Disgrace

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  ‘OK. We’ll review it all in a bit. What about Kimmie?’

  ‘You really believe she’s very important in this gang,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’

  Should I count to ten? he thought.

  ‘How many girls were in the gang, in total?’ he asked instead. ‘And how many of them have since disappeared? Only one, am I right? And she’s probably also a girl whom one could assume wants to change her current status. So that’s why I’m especially interested in her. If Kimmie is still alive, she might be the key to a whole lot of information. Don’t you think we ought to consider the possibility?’

  ‘Who says she wants to change her current status? Many homeless people can’t be forced to live in a house again, if that’s what you think.’

  If her mouth always ran on like this, it would drive him up the wall.

  ‘I’ll ask you again, Rose. What have you found out about Kimmie?’

  ‘Do you know what, Carl? Before we come to that, I’d like to say that you need to buy a chair so Assad and I can sit down in here when we’re giving you our reports. Your back starts aching when you have to loll around in the doorway, even when we’re discussing the tiniest details.’

  So loll around somewhere else, he thought, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the perfect chair in some catalogue or other,’ was what he said.

  She didn’t bother to respond. He figured that meant there would probably be a chair standing there in the morning.

  ‘There isn’t much in the public registry on Kirsten-Marie Lassen. At any rate, she has never been on the dole. She was expelled from school in the fifth form and later continued her education in Switzerland, but I don’t have anything more about that. The last registered address I have is at Bjarne Thøgersen’s on Arnevangen in Brønshøj. I don’t know when she moved out, but it couldn’t have been too long before Thøgersen turned himself in, I think. Which would make it any time before September 1996. And before that, from 1992 to 1995, she’s listed at her stepmother’s on Kirkevej in Ordrup.’

  ‘You’ll get me the woman’s full name and address, right?’

  Before he’d completed his sentence she’d handed him a yellow slip of paper.

  Kassandra was the woman’s name. Kassandra Lassen. He knew the film, The Cassandra Crossing, but he’d never heard it as a damn name.

  ‘What about Kimmie’s father? Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Willy K. Lassen, software pioneer. He lives in Monte Carlo with a new wife and a couple of rather new children. I’ve got the note somewhere on my desk. He was born around 1930, so either his pistol comes fully loaded or his new wife is a bit of a tart.’ She fabricated a smile that covered four-fifths of her face, accompanied by that growling laughter, which at some point was going to make Carl lose his composure.

  She finished laughing. ‘It doesn’t appear that Kirsten-Marie Lassen slept at any of the shelters we normally check, but it’s possible that she rented a room or something else that’s not reported to the taxman. What the heck, that’s how my sister scrapes by. She has four lodgers at a time. You need something to support three kids and four cats when your husband is a prick who abandons you, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think you should be telling me too many details, Rose. I am a guardian of the law, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  She held out her palms. Good grief, her expression said, if he’s going to be such a stickler, that’s his problem.

  ‘But I have information about Kirsten-Marie Lassen’s admission to Bispebjerg Hospital in the summer of 1996. I don’t have the case record because they have to rummage around in their archives even if you need information on something that happened the day before yesterday. I only have the time she was admitted and the time at which she disappeared.’

  ‘She disappeared from the hospital? While undergoing treatment?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that part, but in any case there’s a notation saying she left against the doctor’s wishes.’

  ‘How long was she in the hospital?’

  ‘Nine or ten days.’ Rose riffled through her small yellow slips of paper. ‘Here. From 24 July to 2 August 1996.’

  ‘The 2nd of August?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘That was the date of the Rørvig murders. Exactly nine years afterwards, to the day.’

  She pouted upon hearing this, clearly irritated that she hadn’t noticed the coincidence herself.

  ‘Which department was she in? Psychiatric?’

  ‘No. The gynaecological ward.’

  He drummed on the edge of the desk. ‘OK. Get the file. Go over there yourself and offer your assistance, if necessary.’

