“At any rate, it’s a shame you’ve already been on TV, Carl; otherwise you could’ve shown it. That opportunity isn’t likely to arise anytime soon, as far as I can tell.”
* * *
Carl and Assad only had to wait ten minutes in Terminal Three before a neat woman with poodle curls, about seventy-five years of age, appeared from customs. She fit the description exactly of the widow of the owner of the VW Kombi, Egil Poulsen.
She seemed tired out by lack of sleep and her twenty-hour flight, but she did stop when they addressed her.
“Dagmar Poulsen?” asked Carl, followed by five minutes of explaining and skeptical glances from her before she finally agreed to accept their offer of driving her home to Brønshøj.
“You could have warned me, but now you’ll just have to put up with the state of this place,” she said, letting them into a house that had a sour smell of dying houseplants and more dust on the shelves than a twenty-day holiday in Malaysia could justify.
“Egil was going to get rid of the wreck out there, but in the end it couldn’t even roll on its own wheels.”
She pointed out through the patio door toward an overgrown, decaying wooden fence. “On the other side of the thicket down there,” she specified.
The wreck was difficult to see in the thicket, and it was still partly covered with bits of tarp, so the woman next door hadn’t been entirely precise.
“Want to draw straws for who’s going in there to rummage?”
Assad pointed at the broken windshield, where heaps of leaves had blown in and were now rotting on what used to be the driver’s seat.
“Draw straws, Assad?” Carl smiled. “Do you know the one about the camel that thought he could fly, and threw himself off a cliff?”
“No. What about him?”
“He wasn’t very smart either.”
Assad sneered. “So what you’re saying is that I’ll crawl in to check the glove compartment, while you’ll check in the back?”
That earned him a pat on the shoulder. He wasn’t so stupid after all.
Carl struggled with the sliding door, trying to ignore Assad’s swearing and cursing as he climbed over the pile of rotten leaves.
Just as Carl was thinking that Assad’s clothes would be all right with a quick dry-clean, the sliding door went up with a cracking sound.
There wasn’t much light in there, given that the side windows were both frosted and filthy. He tried to get used to the darkness, and slowly a lot of cardboard boxes appeared. He opened a couple of the boxes, which had already been breeding grounds for generations of mice, and assessed the contents. Nothing but printed material from various peace demonstrations, similar to the posters that had been put up inside the van. Just like Inge Dalby had said.
Peace meeting read a poster hanging above a leather bag of the kind Carl had been carrying on his very first day of school.
He opened it. The mice had been at work in there, too, but a small ring binder with pamphlets from all different kinds of events, like the World Council of Churches’ congress in Bella Center, and years of Easter Marches, was still intact.
Carl leafed through it. No names of activists.
“Finding anything back there, Assad?”
He heard a moan.
* * *
“So, was it any help?” asked Dagmar Poulsen back on the patio.
“No, not really, but we got some photos of the van. Apart from that, all we found were mouse nests—and then Assad found this in the glove compartment.” He signaled for Assad to hold it up.
Mrs. Poulsen’s hand flew up to her chest in shock. A long, mummified grass snake like that was sure to scare anyone to death.
“We found it in the glove compartment. It probably fed on mouse pinkies, and then one day ate too many,” said Carl, and then changed the subject. “Do you think your husband had lists of the activists lying around somewhere? Your daughter seemed to think so.”
She shook her head. “I threw everything away when Egil died. At that point, I kind of thought the grassroots work had taken up enough of our lives.”
Assad was breathing heavily. He still hadn’t recovered from the grass-snake incident.
“Throw it into the bushes, Assad,” he said, turning to face the woman again. “You wouldn’t happen to know a young guy who borrowed the van back then? He was called Frank, but I believe they called him the Scot.”
Surprisingly, she froze, and her hand flew up to her chest for the second time.
Was she blushing?
* * *
“He was called Brennan, Rose. Frank Brennan. And Dagmar Poulsen almost died when we mentioned his name. She’d had an affair with him. Her, too. He definitely didn’t restrain himself as a youngster.”
“Fantastic!” she said, but it didn’t quite sound like she meant it. “Of course, you’ve checked up on him, and found him already, right?” she continued with a caustic undertone.
Carl controlled himself. How annoyingly perceptive she was. “Well, we’re working on it. Apart from that, Dagmar Poulsen confirmed everything we already know about him, both regarding his appearance and personality. She could also confirm that he used the VW from the spring of 1997. He didn’t borrow it; he rented it. She thought it was because her husband had discovered the affair, so he didn’t feel very friendly toward the young man. But she was never completely sure. It wasn’t something they spoke about.”
“When did he give it back?” she asked.
“Around Christmas the same year, and Poulsen was furious with him because there was a dent in the fender. So they quarreled, Dagmar Poulsen told us. And after that, they never saw him again.”
“Okay, I assume you checked the front of the van. Did you find the dent?”
Carl stuck his Samsung in her face, and scrolled through his photos. Twenty images of a front that was completely corroded, and a fender lying on the ground. They’d turned it over, and there was a very small dent, but which fender in Copenhagen didn’t have one?
