He raised his left hand and pushed the muzzle away with his index finger. There was a sound of at least twenty-five clicks from digital cameras all at the same time.
Terje Ploug put the pistol on the table with a clonk. “We’re dealing with a pistol of the type PAMAS G1, a variety of the more widely known Beretta 92, which was produced for the French Gendarmerie Nationale. Automatic, semi-heavy. The serial number has been filed off, and given that quite a few of these pistols have disappeared from military arsenals over the years, we’ve got no chance of establishing the history of this one. What we do know with certainty, because it’s been confirmed through our ballistic investigations, is that this is the weapon that was used in the shooting of our three colleagues in 2007.”
At this, Janus Staal pressed a key on his laptop, and a PowerPoint image of the pistol and a data sheet of its properties were projected onto the screen above their heads.
If Carl’s arms and hands had been allowed to decide, they would’ve been shaking. His forehead felt like ice, while his body was almost boiling. They could’ve spared him from this.
Now Lars Bjørn took over. “Obviously, we’ve called this press meeting today to impress on the public that when police officers are killed on duty, it will always take very high priority in our investigations, and that we won’t stop until the perpetrators have been brought to trial. Apart from that, we wanted to inform you that we’re now in possession of the knowledge that the nail-gun murders in Schiedam, Netherlands, and those on Amager and in Sorø, here in Denmark, are likely to be connected after all. And now I’ll pass you over to Hans Rinus.”
The man cleared his throat a couple of times. Carl remembered him clearly now. His English was worse than Assad’s Danish the first time Carl had met him.
“Thank you,” he said in some kind of Danish, and then went on to butcher what was supposed to be English.
“I am police in Zuid-Holland, and the murders in Schiedam are mine. For a long time it wasn’t certain who had the kill, and it still isn’t, but now we know, hmmm, what do you say, that the dead man was also someone that the Danish police was after.”
You’d have to look far and wide to find worse gibberish than that.
Lars Bjørn gave a friendly smile and put his hand on Hans Rinus’s arm.
“Thank you very much for your splendid work,” he said in English, before continuing in Danish. Thank God.
“Three days ago, Daniel Jippes, a twelve-year-old schoolboy out riding his bike in a suburb called Vriesland, southwest of Rotterdam, found a body in a canal called Meeldijk. He was on his way into a park area, where the canal runs under the bicycle path through a drainpipe.”
He pointed at the head of communications, who pressed another key. This time it produced a screenshot from Google Maps showing the location. Park trees, the canal running into the drainpipe where the body had been found, and the cycle path that led over the dike that the pipe went through. Everything was very, very green. Park Brabrand it read underneath.
“The body was a male, found with sturdy string tied around his right foot. The string went all the way across the cycle path, down on the other side, and under the cycle path through the pipe, where the other end was tied to his left wrist.”
Janus Staal produced a slightly blurred photo that showed both the string on the cycle path and what was presumably the body in the drainpipe. That was probably the closest the Danish press would come to a photo of the deceased.
“There were clear signs of defensive bruising on the body, and the technicians assume he was tied while lying on the cycle path, then the string was pulled through the pipe, and finally they dragged him in the water and through the pipe, where he drowned.”
Carl frowned. Why not make a clean kill if they’d wanted to eliminate the man anyway?
“We can’t rule out the possibility that he was dragged back and forth a few times before they finally decided to let him die.”
“They were probably trying to get something out of him,” interjected Terje Ploug. Lars Bjørn gave him a penetrating look.
“Yes, as Terje Ploug said, we can probably conclude that someone tried to get something out of the man.”
The journalists started to raise their hands in the air, but the head of communications stopped them before the questions piled up.
“You won’t have an opportunity to ask questions today, but you will all be given a printout of all the available facts.”
They grumbled. Carl could understand them. How the hell could they sell the story if they all had the same poor starting point?
“The man has been identified,” said Terje Ploug, once again using PowerPoint to show a photo of a balding man in his forties, with blue eyes and a characteristic, annoying, droll smile.
He was clearly well dressed. Ray-Ban sunglasses in his hair, pressed white shirt, and a Hugo Boss–type jacket signaled that he was someone who wanted to exude that he had things under control. Which probably wasn’t what he felt just before he was pulled down into the drainpipe.
“We’re dealing with a Danish citizen living in the Netherlands, by the name of Rasmus Bruhn, forty-four years of age, several prior convictions. Over the past few years, he also worked as a journalist under the pseudonym Pete Boswell.”
Carl frowned. What did he say?
Ploug lifted his eyes toward the assembly. “Some of you probably recall that this was the name given to the dismembered body we found in a box out on Amager, when the barrack was torn down where the shooting of the three Danish police officers took place years ago.”
Both Carl and the people from the press were confused. “So why did you assume back then that the dead man on Amager was called Pete Boswell?” someone shouted.
“An anonymous tip,” Bjørn broke in. “We were given several leads, but the decisive factor was a fleur-de-lis branded on his right shoulder. We didn’t go public with it for several reasons and, furthermore, it took the medical examiners a few days to verify it due to the decomposition of the body. Admittedly, it was an assumption, but in our opinion a well-founded one. That’s how it is with anonymous tips. The press hopefully knows that better than anyone. You need to take them with a grain of salt, am I right? And this tip unfortunately turned out to be misleading.”
