Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
He opened it, walked about ten yards and found himself in a hellish, tropical humidity that immediately made his armpits drip.
‘Is anyone here?’ he called out in twenty-second intervals, on his wanderings through a land of aquariums and lizards. Then deeper into a paradise of birdsong arising from hundreds and hundreds of cages in a hall the size of an average supermarket.
He didn’t find a human being until he was in the fourth hall, among cages housing mammals big and small. It was a man focused on scrubbing an enclosure large enough to house a lion or two.
When Carl drew closer he scented the sharp undertone of a predator in the sickly sweet air. So maybe it
was
a lion’s cage.
‘Excuse me,’ Carl said softly, but apparently so heart-attack-inducing that the man in the cage dropped both his bucket and broom.
He stood there in a sea of soapy water, rubber gloves up to his elbows, and looked at Carl as if he had come to tear him to pieces.
‘Excuse me,’ Carl said again, now with his badge thrust out. ‘Carl Mørck, from Department Q at police headquarters. I ought to have called in advance, but I was in the neighbourhood.’
The man was most likely between sixty and sixty-five years old, with white hair and large crow’s feet around the eyes that had no doubt been chiselled there through the years by the delight he took in working with small, furry, baby animals. Just now, however, he seemed less than delighted.
‘Big cage to clean,’ Carl said, to soften him up. He felt the mirror-smooth steel bars.
‘Yes, but it has to be picture-perfect. It’s to be delivered to the firm’s owner tomorrow.’
Carl explained the nature of his errand in a backroom where the animals’ presence didn’t seem quite so intense.
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Of course I remember Kimmie very well. She helped build this place up, you know? I think she was with us close to three years – the same years that we were expanding to become an import and procurement centre.’
‘Procurement centre?’
‘Yes. If a farmer in Hammer has a place with forty llamas or ten ostriches that he’d like to get rid of, then we enter the picture. Or when mink farmers want to switch to raising chinchillas. Small zoos contact us, too. We actually employ both a zoologist and a veterinarian.’ Then the crow’s feet appeared. ‘We’re northern Europe’s largest wholesaler in every type of certified animal. So we get everything from camels to beavers. That was something Kimmie got started, in fact. She was the only one at the time with the necessary animal expertise.’
‘She was a trained veterinarian, is that right?’
‘Yes, well, almost. And she had a good commercial
background, so she could evaluate the animals’ origins, the trade routes and all the paperwork.’
‘Why did she quit?’
He tilted his head from side to side. ‘Well, it was a long time ago, but when Torsten Florin began to shop here, something changed. Apparently, they already knew each other. And then she met another man through him, I think.’
Carl watched the pet-shop manager. He seemed reliable. Good memory. Well organized. ‘Torsten Florin? The fashion mogul?’
‘Yes, him. He’s exceedingly interested in animals. In fact, he’s our best customer.’ He tilted his head again slowly sideways. ‘That’s an understatement today because he owns a majority stake in Nautilus, but back then he came in as a customer. A very pleasant and successful young man.’
‘I see. He must really be interested in animals.’ Carl looked across the landscape of cages. ‘They already knew each other, you say. How did you know?’
‘Well, I wasn’t present when Florin came here the first time. They must have said hello when he was about to pay. She was in charge of that. But in the beginning she didn’t seem especially excited about seeing him again. I really can’t say what happened later.’
‘The man you mentioned, the one Torsten Florin knew, was it Bjarne Thøgersen? Do you recall?’
He shrugged. Evidently he didn’t remember.
‘She moved in with him in September 1995, you know,’ Carl said. ‘I’m sure she worked here at that time.’
‘Hmm. Maybe. She never talked about her private life, actually.’
‘Never?’
‘No. I didn’t even know where she lived. She handled her own personnel forms, so I can’t help you with that.’
The manager stood in front of a cage where a pair of tiny, deep-set, dark eyes was looking at him with fervent trust. ‘This one is my favourite,’ he said, and removed a monkey the size of his thumb. ‘My hand is its tree,’ he said, holding it up in the air as the Lilliputian creature clung to two of his fingers.
‘Why did she stop working at Nautilus? Did she give a reason?’
