Carl whistled softly. He hadn’t known that. “Twenty-two million, at five per cent interest. I suppose that would pay for Uffe’s expenses, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, yes, it just about covers things, after taxes.”
Carl gave him a wry look. “And since he’s been here, Uffe hasn’t said anything about his sister’s disappearance?”
“No, he hasn’t spoken a word since the car accident, as far as I’ve been told.”
“Have you done anything to help get him going?”
At that the director took off his glasses and peered at Carl from under his bushy eyebrows. He was the epitome of seriousness. “Uffe Lynggaard has been thoroughly examined. He has scar tissue from bleeding in the speech center of his brain, which is explanation enough for his muteness. But he also suffered severe trauma from the accident. The death of his parents, his own injuries. As you may know, he was seriously hurt.”
“Yes, I read the report.” He hadn’t actually, but Assad had, and the man hadn’t stopped jabbering about it as they cruised along the motorways of northern Zealand. “He spent five months in the hospital with severe internal bleeding in his liver, spleen, and lung tissue. His vision was also impaired.”
The director gave a brief nod. “That’s correct. It says in his medical file that Uffe Lynggaard was unable to see for several weeks. He had massive retinal bleeding.”
“What about now? Is his body functioning as it should, from a physiological perspective?”
“By all indications, yes. He’s a strong young man.”
“He’s nearly thirty-four years old. So he’s been in this condition for twenty-one years.”
The pale man again nodded. “So you can understand why you’re not going to get anywhere with him.”
“And you won’t let me talk to him?”
“I don’t think it would serve any purpose.”
“He was the last one to see Merete Lynggaard alive. I’d like to see him.”
The director straightened up. Now he looked out at the fjord, as Carl had predicted he would. “I don’t think I’m going to allow it.”
Pompous idiots like him deserved to be stabbed with a blunt knife. “You don’t trust me to behave myself, but I think you should.”
“Why is that?”
“Are you familiar with the police?”
The director turned to look at Carl. His face was an ashen gray, his brow furrowed. Years spent behind a desk had worn him out, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He had no idea what Carl meant by that question, only that silence would not be to his benefit.
“What exactly are you getting at?”
“We police officers are an inquisitive lot. Sometimes we’ve got a question burning in our minds and we just have to find an answer. This time it’s obvious.”
“And the question is?”
“Where do your patients get their money? Five per cent of twenty-two million, minus taxes of course, is just a drop in the bucket. Do your patients receive full value for their money, or is the price too high when the state funding is added in? And is the price the same for everybody?” Carl nodded to himself, drinking in the light coming off the fjord. “New questions always keep popping up when we can’t get an answer to the one we’re initially interested in. That’s just how policemen are. We can’t help ourselves. Maybe it’s a disease, but who the hell could we consult to find a cure?”
Maybe now there was a hint of color in the director’s face. “I don’t think we’re going to reach any kind of middle ground here.”
“So why don’t you let me see Uffe Lynggaard? To be perfectly honest, what harm could it do? You haven’t locked him up in a damned cage or anything, have you?”
The pictures in Merete Lynggaard’s case file didn’t do full justice to her brother, Uffe. The police photographs, the sketches from the preliminary examination, and a couple of press photos had all shown a young man with a bowed figure. A pale fellow who looked like what he apparently was: an emotionally retarded, passive, slow-witted person. But reality revealed something different.
Uffe was sitting in a pleasant room with pictures on the wall and a view that was at least as good as the one from the director’s office. His bed had been newly made up, and his shoes were freshly polished. His clothes were clean and had nothing institutional about them. He had strong arms and long blond hair. He was broad-shouldered and presumably quite tall. Many would call him handsome. There was nothing driveling or pathetic about Uffe Lynggaard.
The director and supervisory nurse watched from the doorway as Carl moved about the room, but he wasn’t going to give them any reason to criticize his behavior. He would come back again soon, even though he didn’t really have the energy for it. He’d be better prepared next time, and then he would talk to Uffe. But that could wait for now. In the meantime there was plenty for him to study in Uffe’s room. The picture of his sister, smiling at them. His parents, with their arms around each other as they laughed at the camera. The drawings on the wall, which bore no resemblance to the childish drawings usually found on walls in this type of place. Happy drawings. Not ones that might reveal something about the horrible event that had robbed Uffe of speech.
“Are there more drawings? Are there any in there?” Carl asked, pointing at the wardrobe and dresser.
“No,” replied the nurse. “No, Uffe hasn’t drawn anything since he came here. These drawings are all from his home.”
“So what does Uffe do to keep himself occupied during the day?”
She smiled. “Lots of things. He takes walks with the staff, he goes for a run out in the park. Watches TV. He loves that.” The nurse seemed like a kind person. She was the one Carl would consult next time.
“What does he watch?”
“Whatever’s on.”
“Does he react to the programs?”
