The Keeper of Lost Causes

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  It was at this point that Carl pulled from his wallet the thousand-kroner note that he’d been saving for months and stuck it in front of the journalist’s nose.

  “What was it you wanted to see me about?” asked the man, trying to suck up the bill with his eyes. Maybe he was working out in his mind how many late-night hours the money could keep him going at Andy’s Bar.

  “I’m investigating the disappearance of Merete Lynggaard. My colleague Hardy Henningsen thinks you might be able to tell me whether Merete had any reason to fear somebody in political circles.”

  “Fear somebody? That’s an odd way to put it,” he said, stroking the almost invisible tufts of hair on his face. “Why are you asking me about this? Has something new turned up in that case?”

  Now the cross-examination was moving in the wrong direction.

  “Something new? No, nothing like that. But the case has reached the point where certain questions need to be resolved once and for all.”

  Hyttested nodded, obviously unimpressed. “Five years after she disappeared? Come on, you’ve got to be kidding. Why don’t you tell me what you know instead, and then I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Carl waved the banknote again so the man’s attention would be drawn to what was essential.

  “So you have no knowledge of anyone who might have been especially angry with Merete Lynggaard at the time? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Everybody hated the bitch. If it hadn’t been for her fucking beautiful tits, she would have been tossed out long ago.”

  Not a supporter of the Democrats, Carl gathered. It could hardly come as a surprise. “OK, so you don’t know anything.” He turned to the others in the room. “Do any of you know anything? Anything at all. It doesn’t have to be related to Christiansborg. Maybe some wild rumors. Or people who were seen around her while your paparazzi were on the prowl. Vague impressions. Ring any bells?” He looked at Hyttested’s colleagues. It would be easy to diagnose at least half of them as brain-dead. They looked at him with blank eyes that said they didn’t give a shit.

  He turned around to look at the rest of the office. Maybe one of the younger journalists who still had some life in his skull would have something to say. If not from first-hand experience, then maybe third- or fourth-hand. This was gossip central, after all.

  “Did you say that Hardy Henningsen sent you here?” asked Hyttested as he crept closer to the thousand-kroner note. “Maybe it was you who fucked things up for him. I remember very clearly reading something about a Carl Mørck. Isn’t that your name? You’re the one who took cover under one of your colleagues. The guy who lay underneath Hardy Henningsen and played dead. That’s you, right?”

  Carl felt the Greenland ice cap creeping up his spine. How in the world had the guy come to that conclusion? All of the internal hearings had been closed to the public. No one had ever even hinted at what this shithead was now insinuating.

  “Are you saying that because you want me to grab you by the collar, crush you flat, and then shove you under the carpet so you’ll have something to write about next week?” Carl moved in so close that Hyttested chose to fix his eyes on the banknote again. “Hardy Henningsen was the best colleague anyone could ever have. I would have died for him, if I could. Do you get me?”

  Hyttested looked over his shoulder to give his coworkers a triumphant look. Shit. Now the headline for the next issue was in the bag, and Carl was the casualty. Now all they needed was a photographer to immortalize the situation. He’d better get out while he could.

  “Do I get the thousand kroner if I tell you which photographer specialized in taking pictures of Merete Lynggaard?”

  “What good would that do me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it would help. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Can you really afford to ignore a tip?”

  “Who is it?”

  “You should try talking to Jonas.”

  “Jonas who?” Now there were only a few inches between the thousand kroner and Hyttested’s greedy fingers.

  “Jonas Hess.”

  “Jonas Hess? Yeah, OK. Where do I find him? Is he here in the office right now?”

  “We don’t hire guys like Jonas Hess. You’ll have to look him up in the phone book.”

  Carl made a mental note of the name and then in a flash stuffed the thousand kroner back in his pocket. The jerk was going to write about him in the next issue, no matter what. Besides, he’d never in his life paid for information, and it would take somebody of an entirely different caliber than Hyttested before that ever changed.

