The Marco Effect

19

“That’s correct, Bjørn. I took those effects with me from Bellahøj and now we’ve taken on the William Stark case.”

Marcus Jacobsen’s acting replacement nodded, though it seemed clear to Carl he would have preferred to have shaken his head instead. Again, it was Bjørn in a nutshell, never the one to let a person know what he was really thinking. But Carl had him sussed.

“Good,” Bjørn replied, again meaning something else. “Hansen out in Bellahøj says you swiped those items straight off their counter without their consent. I presume you know you’re out of order there, Carl, seeing as how the effects are connected with a break-in on their turf.”

“Yeah, yeah, Hansen says a lot of things when he ought to keep his mouth shut. This is about a missing person, which is not exactly Rattlesnake’s specialty. But if he thinks he’d enjoy having a gawp at the necklace and that poster, he can drop by and I’ll show them to him. The bottom line is that I’ve taken over the case.”

“Taken over? Pretty big words, coming from you, Carl.” Bjørn smiled, mouth half-open. It didn’t suit him, though no doubt he thought it did. “You say you saw this boy outside Stark’s house and then again at Bellahøj station, and both times he got away? Yes, Carl, that’s definitely what I’d call taking over.”

“Listen here, Bjørn! I’ll get hold of him, don’t you worry. You’re not talking to one of your own dickheads now. It’s only a matter of time.”

Bjørn straightened up in his chair behind Marcus Jacobsen’s desk. Wrong man, wrong desk. It couldn’t have been more obvious.

“Temper, temper, Carl. Just a little misstep, I’m sure, but let’s move on. It is my impression the time has come to make a few changes in Department Q. You will remain as leader of the department, of course, but during the last couple of years our work seems to have overlapped somewhat, which both Marcus and I have found disruptive.”

Carl shifted forward in his chair.

What the fuck was this?

–

Carl’s hands still trembled with rage as he accepted Assad’s intricately decorated little cup of pungent spiced tea. He stared dejectedly into the slimy substance. It looked poisonous, but that was nothing compared to its smell.

“Take it easy, Carl,” said his assistant. “We just carry on as normal. No one is going up to the third floor, and I will not work for Bjørn. That I will take care of.”

Carl raised his head. “And you reckon you’ve the clout for that, do you? May I ask what makes you think that? Was it part of the deal for looking after his house?”

Assad’s eyes wavered for a second like those of a criminal who stops himself from confessing at the last moment, or those of a boy loath to reveal his true feelings for a girl.

“I don’t know what this ‘clout’ means, but I will take care of it, Carl. Lars Bjørn will listen to me.” He tried to smile his way out of his predicament, well knowing the issue was still open.

But then his face lit up with a sly look. This was going to be about camels, Carl could tell.

“Just remember the story about the camel who thought he was an ostrich but got sand in his eyes when he was frightened and stuck his head into the dunes.”

Carl shook his head wearily. If he added up how many camels Assad had driveled on about, the Sahara wouldn’t have room for them all.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Assad?”

“You see, Carl, if only we stick to our true nature we will never get sand in our eyes.”

“Thanks for the advice. The fact of the matter, however, is that I am not a camel. Remember that, Assad. Besides, I haven’t a clue as to that animal’s intellectual capacity, but I can tell you that to me it looks like you’re the one sticking his head into the sand. Don’t you reckon it’s about time you came clean and told me how come Bjørn suddenly out of nowhere, and despite your apparent inexperience, places you down here with me, whereupon you begin to demonstrate skills and abilities normally associated with years of policing experience? If I want an answer to that, do I go to you or Bjørn?”

Assad frowned, and deep in his trouser pockets Carl sensed a pair of clenched fists.

“What’s going on here?” came Rose’s blowtorch voice from the doorway. “There’s enough sparks flying around in here to light a bonfire.”

Carl turned his head reluctantly toward her. “That arsehole Lars Bjørn has decreed that Assad is going to be working for him and that you and me, Rose, are being moved up to the third floor. And now Assad claims he can talk him out of it. Naturally I asked him what the hell made him think he had the clout.”

