If he sorted them into rough categories, there were three types of cases.
The first and largest category included ordinary homicides of all types in which plausible motives were found, but the perpetrator remained unknown.
The next type of case also involved homicides, but of a more complex nature. It was sometimes difficult to pinpoint a motive, and there could be more than one victim. A conviction may have been handed down, but only with regard to accessories to the crime; the ringleaders or primary perpetrators were never identified. The murder itself may have had a certain random quality to it, and in some instances the act could be designated a crime of passion. The solving of these types of cases could sometimes be aided by lucky coincidences. Witnesses who just happened to be passing by; vehicles that were used in the commission of some other crime; information acquired through other unrelated circumstances, and so on. They were cases that could prove difficult for the investigators unless accompanied by a certain amount of luck.
And then there was the third category, which was a hodgepodge of homicides or presumed homicides linked to kidnappings, rapes, arson, robberies with deadly consequences, certain types of financial crimes, and a number of cases with political undertones. They were all cases the police had failed to solve, and in certain instances the very concept of justice had suffered a serious blow. An infant that had vanished from a pram; a resident of a retirement community who was found strangled in his apartment. A factory owner who was discovered murdered in a cemetery in Karup, or the case of the female diplomat at the zoo. Even though Carl hated to admit it, Piv Vestergård’s officiousness did have a certain value, even if it had been prompted by a desire to win votes. Because every one of these cases was bound to incense any cop worth his salt.
He lit another cigarette and glanced at Assad sitting across from him. A calm man, he thought. If Assad could keep himself occupied the way he was doing at the moment, maybe the situation would work out after all.
Carl put the three stacks of case files on the desk in front of him and looked at his watch. Another half hour with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. Then they could both go home.
“What are these kinds of cases then, that you have there?”
Carl peered up at Assad’s dark eyebrows through the slits of his eyelids, which refused to open any further. The man was bending over the desk, holding the Handbook for Crime Technicians in one hand. He’d stuck his finger inside as a bookmark, indicating that he’d made quite a bit of headway in his reading. Or maybe he was just looking at the pictures; that was what a lot of people did.
“You know what, Assad? You’ve interrupted my train of thought.” Carl suppressed a yawn. “Oh well, what’s done is done. OK, so these are the cases that we’re going to be working on. Old cases that other people have given up on. You get it?”
Assad raised his eyebrows. “It is very interesting,” he said, picking up the folder on top. “Nobody knows anything about who did what, and like that?”
Carl stretched the muscles in his neck and looked at his watch. It wasn’t even three o’clock. Then he took the folder from Assad and studied it. “I’m not familiar with this case. It has something to do with the excavation on the island of Sprogø, when they were building the Great Belt Bridge between Zealand and Funen. They found a body out there, but that’s about as far as they got. The police in Slagelse handled the case. A bunch of slackers.”
“Slackers?” Assad nodded. “And this comes first for you?”
Carl looked at him, uncomprehending. “You’re asking me if this is the first case we’re going to work on? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. Is this it then?”
Carl frowned. Too many questions at once. “I need to study all of the files before I make up my mind.”
“Is this very secret?” Assad carefully placed the folder back on the stack.
“The case documents? Yes, it’s likely that they contain information not meant for anyone else’s eyes.”
The dark man was silent for a moment. He looked like a boy whose request for an ice cream cone had been refused, but knows that if he stands there long enough, there’s still a chance he might get one. They stared at each other for so long that Carl ended up feeling confused.
“What?” he asked. “Is there something specific you want?”
“Since I am here and I promise to keep my lips sealed and locked and never say anything about what I read, can I look at the folders then?”
“That’s not your job, Assad.”
“No, but what is my job right now? I’ve came just to page forty-five in the book, and now my head wants something different.”
“I see.” Carl looked around to find some other challenges, if not for Assad’s head, then for his well-proportioned upper arms. He could see that there really wasn’t much for Assad to do. “Well, if you promise me on all you hold sacred that you won’t talk with anyone else but me about what you read, then go ahead.” He pushed one of the stacks of folders a couple of inches toward Assad. “There are three piles here, so don’t get them mixed up. I’ve worked out an excellent system, which has taken me a long time to devise. And just remember: No talking to anyone else about these cases, Assad.” He turned to his computer. “And one more thing, Assad. They’re my cases, and I’m really busy; you can see for yourself how many there are. So you shouldn’t expect me to discuss the cases with you. You’ve been hired to do the cleaning and make the coffee and drive me around. If you don’t have anything to do, it’s all right with me if you want to read the files. But that has nothing to do with your job. OK?”
“OK, yes.” He stood there a moment, staring at the center pile of folders. “It is some special cases that lie by themselves. I can understand it. I will take the top three folders. I will not get them mixed all up. I will keep them in the folders by themselves over in my room. When you need them, then just shout, I then bring them again.”
