The warmth of her voice, however, was just as he might have hoped. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you, Carl. Have you lost your key?”
He stepped into the corridor. “No, it’s just that I didn’t really fancy butting in. Thought maybe Rolf might still be having a lie-in.”
The ensuing silence wasn’t that uncomfortable, but it brought him down nonetheless. There were so many ways to tell the woman you were mad about that you didn’t want to share her with anyone else. And the upshot was almost always a breakup.
He counted the seconds and was on the verge of hanging up out of sheer frustration when peals of laughter of Olympic proportions almost blew his eardrum into his skull.
“Oh, God, you’re so sweet, Carl. You’re jealous of a dog, darling! Mathilde talked me into looking after her Cairn terrier puppy while she’s off taking a course.”
“A dog?” Carl felt himself promptly deflate like a balloon. “Then why the hell did you have to go and say a thing like, ‘Don’t worry yourself, we’ll talk about it some other time’ when I called you? I’ve been at my wits’ end here.”
“Listen, silly. Maybe it’ll teach you that some women might not be in the mood for early-morning small talk with their boyfriends until they’ve had a chance to spend half an hour in front of the mirror.”
“Sounds like you’re telling me it was a test.”
She laughed. “You are a good policeman, aren’t you? Another mystery solved.”
“Did I pass?”
“We’ll talk about it tonight. That is, if you don’t mind Rolf being here, too?”
• • •
They turned off Roskildevej onto Brøndbyøstervej, clusters of tower blocks rising up on both sides of the road.
“I know Brøndby Nord quite well,” said Assad. “Do you, Carl?”
He nodded. How many times had he been out on patrol here? They said Brøndbyøster had once been a lively community with three bustling squares, a place that had everything going for it. Good neighborhoods, people with purchasing power. And then the shopping centers came, one after another: Rødovre Centrum, Glostrup Centret, Hvidovre Centret, the Bilka hypermarkets in Ishøj and Hundige. The place never stood a chance. Shops closed down like it was an epidemic. Decent, well-run shops, and now there was next to sod all left. Brøndby looked like the most neglected town center in the country. Where was the pedestrian street, where were the boutiques and stores, the cinema, the community facilities? Now the only people who lived here were those mobile enough to shop elsewhere or whose requirements were few.
It was all glaringly obvious on the squares of Brøndbyøster Torv and Nygårds Plads. Apart from its football team, Brøndby had little to be proud of. It was a dead end, and its northernmost area, Brøndby Nord, was a case in point.
“Yeah, I know it pretty well, Assad. Why do you ask?”
“I’m certain not many pregnant women in Brøndby Nord would slip through the mesh of Curt Wad’s net. It makes me think of the doctors from the concentration camps standing at the train wagons, sorting the Jews,” he said.
Maybe that was putting it a bit strongly, but Carl nodded nevertheless as he stared ahead past the bridge that led over the S-train tracks. A little farther down the road the old village came into view. An oasis in the asphalt jungle. Quaint old cottages with thatched roofs and proper fruit trees, the kind that hadn’t been cultivated through continuous grafting. There was room enough here for people to breathe.
“We need to go along Vestre Gade,” said Assad, checking the GPS. “Brøndbyøstervej is a one-way street, so you’ll have to go all the way down to Park Allé and back.”
Carl looked at the signposting. It seemed right enough. And then, just as they entered the village, he saw the shadow of a truck hurtling toward them from a side road. Before he could react, the vehicle smashed into the back end of the Peugeot with such force that the car was sent careering off the road and onto the pavement, where its path was halted by a thick privet hedge. The seconds that passed as though they were minutes were a mayhem of shattering glass, crunching metal, and the smack of airbags deploying into their faces. And then it was over. They heard the hiss of the engine and a clamor of approaching voices. That was all.
They looked at each other, shaken but relieved, as the airbags deflated.
“Look what you’ve done to my hedge!” an elderly man exclaimed, as they tumbled out of the car. Not a word of concern as to their state of health. Luckily, they were all right.
Carl gave a shrug. “Get on to your insurance company. Environmental restoration desk.” He glanced around at the nearest bystanders. “Anyone see what happened?”
“It was a truck going like a bat out of hell the wrong way down a one-way street and then back onto Brøndbyøstervej. He carried on up to Højstens Boulevard, I think,” said one.
“It came down from Brøndbytoften. They’d been parked up there a while. I can’t tell you what make it was, though, other than it was blue,” said another.
“No it wasn’t, it was gray,” a third chipped in.
“I don’t suppose anyone managed to get the number down?” said Carl, assessing the damage. He might as well call in to the motor pool right away and get it over with. Knowing them, he and Assad would be catching the S-train back.
And if his gut feeling was right, it wouldn’t be much good asking around the industrial estate at Brøndbytoften if anyone knew anything about that truck.
It was a brazen attempt to do away with them. Certainly no accident.
• • •
“Would you credit it? Curt Wad’s house is right opposite the police academy. Can’t think of a better cover for dodgy goings-on than that, can you, Assad? Who’d ever think of looking here?”
