The Keeper of Lost Causes

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Tell me, Helle,” Carl said, leaning toward her after the antique dealer had left the room. “If you know anything at all that you’ve been keeping to yourself, now is the time to tell me. Do you understand?”

  “There wasn’t anything else.”

  “Do you have children?”

  The corners of her mouth drooped. What did that have to do with the case?

  “OK. You opened the envelope, didn’t you?”

  She jerked her head back in alarm. “Of course I didn’t.”

  “This is perjury, Helle Andersen. Your children are going to have to do without you for a while.”

  For a stout country girl, she reacted with extraordinary speed. Her hands flew up to her mouth, her feet shot under the sofa, her entire abdomen was sucked in as she tried to create a safe distance between herself and the dangerous police animal. “I didn’t open it.” The words flew out of her mouth. “I just held it up to the light.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  Her eyebrows practically overlapped. “All it said was: ‘Have a nice trip to Berlin.’”

  “Do you know what she was going to do in Berlin?”

  “It was just a fun trip with Uffe. They’d done it a couple of times before.”

  “Why was it so important to wish her a nice trip?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who would have known about the trip, Helle? Merete lived a very private life with Uffe, as I understand it.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe somebody at the Folketing. I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t they just send her an e-mail?”

  “I really don’t know.” She was obviously feeling pinned down. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was just sensitive to pressure. “It might have been something from the council,” she ventured. It was another blind alley.

  “So the letter said: ‘Have a nice trip to Berlin.’ Anything else?”

  “Nothing else. Just that. Really.”

  “No signature?”

  “No. That was all.”

  “And the messenger, what did he look like?”

  She hid her face in her hands for a moment. “All I noticed was that he was wearing a really nice overcoat,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “You didn’t see anything else? That can’t be right.”

  “It’s true. He was taller than me, even though he was standing down on the step. And he was wearing a scarf. It was green. And it covered the lower half of his face. It was raining, so that was probably why. He also had a slight cold, or at least that’s how he sounded.”

  “Did he sneeze?”

  “No, he just sounded like he had a cold. Sniffled a bit, you know.”

  “What about his eyes? Blue or brown?”

  “I’m pretty sure they were blue. At least I think so. Maybe they were gray. But I’d recognize them, if I saw them again.”

  “How old was he?”

  “About my age, I think.”

  As if that piece of information would help.

  “And how old are you?”

  She gave Carl a slightly indignant look. “Not quite thirty-five,” she replied, looking down at the floor.

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “He didn’t come by car, as far as I could tell. At least there wasn’t any car parked outside.”

  “You don’t think he walked the whole way out here, do you?”

  “No, probably not.”

  “But you didn’t watch him leave?”

  “No. I needed to give Uffe something to eat. He always had lunch while I listened to the news program on the radio.”

  They talked about the letter as they drove. Assad didn’t know anything more about it. The police investigation had come to a dead end as far as it was concerned.

  “But why the hell was it so important to deliver such an unimportant message? What did it really mean? I could understand it if the message were from a woman friend and the letter was perfumed and came in a little envelope with flowers on it. But not in such an anonymous envelope and with no signature.”

  “I think that Helle, she does not know very much,” Assad replied as they turned on to Bjælkerupvej, which was where Social Services for Stevns municipality was located.

  Carl looked over at the buildings. It would have been nice to have a court order in his back pocket before going inside.

  “Stay here,” he said to Assad, whose face virtually glowed with satisfaction.

  Carl located the director’s office after making a few inquiries.

  “Yes, that’s right. Uffe Lynggaard received care from the Home Nursing Group,” she said as Carl put his police badge back in his pocket. “But we’re a bit disorganized at the moment when it comes to archiving former cases. Municipal reforms, you know.”

  So the woman seated opposite him knew nothing about the case. He’d have to talk to somebody else. Surely someone in the place had to remember Uffe Lynggaard and his sister. Just a tiny scrap of information could turn out to be valuable. Maybe someone had been to their house numerous times and had noticed something that might give him a lead.

  “Could I speak to the person who was responsible for his care back then?”

  “I’m afraid she’s retired now.”

  “Could you give me her name?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Only those of us who work here at City Hall can discuss former cases.”

  “But none of the employees know anything about Uffe Lynggaard, is that correct?”

  “Oh, I’m sure someone does. But, like I said, we’re not at liberty to discuss the case.”

  “I realize that it’s a matter of confidentiality, and I know that Uffe Lynggaard is not under state guardianship. But I didn’t drive all the way out here to go back home empty-handed. Could you let me see his case file?”

  “You know very well that I can’t let you do that. If you’d like to speak with our attorney, you’re welcome to do so. The files aren’t accessible right now, anyway. And Uffe Lynggaard no longer lives in this district.”

  “So the documents have been transferred to Frederikssund?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  What a patronizing bitch.

