent there would be no turning back. The path of Nete’s life was narrowing and would come to a dead end. That was how she looked at it, and it was how she wanted it to be.

  She wrote several drafts of the letter she would send, but the final version was this:

  COPENHAGEN, THURSDAY 27 AUGUST 1987

  Dear . . .

  Many years have passed since we last saw each other. Years I can proudly say have slowly evolved into an agreeable and gratifying life.

  Throughout this time I have reflected upon my destiny and have come to the conclusion that events of the past were unavoidable and now, at the end of the day, I finally realize that I was not without blame for their occurrence.

  Whatever took place then, whatever harsh words were spoken, whatever misunderstandings occurred, I am no longer tormented. In fact, quite the contrary. Looking back provides me with peace of mind and the knowledge that I survived it all, and now is the time for reconciliation.

  As you may know from the press, I was for some years married to Andreas Rosen, and my husband’s inheritance has made me a very wealthy woman.

  Now fate has decreed that I undergo hospital treatment. Regrettably, I have been diagnosed as suffering from an incurable illness, for which reason the time I have left for what follows is short indeed.

  Since I have been unable to give birth to children who might inherit my estate, I have now decided to share my wealth with some of the individuals I have encountered for better or worse on my journey through life.

  Thus I would hereby like to invite you to come to my home address at Peblinge Dossering 32, Copenhagen, on

  FRIDAY 4 SEPTEMBER at . . .

  For the occasion, my lawyer will be present to ensure that the sum of 10 million kroner be transferred to you. Naturally, this gift is subject to taxation by the authorities, but the lawyer will instruct you further on this matter, so you have no reason for concern.

  I feel certain that, following these proceedings, we shall be able to speak freely of times past. Sadly, my future has little to offer. However, I would be highly appreciative of the opportunity to perhaps make comfortable your own. Such occasion would indeed give me pleasure and peace of mind.

  I realize this comes at short notice, but regardless of whatever plans you might have for the day in question, I am certain you will find it worth your while to make the journey here.

  I would ask you to bring this invitation with you and to arrive promptly at the time indicated, since the lawyer has been given a rather busy schedule that day.

  I enclose 2,000 kroner in the form of a crossed check in order to meet your travel expenses.

  I look forward to seeing you again in the conviction that our meeting will be beneficial to us both.

  Yours faithfully,

  Nete Hermansen

  It was a good letter, she decided, and saved it in six versions, each with a different name and appointment time, after which she printed them out and added her signature at the bottom. A meticulous, confident signature, not at all the kind the recipients had previously seen from her hand.

  Six letters. Curt Wad, Rita Nielsen, Gitte Charles, Tage Hermansen, Viggo Mogensen, and Philip Nørvig. For a moment she considered writing to her two surviving brothers, only to dismiss the notion. They’d been so young at the time and had hardly known her. Besides, they were at sea when it happened, and Mads, their older brother, had died. No, they couldn’t be blamed for anything.

  So now there were six envelopes in front of her. By rights there should have been nine, but she knew death had stolen a march on her on three occasions, and those particular chapters had already been closed by time.

  Her schoolmistress, the consultant physician, and the matron from Sprogø were already gone. They were the ones who got away. Three people for whom it would have been the easiest thing in the world to show mercy. Or perhaps rather to let justice prevail. All three committed grievous wrongs and made terrible mistakes, and all three went through life staunchly believing the opposite to be true: that their work and their lives had benefited not only society, but also the poor individuals in their charge.

  And this in particular preyed on Nete’s mind. Preyed on her mind and tormented her.

  • • •

  “Nete, come with me,” the schoolmistress snarled. And when Nete hesitated she dragged her by the ear all the way round to the back of the building so that dust whirled in their wake.

  “You contemptible little monster. You silly, half-witted child, how dare you?” she spat, striking Nete in the face with a bony hand. And when Nete yelled back at her with tears in her eyes and demanded to know why she was being punished, the mistress struck her again.

  She looked around her as she lay on the ground with the incensed figure standing over her. It occurred to her that her dress would be dirty now, and that her father would be sorry on account that it had cost him so much money. She tried to shield herself and wished only to be consumed by the apple blossom that fluttered from the trees, the song of the skylark that chirped high above them, the cheerful laughter of her schoolmates on the other side of the building.

  “This is the end. I’ve had enough of you, you despicable little beast, do you understand? Immoral hussy!”

  But Nete did not understand. She had been playing with the boys and they had asked her to lift up her dress. And when she had done so and gigglingly revealed a pair of voluminous pink knickers handed down from her mother, they had all howled with delight because it had been so natural of her, so carefree and exuberant. Until the mistress had forced her way among them and slapped their faces one by one, causing the group to disperse, leaving only Nete behind.

  “You little whore!” the mistress barked, and Nete knew what it meant, so she answered back and said she most certainly was not, and if anyone accused her of being one, then they must be one themselves.

  The mistress’s eyes rolled in their sockets as Nete spat the words.

