When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

you, and all you do, when you have the possibility, is to view a stupid film.”

  “I am even not a reader,” I answered. “Besides, I am getting three new films tomorrow. I am enjoying the occasion.” I enjoyed noticing his reaction.

  “Juanita told me that you just have a visitor,” he fished.

  “A poor lady with an interesting case – but that is nothing for your relaxing brain. I told her we were full of – eh – occupation, without specifying which one. So after she had told me her sad story, she left. She came on recommendation of her husband, a Mr. Lockwood from Charlottenlund. Do you happen to know him?”

  “Yes, indeed, I made some crucial research for his firm some years ago, before your arrival here, Eric. Is something wrong with him?”

  “He and his wife have a problem – their problem, by the way, nothing that should disturb our intentions for tomorrow, what your book and my films are concerned. Juanita, can I have some coffee, please?”

  Juanita had just entered the room, and I used my request as an interruption for changing the topic of discussion, well knowing that it made Mr. Smith more curious. The bait was showing effect. The colossus touched the bait: “I remember Mr. Lockwood very well. He is an Englishman who married a young Danish girl, perhaps 20 years younger than himself. He had a position in the British government, and many years ago, we cooperated in a spectacular case in England. Now he is CEO of a big industrial firm in Copenhagen. Has it something to do with that?”

  “No, certainly not. It was something from his political past, some criminal aspect.”

  Mr. Smith sighed. “Yes, it is sometimes difficult to define the difference between political and criminal aspects. Tell me, what is it all about?”

  “I’m sorry, my first obligation is to protect my boss from any occupational disturbance during his holiday, How about your new gain, Verdi’s ‘Don Carlos’ – shall I put it on?”

  He knew it was not my taste, and that made him suspicious. “Orders reversed. Verdi can wait. Tell me about the Lockwood’s problem.”

  I showed a face as if I did not want to obey. “Mr. Lockwood was, as I mentioned, state secretary in a ministry in London until 2003. He left the government without explaining why, as Great Britain entered America’s war in Iraq, but it was generally assumed that this was the cause. He came to Denmark and received his position in a big firm as you mentioned. Now, somehow, his past has caught him up. Something about lying about the reason to go to war.”

  “But several governments did so, also here in Denmark. Until now, this has not proven dangerous – at least for the politicians,” Mr. Smith remarked.

  “No, lying is all right. Therefore, it is dangerous to prove that the various governments have lied – also in Denmark. You know, they sentenced a man here for giving the information that the government knew, there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.”

  “He was sentenced for having leaked confidential information to journalists – but you are also right, that was proving that the government had lied, which nobody cared about. Has Mr. Lockwood anything to do with this affair?”

  “No, that has been successfully cleaned in the press. It has something to do with the ‘Downing Street Minutes’ – are you sure, you don’t want to hear Verdi instead?”

  “Go ahead,” he muttered dryly.

  “A few days before the election in 2005, Times published a report, known as ‘Downing Street Minutes.’ Somebody had given the journalist a secret report, proving that Bush and Blair in 2002 had agreed of going to war in Iraq although they knew there were no weapons of mass destruction there, until they brought them there themselves. Now, another British newspaper has suggested that Mr. Lockwood was the one who leaked the report to the press. He shall make a statement on a press conference tomorrow. His wife is kind of desperate about it.”

  “She has any reason to be!”

  “Don’t you exaggerate a bit?”

  “The British have a harsh way of punishing those who leaks state secrets. Think of David Kelly, who was murdered in a rather primitive way, then it was claimed to be a suicide. I am afraid Mr. Lockwood will also soon be found in the woods … unless …” he looked at me with a strange glimpse in his eyes.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you prevent it!”

  “ME? I am sorry, business is currently closed. At least you gave me that impression,” I stubbornly repeated.

  “My activity is cooked down to a minimum. However, as an Irishman, I hear the trumpets calling when a fugitive is being persecuted by the British government. Call Mrs. Lockwood and tell her you are coming but she should open the entrance door to nobody until you arrive.”

  “And when do I arrive, before or after dinner?”