  “You would have died for him?” Hyttested yelled after Carl, as he strode between the rows of cubicles. “Then why didn’t you, Carl Mørck?”

  He got Jonas Hess’s address from the receptionist, and a taxi dropped him in front of a tiny stucco house on Vejlands Allé, which had become silted up over the years with the detritus of society: old bicycles, shattered aquariums, and glass flagons from ancient home-brewing projects, moldy tarpaulins that could no longer hide the rotting boards underneath, a plethora of bottles, and all sorts of other junk. The owner of the house would be an ideal candidate for any one of those home makeover programs on TV. Even the most inept of landscape architects would be welcome here.

  A bicycle lying in front of the door and the quiet growling from a radio behind the filthy windows indicated that somebody was home. Carl leaned on the doorbell until his finger started to ache.

  Finally he heard from inside: “Cut that out, damn it.”

  A ruddy-faced man displaying the unmistakable signs of a massive hangover opened the door and tried to focus on Carl in the blinding sunlight.

  “What the hell’s the time?” he asked, as he let go of the doorknob and retreated inside. There was no need for a court order to follow him in.

  The living room was of the type shown in disaster movies after the comet has split the earth in two. The homeowner threw himself onto a sagging sofa with a satisfied sigh. Then he took a huge gulp from a whisky bottle as he tried to localize Carl out of the corner of his eye.

  Carl’s experience told him this man would not exactly be an ideal witness.

  He said hello from Pelle Hyttested, hoping that would break the ice a bit.

  “He owes me money,” replied Hess.

  Carl was about to show the photographer his badge, but changed his mind and stuck it back in his pocket. “I’m from a special police unit that’s trying to solve mysteries about some unfortunate people,” he said. A statement like that couldn’t possibly scare anyone off.

  Hess lowered the bottle for a moment. Maybe that was too many words for him to process, considering his condition.

  “I’m here to talk to you about Merete Lynggaard,” Carl ventured. “I know that you sort of specialized in her.”

  Hess tried to smile, but acid indigestion prevented it. “There aren’t many who know that,” he said. “And what about her?”

  “Do you have any pictures of her that you haven’t published?”

  Hess doubled over, trying to suppress a laugh. “Jesus, how can you ask such a stupid question? I’ve got at least ten thousand of them.”

  “Ten thousand! That sounds like a lot.”

  “Listen here.” He held up his hand with the fingers splayed out. “Two or three rolls of film every other day for two to three years—how many photos would that make?”

  “A lot more than ten thousand, I would think.”

  After an hour, and helped along by the calories contained in neat whisky, Jonas Hess was finally alert enough that he could lead the way, without staggering, to his darkroom, which was in a little building made of breeze blocks behind the house.

  Here things were quite different from inside his house. Carl had been in plenty of darkrooms before, but none as sterile and neat as this one. The difference between the man in the house and the man in the darkroom was unsettling.

  Hess pulled out a metal drawer and dived in. “Here,” he said, handing Carl a folder label
ed: MERETE LYNGGAARD: NOVEMBER 13, 2001 TO MARCH 1, 2002. “Those are the negatives from the last period.”

  Carl opened the folder, starting at the back. Each plastic sleeve contained the negatives from a whole roll of film, but in the last sleeve there were only five shots. The date had been meticulously printed on it: MARCH 1, 2002 ML.

  “You took pictures of her the day before she disappeared?”

  “Yes. Nothing special. Just a couple of shots in the parliament courtyard. I often stood in the gate, waiting.”

  “Waiting for her?”

  “Not just for her. For all the Folketing politicians. If you only knew what surprising groupings I’ve seen appear on that stairway. All it takes is waiting, and one day it happens.”

  “But there were apparently no surprises that day, as far as I can see.” Carl took the plastic sleeve out of the folder and placed it on the light table. So these pictures were taken on Friday, when Merete Lynggaard was on her way home. The day before she disappeared.

