When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

  ~21:40 the unidentified car drives away. Mr. X believes he can proceed.

  21:42 Mrs. Cynthia and Mr. Andrew Lockwood arrives at the scene of crime and prevent the murder. Mr. X escapes unnoticed in the back of the wood.

  I had barely finished as the doorbell signalized the arrival of Mr. Erlandsson.

  6 – With Such Friends, You Don’t Need Enemies

  Normally, Mr. Erlandsson would pass any opened door the same way as a full speed train refuses to stop immediately when told to. Now he was visibly changed, and it was not my fault. I even had to step aside and say, “Please come in, Mr. Smith is expecting you,” before he entered.

  In Mr. Smith’s office, he was seated opposite the giant. “It is not 24 hours since Mr. Lockwood was made subject to an assassination attempt, and I have already been humiliated. The case has been taken away from me,” Mr. Erlandsson started.

  “But why?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “The minister has decided that it is better when the case is not pursued. It has been given to a colleague of mine who is better controlled than I am. By the way, I must rely upon your absolute discretion.”

  “Obviously. This is a private visit where we are discussing gulf and cricket results.”

  “Couldn’t we make it football? I have no idea about other sports.”

  “All right, football then,” said Mr. Smith, who despised any kind of sports alike. “We shall keep tight on any information received. Eric, get hold of Mr. Erlandsson’s favourite cognac and tell Juanita to make some coffee for our friend.” I never heard this designation used for our counterpart within the police.

  “The minister stopped all investigations,” Erlandsson repeated. “He said that we should not embarrass an ally. That move came shortly after I contacted the British Embassy.”

  “You did what?” Mr. Smith and I busted out.

  “I asked them if they knew of any secret service agents, possibly involved in the case against Mr. Lockwood. After all, we need to protect him against further assaults.”

  “Eric, give me a cognac, too,” Mr. Smith said.

  “But the embassy denied that there were any MI6-agents active in Denmark.”

  “What else could you expect? Secret agents means that they are kept secret – in contrast to public agents et cetera.”

  “After the reaction from the ministry, I also realized I had done something stupid. However, I can’t help feeling this as a confirmation that they are involved. Therefore, I want to share with you the findings which were made so far, until I was taken off the case. Off the records, of course!”

  “Of course.” Mr. Smith wisely abstained from commenting on Erlandsson’s deduction.

  “Basically, we have found no indication …” he interrupted his speech as Juanita brought in the coffee. It was half past seven in the evening and many, including myself, would not touch the stimulating agent so late, but the two elderly gentlemen trusted that other liquids would later facilitate a night’s sleep. “Thanks, and two spoonfuls of sugar, please.”

  As Juanita had left, he continued: “… no indication of the identity of Mr. X, except perhaps some hairs in Mr. Lockwood’s car. We need a DNA-analysis, but they are of different colour and microscopic structure than the three members of the Lockwood family.”

  “Perhaps we can help. We found the murder weapon. Perhaps there are old-fashioned fingerprints on it!”

  “Did you find the knife?”

  “No, that was not intended to be the murder weapon. The knife was only used for a ritual, symbolic act. Show it, Eric.”

  I showed Mr. Erlandsson the plastic bag with the plastic bag. He was not impressed. “What makes you think that this was exactly what the would-be killer used?”

  “That Mr. Smith told me exactly where to find it.” And I told him the story. “So it is up to the police to find DNA-Traces from Mr. Erlandsson inside and other traces from Mr. X outside the bag.”

  “There is just one problem: I am no longer on the case.”

  “Until today you were, and today you shall give it off for detailed search. Another problem is, how can you get the results, but I hope your personal relations with the track search unit – which will perhaps never hear that you have been removed from the case, as your successor will probably not use them – shall suffice for an informal confirmation of my hypothesis,” Mr. Smith concluded.

  Mr. Erlandsson gave it a second thought. “You may be right; I shall give it a try. Now for the only positive finding: We found some or all of the lost tablets in the wood, and they are a British brand for Coproxamol, a combination drug of dextropropoxyphen and paracetamol, which has been used for suicides in Britain, though generally in considerably higher dosages. More importantly, it was also the drug found in Dr. Kelly.”

  “Though in absolutely insufficient dosage,” I added.

  “In which the two cases mirror each other,” Mr. Smith commented. “Probably, the plastic bag belongs to the similarities, only on Dr. Kelly, it was only removed post-mortem.”

  “And possibly, the killer was the same,” Mr. Erlandsson argued.

  “In that case, however, we do have a problem. As the minister argued, and I quote you personally, ‘we do not embarrass our allies.’ And with such friends, you really don’t need enemies,” Mr. Smith concluded. “But there is still the possibility that we only have a would-be murderer who plays on similarities. And he plays it so well that both the Danish and British authorities are not excluding the possibility that this villain is acting in their interest.”

  We were all silent for a moment. “What are we then going to do?” Erlandsson asked.

