The Purity of Vengeance

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “I’m sure. But the way things are, I can’t wait for that.”

  “In which case I’ll have no option but to suspend you.”

  “If you do, these bastards are going to get away with it.”

  “Get away with what, Carl? Attempting to burn your house down? Assaulting Assad? Or with all their crimes of old and what they’ve built that party into?”

  “The lot!”

  “Let me tell you something, Carl. If you don’t lay off until this has been upstairs, Curt Wad and his people are going to end up getting away with murder. There’s no sense in letting that happen. So let’s just agree that for the time being you’re staying put until I say the word, OK?”

  Carl gave a shrug, deciding it was better to be noncommittal.

  They left the car in the parking lot, then stood for a moment outside the grim concrete structure, staring across at Police HQ, mulling over the events of the day.

  “You wouldn’t have a ciggie, would you, Carl?” Marcus asked all of a sudden.

  Carl smiled at his chief’s wavering willpower. “I would, as a matter of fact. Just haven’t got a light, that’s all.”

  “Wait a minute,” Marcus replied. “I’ve got a lighter in the glove compartment.”

  He turned and had taken only a few steps when a dark-colored car that had been waiting with its lights off outside HQ on the opposite side of the road suddenly accelerated toward them.

  It flew into the air at an angle as it hit the curb, and the piercing sound of scraping metal tore in Carl’s ears as he threw himself aside and rolled away on the pavement. The car screeched to a halt, the driver flung it into reverse, gearbox grinding, and the pungent smell of burning rubber filled the air as the tires spun to get a grip.

  They heard the shot but had no idea where it came from. The only thing they registered in the milliseconds that followed was the altered path of the vehicle that was now clearly out of control, hurtling over the road and smashing into a parked police car.

  Only then did they see the motorcycle officer come running from HQ with his pistol raised, and only then did Carl become aware of how much invective his chief was able to spew out in one breath.

  • • •

  While Marcus Jacobsen and the press officer kept the reporters and TV crews occupied, Carl checked their assailant’s data. To be sure, the guy didn’t exactly have ID on him, but all it took was a quick round of his HQ colleagues before a photo of the dead man, slumped in the car with a hole in his throat, gave a result. The guys of Criminal Investigation’s Department C were no slouches, he’d give them that.

  “That’s Ole Christian Schmidt,” one of them said without hesitation. It was all Carl needed to know. Formerly a highly vociferous right-wing activist who’d recently been released after a two-and-a-half-year sentence for grievous bodily harm against a female executive committee member from the Socialist Party and a young immigrant lad who just happened to be walking along the street, minding his own business. Not much of a record, perhaps, but certainly enough to cause concern as to the man’s future career opportunities.

  Carl glanced up at TV2’s news channel, which had been droning away on the flatscreen since he’d sat down.

  The briefing on the shooting incident appeared to have gone well. Not a word about an ongoing investigation, not a hint as to the motive. All they got was that the incident was considered a one-off, the work of a disturbed individual, and that providence and a keen-eyed motorcycle officer were to be thanked for having saved the lives of two investigators.

  Carl nodded. What had happened clearly demonstrated that Curt Wad was a desperate man, and that he more than likely wasn’t finished yet. Once Marcus was back in his office they’d have to discuss how best to make some quick arrests.

  Then the image on the screen cut away and the studio anchor gave a brief summary of Marcus Jacobsen’s merits, apologizing that the names of the dead man and the officer who had shot him had not yet been made public.

  The producer cut to another camera, but the expression on the anchor’s face on the split screen remained the same.

  “The body of a man was discovered off Sejerø this morning by a yachtsman crossing over to the island from Havnsø. TV2 News understands the identity of the man, presumed to be the victim of a drowning accident, to be Søren Brandt, a thirty-one-year-old journalist. Police say next of kin have been notified.”

  Carl put his coffee cup down and stared blankly as the image of a smiling Søren Brandt filled the screen.

  Was there no end to this?

  • • •

  “You know Madvig from the old days, don’t you, Carl?” said Marcus, gesturing for his guests to be seated.

  Carl nodded and shook the man’s hand. Karl Madvig, one of the hard knocks from PET. Carl knew him better than most.

  “Long time no see, Mørck,” said Madvig.

  It was an understatement. Their paths hadn’t crossed since the two of them had been in the same class at the police academy, but then Madvig had been far too busy lighting up the night sky of intelligence with his dazzling career. He used to be a decent bloke, but rumor had it that over the years he’d lost most of his natural charm. Maybe it was the dark suit he always wore, or maybe self-importance had got the better of him. Whatever, Carl wasn’t bothered.

  “All right, Jellyfish?” he said, savoring the obvious displeasure of the man on hearing his old nickname suddenly materialize from the mists of oblivion. “So now we’ve got security in on the case. Not that it comes as any surprise,” he added, sending a telling glance in the direction of Marcus.

  The chief rummaged in his pocket for his nicotine gum. “Carl, Madvig’s in charge of PET’s investigation of the Purity Party and all those in its inner circle, including Curt Wad. They’ve been keeping an eye on them for four years, so I’m sure you’ll agree . . .”