Rose nodded pensively. “And what did you say to that, Assad?”

The bulges in Assad’s pockets smoothed out. The sparkle in his dark eyes returned. He’d extracted himself from Carl’s web. Shit!

“Bjørn and I go back some time and he owes me a favor. We know each other from some work in the Middle East. I cannot tell you more. I’m bound hand and foot.”

“Can’t, or won’t, Assad?”

“Yes” was all he said.

Fifteen minutes later Carl’s phone rang and Lis informed him that Assad was now sitting in Bjørn’s office and if it wasn’t too much to ask, might the esteemed Detective Inspector Mørck care to join them immediately and bring Rose with him?

“I’m not keen on Assad and Bjørn chumming up like this, Carl,” said Rose, as they trudged up the stairs. “What’s your feeling about it? Any idea what’s going on with those two?”

Carl raised an eyebrow. Had she really just asked him for his opinion? There was a first time for everything.

“I-” was all he managed to say before she cut him off. Back to normal.

“Personally, I don’t like it one bit.”

And that was all she had to say on the matter.

–

Bjørn’s office had undergone a transformation during the last two hours. Lis and an army of workers had raided the shelves and cupboards, leaving them all but empty, and now a service technician was busy screwing an enormous whiteboard on to the wall just where Marcus Jacobsen used to have photos from crime scenes.

Assad was seated in a chair that had doubtless been removed from the commissioner’s office. Hopefully without her consent, Carl thought, imagining the repercussions with glee.

“Assad and I have been discussing matters a bit,” said Bjørn. “It seems he’s declining the offer I’ve made him.”

Assad nodded emphatically. Couldn’t have been much of an offer, Carl mused, feeling increasingly like for the time being he couldn’t be bothered with anything or anyone on top of the hangover he was still nursing after the weekend’s exploits.

“Far be it from me to spoil his plans, or your routines, for that matter. I just want the three of you to know that the administration of Department Q belongs under me, for which reason it is imperative I maintain the necessary control over what’s going on down there.”

Carl looked over at Rose. She was already about to blow.

“I’m sure you know that all private businesses of a certain size use so-called controllers whose job it is to keep an eye on the viability of the organization’s various operational sections. In our case we can say that viability is determined on the basis of two main factors. One factor is our success rate in clearing up individual cases, and in this respect your department scores reasonably well, thank God.”

Fucking prick, I’m going to get him for this, Carl promised himself. He deserved to be skewered on a stick and toasted in boiling oil, he did. Reasonably well! Was understatement the new leadership strategy?

But Rose beat him to it. “Now you listen to me, Mister So-called Boss of Department A. I’d give my right arm to head up Department Q’s investigations and do it half as well as Carl.” Then she turned to Assad and bellowed into his face: “And you, Assad! What’s the matter with you? Have you gone soft in the head, since you can’t give up your seat for a lady when she’s standing up?”

The shock almost launched his eyebrows into orbit.

“Right,” she continued, having sat down in the vacated chair. “Now we’re at eye-level, Bjørn. Get used to it.”

“On the other hand,” Bjørn went on, unmoved, “your level of expenditure is unsatisfactory. In terms of man-hours against budget, Department Q is nearly twice as costly as Department A. That needs to be rectified. For that reason, I’ve taken on a new man to keep an eye on costs. I believe you’ve already met Gordon Taylor.”

Carl was gobsmacked. Gordon? Bjørn had hired Gordon to control Department Q?

“No way am I having that gangly scaffold snooping around in my basement. He’s still wet behind the ears, for Chrissake! Is he even out of secondary school yet?”

“He’s in his final year of law school and getting top marks to boot. He’ll be joining us full-time before long.”

“Like hell he will!” Carl threw up his hands as though in self-protection and made ready to back out of Bjørn’s office. “You can send him back where he came from, we simply haven’t the time to waste on him.”

Then the situation took a turn that Carl never, in his wildest imagination, could have predicted.

“We can give it a try, can’t we, Carl?” said Assad.

“C’mon, he’s not that bad,” Rose pitched in.

