Текст книги "Disgrace"

Автор книги: Jussi Adler-Olsen

Соавторы: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Kimmie! After all these years.

‘She gave me the pistol and patted me on the cheek as if I were a little child. She mumbled something and then she went out the front door.’ Thelma laughed again. ‘But don’t despair, Ditlev. Your girlfriend will pay you a visit another day, she said to tell you!’

13

Homicide Chief Marcus Jacobsen rubbed his forehead. This was a bloody awful way to start the week. He’d just been handed his fourth request for leave in as many days. Two men from his best investigation unit were off sick, and then this bestial attack right in the middle of a downtown street. A woman had been beaten beyond recognition and then tossed in a rubbish container. The violence was growing more and more raw and, understandably enough, everyone was demanding immediate action. The newspapers, the public, the police chief. If the woman died, all hell would break loose. It was a record year for homicides. One would have to go back at least ten years to see statistics this high, and because of that, and because so many officers were leaving the police force, the brass were calling meetings all the time.

It was one pressure on top of another, and now Bak had also asked for leave. Bak of all people, for Christ’s sake.

In the old days, he and Bak would have lit fags and walked round the courtyard, and they’d have solved their problems right there – of that he was convinced. But the old days were gone, and now he was powerless. Simply put, he had little to offer his personnel. The salary was shit, and so were the working hours. His officers were worn out and their work had become practically impossible to carry out satisfactorily. And now they couldn’t even soothe their frustrations with a smoke. A hell of a situation.

‘You’ve got to prod the politicians, Marcus,’ said his deputy, Lars Bjørn, as the office movers blustered about in the hallway so that everything would appear organized and efficient, as the reforms demanded. But it was merely camouflage, window dressing.

Marcus raised his eyebrows and looked at his deputy with the same resigned smile that had been plastered on Lars Bjørn’s face the last few months.

‘And when will you be asking me for leave, Lars? You’re still a relatively young man. Don’t you dream of landing another job? Wouldn’t your wife like you around the house more, too?’

‘Hell, Marcus, the only job I’d prefer to mine is yours.’ He said it so drily and matter-of-factly it could make a man nervous.

Marcus nodded. ‘OK. But I hope you have time to wait, because I’m not getting out of here before my time. That’s not my style.’

‘Just talk to the police chief, Marcus. Ask her to put pressure on the politicians so we can have tolerable working conditions.’

There was a knock on the door, and before Marcus could react, Carl Mørck was halfway into his office. Could that man do something by the book, just for once?

‘Not now, Carl,’ he said, knowing full well that Mørck’s hearing could be surprisingly selective.

‘It’ll only take a moment.’ Carl nodded almost imperceptibly to Lars Bjørn. ‘It’s about the case I’m working on.’

‘The Rørvig murders? If you can tell me who almost killed a woman last night in the middle of Store Kannikestræde, then I’ll listen. Otherwise you’re on your own. And you know what I think about the Rørvig case. There was a conviction. Find another case, one where the perpetrator is still on the loose.’

‘Someone here at this station has a connection to the case.’

Marcus let his head fall resignedly to his chest. ‘I see. Who?’

‘A detective by the name of Arne Jacobsen removed the case file from Holbæk Police ten to fifteen years ago. Does that ring any bells?’

‘Fine surname, but I don’t have anything to do with it.’

‘He was personally involved in the case, I can tell you. His son was dating the girl who was murdered.’

‘And?’

‘And today the son works here at the station. I’m bringing him in for questioning. Just so you’re aware.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Johan.’

‘Johan? Johan Jacobsen, our handyman? You’re pulling my leg –’

‘Hang on, Carl,’ Lars Bjørn interrupted. ‘If you’re going to bring one of our civilians in for questioning, it’s best if you call it something else. I’m the one who has to speak with the union if anything goes wrong.’

