Mercy (36 page)

A lot of good that was going to do.

Back when Carl and his friends were young, they had sat here in T-shirts, looking like daddy-long-legs. Today the collective corpulence was twenty times greater. Now it was an excessively self-satisfied populace that came out to protest. The government had given them their opium: cheap cigarettes, cheap booze, and all kinds of other shit. If these people sitting on the grass disagreed with the government, the problem was only temporary. Their average lifespan was decreasing fast, and soon there wouldn’t be anybody left to get upset over having to watch healthier people’s sporting feats on Danish TV.

Oh yes, the situation was well under control.

A pack of journalists was already on the scene in the corridor.

When they saw Carl come out of the lift, they pushed and shoved at each other to make their questions heard.

‘Carl Mørck!’ shouted a reporter in front. ‘What do the doctors say about the brain damage sustained by Merete Lynggaard? Do you know?’

‘Has the deputy detective superintendent visited Merete Lynggaard before?’ asked another.

‘Hey, Mørck! What do you think about the job you did? Are you proud of yourself ?’

Carl turned towards the voice and looked right into the red-rimmed piggy eyes of Pelle Hyttested, while the other reporters stared daggers at the man, as if he were unworthy of their profession.

Which he was.

Carl answered a couple of the questions and then turned his attention inwards as the pressure in his chest got worse. No one had asked him why he was there. He didn’t even know himself.

Maybe he’d expected to see a bigger group of visitors on the ward, but aside from the nurse from Egely, who was sitting on a chair next to Uffe, there were no faces that he recognized. Merete Lynggaard was good material for the media, but as a human being she was just another patient case file. First, two weeks of intensive care provided by decompression doctors in the pressure chamber, followed by a week in the trauma centre. Then intensive care in the neurosurgical department, and now here in the neurology ward.

Waking her out of the coma was an experiment, said the ward’s head nurse when he asked. She admitted that she knew who Carl was. He was the one who had found Merete Lynggaard. If he’d been anyone else, she would have thrown him out.

Carl slowly approached the two seated figures that were drinking water from plastic cups. Uffe was using both hands.

Carl nodded to the nurse from Egely, not expecting anything in return, but she stood up and shook his hand. She seemed moved to see him, but didn’t say a word. She just sat down again and stared towards the door of the hospital room, her hand on Uffe’s arm.

There was obviously a lot of activity going on inside. Several doctors nodded to them as they strode back and forth, and after an hour a nurse came out to ask if they’d like some coffee.

Carl was in no hurry. Morten’s barbecue parties were always the same, anyway.

He took a sip of coffee and looked at Uffe’s profile as he sat quietly, watching the door. Occasionally a nurse would go by, blocking his view, but each time Uffe again fixed his eyes on the door. Not for a moment did he let it out of his sight.

Carl caught the eye of the Egely nurse and pointed at Uffe, asking her in silent pantomime how he was doing. She gave him a smile in return and shook her head slightly, which probably meant not bad but not good either.

It took a few minutes for the coffee to have an effect, and when Carl came back from the toilet, the chairs out in the hall were empty.

He went over to the door and opened it a crack.

It was completely quiet in the room. Uffe was standing at the end of the bed with the Egely nurse’s hand on his shoulder while the hospital nurse wrote down figures that were displayed on the digital instruments.

Merete Lynggaard was almost invisible as she lay there with the sheet pulled up to her chin and bandages around her head.

She seemed peaceful; her lips were parted, and her eyelids quivered faintly. The blood suffusion in her face was apparently starting to fade, but the overall impression was still worrisome. For one who had once looked so vital and healthy, she now seemed fragile and under threat. Her skin was a snowy white and paper thin, and there were deep hollows under her eyes.

‘It’s all right to go closer,’ said the nurse as she stuck her ballpoint pen in her breast pocket. ‘I’m going to wake her up again, but she might not react. It’s not just because of the brain damage and the time she’s spent in a coma; there are a lot of other factors. Her vision is still very poor in both eyes, and the blood clots have caused some paralysis and presumably major brain injuries as well. But it’s not as hopeless as it may seem at the moment. We believe that one day she’ll regain mobility; the big question is how much she’ll be able to communicate. The blood clots are gone now, but she still hasn’t spoken. Most likely the aphasia has permanently robbed her of the ability to speak. I think that’s something we all need to prepare ourselves for.’ She nodded to herself. ‘We don’t know what she’s thinking inside that head, but we can always hope.’

Then she went over to her patient and adjusted one of the many IV drips hanging over the bed. ‘All right. I think she’ll be with us in a moment. Just pull the cord if there’s anything you need.’ And then she left with her clogs clopping on the floor as she moved on to the next of many tasks.

All three of them stood silently looking down at Merete. Uffe’s face was utterly expressionless; the Egely nurse had a mournful look in her eyes. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if Carl had never got involved in this case.

A minute passed and then Merete very slowly opened her eyes, clearly bothered by the light from outside. The whites of her eyes were a reddish-brown network of veins, and yet the sight of her awake was enough to take Carl’s breath away. She blinked several times, as if trying to focus, but apparently without success. Then she closed her eyes again.

‘Go on, Uffe,’ said the nurse from Egely. ‘Why don’t you sit a while with your sister?’

