“Aaa,” muttered Carl, suddenly devoid of consonants.
“He doesn’t collect Kinder Eggs or Playmobil like me, but look what he gave me.”
Morten handed Carl a little cardboard box. 3218-A BAUARBEITER, it read. And sure enough, inside was a little blue man in a red hard hat, holding what was presumably an oversized broom.
“Very nice,” said Carl, and handed it back.
“Nice?” Morten snorted, and gave his guest a big hug. “It’s not nice, it’s awesome, Carl. Now I’ve got a complete set of workmen from 1974, when it all started, right through to now. And the box is mint. Awesome, it is.”
Carl hadn’t seen his lodger sparkle like this since he moved in three years ago.
“So what do you collect, then?” Carl asked Mika, not really wanting to know.
“Antiquarian books on the central nervous system.”
Carl struggled in vain to find a fitting expression. The dark Adonis laughed.
“Funny thing to collect, I know. But I am a trained physiotherapist and certified acupuncturist, so maybe it’s not all that odd.”
“We met each other two weeks ago when I did something to my neck. My head was all stuck, don’t you remember, Carl?”
Was there any time when Morten’s head wasn’t stuck? If there was, he’d missed it.
“Have you talked to Hardy?” Morten asked.
“Yeah, that’s why I came down. He said something had hurt like fuck.” He turned to Mika. “What did you do, stick a needle in his eye?”
He tried to laugh, but was on his own.
“Not quite. I put needles into some nerves that still seem to be active.”
“And he reacted to that?”
“Too right,” said Morten.
“We need to sit him up,” said Mika. “He’s got feeling in a number of places. There’s an area on his shoulder, and two around the base of his thumb. It’s very encouraging.”
“How do you mean, encouraging?”
“I don’t think any of us can fully appreciate how hard he’s struggled to stimulate these sensations. But there seem to be indications that if he keeps working at it, he might be able to move his thumb.”
“His thumb? And what good’s that going to do him?”
Mika smiled. “A lot. It means contact, work, transport, the ability to take charge of himself.”
“Are you talking about a power wheelchair now?”
There was a pause, during which Morten gazed in admiration at his new conquest, while Carl felt his body temperature getting warmer, his heart beginning to pound.
“That, and a lot more besides. I’ve got loads of contacts in the health sector, and Hardy’s definitely a patient worth investing in. I’m absolutely convinced his life can change radically in the foreseeable future.”
Carl stood rooted to the spot. He felt like the ceiling was coming down on him, with no sense of where his feet were planted or where to direct his gaze. In short, he was flabbergasted, like a kid suddenly making sense of the world. It was a feeling largely unknown to him, and all he could do was step forward and draw this man toward him in a hug. He wanted to say thank you, but the words stuck in his throat.
Then he felt a pat on the back. “Yeah,” said Mika, an angel. “I know how you must feel, Carl. It’s major. Major indeed.”
• • •
Luckily it was Friday, so the toy shop on Allerød town square was still open. Just time to find some crap or other for Mona’s grandson, something that couldn’t be used as a weapon.
“Hi,” he said a short while later, as the boy stared up at him in Mona’s entrance hall, looking like someone who could do a person a lot of damage even without anything to hit them with.
He handed the boy his present, keeping a safe distance. An arm shot out like a striking cobra.
“Nice reflexes,” he said to Mona, as the boy disappeared with his prize. He drew her toward him, holding her so tightly not even a blade of grass could get in between. She really was exceptionally gorgeous, fragrant and appetizing almost beyond belief.
“What did you get him?” she asked, then kissed him. How the hell was he supposed to remember, with her lovely brown eyes so close?
“Erm . . . a Phlat Ball, I think it was called. You can press it flat and then it pops into a ball again. It’s got a timer on it . . . I think.”
She gave him a skeptical look as if to say Ludwig would have little trouble finding any number of uses for the toy that Carl most likely wasn’t anticipating.
This time Mona’s daughter, Samantha, seemed more prepared. She shook his hand and refrained from staring at his less flattering physical attributes.
She had her mother’s eyes. How the hell anyone could leave a goddess like her alone with a kid to bring up, he had no idea. At least, not until she opened her mouth.
“Hope you’re not going to dribble in the gravy again,” she said, bursting into resonant and highly inappropriate laughter.
Carl tried to go along with her, though his own laughter was rather less hearty.
They went straight in and sat down at the table. Carl was prepared for battle. Four tablets from the chemist’s had plugged his peristaltics, and his mind was clear and ready for the worst.
“How do you like the Phlat Ball, Ludwig?”
The boy didn’t answer. Maybe because he had two handfuls of fries stuffed sideways in his mouth.
“It went out of the window, first try,” answered his mother. “You go down and fetch it in the courtyard after we’ve eaten, do you hear me, Ludwig?”
Still no answer. The lad was consistent, at least.
Carl looked at Mona, who simply shrugged. Apparently his probationary period wasn’t over yet.
“Did any of your brains come out of that hole when you got shot?” the boy eventually asked, after shoveling a couple more handfuls of fries down his throat. He pointed at the scar on Carl’s temple.