Assad pointed at a brass nameplate fixed to the yellow-brick wall next to the front door.
“That is not his name on the sign, Carl. It says ‘Karl-Johan Henriksen, MD, Consultant Gynecologist.’”
“I know, Wad sold his practice. Look, there’s two doorbells, Assad. Let’s try the top one, eh?”
They heard a muffled version of Big Ben somewhere from within. When no one appeared after repeated tries at both doorbells, they went through between the gable-end of the house and a yellow-washed former stables with a tiled roof that looked like it was from the days of King Cnut.
The garden was a small oblong, crowned by snowberry bushes and surrounded by a wooden fence. There were a couple of flower beds that seemed reasonably well cared for, and a rickety-looking shed.
They ventured into the middle of the lawn to discover the face of an old man staring out of the window at them from what appeared to be the living room. It was Curt Wad, no doubt about it.
He shook his head at them. Carl held his badge up to the pane, which only made Wad repeat his dismissive gesture. He clearly had no intention of letting them in.
Then Assad went up the step and rattled the back door. It opened.
“Curt Wad,” he said in the doorway. “May we come in?”
Carl watched Wad through the window. His reply was an angry tirade, though Carl was unable to hear what was said.
“Thank you very much, indeed,” said Assad, and slipped inside.
Cheeky bugger, Carl thought to himself, and went in after him.
“You’re trespassing on private property. I must ask you to leave immediately,” Wad protested. “My wife happens to be on her deathbed upstairs and I’m not in any mood for visitors.”
“We are in a bad mood, too, as it happens,” Assad rejoined.
Carl took hold of his sleeve. “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Wad. We’ll make it brief, I promise.”
He sat down uninvited on a rustic settle with oak panels, though the owner of the house remained standing.
“We’ve an idea you know why we’re here, judging by the games you’ve been playing wi
th us this morning. But let me sum up.”
Carl paused in order to note Wad’s reaction to his suggestion of two attempts on his life, but none was forthcoming. The man’s body language, however, told him they were unwelcome and would do well to leave, the sooner the better.
“Apart from our having delved a bit into your activities in various organizations and political parties, we’re here because we’d like to know if your name can be linked to the disappearance of a number of individuals at the beginning of September 1987. But before I ask you specific questions, would there be anything you’d like to tell us in that respect?”
“Yes. I’m telling you to leave.”
“I don’t understand,” said Assad. “I could have sworn you just invited us in.”
It was an Assad quite without the usual gleam in his eye. Tenacious, bordering on the aggressive. Carl could see he’d have to keep him on a short leash.
The old man was about to protest, but Carl held up his hand. “Like I said, just a few short questions. And you keep quiet for a minute, Assad.”
Carl glanced around. There was a door leading out into the garden, another into what looked like a dining room, and then a set of double doors that were closed. All were of teak-veneered plywood. A typical sixties revamp.
“I assume that’d be Karl-Johan Henriksen’s surgery through there? Is it closed now?”
Curt Wad nodded. Carl could see the man was on the alert and keeping himself in check, but his rage was bound to emerge once the questioning became more forceful.
“So anyone entering the front door would have three ways to go. Up the stairs to the first floor where your wife is, left into the surgery, and right, through the dining room and presumably on into the kitchen area. Is that correct?”
Wad nodded again, most likely puzzled by where Carl might be headed, but nevertheless electing to remain silent.
Carl checked the doors again. If they were going to be attacked it would probably come from the double doors of the surgery, he thought to himself. He kept an eye on them, and one hand in the region of his pistol.
“What disappearances are you referring to?” the old man eventually asked.
“A Philip Nørvig. We know he worked for you.”
“I see. I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years. But there were others, you say? Which others?”
OK, he seemed to be calming down a bit.
“People connected to Sprogø in one way or another,” Carl replied.
“Well, I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I’m from Fyn,” Wad said with a smirk.
“But your professional assessments did result in a great many women being sent to the island. Moreover, you were in charge of a diligent and very smoothly run organization that had women placed in the home there during the years 1955 to 1961. At the same time, this organization seems to have been involved in a remarkable number of cases of forced abortion and unlawful sterilization.”
Wad’s smile broadened. “And did any convictions ever ensue? None whatsoever. It was stuff and nonsense, the lot of it. Is this really about retards from Sprogø? I can’t see what that would have to do with the cases you’re investigating. Perhaps you should be talking to Nørvig instead.”
“Nørvig disappeared in 1987.”
“So you say, yes. But perhaps he had good reason to. Perhaps he was at the bottom of whatever it is you’re interested in. Have you looked for him?”
The arrogance of the man was astounding.
“I won’t listen to this, Carl.” Assad turned to face Wad directly. “You knew we were on our way, yes? You didn’t even come to the door to see who was there. You knew the truck you had waiting had failed to stop us. And now you are in the shit.”
Assad stepped up close to the man. Things were taking a turn, and fast. They still had no end of details they needed to get out of Wad. The way this was going, he’d shut up like a clam.
