The Keeper of Lost Causes

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Happy birthday, Merete,” said the woman’s voice. “Congratulations on your thirty-third birthday. We can see that you’re doing well. You’ve been a good girl this year. The sun is shining.”

  The sun! Oh God, she didn’t want to know about that.

  “Have you thought about the question? Why we’re keeping you in a cage like an animal? Why you have to be put through all of this? Have you come up with a solution, Merete, or do we need to punish you again? What’s it going to be? A birthday present or a punishment?”

  “Give me some clue that I can use!” she shouted.

  “You haven’t understood the game, Merete. You have to work it out for yourself. We’re going to send in the buckets, and in the meantime you can think about why you’re here. There’s not much time left for you to answer the question.”

  For the first time she clearly heard a human being in the voice. It was not a young woman, definitely not. There was an accent in the voice that attested to a good education obtained a long time ago. A couple of a’s pronounced deeper than usual.

  “This isn’t a game,” Merete protested. “You’ve kidnapped me and locked me up. What do you want? Is it money? I don’t know how I can help you to get the money out of the trust fund if I’m sitting here. Can’t you understand that?”

  “You know what, my dear?” said the woman. “If this was about money, it would have been handled very differently. Don’t you think?”

  Then there was a whistling sound from the hatch door, and the first bucket appeared. Merete pulled it out as she racked her brain about what to say that might win her some time.

  “I’ve never done anything bad in my life. I don’t deserve this. Don’t you understand?”

  Another whistling sound, and the second bucket appeared in the hatch.

  “You’re getting close to the heart of the matter now, you stupid girl. Oh yes, you certainly do deserve this.”

  She wanted to object, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t say another word, Merete. You haven’t helped yourself the least bit, as it is. Try looking inside the bucket instead. I wonder if you’ll be happy to get your present.”

  Merete slowly took off the lid, as if the container might be holding a cobra with its hood distended, its poison glands tensed to the bursting point, ready to strike. But what she saw was worse.

  It was a flashlight.

  “Good night, Merete. Sleep well. Now we’re going to give you another atmosphere of pressure. Let’s see if that helps your memory.”

  First came the whistling sound from the hatch and the fragrance from outdoors. The scent of flowers and traces of sunshine.

  And then the darkness was back.

  19

  2007

  The photocopier they got from the NIC (the National Investigative Center, as the Rapid Response Team of the National Police was now called) was brand new, and only intended to be on loan. A clear sign that they didn’t know Carl, because he never gave back anything once it was transported down to the basement.

  “Make a copy of all the case documents, Assad,” he said, pointing at the machine. “I don’t care if it takes all day. And when you’re done, drive over to the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries and give my old partner, Hardy Henningsen, a summary of the case. He’ll probably treat you like you’re not even there, but don’t let that worry you. He has a memory like an elephant and ears like a bat. So just forge ahead.”

  Assad studied the symbols and buttons on the monster machine in the basement corridor. “How does one do with it then?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you ever made photocopies before?”

  “Not on one like this with all these drawings, no.”

  Hard to believe. Was this the same man who had put up the TV screen in less than ten minutes?

  “Good Lord, Assad, look. You put the original here, and then you press this button.” That much he seemed able to understand.

  Bak’s voicemail message on his cell phone spouted the expected bullshit about the deputy detective superintendent not being available to take the call due to a homicide case.

  Lis, the lovely secretary with the overlapping teeth, supplied the information that Bak and a colleague had gone out to Valby to make an arrest.

  “Give me a heads-up when the idiot gets back, OK, Lis?” he said, and an hour and a half later she did.

  Bak and his partner had already made a good start in the interrogation room when Carl barged in. The man in handcuffs was a completely ordinary-looking guy. Young and tired, with a terrible cold. “Blow your nose,” said Carl, pointing at the thick streams of snot pouring down over the man’s lips. If he were this guy, wild horses wouldn’t be able to force him to open his mouth.

  “Don’t you understand Danish, Carl?” This time Bak’s face had turned bright red. It took a lot to make that happen. “You’ll have to wait. And don’t ever interrupt a colleague in the middle of an interrogation again. Understand?”

  “Five minutes and I’ll leave you in peace. I promise.”

  It was Bak’s problem if he wanted to spend an hour and a half telling Carl that he’d been brought into the Lynggaard case very late in the game, so he didn’t know shit. Why the hell all this absurd beating about the bush?

  But at least Carl got a phone number for Karen Mortensen, who was once Uffe’s caseworker in Stevns, now retired. Also the phone number for Police Chief Claes Damsgaard, who was one of the officers in charge of the Rapid Response Team at the time. He was now on the police force for central and western Jutland, according to Bak. Why not just say that the man worked in Roskilde?

  The other officer in charge of the team leading the investigation was dead. He’d lasted only two years after retiring. That was the reality when it came to the survival rate of police officers after retiring in Denmark.