  “I get the picture,” said Carl, turning to Madvig. “I’m all yours, Jelly. Fire away!”

  Madvig nodded and offered his condolences for what had happened to Carl’s assistant. Carl hoped to God it was the wrong word.

  He was briefed on what PET had on the case. Madvig was forthright and in many ways passionate in his presentation. It was obvious this was a case that was dear to his heart. He, too, had been down in the murky depths and discovered what these seemingly respectable people were capable of.

  “We’ve had influential members of the Purity Party, as well as a number of those involved in The Cause, under systematic surveillance, at least as systematic as conditions have allowed, and we’re already well up on a lot of the things you’ve informed Marcus Jacobsen about. Naturally we’ve got witness statements and documents to corroborate our findings. We can get back to that if and when it proves necessary. But those files you and your assistant ‘found’”—he made air quotes around the word—”at Nørvig’s place haven’t turned up anything we didn’t know already. All those old court cases against members of The Cause are freely available in the archives of the police districts in question. What’s new to us, however, are the very current indications of Curt Wad’s stormtroopers being employed in outright criminal activities, which, in a way, is a good thing. With that information there can be little doubt that our task in making the powers that be understand the necessity of stopping these people once and for all will be that much easier.”

  “Indeed,” the chief intervened. “You’ve every right to feel indignation at my not having informed you of PET’s investigations before now, Carl, but it was imperative we keep a lid on. Imagine the outcry if the press got wind of a new and ostensibly democratic party being kept under surveillance, perhaps even infiltrated, and so massively as has been the case. Can you see the headlines?” He swept an imaginary pen through the air. “‘Police State, Berufsverbot, Fascism.’ Accusations that could never reasonably be leveled at our methods, and quite beyond the mark in terms of what these
investigations are actually about.”

  Carl nodded. “Thanks for your confidence. I’m sure we could have kept our mouths shut, though. Still, never mind. Have you heard they’ve had Søren Brandt bumped off now?”

  Marcus and Madvig exchanged glances.

  “OK, so you didn’t know. Søren Brandt was one of my informants. They found him this morning floating around Sejerø Bay. I’m assuming you know who he is?”

  Madvig and the chief looked at him with identical lusterless expressions. OK, so they knew who Brandt was.

  “It was murder, believe me. Brandt feared for his life. He’d holed himself up somewhere, wouldn’t even tell me where. Didn’t help him much in the end, though.”

  Madvig gazed out of the window. “OK, so they killed a journalist,” he mused, pondering the consequences. “In that case the press are going to be on our side. No one here’s going to tolerate echoes of journalist killings in Ukraine and Russia. We can go public with this soon,” he said, turning back to face them with the rudiments of a smile on his face. If the subject matter hadn’t been so tragic, he’d probably have been slapping his thighs.

  Carl studied the two of them for a second before playing his trump card.

  “I’ve got something I’d like to pass on to the two of you, but in return I want a free hand to conclude the case we’ve been working on downstairs. In my estimation, wrapping it up is going to add substantially to the charges against Curt Wad, because there’s a good chance he’s responsible for a number of people going missing back in the eighties. Is that a deal?”

  “That depends on what you’re offering, doesn’t it? Besides, we can’t have your efforts to nail Wad putting your own and other people’s lives in jeopardy,” Jacobsen responded, sending him a look that said, No way!

  Carl produced a number of sheets fastened with staples. “Here,” he said. “This is a list of all the members of The Cause.”

  Madvig’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. This was what he hadn’t dared imagine existed, not even in his wildest dreams.

  “Interesting stuff, I can tell you. Lot of well-known doctors, a number of policemen, including one over at Station City, nurses, social workers. You name it. And not only that, there’s detailed information here on all of them. Not least the people Wad sends out into the field to do his dirty work. They’ve got a whole column to themselves.”

  He ran his fingers down the list. With Germanic attention to detail, Curt Wad had not only entered private addresses, names of spouses, employers, e-mail addresses, civil registration numbers, telephone and fax numbers, but also the function each individual had within the organization. Information, Referrals, Research, Intervention, Cremation, Legal Support, were just some of the numerous designations. And then, finally: Field Work. It didn’t take a detective to realize what that meant.

  It was nothing to do with digging up spuds, at any rate.

  “Under Field Work we’ve got Ole Christian Schmidt, just to take an example,” he said, prodding a finger at the list. “No need to look baffled, Marcus. He’s the guy who almost snuffed us out this morning.”

  Madvig could hardly contain himself. Carl could picture him already, storming back to his unit and proclaiming the crucial breakthrough. But Carl was unable to share the man’s obvious delight, the procurement of the information having cost so dearly.

  Assad was fighting for his life at the Rigshospital.

