“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.”