Carl watched Assad leave the office with three folders under his arm, and the Handbook for Crime Technicians at the ready. It had him really worried.
No more than an hour later Assad was once again standing next to Carl’s desk. In the meantime, Carl had been thinking about Hardy. Poor Hardy, who had asked his colleague to kill him. But how could Carl do that? These were not the sort of thoughts that would lead to anything constructive.
Assad placed one of the folders in front of Carl. “Here is the only case that I remember for myself. It happened exactly while I was taking Danish language lessons so we read about it in the newspapers. It was so very interesting. That was what I thought back then. Also now.”
He handed the document to Carl, who glanced at it. “So you came to Denmark in 2002?”
“No, in ’98. But I took Danish lessons in 2002. Were you working on that case then?”
“No, it was the Rapid Response Team’s case, before the reorganization within the police force.”
“And the Rapid Response Team did it because it had to be fast?”
“No, because it was . . .” He studied Assad’s alert face with the dancing eyebrows. “Yes, that’s right,” he corrected himself. Why should he encumber Assad, who had absolutely no background knowledge, with all the intricacies of police procedures?
“She was a pretty girl, that Merete Lynggaard, I think.” Assad gave his boss a crooked smile.
“Pretty?” Carl looked at the beautiful, vital woman in the photograph. “Yes, she certainly was.”
11
2002
Over the next two days the messages began piling up. Merete’s secretary tried to hide her annoyance and pretended to be amiable. Several times she sat and stared at Merete when she thought her boss wouldn’t notice. She once asked if Merete would like to play squash with her on the weekend, but Merete declined. She had no desire for any sort of camaraderie with her staff.
After that the secretary resumed her usual morose and aloof demeanor.
On Friday Merete took home the last messages that h
er secretary had left on her desk. After reading through them several times, she tossed them in the wastebasket. Then she tied the strings of the garbage bag in a knot and carried it out to the garbage can. She needed to put an end to this, once and for all.
And she felt mean and miserable.
The home help had left a casserole on the table. It was still lukewarm when Merete and Uffe were done dashing about the house. Next to the ovenproof dish was a little note on top of an envelope.
Oh no, she’s going to quit, thought Merete and then read the note.
“A man brought this letter to the house. I suppose it has something to do with the ministry.”
Merete picked up the envelope and tore it open.
“Have a nice trip to Berlin” was all it said.
Uffe was sitting next to her with an empty plate, smiling in anticipation as his nostrils quivered at the delicious aroma from the food. Merete pressed her lips together and scooped up some of the casserole for her brother as she tried not to cry.
The rushing of the east wind was getting louder, whipping up the waves so the foam splashed halfway up the sides of the ship. Uffe loved to stand outside on the sun deck and watch the wake form alongside the ship while the seagulls soared on outspread wings overhead. And Merete loved seeing Uffe happy. She was looking forward to their weekend. It was good that she’d decided they should go after all. Berlin was such a marvelous city.
Up ahead on the deck an elderly couple was looking in their direction; behind them a family sat at one of the tables close to the smokestack, with Thermoses and sandwiches that they’d brought along. The children had already finished eating, and Merete gave them a smile. The father looked at his watch and said something to his wife. Then they began packing up what was left of their lunch.
She remembered going on this sort of excursion with her parents. That was a long time ago. She turned around. People were already heading below deck to where their cars were parked. They would soon reach the harbor at Puttgarden; only ten more minutes, but not everybody was in a rush. Two men were standing over near the huge picture windows in the stern, with scarves wrapped snugly around their necks as they calmly gazed out to sea. One of them looked frail and gaunt. Merete estimated that they were standing at least six feet apart, so they probably weren’t together.
A sudden impulse made her take the note out of her pocket and look at the six words again. Then she put it back in the envelope and held it up in the air, letting it flutter in the wind for a moment. Then she let it go. The envelope flew upward and then dived down, slipping inside an opening in the side of the ship, underneath the sun deck. For a moment she thought they’d have to go downstairs and retrieve it, but then the note suddenly reappeared and began dancing over the waves. It spun around a few times and vanished into the white foam. Uffe laughed. He’d been watching the envelope the whole time. Then he gave a shriek, took off his baseball cap, and tossed it after the envelope.
“No, don’t!” was all she managed to shout before the cap plunged into the sea.
It was a Christmas present and Uffe’s most-beloved possession. The minute it was gone, he regretted what he’d done. It was clear that he was considering jumping after the cap, in an attempt to get it back.
“No, Uffe!” she yelled. “You can’t do that. It’s gone!” But Uffe had already set one foot on the metal barrier of the railing. He stood there bellowing over the wooden rail, his body’s center of gravity far too high up.
“Stop it, Uffe! There’s nothing you can do,” she shouted again, but Uffe was strong, much stronger than she was, and he was far away. His consciousness was down in the waves with the baseball cap that had been a Christmas present. It was a relic of his simple, godless life.
