The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Svenne, Curt Wad here,” he said. “I need some information on a Nete Rosen, I’ve got the civil registration number here. I believe she’s receiving hospital treatment and I need to have that confirmed. In Copenhagen, I assume. How long before you can let me know? All right, if you can get back to me today I’d be most grateful. You’ll try? Excellent, thank you so much!”

  When he’d finished he leaned back in his chair and read through the letter one more time. It was astonishingly well written, devoid of spelling mistakes and errors of grammar. Even the punctuation was impeccable, so there was no doubt that someone must have helped her. A slow-witted dyslexic like her with no schooling to speak of. As if she could fool him.

  He smiled wryly. The most immediate assumption was that the lawyer had helped her with it. Hadn’t it said something about a lawyer taking part in the meeting if Curt decided to accept her invitation?

  He laughed out loud. Did she really imagine he would come?

  “What are you laughing about all on your own, Curt?”

  He turned to face his wife and shook his head dismissively.

  “I’m in a good mood, that’s all,” he replied, putting his arms around her waist as she came to him at the desk.

  “You deserve it, my dear. You’ve done such splendid work.”

  Curt Wad nodded. He was rather pleased with himself, too.

  • • •

  When eventually his father retired, Curt took on his practice, patients, medical records from a lifetime’s work, and various files pertaining to the Anti-Debauchery Committee and the Community of Danes. Important documents to Curt and poison in the wrong hands, though not nearly as toxic as the work he was asked to carry on: the work of The Cause.

  This involved not only seeking out pregnant women whose unborn children were deemed undeserving of life, but also meticulous recruitment efforts to secure a continued influx of qualified individuals. People who would rather die than reveal what this clandestine organization stood for.

  For some years Curt’s surgery on Fyn worked well as the hub of The Cause’s activities. But with an ever-increasing number of the organization’s abortions being carried out in the capital region he eventually decided to break with the past and move to Brøndby, an uninspiring suburb to the west of the city, and yet an epicenter with respect to his work. Here the major hospitals were near at hand, there was easy access to the most skilled general practitioners and specialists with considerable practices, and not least of all, the location was in close proximity to the clientele that were the organization’s primary focus.

  Here in this concrete hinterland he met his wife, Beate, in the mid-1960s. A marvelous woman, a nurse with good genes, a sense of nation, and a winning mentality from which Curt derived much advantage in the years that followed.

  Even before they were married he initiated her into his work and the benefits of devoting oneself to the organization and its aims. He had anticipated a certain reluctance or at best trepidation, yet she had shown both understanding and initiative. In fact, she soon proved invaluable in establishing bonds among nurses and midwives. Within a year she had brought into the fold more than twenty-five scouts, as she called them, and from there things took off. She it was who coined the name Purity Party, proposing that the political aspect of The Cause be intensified parallel to its day-to-day practical work.

  She was the ideal woman and mother.

  • • •

  “Have a look at this, Beate.” He handed her Nete’s letter, giving her time to read it through. She smiled as she did so. The same winsome smile she had passed on to their two magnificent sons.

  “Well, I must say. How will you answer her, Curt?” she asked. “Do you think she means it? Does she really have that kind of money?”

  He nodded. “There’s no doubt she does. But she’s up to something more than simply lining our pockets, of that we can be certain.”

  He stood up, drawing back a curtain that hung in front of the wall behind him, thereby revealing five large filing cabinets in olive-green metal that he’d been guarding for years. In a month’s time the fireproof strong room in the old stables that now served as storage space would be finished and everything would be moved out there. No one outside the inner circle would have access.

  “I remember the number even now,” he chuckled, pulling out a drawer from the second cabinet.

  “Here,” he said, and tossed a gray suspension file onto the desk in front of her.

  It had been a long time since it had seen the light of day. There had been no reason until now. But on seeing the file he nonetheless tipped his head back slightly and for a brief moment allowed his gaze to drift out of focus.

  The sixty-three files before it, containing the medical records of as many individuals, had been his and his father’s in tandem, but this one was his and his alone. His first solo accomplishment for The Cause.

  FILE NO. 64 it read on the front.

  “Born 18 May 1937. That makes her just a week older than me,” said his wife.

  He laughed. “The difference is that you’re fifty and look like you’re thirty-five, whereas she almost certainly looks more like she’s sixty-five.”

  “I see she was sent away to Sprogø. How on earth can a person like that express herself so well?”

  “I imagine she had help.”

  He drew his wife toward him and gave her hand a squeeze. What he’d said wasn’t entirely true. Beate and Nete resembled each other a great deal. Both were just the type he preferred. Blonde, blue-eyed, and Nordic, with all the curves. Women with smooth skin and lips that could take a man’s breath away.

  “What makes you think she’s up to something? According to your file on her she was given a D and C in 1955. Nothing out of the ordinary in a woman having her womb scraped, surely?”

