The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Er, I don’t know, really. Maybe. Certainly aggravating circumstances if the women hadn’t given their consent.”

  “OK, but we’re still dealing with a man who has rigidly differentiated between so-called inferior types and worthy citizens. A very able physician when decent people came to him seeking help to have children, and the exact opposite when the Untermenschen came after getting knocked up.”

  “What happened then?” Carl had his own inklings from what Mie Nørvig had alluded to. Maybe they were about to be substantiated.

  “Well, like I said, he’s never been convicted of anything, but the health authorities have been on to his practice more than once, investigating claims of him performing abortions without the consent or sometimes even knowledge of the women involved.”

  Carl sensed Assad shifting in his seat. He wondered if he’d ever had anyone call him an inferior human being.

  “OK, thanks, Rose. We’ll talk about this when we get back.”

  “Wait a sec, Carl. One more thing. One of the Purity Party’s supporters, a Hans Christian Dyrmand from Sønderborg, just committed suicide. That’s how I got in touch with this Søren Brandt, the journalist. He wrote on his blog that there could well be a link between what Curt Wad had been up to in the past and what Dyrmand did to himself.”

  “A bastard, this man,” Assad exclaimed suddenly. Strong words indeed, coming from him.

  • • •

  They found the house in Halsskov as empty as they had left it that morning. Assad reached into his pocket and was already on his way round the back when Carl stopped him.

  “Hang on a minute, Assad. Get back in the car,” he said, then steered toward the bungalow on the other side of the quiet residential street.

  He flashed his badge and the neighbor standing in front of her house stared at it aghast. It worked like that sometimes, if people didn’t spit on it.

  “No, I’ve no idea at all where Herbert and Mie might be,” she said right away when he asked.

  “Do you happen to know them personally?”

  She thawed slightly. “Yes, we’re good friends, we get along very well together. Bridge once every two weeks, that sort of thing.”

  “And you’ve no idea where they might be now? Holiday home, visiting the children, weekend cabin by the sea?”

  “No, none whatsoever. They do go on holiday once in a while, of course. Me and my husband water the plants for them if their daughter’s not staying. Mutual favors, you know. We’ve got plants that need tending, too, when we’re away.”

  “The place is shuttered. That’d mean they’d be away for more than a couple of days, I suppose?”

  She scratched her neck. “Well, yes, we’ve been worried about that. You don’t think there’s anything untoward going on, do you?”

  He shook his head and thanked her for her help. The woman would be beside herself with curiosity now and would certainly be keeping an eye on what they were doing on the other side of the road.

  He went back to the car, only to find that Assad wasn’t there. Moments later, he noted that the living-room shutters at the back of the house were open and the window behind them ajar. Not a mark or a scratch. Obviously, Assad had done this sort of thing before. More than once.

  “Go to the door in the basement, Carl,” his assistant instructed from within.

  • • •

  Thankfully, the filing cabinets were still there, which meant maybe the disappearance of those who lived there hadn’t anything to do with their visit the day before.

  “Hermansen, that’s the first name we need to check,” Carl said to Assad.

  It took twenty seconds before Assad stood with a suspension file in his hand.

  “Under H, where else? But the Hermansen here is not Tage Hermansen.”

  He handed the file to Carl. CURT WAD VS. NETE HERMANSEN, it read on the front, and inside were the proceedings of the court case from 1955, listed in chronological order. The documents bore the stamp of the district court as well as Philip Nørvig’s company logo.

  A quick scan of the contents revealed such wordings as “charge of rape” and “claim re. having paid for termination of pregnancy,” all of which inclined toward the burden of proof lying solely on this Nete Hermansen. The case had been concluded with Wad being acquitted, so much was apparent from the records, but what subsequently happened to Nete Hermansen remained a mystery.

  Carl’s mobile chimed.

  “It’s not a good time right now, Rose,” he said.

  “I think it is, Carl. Listen to this: Nete Hermansen was one of the girls from Sprogø. She was kept there from 1955 to 1959. What do you say about that?”

  “I say it doesn’t surprise me,” he replied, weighing the file in his hand.

  It was as light as a feather.

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later they were finished chucking folders into the car.

  As they were closing the boot, a green van came up the hill toward them. It wasn’t so much the van itself that caught Carl’s attention, more the way it suddenly slowed down.

  He straightened up and fixed his gaze on it. The driver seemed to hesitate, unsure as to whether to pull up or pull away.

  What he did was glance toward the house as he drove past. Maybe he was searching for a number, but in a neat residential area like this the house numbers were all clearly visible, so what was the problem?

  The driver turned his head away as he drove by. Carl saw only a glimpse of white, wavy hair.

  27

  September 1987

  He felt like a king, watching Sjælland roll by through the windows of the train. It was a journey to paradise, he thought to himself, and gave a boy in the compartment a coin.

  A regal day, a coronation. The day his wildest dreams would come true.