  He leaned down to get a closer look at the negatives.

  There it was: She had her briefcase under her arm.

  Carl shook his head. Incredible. The very first picture he looked at, and he already had something. Here was the proof in black-and-white. Merete had taken the briefcase home with her. An old, worn-out case with a rip on one side and everything.

  “Could I borrow this negative?”

  The photographer took another gulp of whisky and wiped his mouth. “I never lend out my negatives. I don’t even sell them. But we can make a copy; I’ll just scan it. I assume the quality doesn’t have to be fit for a queen.” He took in a big breath, then hawked a bit as he laughed.

  “Thanks, I’d really appreciate a copy. You can send the bill to my department.” Carl handed the man his card.

  Hess looked at the negatives. “Yeah, well, that day there wasn’t anything special. But there hardly ever was when it came to Merete Lynggaard. The biggest deal was in the summertime if it got cold and you could see her nipples through her blouse. I got good money for those shots.”

  Again there was that hawking laughter as he went over to a small red refrigerator propped up on a couple of containers that had once held darkroom chemicals. He took out a beer, and seemed to offer it to his visitor, but the contents vanished before Carl even had time to react.

  “Of course the scoop would be to catch her with a lover, right?” Hess said, looking for something else to toss down his throat. “And I think that’s what I caught on film a few days earlier.”

  He slammed the fridge shut and picked up the folder to leaf through it. “Oh yeah, then there are the ones of Merete talking to a couple of members of the Denmark Party outside the Folketing chambers. I’ve even made contact prints of these negatives.” He chuckled. “I didn’t take the pictures because of who she was talking to but because of the woman standing over there, behind them.” He pointed to a person standing close to Merete. “I guess you can’t see it very well when the image is this size, but just take a look when it’s blown up. That’s the new secretary, and she’s totally gaga about Merete Lynggaard.”

  Carl leaned closer. It was definitely Søs Norup. But with an entirely different air about her than there had been in her dragon’s lair in Valby.

  “I have no idea whether there was anything going on between them, or whether it was just all in the secretary’s imagination. But what the hell! Don’t you think that photo would have brought in a nice sum one day?” Hess mused as he turned the page to the next set of negatives.

  “Here it is,” he said, placing a moist finger in the middle of the plastic sleeve. “I remembered it was on the twenty-fifth of February, because that’s my sister’s birthday. I thought I could buy her a nice present if that picture turned out to be a goldmine. Here it is.”

  He took out the plastic sleeve and placed it on the light table. “See, that was the shot I was thinking about. She’s talking to some man out on the steps of the parliament building.” Then he pointed at the photo just above it. “Take a look at that picture. I think she looks upset. There’s something in her eyes that shows she’s uncomfortable.” He handed Carl a magnifying glass.

  How the hell could anyone see something like that in a negative? Her eyes were nothing but two white dots.

  “She noticed me taking pictures, so I split. I don’t think she got a good look at me. Afterward I tried to photograph the man, but the only shot I got was from behind because he left the courtyard in the other direction, toward the bridge. But it was probably just some random guy who tried to accost her as he went by. There’d be plenty of others if they thought they could get away with it.”

  “Do you have contact prints of this series too?”

  Hess swallowed a couple more acid eruptions, looking as if his throat were on fire. “Prints? I can make you some if you run down to the offlicense and buy me some beer in the meantime.”

  Carl nodded. “But first I have a question for you. If you were so obsessed about getting a picture of Merete Lynggaard with a lover, you must have taken photos of her at her house in Stevns. Am I right?”

  Hess didn’t look up as he studied the pictures they’d been looking at.

  “Of course. I was down there lots of times.”

  “So there’s something I don’t understand. You must have seen her with her handicapped brother, Uffe. Yes?”

  “Oh sure, plenty of times.” Hess put an X on the plastic sleeve next to one of the negatives. “Here’s a really good shot of her and that guy. I can give you a copy. Maybe you’ll know who he is. Then you can tell me, OK?”

