The Marco Effect

4

Spring 2011

“What the hell’s going on?” Carl wanted to know, as Tomas Laursen, the stocky former forensics officer and current manager of Copenhagen police headquarters’ under-dimensioned cafeteria stuck his head out of the kitchen area. “What are all these horrible paper flags for? Is it my homecoming from Rotterdam you’re celebrating? I was gone only a day.”

Had it not been for the fact that he’d had to pick up that fantastic ring for Mona and because the jeweler’s was so close to police HQ, not to mention his dying for a cup of coffee, he would have gone straight home from the airport.

Now he was feeling he should have done so anyway.

He stared around the room, shaking his head. What kind of shit was this? Had he walked in on some kid’s birthday party, or had one of his colleagues got himself hitched for the third or fourth time in the vain hope that he was finally safe?

Laursen smiled. “Hi, Carl. No, I’m afraid not. It’s because Lars Bjørn has come back. Lis has been putting up decorations, and Marcus has called the department in for coffee and a bite in half an hour.”

Carl frowned. Lars Bjørn? Back from where? He hadn’t even noticed the homicide department’s deputy commissioner had been away.

“Uhh, back, you say? What, been to Legoland, has he?”

Laursen dumped a plate containing something green in front of the officer at Carl’s side. It didn’t look good. Carl felt sure his colleague was going to regret it.

“You haven’t heard, then? Strange. Anyway, he’s just got back from Kabul.” Laursen laughed. “If you can avoid it, I’d say you were best off not letting on you didn’t know. He’s been away for two months, Carl.”

Carl glanced to his side. Was this poverty of common knowledge what was causing the hand of the man next to him to shake as he lifted his fork to his mouth? But who was the real laughingstock at the moment? Carl or Lars Bjørn, who apparently hadn’t been missed?

Two whole months, according to Tomas. Gasp.

“Kabul, you say? A pretty dangerous neck of the woods. What the fuck’s he been doing there?” It was hard to imagine a boarding-school wuss like Bjørn kitted out in battle dress. “Did they remember to check if he got back alive? You can never tell with a mummy like him,” he added as the green substance slid off the jiggling fork of the man next to him.

“Bjørn was sent there to train the local police,” said Laursen, wiping his hands on the tea towel that was wrapped around his ever-expanding waist. If he was intending to stay on in the cafeteria much longer he’d have to order some bigger tea cloths, thought Carl.

“You don’t say? I reckon he should have stayed there, in that case.”

Carl glanced around the room. The comment had drawn more than a couple of glares in his direction, but he didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned they could all take up residence in the Afghan wilderness with its roadside bombs.

“Thanks very much, Carl,” said a voice behind him. “Nice to know you hold my work in such high esteem.”

Fifteen pairs of eyes converged on the space behind his shoulder. Suddenly a ripple of chuckles passed through the assembly-pure Schadenfreude. Carl turned calmly toward what he anticipated would be a face luminous in every conceivable shade of red.

But Lars Bjørn was looking annoyingly good and he knew it. It was as if a taut animal skin had been stretched over his slight frame and the sun had conspired to straighten his back and shoulders. Whatever it was, he suddenly seemed somewhat larger than usual. Maybe the colorful array of ribbons in four measured rows above his left breast pocket helped.

Carl gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Well, well, Bjørn. Gave you a purple heart, did they? Good for you. Play your cards right and the Cub Scouts will give you a merit badge next.”

Carl felt Laursen’s gentle tug on his sleeve, but he didn’t care. What trouble could Bjørn land him in that he hadn’t already?

“Anyone would think it was you who got hit on the head instead of Assad, Mørck. How he’s getting on, anyway?”

“Such concern, Bjørn. Back on the job as head of personnel now, are we? But thanks, he’s doing OK. We expect him to be firing on all cylinders again in a couple of weeks. Until then I’ve got Rose, and thank Christ for that.”

He noticed wry smiles appearing at the mention of her name, but as long as that was all, he’d let it go. Otherwise he’d give them what for. What did he care? There wasn’t a man here who could begin to match her.

“Assad’s face is still a bit lopsided, though, isn’t it?” Laursen interjected. He was probably the only one in the cafeteria to have noticed.

Carl nodded. “True, but then he’s not the only one at HQ with his head off balance.” He looked straight at Bjørn, who was over by the cashier, paying for his beverage. Oddly enough he ignored the slight.

