The Keeper of Lost Causes (38 page)

“Was there any reason for that? Was she a drug addict or something?”

“No, not at all. But I seem to recall that she was quite ill. That was why it took so long before his family could take him back.”

The tour of police headquarters was brief. John Rasmussen turned out to be an insatiable observer, and he commented on everything he saw. If it had been up to him, he would have examined every square foot of the buildings. No detail was too insignificant for Rasmussen, so Carl pretended he had a pager in his pocket that was beeping. “Oh, sorry, I just received the signal that there’s been another murder,” he told the man with a solemn look that the teacher immediately adopted. “I’m afraid I’ll have to say good-bye now. Thanks for your help, Mr. Rasmussen. And I’ll count on receiving a fax from you within an hour or two. All right?”

Silence had settled over Carl’s domain. On his desk in front of him was a message from Bak saying that he knew nothing about any ferry-boat personnel list. Why the hell had Carl expected anything else?

He could hear the murmur of prayers coming from the corner of Assad’s cubbyhole where the rug was positioned, but otherwise no other sound. Carl felt tossed by the storm and swept by the wind. The phone had been ringing off the hook for over an hour because of the fucking tabloid article. Everyone had called, from the police commissioner, who wanted to give him a word of advice, to local radio stations, website editors, magazine journalists, and all sorts of other vermin that crawled about on the fringes of the media world. Apparently Mrs. Sørensen upstairs was finding it amusing to transfer all the calls to Carl, so now he’d switched the phone to silent and activated the caller-ID function, which displayed the number of the incoming call. The problem was that he’d never been good at remembering numbers. But at least for now he didn’t have to put up with anyone else accosting him.

The fax from the Godhavn teacher was the first thing that managed to haul Carl out of his self-imposed torpor.

As expected, Rasmussen was a polite man, and he took the opportunity to offer his thanks and praise to Carl for taking the time to show him around headquarters. The other pages were the promised documents, and in spite of their brevity, they were a gold mine.

The real name of the boy called Atomos was Lars Henrik Jensen. His CR number was 020172-0619, so he was born in 1972. Today he would be thirty-five, which meant that he and Merete Lynggaard were approximately the same age.

Lars Henrik Jensen — what an insanely ordinary name, thought Carl wearily. Why the hell hadn’t Bak or one of those other clowns on the original investigative team been smart enough to print out the crew list from the
Schleswig-Holstein
? Who knew if it was even possible to dig up the duty roster from so long ago?

He pursed his lips. It would be a huge step forward if it turned out that this guy had worked on the ferry back then, but hopefully that could readily be revealed by making an inquiry to Scandlines. He read over the faxes one more time and then grabbed the phone to call the main Scandlines office.

A voice started speaking even before he had punched in the number. For a moment he thought it was Lis, but then Mona Ibsen’s wax-coated, velvety voice rolled into his ear, leaving him holding his breath.

“What happened?” she asked. “The phone didn’t even ring.”

Yes, that was a good question. She must have been transferred to his phone at the same instant that he picked it up.

“I saw today’s issue of
Gossip
,” she said.

He swore under his breath. Not her too. If that shitty tabloid only knew how many readers he’d brought in this week, they’d probably put his likeness under their masthead permanently.

“This is a rather unusual situation, Carl. How has it made you feel?”

“Well, it’s not the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I have to admit,” he told her.

“You should come and see me again soon,” she said.

Somehow the offer didn’t seem quite as attractive as it had before. Most likely because of the signal-disrupting wedding ring that had caused interference with his antenna.

“I have a feeling that you and Hardy won’t be free, in a psychological sense, until the killers have been caught. Do you agree, Carl?”