  “Nete Hermansen has always been a woman of split personality, exhibiting a strong tendency to take on different personas as she sees fit. The result of a feeble mind, not to mention psychopathic tendencies and utterly warped self-perception. I can deal with her, of course, but I shall be taking precautions.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve put out an inquiry through the organization. Soon we’ll know if she really is as ill as she’d like us to believe from her letter.”

  • • •

  Curt Wad received an answer to his inquiry the next morning. It was an answer that confirmed his suspicions.

  No person with that civil registration number had received treatment in any public hospital since Nete’s road accident in which her husband lost his life in November 1985, nor did such a person figure in the records of any private clinic. Since her hospitalization at Nykøbing Falster General and a couple of biannual check-ups both there and later at Copenhagen’s Rigshospital, nothing else was to be found.

  What the devil was she up to? Why was she lying about being ill? Plainly she was trying to lure him into a trap with kind words and plausible explanations as to the reason for her sudden approach. But what did she intend to do if he didn’t turn up? Was he to be punished? Or was she simply trying to find a chink in his armor? Did she really not think he knew how to protect himself? Did she think she could catch him off guard with a tape recorder, spilling secrets and making admissions?

  He laughed.

  The silly little cow. What on earth could make her believe he would rise to the bait, that she could expose what he had done to her all those years before? Especially after Nørvig, the lawyer, had refuted her claims once and for all.

  Again he laughed at the thought. In less than ten minutes he could muster a crew of strapping young men brimming with national pride who were used to applying the thumbscrews when necessary. If he accepted the invitation and turned up at Nete Hermansen’s home on Friday with such supporters at his side, she’d soon find out who was going to be punished and who was in for a surprise.

&n
bsp; The prospect was tempting indeed, but on that particular day he was scheduled to take part in the inaugural meeting of a new branch of the organization in Hadsten, so entertainment would have to yield to more important matters.

  He shoved her letter across the desktop into the wastepaper basket, resolving that next time she tried a similar stunt he would teach her a lesson once and for all about who ruled whom and exactly what that involved.

  He went into the consulting room and took his time putting on his doctor’s coat, smoothing out the creases and making sure it was just right. After all, this was his uniform. In it he exuded the greatest authority and professional expertise.

  Then he sat down at the glass-topped desk, pulled his appointment diary toward him, and glanced through it. Today was not going to be busy. A referral for abortion, three fertility consultations, another referral, and then the day’s only case from The Cause.

  His first patient was a presentable, rather subdued young woman. According to her GP she was a healthy, well-bred student seeking abortion on account of her boyfriend’s desertion, which in turn had sparked off a bout of depression.

  “And you’re Sofie, is that right?” he asked with a smile.

  Her lips tightened. She was already on the verge of tears.

  Curt Wad studied her for a moment without speaking. The girl had clear blue eyes. A noble brow. Neat, symmetrical eyebrows and ears positioned nicely, close against the skull. She was well proportioned and in good shape, her hands fine and slender.

  “I understand your boyfriend left you. That’s very sad, Sofie. You were fond of him, I take it.”

  She nodded silently.

  “He was a decent chap, and good-looking, am I right?”

  She nodded again.

  “And yet everything would seem to indicate that he was rather silly, wouldn’t you say? Choosing the easy way out and leaving you in the lurch?”

  She protested, just as he thought she would.

  “He’s not silly at all. He goes to the university, like I was going to.”

  Curt Wad fixed his eyes on her. “You’re not happy about this, are you, Sofie?”

  She stared at the floor and shook her head. Now she was crying.

  “At present you’re working in your parents’ shoe shop. Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s all right, but it’s only for the time being. Like I said, I’m planning to go to university at some point.”

  “What do your parents think about you wanting to have an abortion, Sofie?”

  “They keep it to themselves. They say it’s my decision. They don’t interfere. At least not in a negative way.”

  “And you’re quite sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  He went over and sat down on the chair next to her and took her hand in his. “Listen, Sofie. You’re a healthy young woman, and the child you want to have removed is completely at the mercy of your decision. I know you would be able to give this child the most wonderful life, if you changed your mind. Would you like me to call your parents and have a word with them, see how they feel about the matter? It sounds to me like you have very good parents indeed, not the sort who would force you into doing something you didn’t want. Don’t you think we should hear what they have to say? What do you think?”

  She raised her head and looked at him, as though he had pressed a button. Reluctant, on her guard, and very much in doubt.

  Curt Wad said nothing. He knew this was the moment to hold back.

  • • •

  “How’s your day been, Curt?” Beate asked as she filled his cup. Three o’clock tea, she called it. These moments together were the best thing about having the practice and their private residence in the same house.

  “Fine. Managed to talk a lovely young girl out of an abortion this morning. She broke down in tears when I assured her that her parents would give her all the support they could. That she could have the baby and go on working in their shop to the best of her abilities. I told her they’d help look after the child and that it wouldn’t affect her going on to university.”

  “Well done.”

  “Yes, she was a fine girl. So very Nordic. She’ll have a lovely child, a credit to the country.”

