The Keeper of Lost Causes (8 page)

Uffe was sitting next to her with an empty plate, smiling in anticipation as his nostrils quivered at the delicious aroma from the food. Merete pressed her lips together and scooped up some of the casserole for her brother as she tried not to cry.

The rushing of the east wind was getting louder, whipping up the waves so the foam splashed halfway up the sides of the ship. Uffe loved to stand outside on the sun deck and watch the wake form alongside the ship while the seagulls soared on outspread wings overhead. And Merete loved seeing Uffe happy. She was looking forward to their weekend. It was good that she’d decided they should go after all. Berlin was such a marvelous city.

Up ahead on the deck an elderly couple was looking in their direction; behind them a family sat at one of the tables close to the smokestack, with Thermoses and sandwiches that they’d brought along. The children had already finished eating, and Merete gave them a smile. The father looked at his watch and said something to his wife. Then they began packing up what was left of their lunch.

She remembered going on this sort of excursion with her parents. That was a long time ago. She turned around. People were already heading below deck to where their cars were parked. They would soon reach the harbor at Puttgarden; only ten more minutes, but not everybody was in a rush. Two men were standing over near the huge picture windows in the stern, with scarves wrapped snugly around their necks as they calmly gazed out to sea. One of them looked frail and gaunt. Merete estimated that they were standing at least six feet apart, so they probably weren’t together.

A sudden impulse made her take the note out of her pocket and look at the six words again. Then she put it back in the envelope and held it up in the air, letting it flutter in the wind for a moment. Then she let it go. The envelope flew upward and then dived down, slipping inside an opening in the side of the ship, underneath the sun deck. For a moment she thought they’d have to go downstairs and retrieve it, but then the note suddenly reappeared and began dancing over the waves. It spun around a few times and vanished into the white foam. Uffe laughed. He’d been watching the envelope the whole time. Then he gave a shriek, took off his baseball cap, and tossed it after the envelope.

“No, don’t!” was all she managed to shout before the cap plunged into the sea.

It was a Christmas present and Uffe’s most-beloved possession. The minute it was gone, he regretted what he’d done. It was clear that he was considering jumping after the cap, in an attempt to get it back.

“No, Uffe!” she yelled. “You can’t do that. It’s gone!” But Uffe had already set one foot on the metal barrier of the railing. He stood there bellowing over the wooden rail, his body’s center of gravity far too high up.

“Stop it, Uffe! There’s nothing you can do,” she shouted again, but Uffe was strong, much stronger than she was, and he was far away. His consciousness was down in the waves with the baseball cap that had been a Christmas present. It was a relic of his simple, godless life.

Then she slapped him hard in the face. She’d never done that before, and she instantly pulled back her hand in fright. Uffe couldn’t understand what was happening. He forgot about his cap and touched his cheek. He was in shock. It was years since he’d felt pain like that. He didn’t understand. Then he looked at her and struck back. He hit her harder than he’d ever done before.

Homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen had
spent yet another night without much sleep.

The witness in the case of the cyclist murdered in Valby Park had tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills. Jacobsen couldn’t understand what the hell could have pushed her so far. She had children and a mother who loved her, after all. Who could have threatened a woman into taking such extreme measures? The police had offered her witness protection and everything else within their powers. She was under surveillance day and night. Where on earth had she gotten those pills?

“You should go home and get some sleep,” said his deputy when Marcus came back from his usual Friday-morning meeting with the police chief in the commissioner’s conference room.

He nodded. “Well, maybe just for a couple of hours. But you and Bak need to go out to the National Hospital and see what you can get out of that woman. And make sure to take her mother and children along, so she can see them. We need to try and bring her back to reality.”

“Uh-huh, or away from it,” Lars Bjørn said.

All phone calls were supposed to be redirected, but the phone rang anyway. “Don’t let anybody through except the queen or Prince Henrik,” he’d told his secretary. So it was probably his wife. “Yeah?” he said, feeling suddenly more tired than ever.

“It’s the police commissioner,” whispered Bjørn, holding his hand over the receiver.