Marcus saw a quarrel emerging. ‘That’s enough, you two.’ He turned towards Carl Mørck. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘You mean, apart from the fact that an ex-employee removed case materials from the Holbæk Police?’ Carl straightened up so that he covered an additional foot of wall. ‘The fact is that his son put the case on my desk. Furthermore, he broke into the crime scene and deliberately left clues that point back to him. I also believe he’s got a lot more material in his goody bag. Marcus, he knows more about this case than anyone else between heaven and earth – if one can put it that way.’

‘Good God, Carl. That case is more than twenty years old. Can’t you just conduct your showdown in the basement nice and quietly? I imagine there are plenty more open-and-shut cases to work on other than that one.’

‘You’re right. It’s an old case. And it’s the very one that I, at your request, will be presenting on Friday to a team of dimwits from the land of brown cheese. Remember? So, please, Marcus, be so kind as to make sure Johan stops by my office in no more than ten minutes.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘As far as I know, Johan is off sick.’ He looked at Carl over his glasses. It was important he understood the message. ‘You’re not to contact him at home, do you understand? He had a nervous breakdown over the weekend. We don’t want any trouble.’

‘How can you be so certain he was the one who put the case file on your desk?’ Lars Bjørn asked. ‘Did you find his fingerprints on it?’

‘No. I got the results of the analysis today and there weren’t any fingerprints. I just know it, OK? Johan’s the one. If he’s not back by this afternoon I’ll be going over there. Then you can say whatever you like.’

14

Johan Jacobsen lived in a co-op flat on Vesterbrogade, across from the Black Horse Theatre and the now defunct Mechanical Music Museum. In fact, he lived right where the decisive battle between the anarchist squatters and police occurred in 1990. Carl remembered those days all too well. How many times had he donned riot gear and beaten up girls and boys nearly his own age?

Not exactly the best memories from the good old days.

They had to ring the buzzer on the brand-new intercom a few times before Johan Jacobsen let them in.

‘I didn’t expect you this soon,’ he said softly, showing them into his living room. From here there was a view of the old tiled roofs of the theatre and adjacent inn.

The room was large, but not a very pretty sight. Clearly untouched by a woman’s expert hand and critical eye for quite some time. Gravy-caked plates were stacked on the kitchen worktop, Coke bottles were strewn on the floor. It was a dusty, greasy pigsty.

‘Please excuse the mess,’ the man said, removing dirty clothes from the sofa and coffee table. ‘My wife left me about a month ago.’ His face made the nervous twitch they’d seen so many times at the police station. As if sand had blown in his face and he’d just managed to keep it from getting in his eyes.

Carl shook his head. It was too bad about the wife. He knew the feeling.

‘You know why we’re here?’

He nodded.

‘So you admit straight away that you were the one who put the Rørvig file on my desk, Johan?’

He nodded again.

‘Why didn’t you simply give it to us, then?’ Assad said, thrusting out his lower lip. If he put on a military-style cap, he would resemble Yasser Arafat.

‘Would you have accepted it?’

Carl shook his head. Hardly. A twenty-year-old case with a conviction? No, he was certainly correct on that score.

‘Would you have asked me where I got it? Would you have inquired why I was interested in the case? Would you have bothered to take the time to have your interest aroused? I’ve seen the piles on your desk, Carl.’

Carl nodded. ‘And so you put the replacement Trivial Pursuit box in the cottage as a lead. It couldn’t have been very long ago, since the lock on the kitchen door opened so easily. Am I right?’

Johan nodded.

Just as Carl thought. ‘OK, so you wanted to know whether we’d get properly hooked on the case. I can understand that. But you took quite a risk doing it that way, didn’t you, Johan? What if we hadn’t noticed the game? What if we hadn’t discovered the names written on the cards?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re here now.’

‘I don’t understand it so well.’ Assad sat down in front of one of the windows facing Vesterbrogade. With the light cascading in behind him, his face turned completely dark. ‘So you’re not satisfied that Bjarne Thøgersen admitted he’d done it?’

