The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Were these really the same uncompromising eyes, now lowered so humbly as she let him in? The same implacable voice, now thanking her?

  She asked if he would like some tea, and he accepted the offer gratefully, still struggling to lift his gaze from the floor and look her in the eye.

  She handed him the cup and watched as he drank it down. A momentary frown appeared on his brow.

  Perhaps he didn’t care for the taste, she thought to herself, but then he held out his cup and asked for more.

  “I’m afraid I’m in need of sustenance, Miss Hermansen. There are so many things I have to say to you.”

  Finally, he lifted his head and looked up at her. And words that should have remained unsaid began to pour from his lips. But the occasion for it had long since passed.

  “When I received your letter, Nete . . .” He paused. “I’m sorry, may I address you informally?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly. It hadn’t bothered him then, so why should it now? “When I received your letter, I found myself suddenly confronted by something that has been eating away at me for a very long time. Something I would like to make up for, if indeed that were possible. I have to confess that I have come to Copenhagen today with the intention of rescuing both my own life and that of my family. The money is not without significance, I must admit, but I have also come to apologize.” He cleared his throat and took another gulp of his tea.

  “In recent years I’ve often thought back upon the desperate girl who sought justice in the courts only to be committed to the asylum at Brejning. And I’ve wondered what could have possessed me to thwart the accusations you leveled against Curt Wad. I knew, of course, that what you were saying might be true. All that fabrication about how feeble-minded and dangerous you were was so obviously inapplicable to the girl who sat before me on the stand, fighting for her life.”

  He bowed his head for a moment. When he looked up again his pale skin seemed even more colorless than before.

  “I forced you from my mind when the case was over. And there you remained, banished from memory until the day I read about you in the magazines. About you having married Andreas Rosen. Such an intelligent, beautiful woman.” He nodded as if in acknowledgment. “I recognized your face immediately. It all came back to me, and I was ashamed.”

  He sipped his tea again and Nete glanced at the clock. Any moment now, the poison would kick in. Only she didn’t want it to, not just yet. If only time could stand still. This was her moment of redress. How could she allow him to go on drinking? He was repentant, it was so obvious.

  She looked away as he continued speaking. The evil she was perpetrating became even more evident when she looked into his trusting eyes. She had never imagined such feelings could be wakened inside her. Not for a second.

  “At the time, I’d been working for Curt Wad for a number of years. I was beguiled, I admit. I have to concede I’m not nearly as strong as him in nature.” He shook his head and put the cup to his lips again. “But when I saw you on the front of that magazine I resolved to reassess the deeds I had committed, and do you know what became clear to me?”

  He didn’t wait for her reply and failed to notice as she slowly turned to look at him once more, shaking her head.

  “I realized I’d been exploited and misled, and there were so many things that occurred in that period that I have since come to regret. It was hard for me to acknowledge my mistakes. I want you to know that. But looking back through my files I could see how Curt Wad tricked me time and again with his lies and distortions, his suppressions of the truth. I saw that he had taken advantage of me quite systematically.”

  He reached out his cup for more tea, prompting her to wonder for a moment if she might have forgotten to add the extract.

  She poured him some more, then noticed that he had now begun to perspire, his breathing growing heavy and labored. Seemingly, he wasn’t aware of it himself. He had too much on his mind.

  “Curt Wad’s mission in life was—and is—to ruin those he believes are unfit to share this country with him and other so-called normal, upstanding individuals. To my shame, I can now say that this has resulted in his personally having performed more than five hundred abortions on pregnant women, often without their knowledge and nearly always against their will, and I believe him to have willfully caused irreparable sterility by surgical means in just as many instances.” He looked at her as though he had wielded the scalpel himself.

  “Dear God, this is so dreadful. Nonetheless, I’m compelled to confess.” Nørvig’s words were accompanied by a sigh that had been years in the making. “Through his work with an organization calling itself The Cause, whose affairs I administered for some years, Wad established contact with scores of doctors who shared his convictions and determination. You can hardly begin to imagine the scope of it all.”

  Nete tried, and found little difficulty.

  Nørvig pressed his lips together, struggling now to hold back the tears that welled in his eyes.

  “I have aided in the killing of thousands of unborn children, Nete.” He emitted a single gasp, then went on in a trembling voice. “Destroying the lives of just as many innocent women. Grief and misery are what my life has spawned, Nete. That is what I have created.” His voice quavered so violently that he was forced to stop.

  He turned his eyes toward her, seeking forgiveness. It was so obvious, and Nete no longer knew what to say or do. Behind her calm exterior she was breaking down. Was what she was doing to this man truly just? Was it?

  For a moment she almost took his hand. To offer absolution and ease his burden as he drifted away into unconsciousness. But she couldn’t. Perhaps it was because she, too, felt shame. Perhaps her hand simply had a will of its own.