  And that was why she struck Nete so hard behind the school building, and it was why she kicked gravel in her face and screamed at her and told her that from now on she was no longer a pupil at the school, and if she ever had the chance she would make sure to teach an underling such as her never to answer back again. The way Nete had behaved ever since she first came to the school, she deserved nothing good in life. And what she had done now could never, ever be made up for. Of that the mistress would make certain.

  And so she did.

  10

  November 2010

  Three and a half hours, and then hopefully he’d be presenting himself at Mona’s, ironed and pressed and looking like a man she’d want to spend a night of bliss with.

  Carl glanced despondently at his ashen face in the rearview mirror as he parked the car outside his house at the end of the row in Allerød. Hope could hardly have been more forlorn.

  Two hours of shut-eye might do the trick, he thought to himself, only then to see the figure of Terje Ploug striding toward him.

  “What now, Ploug?” he barked, getting out of the car.

  Ploug gave a shrug. “The nail-gun case. I needed to hear Hardy’s version.”

  “You’ve heard it five times already, at least.”

  “True, but I thought perhaps he might remember something new, now there’s been a development.”

  The bloodhound in Ploug had picked up a scent, that much was obvious. He was one of the more thorough investigators at HQ. No one would more gladly drive thirty-five kilometers to gather twigs for what later might turn into a bonfire of suspicion.

  “And did he?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Ploug said, then raised a couple of fingers to his temple in farewell.

  • • •

  Morten Holland came scurryi
ng toward Carl the moment he came in. Any thoughts he might have entertained of having a private life were made futile by the eternal presence of his fat lodger.

  Morten glanced at his watch. “A good thing you’re home early today, Carl. There’s been so much going on here. I’m not even sure I can remember it all.” He sounded out of breath, his sentences rattled off with urgency. No peace for the wicked.

  “All right, hold your horses,” Carl said, though stopping a hundred and twenty kilos of blubber in its tracks was never going to be easy, especially with a sore throat coming on.

  “I’ve had Vigga on the phone for a whole hour. She’s in a foul mood and you’re to ring her up as soon as you get in.”

  Carl’s head lolled. If he hadn’t felt lousy before, he certainly did now. How the hell could his wife, who he hadn’t lived with for years, still impact so drastically on his immune system?

  “What did she want?” he asked wearily.

  But Morten merely held up his chubby hands defensively, campily fluttering them about as if to stave off impending interrogation. Carl would obviously have to find out for himself.

  Another job to add to the list.

  “Anything else, apart from Terje Ploug coming round?” he forced himself to ask. Might as well get it over with before he passed out from fatigue.

  “Yeah, Jesper called home from college. He says his wallet’s been stolen.”

  Carl shook his head. His brainless stepson! Almost three years at Allerød Gymnasium School only to drop out just before his final two exams. Crap marks across the board. Now on his second year at preparatory college in Gentofte, flitting back and forth in fits of protest between Vigga’s allotment garden house in Islev and Carl’s place in Allerød. A new girl in his room every other day, nonstop partying, and general arsing about. Par for the course at that age.

  “How much money was in it?” Carl asked.

  Morten rolled his eyes. Not that much, surely?

  “He can sort it out himself,” said Carl, stepping into the front room.

  “All right, Hardy?” he said quietly.

  Maybe the worst thing was how he never stirred in his hospital bed when someone came in. An outstretched hand to shake, or just a finger raised in greeting would have done no end of good.

  He smoothed his hand over the forehead of his quadriplegic former colleague as he always did, and was greeted by two blue eyes full of a yearning to see more than just their immediate surroundings in Carl’s living room.

  “News channel, eh?” Carl noted, nodding toward the flatscreen in the corner.

  Hardy’s mouth twisted. What else was there for him to do? “Terje Ploug’s just been here,” he said.

  “Yeah, I ran into him outside. He seemed to think you might have something new to add to the case, is that right?” Carl stepped back, feeling a sneeze coming on, but the tickle in his nose went away again. “Sorry, best keep my distance, I reckon. Think I’m coming down with something. They’re all dropping like flies at HQ.”

  Hardy tried to smile. Catching a cold was the least of his worries these days. “Ploug told me some more about that body they found today.”

  “Yeah, it was in a poor state. Dismembered and put into rubbish bags. Decomposition had been impeded by the plastic, of course, but it was still what you’d call advanced decay.”

  “Ploug says they found a smaller bag that had almost formed a vacuum inside,” said Hardy. “They reckon there was warm air in it to begin with and then it must have cooled quickly. At any rate, the flesh inside seemed relatively well preserved.”

  “OK. In that case they might have some decent DNA to go on. Maybe it’s a step forward, eh, Hardy? I think we both could do with a breakthrough there.”

  Hardy looked him straight in the eye. “I told Ploug they should try and find out if the guy had an ethnic background.”

  Carl cocked his head and immediately felt his nose start to dribble. “What for?”

  “Because Anker told me he’d had a run-in with some fucking foreigner that night he came home with blood on his clothes the time he was staying with Minna and me. And I’m not talking about bloodstains you’d normally see after a fight. Not the kind of fights I’ve ever seen, at any rate.”