‘If you had been in the courtroom during sentencing, you wouldn’t be satisfied, either. Everything was predetermined.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Assad said. ‘Hardly strange when the man turns himself in –’

‘What do you find unusual about the case, Johan?’ Carl interrupted.

The man avoided Carl’s eyes and looked out of the window, as if the grey sky might calm the storm inside him.

‘They were smiling the whole time,’ he said, ‘every single one of them. Thøgersen, the defence lawyer. The three arrogant bastards sitting in the public gallery.’

‘Torsten Florin, Ditlev Pram and Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen. Are they who you’re referring to?’

He nodded while stroking his quivering lips in an attempt to still them.

‘They sat there smiling, you say. That’s a very weak basis for pursuing the case, Johan.’

‘Yes, but I know more now than I did then.’

‘Your father, Arne Jacobsen, worked the case?’ Carl asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And where were you at the time?’

‘I was at Holbæk Technical College.’

‘Holbæk? Did you know the victims?’

‘Yes.’ He said it almost inaudibly.

‘So you also knew Søren?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, a little. But not as well as Lisbet.’

‘You listen now, you,’ Assad broke in. ‘I can tell from your face that Lisbet had told you she wasn’t in love with you any more. Isn’t that right, Johan? She didn’t want you after all.’ Assad’s eyebrows formed a frown. ‘And when you couldn’t have her, you killed her, and now you want us to figure it out so we can arrest you, so you don’t have to commit suicide. Isn’t that right?’

Johan blinked rapidly a few times, then his face hardened. ‘Does he need to be here, Carl?’ he asked in a measured tone.

Carl shook his head. Assad’s outbursts were unfortunately becoming a habit. ‘Go into the other room, Assad. Just for five minutes.’ He pointed at a side door behind Johan.

At this Johan jerked like a jack-in-the-box. There were many indicators of fear, and Carl knew most of them.

So he looked at the closed door.

‘No, not in there. It’s too messy,’ Johan said, standing in front of the door. ‘Go and sit in the dining room, Assad. Or have a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I just made some.’

But Assad had also noticed Johan’s reaction. ‘No thanks, I prefer tea,’ he said, squeezing himself behind Johan and throwing the door wide open.

Behind the door was another high-ceilinged room. There was a row of tables along one wall, covered with stacks of files and loose papers. But most interesting was the face hanging on the wall, staring down at them with melancholy eyes. It was a yard-high photostat of a young woman, the girl who’d been murdered in Rørvig. Lisbet Jørgensen. Unruly hair on a cloudless background. A real summer snapshot with deep shadows across her face. Had it not been for her eyes, the size of the photo and its unusually prominent position, he would hardly have noticed it. He did now.

As Carl and Assad entered the room it became clear to them that this was a shrine. Everything in here was about Lisbet. There were fresh flowers beside one wall with clippings about the murder. Another wall was adorned with characteristic square Instamatic photos of the girl, plus a few letters and postcards, even a blouse. Happy and cruel moments, side by side.

Johan didn’t say a word. Simply stood in front of the photostat and let himself be drawn into her eyes.

‘Why didn’t you want us to see this room, Johan?’ Carl said.

He shrugged, and Carl understood. It was too intimate. His soul, his life, his broken dreams – all was laid bare on these walls.

‘She broke up with you that night,’ came Assad’s accusation again. ‘Tell it like it is, Johan. It would be best for you then.’

Johan turned and glared at him. ‘All I will say is that the girl I loved most in the entire world was massacred by people who right now are looking down on us from the highest ranks of society and laughing. The fact that somebody as fucking insignificant as Bjarne Thøgersen is the one paying the price comes down to one thing, and that’s money. Judas money, cold hard cash, filthy lucre, for God’s sake. That’s what it boils down to.’

‘And now it has to stop.’ Carl said. ‘But why now?’