  “A couple of years ago I decided to come forward with what I knew. The pressure of it had become too great for me, but Curt Wad intervened and took away everything I had. My law practice, my honor, my self-respect. I had a business partner by the name of Herbert Sønderskov. Curt talked him into divulging information about me that would ruin me for good. I argued with them both and threatened to blow the whistle on The Cause. They tipped off the police anonymously, claiming I’d embezzled funds from my clients’ accounts. And though it wasn’t true, they made it look like it was. They had access to all the documents, they had the contacts, and not least the means to do as they found fit.”

  Nørvig lowered his head. His eyes began to flicker. “Herbert, that swine. He was always after my wife. He said to me that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut for good, they’d make sure I went to prison.” He shook his head. “I had a daughter who never would have coped with the humiliation. There was nothing I could do. Wad was dangerous, and he still is. Nete . . . Do you hear me? You must stay away from that man.”

  And then he slumped forward, still speaking, though his words were muddled. Something about Wad’s father, who thought he was God. About deluded, self-righteous, cynical human beings. Psycopaths.

  “My wife forgave me going bankrupt,” he said with sudden clarity of voice. “I thank God for showing”—he searched momentarily for the words, spluttering and trying to swallow—“for showing grace and allowing me to see you today, Nete. And I promise God to remain with Him from this day on. With your money, Nete, my family and I might . . .”

  And with that he fell to the floor, his elbow striking the armrest of the chair. For a moment he looked like he was going to be sick, his stomach convulsing, his eyes wide with bewilderment. And then he abruptly sat up.

  “Why are there so many people here all of a sudden, Nete?” He seemed afraid now.

  She tried to say something, but found no words to utter.

  “Why are they all looking at me?” Nørvig mumbled, his eyes seeking light from the window.

  He began to weep, reaching out his hands to probe the air.

  Nete wept with him.

  35


  November 2010

  Never had Assad and Rose resembled each other so strikingly. Dark, somber expressions and a total absence of anything even touching upon a smile.

  “Lunatics,” Rose exclaimed. “They should be lined up and forced to breathe in that gas of theirs until they lift off into the sky and vanish for good. How despicable can you get, trying to burn five people to death just to shut you up, Carl? I can’t stand that sort of thing, me.”

  “They have shut only exactly this much of your mouth now, Carl.” Assad formed a zero with his index finger and thumb. “Now we know we are on the right track. These swine have much dirt under their carpets, we know this now.” He thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. It would have hurt like hell if anyone had got in the way.

  “We will get them for this, Carl,” he went on. “We shall work day and night, and then we will close this bloody Purity Party down and stop The Cause and everything else Curt Wad is involved in.”

  “Cheers, Assad. But I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy, and definitely not without danger. I reckon it’s a good idea for you two to stay put and carry on here for the next couple of days.” He smiled. “I suppose you were going to anyway.”

  “At least we were lucky I was here on Saturday night,” Assad added. “There was someone snooping around. He was in a police uniform, but when I came out of my office I gave him a fright.”

  Who wouldn’t have got a fright being confronted with Assad’s bleary eyes at that time of night? Carl mused. “What was he after?” he asked. “And where was he from? Did you find out?”

  “He told me rubbish, Carl. Something about the key to the archive room and a lot of nonsense. He was looking for something of ours, I’m sure of it. He was on his way into your office, Carl.”

  “Looks like we’re dealing with a pretty extensive organization,” said Carl. He turned to Rose. “What have you done with Nørvig’s files, Rose?”

  “They’re in the gents’ room. Which reminds me. If you do have to stand up for a widdle in the ladies’, remember to put the sodding seat down again when you’re finished, all right?”

  “What for?” said Assad. So he was the culprit.

  “If you knew how many times I’ve had this discussion, Assad, you’d rather be sitting twiddling your thumbs at scout camp on Langeland right now, I can assure you.”

  It was plain from Assad’s expression that he had no idea what she meant. Neither did Carl, for that matter.

  “OK, then listen up. You forget to put the seat down after you’ve had a wee, right?” She raised a finger in the air. “One. All toilet seats are yucky underneath with one thing or another. Sometimes yucky isn’t quite the word. Two. When women need to go and the seat’s up, their fingers are in contact with it before they sit down. Three. Touching the seat means we’ve got all sorts of nasty germs on our fingers when we wipe ourselves, which isn’t hygienic at all. But maybe you’ve never heard of urinary infections? Four. Why should we have to wash our hands twice, just because you couldn’t be arsed to do something simple like putting the seat down? Is that reasonable? No, it’s not!” She planted her fists on her hips. “If you lot learned to put the seat down after your widdle, we wouldn’t catch germs and neither would you, because you’d be washing your hands afterward anyway. At least, I bloody well hope you would.”

  Assad stood for a moment in contemplation. “Do you think it would be better for me to lift the seat before I widdle? Because then I will have germs and must wash my hands even before I begin.”

  Rose raised her digit again. “First of all, that’s exactly why you men should sit down when you’re having a wee. Second, if you think yourselves too masculine to sit down, just remember that men with normal colons have to sit down once in a while anyway to do their jobs, in which case you have to put the seat down. Assuming, that is, you don’t do your number twos standing up as well.”