  She gave an ultra-quick nod.

  ‘What about the newspaper archives, Rose, have you looked into them?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s not much. Court proceedings were closed in 1987, and when Bjarne Thøgersen was arrested, Kimmie was not named.’

  He breathed deeply. Only now did it occur to him. Not one of the boarding-school gang had ever been publicly named in connection with the case. Unsullied, they had quietly climbed to the top rung of society without anyone having reason to raise an eyebrow. No bloody wonder they tried to keep it that way.

  But why the hell had they tried to frighten him in such an amateurish and unacceptable way? Why had they not just come to him and explained themselves if they knew he was the one investigating the case? All else simply created suspicion and resistance.

  ‘She disappeared in 1996,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t a missing-persons bulletin issued to the media?’

  ‘She wasn’t listed as missing. Not even by the police. She simply disappeared. The family did nothing.’

  Carl nodded. Nice family.

  ‘In other words, there’s nothing in the papers about Kimmie,’ he said. ‘What about galas? Didn’t she go to those? People with her background do that.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Then get to work checking it out, please. Ask the people at the tabloids. Ask them at Gossip. They have nearly bloody everyone in their archives. You must be able to find a damned caption or something.’

  She gazed at him with an expression probably meant to suggest that she was ready to give up on him. ‘It’ll probably take a long time to find her hospital case record. What should I start with?’

  ‘Bispebjerg Hospital. But don’t forget the tabloids. People in her circles are prize meat for those vultures. Do you have her registry information?’

  She handed the paper to him. There was nothing new in it. Born in Uganda. No siblings. Every other year throughout her childhood a new home address, alternating between England, the United States and Denmark. When she was seven, her parents divorced, and oddly enough her father was given custody. And she was born Christmas Eve.

  ‘There are two items you’ve forgotten to ask about, Carl. I think that’s embarrassing.’

  He lifted his eyes towards Rose. From that angle she resembled a slightly chubby version of Cruella de Vil right before she snatched the 101 little Dalmatians. Maybe it was a good idea to get that chair on the other side of his desk after all, so the perspective could be altered a bit.

  ‘What’s embarrassing?’ he asked, not caring to hear the answer.

  ‘You haven’t asked about the tables. The tables out in the corridor. They’ve already arrived. But they’re in boxes and need to be assembled. I’d like Assad to help me.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, if he can figure out how to do it. But, as you can see, he’s not here. He’s out in the field searching for the mouse.’

  ‘Hmm. What about you, then?’

  He shook his head slowly. Assemble tables with her? She must be out of her mind.

  ‘And what is the other item I haven’t asked about, if I may be so bold?’

  She looked as though she couldn’t be bothered to respond. ‘You know, if we don’t put the tables together, I won’t copy all that shit you asked me to
. One good turn deserves another.’

  Carl swallowed hard. In a week she would be out of here. She could babysit those damned dried-cod eaters who were visiting on Friday, then it would be a good swift kick of his shoe.

  ‘Well, anyway. The other thing was that I spoke to the Inland Revenue. They told me that Kirsten-Marie Lassen had employment from 1993 to 1996.’

  Carl paused in the middle of a hit on his cigarette. ‘She did? Where?’

  ‘Two of the places don’t exist any more, but the third one does. She also worked there the longest. A pet shop.’

  ‘A pet shop? Did she wait on customers in a pet shop?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask them. It’s still at the same address. Ørbækgade 62 in Amager. Nautilus Trading A/S, it’s called.’

  Carl noted it down. It would have to wait a bit.

  She bowed her head towards him, brow arched. ‘And yes, Carl, that was all.’ She nodded at him. ‘And you’re welcome, by the way, kind sir.’

  17

  ‘I’d like to know who halted my investigation, Marcus.’

  The homicide chief peered over his bifocals. Of course he did not care to respond to the question.

  ‘And, apropos, I think you should know that I’ve had uninvited guests in my home. Have a look at this.’

