The Hanging Girl

42

Monday, May 12th, 2014

“Now I’ve talked to that Kate Busck woman!”

Carl blinked a couple of times. Had he nodded off?

He looked down at himself. One foot in the drawer, the other in the trash can. Yes, he must’ve been dozing.

“Kate Busck?” He squinted toward Assad, trying to return to reality. Had he just been dreaming about Mona? And who the hell was Kate Busck?

“Kate is the one who knew the man with the VW, Egil Poulsen. The one from the peace movement,” said Assad without being asked.

Was he a mind reader or what?

“I told her how important it is that we find the guy in the photo. I sent her a scan of the photocopy, and she was looking at it on her computer while we were talking.”

“Good idea. And . . .”

“She did remember a youngster who helped collect leaflets for the demonstrations. A handsome guy who prattled on and on about peace. And yes, he was apparently called Frank, but they called him the Scot. She didn’t know why because he spoke perfect Danish.” Assad made a long pause, allowing the information to sink in. So there was something about that name.

“She recognized him in the photo, even though she’d only seen him as a boy, you said. Does that seem very likely?”

“Well, she said she was positive he could be the person in Habersaat’s photocopy.”

Carl stretched. “That’s fine, Assad, thanks. Let’s just hope we’ll find something in Egil Poulsen’s widow’s house that can bring us a bit closer,” he said, fumbling with his cigarette pack. “Would you get Gordon in here?”

He took a few drags on his wake-up cigarette.

Maybe all these small steps would lead to a breakthrough for them. Maybe the man would suddenly be right in front of them.

And then what?

Gordon looked more than tired when he stood in front of Carl’s desk. So tired, in fact, that his incredibly long legs were about to give out from under him. How on earth one small heart could transport blood through that entire system was a mystery. No wonder the brain was in short supply and the legs a bit heavy.

“Sit down and shoot, Gordon. What do you have for us?”

He shook his head, sinking into the seat.

“I don’t really know what to say.” He took out his notes. “I could begin by telling you that I’ve managed to get hold of four or five more students from the folk school, and that they had nothing to add to what we know already. They all referred me to Inge Dalby, who they imagined would know more, given that she had the room just next to Alberte’s.”

Carl looked up toward the window. Those calls hadn’t resulted in much. Had Gordon been the right man for the job?

“And the rest of the students? How many are left on your list?”

He looked miserable. “A bit more than half, I think.”

“Okay, Gordon, we’ll stop there,” he said abruptly and maybe also a bit too harshly. “So what do you have for us now? The phone’s been ringing almost constantly today.”

The beanpole took a deep breath, trying to express something that was meant to sound like the sigh of all ordeals. “I’ve spoken to . . .” He held up his notepad, and began counting lines with the tip of his pencil.

“Never mind,” said Carl. “Any luck?”

Gordon was still talking. He didn’t even hear him. A sign that it was time to stop for the day.

“All in all, forty-six calls.” He looked around, as if expecting some kind of sympathy in return. Did he think he was the only one in the world who’d worked his socks off for a crumb of information?

“Anyway, I did manage to get hold of one person who had more to say. I have her number, so you can call her if you want to speak with her.” He handed a note to Carl. Apart from the number, it said Karen Knudsen Ærenspris.

“She knew the man we’re after,” he added surprisingly.

“In here, Assad,” yelled Carl.

“They used to live in a commune together,” explained Gordon when Assad stood in front of the desk. “It was in Hellerup—some kind of late-hippie commune with micro-macro food and shared economy and clothes. They called it Ærenspris, and everyone took that as their surname. As far as I could understand from her, she was the only one who kept the name in the long run. The commune wasn’t particularly successful.”

“So they disbanded?”

“Of course, fifteen to sixteen years ago.”

Carl sighed. He was beginning to miss some bloody cases to do with the here and now. “And when did our man live there?”

“She wasn’t sure, because it was for such a brief period, but she believed it was 1994 or 1995. That fits in with her saying that he celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday there.”

Carl and Assad looked at each other. That would make him approximately forty-five today, as they’d already calculated.