  A statistic that might even be something for the Guinness Book of Records.

  Police Chief Claes Damsgaard was nothing at all like Bak. Friendly, accommodating and interested. Oh yes, he’d heard about Department Q, and yes, he certainly did know who Carl Mørck was. Wasn’t he the officer who solved the case of the drowned girl at Femøren, and that fucking murder out in the Nordvest neighborhood where an old woman was thrown out of a window? Oh yes, he certainly did know Carl, at least by reputation. The merits of good police officers weren’t something to be overlooked. Carl would be welcome to come out to Roskilde for a briefing. The Lynggaard case was a sad business, so if he could help in any way, Carl should just ask.

  Nice guy, Carl managed to think before the man told him that he’d have to wait three weeks because he and his wife were just heading off on a trip to the Seychelles with their daughter and son-in-law. And then he added with a burst of laughter that they wanted to get there before the islands were inundated by water from melting icebergs.

  “How’s it going?” Carl asked Assad, taking in the expanse of photocopies neatly stacked up along the hall, stretching all the way out to the stairs. Were there really that many documents in the case?

  “I am sorry it is taking such long hours, Carl, but these magazines, they are the worst.”

  Carl looked at the stacks of papers again. “Are you copying the whole magazine?”

  Assad tilted his head to one side like a puppy thinking about making a run for it. Good God.

  “Look here. You just need to copy the pages that are relevant to the case, Assad. I don’t think Hardy will give a damn which prince shot which pheasant during a hunting party in Smørumbavelse, do you?”

  “Shot who?”

  “Forget it, Assad. Just stick to the case and throw out the other pages that aren’t relevant. You’re doing a good job.”

  He left Assad and the rumbling machine and then sat down to phone the retired social worker in Stevns municipality who had handled Uffe’s case. Maybe she’d observed something that might give them a lead.

  Karen Mortensen sounded nice. He could practically see her sitting in a rocking chair and crocheting tea cozies. The sound of her
voice would fit in perfectly with the ticking of a grandfather clock. It was almost like phoning home to his family in Brønderslev.

  But with the next sentence Carl changed his mind. In spirit she was still a civil servant. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  “I can’t say anything about the Uffe Lynggaard case, or any other case, for that matter. You’ll have to contact Social Services in Store Heddinge.”

  “I’ve already tried that. Now listen here, Karen Mortensen, I’m just trying to find out what happened to Uffe’s sister.”

  “Uffe was acquitted of all charges,” she snapped.

  “Yes, yes, I know, and that’s fine. But maybe Uffe knows something that hasn’t come out.”

  “His sister is dead, so what good would it do? Uffe hasn’t spoken a single word since his accident, so he can’t help you.”

  “What if I came out to visit you? Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Not if it has anything to do with Uffe.”

  “I simply don’t understand this. When I’ve talked to people who knew Merete Lynggaard, I’ve heard that she always spoke so highly of you. She said she and her brother would have been totally lost without your attentive casework.” She tried to say something, but Carl refused to let her interrupt. “So why won’t you at least do your best to protect Merete’s reputation, now that she’s not here to do it for herself ? I’m sure you know that the general opinion is that she committed suicide. But what if that wasn’t what happened?”

  The only sound now audible on the other end of the line was a muted radio. She was still weighing the words “spoke so highly of you.” Quite a mouthful to digest.

  It took her ten seconds to swallow completely. “As far as I know, Merete never said anything to anybody about Uffe. Only those of us at Social Services even knew of his existence.” That was what she said, but she sounded wonderfully unsure of herself.

  “You’re right, of course, that was true for the most part. But there were other family members. OK, they lived in Jutland, but she did have relatives, you know.” He paused a moment for effect, giving himself time to consider what sort of family members he could invent for the situation if she insisted on pursuing the topic. But Karen Mortensen had already taken the bait. He could tell.

  “Was it you personally, who visited Uffe in the past?” he asked.

  “Only at the request of the police. But I was in charge of the case during all those years.”

  “Was it your impression that Uffe’s condition was getting worse as time passed?”

  She hesitated. She was about to slip away again, so it was just a matter of holding on tight.

  “I’m asking you this because I think it might be possible to get through to him today, but I could be wrong,” he continued.

  “You’ve met Uffe?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yes, of course. A very charming young man. And what a dazzling smile he has. It’s hard to comprehend that there’s anything wrong with him.”

  “Plenty of people have thought the same thing in the past. But that’s often how it is with victims of brain injuries. Merete deserved a lot of credit for keeping him from completely withdrawing into himself.”

  “And you think there’s a danger of that happening?”

  “Absolutely. But it’s true that he can seem very lively if you look at his face. And no, I don’t think he got any worse over the years.”

  “Do you think he understood at all what happened to his sister?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Doesn’t that seem strange? I mean, he would get upset if she didn’t come home on time. Start crying, I mean.”

