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.