The Hanging Girl (16 page)

From these very alternative characters in the commune, she learned for the first time to appreciate the surreal blaze with which the northern lights lit up the sky. The stillness of the lakes. The ecstasy of home-brewed schnapps mixed with casual sex. And even though, in its own way, it seemed like a happy time, she noticed with sadness how the last few innocent moments of youth were slipping away.

In the end, child welfare had received so many venomous complaints from neighbors about the commune and from the parents themselves that they felt compelled to intervene.

By the time they arrived at the commune it was already too late because Pirjo had split, having emptied the piggy bank of every last coin.

With this small fortune in her pocket and with the belief that happiness was just around the corner, she reached Denmark and Scandinavia’s least prejudiced city, Copenhagen.

She passed her life here in a youth house in Nørrebro, where all kinds of people imaginable—and especially unimaginable—hung out, and before long she’d tried every form of stimulant that could be smoked or drunk.

Following a few heated disagreements with a couple of the leading girls about which of the guys you could have sex with, she was thrown out and saw no other alternative than to live on the streets. After having knocked about destitute for a month, doing nothing other than begging for small change for the next high or buzz, she met a slightly older guy who had his own apartment. He was nice, with a gentle smile, and was called Frank. He told her that the strongest driving force in life was neither sex nor alcohol but the cultivation of the soul and its journey from one level on to another. It sounded strange but maybe it was a way out of the crappy situation she was in, so she listened.

What he said sounded simple enough. As long as you made an effort to understand that the body and flesh could be freed of their needs only if you worked with spirituality and meditation, you’d be free and happy.

So why not? She didn’t get beaten and she didn’t wake up with her head full of bugs and self-loathing.

Pirjo became stronger and slowly felt better about herself, while the experiments researching the soul and its energy grew in number and range. During the day, they both worked in the Burger King at Rådhuspladsen in little fancy hats and uniforms perfumed with cooking fat and the aroma of fast food and sweet drinks. They had to live off something. The rest of the time was given to the expansion of consciousness: from clairvoyance, yoga courses, and meetings with clairvoyants, to horoscopes and tarot cards. There weren’t very many branches of the world of mysticism that they didn’t try in that period.

In spite of Pirjo’s lust for him, they lived in celibacy for the first few years to allow the soul unhindered space to feed into all available energy. And yet the time came when Frank felt that the planets, psychological forces, and future pointed toward other goals, and he abandoned that path.

“I’m ready to feel my body against others,” he said. A transformation that was reserved only for him and which she reluctantly accepted. But then why should she have sex with other people when it was only Frank she wanted?

It was with that change of realization that Frank laid the roots of his
alter ego Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi and the vestal Pirjo Abanshamash Dumuzi.

From that moment, Pirjo’s role in their relationship was primarily to be both knight and servant to Frank’s alias Atu. And while it was a desirable position in relation to that of so many others, in reality it was also very restrictive.

A disparity she would do everything possible to change.

Because Pirjo had ambitions.

Saturday, May 3rd; Sunday, May 4th; and Monday, May 5th, 2014

Waking up in the
morning was abrupt and disagreeable, made worse by a pounding head and an all-too-clear conviction that minibars should only be frequented with a certain reservation.

When they drove onto the car deck of the ferry, Rose’s cargo of goods had already arrived. And it was clear that the axle load definitely wasn’t to the benefit of the undersize removal van. Damn it, all this rubbish had to go down in their basement area. Carl could hardly believe it, not to mention that Rose had reserved seats for them in the cafeteria at a table between her two well-built removal men.

Carl nodded to them extremely cautiously. Better to keep his thumping head as still and calm as possible.

“Weather’s getting up,” said one of the drivers by way of introduction to what could easily become an endless round of nonsense and mindless chatter.

Carl tried to smile.

“He’s got an overhang,” said Assad.

Carl couldn’t be bothered to react.

“Ha! An overhang,” burst out the removal men, shoveling fast food into their mouths, consisting in equal measure of fat and white flour. “I think you mean hangover, mate,” one of them said, laughing, and gave Assad a friendly thump on the back that could have split a boulder in half.

“Eew,” uttered Assad as his otherwise enviable southern coloring
took on a less than charming hue. He stared out at the waves, already prepared to give up.

“Do you get easily seasick?” one of them asked. “Well, I’ve got a miracle cure for that.”

He produced a small bottle and poured the contents in an empty glass.

“You’ve got to down it or it won’t work. It does something with your stomach that makes you feel better.”

Assad nodded. He was ready to give anything a try that might save him from the walk of shame out to the toilets to get some sick bags.

“Down she goes!” shouted the removal men when Assad tilted his head back and poured the contents down as directed.

It was less than a second before the poor guy grabbed his throat, and his eyes became even rounder than usual. Then the color of his face changed to crimson as if he couldn’t breathe.

“What on earth was in that bottle?” asked Rose without any noticeable worry as she folded out the morning paper. “Nitroglycerin?”

The removal men laughed so much that everything rattled, and Assad tried in vain to laugh along.

