Disgrace

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  The homicide chief got right down to it. ‘I understand that you were our liaison between the ministry and the police chief in this case, Lars. Would you mind explaining how this adds up before we offer our own interpretation?’

  Bjørn sat scratching his chin a moment. A military man by training. A classic, unblemished police CV. The right age. Continuing education courses at the University of Copenhagen. Law, of course. Good administrative abilities. An enormous network of contacts and a good deal of experience in fundamental police work as well. And now this glaringly obvious blunder. He had politicized his job, stabbed his colleagues in the back and helped hinder an investigation he in principle had nothing to do with. And for what? For solidarity with a boarding school he’d left ages ago? For old friendships’ sake? What the hell was he supposed to say? One wrong word and he was finished. They all knew it.

  ‘I wanted to spare us a resource-draining fiasco,’ he said, and instantly regretted it.

  ‘Unless you can produce a better defence, consider yourself out, you hear me?’ Carl saw how painful it was for the homicide chief. He and Bjørn were an excellent team, however irritating Carl thought the deputy commissioner was.

  Bjørn sighed. ‘You’ve no doubt noticed that I have a different tie on.’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Yes, I went to the same boarding school.’

  Needless to say, they would have figured it out – and Bjørn could see that.

  ‘There was some very negative press in connection with a rape case at the school a few years ago, so they didn’t need the Rørvig case being reopened.’

  They knew that, too.

  ‘And Ditlev Pram’s older brother, Herbert, was one of my classmates. He’s on the same school’s board of directors today.’

  That bit of information, on the other hand, had regrettably slipped under Carl’s radar.

  ‘His wife is the sister of one of the department heads in the Justice Ministry. And this department head has been a rather good sparring partner for the police chief during the reform process.’

  Isn’t that a nice kettle of fish, Carl thought. It was straight out of one of Morten Korch’s sentimental cinematic dramas. Soon they’d probably all turn out to be illegitimate children of some rural landowner.

  ‘I was being pressured on both sides. It’s like a brotherhood, all these old boarding-school alums, and I admit I’ve made a mistake here. But I assumed the department head was doing the justice minister’s bidding, and that therefore I wasn’t completely in the wrong. She didn’t want the case drawing any interest, partly because those who were involved – who aren’t exactly nobodies, of course – hadn’t been accused of anything when the crime was committed, and partly because there had already been a conviction with an almost-served sentence. To me it seemed as though they wanted to avoid an evaluation of whether or not procedural mistakes had been made and all kinds of other potential problems. I don’t know why I didn’t check with the minister, but at our lunch yesterday it became clear that she didn’t know anything about the investigation, so unfortunately she never took any measures. I know that now.’

  Marcus Jacobsen nodded. He was ready to do the hard work now. ‘You didn’t notify me of any of these matters, Lars. You just told me the police chief had given us the directive that Department Q was to shut down its investigation. Now I see that it was you who single-handedly advised the police chief to give us this order after you personally misinformed her. What did you tell her, anyway? That there weren’t any grounds to reopen the case? That Carl Mørck was messing with it just for fun?’

  ‘I was in her office with the department head from the Justice Ministry. He was the one who informed her.’

  ‘Is he also an old pupil from the same boarding school?’

  Lars nodded, a pained expression on his face.

  ‘So in reality, Pram and the others in the gang could have set the whole process in motion, Lars, don’t you realize that? Ditlev Pram’s brother’s plea to you! The department head’s highly questionable lobbying!’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

  The homicide chief threw his pen down hard on his desk. He was positively furious. ‘You’re suspended from this moment forward. Please write an account that I can present to the minister. Remember to include the department head’s name.’

  Lars Bjørn had never looked so pathetic. If it weren’t for the fact that Carl had always found him to be a haemorrhoid in his arse, he would almost have felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’ve got a suggestion, Marcus,’ Carl interrupted.