  He produced the old photograph of himself in a parade uniform and pointed at the splatters of blood. ‘Usually it’s hanging in my bedroom. Last night the blood was still pretty fresh.’

  Carl’s boss leaned back slightly to inspect it. He didn’t care for what he saw.

  ‘What do you make of it, Carl?’ he asked after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Someone wants to scare me. What else can I make of it?’

  ‘Every policeman makes enemies along the way. Why do you assume this has anything to do with the case you’re on now? What about your friends and family? Are there any practical jokers among them, do you think?’

  Carl smirked. It was a nice try. ‘I got three telephone calls last night. Do you think someone was on the other end when I picked up?’

  ‘I see! And what would you like me to do about it?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me who’s shutting down my investigation. Would you rather I call the police chief myself?’

  ‘She’ll be here this afternoon. We’ll see what she says.’

  ‘Can I count on it?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  On the way out of the homicide chief’s office Carl slammed the door a little harder than usual, then found himself staring directly into Bak’s pale, sickly, morning face. The black leather coat that was always glued on to him now hung nonchalantly over his shoulder. Now I’ve seen everything, thought Carl.

  ‘What’s up, Bak? I hear you’re leaving us. Did you inherit money or something?’

  Bak stood a moment, as though considering whether the sum total of their shared working life was ending in a minus or a plus. Then he turned his head slightly and said: ‘You know how it is. Either you’re a damn good policeman, or you’re a damn good family man.’

  Carl considered putting a hand on his shoulder, but settled on proffering one instead. ‘Last day today! I wish you luck and happiness with the family, Bak. Even though you’re a total arsehole, know that you wouldn’t be the worst to have back if you chose to return after your leave of absence.’

  The tired man looked at Carl, surprised. Or maybe the right word was ‘overwhelmed’. Børge Bak’s microscopic emotional displays were difficult to interpret.

  ‘You’ve never been especially kind, Carl,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I guess you’re all right.’

  For the two men this was a shocking orgy of compliments.

  Carl turned and nodded towards Lis, who stood behind the front desk with at least as many papers as those lying on the basement floor waiting to be put on one of the tables Rose had already assembled.

  ‘Carl,’ Bak said, his hand resting on the door handle to the homicide chief’s office. ‘Marcus isn’t the one stopping your investigation, if that’s what you think. It’s Lars Bjørn.’ He raised his index finger. ‘You didn’t hear that from me.’

  Carl cast a glance at the deputy commisioner’s office. As usual, the blinds were down, but the door was open.

  ‘He’ll be back at three. There’s a meeting with the police chief, as far as I know,’ were Bak’s final words to him.

  He found Rose Knudsen on her knees in the basement corridor. Like a full-grown polar bear sliding across the ice, she lay with her legs splayed out and both elbows on a piece of folded-out cardboard. Around her were table legs and metal brackets and an array of Allen keys and tools. Four inches below her nose lay a jumble of assembling instructions.

  She’d ordered four height-adjustable tables, and Carl certainly hoped that after all that effort they would indeed materialize.

  ‘Weren’t you supposed to visit Bispebjerg Hospital, Rose?’

  Without budging from her patch of floor, she merely pointed at Carl’s door. ‘There’s a copy on your desk,’ she said. Then she was lost in the assembly diagrams once more.

  Bispebjerg Hospital had faxed her three pages and, sure enough, they were lying on Carl’s desk. Stamped and dated and exactly what he wanted. Kirsten-Marie Lassen. Admitted 24 July to 2 August 1996. Half the words were in Latin, but their meaning was clear enough.

  ‘Pop in here for a minute, will you, Rose,’ he called out.

  There was a series of groans and curses from the corridor floor, but she did as he asked nonetheless.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, with pearls of sweat on her mascara-massacred face.

  ‘They found the case record!’

  She nodded.

  ‘Have you read it?’

  Again she nodded.

