The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Carl frowned and watched the man’s expression closely as Mie Nørvig went on, firm in her conviction. It was as though his arguments had long since worn thin.

  “Two years after this photograph was taken, after Philip had put in thousands of hours working for that Purity Party of his, Wad kicked him out. That man, there”—she jabbed a finger at the image of Curt Wad—“came down here personally and kicked Philip out without the slightest warning. They claimed he’d been embezzling funds, but it wasn’t true. Just like it wasn’t true that he’d committed fraud in his law practice. He wouldn’t dream of such a thing. He just wasn’t all that good with figures, that’s all.”

  “I really can’t see any obvious grounds for linking Curt Wad and this incident to Philip’s disappearance, Mie,” said Herbert, rather more subdued now. “Bear in mind the man’s still alive. He could sue you for—”

  “I’m not afraid of Curt Wad anymore, I’ve told you that!” It was an emphatic outburst, her cheeks flushed beneath the fine layer of powder on her face. “You keep out of this for once, Herbert, and let me speak up. Do you hear me?”

  Herbert retreated. It was plain that the matter would be the subject of continued debate behind closed doors.

  “Perhaps you are also a member of this Purity Party, Mr. Herbert?” Assad ventured from the corner of the room.

  The man’s jaw twitched, though he let the question pass. Carl sent his assistant an inquiring look. Assad nodded toward a framed diploma on the wall. Carl stepped closer. Diploma of Honor, it read. Awarded to Philip Nørvig and Herbert Sønderskov of Nørvig & Sønderskov Lawyers for their sponsorship of the Korsør Scholarship Award 1972.

  Assad’s eyes narrowed as he directed a second discreet nod toward Mie Nørvig’s partner.

  Carl returned the gesture. Well spotted, Assad.

  “So you’re a lawyer, too, Herbert?” Carl asked.

  “Well, used to be,” he replied. “I retired in 2001. But yes, I represented in the High Court until then.”

  “And you and Philip Nørvig were partners, is that right?”

  Herbert Sønderskov’s voice deepened a notch. “Indeed, we enjoyed a long and fruitful professional partnership until deciding to go our separate ways in 1983.”

  “That would be in the wake of the accusations leveled against Philip Nørvig and the rupture between him and Curt Wad?” Carl went on.

  Sønderskov frowned. This rather round-shouldered pensioner had years of experience clearing clients of charges brought against them. Experience he was now taking advantage of to protect himself.

  “It certainly was, yes. Philip had got himself mixed up in something of which I did not approve, but the dissolution of the partnership was more for practical reasons than anything else.”

  “Very practical indeed, it would seem. You got all his clients and his wife in one go,” Assad commented drily. “Were you still friends when he disappeared? And where were you at the time anyway?”

  “Oh, so we’re shifting the focus now, are we?” Sønderskov turned to face Carl. “I think you should inform your assistant here that I have come across a great many policemen in my time and am more than accustomed to hearing exactly this kind of insinuation and scurrilous suggestion on an almost daily basis. I am not on trial here, nor have I ever been, is that understood? And besides, I was in Greenland during the time in question. I had a practice there for six months and didn’t return home again until after Philip disappeared. A month after, as I recall. I can prove it, of course.”

  Only then did he turn back to Assad, anticipating the appropriately sheepish expression this eloquent counter must surely have brought to the man’s face. Assad, however, was nonplussed.

  “And of course Philip Nørvig’s wife had become available in the meantime, isn’t that right?” Assad continued.

  Oddly, Mie Nørvig refrained from commenting on Assad’s audacity. Had the same thought occurred to her, too?

  “Now you listen here, this is outrageous!” Herbert Sønderskov seemed suddenly to age, though the venom that had no doubt made him a formidable opponent in former years was plain enough. “We open the doors of our home and welcome you inside, only to be met by insult. If this is the way the police do their job these days, then it seems I shall have to look up the commissioner personally and have a word with him. What was it you said your name was? Assad, was it? And the surname?”