  Beate smiled. “And what’s next? Something completely different, I shouldn’t wonder. Did Dr. Lønberg refer the patients out there in the waiting room?”

  “That obvious, is it?” He smiled. “Yes, he did. Lønberg’s still a good man for us. Fifteen cases in just four months. Your scouts are always so very efficient, my dear.”

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later the door of the consulting room opened as Curt sat reading the referral. He glanced up at the couple who entered and nodded a friendly greeting, comparing what he saw to what was written on the paper in his hand.

  The accompanying description was brief, though no less vivid on that account.

  Mother, Camilla Hansen, 38 yrs, 5 wks pregnant, it began. Six children by four different men. Welfare recipient. Five of children receiving remedial education, eldest currently institutionalized. Father of unborn child, Johnny Huurinainen, 25 yrs, welfare recipient, three times sentenced for offenses against property, drug abuser receiving methadone treatment. Neither parent educated beyond statutory minimum.

  Camilla Hansen presenting with pain during urination. Cause: chlamydia, patient not yet informed.

  Suggest surgical intervention.

  Curt nodded to himself. A good man indeed, this Lønberg.

  He raised his head and considered the dismal couple in front of him.

  Like an insect whose only purpose was to breed, the pregnant woman sat in the chair, overweight, fidgeting for want of a cigarette, hair greasy and unkempt, confident in the assumption that he would help her give birth to yet another utterly useless runt of the kind she had already given life to six times before. That he would allow new individuals of the same miserable genetic inheritance to populate the streets of the country’s capital. But he would not. Not if he could help it.

  He smiled at them, a gesture met only by vacant expressions and appallingly maintained teeth. Not even a decent smile could they muster. It was pathetic.

  “I understand you’re having trouble when you go to the toilet, Camilla. Let’s have a look, shall we? You can sit in the waiting room, Johnny. I’m sure my wife will bring you a nice cup of coffee if you want one.”

  “I’d rather have a Coke,” he said.

  Curt smiled. He could have his Coke. He could have five or six, and by the time he’d drunk them Camilla would be done. She would be tearful because the doctor had seen no option but to perform a D&C, but happily ignorant of the fact that it would be the last time she’d be needing one.

  17

  November 2010

  Once Carl had got over the shock of a coin with his fingerprints on it having been found in the festering remains of a corpse, he gave Laursen a friendly squeeze on the arm and asked to be tipped off if he happened to get wind of similar information. Anything that might be of interest. New forensic leads the department conceivably wanted Carl to remain in the dark about, or snippets of information people might inadvertently let slip. Whatever it was, Carl wanted to be kept in the know.

  “Where’s Marcus?” he asked Lis, down on the third floor.

  “Briefing a couple of the units,” was all she said. Was she avoiding his gaze, or was it his paranoia kicking in?

  Then she lifted her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Did you get that goose stuffed all right last night, Carl?” she asked, with a grin that would have been censored by the film board back in the fifties.

  Good sign. If all she was interested in was whether or not he got off, the rumor of the coin with his prints on it probably wasn’t the talk of the department yet.

  He barged into the briefing room, ignoring the t
hirty-odd eyes that latched onto him like leeches.

  “Sorry about this, Marcus,” he announced to the pale and weary man with the raised eyebrows, loudly enough to make sure everyone heard him. “But as I understand it there are certain matters we need to address before things get out of hand.”

  He turned to the assembled faces. A number of them were visibly marked by recent days of nasal discharge and sprinting to the lavatory, sunken-cheeked and bleary-eyed, and rather aggressive-looking.

  “There’s a rumor going round as to my involvement in the Amager shooting that puts me in a bad light. So I’m saying this now, and then I want no more of it, all right? I haven’t the faintest idea why coins with our prints on them—mine and Anker’s—happened to be in the pockets of that corpse out there. But if you put those fever-ridden brains of yours to use, you’ll realize it’s more than likely because you were intended to find them if and when the body turned up. Get the drift?”

  He looked around the assembly. It would be an exaggeration to say the response was overwhelming. “OK. We agree the body could just as well have been buried somewhere else, yeah? And whoever buried it could have just dumped it straight in the ground as it was. But they didn’t, did they? Which indicates they weren’t that bothered if we found it and dug it up again, because then the investigation would be focused on all the wrong things, wouldn’t it?”

  His audience remained nonplussed.

  “For Chrissake, I know you’ve all been wondering what the fuck happened out there and why I’ve kept well out of it since then.” He looked straight at Terje Ploug, who was seated in the third row. “But listen, Ploug, the reason I don’t want to be doing with that case is because I’m ashamed of what happened, OK? And if you only stopped to think, you’d realize that’s why Hardy’s laid out in my living room now. That’s my way of dealing with it, OK? I’m not leaving Hardy in the lurch this time, but I will concede I may have botched up that day in Amager.”

  A couple of investigators now shifted uneasily on their chairs. Maybe it was a sign that something was beginning to dawn. On the other hand, it could just be hemorrhoids. Bloody public servants, you could never tell.