“But you’re right, Laursen,” Carl went on. “The hemorrhage Assad suffered after the attack affected his facial muscles and his sense of balance, so he’s been going for regular check-ups all this spring and is still taking a fair amount of medicine. The way things are going, I reckon he’ll soon be completely recovered, which we’re all very relieved about. He still has a bit of difficulty talking, but then he always did, didn’t he?”

He laughed, though no one else joined in. And so what?

Bjørn stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and turned to face him, this time with the dark venomous look he had perfected over the years.

“I’m very happy for Assad that he’s making such good progress, Carl. All we can hope is that the same will be true of you, down there in the depths. Perhaps we ought to accord you rather more attention in the future so we can keep a better eye on whether you need assistance, don’t you think?”

He turned to Laursen. “Thanks for the reception, very nice indeed, Tomas. Makes it a pleasure to be home. Wouldn’t you say so, Mørck? Oh, and by the way, welcome home from the Netherlands.”

Carl returned the snaky glare in kind as Bjørn marched past him and went off down the stairs. Apparently the cobra hadn’t completely died of dehydration down there in the desert.

“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.

He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.

“What did those reports say from Holland, anyway?” Laursen asked, changing the subject. “Was there any link between the nail-gun killings in Schiedam and the ones here in Denmark?”

Carl snorted. “The reports said fuck all. Complete waste of time.”

“And that’s got you frustrated, I can see. Am I right?”

Carl studied Laursen’s face. Not many people at HQ could be bothered to ask him such elementary questions, but on the other hand not many could expect an answer either, certainly none of the dickheads here now.

“Any unsolved case is always going to get a decent copper riled,” he replied, his eyes scanning the faces, giving them something to think about. “Especially one in which a colleague is the victim.”

“And Hardy?”

“Hardy’s still living with me. I reckon it’s going to stay that way until one of us kicks the bucket.”

The man munching salad at his side nodded.

“You’re a prick, Carl, but I’ll give you credit for looking after the man. Not many people would have done that.”

Carl frowned slightly. His lips may even have curled into a reluctant smile. At any rate, it was a strange feeling to hear such praise from a colleague. There was a first time for everything.

–

Downstairs in homicide it was all go. The number of paper flags seemed well over the top in the modest conference room, a bit like a cross between the queen’s birthday and a convention of the Denmark Party.

“Hey, Lis. Looks like you’ve been on quite a rampage. Bulk offer on the flags, was there?”

Department A’s absolutely most stimulating feature sent Mørck a sidelong glance. “Bit cocky, aren’t we, Carl? Do you want me to put them up again for you when you get back from Afghanistan?”

“Sure, whatever,” he said, hungrily noting the slight curl of her mouth. It was pure sex, underplayed just the way he loved it. Not even Mona could smile like that, the way it hit home straight below the belt. “But unfortunately they’ll all be covered in moss by then, won’t they? Is Marcus in?”

She gestured toward the door.

The homicide department’s head, Marcus Jacobsen, sat by the window staring out across the rooftops, his reading glasses pushed up onto his brow. Judging by the look on his face, his frame of mind was somewhere between chronic fatigue and a feeling of being eternally lost. It was not a pretty sight. But in view of the stacks of case folders mounted up on the desk around him, making the place look more like a paper warehouse, the oddest part was that he hadn’t yet succumbed to sitting like that every single day.

He swiveled round on his chair to face Carl, studying him with the same sort of weariness as when kids in the backseat of the car began asking if they’d be in Italy soon, when they were only ten kilometers south of Copenhagen.

“What’s up, Carl?” he asked, as though he’d prefer no answer. The man no doubt had a lot on his mind as it was.

“Party going on, I see,” said Carl, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the front office. “When are the fireworks on?”

“God knows. How was the Netherlands? Are we any closer to tying up those nail-gun killings?”

Cark shook his head. “Closer? The only thing I got any closer to was the realization that we’re not the only police force in Europe that can fuck things up. If that was what they call a draft of a coordinated report of all murders committed with a nail gun in our joint neck of the woods during the past couple of years, then I’m the Grand Mogul of Vesterbro. I couldn’t come to any conclusion at all on the basis of the data they’d collected. In fact, the only decent job was Ploug’s report on our own killings in Sorø and Amager. I’m afraid the Dutch did a shoddy piece of work indeed. Inadequate forensic analyses, incompetent investigation reports, too-slow reaction time. Effing infuriating, to put it mildly. We’re not going to get any further pursuing that course unless they suddenly come up with something new entirely down there.”

