The Keeper of Lost Causes

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Eventually it, too, would give up.

  The voices came to her as if she were in a trance. They were calling her name. Entreating her to answer them. She opened her eyes and noticed at once that the abscess had stopped throbbing, and that her limp body was still lying next to the toilet bucket beneath the mirrored panes. She stared up at the ceiling, noticing that one of the fluorescent tubes had started to flicker faintly in the fixture high above her. She’d heard voices, hadn’t she? Were they real?

  Then a clear voice that she’d never heard before spoke: “That’s right, she took out the fruit.”

  It’s real, she thought, but she was too weak to be startled.

  It was a man’s voice. Not a young man, but not an old man either.

  She immediately raised her head, but not so much that they’d be able to see her from outside.

  “I can see the fruit from where I’m standing,” said a woman’s voice. “It’s over there on the floor.” It was the same woman who had spoken to Merete once a year; the voice was unmistakable. Apparently the people outside had been calling to her and had then forgotten to shut off the intercom.

  “She’s crawled over between the windows. I’m sure of it,” the woman went on.

  “Do you think she’s dead? It’s been a week, you know,” said the man’s voice. It sounded so natural, but it wasn’t. This was her they were talking about.

  “It would be just like her to do something like that, the little slut.”

  “Should we equalize the pressure and go in and have a look?”

  “What were you planning to do with her then? All of the cells in her body have acclimated to five atmospheres of pressure. It would take weeks to decompress her body. If we open the door now, she’ll not only get the bends, she’ll explode on the spot. You’ve seen her feces and how it expands. And her urine, how it bubbles and boils. Keep in mind that she’s been living in a pressure chamber for three and a half years now.”

  “Can’t we just pump up the pressure again after we find out whether she’s still alive?”

  The woman outside didn’t answer, but it was clear that under no circumstances was that going to happen.

  Merete’s breathing became more and more labored. The voices belonged to devils. They’d flay her and sew her back together for an eternity, if they could. She was in the inner circle of hell. The place where the torments never ceased.

  Come on in, you bastards, she thought, cautiously pulling the flashlight closer as the whining in her ears got louder. She was going to plant it in the eye of the first person who came near her. Blind the vile creature who dared to set foot in her holy chamber. It was the one thing she’d manage to do before she died.

  “We’re not doing anything until Lasse gets back. Do you hear me?” said the woman in a tone of voice that demanded obedience.

  “But that’ll take forever. She’ll be dead long before then,” replied the man. “What the hell should we do? Lasse is going to be furious.”

  Then came a silence that was nauseating and oppressive, as if the walls of the room were about to contract and leave her there, like a louse squeezed between two fingernails.

  She clutched the flashlight even tighter in her hand and waited. All of a sudden the pain was back with a wallop. She opened her eyes wide and drew air deep into her lungs to release the pain in a reflexive scream, but no sound came out. Then she got herself under control. The feeling of nausea remained, and the sensation that she was about to throw up made her regurgitate, but she didn’t say a word. She merely tilted her head back and let the tears flow down her face and over her parched lips.

  I can hear them, but they mustn’t hear me, she chanted soundlessly over and over. She clutched her throat, fanned her hand over the bulge in her cheek, and rocked back and forth, clenching and unclenching her free hand ceaselessly. Every nerve fiber in her body was aware of the excruciating pain.

  And then the scream came. It had a life of its own. Her body demanded it. A deep, hollow scream that went on and on and on.

  “She’s there. Do you hear that? I knew it.” There was a clicking sound from a switch. “Come out so we can see you,” said the revolting female voice. Only then did they discover that something was wrong.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “The switch is stuck.”

  Then the woman started tapping on the intercom switch, but it did no good.

  “Have you been lying there eavesdropping on what we were saying, you little bitch?” She sounded like an animal. Her voice was raw, honed with years of cruelty and callousness.