“We can’t use that for anything,” she said. “Lucky that Gordon and I have something.”
She dragged them to the man behind the desk, who currently resembled a jammed contortionist.
Gordon looked at them with a blurry expression. Rose must have seized the chance, while the others were gone, to reward him for his black eye and his fight for the honor of the department.
Shame on him who thought badly of it.
“What’s up, Gordon?” asked Assad, his eyebrows dancing a fandango. Gordon ignored it. He’d really built up some confidence.
“The man who took photos at the car show on Bornholm has called. He’s a classic car enthusiast who can talk the hind legs off a donkey and insisted on showing us his entire collection of photos of old cars.”
Carl knew they had to avoid that fate.
Rose smiled assertively. “He only took four photos on that occasion, so we have all of them. Actually, he’s been missing those photos for all these years and would like them back. He doesn’t know how they ended up in Habersaat’s possession, but he probably forgot them after an exhibition at Rønne Theatre, which the Classic Car Enthusiasts’ Club had arranged. All his photos are taken with an Instamatic camera, as we assumed, and the negatives have been thrown away. That’s why Gordon kindly declined the offer to meet him.”
Just as well, thank heaven.
“As I see it, you’ve had exactly as much luck as we have,” said Carl, but it had no effect.
“We had a far more interesting call from another man. And this one we’ve agreed to meet.”
“All right. Mr. Frank Brennan himself, I presume?”
That sarcastic remark also went in one ear and out the other.
“This man calls himself Kazambra, and we’ve looked him up.” She pushed a print of a leaflet toward him.
HYPNOTHERAPY!
was written across the front in big, bold letters.
Carl frowned, unfolded the leaflet, and read the headline.
Have you got a problem with quitting smoking? Lack of confidence? Fear of flying? Fear of heights? Involuntary urination? Nervousness?
All that was missing was bed-wetting, fear of water, arachnophobia, and a few hundred other ailments. It almost sounded like he could cure anything.
Carl read on.
Albert Kazambra has the solution to these inconveniences and many others. Two or three effective but harmless sessions, during which you will be hypnotized and your problem dealt with and blocked, will be your safe path to greater personal freedom. Get rid of your problems. Visit my clinic, where you will be received with discretion and kind attention by our receptionist.
“Was he the one who called?” Carl pointed at the brochure photo of an elderly man with grey hair and penetrating eyes. There was definitely some photoshopping involved.
Carl studied the prices. Three thirty-minute sessions: seven thousand one hundred and ten kroner. Guaranteed effect or your money back, it said, but nothing about what the effect would be.
He thought it was a heck of a price, puzzled at the last one hundred and ten kroner. Was seven thousand not enough?
Rose’s eyes were glistening. “Carl, he can provide us with facts about our missing person. He says he’s met Frank. And he’ll be at the Alternative Cosmos health fair in Frederiksborg Sports Center in Hillerød. We’re meeting him there later this afternoon.”
Carl smiled. Hypnosis? Kazambra? Just the name! Not since he’d been in a sports center in Øster Brønderslev thirty years ago, looking at a man who called himself Humboldt who claimed he could put the entire audience into a trance simultaneously, had he met anyone who actually believed they could hypnotize people.
Actually, the man in Øster Brønderslev couldn’t. At first, he’d wanted them all to jump at his command, and Carl had jumped as high as he could because he didn’t want to be the only one left slouching in his chair. But when the man had wanted everyone to fall asleep, Carl couldn’t be bothered, so he’d just looked around at all the others. Everyone with their eyes half-closed, wondering if they were the only ones it wasn’t working on.
The world demanded to be deceived.
He turned toward Assad with a cheeky smile. “Perhaps you should empty your piggy bank and see if you can get rid of your fear of dried-up grass snakes while we’re there.”
Strangely enough, Assad didn’t find that appealing.
Rose, on the other hand, was ready to go the whole nine yards.
“He’s got a special offer at the fair. Two sessions for two thousand three hundred and seventy kroner. That’s exactly fifty percent off. So Gordon’s actually considering coming, too. Something about existential phobia, he said.”
Existential phobia? That sounded right on the money. Carl couldn’t stop smiling.
* * *
A man was standing in front of Frederiksborg Sports Center, waving a sign: The Alternative Cosmos is humbug. Don’t be seduced.
“You’ll be exploited and conned out of your sound sense of judgment. You’ll be led astray from God by all the witchcraft!” he screamed, handing out leaflets with his free hand.
Only a few people took them, and those who did threw them in the trash can by the entrance without reading them.
He should’ve known he wasn’t going to be a hit here.
They showed their ID cards, but still the doorkeepers were unwilling to let them pass without paying.
“Try to say that one more time, and we just might provide you with free lodging on bread and water,” suggested Rose, overly cocky.
The doormen grumbled, but let them in.
Frederiksborg Sports Center was bigger than it looked from the outside, and the number of stands made the place seem chaotic.
“He’s at stand 49E,” said Rose. “We’re meeting him in twenty minutes, so I’ll have a look around on my own.”
Carl looked at her despondently. Twenty minutes here was an eternity.