  A tiny spark lit up Bjørn’s eyes. After all, there had always been such a good, antagonistic understanding between them.

  ‘Let’s drop the suspension. We need all the men we can get, don’t we? If we make an issue out of this, word will get out. The press and all that crap. You’ll have journalists screaming out there in the courtyard, Marcus. Besides, the people we’re investigating will be much more careful, and I don’t need that.’

  Bjørn sat nodding mechanically at each of these statements. Poor sap.

  ‘I want Bjørn on the case. Just to lead some of the work in the next few days. Searches, surveillance, everyday legwork. We can’t do it all ourselves, and now we have something to work with, Marcus. Do you see? A little effort now and maybe we’ll solve some other murders as well.’ He tapped his finger on Johan Jacobsen’s list of assaults. ‘Damn it, I think it might just happen, Marcus.’

  No one was injured by the blast at the rail yard near Ingerslevsgade, but Channel 2 News and their infuriating helicopters were already circling the location as if seventeen platoons of terrorists had just demonstrated their strength.

  The news anchor was clearly in a state of excitement, although trying hard not to show it. The best news was always the kind that could be delivered with gravity and concern, sensational items especially, and the police were once again in the journalists’ hot seat.

  Following the events on his TV in the basement, Carl was glad it had nothing to do with him.

  Rose entered his office. ‘Lars Bjørn has activated the Copenhagen Police search team. I sent them a photo of Kimmie, and Assad has filled them in on everything he could from his surveillance. They’re also looking for Tine Karlsen. She’s caught in the eye of the hurricane, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The search team’s office is on Skelbækgade, you know? Isn’t that where Tine Karlsen usually turns tricks?’

  He nodded, glancing at his notes and directives.

  The list of tasks seemed endless. It was a question of prioritizing and working methodically.

  ‘Here are your tasks, Rose. Complete them in order.’

  She took the paper and read aloud:

  1. Find policemen who participated in the Rørvig investigation in 1987. Contact Holbæk Police and the Mobile Investigation Unit on Artillerivej.

  2. Find classmates of the gang members. Get eyewitness accounts describing their behaviour.

  3. Go back to Bispebjerg Hospital. Find a doctor or nurse who was working at the gynaecological ward while Kimmie was there.

  4. Get details surrounding Kristian Wolf’s death.

  5. Contact Berne University and get hold of any files they may have on Kimmie.

  Today, thanks!

  He thought she’d take the very last word as being conciliatory. She didn’t.

  ‘Jesus! Apparently I should have come to work at four o’clock this morning instead of five thirty,’ she said quite loudly. ‘You’ve gone completely batty, man. Didn’t you just tell us we could go home an hour early?’

  ‘Yes, but that was a few hours ago.’

  She spread her arms and dropped them again. ‘And ... ?’

  ‘Now things are a bit different. Do you have anything you have to do this weekend?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rose, this is your opportunity to prove what you’re made of, and to learn what it’s like to do real investigative
work. And think about how much time off in lieu you’ll have when it’s over.’

  She snorted. If she wanted to hear jokes she would make them up herself.

  The telephone rang just as Assad walked into the room. It was the homicide chief.

  ‘You were just about to get me four men from the airport, but then you didn’t?’ Carl fumed. ‘Is that what you’re telling me?’

  The homicide chief confirmed it.

  ‘Do you really mean we can’t get anyone to help us trail the suspects? If it slips out that the investigation hasn’t been shut down after all, then where do you think Pram, Florin and Dybbøl Jensen will be by tomorrow? Not around here, I can tell you that. Maybe Brazil.’

  He breathed deeply and shook his head. ‘I know damned well we don’t have any real proof of their involvement, but how about the circumstantial evidence, Marcus? It’s there, for God’s sake, don’t you agree?’

  After the call, Carl sat in his office, eyes glued to the ceiling, and rattled off the best countrified curse words he’d learned off a kid from Frederikshavn at a Boy Scout jamboree in 1975. Not something Baden-Powell would have approved of.