“Sometimes. He likes to laugh.” She shook her head with pleasure, smiling even more broadly.
“He laughs?”
“Yes, he laughs like a baby. Not self-conscious at all.”
Carl glanced at the director, standing there like a block of ice, and then at Uffe. Merete’s brother hadn’t taken his eyes off Carl since he entered the room. Carl had noticed that. Uffe was observant, but if you looked at him more closely, you could see that his gaze was not fully conscious. His eyes weren’t dead, but whatever Uffe saw, it apparently didn’t sink in very deep. Carl had an urge to startle him, just to see what would happen, but that too could wait.
He took up position next to the window and tried to catch Uffe’s eye. Uffe clearly took things in but failed to comprehend fully what he saw. There was something there, and yet there wasn’t.
“Move over to the other seat, Assad,” Carl told his assistant, who’d been waiting behind the wheel of the car.
“The other seat? You do not then want me to drive?” he asked.
“I’d like to keep this car a while longer, Assad. It has antilock brakes and power steering, and I’d like it to stay that way.”
“And what does that mean then, that you are saying?”
“That you should sit next to me and pay attention to how I’d like you to drive. If I ever let you drive again, that is.”
Carl keyed in their next destination on the GPS, ignoring the flood of Arabic words issuing from Assad’s mouth as he slunk around the car to the passenger’s side.
“Have you ever driven a car in Denmark?” Carl asked as they were well on their way toward Stevns.
Assad’s silence was answer enough.
They found the house in Magleby on a side road all the way out by the fields. Not a private farm or a restored farmhouse, like most in the area, but a genuine brick house from the period when the facade mirrored the soul of a building. There was a dense grove of yew trees, but still the house loomed over them. If the property had been sold for two million kroner, then somebody had gotten themselves a real bargain. And somebody else had been cheated.
The name on the brass doorpla
te said: “Antique Dealers” and “Peter & Erling Møller-Hansen.” But the person who opened the door looked more like an aristocrat. Delicate complexion, deep blue eyes, and fragrant lotion generously applied all over.
The man was cooperative and accommodating. He politely took Assad’s cap from him and invited both men into a front hall filled with Empire furniture and other bric-a-brac.
No, they hadn’t known Merete Lynggaard or her brother. Not personally, that is; although most of the Lynggaards’ possessions had come with the house, but they were not of any value.
The man offered Carl and Assad green tea served in paper-thin porcelain cups. He sat on the edge of the sofa with his knees together and his feet splayed out, ready to act the role of the responsible citizen to the best of his abilities.
“It was terrible that she drowned like that. It must be an awful way to die. My husband almost died in a waterfall in Yugoslavia once, and that was a horrible experience, let me tell you.”
Carl noticed Assad’s confused expression when the man said “my husband,” but a quick glance was enough to wipe the look off his face. Assad obviously still had a lot to learn about the diversity of Danish living arrangements.
“The police collected all the documents belonging to the Lynggaards,” Carl said. “But since then have you found any diaries, letters or faxes, or maybe just some phone messages that might shed new light on the case?”
The man shook his head. “Everything was gone.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the whole living room. “The furniture was still here, but it was nothing special, and there wasn’t much left in the drawers other than office supplies and a few souvenirs. Scrapbooks with stickers, a few photos, and things like that. I think they must have been quite ordinary people.”
“What about the neighbors? Did they know the Lynggaards?”
“Oh, well, we don’t socialize much with the neighbors, and they haven’t lived here very long, anyway. They said something about having come back to Denmark from abroad. But no, I don’t think the Lynggaards spent much time with anyone else in town. A lot of people didn’t even know that she had a brother.”
“So you haven’t run into anyone around here who knew them?”
“Oh, sure. Helle Andersen. She took care of the brother.”
“She is the home help,” Assad said. “The police interviewed her, but she knew nothing. Except that there came a letter. For Merete Lynggaard, that is. It came the day before she drowned. The home help was the one who received it.”
Carl raised his eyebrows. He really needed to read through the damn case documents himself.
“Did the police find the letter, Assad?”
He shook his head.
Carl turned back to their host. “Does this Helle Andersen live near by?”
“No, in Holtug on the other side of Gjorslev. But she’ll actually be here in ten minutes.”
“Here?”
“Yes, my husband is ill.” He looked down at the floor. “Very ill. So she comes over to help out.”
Fortune smiles on the clueless, thought Carl, and then asked if they might have a tour of the house.
It turned out to be an odyssey in quirky furniture and huge gilded frames. The obligatory amassing of things from a life spent working in an auction house. But the kitchen had been completely remodeled; all the walls painted and the floors refinished. If there was anything left from when Merete Lynggaard lived in the house, it could only be the silverfish skittering about on the dark floor of the bathroom.