  ‘Kimmie was pregnant and was admitted due to bleeding following a violent fall down a flight of stairs,’ he said. ‘She received good care and apparently made a good recovery, and yet she lost the child. There were signs of new injuries. Did you also read that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s nothing here about the father or any relations.’

  ‘That was all Bispebjerg had, they said.’

  ‘I see.’ Again he paged through the file. ‘So she was four months along when she was admitted. After a few days the doctors believed her risk of miscarriage had passed, but on the ninth day she miscarried anyway. In the follow-up examination they found new bruises from a blow to her abdomen. Kimmie explained them by saying she’d fallen out of bed.’ Carl fumbled after a cigarette. ‘That’s really hard to believe.’

  Rose backed a couple of steps away, eyes squinting as she rapidly fanned the air with one hand. So she couldn’t tolerate cigarette smoke. All right then! There was something that could keep her at a distance.

  ‘No police report was filed,’ she said. ‘But then again, if that had been the case, we would have already known.’

  ‘It doesn’t say whether doctors performed a D&C on her or anything like that. But what does this mean?’ He pointed a few lines down the page. ‘Abortus incompletus. Doesn’t that mean miscarriage?’

  ‘I phoned them. It means that not all the placenta passed with the miscarriage.’

  ‘How big is the placenta in the fourth month?’

  She shrugged. Clearly this had not been part of her curriculum at business college.

  ‘And she never got a D&C?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As far as I know that can be fatal. Infections in the abdominal cavity are no laughing matter. She was also injured by the blows. Badly, I imagine.’

  ‘That was why the doctors wouldn’t discharge her.’ She pointed at the surface of his desk. ‘Did you see the note?’

  It was a small, self-adhering yellow thing. How the hell did she expect him to see something that tiny on his desk? Next to it, the needle in the haystack was nothing.

  ‘Call Assad,’ it read.

  ‘He called half an hour ago. He said he’d probably seen Kimmie.
’

  Carl felt a lurch in his gut. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the central train station. You’re supposed to phone him.’

  He tore his coat off the hook. ‘The station’s only four hundred yards away. I’m outta here!’

  Out on the street, people were walking around in short sleeves. The shadows were suddenly long and sharp, and everyone seemed to be trying to out-smile each other. It was late in September and a little more than twenty degrees, so what the hell were people smiling for? They ought to be raising their faces towards the ozone layer in horror. He removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. Next there would be people wearing sandals in January. Long live the greenhouse effect.

  He pulled out his mobile, punched in Assad’s number and realized his battery was dead. This was the second time in just a few days that had happened. Fucking useless battery.

  He entered the central station and scanned the crowd. It looked hopeless. So he made a fast, fruitless round of the sea of suitcases.

  Son of a bitch, he thought, heading to the train depot’s police station near the exit to Reventlowsgade.

  He needed to call Rose now to get Assad’s number. He could already hear her gravelly, mocking laughter.

  The personnel behind the front desk at the police station didn’t know him, so he pulled out his badge. ‘I’m Carl Mørck. Hi. My mobile is dead. Can I use your telephone?’

  One of the cops pointed at an old contraption behind the desk while trying to console a young girl who’d wandered away from her big sister. Ages ago Carl had been the cop on the beat, consoling children. It was actually sad to think about.

  Just as he was about to dial the number, he spotted Assad through the blinds. He was standing next to the stairwell to the public lavatories, half hidden behind a flock of excited high-school students wearing rucksacks. He didn’t look too good, scoping out the territory in his wretched coat.

  ‘Thanks for letting me use the phone,’ Carl said, and hung up.

  Only five or six yards separated them by the time Carl was outside the police office and about to hail Assad, when someone came from behind Assad and grabbed his shoulder. He was dark-skinned, about thirty years old, and didn’t seem particularly friendly. In one jerk he spun Assad round and began shouting curses at him. Carl didn’t understand what he was saying, but Assad’s expression left no doubt. Friends they weren’t.