  “Lasse will fix it when he gets here,” said the man outside. “He’ll fix it. It really doesn’t matter.”

  Now it felt as if her jaw would split in two. Merete didn’t want to react, but she had no choice. She had to stand up. Anything to distract the hammering sense of panic in her body. She propped herself up on her knees, noticing how weak she was, then pushed off and managed to sit back on her heels, feeling the fire ignite again inside her mouth. She set one knee on the floor and managed to stand halfway up.

  “Good Lord, look at you, girl,” said the ghastly voice outside, and then it began to laugh. The laughter struck Merete like a hailstorm of scalpels. “You have a toothache,” said the laughing voice. “Ye gods, the filthy slut has a toothache. Look at her.”

  Merete turned abruptly to face the mirrored panes. The mere act of moving her lips felt worse than death. “I’ll get my revenge one day,” she whispered, pressing her face close to the pane. “I’ll get my revenge. Just wait.”

  “If you don’t eat, you’re going to end up burning in hell without ever having that satisfaction,” snarled the woman, but there was something more in her voice. Like a cat playing with a mouse, and the cat wasn’t done playing yet. They wanted their prisoner to live. Live for as long as they had decided, and no longer.

  “I can’t eat,” Merete groaned.

  “Is it an abscess?” asked the man’s voice.

  She nodded.

  “You’ll have to deal with it yourself,” he said coldly.

  Merete stared at her reflection in one of the portholes. The poor woman before her had hollow cheeks and her eyes looked as if they might fall out of her head. The upper part of her face was distorted from the abscess, and the dark circles under her eyes told their own story. She looked deathly ill, and she was.

  She set her back against the glass and slowly slid down to the floor. There she sat, with tears of anger in her eyes and a new awareness that her body wanted to live and was capable of doing so. She would take whatever was in the bucket and force herself to swallow it. The pain would either kill her or it wouldn’t; time would tell. In any case, she would not give up without a fight, because she had just made a promise to that awful bitch out there. A promise she was determined to keep. At some point that disgusting woman would get a taste of her own medicine.

  For a moment Merete’s body felt calm, like a shattered landscape in the eye of a hurricane, and then the pain was back. This time she screamed as uninhibitedly as she could. She felt the pus from her gum flow on to her tongue and how the throbbing of the toothache spread all the way to her temple.

  Then she heard the whistling of the airlock door, and a new bucket came into view.

  “Here! We’ve put some first aid in the bucket for you. Go ahead and take it,” laughed the woman’s voice outside.

  Merete quickly crawled over to the hatch on all fours and pulled out the bucket. She looked inside.

  Way down at the bottom, lying on a piece of fabric just like a surgical instrument, was a pair of tongs.

  A big pair of tongs. Big and rusty.

  27

  2007

  Carl’s morning had been an oppressive one. First bad dreams and then Jesper’s griping at breakfast had drained him of energy even before he sank into the driver’s seat of his car, only to discover the gas gauge pointing to empty. The forty-five minutes that he then spent sitting in the exhaust fumes of the small stretch of
motorway between Nymøllevej and Værløse didn’t do much to encourage the side of his personality that might manifest charm, amiability, and patience.

  When he was finally sitting at his desk in the basement of police headquarters, he found himself staring at the sparks of energy apparent in Assad’s morning-fresh face. That was when he considered going upstairs to Marcus Jacobsen’s office and smashing a few chairs so he’d be sent off someplace where they’d take good care of him. Where he would only need to pay attention to all the world’s misfortunes when the evening news appeared on TV.

  Carl nodded wearily to his assistant. If he could only get the man to contain his high spirits for a moment, then perhaps his own inner batteries might have a chance to recharge. He glanced at the coffeemaker, saw that it was empty, and then accepted the tiny cup that Assad handed him.

  “I do not entirely understand it, Carl,” said Assad. “You say that Daniel Hale is dead, but he was not the one who came to the meeting at Christiansborg. So who was that man then?”

