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.