  He imagined Nete adjusting her hair and demurely inviting him in. He could feel the deed of transfer in his hand already. The instrument that would transfer to him ten million kroner, to the unequivocal satisfaction of the tax authorities and his own eternal joy.

  But when eventually he found himself standing at Copenhagen’s Central Station, realizing he had less than half an hour to find Nete’s address, he was overcome by sudden anxiety.

  He tore open the door of a taxi and asked the driver how much it would cost. And when he found the suggested tariff to be more than a couple of kroner on the wrong side of what his means allowed, he asked to be taken as far as possible for what he had in his pockets. He dumped his coins in the driver’s hand, to be driven seven hundred meters and put down on Vesterbros Torv, with directions that would lead him through Teaterpassagen and along the City Lakes. He needed to get a move on.

  Tage wasn’t used to walking. The bag across his shoulder slapped heavily against his hip as perspiration seeped through his new clothes, darkening his jacket at the armpits.

  You’re going to be late, you’re going to be late, he told himself, the words pounding inside him for every hastening step along the path, joggers of all ages briskly passing him by.

  Every cigarette he’d ever smoked wheezed in his lungs, every bottle of beer, every shot of whisky strained on the muscles of his legs.

  He unbuttoned his jacket and prayed to God that he would get there on time, and when eventually he arrived it was 12:35. Five minutes late.

  For that reason tears of gratitude welled in his eyes when Nete let him in and he handed her the invitation as the letter had instructed.

  He felt pitiful in such a fine abode, standing there in front of his life’s best companion, now a grown woman bidding him welcome with open arms. He could have cried when she asked him if he was well and whether he’d like a cup of tea, offering him another a few minutes later.

  And he would have had so much to say to her, if he hadn’t suddenly felt so dreadfully unwell. He would have told her he had
always loved her. That the shame of having abandoned her had almost destroyed him. He would have got down on his knees and begged her forgiveness, if only nausea had not surged so violently inside him that he unwittingly began to disgorge bile all down his nice new jacket.

  She asked if he was ill, and whether he would like a glass of water or some more tea.

  “It’s hot in here,” he groaned, struggling to draw in breath, only to find his lungs would not obey. And while she was out fetching him water, he clutched at his heart and realized he was about to die.

  • • •

  Nete considered the figure slumped on the chair in front of her in such an awful suit. There was a lot more of him than she had imagined. The weight of his upper body alone almost brought her to her knees as she tipped him toward her in order to get a grip under his arms.

  “Oh, Lord,” she groaned, glancing at the swinging pendulum of the grandfather clock. This was going to take too long.

  She released the body, allowing it to fall forward. There was an unpleasant thud as Tage’s nose and forehead struck the floor. She only hoped her downstairs neighbor would not be alarmed.

  Then she got down on all fours and manhandled Tage’s body onto its side in the middle of her Bokhara rug, using all her strength to drag it over to the door leading into the hallway, where she paused despairingly. Why hadn’t she thought about this before? Coir matting ran the length of the corridor. She’d never be able to drag the body over it, even on the rug. There’d be too much friction.

  She heaved the corpse with all her might, bundling it around the door before reluctantly abandoning her plan.

  She chewed on her lip. Rita had been trouble enough, albeit nowhere near as heavy. Her body had seemed almost jointless, as though limbs extended from between her every rib. Time and again, she’d been forced to stop to lay the woman’s arms across her stomach, and eventually she’d had to tie them together to finish the task.

  She looked at Tage with disgust. What a difference between the boy with whom she had cavorted and this bloated, sweaty face, these flabby arms.

  She shoved him into a sitting position, his head and torso flopping forward like a fat acrobat about to perform a tumbling routine. It gained her perhaps half a meter.

  She looked down the hallway. At this rate it would take at least ten minutes to get him into the sealed room, but she couldn’t stop now.

  She pressed his head to the floor, rolling him forward over his shoulder and repeating the procedure in a series of slow-motion somersaults, finding that all that was required was the strength to ensure the continued momentum.

  But now she flagged. Her bad leg, her hip, and her spine throbbed with pain, her whole nervous system in a state of alarm.

  When finally she bundled him into the room, to the dining table, and the seven chairs, she gave up on seating him next to Rita’s corpse, which she had positioned before its place card, head resting on its shoulder, torso secured to the back of the chair with twine.

  She looked down at Tage, who lay with eyes open wide, fingers hooked and clutching. This was deplorable. She would have to get him into place before the day was done.

  Then something caught her attention. The breast pocket of Tage’s revolting shiny suit was torn, with a small strip of cloth missing. Surely it hadn’t been like that all the time? She needed to be certain.

  It was now twenty to two. Viggo would be arriving in five minutes.

  She closed the door of the room and scanned the hallway without seeing the scrap of material anywhere. Perhaps it really had been missing all along. Perhaps she just hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Tage’s face for a second once he’d sat down in the chair.