  Buttering-up time, Carl thought to himself. With the shit he was in at the moment the last thing he needed was an irate lawyer putting his oar in.

  “I do apologize, Mr. Sønderskov, my assistant overstepped the mark. He’s on loan from another department and used to dealing with individuals less upstanding than your good self.” He turned to Assad. “Would you mind waiting for me by the car, Assad? I’ll be along in just a minute.”

  Assad gave a shrug. “OK, boss. But remember to check if there’s anything on a Rita Nielsen in all these drawers.” He gestured toward a filing cabinet. “This one here says ‘L to N.’” Then he turned on his heel and walked stiffly out, looking like he’d either just spent twenty hours on horseback or else wasn’t quite finished on the crapper.

  “That’s right,” said Carl, looking now at Mie Nørvig. “As Assad just said, I’d very much like to see if your archives here might include information concerning a woman who disappeared on the same day as your husband. A woman by the name of Rita Nielsen. May I?”

  Without waiting for an answer he pulled out the drawer marked “L to N” and peered at its contents. There were an awful lot of Nielsens.

  At the same instant, Herbert Sønderskov came up from behind and closed the drawer.

  “Here we are going to have to stop, I’m afraid. These documents are confidential and I cannot under any circumstances allow you to breach the anonymity of the company’s clients. I must ask you to leave at once.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to get a warrant, then, won’t I?” Carl countered, pulling his mobile from his pocket.

  “By all means. But first you are to leave.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. If there is a file on Rita Nielsen in that drawer, who knows if it’ll still be there in an hour’s time? You’d be surprised how things like that can sprout wings all of a sudden.”

  “I’m asking you to leave now, do you understand me?” Herbert Sønderskov reiterated in an icy voice. “You might be able to secure a warrant, but we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I know the law.”

  “Oh, stop it, Herbert,” Mie Nørvig broke in firmly, making it abundantly clear which of them wore the trousers. Carl pictured Sønderskov exiled in front of the telly, dreaming about the dinners she definitely wouldn’t be serving him for the next week at least. Here was proof that cohabitation was the form of human interaction that involved by far the most numerous opportunities of sanction.

  She pulled out the drawer, flicking through the files with the digital dexterity that came from years of practice.

  “Here,” she said, extracting a folder. “This is the closest we get to a Rita Nielsen.” She showed Carl the front cover. It read SIGRID NIELSEN.

  “OK, so now we know. Thanks.” Carl sent a nod in the direction of Herbert, who glared at him. “Could I ask you, Mie, to check and see if there’s anything on a woman by the name of Gitte Charles, too, by any chance? And a man called Viggo Mogensen? That’ll be all for now, I promise.”

  Two minutes later he was out of the door. No Gitte Charles and no Viggo Mogensen.

  • • •

  “I don’t think Herbert’s going to remember you too fondly, Assad,” Carl grunted, as they turned the car toward Copenhagen.

  “Maybe not. But when a man like him starts to panic, he acts like a hungry camel eating thistles. He keeps on chewing without daring to swallow. You saw how uncomfortable he was? I think he was acting strange.”

  Carl l
ooked at him. Even in profile it was easy to see the smile that reached to his ears.

  “Did you really go to the bathroom, Assad?”

  Assad laughed. “No, Carl, I didn’t. I poked around upstairs and found this, full of photos.” He arched his midriff upward, reached under his belt, and plunged a hand into the most intimate depths of his trousers.

  “Here,” he said, retrieving an envelope. “I found it in Mie Nørvig’s wardrobe in the bedroom. In the kind of cardboard box that so often has interesting things inside. I took the whole lot thinking it might be less obvious than only taking a few,” he said, as he began to peruse the contents.

  Logic for dummies.

  Carl pulled over and took the first of the photos Assad handed him.

  It was a group picture, clearly taken on some festive occasion. Champagne glasses raised to the photographer and smiles all round.