Then she slapped him hard in the face. She’d never done that before, and she instantly pulled back her hand in fright. Uffe couldn’t understand what was happening. He forgot about his cap and touched his cheek. He was in shock. It was years since he’d felt pain like that. He didn’t understand. Then he looked at her and struck back. He hit her harder than he’d ever done before.
12
2007
Homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen had spent yet another night without much sleep.
The witness in the case of the cyclist murdered in Valby Park had tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. Jacobsen couldn’t understand what the hell could have pushed her so far. She had children and a mother who loved her, after all. Who could have threatened a woman into taking such extreme measures? The police had offered her witness protection and everything else within their powers. She was under surveillance day and night. Where on earth had she gotten those pills?
“You should go home and get some sleep,” said his deputy when Marcus came back from his usual Friday-morning meeting with the police chief in the commissioner’s conference room.
He nodded. “Well, maybe just for a couple of hours. But you and Bak need to go out to the National Hospital and see what you can get out of that woman. And make sure to take her mother and children along, so she can see them. We need to try and bring her back to reality.”
“Uh-huh, or away from it,” Lars Bjørn said.
All phone calls were supposed to be redirected, but the phone rang anyway. “Don’t let anybody through except the queen or Prince Henrik,” he’d told his secretary. So it was probably his wife. “Yeah?” he said, feeling suddenly more tired than ever.
“It’s the police commissioner,” whispered Bjørn, holding his hand over the receiver.
He handed the phone to Marcus and tiptoed out of the room.
“Marcus,” the commissioner said in her distinctive voice. “I’m calling to tell you that the justice minister and the committees have made fast work of things. So the extra allocation of funds has been approved.”
“That’s good to hear,” replied Marcus, immediately trying to work out in his mind how the budget could be divided up.
“Yes, well, you know the chain of command. Today Piv Vestergård and the Judicial Committee of the Denmark Party met with the justice minister, so now all the wheels will start turning. The chief of police has asked the head of the National Police to find out if you’ve got the new department set up yet,” she said.
“Yes, I believe we have,” he said with a frown as he pictured Carl’s weary face.
“That’s good. I’ll let them know. So what’s the first case you’re going to tackle?”
That was not exactly a question he found particularly energizing.
Carl was just getting ready to head home. The clock on the wall said 4:36, but his inner clock was several hours ahead. So it was undeniably a disappointment when Marcus Jacobsen rang to say that he’d be coming downstairs to pay Carl a visit. “I need to report what you’re working on.”
Carl looked with resignation at the blank bulletin board and the row of used coffee cups standing on his little meeting table. “Give me twenty minutes, Marcus. Then you’re welcome to come down here. We’re right in the middle of something at the moment.”
He put down the phone and puffed out his cheeks. Then he slowly exhaled as he stood up and went across the hall to the room where Assad had made himself at home.
On his abnormally small desk stood two framed photographs showing a big group of people. On the wall above the desk hung a poster with Arabic script and a lovely picture of an exotic building that Carl couldn’t immediately identify. From a hook on the door hung a brown smock of the type that had gone out of fashion along with leg warmers. Assad had neatly arranged his cleaning implements in a row along the far wall: a bucket, mop, vacuum cleaner, and a sea of bottles containing caustic cleaning fluids. On the bookshelves were rubber gloves and a little transistor radio with a cassette player that was emitting muted sounds that were reminiscent of the bazaar in Sousse. Next to the radio lay a notebook, some paper, a pencil, a copy of the Koran, and a small selection of magazines with Arabic text. Spread out on the floor in front of the bookshelf was a multico
lored prayer rug that hardly looked big enough for Assad to kneel on. All in all, quite a picturesque scene.
“Assad,” said Carl. “We’re in a hurry. The homicide chief will be here in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get things ready. When he arrives, I’d appreciate it if you could be washing the floor at the other end of the hall. It’s going to mean a little overtime, but I hope that’s OK.”
“I must say, I’m impressed, Carl,” said Marcus Jacobsen, nodding at the bulletin board with tired eyes. “You’ve certainly got this place organized. Are you getting back on your feet?”
“Back on my feet? Yeah, well, I’m doing what I can. But you need to realize it’s going to be a while before I’m up to speed.”
“Let me know if you need to have a talk with a crisis counselor again. You shouldn’t underestimate the amount of trauma that can result from the type of experience you’ve been through.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
“That’s good, Carl. But don’t hesitate to speak up.” Jacobsen turned to look at the far wall. “I see you’ve got your flat-screen up,” he said, staring at the forty-inch image of the news program on Channel 2.
“Yes, we have to keep up with events in the world,” Carl said, thinking gratefully of Assad. It had taken his assistant all of five minutes to set up the whole damn thing. Apparently that was something else he was good at.
“By the way, it was just reported that the witness in the case of the murdered cyclist tried to commit suicide,” Carl went on.
The Keeper of Lost Causes Page 6