  She took a deep breath and went out to the bathroom to tidy herself up. She considered her perspiring face in the mirror with satisfaction. She was doing well, in spite of all the hurdles. The henbane extract worked like it was supposed to and everything was going according to plan. Of course, it would be only natural if she felt a reaction that evening when it was all over. Perhaps she might suddenly look upon these people in a new light. Perhaps, though she would do her utmost to avoid it, she would even ponder on the thought that they, too, had once lived in the midst of family and friends who had loved them and wished them only the best in life.

  But this was something she couldn’t afford to think about now.

  She adjusted her hair and thought of those still to arrive. Was Viggo now as corpulent as Tage had become? If he was, then it was imperative he arrive on time. She didn’t dare contemplate the consequences if he didn’t.

  It was at that moment she thought of Curt Wad’s towering frame and what it might weigh. And then she noticed Rita’s coat still hanging on the hook in the hallway.

  She grabbed it and tossed it onto the bed where Rita’s handbag lay. Her cigarettes fell out of the pocket.

  She stared at them for a moment.

  Damned things, she thought to herself. How costly Rita’s filthy habit had been.

  28

  November 2010

  “Just to let you know, the maintenance supervisor says you gents aren’t allowed to use the men’s room in the corridor until Wednesday, when he’s got time to come and fix it,” Rose informed them, hands on hips. “Someone used so much paper yesterday, they blocked it up. Which one of you was it?”

  She turned from Assad and glared at Carl, eyebrows raised to the vicinity of her jet-black hairline.

  Carl threw up his hands in self-defense. In international body language it translated as “How should I know?” In his own personal lingo it meant “What fucking business is it of yours?” He wasn’t about to share his toilet habits and gastric maladies with an underling of the opposite sex. No way.

  “So when you use the ladies,” make sure you either sit down when you’re having a pee, or else lift the seat and put it down again when you’re finished. You with me?”

  Carl frowned. This was getting a bit personal for his liking.

  “Check everything we’ve got on Nete Hermansen and put it down for me in a list. But first you can give me the number of this journalist of yours, Søren Brandt,” was his riposte. If she wanted to wind him up, she could do it any other time but on a weekend. There was a fucking limit, surely.

  “I have actually just spoken to this Brandt, Carl,” Assad said, putting a steaming cup of sickly smelling, caramel-like substance to his lips.

  Carl looked at him askew. Amazing.

  “You just spoke to him?” He frowned again. “You didn’t tell him we’d nicked all those files, did you?”

  Now it was Assad’s turn to put his hands on his hips. “Do you think a camel dips its toes in the lake from which it drinks?”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  Assad sagged visibly. “Perhaps only slightly. I told him we had something on Curt Wad.”

  “And what else?”

  “A little bit about this Lønberg from the Purity Party.”

  “What have we got on him?”

  “It was filed under L. Nørvig, who conducted some cases for him.”

  “OK, we’ll get back to that. What did Søren Brandt have to say?”

  “He said he had heard about The Cause. He had actually spoken to Nørvig’s first wife and she told him nurses and doctors had for years referred pregnant women with unsuitable backgrounds for gynecological examination by members of the organization. The women did not know what was happening, and very often it ended in abortion. Søren Brandt has information and is willing to exchange it for copies of what we have ourselves.”

  “Christ Almighty, Assad! Do you realize what you’re playing at? We’ll be out of here on our arses if it gets out we’ve been burgling for evidence! Give me his number.”

  Carl dialed with trepidation.

  “Yeah, I just spoke to your colleague,” Søren Brandt said, after intro
ductions. He sounded young and keen. They were always the worst.

  “I believe you and Assad discussed some kind of trade-off.”

  “We did, and I’d be grateful indeed. I’m still looking for links between members of the Purity Party and The Cause. Imagine if we can put a clamp on these lunatics before they gain real influence.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid Assad has promised more than he can deliver. We’ll be passing our material on to a state prosecutor.”

  The journalist snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do, but I can understand you wanting to look after number one. It’s not as if jobs hang on trees these days, is it? You can breathe easy, though. Wild horses wouldn’t make me give you away.”

  It was almost like listening to himself.

  “Listen, Mørck. Wad’s people are militants. They kill unborn children without batting an eyelid. They’ve got a system, fine-tuned, to cover up all traces. Millions of kroner from funds and foundations. Gorillas on the payroll, the kind of people you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. Do you think I’m living at my registered address these days? No way. I look out for myself, because these guys will stop at nothing if anyone casts aspersions on their depraved view of humanity and the politics they pursue, believe me. Look at that doctor, Hans Christian Dyrmand. He didn’t OD on sedatives voluntarily, if you ask me. So I keep my mouth shut, you understand?”

  “Until you go public, is that it?”

  “Until then, yeah. And I’m prepared to go to prison to protect my sources, don’t you doubt it for a minute. As long as I bring down Wad and that lowlife mob of his.”

  “OK. In that case, let me tell you we’re investigating a series of disappearances that look like they’re linked to women from that home that used to be on Sprogø. Would it be reasonable to assume that Curt Wad might have been involved somewhere along the line? Goes back fifty years, but maybe you know something anyway?”