‘Because I’m alone again, and I can’t think about anything else. Can’t you see that?’

Johan Jacobsen was just twenty when Lisbet said yes to his marriage proposal. Their fathers were friends. The families had visited one another often, and Johan had been in love with Lisbet for as long as he could remember.

He had been with her that night, while her brother had made love with his girlfriend in the next room.

They’d had a serious talk, and then they’d made love – as a parting gesture, as far as she was concerned. At dawn he’d left in tears, and later that same day she was found dead. In just ten hours he’d plummeted from the highest peak of joy into deep lovesickness and finally into hell. He had never really recovered from that night and the following afternoon. He’d found a new girlfriend whom he’d married, and they’d had two children, yet it was only Lisbet he thought about.

When his father, on his deathbed, told him that he’d stolen the case file and given it to Lisbet’s mother, Johan had driven up to see her the very next day and retrieved the folder.

Since then, these papers had become his most cherished possessions, and from that day forward, Lisbet filled more and more of his life.

Finally she simply filled too much. And so his wife left.

‘What do you mean by “filled too much”?’ asked Assad.

‘I talked about her constantly. Thought about her night and day. All the clippings about the case, all the reports. I simply had to read about her all the time.’

‘And now you want to get rid of it all? That’s why you got us involved?’ Carl asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And what have you got for us? All this?’ Carl spread his arms out over the stacks of paper.

He nodded. ‘If you read all of it, you’ll know that it was the school gang that did it.’

‘You’ve made a list for us of other assaults. We’ve already seen it. Is that what you mean?’

‘That’s only a partial list. I’ve got the full one here.’ He leaned over the table, lifted a stack of newspaper clippings and pulled out a sheet of paper from underneath.

‘It starts here, before the Rørvig murders. This boy went to the same boarding school, it states in the article.’ He pointed at a page in Politiken from 15 June 1987. The headline read: ‘Tragedy in Bellahøj. Man, 19, Falls to Death from Ten-Metre Diving Board’.

He ran through the cases, many of which Carl recognized from the list that had been delivered to Department Q. Three or four months separated the different incidents. A couple of them had resulted in deaths.

‘It’s possible they’re all accidents then,’ Assad said. ‘What do they have to do with the boarding-school kids? They aren’t necessarily connected with one another at all. Do you have any proof?’

‘No. That’s your job.’

Assad swung his head dismissively. ‘Honestly, there’s absolutely nothing in this. You’ve just become sick in your head because of this case. I feel sorry for you. You should see a psychologist then. Can’t you go to that Mona Ibsen at headquarters instead of sending us on a wild duck chase?’

On their drive back to headquarters, Carl and Assad were quiet, each absorbed in thought. Between their ears, the case was moving full speed ahead.

‘Make us a cup of tea, Assad,’ Carl said down in the basement, pushing the plastic grocery bags containing Johan Jacobsen’s papers into the corner. ‘Go easy on the sugar, OK?’

He put his legs up on the desk, turned on the news programme on Channel 2, unplugged his brain and expected nothing more from the day.

The next five minutes changed that.

He picked up the telephone on the first ring and his eyes rolled towards the ceiling when he heard the homicide chief’s dark voice.

‘I’ve talked to the police chief, Carl. She sees no reason why you should dig deeper into this case.’

At first Carl made a show of protesting, but when Marcus Jacobsen wouldn’t give him additional reasons why, he felt the temperature rising around the nape of his neck.

‘I’ll repeat: why?’

‘That’s just the way it is. You should prioritize your assignments so that you’re concentrating exclusively on cases that haven’t resulted in a conviction. The rest you should file away in the metal cabinets down in the archive.’

‘Aren’t I the one who actually decides what to prioritize?’

‘Not when the police chief says something else.’

So that conversation was over.