  ‘What did Marcus say then, Carl?’ Assad asked. ‘Are we getting help then?’

  ‘What did he say? He said that first they just had to solve the Store Kannikestræde assault and then there’d be more resources to go around. And they have to get that explosion at the rail yard under control.’ Carl sighed. It was something he’d got pretty good at. If it wasn’t one thing it was another.

  ‘Sit down, Assad,’ he said. ‘We need to find out if Johan’s list is worth anything.’

  He leaned towards the whiteboard and began copying out:

  14/6/1987: Kåre Bruno, boarding-school pupil, falls from the ten-metre diving board and dies.

  2/8/1987: The murders in Rørvig.

  13/9/1987: Assault, Nyborg Beach. Five young men/one girl in the vicinity. The female victim in shock. Doesn’t make a statement.

  8/11/1987: Twins, football pitch, town of Tappernøje. Two fingers cut off. Thoroughly beaten.

  24/4/1988: Elderly couple disappears on Langeland. Various articles belonging to them turn up in Lindelse Cove.

  When he had written down all twenty cases, he looked at Assad.

  ‘What’s the common denominator? What would you say, Assad?’

  ‘They all occurred on a Sunday.’

  ‘I thought so. Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Logical enough. Of course they must have started on Sundays. They certainly didn’t have any other possibilities as boarders. Boarding-school life was restrictive.

  ‘They must have got into the habit of carrying out the attacks on Sundays when they were at school, and then incorporated that as part of their ritual after they’d left,’ surmised Carl.

  ‘And they could drive from Næstved to the crime scenes in a couple of hours,’ Assad said. ‘There were no assaults in Jutland, for example.’

  ‘What else do you notice, Assad?’

  ‘During the period 1988 to 1992 none of the victims disappeared.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As I say – that it was just violent assaults. Beatings and such. No one who was found dead or went missing.’

  Carl studied the list. A civilian employee at headquarters had compiled it, and he was personally and emotionally involved. How could they know he hadn’t been too selective? There were thousands of cases of violence in Denmark each year, after all.

  ‘Bring Johan down here, Assad,’ Carl said.

  In the meantime he would contact the pet shop where Kimmie had worked. That might help him develop her profile, learn something of her dreams and values. Maybe he could arrange a meeting tomorrow morning. Then in the evening he had an appointment with the teacher at Rødovre High School. They were having an alumni party that same evening. ‘Lasasep’, they called it. The last Saturday in September, 29/9/2007. Real cosy, with dinner and dancing, he’d said.

  ‘Johan is on the way,’ Assad reported, as he mulled over the list on the whiteboard.

  ‘Kimmie was in Switzerland during that period,’ he said very quietly, a moment later.

  ‘Which period?’

  ‘From 1988 to 1992.’ He nodded to himself. ‘No one disappeared or was killed while Kimmie was in Switzerland,’ he said. ‘Not anyone on this list, in any case then.’

  Johan didn’t look good. He’d once run around headquarters like a baby calf that had just discovered the paddock’s limitless size and abundance. Now he seemed more like the battery calf that had been penned in once and for all. With no room to move or grow.

  ‘Are you still going to the psychologist, Johan?’ Carl asked.

  He was. ‘She’s good. I just don’t feel so well,’ he replied.

  Carl glanced at the photo of the two siblings on the board. Maybe it wasn’t so strange.

  ‘How did you select the incidents on your list, Johan?’ Carl asked. ‘How do I know there aren’t hundreds and hundreds you didn’t include?’

  ‘I started by including all instances of reported violence between 1987 and 1988 that were committed on a Sunday, where the assault wasn’t reported by the victims themselves and the distance to Næstved was less than a hundred miles.’ He looked quizzically at Carl. It was important for him that they were one hundred per cent on the same page.