“That Uffe, he was so sweet.” A stocky face with dark circles under her eyes and ruddy, plump cheeks were Helle Andersen’s trademarks. The rest of her was covered by a light blue smock in a size that was unlikely to be found in the local clothes shop. “It was crazy to think that he would do anything to hurt his sister, and that’s what I told the police. That they couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“But witnesses saw him hit his sister,” said Carl.
“He could get a bit wild at times. But he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“But he’s a big, strong man. Maybe he happened to push her into the water by accident.”
Helle Andersen rolled her eyes. “Impossible. Uffe was the epitome of gentleness. Sometimes he’d get so upset about something that it would make me upset too, but not very often.”
“You cooked for him?”
“I took care of all sorts of things. So that everything would be nice and neat when Merete came home.”
“And you didn’t see her very often?”
“Once in a while.”
“But not on any of the days right before she died?”
“Oh yes. There was one evening when I took care of Uffe. But then he got so upset, like I said before, that I called Merete to say she had to come home. And she did. He was really in a bad way that time.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen that evening?”
“Only the fact that Merete didn’t come home at six o’clock like she usually did. Uffe didn’t like that. He couldn’t understand it was something we’d already talked about and arranged.”
“But she was a member of parliament. Surely this must have been a frequent occurrence?”
“No, not really. Only once in a while, if she had to take a trip. And then it was only for a night or two.”
“So she’d been out traveling on that evening?”
At that point Assad shook his head. It was damned annoying, how much he knew.
“No, she’d gone out to eat,” said Helle.
“I see. Who did she eat with? Do you know?”
“No, nobody knows.”
“Is that also in the report, Assad?”
He nodded. “Søs Norup, the new secretary, saw Merete write down the name of the restaurant in her diary. And someone inside the restaurant remembered that he saw her there. Just not with who.”
There was clearly a lot that Carl needed to study in that report.
“What was the name of the restaurant, Assad?”
“I think it was called Café Bankeråt. Could that be right?”
Carl turned back to the home help. “Do you know if Merete was on a date? Was she out with a boyfriend?”
A dimple an inch deep appeared in the woman’s cheek. “She might have been. But she didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“And she didn’t mention anything when she came home? After you called her, I mean?”
“No, I left. Uffe was so upset.”
They heard a clattering sound, and the present owner of the house came into the room wearing an expression of pathos, as if the tea tray he was carrying contained all the secrets of gastronomy. “Homemade” was his only remark as he placed several cupcakes on silver plates in front of them.
They stirred memories from a lost childhood. Not good memories, but memories all the same.
Their host handed out the cakes, and Assad demonstrated immediately that he appreciated the offering.
“Helle, it says in the report that someone gave you a letter the day before Merete Lynggaard disappeared. Can you describe it in more detail?” Her statement was undoubtedly included in the report, but she was just going to have to repeat what she’d already said.
“It was a yellow envelope, and the paper was almost like parchment.”
“How big was it?”
She showed them with her hands. Apparently an A5.
“Was anything on the envelope? A stamp or a name?”
“No, nothing.”
“So who brought it over? Did you know the person?”
“No, I didn’t. The doorbell rang, and a man was standing outside. He handed me the envelope.”
“That’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Normally letters come with the post.”
She gave him a little, confidential nudge. “We do have a postman. But this was later in the day. It was actually right in the middle of the news on the radio.”
“At noon?”
She nodded. �
��He just handed me the envelope, and then he left.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“Yes, he said that it was for Merete Lynggaard. That was all.”
“Why didn’t he put it in the letter box?”
“I think it was urgent. Maybe he was afraid that she wouldn’t see it as soon as she came home.”
“But Merete must have known who brought the letter. What did she say about it?”
“I don’t know. I had left by the time she came home.”
Assad nodded again. So that too was in the report.
Carl gave his assistant a professional look, which meant: It’s standard procedure to ask these types of questions multiple times. Let him chew on that for a while.
“I thought that Uffe couldn’t be left at home alone,” he then interjected.
“Oh yes, he could,” she replied, her eyes shining. “Just not late at night.”
At that point Carl wished he was back at his desk in the basement. He’d spent years having to drag information out of people, and by now his arms were feeling very tired. A couple more questions and then they had to be on their way. The Lynggaard case was obviously hopeless. She’d fallen overboard. Things like that happened.
“And it might have been too late if I hadn’t put the envelope where she’d find it,” said the woman.
He saw how her eyes shifted away for a moment. Not toward the little cupcakes. Away. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she died the next day, didn’t she?”
“That wasn’t what you were just thinking about, was it?”
“Of course.”
Seated next to Carl, Assad put his cake down on the table. Strangely enough, he’d also noticed her evasive maneuver.
“You were thinking about something else. I can tell. What did you mean, that it might have been too late?”
“Just what I said. That she died the next day.”
He looked up at the cake-happy host. “Would you mind if I spoke to Helle Andersen in private?”
The man didn’t look pleased, and Helle Andersen didn’t either. She smoothed out her smock, but the damage was done.
The Keeper of Lost Causes Page 9