He felt the distance between them grow. “No, not at all,” he said. “It has nothing to do with those bastards. People like us have to live with danger all the time.” He tried hard to recall Marcus’s lecture from earlier that day, but this erotic individual’s breathing on the other end of the line wasn’t helping. “You have to consider that there are plenty of times in a cop’s professional past when things didn’t go wrong. Sooner or later it’s bound to happen.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she replied. Hardy must have said something similar. “But you know what, Carl? It’s pure bullshit! I’m going to expect to meet with you on a regular basis, so we can figure this whole thing out. Next week there won’t be anything more about you in the tabloids, so we should be able to work in peace and quiet.”

The man Carl talked to at Scandlines was very accommodating. As with similar cases of missing persons, the company had a case file on Merete Lynggaard at hand, and they were able to confirm that the personnel list from that sad day had indeed been printed out back then, with a copy delivered to the police Rapid Response Team. All crew members, both above and below decks, had been interviewed, but unfortunately no one had any information that might indicate what had happened to Merete during the crossing.

Carl felt like banging his head against the wall. What the hell had the police done with that list in the meantime? Used it for a coffee filter? To hell with Bak & Company, and everyone like them.

“I have a CR number,” he told the secretary. “Could you run a search on it?”

“Not today,” he replied. “I’m sorry, but the whole accounting department is away taking a course.”

“OK. Is the list in alphabetical order?” Carl asked. It wasn’t. The captain and his closest subordinates had been listed first; that was common procedure. On board a ship, everyone knew his or her place in the hierarchy.

“Could you check for the name Lars Henrik Jensen?”

The man on the other end of the line gave a weary laugh. Apparently the list was a real whopper.

In the time that it took Assad to finish yet another prayer, splash his face with water from a little bowl in the corner, blow his nose with an expressive blast, and then put on yet another pot of candied water to boil, the clerk in the Scandlines office managed to complete his search. “No, there’s no Lars Henrik Jensen,” he said, and with that the phone call was over.

It was damned depressing.

“Why do you look so gloomy, Carl?” asked Assad with a smile. “Do not think anymore about that stupid picture in that stupid paper. Just think about if you had broken all your arms and legs — that would have been much worse then.”

Undeniably a strange consolation.

“I found out that boy Atomos’s real name, Assad,” Carl said. “I had a feeling that he worked on board the ship Merete disappeared from, but he didn’t. That’s why I look like this.”

Carl received a well-placed thump on the back. “But you found out about the list of the ship’s crew anyway then. Good job, Carl,” Assad said, using the same tone of voice as when a toddler has successfully used the potty.

“Well, it didn’t really lead to anything, but we’ll keep plugging away. His CR number was in the fax from Godhavn, so I’m sure we’ll find the guy. Thank God we’ve got access to all the official registries we have use for.”

He typed in the number on the computer, with Assad standing behind him, and felt like a child about to open a Christmas present. The best moment for every police detective was when the identity of a prime suspect was about to be revealed.

But instead came disappointment.

“What does that mean, Carl?” asked Assad, pointing at the computer screen.

Carl took his hand off the mouse and stared up at the ceiling. “It means the number can’t be found. No one in the whole kingdom of Denmark has that particular CR number. It’s that simple.”

“Didn’t you write it wrong then? Are you sure that is what the fax says?”

Carl checked. Yes, he’d copied the number correctly.

“Maybe it is then not the right number.”

Good guess.

“Maybe somebody changed it.” Assad took the fax from Carl, frowning as he studied the number. “Look at this, Carl. I think someone changed one number or two. What do you think? Isn’t it like scratched in there and there?” He pointed at two of the last four digits. It was hard to see, but on the fax copy there did seem to be a faint shadow surrounding two of the typed numbers.

“Even if only two numbers were changed, Assad, there would be hundreds of possible combinations.”

“Yes, and so what? Mrs. Sørensen can type in the CR numbers in a half hour, if we send some flowers upstairs to her.”

It was unbelievable how the guy had wormed his way into the good graces of that shrew. “As I said, there could be hundreds of possibilities, Assad. And if somebody changed two numbers, maybe they changed all ten. We need to get the original document from Godhavn and examine it more closely before we start trying out number combinations.”