  “What the hell would that have to do with the case?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question. But something tells me Anker was up shit creek, OK? We’ve already talked about that.”

  Carl nodded. “Let’s talk about it in the morning, Hardy. I’m off upstairs for some shut-eye, see if I can kick this bloody virus into touch. Mona’s invited me over tonight for Martinmas goose and surprises.”

  “Well, have a nice time,” Hardy said. He sounded bitter.

  • • •

  Carl flopped down heavily on his bed and recalled the hat remedy. As far as he was aware, this was something his old dad still swore by in times of illness.

  “Lie down on a bed that’s got two bedposts,” he always said. “Hang a hat on one post and reach for the bottle of booze you should always have on your bedside table. Keep drinking until you see a hat on both posts. I promise you, you’ll be right as rain the next day. And if you’re not, you won’t care.”

  It never failed, but what if you had to drive a car a couple of hours later? What if you didn’t want to turn up where you were going stinking of booze? Arriving pissed was something Mona definitely wouldn’t reward with kisses and cuddles.

  He heaved a couple of sighs and felt sorry for himself, then reached out for his Tullamore whisky regardless, and took a couple of swigs. It couldn’t do any harm, surely?

  A moment later he pressed Vigga’s number on his mobile, inhaled deeply, and waited with bated breath.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you called,” Vigga twittered. It was a sure sign things would go belly-up any minute.

  “Out with it, Vigga. I’m too ill and too knackered to beat about the bush.”

  “Are you ill? In that case it can wait.”

  Bollocks! She knew perfectly well he knew she didn’t mean it.

  “Has it got to do with money?” he asked.

  “Carl!” Too delighted by half. Carl took another swig from the whisky bottle. “Gurkamal’s proposed to me.”

  Whisky-filled nostrils can be a rather unpleasant affair, Carl discovered. He spluttered a couple of times and wiped the slime from the tip of his nose, ignoring his furiously streaming eyes.

  “But that’s bigamy, Vigga, for Chrissake. You’re still married to me, remember?”

  She laughed.

  Carl sat up straight and put the bottle down on the night table.

  “Listen, is this your way of asking for a divorce? Do you think I’m going to sit here in bed on a perfectly decent Wednesday and have a good laugh while you tell me the roof’s falling down on me? I can’t fucking afford to get divorced, Vigga, you know that. There’s no way I can keep the house if we’re going to be dividing things up between us now. The same house your son lives in and which is the home of two lodgers. You can’t be serious, surely? Can’t you and this Gherkin bloke make do with shacking up together? Why go the whole hog and get married?”

  “Our Anand Karaj is going to be held in Patiala, where his family lives. Isn’t it fantastic?”

  “Hey, hey, hey, hold on a minute, Vigga. Didn’t you hear what I just said? How do you expect me to deal with a divorce now? Didn’t we say we had to agree before taking things that far? And what the fuck’s this ‘ham and carriage’ you’re talking about? I’m not with you.”

  “Anand Karaj, you daft thing. It’s where we bow before the Guru Granth Sahib to solemnize the nuptials.”

  Carl’s eyes panned quickly across the bedroom wall on which small tapestries still hung from the time Vigga had been infatuated with Hinduism and the mysteries of Bali. Was there any religion left with which she had not flirted outrage
ously over the years?

  “I’m not with you at all, Vigga. Are you seriously expecting me to cough up three or four hundred grand to get you married off to some bloke with half a mile of hair in his turban who’s going to keep you under his thumb all day long?”

  She laughed like a schoolgirl who’d just talked her parents into letting her get her nose pierced.

  If she kept on like this he was going to pass out. He reached for a tissue on the bedside table and blew his nose. Oddly enough, nothing came out.

  “Carl! You obviously know absolutely nothing about the teachings of Guru Nanak. Sikhism goes in for equality of the sexes, for meditation, and earning an honest living. Sharing with the poor and setting store by hard work. You can’t find a purer way of living than what’s practiced by the Sikhs.”

  “Well, if they have to share with the poor, then this Gherkin of yours can start off by sharing with me. Let’s say two hundred grand and we’re quits, shall we?”

  More laughter, as if she’d never stop. “Relax, Carl. You can borrow the money from Gurkamal, then give it to me. He’ll give you a low rate of interest, so you’ll have no worries there. I’ve had an estate agent value the house. Anything of that standard in Rønneholtparken is going for 1.9 million at the moment. We still owe six hundred thousand, so you get off with half of the 1.3 that’s left and you can keep the furniture into the bargain.”

  Six hundred and fifty thousand kroner!

  Carl leaned back and slowly closed the flap of his mobile.

  It was like the shock had driven the virus out of his body and replaced it with thirty-two lead weights somewhere in his chest region.

  • • •

  He smelled her scent even before she opened the door.

  “Come in,” said Mona, taking his arm and drawing him inside.

  Bliss lasted a further three seconds until she veered off to the dining room and left him standing before a young woman in a clinging micro-dress who stood leaning over the table, lighting candles.

  “This is Samantha, my youngest daughter,” Mona announced. “She’s been looking forward to meeting you.”