  Mr Smith looked at the watch. When ‘eating’ was the topic, he was almost a humanitarian. “OK, after dinner, at 9:30 p.m. And don’t forget your toothbrush – you are going to stay there for some time. By the way, call the Lockwoods and give me the line.”

  “I obeyed. That is, according to some odd business principles, I had to argue with a butler that I needed to talk with Mrs. or Mr. Lockwood on behalf of Mr. Smith, with whom I would connect only when I had one of the requested persons on the line. The butler had the same attitude, so that might have delayed the conversation considerably, if not Mrs. Lockwood by coincidence had passed by the hall where the telephone had been taken.

  “Mrs. Lockwood, I explained your case to Mr. Smith, and I shall come to your house at 9:30 p.m.” I almost was about to say ‘as agreed upon’ but managed to delete that. “Mr. Smith wants to talk with you himself, just hold on, I shall connect.” I gave her a few seconds of our ‘hold the line’ in four languages while I handed the phone to Mr. Smith, not mentioning that we were sitting two meters apart.

  Mr. Smith asked if he could speak with her husband but she responded that he was expected only after 9 p.m. as he had an important meeting in the firm, relating to the press conference the following day. Then he told her that she would get a visitor on 9.30 and he told her (and me) that I would stay overnight. The reason was that he feared danger to Mr. Lockwood, and she obviously shared this feeling. Then he hung up.

  “She spoke perfect English – but I got the impression that she was not surprised of getting a visitor,” he said with suspicion in his voice.

  “I guess she was relieved. What her language concerns, she speaks a very bright English although she is of Irish origin, she told me. Her parents are, however, now both Danish citizens”

  Mr. Smith, himself an Irishman, smiled wittingly. “Contact Fred if he is available tomorrow. We still have some time to consider our strategy. And now, you may play Verdi.”

  Maybe his brain worked upon it, but I only saw him enjoying his coffee. After having had my part, I left for my own bureau to call Fred and get away from Mr. Smith. Fred was easy to get hold of, and he was happy to get a new task, although I could not presently give him any details. I called Alice and told her not to call in the evening since I would be occupied. As usual, she expressed doubt about my real intentions and I nourished her instinct by telling that I was going to visit a young lady and stay overnight. We didn’t discuss the matter further but agreed to meet in 4 days, on Saturday.

  After dinner at 8 p.m. sharp, just for the two of us and prepared with usual excellence by Juanita, I collected some belongings, called a taxi and left for Charlottenlund where I arrived almost half an hour early, according to the scheduled time, and still too late for the purpose of my presence there.

  2 – Locked up in the Woods

  I arrived at Lockwood’s impressive mansion at 9.05 p.m. I had expected a classical English butler, and that would have suited the house, but the man who opened was the body-guard type from an instant impression, only his clothing was comfortable with a thin blouse but neither jacket, nor tie. ‘Why are you here and not with your master,’ was my immediate thought.

  Before I had taken off my coat, Mrs. Lockwood came to great me in the hall. “Hel
lo Mr. Gusto, nice to see you. This is Andrew, my husband’s son of first marriage.” So the young man, who was certainly not the butler, was worthy of a second glance. He was my size, with dark, shiny hair, brown eyes and probably in the beginning of the twenties, not much younger than his stepmother.

  She interrupted my thoughts: “My husband has not yet arrived, but that is not unusual. It can be midnight before I should get nervous, but somehow I have already reached that state today.”

  “Somehow I share that feeling,” I admitted. “Can’t you call him?”

  “I just tried to, but nobody took the phone in the firm – which is not strange, so late – but also his mobile was not taken. But please come in. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “If there is one thing, Mr. Smith really cares about …”

  “Yes, my husband said he is a big man, in a double sense, but that is no guarantee, that he also cares about his employees.”

  “Although he assumes from my physical statute that I suffer from chronic malnutrition, this is only why I don’t want to look like him. I try to keep a balance between caloric intake and physical consumption – like you yourself, if you permit me this observation.”

  She flushed, so I changed the topic, while going into the sitting room. Under other circumstances a cosy place, an open fire did its best to heat up tempers, but the nervousness of my hostess penetrated the impression of time and space. “Do you know the mobile number of anyone, who has taken part in the meeting tonight?”