‘Nice mint tea with a little sugar,’ Assad said after the conversation ended, handing him a cup. It looked as though the teaspoon could stand upright in the sea of syrup.

Carl accepted the scalding hot and sickeningly sweet beverage, knocking it back in one gulp. Christ, he was getting used to the glop.

‘You shouldn’t sulk, Carl. We’ll let the case rest for a few weeks until this Johan comes back to work. Then we’ll quietly pressure him day after day. He’ll confess everything sooner or later. You’ll see.’

Carl studied Assad’s cheery face. If he didn’t know any better he’d think it was painted on. Just an hour earlier he had been aggressive, insistent and flushed-faced on account of this case.

‘Confesses what, Assad? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘That night Lisbet Jørgensen told him she didn’t want him any more then. She probably said she’d found another guy. So he came back that morning and killed them both. If we dig a little deeper we’ll probably find out there was some sort of shit between Lisbet’s brother and Johan. Maybe he went completely crazy.’

‘Forget it, Assad. The case has been taken from us. Besides, I don’t believe your theory in the slightest. It’s too twisted.’

‘Twisted?’

‘Yes, for God’s sake, and I’m not talking about a pretzel. If Johan had done it, he’d have fallen apart a hundred years ago.’

‘Not if he’s screwed up in the head.’ He tapped the bald patch on his crown.

‘Someone who’s screwed up in the head doesn’t give leads like the Trivial Pursuit cards. He throws the murder weapon right in your face and looks the other way. Anyway, didn’t you hear what I said? We’ve been taken off the case.’

Assad glanced indifferently at the flat-screen TV on the wall, where the news was reporting on an assault on Store Kannikestræde. ‘No, I didn’t hear that. I don’t want to hear that. Who took us off the case, did you say?’

They could smell Rose heading their way before they saw her. She was suddenly standing there, arms full of office supplies and bakery bags patterned with Christmas elves. In every sense of the word, she was early.

‘Knock-knock!’ she said, rapping her forehead twice on the door frame. ‘Here comes the cavalry, tah-dahhhh! Scrumptious pastries for everyone.’

Carl and Assad stared at one another. One with a pained expression on his face, the other with Christmas lights in his eyes.

‘Hi, Rose, and welcome to Department Q. I’ve made everything ready for you, you bet,’ said the little traitor.

As Assad pulled her towards the neighbouring room, she gave Carl a telling glance that said, You can’t get rid of me. But it damned well took two to tango. As if he could be bought for the price of a pastry and a biscuit.

He glanced at the plastic bags in the corner and then pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer.

Then he wrote:

Suspects:

Bjarne Thøgersen?

One or more of the others in the boarding-school gang?

Johan Jacobsen?

Random murder?

Someone connected to the boarding-school gang?

He frowned in frustration at this meagre result. If Marcus had left him in peace, he probably would have simply shredded the paper himself. But Marcus hadn’t. He’d given Carl a direct order to let the case go; therefore he was unable to.

When Carl was a boy, his father had been on to him. He gave Carl explicit orders not to plough the meadow, so Carl ploughed it. He admonished Carl not to join the military, and Carl enlisted. His crafty father had even tried to steer him towards the lasses. This farmer’s daughter and that farmer’s daughter weren’t good enough, he said, so Carl went after them. That was Carl’s way, and always had been. No one was going to make his decisions for him, which actually made him easy to manipulate. He knew this, of course. The question was whether or not the police chief also knew it. It was hard to imagine.

But what the hell was this really about? How did the police chief even know he was involved with the case? Only a handful of people were aware of this.

He imagined the possibilities: Marcus Jacobsen, Lars Bjørn, Assad, the team in Holbæk, Valdemar Florin, the man from the summer cottages, the victims’ mother …

For a moment he stared off into space. Yes, these people knew, and a bunch of others knew, too, if he really thought hard.

At this point anyone else might have applied the brakes. When names like Florin, Dybbøl Jensen and Pram became associated with a murder investigation, you could quickly find yourself on thin ice.