  “I told Mr. Lockwood that we were making emphasis on preventing a second assault, not necessarily of finding the culprit. The public was never informed of the attempted murder – and please keep it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because MI6 may otherwise see an obligation to succeed, as a warning to other potential whistleblowers. Also here in Denmark, we have seen the strange phenomenon that when a person uncovers governmental lies, he is treated as a traitor, not as a hero – although we actually have legal protection scheduled for whistleblowers.”

  Erlandsson emptied his coffee and, to be understood as an antidote, his glass of cognac, stood up and grasped the plastic bag. “I’ll let you know if our ‘tracking dogs’ find anything on it. It will probably need two days.”

  “I hope you will tell us as soon you have the results,” said Mr. Smith. “You better deliver it right away – you can tell them that you found it the way Mr. Gusto told you. He will be honoured to stand back for a famous detective, won’t you, Eric?”

  “Certainly,” I said, recognizing that this was the only way the desired analysis could be made.” As I followed him to the main door, I added, “I am happy that our cooperation has resumed, even though this must be unofficial.”

  “Hmm,” he responded, and then he was gone. Anyhow, we have had too many collisions to really feel as comrades so suddenly.

  Back in my own office, I called Alice. “I have a very exciting case right now.”

  “Great. I don’t have an exciting friend right now.”

  “Don’t be mad. You should be proud of me. Yesterday evening I saved a man’s life.”

  At least, that made her curious. “Tell me more about it!”

  “I can’t. Officially, the case doesn’t even exist.”

  “Then how do you expect me to believe it?”

  I had to admit that she was right. She did not trust my words absolutely. There had been occasions showing that so much confidence was not justified. It was my own fault. “But I earned a free ticket to our favourite restaurant,” I lied. “How about tomorrow evening?”

  “No, I am still not forgiving you for leaving me alone yesterday evening. Perhaps I shall have forgotten it on Saturday. Call me on Friday evening to find out – perhaps another friend has proved more loyal until then.” Without losing further words she hung up.

 
I was not quite unsatisfied. Today, Wednesday, was Mr. Smith’s gastronomic experience-day where René, the star cook of the adjacent hotel restaurant, was exercising his arts, as he did nearly each Wednesday. It was my task to keep Mr. Smith company when he could not find a better alternative, and enjoying René’s cuisine was one of the more pleasant components of my job, somewhat antagonized by Mr. Smith’s preferred topics of discussion. I was speaking the best I could and we both knew, Mr. Smith and me, that I was absolutely incompetent in his area. But the few times he had criticised that, I had responded with my topics in which Mr. Smith was equally incompetent and openly uninterested.

  Juanita had left a bit late for her free evening but in time to be gone when René came. They did not like each other, having once quarrelled tremendously over the ideal thickness of how to cut mushrooms. In a sort of a peace agreement, they had agreed about a clean kitchen, and René therefore brought all cooking devices. Only plates, glasses, forks and knives and so on were found in the dishwashing machine. Occasionally, as of today, René joined us at the table, in which case the discussion subject was bent towards gastronomy and oenology, the noble art of wine production and tasting. Juanita would come back before midnight, so that there was somebody in the house in case Mr. Smith needed help. He had a battery of alarm buttons to use for the appropriate occasion. I had no idea where Juanita spent her time but hoped she enjoyed it. I was only relieved to hear her return, which she always did discretely in case René was still around.

  7 – Meeting Members of the Board

  Thursday showed a different weather. The sky had an intense blue colour and the sun was shining from a cloudless sky. The few trees I passed on my jogging way from Østerbro to Hellerup were about to drop their leaves and had an abstract mixture of yellow, brown and red colours – just the best weather for a trip to the forest, but now I was on my way to work. Could it be possible to combine the two?

  To be honest, I live less than two kilometres from the old white house in Hellerup, so it is no big sporty event to run to work, when the weather permits. Occasionally I bike or take the bus and save a lot of money in not nursing a car. Mr. Smith has one, an old Bentley, bought especially to offer his feet ample space. He was never driving the car himself, I don’t even think he has a driver’s licence and if so, his paralyzed feet would require a different version, probably not even a so expensive car. Instead, he was driving his chauffeur – me – to madness with a persistent criticism, the three or four time a year he was discovering the outside world.

  Inside the house, he was driving an electrical wheelchair all by himself. The house had been restructured accordingly with broad doors and without any obstacles. Mr. Smith had a separate toilet at each floor, a virtual ballroom, which was equipped according to his special requirements, so that he could manage the visits himself. For us earthly people, there was a single small toilet for all, so please take a number …

  Mr. Smith had an elevator, which he used daily between his privacy section on the upper floor and his office, dining room and kitchen. Only when he was going out, that is, when we were driving away, did he proceed with the elevator down to the cellar, from where he could drive upwards a ramp to even levels. The so-called ground floor was raised some five feet above the ground and was for everybody else only accessible through wide stairs.

  I also had a privacy section – a single room with associated bathroom – on the upper floor, but I used the stairs to reach it. There I redressed after a fast shower when I had arrived by feet. Occasionally, I spent the night there when Juanita quite exceptionally was absent or when I had drunk too much during the Wednesday dinner. My office was downstairs, and apart from sleeping there, I had not much use of my small apartment. Should I ever get married to Alice, my