He and Assad walked through the aisles, observing people sauntering around with dreamy, searching looks in their eyes. It wasn’t hard to tell what they were searching for: a quick, easy, and preferably cheap shortcut to a better and more settled life. The easy way to lots of happiness, personal satisfaction, increased harmony, better health, and last but not least, better understanding of self, and access to the world beyond this and the secrets of the universe. The question was only in which stand they would find it, considering the vast number of suppliers.
They slowly walked past hopeful people who’d already entered the small stands, and were doing strange things. It was a very peculiar experience for a man like Carl, who had grown up on a farm in Vendsyssel learning that Kosmos was the name of the neighbor’s tractor, and that palm reading was a conversation between deaf people.
Assad, on the other hand, was enjoying himself, now and again pointing at something that caught his interest.
Miracle Poul announced a sign at a stand where a middle-aged, somewhat tubby man was practicing his healing touch. There was no limit to what he could do in half an hour, according to his sign, and the client definitely looked ready for healing of all kinds of things, from gas to divine guidance.
There were people chanting hummm hummm, people letting out guttural sounds that would scare even the bravest, and people holding their hands up in the air, twenty centimeters from each other, feeling one another’s auras, soul energy, color spectrums, and spiritual potentials.
There was trance channeling, drum therapy, reincarnation sessions, angel dance combined with tarot-reading courses, channeling of master energy, healing, and hundreds of other incomprehensible things. Each and every one had their specific solution to oceans of problems, convinced that their path was the right one. It was enough to make you dizzy.
Carl had just spotted a draft beer dispenser that seemed to deliver on promise when Rose appeared, saying that it was time for them to meet Kazambra.
Stand 49E with Kazambra’s imposing image was empty, but he shared the booth with a very lovely and active young woman, whose specialty was detection of earth radiation and water with willow twigs and pendulum.
Carl pictured his ex-mother-in-law.
“You should’ve seen my mother-in-law use a pendulum like that yesterday. She wanted to know if she’d be shagged by her nursing assistant. Yes, that’s what she said. It really set the pendulum in motion.”
Carl laughed, realizing too late that an elderly woman had appeared behind him with a hurt expression on her face. Could she be one of pendulum woman’s clients?
“I saw how you acted up at the entrance to get in for free, and I’ve noticed the looks you throw around. You shouldn’t be here at all,” she said, almost too quietly. “What do you know about what these things mean to us? I’m sick, and if I didn’t have my crystals and the metaphysical world to resort to, I’d be nothing.” She looked at Rose. “You’re young and healthy, but I’m worn down, and the crystals keep death from my door. Please try to put yourselves in our place.”
“Well, I don’t actually feel . . . ,” Rose tried to protest, but the woman cut her off.
“Albert asked me to give you this. He’s not feeling so well at the moment, so he had to give up on coming today. The address is on the card. He’s waiting for you.”
* * *
Kazambra’s house in Tulstrup was sparkling from a recent renovation, by far the flashiest in town. Hardly surprising, considering his extortionate fees.
“One at a time,” said the man, whose eyes looked completely normal, as he let them in to the corridor.
Carl shook his head. “I think you’ve misunderstood. We’ve come to hear what you know about Frank Brennan.”
“We’ll get to that,” he said, coughing. Hopefully it wasn’t contagious.
“But I’ve agreed with the young lady here that I won’t do it for free.”
“I see, but the Danish police don’t pay for information,” protested Carl, throwing Rose a reproachful look. What in the world was she thinking?
“No, not information, I understand that. What you’re paying for is half an hour of hypnosis each, and then afterward we can talk about Frank. Wasn’t that what we agreed—Rose, was it?”
She nodded. “Yes, we all suffer from something we’d like to get rid of. Your fear of flying, Carl. My bad memories. And you, Assad, you know best what you most need to overcome. Personally, I think it’s anxiety.”
She turned toward Carl. “Take it easy, Carl, I found a loophole in the budget. You won’t have to chip in yourself.”
This was outrageous.
* * *
First, it was Rose’s turn, and then Carl’s.
For some time, he and the coughing Albert Kazambra sat face-to-face in a dimly lit room with oakwood bookshelves from floor to ceiling, skeptically looking at one another. An annoying power struggle was taking place, while Kazambra whispered, growled, and stared. Definitely not a comfortable situation for a deputy police superintendent with more than twenty years in the service. And then suddenly—everything disappeared.
Afterward, when he and Rose were sitting in Kazambra’s lobby waiting for Assad to come out, he felt strangely relieved, almost as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders.
He should probably feel good about the situation, but the truth was that he felt his soul had been violated. What the hell had happened? What had this man done to him? What had they talked about?
He tried to get Rose’s attention as she sat staring silently out the window.
“What do you think happened?” he asked her a couple of times, before she finally turned toward him drowsily, as if she were under the influence of some kind of drug.
“Did anything happen?” she said, almost in a trance.
The situation didn’t get much better when Assad came out. Basically, it seemed they would both benefit from going home for a good, long nap. At any rate, Carl thought he’d got through it with more energy than they had.
The Hanging Girl Page 42