“I see. So I shouldn’t be expecting one of your devastatingly detailed reports littered with the usual golden nuggets, is that it?”

Carl pondered for a moment on Jacobsen’s sarcastic tone of voice. Something was definitely wrong here in the command bunker.

“That’s not actually why I’m here.”

“OK. To what do I owe the honor, then, Carl?”

“I’ve got a problem. Assad’s still not up to scratch, so we’re a bit adrift at the moment. I’m utilizing the time tidying up all my portfolios.” He loved the word. No other was anywhere near as vacuous. “But it’s hard going not actually being on a case, because Rose keeps interrupting me all the time. Maybe we ought to kill two birds with one stone and take the opportunity to upgrade her. Can’t she tag along with a couple of your lads for a bit? She needs to be shown the ropes, learn how to knock on doors. I thought maybe she could team up with Terje Ploug or Bente Hansen’s boys. From what I’ve heard, they’re all moaning about how short-staffed they are.”

His eyes narrowed as he peered in hope at his boss. While he’d been away, Rose had already amassed a pile of proposals as to what they ought to focus on. If he didn’t get her supertanker of excess energy rerouted in the very near future he’d be up to his eyeballs in case folders in ten seconds.

“Manpower shortages, indeed. Nothing new under the sun, Carl.” Marcus Jacobsen smiled drily and began to toy with the cigarette pack on his desk. “You’ll have to make your own training program for Rose. None of my lot will want her getting in the way, that’s for sure. She’s not a fully trained police officer, Carl. She’s no business out there on the streets, you tend to forget that.”

“I forget nothing. Especially not the fact that since the beginning of the year we’ve successfully wrapped up two cases thanks to Rose, even though Assad’s still on half days. In my book, Rose has completed her training to the full. Besides, we’ve got no investigation going on at the moment in Department Q. I’m sifting through cases in my own time and I don’t want Rose getting bored. It’s bad for the nerves.”

Marcus Jacobsen sat up straight. “I’m afraid that now you mention it, I reckon I do have something she could help us with. But before you send her out onto the streets on her own to mess things up, I suggest you go with her for a couple of days, OK?”

He pulled out a folder ten centimeters down in a half-meter-high pile. If it was the right one, the man possessed a truly uncanny ability.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Carl as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Sverre Anweiler. Prime suspect in a case of arson involving a houseboat out in Sydhavnen. I’ve only skimmed the report, but it looks like insurance fraud gone wrong. Anweiler was listed as the owner and was nowhere to be found when it exploded and went down. Somewhat regrettable in view of the fact that his girlfriend, Minna Virklund, happened to be on board at the time and perished.”

Perished. It had become a typical Marcus expression. A bit cynical, perhaps, even for police HQ.

“How do you mean, perished? Did she burn to death or drown or what?”

“Haven’t a clue. All I know is that what used to be her body was found bobbing around the harbor, nothing more than charred lump among the wreckage.”

“Sverre Anweiler, you say. Foreign?”

“Swedish. The bulletin we put out on him led us nowhere. It’s like he just vanished off the map.”

“Maybe he was a charred lump as well, at the bottom of the harbor?”

“No, they checked that thoroughly.”

“So he’s in Sweden, hiding out in some abandoned farmhouse in Norrbotten.”

“A reasonable assumption, only now he’s turned up in Denmark again, a year and a half after the event. Someone was going through CCTV footage and spotted him by chance on Østerbrogade last Tuesday. See for yourself.”

Jacobsen handed Carl a surveillance disc labeled MAY 3, 2011 and a photo of the man. Anweiler’s face was as blank as they came: high forehead; fair, wispy hair; dark blue eyes; eyelids seemingly bereft of lashes, almost like a delicate child’s. It was the kind of face that could be transformed beyond recognition by simply adding a mole to a cheek.

“CCTV? Where from exactly?”

The chief gave a shrug. “There’s more where that came from.”

“It sure won’t be easy, Marcus. But how in the world could anyone recognize someone so peculiar? He’s like a waxwork; he could look like anyone, or no one at all.”

“Have a look at the footage, then you’ll know.”

Carl shook his head. Marcus was clearly trying to put one over on him. “If this is the best you can give me, I’ll go out with Rose, but only for a day, Marcus. Just so you know. This looks like it could end up taking all my time.”