“Out with it, Gordon, what was the man’s name?” said Assad, shuffling his feet impatiently.

The beanpole pulled a face that didn’t make him look any more attractive. “Oh, the thing is that she didn’t remember. We agreed that he was called Frank, but she wasn’t sure about the surname. She could only remember that it wasn’t Danish. Perhaps something with Mac, given that they called him the Scot. But whether it was because he used an Apple computer, which none of the others did, or he actually did have a Scottish name, she couldn’t say or remember if she’d ever been told.”

“Shit!” shouted Carl. He looked at the note, and dialed her number. “She’d bloody well better be in.”

She was, and while he introduced himself, he put her on speakerphone. The information they got was more or less the same, so the crucial, epochal piece of information wasn’t easy to drag out of her, if there was one.

“What did the guy do, did he have a job?”

“He was a student, I think. Perhaps he lived off a state education grant. I don’t know.”

“A student of what, and where? Daytime or evening classes?”

“It certainly can’t have been in the mornings because he was usually having it off with one of us at that time.”

“What do you mean? Are you talking about sex?”

She laughed, and so did Assad. Carl waved his hand dismissively. He’d bloody well better keep quiet while the conversation was rolling.

“Of course I am. He was a pretty hot guy, so most of us girls allowed him to take us in turns.” She laughed again. “Nothing the guy I was dating at the time knew about for certain, but still it upset the apple cart. That’s why he was kicked out. And probably also why my guy left, and the commune disbanded in the end.”

Carl asked her to describe Frank in more detail, what kind of person he was, but nothing new came of that. Inge Dalby had described him in almost exactly the same way. He was a man without marks or visible blemishes, tall, beautiful, wonderful, and charismatic.

“Well, not many of them around in Denmark today, so we’ll easily find him,” said Carl caustically. “Can you tell us what kind of interests he had? What he talked about?”

“He was actually quite good at talking with us girls, which was probably what gave him such easy access.”

“About what, for example?” The woman had to give him something to work with.

“Back then, everyone was talking about the situation in the Balkan region, and many of the guys were obsessed with sport. Tour de France, stuff like that,” she said. “But Frank would talk just as much about how terrible it was that the French were throwing nuclear bombs on Mururoa, or about girly stuff like the wedding between Prince Joachim and Princess Alexandra. That was probably cool calculation,” she said with a laugh.

Carl clicked his fingers at Gordon, silently mouthing the words “the Mururoa Atoll.” Gordon turned Carl’s laptop around, and typed.

“The Mururoa nuclear tests! Are you sure he talked about those?”

“Absolutely. He painted some banners and tried to get the entire commune to come to a demonstration in front of the French embassy in Copenhagen.”

“Nineteen ninety-six,” Gordon mouthed back.

Bingo! They had the exact year.

“I get the feeling he was into theology, is that right?”

There was silence at the other end. Was she thinking?

“Are you still there?” asked Carl.

“Well, now that you mention it, he was driving us all mental with some theories about all religions having the same origin. He’d talk about stars, and the sun, and constellations, that sort of thing. It was a holistic commune, not a spiritual center, so it ended up annoying and boring us. He probably went on about it because he’d taken a course at university that made him completely cuckoo. As far as I remember, he actually wanted us to build a sun temple in the back garden.” She laughed. “When he began to rise with the sun and chant in the garden, one of the guys who had a real job, and didn’t enjoy being woken up so early, wanted to kick his ass. That didn’t end well for him, let me tell you. Turned out Frank had a hell of a temper, thrashed the guy to pieces. Literally. You didn’t want to mess with Frank.”

“Okay. Would you say he had psychopathic tendencies?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m not a psychiatrist.”

“You know what I mean. Was he cold, calculating, self-obsessed?”

“I wouldn’t say cold. But he probably was. Who isn’t, in this day and age?”

That was the second time he’d heard that kind of answer to that question.

“You seem to think he had good reason to fight back. Do you know if he did anything similar on other occasions?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did those of you living there have leases?”

“No, we didn’t. I actually don’t know who was in charge of the tenancy. Someone who’d lived there some years before, I think. We just paid to a communal fund, and then individually transferred the money every month. People were constantly moving in and out, so that was the most practical solution.”