Carl clenched the cigarettes in his jacket pocket. Just knowing they were there was better than nothing. Damn it, there was so much he could discuss with Bjørn and Ploug. He just didn’t have the energy.
“Our Dutch colleagues have checked up on the man’s background, and there are several striking facts. Firstly, in his capacity of travel correspondent, he had ample opportunity to act as courier for people—by this we are mainly thinking about precious stones—and secondly, his network was so extensive that he could easily have connected people and passed on messages that way.
“He has travelled in many countries in East Asia and the Middle East, but also in Africa and the Caribbean.”
He nodded to their Dutch colleague. “And now our colleague Hans Rinus will explain the results of the technical examination of the body and the search of Rasmus Bruhn’s home.”
A lengthy, complicated account followed, but the meaning was clear enough. The body had been in the water for some days. The tongue, which was hanging out of the mouth, was no longer blue, and his irises already slightly blurry. There were scratch marks on the inside of the pipe, and the silt on the bottom indicated that he’d tried to drag himself out. He’d dressed young for his age, and had nothing on him except a business card, which—despite days in the water—was still readable and led them directly to his residence at Haverdreef in the neighborhood of De Akkers, just north of the crime scene. That was also where the pistol was found, the magazine full and his fingerprints on it, along with 250 grams of poor cocaine and some notebooks containing names, including some relations in Denmark. More precisely, these relations lived in Sorø, an
d even more precisely, one of them was the younger of the two men who were murdered with a nail gun in a car repair shop in town. He was the nephew of the man Carl, Anker, and Hardy found murdered with a Paslode nail in his temple on Amager.
Carl looked over at Lars Bjørn, who was watching his head of communications switch between different effects on the screen with a straight face.
All this ought to feel like a relief. A chain of information that put things into context and triggered new possibilities for investigation. Still, Carl felt nothing but displeasure, his jaw muscles now working away uncontrollably.
How long had Lars Bjørn kept this knowledge to himself? How many times had he chosen not to inform Carl? Why hadn’t Carl been the first person he went to?
While the people next to him talked their way through a series of possible scenarios and motives, which they knew absolutely nothing about anyway, rebellion started to stir inside him.
Weren’t they just sitting there presenting unsubstantiated hypotheses to gather points in the great performance lottery? Was it the case that Lars Bjørn wanted to demonstrate that despite his anonymity, he was a man of leadership, impact, and perspective? That he was a worthy successor to Marcus Jacobsen, the man who hadn’t granted Carl as much as a few minutes to explain himself in one of the TV police report programs?
“Do you have anything you’d like to add?” Lars Bjørn suddenly asked his colleagues. Carl must’ve been in another world for a minute, because their Dutch colleague was already standing.
Carl bent down to pick up his briefcase.
“Yes,” he said, “I do.”
He rummaged through the briefcase before he found the right papers.
“I’m investigating another case, a road casualty, and in that connection we’re looking for this man. About six-one, dimple in his chin, husky voice, blue eyes, strong features, dark eyebrows, and wide front teeth with a small light mark. He speaks fluent Danish.”
Carl avoided Bjørn’s eyes, but noticed Terje Ploug sending him a worried look, while he held up his photocopy of the man next to the VW Kombi directly in front of the TV2 News camera.
“This is the man. Please note the VW Kombi, light blue with a wide fender. What you can’t see is the big peace sign painted on the roof. We know he’s called Frank, and that he’s since changed his name to something more exotic.”
Bjørn grasped his forearm. Rather hard for a white-collar worker. “Thank you, Carl Mørck,” he said. “I think that’s enough already! Today we’re talking about another . . .”
Carl freed his arm. “He was staying on Bornholm in 1997, and took part in the excavations of timber circles. They were a type of platform resting on thick posts, designed for sun worship and offerings of stone and animal bone. We know for certain that he’s a sun worshipper, and that he might still be practicing as one. All tips in regard to this . . .”
“Stop right there, Carl Mørck!” Bjørn held his hand up toward the press. “We’d like to save this case until we have a bit more to go on. Allow me to thank you all for coming. Regarding the nail-gun case, we’ll get back to you when there is progress in the Danish part of the investigation. Meanwhile . . .”
“You can contact Department Q directly. The phone number is here under the photo.” Carl pointed. “We’re working at full throttle, waiting only for your tip.” Carl looked directly in the camera and held the photo right in front of it.
If he’d had the chance, he would’ve liked to show other items from his briefcase, but he reckoned he’d pushed his luck enough if he wanted to hang on to the hope of still having a job tomorrow.
Carl left his copy of the photostat for everyone to see on the table in the briefing room, but Bjørn managed to remove it before the journalists got to it.
“My office, immediately,” he ordered Carl.
39
Sunday, May 11th, 2014
“A penny for your thoughts, Shirley,” said Pirjo. She took her arm and leaned into her. It felt good. “Are you happy?” she asked.
“Happy? Yes, I think so.” She nodded.