He handed the phone to Marcus and tiptoed out of the room.

“Marcus,” the commissioner said in her distinctive voice. “I’m calling to tell you that the justice minister and the committees have made fast work of things. So the extra allocation of funds has been approved.”

“That’s good to hear,” replied Marcus, immediately trying to work out in his mind how the budget could be divided up.

“Yes, well, you know the chain of command. Today Piv Vestergård and the Judicial Committee of the Denmark Party met with the justice minister, so now all the wheels will start turning. The chief of police has asked the head of the National Police to find out if you’ve got the new department set up yet,” she said.

“Yes, I believe we have,” he said with a frown as he pictured Carl’s weary face.

“That’s good. I’ll let them know. So what’s the first case you’re going to tackle?”

That was not exactly a question he found particularly energizing.

Carl was just getting ready to head home. The clock on the wall said 4:36, but his inner clock was several hours ahead. So it was undeniably a disappointment when Marcus Jacobsen rang to say that he’d be coming downstairs to pay Carl a visit. “I need to report what you’re working on.”

Carl looked with resignation at the blank bulletin board and the row of used coffee cups standing on his little meeting table. “Give me twenty minutes, Marcus. Then you’re welcome to come down here. We’re right in the middle of something at the moment.”

He put down the phone and puffed out his cheeks. Then he slowly exhaled as he stood up and went across the hall to the room where Assad had made himself at home.

On his abnormally small desk stood two framed photographs showing a big group of people. On the wall above the desk hung a poster with Arabic script and a lovely picture of an exotic building that Carl couldn’t immediately identify. From a hook on the door hung a brown smock of the type that had gone out of fashion along with leg warmers. Assad had neatly arranged his cleaning implements in a row along the far wall: a bucket, mop, vacuum cleaner, and a sea of bottles containing caustic cleaning fluids. On the bookshelves were rubber gloves and a little transistor radio with a cassette player that was emitting muted sounds that were reminiscent of the bazaar in Sousse. Next to the radio lay a notebook, some paper, a pencil, a copy of the Koran, and a small selection of magazines with Arabic text. Spread out on the floor in front of the bookshelf was a multicolored prayer rug that hardly looked big enough for Assad to kneel on. All in all, quite a picturesque scene.

“Assad,” said Carl. “We’re in a hurry. The homicide chief will be here in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get things ready. When he arrives, I’d appreciate it if you could be washing the floor at the other end of the hall. It’s going to mean a little overtime, but I hope that’s OK.”

“I must say, I’m impressed, Carl,” said Marcus Jacobsen, nodding at the bulletin board with tired eyes. “You’ve certainly got this place organized. Are you getting back on your feet?”

“Back on my feet? Yeah, well, I’m doing what I can. But you need to realize it’s going to be a while before I’m up to speed.”

“Let me know if you need to have a talk with a crisis counselor again. You shouldn’t underestimate the amount of trauma that can result from the type of experience you’ve been through.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

“That’s good, Carl. But don’t hesitate to speak up.” Jacobsen turned to look at the far wall. “I see you’ve got your flat-screen up,” he said, staring at the forty-inch image of the news program on Channel 2.

“Yes, we have to keep up with events in the world,” Carl said, thinking gratefully of Assad. It had taken his assistant all of five minutes to set up the whole damn thing. Apparently that was something else he was good at.

“By the way, it was just reported that the witness in the case of the murdered cyclist tried to commit suicide,” Carl went on.

“What? For Christ’s sake, how did that leak out already?” exclaimed the homicide chief, looking even more exhausted.

Carl shrugged. After ten years as head of the homicide division, the man must be used to the game by now. “I’ve divided up the cases into three categories,” he said, pointing at the piles of folders. “They’re big, complicated cases. I’ve spent days reading through the material. This is going to take a lot of time, Marcus.”

Jacobsen shifted his gaze away from the TV screen. “Take however much time you need, Carl. Just as long as you produce results once in a while. Let me know if anyone upstairs can assist you.” He attempted a smile. “So which case have you decided to work on first?”

“Well, er, I’m looking at several initially. But the Merete Lynggaard case will probably be the first.”

