Life and Limb (31 page)

L
ife was ultimately very simple: it was a question of right and wrong.

The problem arose when while en route to what was obviously right, you had to take a detour through something wrong.

Janos Kempinski stared out at Vejle Fjord and the yachts. Then he looked at his watch. She had been in there for a long time now, he thought. He hoped everything was all right.

He tried not to think about what could go wrong, but the feeling that he would be struck down through Lena's misfortune was hard to shrug off. How much did he really know about what was awaiting her? He had practically pushed her into having this surgery without giving her a choice. How responsible was it to subject her to a procedure where, to be brutally honest, the transplant material hadn't been sourced through authorised channels?

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and shut out the voices in the waiting room. It looked like rain and he was pleased he wasn't spending his summer holiday on a boat. But, then again, why wouldn't he? Fresh air. Green waves. It was better than standing here feeling like a goldfish in a bowl, a helpless victim of his own emotions.

Kempinski tried with all his might to divert his thoughts to safe topics such as the weather and sailing. But the distance from sailing to golf was short, and again he felt like an idiot at Torben Smidt's ridiculous notion that Palle Vejleborg had invited him, Janos, to play golf. As if he would ever join in any social activity with an intellectual underachiever unworthy of the medical oath.

He had always had a bad feeling about Vejleborg, right from their time as medical students. He had never really respected him.

Sweat started running from his forehead down his face. Smidt's words echoed in his ears. What was it he had said about their previously unexercised power of prioritising patients' order on the waiting list?
One day we'll have to face that decision. Or a personal dilemma of a similar nature. When it happens, it'll be interesting to see if theory and practice turn out to be one and the same.

Kempinski had said it was a dangerous, slippery slope to allow the good, productive citizen to jump the queue ahead of the criminal and the tax evader. He still believed that. But was it the same thing? Was it in the same category as wanting to save your beloved from going blind?

He breathed out with relief and watched the window steam up. Love made all the difference. Love conquered all – that was his new motto, and it felt so good and so human. One had to distinguish between doing something criminal or at least unethical for social reasons, as Hitler had claimed to be doing when slaughtering Jews, and then acting out of love for another human being.

The former could go disastrously wrong; the desire behind the latter, though, had nothing to do with saving the world or anything else that might be diagnosed as megalomania. He had taken action not to benefit himself but to benefit Lena. That was selfless, wasn't it? And surely that made it justifiable? Surely this human factor proved that ultimately humans weren't robots?

‘There you are.'

A hand was placed on his shoulder. ‘Penny for your thoughts?'

He turned around. A satisfied smile played on Vejleborg's lips. It was a little too smug.

‘How did it go?'

‘Fine. No problems.'

The hand pressed on his shoulder and guided him out of the waiting room. ‘We'll let her rest for a while and you can see her later. In the meantime, perhaps the two of us should have a bite to eat and a little chat.'

Vejleborg looked at his watch.

‘I'm starving. Don't you always feel hungry after surgery? Doesn't it give you a great feeling of having achieved something?'

The nausea started to tingle at the base of Janos's throat at the same time as his professional pride started to rear its head. He wanted to protest that his work was being compared with that of a criminal, but the man now possessed unfortunate knowledge about him and he needed to be friendly.

‘Absolutely. A spot of lunch would be great,' he said, thinking he wouldn't be able to swallow a mouthful.

‘Come on. I know a little place. We'll take my car.'

‘But Lena …'

The hand pressed on his shoulder again.

‘She needs to rest for an hour or two. No “buts”. Lunch is on me. It's the least I can do.'

Before he knew it, Kempinski was sitting in the passenger seat of Vejleborg's shiny new BMW, and within minutes they had parked the car and entered a restaurant where they were clearly expected. A waiter showed them to a window table, again with a view of the fjord. The menu was exclusive and exorbitant. He didn't even dare look at the wine list, but Vejleborg wouldn't take no for an answer.

‘Just a small glass. We deserve it.'

‘But I'm driving.'

‘Nonsense. We're in no hurry. It'll have evaporated before you leave, I promise you.'

The wine and food arrived, and both were exquisite. Kempinski sipped his wine and mostly drank water. He knew what was coming and he felt like a deer on the first day of hunting season. He needed to handle the situation with skill – but how?

He waited. They were enjoying the cheese when Vejleborg wiped his mouth with a serviette and launched himself.

‘I suppose we ought to sort out the bill. Just to keep the record straight.'

‘Of course,' Kempinski said quickly. ‘Your fee. Just let me know the amount and I'll transfer it.'

‘Cash, please. If possible.'

This was said in a hushed voice. Kempinski looked around. They were almost the only customers in the restaurant and it felt ridiculous to whisper as if they were in some sort of Mafia film.

‘Cash it is, if you prefer.'

‘However, there is something else I would prefer, and I think you know what it is. I'm sure Torben has mentioned it.'

‘Hmm?'

Kempinski tried to look ignorant but wasn't sure that he had succeeded. There was a hint of irritation in Vejleborg's voice.