It all felt so strange. Only nine months ago, she’d walked up the staircase in one of the flashiest houses in the exclusive Chelsea area with Wanda by her side, excited like a child before Christmas. And what she’d experienced there had been wondrous, a big leap forward in her life. That day she’d really felt that for once it wasn’t just some silly fad, like doing courses in stress management, or trying to communicate with spirits, or something like that. This time she’d decided that she was really going to challenge herself, and listen to the ideas and instructions of a great man about how you could turn your life around completely. And afterward, back in the apartment, she’d been joking with Wanda about the fabulous impression Atu had made on her. She’d really felt in mind and body how the encounter with Atu’s world had satisfied her expectations, but for Wanda there’d been more to it than that. In fact, she’d been completely absorbed.
And now she, Shirley from Birmingham, was the one who’d walk those stairs every day. Now she was Atu’s appointed one, who’d welcome new applicants like Wanda had once been welcomed. She was the one who’d arrange Atu’s stays and make him feel comfortable when he visited the London office.
Wasn’t that reason enough for her to feel proud and happy? Yes, why not? And yet, there were still some big, unanswered questions. Where was Wanda? What had become of all her dreams of lasting change?
And what about herself? Was this what she’d wanted most, only a few hours ago? After all, she’d hoped to be invited permanently into their circle here at the Nature Absorption Academy. But then again, wasn’t it true what Pirjo had made her so painfully aware of—that it wasn’t for her?
When you thought about all the unjustified words and the suspicion, all the venom she’d brought to this glorious place, it probably was true.
And still they’d shown incredible faith in her with this assignment. Was she really worthy of it?
She thrust her lower lip forward, and looked at Pirjo. Seeing her there, so fine and immaculate, how could Shirley ever have thought she could have done the things she’d suggested? Done what? Shirley didn’t even know. All she knew was that Wanda had gone missing, and that a belt that looked like hers had been found. Why would she ever have pestered these wonderful people with her unfounded and horrible ideas? Why would she even have pestered herself with them?
And now they rewarded her with this trusted assignment.
Shirley grabbed the bag, which they’d packed together, looked over her shoulder, and said good-bye to her small room. Side by side, they stepped out into the sea air, and headed for the place that would help Shirley achieve a purer attitude toward life.
From this moment on, she would do anything to deserve Atu and Pirjo’s trust, and put all her strength into developing spiritually and rising to the occasion. From now on, she’d simply be as irreproachable and loyal as the cream of the crop here at the center—no more, no less. She promised herself that.
She put her hand on Pirjo’s arm. “Yes, I’m happy, but that’s such a small word. I can hardly describe my true emotions.”
Pirjo smiled. “Then don’t, Shirley. I can tell by looking at you.”
She pointed out toward the meadow area, where a cluster of pointed houses were being built. In this area, they would be building a second center with its own timber circle, assembly room, and eating facilities. This would enable them to accept more than twice as many course participants, explained Pirjo. And the plan was that the course members and permanent residents in the old center would only meet those in the new center during the morning assembly. It was a wide-scale project.
“They’ll soon have the timber circle finished over there,” said Pirjo, pointing at the half-finished roof that rose above the grass field.
She nodded with contentment. “And when they’re finished in just over a month a
nd a half, the team will continue finishing the houses and the assembly rooms down here. For the time being, you’ll actually only need to stay in the finished purification house in the new quarters. And it’s a very nice house, let me tell you. At least, no one’s made any complaints yet. Perhaps because you’ll have the privilege of breaking it in.” She let out a little laugh.
And it was indeed a privilege; Shirley clearly sensed that. Still, she had to stop for a moment and compose herself when Pirjo unlocked the door to the high-ceilinged, wood-clad room.
“Yes,” said Pirjo. “The light streaming in from the ceiling, the light woods, the beautifully colored tiles, and all the details are fantastic, don’t you think?” asked Pirjo. “And it’s thermally built, so it preserves heat in winter.”
“Yes, it really is very beautiful,” said Shirley quietly. She’d already noticed the things Pirjo was talking about, but she’d also noticed that apart from the skylights about seven or eight meters above the floor, there was no light coming into the room. In other words, she’d be spending weeks without being able to see what was going on outside. Every day, no other colors than these yellowish walls and grey-speckled tiles.
“It’s pretty bare,” she said, slightly worried.
Pirjo gently patted her shoulder. “You’ll be all right, Shirley, I’m sure you will. Your senses can rest here. By the end of your stay, you’ll look back at this as one of the best times in your life. Find peace, read your texts, meditate on the creeds, and think about your life. You’ll see. Time will pass much quicker than you think.”
Shirley nodded and put down her bag on the small bunk, beside which there was only an unpadded chair and a round pinewood table in the room. At least there was somewhere for her to play solitaire. “You’ve got the toilet and shower out here, and it’s also where you get your water from,” said Pirjo, pointing at a door. “We’ll bring clean clothes, towels, and bedding once a week. And like the rest of us, you’ll eat three times a day. I’ll probably be the one who brings food over to you, although it might also be someone from the kitchen team.” She smiled, taking Shirley’s hand and putting a small blue, handwritten notebook in it.
The Hanging Girl Page 37