“No, wait, Carl,” said Assad, when he realized his superior was about to intervene. And then he put his arms around the waist of the old man, who was head and shoulders taller than him, picked him up, and then put him down forcibly in an armchair by the fireplace. “So now you are more under control. Last night you tried to kill Carl and his friends by burning down his house. The night before, you tried to steal evidence from Police Headquarters. Documents have been incinerated. All dirty work done by your people. Do you think I will be nicer to you than you have been to us? Because if you do, you are much mistaken!”
Wad sat smiling at Assad, calm and collected. The man was almost asking for it.
Carl took over in the same aggressive tone as Assad. “Perhaps you’ll tell us where Louis Petterson might have got to, Wad?”
“Who?”
“Don’t mess me about. You know perfectly well who you’ve got on the payroll at Benefice.”
“Benefice? What might that be?”
“OK, so tell me how come Louis Petterson rang you up immediately after we questioned him about you at a bar in Holbæk.”
The smile stiffened slightly. Carl saw that Assad noticed, too. The first mention of anything concrete that could be pinned on him personally, and Wad reacted. Touché!
“And why did Herbert Sønderskov call you up before that? According to our information, that would have been just after we’d been to see him and Mie Nørvig in Halsskov. Any comments?”
“None.” Curt Wad placed his hands demonstratively on the armrests, a signal to them that he would now remain silent.
“Tell me about The Cause,” Carl went on. “An interesting little phenomenon, that. It’ll be all over the papers soon. Out in the open. How does that make you feel? After all, you’re the founder, aren’t you?”
No reply. Just hands that tightened around the armrests.
“Are you prepared to admit to your part in Philip Nørvig’s disappearance? Because if you are, we might just be able to concentrate our efforts on that, instead of all your other funny business with political parties and secret organizations.”
Wad’s reaction now was crucial. All Carl’s experience told him so. For no matter how minuscule the response, it would be his guideline as to what strategy to employ in dealing with this fossilized felon. Would he grasp the opportunity to come clean and save the party, or would he try to save himself? Carl was most inclined to believe the latter.
But Wad didn’t react at all.
Carl looked at Assad. Was he thinking the same thing? That in Curt Wad’s eyes, doing a deal in the Nørvig case was no exchange for The Cause. He wasn’t going to cop it for the lesser crime, regardless that it might save him going down for the greater one. Hardened criminals wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment, but Wad wasn’t buying. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with their missing persons at all? The possibility couldn’t be ruled out. Or was he so much shrewder than Carl realized?
For the moment, they were no further.
“Caspersen still works for you, doesn’t he? Just like he did when you and Lønberg and others in the Purity Party destroyed the lives of all those innocent people?”
Wad didn’t flinch. Assad, on the other hand, was about to blow.
“You realize of course that purity means being pure, especially in moral behavior? You stupid old man!” he seethed.
Carl noted that no matter how innocent Assad’s charge, it seemed to hit home. The comment appeared to have the old man riled more than all the others put together. Being lectured in semantics by this pushy little foreigner was an unspeakable provocation, that much was plain.
“What’s the name of your driver, the one with the white hair who left that gas cylinder at my place?” Carl continued, piling on the pressure. And then, finally: “Do you remember Nete Hermansen?”
Wad sat up. “I must ask you to leave at once.” So now he was getting formal again. “My wife is dying and I must ask you to leave now
and respect the fact that these are our last hours together.”
“The way you respected Nete when you had her shipped out to the island? The way you respected the women who couldn’t meet your sick, degenerate standards, whose children you murdered before they were even born?” Carl spat out the words with the same smirk on his face as Wad had used.
“How dare you even try to compare such things?” Wad got to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this hypocrisy.” He stepped toward Assad. “And you imagine you can bring your foul Arab urchins into the world and call them Danes? You worthless, ugly little raghead!”
“Ah, so there we have it.” Assad smiled. “The beast within. The ugly underside of Curt Wad.”
“Get out of here, you bloody camel fucker! Back to your own country where you belong!”
He turned to Carl. “Yes, I played a part in sending antisocial, feeble-minded girls with deviant sexual tendencies to Sprogø. Yes, they were sterilized. And you would do well to thank me for not having to contend with their offspring running around the streets like rats, for I can assure you the police would be at a loss as to what to do about their feral behavior. To hell with the both of you! If I’d been a younger man, I swear . . .”
He raised his fists toward them. Assad was clearly willing to let him have a go. Wad looked considerably frailer now than on TV. The sight of him was almost comical. This old man, squaring his shoulders for fisticuffs in a living room displaying a lifetime’s clutter of furnishing styles. But Carl knew better. Appearances deceived, and the man’s frailty extended only to his body. Wad’s weapon was his brain, and his brain was intact. The man was ruthless and driven by malice.
So Carl took his assistant by the collar and led him out through the back door.
“They’ll get him sooner or later, Assad, don’t you worry,” he assured him, as they trudged along Brøndbyøstervej toward the S-train station.
But Assad was having none of it.
“They?” he spluttered. “You say they and not we? Who are they who will stop him? Curt Wad is eighty-eight years old, Carl. No one will get him before Allah himself, unless we do.”
The Purity of Vengeance Page 36