* * *

Afterward, Carl nearly asked Assad for a cup of mocha or tea to keep him going. This was such a mess. How in the world had anyone managed to drag him into this? If this was the kind of dreary nothingness they could expect, they might as well stop answering all the calls that constantly sounded from Gordon’s phone.

“Now, now, Carl, we did get a year of birth,” said Assad, sitting down on the edge of the table. “He was born in 1971, so he’ll be forty-three today.”

“Yes, that’s right. We also know that he’s about six foot one, and lots of other stuff about his description that match thousands of people out on the streets. And we also have a decent profile, and we know a good deal about what drives and interests him, so maybe, if we’re damned bloody lucky, we might find him despite the odds. But you know what? That leaves the big question: Then what?”

“Then what what?” Gordon mustered the energy to ask.

“We know a lot, we’ve got a decent description, maybe we’ll even have his name soon. And perhaps we’ll learn something in Brønshøj tomorrow that’ll give us the last nudge, but where does that leave us?”

“Nudge?” Assad had lost the thread.

“The final push in the right direction, Assad.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth hanging down. “You’re right, Carl.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” said Gordon.

“That if we were so insanely lucky as to find him, what would we be able to prove?” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you. Zilch! You don’t expect him to blurt out voluntarily that he was the one who killed Alberte, do you?”

“Not unless we break his arms,” interjected Assad.

They all sighed and got up. It was time to go home.

Carl put the receiver down, and the telephone started again, of course. He looked at it for a moment before picking up. This particular call might be useful, his intuition told him.

It was an irritating voice. “Hello, Carl Mørck? Martin Marsk calling from Formiddagsposten newspaper. We’d like to know if you’ve been reassigned to the nail-gun case after today’s press conference.”

“I see. Well, I haven’t.”

“Shouldn’t you have been, given that you might contribute to ensuring justice for your friends—or that they might even get their revenge?”

Carl didn’t answer. Revenge? Who did they think he was—Clint Eastwood?

“You don’t want to answer that, apparently. So, where’s the case going from here?”

“Nowhere I’m going. You’ll need to speak to the people up on the third floor. Terje Ploug is head of the case, as you well know, Martin.”

“Maybe you can tell me how Harry Henningsen is doing, then?”

“The next time you try to exude just the slightest hint of authority and thoroughness, Mr. so-called journalist Martin Marsk, I suggest you do your homework properly. He’s called Hardy, not bloody Harry. And if you want to know how Hardy Henningsen is, ask him. I’m not an information service for people who have all their marbles, and definitely not for those who don’t.”

“So you don’t think Hardy Henningsen has all his marbles?”

“Oh, get lost, you jerk. Good-bye.”

“There, there, hold your horses, Carl Mørck. What’s happening with that case about the guy with the VW Kombi? If you want help from the press, we’ll need some details. Is there a reward for information on his whereabouts?”

Apparently none of the others had put their receivers on the table, because now the ringing increased in volume. Just imagine if the press blew up the story, too.

“No, there’s no reward. I’ll contact you when there’s a new development in the case.”

“You know you won’t anyway, so you might as well just spit it out now.”

If it hadn’t been for Lars Bjørn, he would.

“Okay, since you insist, here are my parting words: Have a nice day, Martin.”

* * *

Driving up the Hillerød freeway, he thought of Hardy’s face most of the way. A face that had forgotten how to smile, furrowed by disaster and hardship. If it were to change, he’d really have to become better at listening and talking with him about the bloody case, but he didn’t feel comfortable doing that. He knew he had to, but the reality was that someone like Hardy, who was being confronted with the past on a day-to-day basis, was better prepared than Carl, who was trying to ignore it. And Carl was.

Every time the incident was mentioned, an uncontrollable electric pulse pounded through his body. It had caused a couple of meltdowns—Mona had called them mental breakdowns and untreated post-traumatic stress, but Carl didn’t give a shit what they called them. As long as he could avoid them.

But now he and Hardy would have to talk about it again, and this time with a new agenda. It was necessary, but he didn’t look forward to it.