He shook his head. He really couldn’t give a shit about people’s titles and what favours the police chief owed whom. Now that they’d started, no one was going to stop them.

He looked up. New sounds were emanating from Rose’s office across the corridor. That guttural, peculiar laughter of hers – booming outbursts of it – plus Assad at full throttle. If they kept at it, someone might suspect there was a rave going on.

He knocked a fag from its packet, lit it and stared at the cloud of smoke that enveloped the sheet of paper. Then he wrote:

Tasks:

Similar murders abroad at the same time? Sweden? Germany?

Who from the old investigation unit is still active today?

Bjarne Thøgersen/Vridløselille State Prison.

Accident with the boarding-school pupil at Bellahøj Swimming Centre. Coincidence?

Who from the boarding-school gang can we speak with?

Lawyer Bent Krum!

Torsten Florin, Ditlev Pram and Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen: any current cases? Did anyone working for them report them? Psychological profiles?

Find out about Kimmie, alias Kirsten-Marie Lassen: any next of kin we can speak with?

Circumstances of Kristian Wolf’s death!

He tapped the paper repeatedly with his pencil, before jotting down:

Hardy.

Get Rose the hell out of here.

Thoroughly shag Mona Ibsen.

He glanced at the last line a few times and felt like a naughty, pubescent boy scratching girls’ names into the surface of his desk. If only she knew how heavy his balls got whenever he fantasized about her backside and bouncing breasts. He took a couple of deep breaths, plucked an eraser from his drawer and began removing the last two lines.

‘Carl Mørck, am I disturbing you?’ said a voice at the door, which made his blood boil and turn to ice at the same time. His spinal cord sent five commands through his infrastructure: get rid of the eraser, cover the last line, put away the cigarette, drop the stupid facial expression, close your mouth!

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said, as his bulging eyes tried to look directly into hers.

They were still brown. Mona Ibsen was back, and he was scared to death.

‘What did Mona want?’ Rose asked with a silly smile. As if it were any of her concern.

She stood in the doorway, steadily chewing on her custard-filled pastry as Carl attempted to return to reality.

‘What was it she wanted, Carl?’ asked Assad, his mouth full. Never before had Carl seen so little custard coating so much stubble.

‘I’ll tell you later.’ He turned towards Rose, hoping she wouldn’t notice his glowing cheeks, which his hammering heart had bombarded with blood. ‘Have you made yourself comfortable in your new digs?’

‘Oh my! You care? Thank you. I suppose if a person hates sunlight and colours on the wall and having friendly people around, then you’ve found the most perfect place for me.’ She elbowed Assad. ‘I’m only joking, Assad. You’re OK.’

Oh joy. This was going to be such a lovely partnership.

Carl rose and laboriously scribbled the list of suspects and tasks on the whiteboard.

Then he turned towards their newly installed wonder of a secretary. If she thought she already had enough on her plate, she had another thought coming. He’d make her work so hard that a job as cardboard-box presser at the margarine factory would seem like paradise.

‘The case we’re working on is a little tricky because of who might be involved,’ he said, glancing at the pastry she was nibbling with her front teeth, like a squirrel. ‘Assad will brief you in a moment. Then I’d like you to put the papers in these plastic bags in chronological order and match them with the papers here on the desk. Then make a copy of the whole shebang for you and Assad – except for the folder here. That’ll have to wait until later.’ He pushed Johan Jacobsen and Martha Jørgensen’s grey folder to one side. ‘And when you’re done with that, find out everything you can about this item here.’ He pointed to the line on the whiteboard concerning the diving-board accident at the swimming centre. ‘We’re a little busy, so go ahead and make it snappy. You’ll find the date of the accident on the summary page that’s on top in the red plastic bag. The summer of 1987, before the Rørvig murders. Sometime in June.’