  “But we don’t need to put the seat down if a lady has been there before us, because then it will be down already,” Assad rejoined. “And do you know what, Rose? I think now I will find my nice, green rubber gloves and fix the gentleman’s toilet with these two fine helpers of mine.” He stuck his hands in the air. “They will take hold of toilet seats and reach into U-bends. Fortunately, some of us do not mind getting our hands dirty, my squeamish friend.”

  Carl saw that Rose’s rapidly reddening cheeks were about to spark a gigantic bollocking. Instinctively, he stepped between the quarreling parties. End of discussion. Thank Christ his own upbringing had been reasonably sensible in that respect. What else, in a home where the toilet lid had a fluffy orange cover on it?

  “OK, you two, let’s get back to matters at hand,” Carl intervened. “There’s been an attempted arson attack on my home and we’ve got a bloke sneaking around the basement here, looking to nab our evidence. Anyone can access the toilet where you’ve stashed Nørvig’s files, Rose, so do you reckon it’s a good idea to keep them there? I don’t think an Out of Order sign is going to deter a burglar, do you?”

  She took a key out of her pocket. “No, but this might. And now you mention security, I’m not thinking of hanging around HQ more than necessary. I mean, it’s not that cozy here, is it? I’ve got things in my handbag to defend myself with if it comes to that, but still.”

  Carl found himself thinking of pepper sprays and stun guns, nasty stuff Rose was by no means authorized to use.

  “OK, but be careful anyway, Rose.”

  She twisted her face at him. It was almost a weapon in itself.

  “I’ve been through all Nørvig’s files now and entered the names of all defendants in my database.” She placed several sheets of paper, stapled together, on the desk in front of him. “Here’s the list. Note that some of the reports bear the signature of a notary named Albert Caspersen. For the benefit of anyone unfamiliar with the name, I can tell you he’s now a leading figure in the Purity Party, and everyone seems to think he’ll end up its leader after Wad.”

  “So he worked for Nørvig’s firm?”

  “Nørvig and Sønderskov, yeah. Then, when they split up the partnership, Caspersen moved on to another law firm in Copenhagen.”

  Carl scanned the pages. Rose had made four columns for each case. One with the name of the client the firm was defending, one with the name of the plaintiff, the two others for the date and the nature of the case.

  The fourth column contained an unusual number of complaints concerning abuse of intelligence testing, general medical carelessness, and most paramount, cases involving “unsuccessful” or unnecessary gynecological intervention. The column headed “Name” comprised common Danish surnames as well as a number that appeared more foreign.

  “I’ve picked some of the cases out and gone through them quite meticulously,” said Rose. “To my mind, what we’re dealing with here is some of the most systematic abuse I’ve ever seen. Pure discrimination, a contemptible Übermensch mentality. If this is just the tip of the iceberg, then these men are guilty of no end of crimes against women and unborn children.”

  She indicated the five names that recurred most often. Curt Wad, Wilfrid Lønberg, and three others.

  “If you check out the Purity Party’s Web site, four of these names appear as influential members, the fifth now being deceased. What do you think of that, meine Herren?”

  “If this scum gets to have any say in Denmark, Carl, it will be war, I promise you this,” Assad growled, ignoring the infernal racket of the phone on his desk. It was the umpteenth time it had assailed their eardrums already that morning.

  Carl looked at Assad with wary eyes. This case was affecting him more than any other they had worked on together. The same was true of Rose, for that matter. It was as if it cut them to the quick. Hardly surprising, for these two people he’d sent into the breach were each scarred in their own way. And yet Carl still found it odd that Assad should become so
deeply involved in the case that it fazed him like it did.

  “If a person can get away with deporting women to an island,” Assad went on, his dark eyebrows knitted, “taking the lives of so many unborn children and making so many women sterile, then I should think he could get away with most anything at all, Carl. And this is not good if that person happens to become a member of his country’s parliament.”

  “Listen, both of you. What we’re primarily investigating is the disappearance of five people, right? Rita Nielsen, Gitte Charles, Philip Nørvig, Viggo Mogensen, and Tage Hermansen. All of them go missing at pretty much the same time and none of them ever turns up again. That on its own gives rise to the suspicion that a crime was committed. On the one hand we’ve established the common denominators of Nete Hermansen and the women’s home on Sprogø. On the other hand there’s a lot of stuff revolving around Curt Wad and his activities that definitely seems worthy of our attention. Maybe Wad and his work is what we should be targeting, and maybe not. Under any circumstances, our first objective should be clearing up these missing persons cases. The rest we should probably turn over to the security authorities at PET or the National Investigation Center. It’s out of our league, too big for three people on their own to handle, and potentially explosive to boot.”

  Assad was clearly dissatisfied. “You saw for yourself those marks gouged in the door of the punishment cell on Sprogø, Carl. With your own ears you have heard what Mie Nørvig had to say about Curt Wad, and you can read this list with your own eyes. We must get out there and question this old swine about all these despicable crimes he has committed. That is all I will say.”

  Carl raised his hand. The chiming of his mobile came as a welcome interruption to their disagreement. At least, that’s what he thought until he saw it was Mona.

  “Yes, Mona, what is it?” he said, in a rather more detached tone than he’d intended.