His cell rang. He was just about to switch it off when Vigga’s name popped up on the display.

Carl filled his cheeks with air and slowly blew out before he turned on the speakerphone.

She was going at full throttle from the very first word. Unfortunately, he had no idea what she was talking about.

“I went to see Mom yesterday, and the staff said you haven’t been there for a long time. I just think that’s really unfair.”

He only knew one phrase that was worse than “I just think that’s really unfair,” and that was “that really bugs me,” so she was well on her way to cornering him.

He couldn’t be bothered with it.

“Apparently, I have to remind you about our agreement, Carl,” she continued nagging.

“No, thanks, that won’t be necessary, Vigga.”

“Oh, it won’t? Well, then let me tell you that . . .”

“I’m parked just outside the nursing home.”

He looked up the freeway in front of him. The exit to Bagsværd was just ahead, damned lucky for him.

“That’s not true, Carl. I’ll call and ask them.”

“Suit yourself, my conscience is clear. I’ve even brought chocolates. Of course I’m sticking to our agreement. I’ve just been on Bornholm for some time. I’m sorry I haven’t mentioned it.”

“Chocolates?”

“Yes, Anthon Berg filled chocolates. The best in the world.”

At least he could buy those in the SuperBest supermarket.

“You surprise me, Carl.”

Time to change the subject.

“Is Gargamel being nice to you?” he asked. “It’s been a while since I saw Jesper, so I never hear any gossip about you and your little shopkeeper.”

“He’s not little, Carl, and his name is Gurkamal. And no, it’s not okay, and I don’t want to talk about it with you, not now anyway. And if you’re stupid enough to expect anything from Jesper, I can inform you that I never hear from him either.”

“He’s got a girlfriend. That makes us of secondary importance.”

“Yes!” Her voice sounded thick, so he’d have to stop there. He didn’t want to get involved in her life.

“I’m on my way through the door to Bakkegården, Vigga. Have a nice time with Garga . . . Gurkamal. Everything will be all right.” He was turning off the freeway. “I’ll say hello to your mom for you. Bye.”

He felt good for a few seconds. He’d managed the balancing act, managed to neutralize Vigga. But while he was buying chocolates before setting course for the nursing home, he was once again overpowered by the feeling that things could’ve been different. That the past was weighing down on him, squeezing the air out of him. On the whole, it wasn’t very pleasant.

* * *

Carl’s ex-mother-in-law looked the same, except now only half of her otherwise raven black hair remained black. Perhaps the staff had given up coloring it, or perhaps she’d finally realized she wasn’t thirty and a treat for the opposite sex.

“Who are you?” she asked, when he sat in front of her.

So it had come to that. Dementia had permanently damaged her brain.

“Carl. I’m your former son-in-law, Karla.”

“I can see that, you idiot. But why are you camouflaged like that? You’re not usually that flabby.”

That was also the second time that day he’d heard that. But when a half-blind, crazy, ancient fishwife observed it, there must be some truth to it. Damn it!

“What’ve you brought for me?” she asked blatantly, her hand stretched out. You’d have thought she was a ticket lady at some big venue.

“Chocolate,” he said, pulling the box from the plastic bag.

She looked at it skeptically. “Ugh, economy-size. I would never buy that, even if they offered it for free.”

He wondered to himself why he bothered coming, but he knew the answer. If he didn’t live up to the obligations under the contract he’d signed, he’d have to pay compensation to Vigga. A big compensation.

“Anthon Berg, of course,” he added, slightly offended, which brought her greedy hands up to speed, and ten seconds later she was already in full swing.

After the third piece, she put the box down on the table between them, which Carl took as an invitation, so he took one. And when the box remained, he went for another piece, marzipan and dark chocolate, but quickly retracted his hand when she gave him a hard rap over the fingers.

“There’s no prize for emptying the box,” she said. “What else have you got for me?”

Thank goodness he didn’t come here very often.

He searched through his jacket pocket, where there was usually something at least remotely shiny. A coin or perhaps a bottle opener. What he wouldn’t do to make his demented mother-in-law put in a few good words for him.