  Assad planted a stubby finger in the middle. “This is Philip Nørvig with a woman who is not Mie. I think we should assume it’s his first wife. And look at this . . .” He slid his finger to the edge of the group. “Here is Herbert Sønderskov and Mie, not as old as now. Don’t you agree he seems to have been rather fond of her even then?”

  Carl nodded. Sønderskov’s arm was certainly well wrapped around Mie’s shoulders.

  “Look on the back, Carl.”

  He turned the photo in his hand. July 4 1973. 5 years of Nørvig & Sønderskov.

  “And look at this other one I found.”

  The colors were faded, and the photo had clearly not been taken by a professional. A wedding photograph, taken outside the town hall in Korsør. Mie and Philip Nørvig, Mie bulgingly pregnant, Philip wearing a triumphant smile in stark contrast to Herbert Sønderskov’s thin-lipped expression a little farther back on the steps behind the happy couple.

  “Do you see what I mean, Carl?”

  He nodded. “Philip Nørvig knocks up Herbert Sønderskov’s lady love. The secretary’s shagging the both of them, but Nørvig ends up with the prize.”

  “We need to check and see if Sønderskov really was in Greenland when Nørvig went missing,” said Assad.

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth on that. What I’m more interested in is his defense of this Curt Wad bloke, whose guts Mie Nørvig obviously can’t stand. Not that I blame her, he sounds like a creep, if you ask me. My feeling is we should follow Mie Nørvig’s female intuition and take a fine toothcomb along with us.”

  “A fine toothcomb?”

  “Yes, Assad. Or a fine-toothed comb. Whatever. We’ll get Rose onto it, if she can be arsed.”

  • • •

  When they’d got as far as the McDonald’s sign that beckoned to the motorway traffic at Karlstrup, Rose called back.

  “You don’t honestly expect me to be able to give you the lowdown on this Wad wanker off the top of my head, do you? He’s a million years old at least, and he hasn’t stood still once, I can tell you.”

  Her voice grew increasingly shrill, until Carl realized he’d better step in and calm her down before things got out of hand.

  “No, of course not, Rose. Just give me the bare bones, that’s all. We’ll get to the details later, if needs be. Just find out if there’s any source that can give us a summary. A newspaper article, something like that. What we want to know to begin with is if there’s any dirt on him. As far as I understand it, he’s rather a controversial character.”

  “If you want dirt on Curt Wad you should speak to a journalist called Louis Petterson. He’s definitely been on his back, believe me.”

  “Yeah, his name already cropped up earlier on. Has he written anything on him recently?”

  “Not really, no. Most of it was five or six years back, then it seems like he stopped.”

  “Maybe there was nothing left to dig up.”

  “That’s not the impression I get. As far as I can see, there’s been quite a lot of journalists trying to find out what Curt Wad’s been up to. But this Louis Petterson was the one who got the headlines.”

  “OK, where does he live, this Louis Petterson?”

  “In Holbæk. What for?”

  “Just give me his number, there’s a good girl.”

  “Oooh, say that again, would ya? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  Carl contemplated riposting with something sarcastic, but stifled the urge. “I said, ‘there’s a good girl.’”

  “I thought that was it. Wonders never cease, do they?” she retorted, before giving him the number. “But if you’re thinking of having a word with him, you’d do best to go to Café Vivaldi on Ahlgade, number 42, because that’s where he drinks and that’s where he is now, according to his wife.”

  “How do you know that? Have you already called him?”

  “Of course I have! Who do you think you’re dealing with here?” she snorted, and hung up.

  “Bollocks,” said Carl, and pointed a finger at the GPS. “Assad, enter Ahlgade 42, Holbæk. We’re going for a drink,” he instructed, picturing Mona’s face when he called her in a minute to cancel his session with her psychologist friend, Kris.

  She would not be amused.

  • • •

  Maybe he’d been expecting a dingy little dive impenetrable to the harsh light of day, to which weary reporters for reasons unfathomable retired to recharge their batteries. But Café Vivaldi was nothing like it.