Checkmate. Thanks for nothing.

–

Carl watched the fizz in his glass and tried to remember how many headache tablets he’d actually taken since their meeting with Bjørn.

Soluble relief in large amounts invariably wrecked your stomach, he knew that, but on the other hand it got his brain working again and now he felt sufficiently speedy to make sure Rose and Assad both got his message.

“Not a word about Bjørn or Gordon, do you understand? It’s got me on a short fuse and we’ve got other things to do, OK? You start, Rose. Please make it brief and to the point.”

Rose nodded. She looked completely unfazed by the morning’s pandemonium.

“OK, this is the CCTV footage, Carl. You can see the boy going into the police station, but he’s got his face partially covered, so it’s hard to see him properly.” Rose paused the video, freezing a gray image of a glass door and a figure seen from above.

Assad and Carl stepped closer to the screen.

“He doesn’t look like an Arab, Carl. His ears are set rather high on his head, so most likely he is not from the Balkans either.”

Funny observation. Were the ears of people from the Balkans really lower-set than others?

Rose leaned forward. “Dark, curly hair, almost like a Latino, and not very old. What’s his age do you reckon, Carl?”

“Fourteen or fifteen. That’s what I’ve heard others say, too. Could be younger, though. They mature quicker in those parts. What about his clothing?”

Assad smiled. “His shirt looks like something my uncle would wear.”

Carl nodded. “Exactly. Just the sort of thing a junior office slave would have worn fifteen years ago. Where the hell did he get a thing like that?”

“A secondhand shop?” Assad ventured.

“He’d have chosen something else, surely?”

“Perhaps he swiped it from one of those charity drop boxes. Maybe it just happened to be at the top of the pile.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Carl put his finger to the screen. “Why do you think he’s covering his face like that? And while we’re at it, why would he need to steal someone else’s ID?”

“Very simple,” said Assad. “He hasn’t got one of his own.”

Carl nodded. Assad definitely had a point there; the thought had crossed his mind as well. “Either that or he hasn’t kept his nose clean.”

Assad frowned. “What does his nose have to do with it? You can’t even see it here.”

Carl sighed. “It’s an idiom, Assad. Forget I ever said it. What I meant was, he might be involved in something unlawful.”

Rose took her notepad and began scribbling. “Listen, if he hasn’t got a national identity card of his own it means either he’s not registered in Denmark or else his parents keep the card for him. My feeling is he’s too self-dependent for the second explanation, so I’d go with the first.”

“Could he be a Gypsy?” Carl asked. “You’ve mentioned it before, Rose, so maybe that’s a possibility.”

They peered again at the screen. Judging by his clothes and general appearance, the boy was an indeterminate miscellany of everything. Gypsy, French, central European-practically any origin was possible.

Rose scanned forward. “This is where he starts backing out, and this is where you appear at the front counter, Carl. You can see he recognizes you, right there.”

Assad’s face creased into a smile. “He sure didn’t like the look of you, Carl. See how he runs!”

“Yeah, we recognized each other from Stark’s place.”

“So now we know from the missing persons notice, the necklace, and the fact that you saw him outside Stark’s house that he has an interest in Stark’s disappearance and probably knows something about it as well. Do you reckon he’s a rent boy?”

They stared at Rose in astonishment.

“I mean it wouldn’t be the first time a man’s double life ended up being his downfall, would it? Like I said before, maybe Stark liked children. Maybe that’s what this Africa thing is all about. You have to admit it’s a bit weird for a boy to be so involved in this case.”

“You see something weird in everything, Rose,” said Assad.

“Howdy, campers,” came a mutter from the doorway, and there he was again. Gordon himself, his effeminate haircut falling down over his eyes and his head rotating like a periscope in enemy waters, surveilling them.

“We’re a bit busy at the moment, Gordon,” said Rose, to Carl’s surprise.

“In that case, I’d like very much just to watch.”

Watch? Hadn’t the man the slightest sense of occasion?

