Mercy (17 page)

‘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 petrol 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 afterwards, 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 towards 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 paralysed 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 afterwards.

‘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 arsehole 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 favourite 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 …’

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 rumours. 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 co-workers 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?’