  Carl left her office and paused outside in the hallway for a moment, looking around. “Excuse me,” he said to a woman who came walking toward him, seemingly too tired to put up much of a fight. He pulled out his police badge and introduced himself. “Could you possibly help me find out the name of the person who handled cases in Magleby ten years ago?”

  “Ask in there,” said the woman, pointing to the office he had just exited.

  So it was going to take a court order, paperwork, phone calls, waiting time, and more phone calls. He just didn’t have the energy for all that.

  “I’ll remember this the next time you need my help,” he said to the woman, giving her a slight bow.

  The last stop on their expedition was the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries in Hornbæk. “I’ll drive myself up there, Assad. Can you take the train home? I’ll drop you off in Køge. There’s an express train to the Central Station.” Assad nodded, not looking terribly enthusiastic. Carl had no idea where the man lived. He’d have to ask him sometime.

  He glanced at his odd companion. “We’ll start working on a different case tomorrow, Assad. This one is going nowhere.” Not even that promise set off any fireworks in Assad’s face.

  At the clinic Hardy had been moved to another ward, and he wasn’t looking good. His skin was OK, but darkness lurked in his blue eyes.

  Carl put his hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time, Hardy. But it’s not going to work. I’m really sorry. I just can’t do it. Do you understand?”

  Hardy didn’t say a word. Of course he understood; at the same time, of course, he didn’t.

  “How about if you help me out instead, Hardy? I’ll give you all the facts, and you can take your time thinking them over. I could use some extra input, you know? I don’t giv
e a flying fuck about any of it, but if you help me out, then at least we’ll have something to laugh about together.”

  “You want me to laugh, Carl?” said Hardy, turning his head away.

  All in all, it had been a really shitty day.

  16

  2002

  All sense of time vanished in the darkness, and with it the rhythms of her body. Day and night merged like Siamese twins. There was only one fixed point in the day for Merete, and that was the click from the retractable hatch in the arched door.

  The first time she heard the distorted voice on the loudspeaker, the shock was so explosive that she was still trembling when she lay down to sleep.

  But if she hadn’t heard the voice, she would have been dead of thirst and hunger; she knew that. The question was whether that might have been a better alternative.

  She had noticed the thirst and dryness in her mouth disappearing. She’d noticed the fatigue dulling her hunger, the fear being replaced by sorrow, and the sorrow by an almost comforting acknowledgment that death was approaching. And that was why she lay there calmly, waiting for her body to give up, when a grating voice revealed that she was not alone and that she ultimately was going to have to surrender to someone else’s will.

  “Merete,” said the woman’s voice without warning. “We’re sending in a plastic container. In a moment you’ll hear a clicking sound and a hatch will open over in the corner. We’ve seen that you’ve already found it.”

  Maybe she’d imagined that a light was turned on, because she pressed her eyes closed and tried to gain control over the shock waves that were flashing along her nerve endings. But there was no light in the room.

  “Can you hear me?” shouted the voice.

  She nodded, breathing hard. Now Merete noticed how cold she was. How the lack of sustenance had sucked all the fat out of her body. How vulnerable she was.

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes. Yes, I hear you. Who are you?” She stared into the darkness.

  “When you hear the click, go over to the hatch at once. Don’t try to crawl inside. You won’t be able to do it. After you take out the first container, there will be another. One of them is a bucket that you can use as a toilet to relieve yourself. The other bucket holds water and food. Each day we’ll open the hatch, and then we’ll exchange the old containers with new ones. Do you understand?”

  “What is this all about?” She listened to the echo of her own voice. “Have I been kidnapped? Is it money you want?”

  “Here comes the first one.”

  There was a scraping in the corner, and a slight whistling sound. Merete moved toward that sound and noticed that the bottom of the arched door set into the wall opened to deliver a hard container the size of a wastebasket. When she pulled it out and set it on the floor, the hatch closed for ten seconds and then reopened, this time revealing a slightly taller bucket that was presumably supposed to serve as a dry toilet.

  Her heart was pounding. If the containers could be exchanged so swiftly, that meant someone had to be standing on the other side of the door. Another human being very close.

  “Won’t you please tell me where I am?” She crawled forward on her knees until she was sitting right under the place where she thought the loudspeaker was located. “How long have I been here?” She raised her voice a bit. “What do you want from me?”

  “There’s a roll of toilet paper in the food box. You’ll get another one each week. When you need to wash, use water from the container that’s inside the toilet bucket. Remember to take it out before using the toilet. There’s no drain in the room, so be sure to lean over the bucket to wash.”

  The sinews in her neck were stretched taut. A shadow of anger fought with the tears, and her lips quivered. Snot ran from her nose. “Am I supposed to sit here in the dark . . . the whole time?” she sobbed. “Can’t you turn on a light? Just for a moment? Please!”

  Again the clicking sound and a little whistle, and the hatch shut.