“Any reason in particular you’re here?” Carl asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve just read up on the Anweiler case. It seems to me that the deceased’s husband ought to have been kept on a shorter leash. Among other things, the report states-”

“Do you mind leaving now, Gordon?” Rose said, cutting him off. “We’re in the middle of another case at the moment.”

Gordon smiled and raised an index finger. “The way I see it, Rose dearest, is that one is best served by bringing one thing to a satisfactory conclusion before starting on-”

“Gordon, take a look around you. Can’t you see we’re busy on another case? The Anweiler case is history, all right? Solved, get it? S-O-L-V-E-D means solved. Hasn’t it sunk into that thick skull of yours yet?”

“Have you any idea how lovely you are when you’re angry, Rose? It’s like all the elements come together in that beautiful face of yours all at once,” he replied with empathy. Was there a song coming on?

If Assad hadn’t begun to snigger, Carl would have chucked something heavy at the man. Instead, he looked at Rose, anticipating the thunderstorm that was about to break, but she seemed almost ill at ease with the situation.

Carl drew himself to his full height. Not quite as tall as this puppy, but on the other hand in a different weight class altogether.

“Farewell, Gordon,” he said, torpedoing the poor devil’s hip with his twelve-pack, as Mona liked to call his stomach region.

They managed to hear the crash as Bjørn’s hapless patsy collided with the corridor wall before Carl slammed the door so hard that even the workmen at the far end stopped drilling for a moment.

“He’s wild about you, Rose,” Assad commented, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you feel the same way about him, too?”

Rose glanced away. It was her only reaction and open to interpretation. Carl, in any case, had his own explanation.

“Should we carry on?” she said, trying to sound normal. “This is what I’ve noted down so far. Stark’s got no family left, his mother having died and left him all her money. But before that, he’d already spent a lot more than he actually had. At the time of his disappearance he seems to have had no debts, and he hasn’t made any withdrawals from his accounts since he went missing. There’s no tax arrears, no life insurance besides the usual, and the mortgage on the house is all paid up. First-class degree from the university and never been in trouble with the police. The neighbors in Brønshøj all speak highly of him.”

She looked up from her notes. “But again: Why did the man disappear? Was it some kind of sexual obsession? Did he have enemies? Gambling debts?”

“No, not gambling debts,” Assad interrupted. “Why would anyone get rid of him because of money he could easily pay? A person does not throw a kite up into the air when there is no wind.”

Carl shook his head. Sometimes it would help if Assad came with subtitles.

“Listen,” Carl said. “My feeling is that the answer to all this lies somewhere in his trip to Africa. Rose, I want copies of all his bank statements by tomorrow, plus whatever else the two of you have already compiled. In the meantime, Assad and I are going over to the ministry to have a word with Stark’s boss and colleagues. So we might not get back here today. And as for Gordon, Rose, I’d say you were best served keeping work and play separate.”

He felt the stab of her kohl-rimmed eyes, but it was no use. She could do as she was told, simple as that.

–

The man seated in front of them wasn’t exactly heartthrob material. Pasty complexion, thin white hair, and a set of worn-out dentures. If charm could be measured in terms of temperature he would be hovering around zero. He wore a wedding ring, which only proved he had found a woman who wasn’t fussy.

“Yes, William Stark’s disappearance was a terrible business,” he said, oddly dispassionate. “I think all of us here are still rather puzzled by it. ‘Distressed’ is probably a better word. Stark was a highly capable man, well-liked and exceptionally reliable, so his disappearing is probably the last thing I would have expected.”

“You were his boss, but were you friends, too?” Assad asked.

Daft question. How could anyone be friends with a boss like René E. Eriksen? It was hard to imagine.

“Not friends exactly, but there was a great fellow-feeling between us. Of all the people on my staff, I think William was the one I felt most attached to.”

“What exactly was his mission in Africa?” Carl asked. “We understand he was down there in connection with an aid program for the benefit of a rural pygmy community, but we don’t know why.”

“He supervised the work. When you hire local Africans as middlemen you need to make sure things are going according to plan.”

“Was his trip routine or was it because there was something in particular that needed looking into?”

“Purely routine.”