“Some,” he replied. “So now I’m only twice as brainy as the prime minister.”
“That doesn’t say much,” his mother grunted from the sideline.
“I’m good at maths, are you?” the boy asked, his bright eyes looking directly at Carl for the first time. Contact.
“Brilliant at it,” Carl lied.
“Do you know about 1089?” the boy asked. Carl was surprised he could even name such a big number. How old was he, anyway? Five?
“You might need some paper for this, Carl,” said Mona, digging a notepad and a pencil out of a drawer in the chest behind her.
“OK,” said the boy. “Think of a three-digit number and write it down.”
Three-digit number. Where the hell did a five-year-old learn a phrase like that?
Carl nodded and did as he was told. 367.
“Now turn the number round.”
“Turn it round? How do you mean?”
“Write it back-to-front. Are you sure it was only some of your brains that leaked out?” asked the boy’s enchanting mother.
Carl wrote 763.
“Now subtract the smallest number from the biggest,” instructed the curly-headed genius.
763 minus 367. Carl covered the page with his hand, so they wouldn’t notice he still did sums like he was in year three.
“What’s the answer?” Ludwig’s eyes were wide with anticipation.
“Erm, 396, I think.”
“Now turn the number round and add it to 396. What does that give you?”
“You mean 693 plus 396? Like, add them together?”
“Yes!”
Carl concentrated on his addition, again using his hand to shield his scribble.
“Ten eighty-nine,” he said, after a bit of bother carrying his figures.
The boy howled with laughter as Carl raised his head, sensing how gobsmacked he looked.
“Nice one, Ludwig. Is it always going to be 1089, no matter what?”
The boy looked disappointed. “Yes, wasn’t that what I said? But if you start with 102, for example, you’ll get ninety-nine after the first subtraction. Then you have to write 099 rather then ninety-nine, because it always has to be a three-digit number, remember?”
Carl nodded as if he’d got the drift.
“Clever lad,” he said drily, sending Samantha a smile. “Gets it from his mum, I’m sure.”
She didn’t reply, so obviously he was right.
“Samantha’s probably one of the most gifted mathematicians in the country. But it looks like Ludwig’s going to be even better,” Mona informed him, then handed him the salmon.
OK, so mum and spawn were two of a kind. Part genius, part ball of fire, part impoliteness personified. Some mix. Not the easiest of families to join.
• • •
After another couple of intellectual challenges, Carl was finally let off the hook. Two more portions of fries were rounded off with three scoops of ice cream, by which time the boy was exhausted. Samantha and Ludwig called it a day and said their good-byes, leaving Mona standing in front of him with sparks in her eyes.
“I’ve made an appointment with Kris for Monday,” Carl said, wanting to get this part over with quickly. “I called him to apologize for not being able to make it today. Honestly, Mona, it’s been all go since this morning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, drawing him into a tight embrace, so tight Carl was almost at boiling point.
“I think you’re ready for a bit of nooky,” she said, sliding her hand down the front of his trousers.
Carl sucked in air through his teeth. She certainly was perceptive, he’d give her that. Maybe she’d inherited it from her daughter.
Following the obligatory initial maneuvers that resulted in Mona popping off to the bathroom to powder her nose, Carl was left sitting on the edge of the bed with blazing cheeks, swollen lips, and a pair of briefs that suddenly felt far too small.
And then his mobile rang.
It was Rose’s number at HQ. Bollocks.
“Yeah, what is it, Rose?” he said bluntly into the receiver. “Make it short, I’m in the middle of something important,” he added, sensing his pride and joy slowly beginning to wilt.
“We came up trumps, Carl.”
“What are you talking about? And how come you’re still at work?”
“We both are. Hi, Carl!” Assad chirped in the background. What were they doing, having a dance party down there, or what?
“We’ve found another missing persons case. It wasn’t reported until a month after the others, so we didn’t see it to begin with.”
“OK, and what makes you think they’re linked?”
“They called it the VéloSoleX case. Bloke from Brenderup on Fyn gets on his moped and heads off for Ejby, leaves it outside the railway station, and no one ever sees him again. Vanished into thin air.”
“And what was the date?”
“Fourth of September 1987. But there’s more.”
Carl glanced toward the bathroom, where the woman of his erotic dreams was already making cooing noises.
“Come on, make it quick. What else did you turn up?”
“His name was Hermansen. Tage Hermansen.”
Carl frowned. “And?”
“Hermansen, Carl!” Assad cried out in the background. “Don’t you remember? That was the name Mie Nørvig mentioned in connection with the very first case her first husband handled for Curt Wad.”
“OK,” Carl replied. “We’ll have to look into it. Nice work. Now go home, the pair of you.”
“See you at HQ, right, Carl? Nine o’clock tomorrow morning?” Assad’s voice echoed in the receiver.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Assad. Haven’t you ever heard of days off?”
There was noise on the line as Rose handed the phone to Assad.
“Listen, Carl. If Rose and I can work on the rest day, you can drive to Fyn on a Saturday, can’t you?”