  ‘Listen. I’ve read a great deal about those kinds of boarding schools. The wants and needs of the individual mean next to nothing. The pupils are kept to a tight schedule where lessons and duties come first, and everything is mapped out. All week long. The goal is to establish discipline and a sense of community. Based on that I concluded that the violent crimes committed during the school year’s weekdays or before breakfast on the weekends or at any point after dinner weren’t worth looking into. In short, the gang had other activities to keep them occupied at those times. That’s how I selected the crimes. Sundays, after breakfast and before dinner. That’s when the assaults had to take place.’

  ‘They committed their crimes on Sundays in the middle of the day, you say?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘And during that time span they could drive a maximum of a hundred or so miles, if they also had to find their victims and carry out their plan.’

  ‘During the school year, yes. Summer breaks were another matter.’ He looked down at the floor.

  Carl checked his perpetual calendar. ‘But the murders in Rørvig were also committed on a Sunday. Was that just a coincidence, or was it the gang’s trademark?’

  Johan seemed sad when he replied. ‘I think it was a coincidence. It was right before the school year began. Maybe they felt they hadn’t got enough out of their summer holiday, I don’t know. They were psychos, after all.’

  After that, Johan explained he’d used his intuition to create the list covering subsequent years. Not that Carl thought it was inaccurate. But if they were going to act on intuition, he’d rather it be his own. So for the time being the investigation would focus exclusively on the years before Kimmie went to Switzerland.

  After Johan had returned to his daily duties, Carl sat for a bit evaluating the list before calling the police in Nyborg. From them he learned that the twin brothers who’d been attacked on the football pitch in 1987 had emigrated to Canada many years ago. In a voice that might have belonged to an eighty-year-old, the duty officer informed him that they’d inherited a small sum of money and had established a farm-equipment supply business. At any rate, that was what they’d been told at the station. Nobody was familiar with the boys’ personal lives. It was, of course, a long time ago.

  Carl then looked at the date of the elderly couple’s disappearance on the island of Langeland, and let his eyes wander across the case file Assad had requisitioned and put on his desk. It involved two schoolteachers from Kiel who’d sailed to Rudkøbing and then travelled from one bed and breakfast to the next before finally spending the night in Stoense.

>   The police report stated that they had been seen at the harbour in Rudkøbing the day they vanished, and in all probability had sailed out to sea and sunk. But there were some people who’d seen the couple in Lindelse Cove the same day, and later two young guys were observed in the harbour near where the couple’s boat had been moored. The witnesses stressed that they were nice-looking young men. Not the kind of local boys with Castrol or BP caps, but the kind with pressed shirts and neat haircuts. Some suggested they were the ones who’d sailed off in the boat, not the owners. But that was only local speculation.

  The report did also mention some effects that had been found on the beach near Lindelse Cove. Though they couldn’t say for sure, relatives thought they might belong to the missing couple.

  Carl looked through the whole list of effects for the first time: an empty thermal box with no distinctive labelling; a shawl; a pair of socks; and an earring consisting of two pieces. Amethyst and silver. With a little silver hook. To put through the earlobe and without any locking mechanism.

  Not a terribly detailed description, as one might expect from a male police constable, but it sounded like an exact replica of the earring in the little plastic pocket in front of Carl, right next to the two Trivial Pursuit cards.

  It was at this astonishing moment that Assad arrived, looking like the incarnation of someone who’d struck gold.

  He pointed at the rubber band in the bag next to the earring.

  ‘I’ve just learned that this type of rubber band was used at the pool at Bellahøj so you could see how long you’d been in the water.’

  Carl tried to rise to the surface. He was still far away in his thoughts. What could be as important as his truly incredible discovery concerning the earring?’

  ‘Those kinds of rubber bands were used everywhere, Assad. They still are.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But in any case, when they found Kåre Bruno smashed on the tiles, he’d lost his.’

  26

  ‘He’s waiting up at the front desk now, Carl,’ Assad said. ‘Would you like me here then, when he comes down?’