  Carl nodded again. “But why didn’t you take any good pictures of Merete and Uffe together, so the whole world would know why she was always in such a hurry to get home from Christiansborg?”

  “I didn’t do it because a member of my own family is handicapped. My sister.”

  “But you take photographs for a living.”

  Hess gave him an apathetic look. If Carl didn’t go and get those beers soon, he wasn’t going to get any copies.

  “Hey, you know what?” replied the photographer, looking Carl right in the eye. “Just because somebody is a shit, it doesn’t mean he has no integrity. Like yourself, for example.”

  Carl walked along the pedestrian street from Allerød Station, noting with annoyance that the street scene was looking more and more miserable. Concrete boxes camouflaged as luxury apartments were already towering over the Kvickly supermarket, and soon even the snug, old, one-story houses on the other side of the road would be gone. What had previously been a picturesque feast for the eyes had now turned into a tunnel of dolled-up concrete. A few years ago he wouldn’t have thought it possible, but now it had reached his own town. Thanks to politicians like Erhard Jakobsen in Bagsværd, Urban Hansen in Copenhagen, and God only knew who in Charlottenlund. Homey, precious townscapes shattered. An abundance of mayors and town councils with no taste. These hideous new buildings were clear proof of that.

  The barbecue gang at Carl’s house in Rønneholt Park was in full swing, thanks to the continuing good weather. It was 6:24 p.m. on March 22, 2007—and spring had officially arrived.

  In honor of the day, Morten had donned flowing robes that he’d bartered for during a trip to Morocco. Dressed in that outfit, he could have easily started up a new sect in ten seconds flat. “Just in time, Carl,” he said, dumping some spare ribs on to his plate.

  His neighbor Sysser Petersen already seemed a bit tipsy, but bore it with dignity. “I just don’t feel like doing this anymore,” she said. “I’m going to sell my dump and move.” She took a big gulp of red wine. “Down at Social Services we spend more time filling out stupid forms than helping citizens. Did you know that, Carl? Let those smug government ministers give it a try. If they had to fill out forms to get their free dinners and free chauffeurs and free rent and their enormous salaries and free junkets and free secretaries and all that other shit, they wouldn’t have any time left for eating or sleeping or d
riving or anything else. Can’t you just picture it? If the prime minister had to sit down and tick off a list of what he wanted to discuss with his ministers before the meeting even got started? In triplicate, printed out from a computer that only worked every other day. And first he’d have to get it approved by some government official before he was even allowed to speak. It would wear the man out.” And with that, she threw back her head and howled with laughter.

  Carl nodded. Soon the discussion would turn to the cultural minister’s right to muzzle the media, or whether there was anyone who remembered the arguments for breaking up the counties of Denmark, or the hospitals or the tax system, for that matter. And the talk wouldn’t end until the last drop had been drunk and the last spare rib sucked clean.

  He gave Sysser a little hug, patted Kenn on the shoulder, and took his plate up to his room. They were all more or less in total agreement. More than half of the country wished the prime minister would go to hell, and they would keep wishing the same thing tomorrow and the day after, until finally all the misfortune that he’d brought flooding in over Denmark and its citizens had been rectified.

  It would take decades.

  But Carl had other things on his mind at the moment.

  28

  2007

  At three o’clock in the morning Carl opened his eyes to pitch darkness. In the back of his mind he had a vague memory of red-checked shirts and nail guns and a clear sense that one of the shirts in Sorø did have the right pattern. His pulse was racing and his mood was glum; he was definitely not feeling good. He simply didn’t have the energy to think about the case, but who could stop the nightmares or keep his sheets from getting clammy?

  And now he had to deal with that slimy journalist Pelle Hyttested. Was he going to start digging around? Was one of the headlines in the next issue of Gossip really going to be about a police detective who had fucked up?