“We can see he changed his return ticket and came home a day early. Is that normal?”

The department head smiled. “Actually, no. I can’t say for sure, but I think the heat got to be too much for him. And Stark was very efficient, so he probably saw no reason to hang around once the job was done. But like I said, I’ve no way of knowing for certain. He never got round to writing his report, as you know.”

“Talking of reports, we’d like access to Stark’s files and whatever else might be relevant. Is there a computer of his here?”

“No, unfortunately. We use a server, and all Stark’s tasks and portfolios have long since been handed on to other staff.”

“And his laptop and other luggage from his final trip have never turned up?”

“If they had, I’d probably have been the first to know.”

“What we’re trying to establish is not only what happened to William Stark but also why it happened. Did he ever indicate to you that he might have been in trouble in some way? Was he susceptible to depression?”

Eriksen fiddled with the fountain pen on his desk. It looked like the sort of thing he’d been given for twenty-five years of loyal service. “Depression? He certainly had his ups and downs. Since it happened I’ve been inclined to think he may have been depressed, yes.”

“What makes you think that? Was he off sick a lot?”

He smiled again. “Stark? No, he was probably the most conscientious man I’ve ever met. If I’m not mistaken, he never missed a single day in all the years we worked together. But yes, sometimes there was a look of sadness about him. I think his stepdaughter’s illness hit him hard, and somehow I have an inkling things perhaps weren’t running that smoothly with his girlfriend. He came to work one day sporting a black eye. Not that I read anything into it, but women these days can be quite determined, don’t you agree?”

Carl nodded. René E. Eriksen, in any case, definitely looked like the type whose wife knocked him about a bit from time to time.

“Actually, the last couple of months he seemed to be having a harder and harder time keeping his spirits up,” Eriksen continued. “So, yes, depression did spring to mind.”

“And therefore you wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he committed suicide?” Carl asked.

He gave a shrug. “How well do we really know each other when it all boils down?”

–

René E. Eriksen’s mind was in turmoil. In front of him sat two police investigators who had turned up precisely a mail delivery too early for him to assess what information to feed them. It had been damned silly of him to suggest Stark’s partner had hit him, and what he’d said about that black eye. It was the kind of thing that could be checked up on. He needed to keep himself on a tighter leash. Making things up on the spur of the moment was pure folly.

The less he gave them to go on, the less chance there was of their scam being uncovered. On the other hand, if he now began working on his cover story he could draw Stark in as the brains of the department and orchestrator of the fraud, thereby removing himself from the spotlight. So skilfully had he manipulated Stark’s documents that he was now able to prove it.

The only drawback then was that his associates at Karrebæk Bank would be caught up in his net, in which case they would without a doubt point the finger at him. Moreover, he would have difficulty explaining why he had not presented the documents to the police before now. Damn it. Why hadn’t he prepared himself more carefully so as to provide a plausible explanation as to the appearance of these so-called new documents? Could he claim to have only just discovered them? And why hadn’t he then informed the police? Why hadn’t he?

He looked at the two men in front of him. Had either of them come alone he might not have been that concerned. It was the two of them together that worried him.

He knew the feeling from his time in Danida, the government’s development aid agency, and from his travels through the world’s most desolate wildernesses. The sense of eyes all around you, watching for signs of weakness, even in the most abject places. And right now he felt exactly like someone sitting cross-legged on a straw mat in the sand before a crackling campfire, surrounded by armed Somalis. The one commanded his attention while the other awaited his turn. All the time negotiating under changing conditions, facing new demands. He had never been good at it.

At the moment, it was the Danish investigator who was taking the lead. Obviously, he was the higher ranking officer, with the power to conclude the interview at will. As such, he was the one who needed persuading. The little Arab-looking man was the one who growled and snapped. Despite his friendly eyes and a smile which in any other situation would put a person at ease, behind this facade lurked an oddly inscrutable ruthlessness. René had seen quietly grazing gazelles suddenly torn to pieces from behind by attacking lions that seemed to come from nowhere. It was the same feeling he had now about this man.

“Yes, how well do we really know each other?” he repeated.