  “Yes, I am sure that Robert, I mean Mr. Andersen, must have been there. But isn’t it too early to call him?”

  “It may even be too late!”

  Immediately she called Mr. Andersen. It was a short conversation. With tears in her eyes, she referred it: “He said the meeting ended half past eight. My husband was in a great mood and happy for the broad support among his business colleagues as he left – the first to do so. He said that he wanted to come home and eat something before receiving a late guest – he meant you. Robert can’t understand why he did not arrive long time ago, it normally takes less than twenty minutes in the evening to go home from the firm.”

  “We’ve got to find him as soon as possible. May I get his mobile phone number?”

  She hesitated at first, then handed me her own mobile phone, where the number was visible on the display. I took my notebook from the inner pocket in my jacket and wrote it down. “Don’t tell him that I have given you the number, it is very private.”

  “I am not going to call him but trying to locate him.” Instead I called another number from my own mobile phone. Fortunately, he was there and picked up immediately.

  “Erlandsson.”

  “Hello Mr. Erlandsson, here is Eric Gusto. I have an urgent case going on, which I have to transfer to you. Mr. Lockwood has been abducted, and I am sure that his life is in danger. Can you try to locate it if I give you the number?”

  “If you tell me some more details, I shall try.”

  “I promise, but later. First you locate him, it’s urgent!”

  “OK, I’ll call you back if your own number is not blocked.”

  “I shall try to avoid it,” I said, and immediately, Mr. Erlandsson hung up before I had pronounced the last ‘t.’

  Almost immediately, my mobile rang. The display informed that it was Alice. Without saying hello, I said, “Dear Alice, it is urgent. I’ll call back tomorrow!” and then I hang up. That would require a lot of explaining later.

  It lasted some hours – or maybe just some long minutes. Then Erlandsson called back. “The local colleagues have all hands full, perhaps on purpose, and also the rescue services are occupied in different missions, can you look for yourself?”

  I confirmed it, knowing that he would not give me the chance else.

  “Do you know the road between Nærum and Skodsborg, through the forest Dyrehaven? In the middle, there is a parking area. There you find his mobile, with a bit of luck also Mr. Lockwood himself. I am coming, too, but I must at first go to the Central police station by bike. Shall I send an ambulance, too, before we know what we find there?”

  “Yes, please, by all means.” I hang up and suddenly realised that I had come by taxi, with a Bike in Hellerup beside the garage with Mr. Smith’s old luxury sledge. “Do you have an extra car here, Mrs. Lockwood?”

  “Certainly, we have two.”

  “Then get hold of the fastest one. I know where to drive.”

  I got no chance. Andrew, whom I had first regarded the doorman, wanted to drive his Ferrari himself. It is a car for two real and two half persons behind, so if the latter bring their legs, they will soon regret. Which I did, with Mr. Lockwood’s family taking advantage of their foreknowledge. But fast it was. Normally, it was no advantage having a fast car in Denmark, but the police was occupied, Erlandsson had just told me, and I hoped it was not related to speed control. We drove the curved way to Skodsborg, then only did I tell Andrew to turn left towards Nærum, and soon, we were in the wood. There I told Andrew to slow down a bit and start searching. After perhaps two km, we arrived to a parking lot where we immediately found what my companions recognized as Mr. Lockwood’s car, an old-fashioned darkblue Rover. Unfortunately, it was empty, with his mobile carelessly to be found at the backseat.

  “We’ll soon get help. Put on the warn light. We’ll have to search the surroundings,” I said. Then I called Erlandsson’s mobile, which I also had saved on previous occasions. “The mobile was in the car, which is empty. How about search dogs?”

  “Never acutely in the middle of the night. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Search the surroundings and mark the place.”

  “Both initiated.” I hung up, hoping to be faster doing it than Erlandsson would be.

  I got an idea. Just in case, Mr. Lockwood was still alive, there was a possibility that he might react to noise. I went to the Ferrari and ‘blew the horn.’ Then silence. I made another two tones and waited. Then I heard some noise less than 100 yards away. I started the car and put the long light on, turning the car in that direction.