Maybe he’d expected her to grunt a bit. Just a tart little remark that would win her a couple more tasks, but she was surprisingly dispassionate. Unmoved, she merely glanced nonchalantly at the hand that held the remainder of her pastry, then shoved it sideways into a mouth that seemed as though it could swallow anything.

He turned to Assad. ‘How would you like to take a break from the basement for a few days?’

‘Does it have something to do with Hardy?’

‘No. I want you to find Kimmie. We need to begin forming our own picture of this gang. I’ll start on the others.’

Assad appeared to be trying to imagine the bigger picture. Himself, hunting for a bag lady on the streets of Copenhagen, while Carl sat, nice and cosy, indoors with the wealthy folks, tossing down coffee and cognac. That was how Carl saw it, at any rate.

‘I don’t understand, Carl,’ he said. ‘Are we continuing with this investigation? Were we not just told to stay away from it?’

Carl furrowed his brows. Maybe Assad should have kept his trap shut. Who knew if Rose was loyal? Why was she down here anyway? He sure as hell hadn’t asked for her.

‘Well, yes, now that Assad has mentioned it, the police chief has given us a red light on the case. Do you have a problem with that?’ he asked Rose.

She shrugged. ‘It’s OK with me. But it means you’re the one who buys pastries next time,’ she said, lifting the plastic bags.

After Assad had received his instructions, he slunk off. Twice a day he was to phone Carl’s mobile to report his findings regarding Kimmie. He had been given a to-do list that among other things included checking the Civil Registration System, talking to cops on the beat at City Station, Social Services at City Hall, staff at the Red Cross shelter on Hillerødgade and a number of other locations. Quite the assignment for a man who was still wet behind the ears, especially when all they knew so far about Kimmie’s whereabouts came from Valdemar Florin. According to him, she walked the streets of downtown Copenhagen with a suitcase, and had done so for years. Even if you could trust what the man said, this wasn’t terribly specific. It was probably rather doubtful she was even alive, considering the gang’s reputation.

Carl opened the pale green folder and wrote down Kirsten-Marie Lassen’s Civil Registration Number. Then he went into the corridor where Rose was already running reams of paper through the copier in unusually irritating and energetic fashion.

‘We need some tables out here so I can sort the sheets,’ she said, without looking up.

‘Is that so? Do you have a certain make in mind?’ he said, smiling crookedly as he handed her the Civil Registration Number. ‘I need all her personal data. Last place of residence, any hospitalizations, welfare payments, education, parents’ residence if they’re still alive. Hold off on the copying for a bit. I need this quickly. And all of it, thanks.’

She rose to her full, stiletto-heel height. Her direct gaze at his larynx didn’t feel pleasant. ‘You’ll have the order list for the tables in ten minutes,’ she said drily. ‘I’d go with the Malling-Beck catalogue. They have height-adjustable ones priced between five and six thousand apiece.’

He swept items into his grocery cart half consciously, with visions of Mona Ibsen swirling in his head. She hadn’t worn her wedding ring, which was the first thing he’d noticed. That and how dry his throat got when she looked at him. Another sign that it was getting to be a long time since he’d last been with a woman.

Bloody hell.

He glanced round, trying to orient himself since the Kvickly supermarket’s enormous expansion, just like everyone else who was wandering about, searching for toilet paper where there were now cosmetics. This kind of thing could make a person crazy.

At the end of the pedestrian shopping street, the razing of the old dry-goods shop was nearly complete. Allerød was no longer a quaint little town with small, independently owned shops, and Carl almost didn’t give a toss any more. If he couldn’t have Mona Ibsen, then for all he cared they could level the church, too, and build yet another supermarket.

‘What the hell did you buy us, Carl?’ asked his tenant, Morten Holland, as he unpacked the groceries. He’d had a difficult day, too, he said. Two hours of political science at the university followed by three hours at the video-rental store. Yes, these were indeed hard times, Carl could plainly see.