“Did Stark ever mention places or people to which he had some special attachment, besides his home and family?” the investigator asked. “Somewhere he might have chosen as a place to hide away, or even take his own life?”

Eriksen wondered what to say. Should he make something up? Something that would safely ease them out of here?

He looked at the Arab assistant. The penetrating stare that met his eye made him drop the notion of trying to be creative.

“I can’t say that he did, I’m afraid. He was rather introverted when it came to talking about his private life.”

“You weren’t friends, but did you ever visit Stark at home?” the Arab asked.

René E. Eriksen shook his head. “No, I don’t believe in mixing work and private affairs like that.”

“So you cannot tell us anything about his peculiarities either?”

“Peculiarities?” He allowed himself a chuckle. “Aren’t we all a bit peculiar when it comes down to it? Working for the Danish civil service, I’d say you need to be.”

His jocular diversion maneuver had no effect on either of them.

“I am thinking mostly about his sexuality,” the Arab went on.

Eriksen held his breath as the adrenaline coursed through every cell of his body. It was a question he had not been expecting. Was this a way out? Was this odd little man handing him the keys to freedom?

Could they tell how strongly he reacted to the question? It was imperative they did not.

He elected to remain silent for a moment before stroking his mustache and pushing his half-rims up onto the bridge of his nose. He drew a deep breath, folding his hands on the table and preparing to reply. The same routine as during difficult budget negotiations.

“I don’t know anything for certain,” he replied eventually, glancing at the Arab with an apologetic smile before turning his eyes to the detective inspector. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I lead you up a blind alley that does Stark a disservice. As I said, there really wasn’t any private confidentiality between us.”

The two investigators nodded at him like pigeons grateful for the crumbs put out for them. Clearly, the sustenance they had come for was now finally within reach.

“I think basically he had a weakness in that respect. What I mean is…” He cleared his throat. “On the face of it he seemed to lead a very normal life with his girlfriend. However, on the few occasions we traveled together I found his eyes wandered in a manner that disturbed my impression of him.”

Mørck tipped his head inquiringly. “In what way?”

“Well, looking at young boys in an inappropriate manner. I noticed it especially in Bangladesh.”

The two men exchanged glances. Did their solemn expressions mean they were buying it? Had he succeeded in turning their focus in another direction?

Yes, by God, it seemed he had.

“Did you ever see him make advances to any of these boys?”

Be careful now, René, don’t appear too certain here, he told himself.

“I may have done. I’m not sure,” he replied.

“What does that mean?”

“We weren’t together all the time, of course. Sometimes I’d go into a shop and he’d be outside in the street. I may by chance have caught a glimpse of his need for contact.”

The Arab scratched his cheek at the near invisible transition between sideburn and stubble. “But you never saw him take any of them up to his room?” he asked, amid audible rasping.

“No. But he also traveled on his own sometimes.”

“So what you’re suggesting here is that William Stark was a pedophile with a preference for boys. Are there any members of your staff who traveled with Stark and could corroborate your assumption, do you think?” Mørck asked.

Eriksen threw up his hands. Sometimes, this gesture was a kind of confirmation in itself and saved him from being more explicit.

Sensing his advantage, he went on anyway. “I shouldn’t think so. If Stark wasn’t traveling with me, he would do so alone. But feel free to ask around the department. Far be it from me to hamper your investigation.”

–

“It was a good idea going over to the ministry, Assad, but you’ve hardly said a word since. What’s up?” said Carl, as they went down the stairs of the rotunda to the basement.

“I’m doing some luminating, Carl. That interview with Eriksen was very strange indeed.”

“I think that’d be ruminating, Assad. Mulling things over.”

“Mulling?”

“Never mind. You’re right about Eriksen. A lot of strange things came out of his mouth.”

Assad smiled. “A good thing his dentures didn’t come out, too. Did you notice one of his front teeth was loose?”

Carl nodded.

Abruptly Assad held up his hand. Sounds emanating from Rose’s office farther down the corridor stopped them both in their tracks. Sounds not normally associated with a mundane afternoon in a state institution milling with police officers.