  I ran to the spot, followed by the Andrew. We found Mr. Lockwood with an adhesive band for the mouth and hands and feet tied up, but at least alive. He was bleeding from a small wound on his left hand. His goldframed glasses were lying between leaves on the ground two feet away – I was lucky to discover them with my eyes and not with my shoes.

  “Tim, tell me what has happened!” His wife took of the adhesive for his mouth to make it possible, but he did not make use of the possibility. Then his wife started to make compression of the wound.

  Before me was a man of difficult to determe age, but certainly a generation elder than his wife. He was almost completely bald, with several runks over the eyes. He was clad in a dark-grey jacket with a red-and-blu striped tie. Over his jacket was a thin, beige coat, certainly not the right dress to make an excursion in the nature in late night. Accordingly, he was trembling from cold.

  Now we heard the police-car coming.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Erlandsson, we removed some crucial evidence and tramped around at the scene of the crime, but I thought it was more important to save the life than to help the culprits.”

  Erlandsson smiled. “I forgive you that, but you have something to explain.”

  “I shall give you the complete story, as I know it now, but first tell me if an ambulance is on its way.”

  Without answering, he turned to the police-car and belled some orders in the radio. Then he immediately returned. “As I probably mentioned, we have received a number of false alarms this evening, perhaps in order to block the resources for this case. Now for your promise: I am just listening.”

  “Just a moment.” And I screemed to the other group of people, “Is Mr. Lockwood out of danger?”

  “Yes, I think so,” answered the victim with a somewhat weak voice.

  “Thanks to you, Mr. Gusto,” said his wife.

  “No, thanks to Mr. Erlandsson,” I corrected before the mentione
d person would do so himself. Then there was no further excuse, I had to start and hope for the next interruption to come soon. “This is possibly your most important case – if it is your case at all, since you are only dealing with dead persons and we managed to save Mr. Lockwood’s life – by the way, this was only the beginning of an assassination attempt, we can expect the culprits to come back to see if their started job has been finished.”

  “Not if they listen to the police radio, then they will certainly not come back. But continue, and don’t let that ambulance disturb you. There are enough people there, and you can’t contribute with anything positive there.”

  He was right. “As I said, this is your most important case, and I am proud that we cooperate on it ...”

  The bait worked: he interrupted with the words, “the cooperation stopped, I take over now.”

  “As you wish,” I said, and I said no more.

  “Go ahead. What is so important about the case?”

  “I’m sorry, but cooperation stopped.”

  Erlandsson knew when he had lost. After all, there were others to ask. He ordered the policeman, who had driven him there, to guard Mr. Lockwood, “and don’t leave him, except when he is in the operating theatre, I shall then return with the patrol car back to the police station.” Also Mrs. Lockwood entered the ambulance which by order of the police, and against the protest of the paramedics, was directed towards the University Hospital In Copenhagen.

  To me, I regarded the day as being successfully ended. Andrew drove me home – what a pleasure to sit on a frontseat in a Ferrari. It was almost midnight before I could have called Alice, so I decided to let her sleep.

  3 – Locked Up in the Hospital

  Being formally dressed and with a glance to the dubious weather, I took a taxi the following morning, after first having called Alice at home and briefly told her why I was so busy last evening. It was not the first time I had disappointed her.

  At nine a.m., Mr. Smith came down to breakfast. He looked sceptically at my dress, undoubtedly noticing a new shirt and a different tie. But loyal to his own principle, he did not ask me about business matters during a holy meal. That would have been the first time, if he did. We discussed different news, everything was allowed as long as it had no relation to our present case.

  In Mr. Smith windowless office, the centre of his elegant white house, I could sense that my boss was experiencing some tension. Other persons would probably not feel it, but working with him for years, you got sensitive to discrete symptoms. It did not influence his demand for a thorough report.

  So I gave him that, but it was not quite what he wanted. “Where is Mr. Lockwood now?”

  “I guess he is in the University Hospital.” I regretted the use of the word ‘guess’ immediately as I had pronounced it. I tried to compensate with, “That is where he was admitted some hours ago.” But of course, the expected response came:

  “You should not guess when you can know.”