  After that came many, many days when she heard only the fan, turned on weekly for ventilation, and the daily clattering and whistling of the hatch door. At times the intervals in between seemed interminable; at other times it felt as if she’d just lain down after a meal when the next buckets arrived. The food was the only physical bright spot for her, even though it was a monotonous diet without any real flavor. A few potatoes and overcooked vegetables along with a scrap of meat. The same every day. As if there were a bottomless pot of stew, always simmering out there in the light, in the world on the other side of the impenetrable wall.

  She had thought that at some point she would get so used to the dark that the details of the room would emerge, but that didn’t happen. The darkness was irrevocable, as if she were blind. Only her thoughts could send any light into her existence, and that wasn’t easy.

  For a long time she was truly afraid of going mad. Afraid of the day when all control slipped out of her hands. She made up images of the world and the light and the life outside. She took refuge in all the nooks and crannies of her brain—those areas that usually become silted up with the ambitions and trivialities of life. And memories of the past slowly surfaced. Tiny moments with hands that held her. Words that caressed and comforted. But also memories of loneliness and yearning and tireless striving.

  Then she fell into a rhythm in which day and night consisted of long periods of sleep, eating, meditation, and running in place. She would run until the slamming of her feet on the floor began to hurt her ears, or until she fell over with fatigue.

  Every fifth day she received new underwear and tossed the used ones into the dry toilet. It was disgusting to think that strangers were handling the garments. But they never replaced the other clothing she wore, so she took good care of it. Took care when she sat down on the bucket or lay down carefully on the floor to sleep. Cautiously smoothed out her clothes when she changed her underwear, and rinsed with water any pieces of the fabric that she could feel were getting dirty. She was glad that she’d had such good-quality clothes on the day they took her. A down jacket, scarf, blouse, underwear, trousers, and thick socks. But as the days passed, her trousers hung looser and looser, and the soles of her shoes began to feel thin. I need to run in my bare feet, she thought, and she yelled into the darkness: “Couldn’t you turn up the heat a little? Please?” But the ventilator in the ceiling hadn’t produced a sound for a long time now.

  The light in the room was switched on after the buckets had been changed one hundred and nineteen times. An explosion of white suns blasted down on her, making her topple over backward with her eyes closed tight and tears trickling out of their corners. It felt as if the light were bombarding her retinas, sending waves of pain up into her brain. All she could do was sink down into a squatting position and hold her hands over her eyes.

  As the hours passed, she slowly moved her hands from her face and opened her eyes ever so slightly. The light was still overwhelming. She was held back by the fear that she’d already lost her sight, or that she would now lose it if she moved too quickly. And that was how she was sitting when the loudspeaker with the woman’s voice hammered shock waves through her body for the second time. She reacted to the sound like a gauge that jumps too quickly. Each word sent a stab right through her. And the words were terrifying.

  “Happy birthday, Merete Lynggaard. Congratulations on reaching the age of thirty-two. Yes, today is July sixth. You’ve been sitting here for one hundred and twenty-six days, and our birthday present to you is that we won’t be turning off the light for a year.”

  “Oh God, no. You can’t do this to me,” she moaned. “Why are you doing this?” She stood up, holding her hands over her eyes. “If you want to torture me to death, then just do it!” she screamed.

  The woman’s voice was ice cold, a bit deeper than the last time. “Take it easy, Merete. We don’t want to torture you. On the contrary, we’re going to give you a chance to avoid what could be even worse for you. All you have to do is answer yo
ur own very relevant question: Why are you having to endure all this? Why have we put you in a cage like an animal? Answer your own question, Merete.”

  She leaned her head back. This was terrible. Maybe she should just keep quiet. Sit down in a corner and let them say whatever they wanted.

  “Answer the question, Merete, or you’re going to make things even worse for yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say! Is this something political? Or are you blackmailing somebody for money? I don’t know. Tell me!”

  The voice behind the grating sound grew colder. “That’s not the correct answer, Merete. So now you’ll have to take your punishment. It’s not too bad. You can easily handle it.”

  “Oh God, this can’t be happening,” sobbed Merete, sinking to her knees.

  Then she heard the familiar whistling from the door hatch become a hissing sound. She instantly noticed the warm air from outside streaming down on her. It smelled of grain and plowed fields and green grass. Was this supposed to be a punishment?

  “We’re pumping the air pressure in your chamber up to two atmospheres. Then we’ll see if you can answer the question next year. We don’t know how much pressure the human organism can stand, but we’re going to find out as time goes by.”

  “Dear God,” whispered Merete as she felt the pressure in her ears. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

  17

  2007

  The sound of boisterous voices and clinking bottles could clearly be heard from the garage, giving Carl plenty of warning. Things were jumping at his house.

  The barbecue gang was a little group of fanatics who all lived close by and who thought that beefsteak was so much better if it first languished for a while on a charcoal grill until it tasted neither of beef nor steak. They got together year round whenever the opportunity presented itself, and preferably on Carl’s patio. He enjoyed their company. They were lively, but in moderation, and they always took their empty bottles back home with them.