‘I think she just wanted to move on with her life. No particular reason. You know what I mean?’
Carl exhaled so loudly that the monkey sought refuge behind the fingers. To hell with all these questions and to hell with this line of interrogation.
So he put on his mask of annoyance. ‘I think you know why she quit, so would you be so kind as to tell me?’
The man put his hand into the cage and let the little ape disappear into the deep.
Then he turned to Carl. All that snow-white hair and beard didn’t help him seem friendly any more; now it seemed more like a crowning halo of unwillingness and defiance. Though his face was still soft, his eyes were hardening. ‘I think you should leave now,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to be obliging. You’ve no right to accuse me of standing here feeding you lies.’
So that’s how you want to play it
, Carl thought, smiling his most patronizing smile.
‘I was just wondering,’ he said. ‘When was a business like this last inspected? Don’t these cages seem awfully
close together? And is the ventilation system all in order? How many of your animals actually die during transportation? Or here?’ He began staring into the cages one at a time, where small, frightened bodies sat, breathing rapidly in the corners.
Now the pet-shop manager smiled, displaying a fine set of dentures. It was clear that for all he cared Carl could say whatever he wished. Nautilus Trading A/S had nothing to worry about.
‘You want to know why she quit? Then I think you should ask Florin. After all, he’s the boss here!’
It was a lethargic Saturday evening, and the radio news gave equal attention to the birth of a tapir in Randers Rainforest and the Conservative Party chairman’s threat to abolish the new county delineations he himself had demanded be established.
Carl punched in a number on his mobile, glanced across the water at the sunbeams reflected on the surface, and thought,
Thank God there’s still something they can’t mess with.
Assad picked up at the other end. ‘Where are you, boss?’
‘I just crossed Zealand’s Bridge on the way to Rødovre High School. Is there anything special I should know about this Klavs Jeppesen?’
When Assad was thinking, one could actually hear it. ‘He’s frust, Carl. That’s the only thing I can say.’
‘Frust?’
‘Yes. Frustrated. He sounds slow, but that’s probably just emotions blocking the free word.’
The free word? Next Assad will be waxing lyrical about the ‘light wings of thought’.
‘Does he know why I’m coming?’
‘More or less, yes. Rose and I have been working on the list the entire afternoon, Carl. She would like to talk to you about it then.’
He was about to protest, but Assad was gone.
So was Carl, in a way, once Rose set her acid tongue in motion.
‘Yes, we’re still here,’ she said, shaking Carl out of his train of thought. ‘We’ve been studying this list all day and I think we’ve pinpointed something we can use. Would you care to hear it?’
What the hell did she think?
‘Yes, please,’ he said, almost missing the left-turn lane towards Folehaven.
‘Do you recall the case on Johan’s list with the couple who disappeared on Langeland?’
Did she think he was suffering from dementia, or what?
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Good. They were from Kiel, and they vanished. Some effects were found near Lindelse Cove that could have belonged to them, but it was never proven. I’ve been tinkering around with the case a little.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I found their daughter. She lives in her parents’ house in Kiel.’
‘And?’
‘Take it easy, Carl. Surely someone who’s done such damn fine police work is allowed to draw the story out a bit?’
He hoped she couldn’t hear his deep sigh.
‘Her name is Gisela Niemüller, and she’s actually rather shocked by how the case was handled in Denmark.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The earring. Do you remember that?’
‘Come on, Rose, for Christ’s sake. We were just talking about it this morning.’
‘About twelve years ago she contacted the Danish police and told them she could now identify with absolute certainty the earring found near Lindelse Cove as her mother’s.’
At this point Carl was as close as humanly possible to torpedoing a Peugeot 106 with four noisy young men inside. ‘What?’ he shouted, as he slammed on the brakes. ‘One moment,’ he continued, pulling to the side of the road. ‘She couldn’t identify it back then, so how could she now?’
‘The daughter had been at a party with some relatives in Albersdorff, in Slesvig, and she’d seen some old photographs of her parents at a family gathering. And what do you think her mother was wearing in the photos? Just asking.’ She emitted a pleasure-filled growl. ‘Yes, the earrings, damn it!’