‘Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Janos. My daughter, Marie. She's on your waiting list. She'll die if she doesn't get a new kidney soon.'

Kempinski looked him in the eye. He tried to remain calm, although inside the world had started spinning around with ominous speed.

‘I'm very sorry for your daughter. And for you and your wife. But I'm sure you know that.'

‘Oh, spare me your righteousness. Torben's already told me you would be trouble.'

‘Surely you haven't told him about Lena? That would be unethical.'

Vejleborg's smile was cold.

‘Oh yes, that would be awkward, wouldn't it,' he said. ‘
Wake up!
I think that must have been the old Janos speaking. Where is the new Janos, the man who is embracing life for the sake of love? Love makes the world go round, isn't that what they say?'

‘Money,' Kempinski corrected him, realising too late that he had walked into a trap.

‘Precisely. You've got it in one! But even so …'

The other man leaned towards him. Tiny droplets of saliva hit Kempinski as Vejleborg said, ‘Don't forget I'm doing it for love, too. I love my daughter. I want her to live. Is that a crime?'

Kempinski shook his head.

‘Not at all. And that's not what I'm saying.'

‘Then help me. The same as I helped you!'

‘It's impossible.'

‘Torben says it isn't.'

‘Can't we settle this with cash?'

He heard the pleading in his own voice and despised himself. He had to get out of here, and it couldn't happen fast enough. But where would he go? The thought that Torben Smidt was now a co-conspirator was almost unbearable. It could be the end of him. The end of his career.

‘Name your price and I'll pay you cash.'

‘Two hundred thousand kroner.'

He said it nonchalantly, as if asking for a shopping receipt in a department store.

‘But that's blackmail,' Kempinski blurted.

‘Call it what you like. I'm not proud, unlike some others.'

Kempinski sat for a while as the truth dawned on him. He tried to analyse it objectively and work out his options. Yes, he had something to hide. But Vejleborg had even more secrets that would not bear close scrutiny. It struck him how little it took to make a person think and act like a criminal.

‘Where do you get the corneas from? What guarantee do I have that Lena will get better and that the quality is good?'

Vejleborg made an open handed gesture.

‘You have my word.'

‘Where are they from?' Kempinski repeated. ‘From abroad? From Indian parents who sell their children's corneas so that they can eat?'

He got up and tossed his napkin on the table. ‘I'm going. I'll pick up Lena and we'll be off. And you have to promise me that she'll recover.'

Vejleborg smiled again.

‘There are no guarantees in this life, Janos – when will you learn that?'

‘You'll get your money. Two hundred thousand! And I bet you'll want more next month. Is that how it works? Is Smidt in on it?

Vejleborg shook his head. He appeared to find the situation extremely comical.

‘Now calm down, Janos, and sit down. Let's go back to being friends. Let's go back to the beginning. We can work it out, you and I. Can't we?'

Kempinski stood still as the world continued to spin. His insides writhed and he was sweating profusely. He got his breathing under control. And the rest of his body.
What had he done?

Then he sat down.

‘I
saw you with your boyfriend,' Peter Boutrup said by way of greeting. ‘Fit guy. Nice arse. He would be popular back where I come from. But isn't he a bit young for you, Mum?'

His smile was sardonic. Calling her Mum was laden with so many insinuations, and none of them loving.

She sat down next to the couch where he was reclining during the dialysis.

‘I may not be able to be a donor. My blood pressure is too high.'

She said it as carefully as she could and at that moment wished she could have given him a different message. She wondered if she was getting used to his hard shell. Was there still a part of her that saw his human side, the part he hid so well?

At first he gave a look of astonishment, then he threw back his head and laughed.

‘Pull the other one. That's the usual excuse. I have it from a reliable source.'

He fell silent and fixed her with his eyes.

‘You've got cold feet. You're scared.'

She pulled out the blood pressure monitor from her bag and showed it to him.

‘They want me to check my blood pressure over the next couple of days. We can only hope it was just one bad reading. I'm choosing to tell you the truth here. You're a man who can handle the truth, aren't you?'

He didn't reply. He simply stared at her as she stared at him and she knew it was no use trying to get beneath the shell. Especially not now.

‘Bay's girlfriend has gone missing, as I'm sure you know.'

He nodded.

‘The black girl. I saw the photo. Real hottie, if you ask me.'

‘What I'm asking you is if you want to help me save her. I guess you've heard that Bay is dead? It was me who found him.'

He punched the air with his fist.

‘Dicte Svendsen. Always on the spot!'

‘The girlfriend might still be alive. But we don't know where she is and this is your chance to help. Wouldn't you like to try doing someone a favour instead of putting a bullet in their back?'

She was taking risks now; his eyes told her so.

‘What do you know about good and evil?' he said softly. ‘You gave me to strangers without a second thought.'

His unfairness enraged her. She tried to control herself but failed.

‘And what would you know about giving up a child?' she exploded. ‘What would you know about being sixteen years old and pregnant and knowing that you're about to lose everything: your child, your family, your life?'