  “Going by the civil registration numbers of those under Field Work, we can see they’re all in a different age group than those who perform the abortions, for instance,” he went on. “None of those working in the field is a day over thirty. What I suggest now is that we from HQ get out there and carry out preventive arrests on the lot of them, and then put the screws on as to their whereabouts and activities the last few days. That way there’ll be no more killings, no more attempts on anyone’s lives for the time being, we can be sure of that. In the meantime, you lot from intelligence can take care of the paperwork.”

  He drew the list of members toward him. “Getting hold of the information here may have cost my good friend and colleague his life, so I won’t be handing them over to anyone unless you tell me we’ve got an agreement. That’s how it is.”

  A moment passed as Madvig and the chief again exchanged glances.

  • • •

  “I should tell you Assad briefly regained consciousness, Rose,” Carl said into the phone.

  There was a silence at the other end. The information was hardly enough to put her at ease, he realized that.

  “The doctors said he opened his eyes and looked around. And then he smiled and said: ‘They found me. Very good indeed!’ After that he drifted off again.”

  “Oh, God,” Rose stammered. “Do you think he’s going to recover, Carl?”

  “I’ve no idea. We’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll get on with the case in the meantime. You can take a week off, Rose; it’s about time you did anyway. It’ll do you the world of good. It’s all been rather hard going these past few days.”

  He heard her breathing become heavier. “That’s as may be, but listen. I’ve discovered something that doesn’t add up, Carl.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “The folder Assad took out of Curt Wad’s archive was still in the car when I got home. I’ve been having a look at it this morning. File 64, you know.”

  “What about it?”

  “Now I know why Assad thought it was so important he tucked it away inside his shirt before he set fire to the place. He must have been through the whole archive, seeing as how he picked this one out specially, as well as that membership list you’ve been looking at. Good thing he nicked that lighter off you, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing in there.”

  “What about the file, Rose?”

  “It’s Curt Wad’s case records of Nete Hermansen’s two abortions.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah, she was fifteen the first time. They called the doctor because she’d started bleeding after falling into a stream. According to the record it was a miscarriage. And do you know who the doctor was? Curt Wad’s dad.”

  “Poor girl. At that age, and all. Must have been a very shameful thing in those days.”

  “Maybe, but the case that interests me is the one we already know from Nørvig’s files. When Nete Hermansen accused Curt Wad of raping her and receiving money for performing an illegal abortion on her.”

  “There won’t be much about that in his file.”

  “True, but there’s something else that’s even more interesting.”

  “Like what, Rose? Come on!”

  “There’s the name of the bloke who got her pregnant.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Viggo Mogensen. The one you said she’d never heard of when you went round to see her the other day.”

  43

  September 1987

  Nete spotted Gitte Charles when her silhouette appeared in the distance on the path coming from the direction of the Pavilion. That characteristic gait, the sway of her arms that gave Nete the creeps. For more than thirty years she had been spared the sight that now made her clench her fists and glance around the living room to make sure everything was ready so the killing could be done with a minimum of fuss. She needed this one to go smoothly, her migraine continuing unabated, like a razor blade slicing through her cerebral cortex, so sickening she felt she could throw up.

  She silently cursed the affliction, hoping it would ease when finally she escaped from all the things that reminded her of this life that had been torn into pieces.

  All she needed was to get away for a few months and everything would be different. Perhaps she might even come to terms with Curt Wad’s continued presence in the world.

  The way he was carrying on at the moment, his past would no doubt catch up with him anyway and destroy h
im at some point, she mused.

  The thought was imperative. Otherwise she would never find the strength to kill Gitte Charles.

  • • •

  Four days after the arson and their failed escape, a pair of uniformed police officers came and collected Rita and Nete. Not a word about what was going to happen, yet they were in little doubt. “Feeble-minded, degenerate fire-starter” was hardly the kind of designation to bring anyone into the good books on Sprogø, and Gitte Charles’s revenge had been precise and purposeful. Thus, Rita and Nete were sailed over the strait and taken by ambulance to the hospital in Korsør, all the while restrained by leather straps as though they were prisoners being led to the gallows. It was a feeling reinforced by the sight of burly hospital staff coming toward them with determined strides, prompting Nete and Rita to scream and kick out at them as they were bundled through the corridors and into the ward. Here they were strapped to the beds where they lay side by side, whimpering and praying for their unborn children. The staff seemed not to care. They had seen too many of these “morally deficient” individuals to be moved by Nete’s tears and cries for help.

  Eventually Rita, too, began to yell and shout. At first she demanded to see the consultant, then the police, and finally the mayor of Korsør himself, but none of it helped.

  Nete went into shock.

  Two doctors and two nurses came in without a word and stood by their beds as they prepared the hypodermics. They tried to put them at ease, telling them it was for their own good and that afterward they would be able to lead a normal existence. But Nete’s heart pounded for the tiny lives she now would never bring into the world. And when they jabbed the needle into her vein, her heart seemed almost to stop entirely, causing her to let go of herself and abandon every dream.

  When she awoke some hours later, only the pain in her abdomen remained. Everything else had been taken away from her.

  For two days, Nete didn’t say a word. Nor did she speak when she and Rita were taken back to Sprogø. Grief and despair were all she had left.