  “I have no idea, Assad, but Hale had nothing to do with Merete Lynggaard. Whoever came in Hale’s place did, however.” He took a sip of Assad’s mint tea. Without the four or five spoonfuls of sugar, it might actually be drinkable.

  “But how could this other guy know that the billionaire who was boss of the meeting up at Christiansborg had never seen Daniel Hale in reality then?”

  “That’s a good question. Maybe this man and Hale knew each other somehow.” Carl set his cup on the desk and looked up at the bulletin board, where he had pinned up the brochure from InterLab A/S with Daniel Hale’s well-groomed likeness.

  “So it was not Hale who delivered the letter, was it? And he was not the man who had dinner with Merete Lynggaard at the Bankeråt, right?”

  “According to Hale’s colleagues, he wasn’t even in the country at the time.” Carl turned to look at his assistant. “What did the police report say about Daniel Hale’s car after the accident? Do you remember? Was everything a hundred per cent in order? Did they find any defects that might have caused the accident?”

  “You mean, were the brakes fine?”

  “The brakes. Steering mechanism. Everything. Was there any sign of sabotage?”

  Assad shrugged. “It was difficult to see anything, because the car burned up, Carl. But it was then probably believed to be an ordinary accident, as I can understand that report.”

  That was how Carl remembered it too. Nothing suspicious.

  “And there were no witnesses who can say otherwise?”

  They exchanged glances.

  “I know, Assad. I know.”

  “Only him, the man who drove into him.”

  “Exactly.” Without thinking, Carl took a gulp of the mint tea, which made him shudder. He certainly wasn’t going to get addicted to this swill.

  Carl considered taking a cigarette or a throat lozenge out of the desk drawer, but he didn’t have enough energy even for that. It was a hell of a development. Here he was, just about to close up the damn case and now this turn of events had to happen, pointing to unexplored aspects. An endless workload suddenly loomed before him, and this was just one case. There were forty or fifty more stacked on the desk in front of him.

  “What about him, the witness in the other car, Carl? Shouldn’t we talk to that man who Daniel Hale crashed into?”

  “I’ve got Lis trying to track him down.”

  For a moment Assad looked thoroughly disappointed.

  “But I’ve got a different assignment for you.”

  An oddly blissful change in mood brought a smile to his lips.

  “I want you to drive down to Holtug in Stevns and talk to the home help, Helle Andersen, one more time. Ask her if she recognizes Daniel Hale as the man who personally delivered the letter. Take his picture with you.” He pointed at the bulletin board.

  “But he was not the one, it was him, the other one who—”

  Carl stopped Assad with a wave of his hand. “You know that, and I know that. But if she says no, as we expect her to do, then ask her whether Daniel Hale looked anything like the guy with the letter. We need to get a better description of the man, OK? And one more thing: Ask her whether Uffe was there and might have caught a glimpse of the man who brought the letter. And finally, ask her whether she remembers where Merete used to put her briefcase when she came home. Tell her it’s black and has a big rip on one side. It was her father’s, and he had it in the car when the accident happened, so it must have meant a lot to her.” Carl raised his hand again as Assad was about to say something. “And afterward, drive over to see the antique dealers who bought Merete’s house in Magleby and ask them if they’ve seen a briefcase like that anywhere. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow, OK? You can take the car home with you. I’ll take cabs today, and later I can catch the train home.”

  By now Assad was flailing his arms about.

  “Yes, Assad?”

  “Just a minute, right? I have to find a writing book. Will you please just say everything one more time?”

  Hardy had looked worse. Previously his head resembled something that had melted into the pillow, but now it was lifted enough so that the fine blood vessels were visible, pulsing in his temples. He lay there with eyes closed, and he seemed more peaceful than he had in a long time. For a moment Carl thought maybe he should leave. Some of the equipment had been removed from the room, even though the respirator was of course still pumping. All in all, it seemed a good sign.