Jacobsen’s face brightened. “Oh yes, that was a strange one. The way she disappeared from the Rødby — Puttgarden ferry. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. And without a single eyewitness.”

“There are plenty of strange aspects to the case,” said Carl, trying to recall just one.

“I remember that her brother was accused of pushing her overboard, but the charge was later dropped. Is that a lead you might follow up?”

“Maybe. I don’t know where he is now, so I’ll have to track him down first. But there are also other lines of inquiry that spring to mind.”

“I seem to remember the documents saying the brother was committed to an institution in northern Zealand,” said Jacobsen.

“Oh, right. But he might not be there anymore.” Carl tried to look pensive. Go on back to your office, Mr. Homicide Chief, he thought. All these questions, and so far he’d spent only five minutes reading the case report.

“He is in something called Egely. In the town of Frederikssund.” The voice came from the doorway where Assad stood, leaning on his mop. He looked like someone from another planet, with his ivory smile and his green rubber gloves and a smock that reached to his ankles.

The homicide chief stared in bewilderment at this exotic being.

“Hafez el-Assad,” he said, holding out a rubber-gloved hand.

“Marcus Jacobsen,” said the homicide chief, shaking the man’s hand. Then he turned to give Carl an inquiring look.

“This is our new assistant in the department. Assad has heard me talking about the case,” Carl said, giving Assad a look that he chose to ignore.

“I see,” said Jacobsen.

“Yes, my Deputy Police Inspector Mørck has really worked hard so. I have just helped a little here and so there, and where one can.” Assad smiled broadly. “What I do not understand is then why Merete Lynggaard was never found in the water. In Syria, where I come from, there are tons of sharks in the water that eat the dead bodies. But if there are not so many sharks in the sea around Denmark, the bodies should probably be found at some point. The bodies get as big as balloons because of all the rotting from inside that blows them up.”

The homicide chief tried to smile. “Yes, well. The waters around Denmark are deep and wide. It’s not unusual that we fail to find the bodies of people who have drowned. In fact, it’s quite common for someone to fall overboard from a passenger ship in those waters. And often the body is never found.”

“Assad,” Carl said, looking at his watch. “You can go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Assad nodded briefly and picked up the bucket from the floor. After some clattering across the hall, he reappeared in the doorway and said good-bye.

“Seems like a real character, that Hafez el-Assad,” Jacobsen said when the sound of the man’s footsteps had died away.

After the weekend Carl found
a memo from the deputy chief on his computer.

I’ve informed Bak that you’re working on the Merete Lynggaard case. Bak was assigned to the case as part of the Rapid Response Team during the final phase of the investigation, so he’s familiar with the details. Right now he’s slogging away on the cyclist homicide, but he’s prepared to discuss the case with you, preferably as soon as possible.

Carl snorted. “Preferably as soon as possible.” Who the hell did Bak think he was, that sanctimonious son of a bitch? Self-righteous, selfimportant, self-promoting. A bureaucrat and yes-man all in one. His wife probably had to fill out a form in triplicate to apply for any erotic fondling below the belt.

So Bak had investigated a case that had not been solved. How nice. Carl almost felt motivated to try to untie the knots himself.

He picked up the case file from his desk and asked Assad to make him a cup of coffee. “Not as strong as last time, Assad,” he requested, thinking about the distance to the toilet.

The Lynggaard case file was undoubtedly the most organized and comprehensive file that Carl had ever seen. It included copies of everything from reports on the health of the brother, Uffe, to transcripts of police interviews, clippings from the tabloids and gossip columns, a couple of videotapes of interviews with Merete Lynggaard, and detailed transcripts of statements from colleagues as well as from passengers on the boat who had seen the brother and sister together on the sun deck. There were photos showing the deck and the railing and the distance down to the water. There were fingerprint analyses taken from the spot where she disappeared. There were addresses of countless passengers who had taken pictures on board the Scandline ferry. There was even a copy of the ship’s log, which revealed how the captain had responded to the whole incident. But there was nothing that could give Carl a real lead.