It wasn’t a question.
25
September 1987
Rita looked out across Peblinge Lake, outwardly relaxed, yet tense and expectant, her body craving nicotine. Two cigarettes and she would head for the gray brick building, press the entry-phone button, push open the front door, and climb the stairway that would return her to her past. And then life would begin again.
She smiled to herself, and to the young man who was jogging by and who cast a flirtatious glance in return. Though she’d been up at the crack of dawn, she was in high spirits. She felt invincible.
With a cigarette between her lips she noted how the jogger stopped twenty meters on and began doing stretches, his gaze trained on her open coat and ample breasts.
Another day, perhaps, her eyes signaled as she lit her cigarette.
The only thing that mattered at the moment was Nete. Seeing Nete was more urgent than a kid with his brains dangling between his legs.
She had been turning the question over in her mind from the day she opened the letter until this morning, when she’d climbed into her car and headed for the capital. Why did Nete want to see her? Hadn’t they agreed years ago never to meet up again? Hadn’t Nete made that abundantly clear last time they saw each other?
“It was your fault I ended up on that bloody island. You’re the one who dragged me into it that day,” Rita mouthed, mimicking her former friend between drags on her ciggie, the young jogger still trying to gauge his chances.
Rita laughed. Those had been pretty unhealthy times, back in the solemn rigor of the asylum in 1955.
• • •
The day Nete arrived at the institution in Brejning in eastern Jutland, four of the less-retarded patients had got themselves into a fight. The high-ceilinged halls echoed with shouts and cries. It sounded like bedlam.
Rita loved days like that, when something happened. She’d always enjoyed watching a good punch-up, and the staff excelled at meting out punishment in kind.
She was standing by the entrance as the two police officers led Nete in. A brief glimpse was all she needed to realize that here was a girl much like herself. Keen eyes, shocked by the ugliness of what she was seeing. Not only that, there was a fury about her. Nete was a survivor, the same as herself.
Rita set store by anger. It was what kept her going. Stealing, relieving gullible fools of their wallets, pushing those aside who stood in her way. Of course, she knew anger would never be a solution, but somehow the emotion was enough in itself. With a rage inside her, she felt capable of anything.
The new girl was given a room two doors from her own. Rita decided to approach her that evening. They would be friends, allies, no matter what. She would cultivate her.
She took the girl to be a couple of years younger than herself. Essentially naive, poorly broken in. Most certainly intelligent, but without yet having learned enough about life and human nature to understand everything worked like a game. Rita would teach her.
When the girl tired of darning socks all day long, and her first clashes with the staff knocked her out of synch, she would come to Rita for comfort. And Rita would provide. Before the beech tree came into leaf, the two of them would abscond, Rita promised herself. They would cross the Jutland peninsula to the west coast, where they would board a fishing boat in Hvide Sande that would take them to England. There would always be fishermen ready to help two pretty girls on the run. Who in his right mind would pass up the chance of rocking the boat with the two of them belowdecks?
When they reached England, they would learn English and get jobs, and when they were ready they would move on to America.
Rita had the plan. All she needed was someone to carry it out with.
• • •
Less than three days passed before this new girl’s p
roblems began. She asked too many questions, it was that straightforward. The way she stood out from all the other deranged and simpleminded souls, her questions would never be taken as anything but criticism, an assault upon the system.
“Keep your head down,” Rita told her in the corridor. “Don’t let them know how clever you are. It won’t do you any good. Do as they say, and do it in silence.”
And then she pulled Nete toward her and drew her tight. “You’ll get away, I promise, but first there’s something I need to know. Is anyone likely to come and visit you here?”
Nete shook her head.
“So there’s no one to go home to if they ever let you out?”
The question clearly shocked her. “What do you mean, if they ever let me out?”
“You don’t think anyone ever just gets out of here, do you? I know the buildings look nice, but it’s still a prison. We might be able to look out on fields and the fjord, but all around us there’s invisible barbed wire growing up out of the ground. You’ll never scale that fence without me, so you’d better fucking get used to the idea.”
Nete giggled unexpectedly.
“Hey, we’re not supposed to swear in here,” she admonished quietly, digging a playful elbow into Rita’s side.
She was all right.
• • •
After Rita had smoked her two cigarettes she looked at her watch. It was 10:58. Time to put her head into the jaws of the lion. Time to break its teeth.
The jogger was now leaning against a tree. She almost called out to him, to tell him to wait until she came back, but then she thought of Nete’s luscious hair, her curves, and thought better of it. There’d always be cocks available. All she had to do was snap her fingers. Anywhere. Anytime.
Nete’s voice seemed unfamiliar over the entry phone, but she didn’t let this bother her.
“Nete! How lovely to hear your voice again,” she said into the mike, pushing open the front door at the buzzer. Maybe Nete really was ill. It sounded like it.
A moment’s unexpected apprehension vanished when Nete opened the door of the apartment and stood looking at her as if the twenty-six years that had passed had been but a gust of wind, and all the bad blood between them was gone.
The Purity of Vengeance Page 25