“I think Rose has finished her report now,” said Assad, and rolled his eyes.

It was amazing, but true. Christ!

They crept closer to her door and now could hear rhythmic thuds against the wall mixed with deep, throaty groans and Rose’s utterly unbridled whining gasps.

“This is not a video, Carl. They are really shagging in there,” Assad whispered.

Carl looked toward the stairs at the other end of the corridor. How beautiful it would be if someone appeared now. The initial scandal would be followed by a month of dirty looks. The tales of Rose’s escapades at Station City’s Christmas parties would experience a renaissance. The prestige they had worked so hard for would be down the drain and Rose would have something to answer for.

He shook his head, noting with annoyance that perspiration had appeared on his brow and that the grunting and groaning behind the door was also prompting the first unmistakable signs of arousal in his underwear.

“They can’t just do that during working hours,” he protested in a whisper.

“But they are, Carl. You can hear it yourself.”

Carl looked at Assad and let out a deep sigh. It was at times like these that one knew who’d been through the police academy and who hadn’t.

“ROSE!” he bellowed, hammering his fist so hard against the door that he gave himself and everyone else a fright.

Silence descended in a nanosecond, followed after an equally brief span of time by the sound of frenzied activity. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what was going on.

“You can come out now, Gordon. We’re not going to harm you,” he growled, expecting a man displaying a certain amount of contrition to emerge. He was mistaken.

Disheveled and with a smirk all over his face, he appeared in the doorway, not at all remorseful, but triumphant. He had snared his prey after only a couple of days and was plainly confident he was going to get away with it, too, which unfortunately he was right about. Carl would be the last to complain to Bjørn about that kind of behavior among his staff. If he did, the boomerang would hit him square in the neck.

Just you wait, he tried to signal, as Gordon trotted past him and down the corridor. The way the spindly idiot nonchalantly did up his fly as he left was a sight Carl would not soon forget.

They waited another minute before entering the scene of the love crime.

“Oh, it’s you,” Rose noted with astonishing composure from behind her desk. “I thought you said you were going straight home after.”

Carl glanced around the room. Documents swept onto the floor, shoes abandoned in a hurry, an empty bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Have you been drinking during working hours, Rose?” he asked.

She gave a shrug, still surprisingly relaxed. “I suppose we had a little sip, yes.”

“What about Gordon? Is he going to be a regular fixture down here? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Regular fixture? God, no! He’s just helping me out a bit, that’s all.”

She giggled, and Assad cracked up behind Carl’s back.

The world was going mad.

“All right, listen. We came back to pick up the car. I’m running Assad over to the hospital for his checkup. What I want to tell you is that early tomorrow you’re going over to the ministry to ask William Stark’s colleagues if they ever noticed anything odd about his behavior. You know what I mean.”

“OK,” she replied. No defiance this time.

Funny how sex could sometimes work wonders.

–

“Good news, indeed, Assad. Congratulations.”

Carl patted his assistant’s shoulder vigorously.

“It was a very brief examination,” Assad responded.

“Yeah, and now you’re all clear. Full recovery, Assad. Absolutely brilliant.”

Carl looked around. Every white-coated nurse, doctor, porter, and auxiliary in the busy corridors of the Rigshospital deserved a hug. Only a couple of months before, the fluid on Assad’s brain had threatened his life, and now it was gone.

The doctor had said it was only a matter of time until the last accumulations of blood disappeared and the nerve paths to his facial muscles, speech center, and legs would be functioning as before. Of course a program of rehabilitation would be beneficial, but Assad’s line of work combined with brisk walking every day would be sufficient stimulation in itself. The bottom line was he needn’t come back there anymore.

Spirits were therefore high as Carl escorted Assad down to the hospital cafeteria and placed a tray of pastries and coffee on the table in front of him.

“How did it go with the librarians on Dag Hammarskjölds Allé?” Assad asked, pastry cream all over his dusky stubble.

“They’re going to call us as soon as the lad turns up again.”