Carl closed his eyes and clenched his fists. ‘Yes!’ his brain screamed. Exactly how test pilot Chuck Yeager must have felt the first time he broke the sound barrier.
‘I’ll be damned.’ He shook his head. It was a major breakthrough. ‘Hell’s bells. Terrific, Rose. Terrific. Did you get a copy of the photograph showing the mother with the earring?’
‘No, but she says that she sent it to the Rudkøbing Police around 1995. I’ve talked to them, and they say all the old archives are in Svendborg now.’
‘She didn’t send the original to them, did she?’ He prayed she hadn’t.
‘Yes, she did.’
Bloody hell. ‘But she probably kept her own copy. Or a negative. Or someone has it, don’t you think?’
‘No, she didn’t think so. That was one of the reasons she was so angry. She’s never heard back from them.’
‘You’ll call Svendborg right away, won’t you?’
She let out a noise that sounded mocking. ‘You evidently don’t know me very well, Mr Deputy Detective Superintendent.’ Then she slammed down the phone.
In less than ten seconds he’d phoned back.
‘Hi, Carl,’ came Assad’s voice. ‘What did you tell her? She looks strange.’
‘Never mind, Assad. Just tell her that I’m proud of her.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now, Assad.’
Assad lay down the receiver.
If
the photo of the missing woman’s earring was now found in the Svendborg Police archives, and
if
an expert could guarantee that the earring found on the beach near Lindelse Cove matched the one he’d found in Kimmie’s stashed metal box and that they were, in fact, the same pair of earrings as in the photograph,
then
they’d have a case. They’d have enough to go to trial. Jesus Christ, they were holding the right end of the stick now. It had taken twenty years, but nevertheless, Florin, Dybbøl Jensen and Pram were going to be dragged through that long, tenacious process known as the mucky machinations of justice. They just needed to find Kimmie first; after all, he’d found the box at her place. Tracking her down was no doubt easier said than done, and her junkie friend’s death didn’t exactly make it easier. But she
had
to be located.
‘Yes,’ Assad said suddenly, on the other end of the line. ‘She was pleased. She called me her little sand worm.’ He laughed so that it grated in Carl’s ear.
Who but Assad would take such a clear insult with such good humour?
‘But, Carl, I don’t have good news like Rose,’ he said, after his laughter had subsided. ‘You shouldn’t count on Bjarne Thøgersen being willing to talk to us any more. Then what then?’
‘Did he refuse to let us visit? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘In a way that could not be misunderstood then.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Assad. Tell Rose that she has
got
to get hold of that photograph. Tomorrow is our day off, and
that’s
a promise.’
Carl glanced at his watch as he turned up Hendriksholms Boulevard. He was early, but maybe that was OK. In any event, this Klavs Jeppesen seemed like someone who would rather be too early than too late.
Rødovre High School was a collection of compressed boxes stacked on the asphalt, a chaos of buildings that ran into each other and had probably been expanded many times during the years when a high-school education was taking root among the working class. A walkway here, a gymnasium there, new and old yellow-brick boxes that were supposed to upgrade the privileges of suburban youths to the level north-coast kids had been elevated to long ago.
By following the arrows directing him towards the alumni’s ‘Lasasep’ party, he managed to find Klavs Jeppesen outside the assembly hall, his arms full of packages of paper napkins and in conversation with a couple of quite pretty, older students of the opposite sex. He was a nice-looking guy, but dressed in that vapid way of his profession, with
a corduroy jacket and full beard. He was a high-school teacher with a capital ‘H’.
He released his audience with an ‘I’ll see you later’, spoken in a tone of voice that signalled a free-range bachelor, and led Carl down to the teachers’ staffroom where other graduates were chatting nostalgically.
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ Carl asked, and was told that his pidgin-speaking colleague had explained things to Jeppesen.
‘What do you want to know?’ Jeppesen asked, gesturing for Carl to take a seat in one of the staffroom’s aged designer chairs.
‘I want to know everything about Kimmie and the gang she associated with.’
‘Your colleague implied that the Rørvig case has been resumed. Is that true?’
Carl nodded. ‘And we have strong reason to suspect that one or more of this gang are also guilty of other assaults.’