“No, just eighty percent Slivovitz,” answered the man with the bottle.

“Are you crazy?” Carl was seriously indignant on someone else’s behalf for once. What a pair of idiots. “Assad’s Muslim; he can’t drink alcohol.”

The man with the bottle put his hand on Assad’s arm. “Hell, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it, mate. It’s not the sort of thing I normally go around thinking about.”

Assad raised his hand. It was already forgotten.

“Relax, Carl,” said Assad, when he got his voice back. He seemed surprisingly perky despite the fact that the wind was up and the crockery was dancing the fandango on the table. “I didn’t know what it was.”

Carl directed a dejected look out over the waves and suddenly felt the contents of his stomach go in the opposite direction. A few more hours of this and he’d know about it.

“But you’re okay?” Carl asked cautiously.

Assad nodded, probably with misplaced relief.

Rose looked up over the paper. “But the color on
your
face isn’t good, if you weren’t aware of it yourself, Carl,” she said unsympathetically.

Assad patted his hand with a hazy look. “It’ll be all right; just look at me. I think I’ve just about got the hang of sailing. Maybe you just need one of those sli . . . itsjers.”

Carl swallowed again. Just the thought.

“I’ll get a bit of fresh air,” he said, getting up with Assad at his heels.

Carl gagged a couple of times, only just making it to the deck before the sluice gates opened, and boy did they open.

“Thank you very much,” groaned Assad, assessing the extent of the consequences. “Maybe you don’t know the saying, Carl: A wise man doesn’t puke against the wind.”

*   *   *

The weekend came and went before Carl dared think of anything other than dry crispbread and small glasses of water. If it hadn’t been for Morten’s daily visit to Hardy down in the living room, he’d definitely have abandoned all hope. Since he and Mika had moved a few years ago, cheerfulness wasn’t something you could take for granted in this house. He even missed his stepson, Jesper, occasionally, but that always faded quickly, thank goodness.

Around midnight on Sunday he went to bed, tired of his own company and the meaningless things he’d been occupying himself with. A good sleep would do wonders for body and soul: no one in the house to disturb him, no upset stomach, just peace and calm.

The telephone rang at five in the morning, causing Carl to jump up as if simultaneously hearing fire alarms and sirens.

“What the hell!” he shouted in confusion as the digital clock revealed the time. Unless it was news of death or at the very least a military emergency, someone was going to get it.

“
Carl Mørck!
” he shouted, a warning of his frame of mind.

“Oh, shut up, you idiot. Do you have to shout?”

He recognized the voice. Not one he wanted to hear. “Sammy, you fool, do you know what time it is?”

A moment passed. “What’s the clock, honey?” he asked someone in the background.

“It’s ten!” he exclaimed, slurring his words.

Carl was fuming. The man was completely brain-dead.

“It’s five here, just so you know.”

“Carl, damn it, it’s you . . .” He burped, so the party was obviously neither just begun nor finished.

“I said . . . it’s you Ronny’s sent the goddamn fucking will to. Don’t you think I’ve worked it out?” A rattling sound came from the receiver. “No, honey, not now, take your hands away. I’m on the phone.”

Carl counted to ten. “If I had that goddamn fucking will, I’d shove it down your throat so that once and for all we’d be free from your shit. Good night, Sammy!”

He ended the call. Damn Sammy, damn Ronny, and damn that will. It made him feel ill just thinking about it.

Then the telephone rang again.

“You’d better not hang up on me, I’ll tell you that for nothing, Carl. Now admit it, you stupid pig. What’s Ronny written in his will? Are you pilfering everything?”

“Just stop there. Did you call me a pig? That’s five days at least, Sammy. It’s not the first time, is it?”

There was a deep sigh and giggling at the other end. “Yeah, Diamond, but wait a couple of minutes, okay? Yes, sorry, Carl, the girl here’s . . .” He chuckled. “Shut the hell up. You know how it is. I just want to say, Carl, that you’re a great guy. And that stuff with the will, we’ll work it out together, right? My God, Diamond . . .” And with that, the connection died.

So now he had that to think about.

For the rest of the night, actually.

*   *   *

When he arrived in the basement at Police Headquarters just before eleven, he was neither in the mood for reading journals nor ready to face the fear-inducing sight that waited for him in the basement.

Not so much as an inch was left so the color of the wall could peep through. On both sides of the large notice board with all the cases and bits of string, the shelves were lined up like a pumped-up North Korean military parade, and Assad and Rose had long ago started filling them up.

“The fire inspectors will get a shock” was the first thing he said.

“Then it’s good they’ve just been here and won’t be coming back for the foreseeable,” came the reply from deep inside the removal box in which Rose’s upper body had disappeared.

Carl staggered to his seat and flung his legs up on the table.

“I’m reading,” he shouted for good measure, in case they badgered him for help with the unpacking.

He sat for a moment to consider what would serve him best: a couple of cigarettes or a doze?

“Might as well put it in here straightaway,” Rose was saying even before she entered Carl’s office.