  “You are probably having more questions before I start finding the answers.”

  “Only one. Is he left- or right-handed?”

  “I am not asking why.”

  “When you search in the Internet for the Kelly affair, you will anyhow find out.”

  I understood that I had work to do. I left Mr. Smith with his conventional newspapers and went to my office.

  How to find the answer to the first question? The hospital would certainly not give me any information and neither would the police. So it seemed logical to call Mrs. Lockwood and ask her, and about the second question as well.

  “We are going to pick him up from the hospital now,” she said.

  “If you are not using the Ferrari, I would like to come along,” I answered.

  “Perhaps it will be possible to see Mr. Smith afterwards?”

  “I shall check the possibility until you come. When will you be here?”

  “In about 15 minutes.”

  “Just one small question: Is your husband left- or right-handed?”

  “He is actually left-handed. Why do you ask?”

  “Just so” and I hang up. If she asked further I might have said ‘I don’t know’. It looked certainly more professional to hide my ignorance in silence. The next was how to arrange a meeting with Mr. Smith. It would seem logical to bring him here right away, but however logical, Mr. Smith hated to be told what to do. It was better to let him get that idea himself. Which he then did as I told him, “I’m going to pick up Mr. Lockwood from the hospital right away.”

  “Eric, bring them all here on the way back.”

  “Great idea, shall be carried out, boss.”

  “I mean, if they care to.”

  “Certainly!”

  The doorbell rang. Mrs. Lockwood asked me to come along. This time they had taken a long Mercedes with bullet-proof windows. I would have loved to take place behind, but this time I was let in beside the driver.

  It was not quite uncomplicated getting him out of the hospital. First, Mr. Lockwood had to insist of his rights of an individual – the Danes never heard about habeas corpus – and having broken down the resistance of the physicians to let him go, suddenly the policeman posing as a guard awoke and complained. He insisted that, if leaving, Mr. Lockwood would first have to go to the police station for interrogation.

  “Am I under arrest?” Mr Lockwood wanted to know.

  The policeman transferred the question by radio to the station. “No, but Mr. Erlandsson wants to talk with you.”

  “He shall be welcome in my home at – when do you think we have finished, Mr. Gusto?”

  “Mr. Smith has an important term shortly after noon,” I answered. I did not say it had anything to do with eating, Mr. Lockwood might not understand how important that was to Mr. Smith. We very seldom had guests joining us at lunch, somewhat more often at dinner but only when I had instructed them to abstain completely from discussing business matters at the table. Nothing had such a bad influence on Mr. Smith’s appetite as business matters.

  “Tell Mr. Erlandsson that he is welcome in Charlottenlund after 12:30, but at 4 p.m., I must be back in the firm for the press conference.”

  “But darling, after this terrible night, can’t you excuse yourself?” his wife suggested.

  “I could, perhaps, but I want to get it behind me, only then can I relax. I have feared this day for years, but I cannot run away from it. Now I want to get the steam off the kettle, whatever consequences it may have.”

  Consequences! We already had one, another might come soon in order to prevent any inconvenient statements at the press conference. I should have organised for a welcome committee, now I had to play the bodyguard myself with the help of only one policeman.

  “In that case, our task ends here,” said the same. “Strict orders from Mr. Erlandsson, if you refuse to come with me.”

  “Get the car, Andrew,” I said and considered whispering, “and drive it to the ambulance entrance. We shall meet there in 15 minutes.”

  “But it is forbidden to drive there for a normal car,” he argued, equally whispering.

  “One reason more to try it today. Check your watch: we meet in exactly fifteen minutes. Get going!”

  I guess it was easier for Andrew to get to the meeting point than it was for us from inside the hospital. It was very difficult to find, but we arrived simultaneously. We had to hear some uncomfortable words from the ambulance drivers present there, but we were gone very fast. Driving North at Østerbrogade, we soon passed the old beer bottle in Hellerup. I do not know why, but it usually gave me a comfortable feeling to know that I was out of Copenhagen. Soon we turned right on the small blind street where you would