The wooden figure Bjarke had carved was at the bottom of his pocket—he must remember to put it on the shelf with the other items from Habersaat’s house—but next to it was something he couldn’t decipher.

He pulled it out, recognizing it as the pendulum from Simon Fisher’s holistic garden center. It could’ve been shinier, but it ought to do the trick.

“Here, Karla, a pendulum. It’s a magical little instrument that . . .”

“Know it. Good with spirits and that sort, but what would I want with that? I speak with the dead without that kind of nonsense. I do that every day. Last night, for instance, I spoke with Winston Churchill, and you know what? He was very, very charming. Much sweeter than you’d have thought.”

“Er, that’s nice, but this pendulum can do something else. For example, it can tell you what’ll happen in the future. You can ask anything you want, and the pendulum will answer. You need to hold it like this, and then ask your question. It just takes a bit of practice.”

She seemed skeptical, so he demonstrated by asking the pendulum if the weather would be fine tomorrow. As expected, the darn thing wasn’t cooperative, so he had to help it along.

“There you see, it’s moving around in a nice circle, so the weather will be nice. Now you try, Karla. What would you like to ask?”

She took it reluctantly and let it hover above her hand.

“Will we get cabbage rolls next week?” she asked after a minute’s deliberation.

To his annoyance, although it was to be expected, nothing happened.

“It doesn’t work. What a piece of junk you’ve given me, Carl. I’ll make sure to tell Vigga.”

“No, Karla, try another question. I don’t think you can ask things to do with food. Ask if Vigga will visit you tomorrow, for example.”

She looked at him as if he were off his rocker. Why in heaven’s name would she ask that?

For a moment she stared into space, her eyes milky from cataracts, and then she smiled.

“I’ll ask if that new nursing assistant wants to shag me black and blue.”

That seemed to set the pendulum on fire.

Could she be cheating?

* * *

Hardy was sitting in twilight when Carl let himself in.

There was a note on the kitchen counter from Morten.

He’s in a bad mood, it said. Have tried to get some booze in him, but he’s gone into his shell. Have you been fighting?

Carl sighed. “I’m here, Hardy,” he said, and held the note in front of his face. “Does that mean you’re not having a drink with me?”

Hardy shook his head, looking away.

“Spit it out, Hardy.” Better to get it over with straightaway.

His voice sounded unused. “I don’t get you. Now you’ve got the chance to crack that case open, Carl, and you’re not taking it. Why? Don’t you know it means everything to me?”

Carl grabbed the wheelchair joystick, and turned the chair so they were face-to-face. “It’s Terje Ploug’s case, Hardy. It has been opened, you saw that yourself.”

“I think your priorities are strange, Carl, and I don’t like it. Why should a case about a girl who was killed by a car almost twenty years ago prevent you from working a bit on our case? Is it because you’re scared of what might come to light?” He raised his eyes to meet Carl’s. “Are you scared of the consequences, Carl, is that it? I saw you on TV, you didn’t give a damn. You could hardly be bothered to look at the pistol we were shot down with. Why, Carl?”

“It might sound a bit harsh, Hardy, but you’re physically paralyzed, and I’m mentally paralyzed. I just can’t cope with that case. Not now, at any rate.”

Hardy looked away.

They sat like that for a couple of minutes until Carl gave up trying to get anywhere with Hardy—or with himself for that matter. It just wasn’t one of those days.

He got up and sighed. Maybe Hardy was right. Maybe he should leave the Alberte case to Assad and Rose, and join Terje Ploug’s team, if they’d have him.

He poured himself a drink in the kitchen, and hung his jacket over the back of a chair. When he sat down, something was poking him in the back. He reached back to fish the object out of the pocket.

It was the small wooden figure he’d found on Habersaat’s coffee table. The wooden figure that, according to Uncle Sam, Bjarke had carved.

The more he looked at it, the more he realized that it probably wasn’t a coincidence that it’d been there on the table.

In fact, the more he turned it, and looked at it up close, the more convinced he became that the figure had a lot of features in common with the man they were trying to find.

This Frank, who some people called the Scot.