“Your needs, your decision, Carl. Do as you see fit.”

Again, that rather defeatist tone, so unlike Marcus Jacobsen.

“Nice to have Lars Bjørn back, don’t you think?” Carl ventured, in order to add some positivity to the general air of disgruntlement.

“Yes. And another thing, Carl. We’ve got a budget meeting tomorrow, and I want you to know that in the future there may be changes. Not immediately, but now that Bjørn’s been pulled back home we’re going to be redistributing responsibilities differently until things slot into place.”

Carl didn’t get it. “Bjørn was pulled back?”

“Yes, he was supposed to be in Kabul for another month and a half, but it was more practical this way.”

“I’m not with you. ‘Until things slot into place,’ you say. ‘More practical’? What’s going on?”

“Oh, I’m forgetting you were away in the Netherlands yesterday, so you weren’t at the executive meeting. Sorry, you won’t have heard yet, then. Did I ask you how things went in Rotterdam yesterday, Carl?”

He gave a shrug. “Never mind that; tell me what’s going on, Marcus.”

“Oh, nothing much. It’s just the wife and I have decided to retire before the government gets a chance to take our pensions off us.”

“Pensions? Aren’t you too young for that?”

“I’m afraid not. Friday’s my last day.” He gave a somewhat resigned smile. “Friday the thirteenth. It’ll be all right.”

Carl’s eyes widened in disbelief: Friday was only three days away!

It had to be some kind of fucking joke.

–

A plume of thundering invective came out of Carl’s mouth as he descended the stairs. The homicide department without Marcus Jacobsen was inconceivable. What was more, Lars Bjørn was now in position to take over the reins. It was completely untenable. He would rather cycle through the forests of Norway while being consumed by mosquitoes. A devastating double whammy, and it was only Tuesday.

“What’s up with you? You look like a pickled cucumber,” said a dry voice from farther down the stairwell. It was Børge Bak, on his way up the stairs in his usual slothful fashion with stolen goods from the basement depot for some investigator who reckoned he’d had a good idea.

“That makes two of us, then,” Carl riposted, more than ready to take two steps at a time to get rid of him.

“I hear your trip to Holland wasn’t much of a success. That must have suited you.”

Carl stopped abruptly. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, that case was getting out of hand, wasn’t it? You could have ended up in hot water.”

“Hot water?”

“There’s rumors going round.”

Carl frowned. If this fat-assed fool didn’t make himself scarce and take his ridiculous comb-over with him in the next two seconds, he was going to unbury the hatchet with ceremony, and nothing would please him more.

Bak could see where this was going.

“Anyway, best be getting off upstairs with this lot here. Be seeing you, Carl!”

He managed to lift his foot about three centimeters toward the next step before Carl’s fist twisted his collar tight around his throat.

“What rumors, Bak?”

“Let go,” Bak wheezed. “Otherwise I’ll make sure those disciplinary proceedings you managed to avoid after the Amager incident are reinstated.”

Disciplinary proceedings? What the hell was he going on about? Carl tightened his grip around Bak’s double chins. “Let me tell you something, Bak. From now on…”

He paused at the sound of footsteps, releasing his clutch as one of HQ’s new intake tried to squeeze past unnoticed, a sheepish grin on his face. Carl recognized him. The newcomer was a pain in the neck, and of all the possible names he could have been equipped with, his parents had chosen the highly un-Danish moniker “Gordon.” A beanstalk of a lad with legs like ski poles, swinging arms more appropriate to a gibbon, the neatly parted hairstyle of an English public schoolboy, and not least of all a mouth on him that never knew when to shut up. Not exactly a boost for criminal investigation in Copenhagen.

Carl nodded reluctantly to the lanky lighthouse before returning his attention to the now gasping Børge Bak.

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Bak. But if you ever happen to find the courage to tell me what you’re insinuating, you’ll be more than welcome to come and see me in the basement and tell me to my face. Until then, I advise you to stay in your stolen-goods cage and save yourself the indignity of listening to any more unverified gossip. It makes you such a horrible little man.”

And with that he shoved him aside and continued on down the stairs. Aside from the little silk pouch he had in his jacket pocket, Mona’s reaction to which he could hardly wait for, his day had been crap. The flight home had almost made him throw up even before they had taken off from Schiphol, Marcus had decided to abandon ship, Lars Bjørn was already settling in on the throne, and now this. He should never have bothered coming in today.