“Then we shall have to be quick, Carl…”

Assad stopped and placed a hand on Carl’s arm as he nodded discreetly toward a corner of the room.

Seated behind a trolley of dirty dishes was none other than Marcus Jacobsen, staring blankly into space, hands around his coffee cup.

Before the weekend, he had been their superior, bidding farewell to his old life.

The way he looked now, it didn’t seem he was able to visualize his new one.

–

All in all, a more perfect shitty day than most shitty days, Carl decided as he opened his front door and went inside.

“Nice work,” was the first thing he said to Morten as he looked around the house. Amazing what a few hours of scrubbing and vacuuming could do to wipe away the traces of even the booziest of shindigs. Magnolievangen number 73 was pristine as never before.

“How’s our old charmer today?” he asked Mika, who stood in the middle of the living room, hands glistening as he rubbed something into Hardy’s naked back that smelled more effective than pleasant.

“Hardy’s doing great. He’s given us the go-ahead to get started using some forms of assistance. We’ve had a meeting with his case workers today and agreed we want him up in a wheelchair. What do you say, Hardy?” he said, slapping his patient’s milk-white buttock for emphasis.

“I say it’d be nicer with a slap on the ass if I could feel it,” came the hollow reply.

Carl bent down and looked Hardy straight in the eyes. They were moist, so it must have been an emotional day for him.

“Congratulations, mate,” he said, feeling moved, and patted Hardy’s brow.

“Yeah, bit momentous, it is.” Hardy paused to collect himself. “Mika’s really been working hard for this,” he added, with a quiver in his voice.

Carl straightened up and turned to the brawny caregiver pummeling away at Hardy’s muscle fibers, not knowing quite what to say. His feelings of guilt had been eating away at him for such a long time. Were they now about to ease? Was that what they were trying to get him to believe?

He gave a sigh and put his arms around Mika’s sweaty torso as it worked Hardy over.

“Thanks, Mika,” he said. “I don’t quite know how to put it, but thanks a million.”

“Whoa, Carlo!” came a jeering voice from the stairs. “Gone over to the enemy, have you? I knew it! I must be the only one in this house who’s straight, ha, ha!”

Jesper, ever the joker. Like a germ always waiting to strike.

“Mum says to tell you to phone,” he went on. “She says if you don’t go and visit Gran, you owe her hundreds of thousands of kroner. What kind of deal have you got yourself into, Carlo? Sounds like you’ve lost your mind.”

Then he laughed, so no one was in doubt.

“And you better do what she says. She’s a bit off her head at the moment because of Gurkamal.”

“You don’t say! What’s with him?”

“All she’s been on about is that wedding, that it has to be in India and everything, only now it’s all been put off again. If you ask me, it’s never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Damned if I know. Mum says it’s because there’s been problems after Gurkamal was attacked in the shop, but she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, either. Do you think he’s going to share his shitty little mini-mart with her? “Course he’s not!”

Carl took a deep breath. Just as long as this didn’t mean she was going to turn up all of a sudden with her suitcases and fifteen cardboard boxes.

“Have you heard the news about Hardy?” Carl asked, eager to change the subject.

“Too right I have. I was here when all those cows from the local authority, or wherever they were from, came piling in. They were here more than three hours, they were. Anyway, don’t forget about Gran.”

“How about you go and visit her instead, Jesper?”

“You must be joking. She’s gone totally cuckoo. She hardly knows who I am anymore.”

“I’m sure she does. I’m asking you to do it.”

“No way.”

“If you won’t do it as a favor, then I’m going to have to tell you to do it.”

“Threatening me now, are we? In that case I reckon you should alert the media and tell them the very important news that Gran’s too bonkers for me to waste my time. Great story. All yours, Carlo.”

He turned on his heel and homed in on the fridge. “Oh, and by the way, Carlo,” he hollered, his head among the dairy products, “I was up in the attic getting my old Action Men out today. What the hell’s that huge chest up there? And why’s it locked?”

Carl shook his head. What on earth was this psycho-infantile lout on about now?

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he hollered back. “I don’t know anything about any chest. It must be something of your mother’s.”