  He turned carefully on his heel and was just taking a step toward the door when Hardy’s voice stopped him.

  “Where are you going? Can’t you stand to see a man flat on his back?”

  Carl turned around and saw Hardy lying exactly as when he’d entered the room.

  “If you want people to stay, you ought to make some sort of sign that you’re awake, Hardy. You could open your eyes, for example.”

  “No. Not today. I don’t feel like opening my eyes today.” Carl needed to hear that one again. “If there’s going to be any difference in my days, then I should be allowed to decide whether or not to open my eyes, OK?”

  “Yeah. OK.”

  “Tomorrow I’m planning on looking only to the right.”

  “OK,” said Carl, even though Hardy’s words hurt deep in his soul. “You’ve talked to Assad a couple of times now, Hardy. Was it all right with you that I sent him over here?”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t,” he said, hardly moving his lips.

  “Yeah, well, I did. And I’ve been thinking of sending him over here as often as I need to. Do you have any objections?”

  “Only if he brings those spicy, grilled things again.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Something that might be interpreted as laughter slipped out of Hardy’s body. “They made me shit like I’ve never shit before. The nurses were really upset.”

  Carl tried not to picture the scene. It didn’t sound pleasant.

  “I’ll tell Assad, Hardy. No spicy, grilled things next time.”

  “Is there anything new in the Lynggaard case?” asked Hardy. This was the first time since he was paralyzed that he’d expressed curiosity about anything. Carl could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. In a moment he’d probably have a lump in his throat too.

  “Yeah, you bet.” And then he told Hardy about the latest development with Daniel Hale.

  “You know what I think, Carl?” Hardy said afterward.

  “You think the case has got a new lease of life.”

  “Exactly. The whole thing stinks to high heaven.” He opened his eyes for a moment and looked up at the ceiling before he closed them again. “Do you have any political leads to investigate?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Have you talked to the press?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of the political commentators at Christiansborg. They’ve always got their noses in everything. Or what about the tabloids? Pelle Hyttested at Gossip,
for instance. That little weasel has been gleefully digging dirt out of the woodwork at Christiansborg ever since he was fired from Aktuelt, so he’s an old hand there by now. Ask him, and you’ll know more than you do now.” A smile appeared on Hardy’s face, and then it was gone.

  I’ll tell him now, thought Carl, and then he spoke very slowly so that it would sink in properly, right from the start. “There’s been a murder down in Sorø, Hardy. I think it’s the same guys who were out in Amager.”

  Hardy’s expression didn’t change. “And?” he said.

  “Yeah, well, the same circumstances, the same weapon, the same red-checked shirt presumably, the same group of people, the same—”

  “I said, ‘And?’”

  “Well, that’s why I’m telling you all this.”

  “I said, ‘And?’ Meaning, ‘And what the hell do I care?’”

  Gossip’s editorial office was in that in-between phase when the weekly deadline had been met and the next issue was just starting to take shape. A couple of journalists glanced at Carl without interest as he walked through the open office landscape. Apparently they didn’t recognize him, which was just as well.

  He found Pelle Hyttested preening his well-trimmed but skimpy red beard over in a corner where an eternal lethargy had descended upon the senior journalists. Carl was well acquainted with Hyttested’s reputation as a scumbag and an asshole that only money could stop. It was incomprehensible why so many Danes loved to read the overwrought trash that he wrote, but his victims didn’t share their enthusiasm. There was a long queue of lawsuits waiting outside Hyttested’s door, but the editor-in-chief held a protective hand over his favorite little demon. To hell with it if the editor-in-chief had to pay a few fines along the way.

  The man cast a brief glance at Carl’s police badge and turned back to his colleagues.

  Carl placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got a couple of questions for you, I said.”

  Hyttested looked right through him when he turned to face Carl again. “Can’t you see I’m working? Or maybe you’d like to take me down to the station . . .”