  “This is not what I expected, Carl,” said Assad, as they entered what looked like the handsomest building on the street. It even had a tower.

  Carl glanced around the packed room, only to realize he had no idea what the man they’d come to see looked like.

  “Get on the phone to Rose. Maybe she can give us a description,” he said, scanning the decor. Opalescent glass, stucco work on the ceiling. Tastefully done out, with pleasant lighting, comfy chairs and benches, and little details all over.

  Any money that’s him over there, Carl thought to himself, eyeing a man who was sounding off at the center of a group of late-middle-aged men who had gathered on a raised area in the middle of the room. Typically blasé, weary features, and eyes forever on the lookout.

  Carl turned to Assad, who stood nodding into his mobile with Rose on the other end.

  “So what do you reckon, Assad? Is that him over there?”

  “No.” Assad ran his gaze over the variegated collection of salad-consuming young ladies who lunched, enamored couples sipping cappuccinos with fingers entwined, and others who were on their own, immersed in newspapers, full glasses of lager in front of them.

  “I think that’s him over there,” he said eventually, pointing to a youngish sandy-haired guy seated on a bench in a corner by the window, playing backgammon with a man of about the same age.

  Carl knew he wouldn’t have clocked him in a hundred years.

  They went over and stood for a moment as the two men shoved their counters around the board, seemingly oblivious until Carl cleared his throat.

  “Louis Petterson? Can we speak to you for a minute?”

  The man looked up, instantly bridging the gap from deep concentration to adrenaline-charged reality. In less than a second Petterson registered the two men’s disparate appearance and gauged them for what they were: cops. His eyes went back to the backgammon board for a moment, and after a couple of quick moves he indicated a time-out.

  “I don’t think these two are here to watch us play, Mogens.”

  The man’s cool was rather surprising, Carl thought. Petterson’s opponent nodded and disappeared into the throng on the other side of the raised floor area.

  “I don’t do crime anymore,” he said, turning his glass of white wine slowly in his hand.

  “Fine. But we’re here because you’ve done a lot of stuff on Curt Wad,” Carl explained.

  Petterson smiled. “You’ll be from intelligence, th
en. Long time since PET have been round to see me, I must say.”

  “No, we’re from homicide in Copenhagen.”

  The man’s expression went from casual supercilious to wide-eyed and alert with the appearance of just a single line in his brow. Without his years of experience, Carl might not have even noticed. This wasn’t the reaction of a journalist on the lookout for a story, in which case his face would have lit up. The prospect of well-paid copy in a major paper was ever-present whenever the word “homicide” was mentioned. But that wasn’t what this guy was thinking, which told Carl a lot.

  “Like I said, we want to know about Curt Wad. Can you give us ten minutes?”

  “Sure, but I haven’t done anything on the man in five years. Ran out of steam, you could say.”

  Ran out of steam, my arse. The rate you’re twirling that wineglass tells another story, Carl thought to himself.

  “I checked up on you,” Carl lied. “You’re not on the dole, so how are you earning a living these days, Louis?”

  “I work for an organization,” Petterson replied, trying to gauge how much Carl really knew.

  And for that reason Carl nodded. “Right answer. Care to tell us about it?”

  “Maybe. Or you could start by telling me which murder you’re investigating.”

  “Did I say we were investigating a murder? Don’t think I did, did I, Assad?”

  Assad shook his head.

  “Relax,” said Assad. “You’re not under suspicion for anything in particular.”

  It was true, but Petterson was alerted nonetheless.

  “Who is, then, and for what? Oh, and maybe you could show me some ID while we’re at it?”

  Carl held his badge high enough for everyone in the vicinity to get a good look.

  “Would you like to see mine, too?” Assad inquired boldly.

  Thankfully, Petterson declined. Perhaps it was about time they fabricated some form of ID for Assad. A business card with something that looked like a police logo would probably do the trick.