  “If you ask me, he couldn’t have seen her fall into the water. I don’t think so. He would have become hysterical, and in my opinion he would have jumped in after her. As for his personal reaction, he wandered around for days down on Fehmarn. He had all the time in the world to cry and feel confused and try searching for her. When they found him, only his basal functions were left. I mean, he’d lost almost ten pounds and apparently hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since he was on board the ship.”

  “But maybe he pushed his sister overboard by accident and realized that he’d done something wrong.”

  “Now look here, Mr. Mørck! I thought that might be where you were headed.” Carl felt the wolf in her baring its teeth, so he needed to be careful. “But instead of slamming down the phone, which is what I feel like doing, I’m going to tell you a little story to give you something to chew on.”

  He tightened his grip on the receiver.

  “You’re aware that Uffe saw his father and mother die, right?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s my opinion that since that day, Uffe has been simply floating around. Nothing could replace his ties to his parents. Merete tried, but she was not his father and mother. She was his big sister, and they used to play together, and that was all. When he cried because she wasn’t there, it wasn’t because of a feeling of insecurity; instead, it was because he was disappointed that his playmate had forgotten him. Deep inside there is still a little boy waiting for his father and mother to come back. As for Merete, sooner or later all children get over the loss of a playmate. So here’s the story.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I went to visit them one day. I dropped by unannounced, which didn’t usually happen, but I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to say hello. So I walked up the garden path, noticing along the way that Merete’s car wasn’t there. She arrived a few minutes later. She’d just gone down to do some shopping at the grocer’s by the intersection. That was back when it still existed.”

  “The grocery store in Magleby?”

  “Yes. And when I was standing on the path, I heard a quiet babbling coming from over near their garden hothouse. It sounded like a child, but it wasn’t. I didn’t discover that it was Uffe until I was standing right in front of him. He was sitting on a pile of gravel on the terrace, talking to himself. I couldn’t understand the words, if they really were words. But I understood what he was doing.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Yes, he saw me at once, but he didn’t have time to cover up what he’d been constructing.”

  “And that was . . . ?”

  “It was a little furrow he’d dug into the gravel on the flagstones. On either side of the furrow he’d placed small twigs, and in between them he’d put a little wooden block, standing on end.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t realize what he was doing?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “The gravel and the twigs were the road and the trees.

  The block was the car that belonged to his father and mother. Uffe was reconstructing the accident.”

  Jesus Christ. “OK. And he didn’t want you to see it?”

  “He wiped out the whole thing with a single sweep of his hand. That was what convinced me.”

  “About what?”

  “That Uffe remembers.”

  There was a moment’s pause. The radio in the background suddenly became audible again, as if somebody had turned up the volume.

  “Did you tell Merete about this when she came home?” he asked.

  “Yes, but she thought I was reading too much into it. She said he often sat and played with whatever happened to be in front of him. That I probably startled him, and that was why he reacted the way he did.”

  “Did you tell her you had the feeling he acted as if he’d been caught at something?”

  “Yes, but she just thought he’d been startled.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “I agree that he was startled, but that wasn’t the whole explanation.”

  “So Uffe understands more than we think?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that he remembers the accident. Maybe it’s the only thing he actually remembers. It’s not at all certain he remembers anything from when his sister disappeared. It’s not even certain that he r
emembers his sister anymore.”

  “Didn’t they try to interview him in connection with Merete’s disappearance?”

  “It’s difficult with Uffe. I tried to help the police get him to open up when he was under arrest. I wanted him to remember what happened on board the ferry. We put pictures of the ship’s deck up on the wall and placed tiny little human figures and a model of the boat on the table next to a basin of water. We thought maybe he would play with them. I sat and watched him in secret along with one of the psychologists, but he never played with the toy ship.”

  “He didn’t remember anything even though it was only a few days later?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would be good if we could find a tunnel into Uffe’s memory. Even the slightest thing that might help me to understand what happened on the ferry, so I’d have something to go on.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Did you tell the police about the episode with the wooden block?”

  “Yes, I told the story to one of the officers with the Rapid Response Team. A Børge Bak.”

  Was Børge really Bak’s first name? That explained a lot.

  “I know him well. But I don’t recall seeing anything about this in his report. Can you say why he didn’t include this information?”

  “No, I don’t know why. But later on it didn’t come up again. Maybe it’s in the report that the psychologists and psychiatrists wrote up. I didn’t read it.”

  “I imagine the report is kept at Egely, where Uffe was placed. Wouldn’t you think so?”

  “That’s probably right, but I don’t think it will add much to the picture of Uffe. Most of the psychologists agreed with me that whatever prompted the incident with the wooden block could have been something momentary. That Uffe really didn’t remember, and that we wouldn’t make any progress in the Merete Lynggaard case by browbeating him.”

  “And so they dropped all the charges.”