Carl called the institution immediately and asked them to send the original document to police headquarters by messenger, but they refused to comply. They didn’t want the original to get lost.

Then Carl explained how important it was. “It’s likely that you’ve had a counterfeit document in your archives for years.”

His assertion had no effect. “No, I don’t think so,” came the self-confident reply. “We would have discovered it when we reported the information to the authorities to renew our funding.”

“I see. But what if the counterfeiting occurred a long time after the client left the institution? Who on earth would discover it then? You have to consider the possibility that this new CR number didn’t appear in your books until at least fifteen years after Atomos left.”

“I’m sorry, but we still can’t let you have the original document.”

“OK, then we’ll have to get a court order. I find your attitude less than cooperative. We’re investigating a possible murder here. Keep that in mind.”

Neither the fact that they were investigating a murder nor the threat of court involvement was going to do any good; Carl knew that from the start. Appealing to a person’s ego was far more effective. Because who wanted to be saddled with a derogatory label? Not people in the Social Services system, at any rate. The phrase “less than cooperative” was such an understatement that it packed a lot of punch. “The tyranny of the quiet remark,” as one of Carl’s instructors at the police academy liked to call it.

“You’ll need to send us an e-mail first, with a request to see the original,” said the staff member.

Finally he’d hit home.

“So what was the real name then of that Atomos boy, Carl? Do we know how he got a nickname like that?” Assad asked afterward, his foot resting on the open drawer of Carl’s desk.

“They told me it was Lars Henrik Jensen.”

“Lars Henrik. Strange name. Not many people could be called that.”

Probably not where Assad comes from, thought Carl. He was considering making a sarcastic remark when he noticed the oddly pensive expression on Assad’s face. For a moment he looked completely different than usual. More present, more focused. More of an equal, somehow.

“What are you thinking, Assad?” he asked.

It was as if a film of oil slid over his eyes, and their color changed. He frowned and grabbed the Lynggaard file. It took only a second for him to find what he was looking for.

“Can that be a coincidence?” he asked, pointing to a line on the top document.

Carl looked at the name and then realized which report Assad was holding.

For a moment Carl tried to picture everything in his mind, and then it happened. Somewhere inside of him, where cause and effect were not weighed against each other, and where logic and explanations never challenged consciousness, in that place where thoughts could live freely and be played out against each other — right there in that spot, things fell into place, and he understood how it all fitted together.

The biggest shock was not
to look into the eyes of Daniel, the man to whom she had been so attracted. Nor was it the realization that Daniel and Lasse were one and the same person, even though that made her legs weak. No, the worst thing was knowing who he really was. It simply drained everything out of her. All that remained was the heavy weight of guilt that had rested on her shoulders her entire adult life.

It wasn’t really his eyes that she recognized — it was the pain she saw in them. The pain and the despair and the hatred, which in a split second had taken over this man’s life. Or rather, the boy’s life. She knew that now.

Because Lasse was only fourteen on that frosty clear winter day when he looked out of the window of his parents’ car and saw in another car a girl, full of life and thoughtless, teasing her brother so vigorously on the backseat that she diverted her father’s attention. Diverting for a few milliseconds her father’s sense of judgment and prevented him from gripping the steering wheel. Those precious fractions of a second of lapsed vigilance, which could have spared the lives of five people and prevented three others from being maimed. Only Merete and the boy named Lasse had escaped from the accident with their lives and health intact. And precisely for that reason, it was between the two of them that the account now had to be settled.

She understood that. And she surrendered to her fate.

During the next months the man whom she’d once been attracted to under the name of Daniel, and now detested as Lasse, appeared in the outer room every single day to look at her through the porthole. Some days he merely stood there, observing her as if she were a civet cat in a cage, about to fight to the death with a superior force of cobra snakes; on other days he spoke to her. Only rarely did he ask her any questions. He had no need to. It was as though he knew what her answers would be.