Carl nodded. “Oil worker” sounded not half bad. Men like them were used to gritting their teeth in a gale and taking things in their stride. Which was why their secrets weren’t the most difficult to uncover either.
He’d expected a man with fists like a vise and shoulders as broad as the Storebælt Bridge, but he was mistaken. The man actually looked a lot like Sverre Anweiler. The type of man their victim apparently had a hard time saying no to.
He looked small beside Assad, almost like a person transformed by some inner vacuum. Chest concave, shoulders meager as a child’s. Only his eyes revealed mettle, the will to do what was required. A man with the right stuff.
“What kind of hole’s this you’ve dragged me into? Looks like an effing dungeon.” He expelled a hollow laugh. “I hope you realize torture’s not allowed in Denmark.” He extended a hand. In spite of its inferior size his handshake was strong. “Ralf Virklund, Minna’s husband. What did you want to see me about?”
Carl asked him to take a seat. “My assistant and I have taken over the case of the fire in which your wife died. We’ve been going through the details and there seem to be a number of issues outstanding.”
The man nodded. He seemed cooperative enough. If he was nervous he was keeping it well hidden.
“According to the files, your wife left you immediately prior to the fatal event. She wrote you a letter informing you she’d found something better. Would you like to comment on that?”
Virklund nodded and looked at the floor. Obviously, this wasn’t something he was proud of. “Can’t say I blame her. How would you like sharing a bed with someone who was only home once in a blue moon?”
Touché! What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Once in a blue moon with Mona would have been a world record. Why did he have to start thinking about that now?
“That’s not so unusual, many people live like that,” Assad replied on his behalf with an exaggerated smile. OK, so this was a good cop/bad cop interrogation, and now it was Carl’s turn to be the bastard. The way he was feeling, he didn’t mind one bit.
He leaned across the desk. “Listen, Ralf, you can forget the shit, OK? You can’t really believe it makes sense for her to swap you for someone else who was hardly ever home either.”
Virklund stared at him, perplexed. “I thought we’d sorted that one out. Dammit, I’ve already told the police several times that Minna didn’t even know the man. She bought his houseboat off him, that’s all. End of story!”
Carl looked at Assad. Like some pensive nomad asked about where best to find shade in the desert, he sat nodding wisely and rather absent-mindedly. What was he up to?
“Listen here, Mr. Virklund. What you’re telling us now isn’t anywhere in the report,” said Carl. “And since any statement like that would have to be included, I don’t believe you ever really told them.”
“And I know for a fact I did. What’s more, I explained to them I had no idea there’d been a fire on the houseboat and that Minna was dead before the cops told me. It was a shock, and I hope that effing report says so. I also told them Minna had nothing to do with the bloke besides buying his boat off him. Otherwise I want to see that report. I’m assuming I can?”
Carl gave Assad a look that said, Your turn, friend. After all, unlike Carl, Assad had read the report in detail. But what was the man doing? Nothing, apart from sitting there under his palm tree with a daft grin on his face.
It was enough to get on your nerves. His frustration needed an outlet.
“I reckon you did your wife in because she was being unfaithful, and you started that fire-”
“Erm, Ralf,” Assad interrupted. “How much crude oil does one of those rigs pump out of the sea bed on a good day?”
The man gawped quizzically. He wasn’t the only one.
“You see, I’m asking because then we can work out how much gas and other shit comes up with it. Like the crap you just fed us, yeah?”
A furrow appeared on Virklund’s brow.
“I called your employers,” Assad went on, still smiling inscrutably. “They are very happy with you, Ralf. This was my impression.”
Virklund nodded and grunted an acknowledgment. The look on his face said he was curious as to what was coming next.
“However, since I was asking, they also felt obliged to tell me you have a bit of a temper. And that you like to show people you aren’t afraid of anything. Am I right?”
The man gave a shrug. The interview was taking a turn in the wrong direction and he clearly sensed as much. “OK, that’s true, but I’ve never been violent with Minna, if that’s what you’re implying. There might have been the odd fight in a bar now and again, but I’ve never been done for violence, as I’m sure you well know.”
“I’m thinking now that the inspector and I will go round to the building you and Minna lived in and have a chat with some of your neighbors about this. What do you think about that?”
Virklund snorted. “Do what you fucking well like. They were never any friends of mine anyway. Muslims and country bumpkins from Jutland and other forms of dross.”
Country bumpkins from Jutland? Was this his way of picking a fight? Pretty ingenious.
Assad got to his feet, still smiling broadly, and punched the bloke in the face.
An action as astonishing as it was wrong and mean, especially here on HQ turf.
But Assad stilled Carl’s protests with a nod of his head. He leaned calmly over the man, with his hands planted firmly on his knees, and peered into Virklund’s nose-bleeding face.
Less than ten centimeters separated their eyes.
What the hell was happening? Any second now, Virklund would be on his feet and going berserk. His rage was unmistakable. Was Assad planning on throwing him in the slammer for assaulting a police officer? Were they going to have to lie about who threw the first punch?
Then, to Carl’s utter surprise, both men burst out laughing. Assad straightened up and gave the man a pat on the shoulder, reached into his pocket and handed him a handkerchief.
“He has a sense of humor, Carl, did you see it?” Assad grinned.
Virklund nodded. His nose was throbbing, but he seemed pleased they’d got that sorted, at least.
“As long as you don’t do it again,” he said.
“As long as you don’t say I’m from Jutland,” Assad replied.
And then they broke out laughing again. Christ on a bike.
Carl had been completely sidelined, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It was like a wedge had been driven through his impression of Assad. On the one hand, the resolute nature of Assad’s intervention made him feel oddly enlivened, for it was a sign that his assistant was getting back to his old self again. But on the other hand it raised the issue of what there might be about Assad’s nature, or perhaps his past, that made him capable of using violence in such a controlled manner. In any case, it definitely wasn’t something one saw every day.
“One more question before we throw you out,” said Assad.
What was he doing? Virklund wasn’t going to get off that lightly, surely? They’d only just started.
“Your wife was, how do you say, all thumbs, yes?”
Virklund jerked his head back as if another jab from Assad’s calloused fist was on its way.
“How the hell do you know that?” he asked, astonished.
“She was, then?”
“Minna was so damn clumsy, my mother didn’t want us coming round. You’ve never seen as much broken china as the first time she was there.” Virklund nodded. “Yeah, it didn’t take much to get her into a right dither.”
Assad looked at Carl inquiringly.
“To get into a dither means to become flustered or confused, Assad,” he explained.
It didn’t seem to clear matters up.
“So what you’re saying is she was no good with electronic gadgets and machines, and stuff like that?” Assad went on.