God only knew how she’d managed to get that huge pile in her arms. At any rate, it ended up between Carl’s legs, threatening to break the table.

“They’re photocopies, and they
are
in order. Just start from the top. Enjoy!”

*   *   *

Regardless of whether or not Carl would admit it, the material Rose had picked out of the boxes made for interesting reading. Too interesting, you might think. If you wanted to gain a reasonable overview of all these examples of information that Habersaat had collected, you’d need to have either a photographic memory or a huge amount of free wall space to hang the rubbish up so you could form an idea of what was really rubbish and what was gold.

Carl looked around the chaos that he called his office. Actually, an unlikely amount of stuff had piled up that didn’t need to be there. All that mess and dirt that Rose, in a rare moment, described as Carl’s “spice of life,” and which she more usually referred to as the only colorful and interesting thing in the office, himself included.

“Gordon!” he shouted. “Come here a minute, you lanky whiner.” He could have the job of getting rid of the stuff.

“Gordon’s busy being depressed,” Assad said from out in the hallway.

Depressed? As if that was anything special. Who wasn’t, in this workplace? It would’ve been worse if they’d placed his desk among the removal boxes.

He got up and took an empty removal box from the hallway, filling it with all the superfluous trash and junk from the office. Rose would probably have a heart attack when she saw the hotchpotch of documents from completed cases mixed together with dirty dishes, pieces of paper with undated conclusions, folders, journals, broken pencils, and worn-out pens.

He took a step back and nodded with satisfaction. Now you could glimpse a bit of the tabletop and a little more of the wall above the small bookcase on the opposite side.

If he started right at the top of the wall, he could probably find room for most of the photocopies Rose had handed him.

True to his word, within an hour the wall was plastered with everything imaginable under the sun, and with a system of sorts. Nevertheless, it was still hard to make heads or tails of the material, he thought, as he took a few steps back to admire his work. Of course Rose had made sure to include the most important papers, like the photo of the VW man, the crime scene report, the autopsy, and the group photo from fall 1997. But there were also papers that, to put it mildly, seemed out of place. For example, copies of brochures for alternative therapists and movements, shop receipts, and interviews with various and sundry locals, to mention just some of them.

And in the middle of it all hung a relatively large color copy of a photo of Alberte. Like an angel, pure with red cheeks and healthy, strong features and teeth, she reigned in the middle of all these loose threads, staring directly at Carl as if he were the only one in the world who possessed the philosopher’s stone. And regardless of where he sat in the room, those beautiful crystal green eyes rested on him as if pleading with him to get to the bottom of it all.

No doubt that Rose had chosen the photo carefully.

“Rose, Assad! Come in here and see!” he shouted with something approaching pride in his voice.

“Okay,” said Rose with her hands at her sides while she stared at the accomplishment. “Suddenly I can see dust that’s been hidden for months. Nice, Carl.” She wiped a demonstrative finger on one of the shelves and held it up.

“Good going, Carl,” Assad said, more to his liking, while nodding at the wall.

“Won’t you come with me, then, Carl?” Rose grabbed his sleeve without further warning and pulled him down toward the room where Assad had stood spreading paint around a few days before.

“Have a look.” She let her index finger point around the series of shelves in the corridor. “Luckily we’ve been able to find room for all our basic material out here in the hallway. That’s what we’re in the middle of sorting, following the same categorization as in Habersaat’s house, but with a few splashes of professional logic,” she continued, pulling him into a basement room farther down the corridor. “Down here, on the other hand, we’ve found space for what Assad calls the situation room. Everyone thought the room should be Gordon’s, but Assad offered to let him share with him, so go ahead, Carl!” She spread her arms out to the bright yellow walls that they’d plastered not only with the originals of the papers Carl had been given a copy of, but also with a series of appendixes.

Carl was shaking his head when Assad joined them. Why the hell hadn’t they told him? It would’ve saved him from working his butt off in his office.

“We, that’s to say, Assad and yours truly, but also to some degree, Gordon, have worked on it all weekend. Here are the most important notes and hints in Habersaat’s material. Are you satisfied, Carl? Can you use it?”

He nodded slowly but really just felt like going home.

“We thought we might put a couple of office chairs in here so we can swivel around while trying to get an overview,” said Assad.

“Yes, and for every category of file, we now have the extra option of going to the shelves not just for Habersaat’s material, but hopefully also to get an overview of the strategy and goal with his investigation and subsequent conclusions,” elaborated Rose.

“Thanks,” said Carl. “That’s really great. And where’s Gordon now? You shouted that he was depressed.”

This time it was Assad who dragged him off.

There was a clattering noise coming from Assad’s office, so it turned out the towering beanpole was in the process of moving in.

“Good afternoon, Carl,” Gordon said timidly from the other side of Assad’s desk. To be honest, he did look depressed. The beanpole had so little space that his knees protruded above the top of the desk, while the remaining parts of his gangly legs were presumably curled up underneath. In fact, there was so little space between him and the shelves behind, with all the pictures of Assad’s old aunts, that just in order to be able to stand up he had to push himself upright from the tabletop.