She ignored his condescending smile.

‘You say you don't want feelings and I promised you I wouldn't impose. But it's blatantly obvious that feelings have got a hold over you. Your fate has embittered you. You feel sorry for yourself and you blame me. Go on, wallow all you like! But you're taking it out on an innocent person here.'

‘You can't possibly be my son,' she said, jabbing a finger at him. Maybe provocation was the only way forward. ‘My son wouldn't be such a crybaby. My son would be a man and do the right thing. My son wouldn't let others suffer if he knew a way to help them.'

‘But the DNA test was positive,' he said, grinning. ‘I
am
your son. You've created a monster, you and your lover, whoever he was. Isn't that a twist of fate?'

He took her hand and pressed it against his cheek in a parody of an affectionate gesture. She wanted him to stop.

‘Mummy dearest,' he purred as he pressed her palm against the coarse stubble on his soft skin. Once, years ago, she had felt his skin and cradled him. But she didn't want him now. Her stomach rebelled. Her entire body rebelled. She pulled her hand away.

‘You're right about one thing,' she said. ‘You
are
a monster. You don't deserve a kidney.'

She didn't mean it, but he had a way of bringing out the worst in her. ‘And it hasn't even occurred to you that you could ask me for something else. If you really want to do a deal, I've got something else to offer, you know. I can go farther.'

He smiled his gentle smile.

‘Nice one. You can go
father
! Haha.'

‘We can exchange names,' she offered, because bargaining was all he was willing to do, and if she couldn't help him at least she might be able to help someone else. ‘Your father's name in return for the name of your cellmate. Don't you understand? If we don't find Kiki, she and many others will die with her.'

Again she pointed a finger at him.

‘There are people out there who will die from infections and other diseases because they've been given untested tissue. We've no way of knowing how many people have died already.'

He tilted his head back and looked up as if he found the ceiling panels particularly interesting. But she knew he was listening.

‘I visited an undertaker's. Marius Jørgensen & Sons in Vestergade. They've got a back room that looks like a pathologist's wet dream. Steel table, saw, butcher's knife, prosthetic eyes – you name it. That was where Mette Mortensen was killed. That was where they removed her bones and cut out her corneas.'

She reached out and shook him. He was asking for it. He probably even wanted her to do it and she had walked right into it.

‘Give me a name and you can save Kiki from the same fate.'

He looked at her. Then he sat up as far as the tubes connecting his body to the machine would allow him and, before she had time to back away, he planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘You're so sweet when you're angry, Mum.'

He lay down again. He was clearly tired.

‘You can go now.'

She stared at him. Contempt and reluctance fought with a touch of tenderness and grief at what they didn't have and never would have.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘I do feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you in so many ways.'

She took her bag, walked out and didn't look back.

Bo asked no questions and simply walked her to the car with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She wanted to tell him everything, except it was stuck inside her like a cork and refused to come out. They drove back in silence to the office, where Holger Søborg looked disappointed at being stripped of his temporary editor role.

‘I don't know where I am on this rag these days,' he said moodily.

Dicte gave him her most endearing smile while Bo made coffee in the kitchenette. Helle, Cecilie and Davidsen typed away at their keyboards, read rival newspapers or conducted telephone interviews with haughty expressions on their faces.

‘You could always leave. Pursuing new challenges, isn't that what it's called?'

The sound of hope in her voice must have given her away because Søborg grinned.

‘You'd like that, Svendsen, wouldn't you. Oh, no. I'm not going to make it easy for you.'

‘I thought not,' she muttered and started going through her inbox, still with the morning's main event echoing in her mind.

Bo entered with a mug of hot coffee.

‘Decaffeinated,' he said, offering it to her.

‘Whatever next? A cinnamon whirl with no sugar or cinnamon?'

Bo smiled. ‘Possibly. It might be a good idea to experiment with new ingredients.'

‘Watch it or I might start experimenting with
your
ingredients,' she said, letting her gaze glide up and down his body.

He grinned happily.

‘You're very welcome.'

Her landline rang.

‘Dicte Svendsen.'

‘Kim Deleuran,' said the voice on the other end, Peter Boutrop's. ‘Bay would visit him from time to time. They were like brothers in those days, if you know what I mean.'

‘What does he look like?'

‘Very tall and very thin.'

‘Why was he in jail?'

‘GBH.'

‘And what did he say? What makes you think he's mixed up with Mette's murder?'

Boutrup's laughter was dry and unfeeling.

‘Inside, between the walls, the past becomes a sport. He and I were inside long enough to start boasting of our achievements, including those we should have kept quiet about. Possibly also a few that we made up.'

‘And what did he tell you?'

‘He told me about Kosovo and Poland. He also hinted at the business they had going. I thought he was just bragging until I saw your story several months later.'

She had so many more questions to ask him, but he hung up before she could even thank him. It wasn't until later that she realised he hadn't asked her to keep her end of the bargain.