Effing Børge Bak and his ilk. No matter what they all thought about the Amager shooting and his part in the investigation of that damned nail-gun killing, it was their fucking duty to respect a colleague’s right to defend himself against all accusations, not least those left unsaid. He’d had it up to here with all their shit.

–

Amid the noise of builders on the job somewhere at the far end of the corridor and the dense fumes of incense sticks and tea made from candied fruit, he found Assad rolling up his prayer mat.

Apart from his lopsided face and an unusually pale version of his Middle Eastern complexion, the man was looking OK.

“Great to see you back, Assad,” Carl said, doing his best not to glance at the time. Assad still had a couple of weeks of treatment left to go, so hauling him over the coals for being late would have to wait. “How are you doing?” he asked almost automatically.

“As a matter of fact I am doing splendidly.”

Carl raised his head. He needed to hear it again.

“Did you say splendidly?”

Assad turned to face him with drooping eyelids. “Don’t you worry, Carl. It will soon pass.”

He leaned the prayer mat against the shelves and reached out for some of his caramel substance, keeping hold of the table for support. Who wouldn’t need steadying, faced with the prospect of putting that sticky goo in their mouth?

Carl gave his assistant a pat on the back. He had made a marvelous recovery since the assault in December. The doctors had been in no doubt: without Assad’s armor-plated skull and his iron constitution, the blow he had received to the back of his head would have turned him into a vegetable if it hadn’t killed him outright. A few more burst capillaries in his brain and that would have been it. Apart from a tendency to depression, headaches, a rather crab-like gait and the slight sagging of the right side of his face, plus a host of other more minor things, the man was on his way to full recovery. It was close to a miracle, or whatever you wanted to call it.

“I have been thinking about Hardy, Carl. How is he doing now?”

Carl took a deep breath. It was a hard one to answer. Since Morten had started kissing and cuddling with his new physiotherapist friend, Mika, and since this Mika had begun to apply his considerable professional insights and equally firm muscle mass to Hardy’s paralyzed limbs, things had been happening to Hardy that in many ways were unfathomable.

A couple of years ago the doctors at the spinal clinics had basically condemned Hardy to a lifetime of lying on his back in bed. But now Carl no longer felt quite so convinced that their conclusions were accurate.

“It’s strange. Before, he used to have these kind of phantom pains, but now it’s something else. I just don’t know what.”

Assad scratched his neck. “I wasn’t thinking about if he can move now, Carl. I was thinking more about his frame of mind.”

There were new posters on Assad’s wall. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to take things easier and had more time on his hands, or perhaps the world situation had been having an influence. Whatever the reason, the exotic scenes bordered with fluttering Arabic letters had now made way for a small poster of Einstein sticking out his tongue and a slightly larger one showing a slim young man with an electric guitar whose name Carl was unable to pronounce. MAHMOUD RADAIDEH AND KAZAMADA PERFORM IN BEIRUT, it read.

“New decorations,” said Carl, with a nod to the posters. It was a comment that should have been followed by a polite inquiry as to its subject matter, but somehow he never got that far.

It was as if Assad wasn’t really all there. His usual keen and expressive face seemed extinguished, and his shoulders sagged pathetically under his checked shirt. But he was like that sometimes.

“I’ve got a CD. Would you like to listen?” Assad asked absently, without waiting for Carl’s deliberations. He pressed a button on his CD player and before Carl had time to react, the microscopic office space was subjected to an auditory blitzkrieg.

“My God,” Carl spluttered, his eyes darting longingly in the direction of the door.

Talk about a wall of sound.

“This is Kazamada. They play with all sorts of musicians from the Arab world,” Assad shouted back.

Carl nodded. He didn’t doubt the man. The only thing was, it sounded like Kazamada were playing with all of them at once.

He cautiously pressed the stop button.

“You asked about Hardy’s frame of mind,” Carl said in the earsplitting silence that ensued. “Mika gets him to laugh a lot, but I don’t think he’s doing that well. He says his thoughts are all over the place. All the things he’s missing out on in life. The things he was planning to do when the time came. He’s helpless now, Assad. Sometimes we’ll hear him crying in the night, but he won’t share his pain with any of us. It can be pretty agonizing to listen to.”

“‘The things he was planning to do when the time came,’” Assad repeated with a pensive nod. “I think I understand. Perhaps better than most.”

Carl’s eyes traced the fine lines of anguish that crisscrossed Assad’s face. “OK, you may be a bit depressed, Assad, but it’s hardly surprising after what happened to you. In my own case I, too, have-”

“No, Carl. I am not thinking of the assault now. It is something else. Something else entirely.”

And with that his mind turned inward again.

If that was the mood he was in, Carl might just as well throw in his hand grenade now. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Assad. Marcus Jacobsen’s quitting.”

Assad turned his head slowly. “Quitting?”

“Yeah, on Friday.”

“This Friday?”

Carl nodded. Had the man gone into slo-mo or had a couple of chips in his cerebral cortex lost a component or two?

Come back, Assad, wherever you are, he thought as he related his conversation with Marcus. “So unfortunately it looks like we’re saddled with Lars Bjørn.”

“How odd,” Assad replied, staring emptily into space.

It was hardly the reaction Carl would have expected.

“How do you mean, odd? Disastrous, yes. Horrifying, certainly. But odd? What are you getting at?”

For a moment Assad sat chewing on his lip, seemingly once more on another planet. “Odd because he did not tell me,” he said eventually.

Carl frowned. “And why should he do that, Assad?”

“I’ve just been looking after his house while he and his wife were away, so I was there when they came back last night.”

Carl reeled. He what?

Assad’s head jolted suddenly and he gasped as though he had just nodded off and a reflex had snapped him back to reality. His eyes were wide-open, the expression on his face inscrutable. He appeared startled, his mouth half agape.

“You’ve been looking after Lars Bjørn’s house for two months? How come? And why wasn’t I informed? Why would he think he knows you well enough to ask you a favor like that? And what was his wife doing in Kabul? Is she a nurse or something?”

Assad pressed his lips together, his gaze dancing across the floor as though he were trying to cook up a plausible answer. What the hell was going on?

Then his nostrils flared, a sharp intake of breath, and he straightened up in his chair. “I had no place to live and Bjørn helped me. We know each other from the Middle East, that’s all. Nothing special. And yes, his wife is a nurse.”

Nothing special. Who the hell did he think he was he kidding?

“You know each other from the Middle East?”

“Yes. We met by chance, before I came to Denmark. I think he was the one who advised me to seek asylum here.”

Carl nodded. It was quite understandable for Assad to have his secrets, and considering the state he was in, inadvertently expose his vulnerabilities. But it hurt, dammit, that Assad could use words like “by chance” and reckon that Carl’s professional interest and curiosity would thereby be eliminated.

And just as Carl was about to let rip with all his least appealing personality traits, his furious eyes suddenly met Assad’s.

Seldom had he seen his assistant look so attentive, his gaze so piercing and intense. All of a sudden, after months of being apart, the two of them now sat divided by mistrust and all that remained unuttered between them. A moment’s silence where all discussion and evaluation took place without words.

Will you please leave me in peace, Carl? I am back on the job now, Assad’s eyes seemed to plead.

Carl gave him a pat on his thigh and got to his feet. “It’ll work itself out, you old bugger, you’ll see.”

“‘Bugger’?” came the despondent reply.

“Yes, well. For once, Assad, I’ll pass on that one.”

The poor sod needs cheering up, Carl mused, as he headed for Rose’s office. A dose of her unorthodox personality could usually get Assad laughing.

Though her door was half-shut and the builders had just launched a pneumatic assault on a wall somewhere in the vicinity of the stolen-goods depot, it was hard not to overhear the exchange of voices from within.

“Knock it off, Gordon. There’s nothing doing, OK?”

“All I’m trying to say is…”

Carl shook his head. The place was almost falling down around them, and yet here was this young fettuccine trying to get it on with Carl’s next-most trusty colleague, and on his turf to boot.

He reached out and was about to fling open the door with a roar of outrage, only to pause abruptly as Rose’s philanderer upped the ante.

“I’ll do anything for you, Rose, absolutely anything. Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

“In that case, you can go and sit down in the middle of the motorway, or donate your services as a pontoon bridge over Lake Titicaca.”

Nice one, Rose! He could picture her exactly, no messing about. Department Q in your face, mate!

A brief silence ensued, the testicle brain seemingly awestruck.

Then he cleared his throat, trying to sound as macho as he could. “OK, then. But no matter what you say, Rose, you’re still so divinely ravishing that you make me tingly inside.”

Carl didn’t know whether to feel incensed or crack up laughing. What was it he said? Divinely ravishing? Tingly inside?

Had police headquarters gone entirely round the bend, or was it just him?