He seemed to understand, because he went to get a chair and placed it next to the bed with his face so close to Merete’s that her breathing caused his blond fringe to flutter.

After he’d sat there watching her for a while, he lifted up a corner of the sheet so her arm was visible. Then he took her hand and sat there, his gaze quietly wandering over her face.

Carl took a couple of steps forward and stood next to the Egely nurse at the foot of the bed.

The sight of the silent Uffe holding his sister’s hand, face resting against her cheek, was very touching. At that moment he seemed like a lost puppy who, after restless searching had finally found his way back to the warmth and security of the other puppies in the litter.

Then Uffe moved his face slightly back, stared intently at Merete again, laid his lips against her cheek and kissed her.

Carl saw Merete’s body tremble slightly under the sheet, and how the display of her heart rhythm rose slightly on the ECG apparatus. He glanced at the next instrument. Yes, her pulse had also increased a bit. Then she uttered a deep sigh and opened her eyes. This time Uffe’s face shielded her from the light, and the first thing she saw was her brother, who sat there smiling at her.

Carl could feel his own eyes opening wide as Merete’s expression became more and more conscious. Her lips opened. Then they quivered. But there was a tension between the two siblings that simply wouldn’t allow contact. This became apparent as Uffe’s face grew darker and darker, as if he were holding his breath. Then he began rocking back and forth as whimpers formed in his throat. He opened his mouth; he seemed confused and under strain. He squeezed his eyes shut and let go of his sister’s hand as he raised his hands to his throat. No words came out, but it was clear that he was thinking them.

Then he let all the air out of his body and seemed about to fall back in his chair, having failed in what he wanted to accomplish. But then the sounds in his throat started up again, and this time they were not as gutteral.

‘Mmmmmmmmm,’ he said, panting hard with the effort. Then came ‘Mmmmmeme.’ Merete was now staring hard at her brother. There was no doubt that she knew who was sitting in front of her. Tears filled her eyes.

Carl gasped. The nurse standing next to him put her hands up to her mouth.

‘Mmmmeerete,’ finally burst out of Uffe after an enormous effort.

Even Uffe was shocked by the outpouring of sound. He was breathing hard, and for a moment his mouth fell open as the woman standing next to Carl began to sob and her hand sought his shoulder.

Then Uffe again reached for Merete’s hand.

He gripped it hard and kissed it. He was shaking all over, as if he’d just been pulled out of a hole in the ice.

All of a sudden Merete tipped back her head, her eyes wide and body tensed; and the fingers of her free hand curled into her palm as if in a cramp. Even Uffe recognized this change as something ominous, and the Egely nurse immediately pulled the cord to summon help.

A deep, dark moan issued from Merete’s lips, and then her whole body relaxed. Her eyes were still open, and she was looking at her brother. Another hollow sound came from her, almost as if she were breathing onto a cold windowpane. Now she was smiling. She seemed almost amused by the sounds she was making.

Behind them the door opened, and the nurse rushed in followed by a young doctor with a concerned expression. They stopped in front of the bed to watch Merete, who looked relaxed as she held her brother’s hand.

The doctor and nurse glanced inquiringly at all the instruments but apparently found nothing alarming, so they turned to the Egely nurse. They were just about to ask her a question when sound came out of Merete’s mouth again.

Uffe placed his ear close to his sister’s lips, but everyone in the room could hear it.

‘Thank you, Uffe,’ she said quietly, and looked up at Carl.

And Carl felt the pressure in his chest slowly fade.

Acknowledgements

A big thanks to Hanne Adler-Olsen, Henning Kure, Elsebeth Wæhrens, Søren Schou, Freddy Milton, Eddie Kiran, Hanne Petersen, Micha Schmalstieg and Karsten D. D. for their invaluable and thorough critiques. Thanks to Gitte and Peter Q. Rannes and the Danish Centre for Writers and Translators at Hald for providing the peace and quiet I needed during crucial periods while writing this book. Thanks to Peter H. Olsen and Jørn Pedersen for inspiration. Thanks to Jørgen N. Larsen for research, to Michael Needergaard for factual information about the effects of pressure chambers, and my thanks to K. Olsen and Police Commissioner Leif Christensen for correcting issues in the book related to police matters. Finally, a big thanks to my Danish editor, Anne Christine Andersen, for an exceptional collaboration.

Prologue

Yet another shot echoed over the treetops.

The shouts of the beaters were much clearer now. His pulse hammered against his eardrums, the damp air forced so fast and hard into his lungs that it hurt.

Run, run, don’t trip. I’ll never get up again if I fall. Fuck, fuck, why can’t I get my hands free? Run, damn it, run. Shhh … can’t let them hear me. Did they hear me? Is this it? Is this really how my life is going to end?

Branches slapped against his face, drawing streaks of blood, the blood mixing with sweat.

The men could be heard shouting all around him. Now the fear of death really seized hold.

A few more shots. Bullets whistled through the chill air, so close that the sweat poured out of him, settling like a compress under his clothes.

In a minute or two they’d catch him. His hands bound behind his back refused to obey. How could the tape be so damn strong?

With a flutter of wings, startled birds flew off over the crowns of the trees. The dancing shadows beyond the dense row of firs were even clearer now. Maybe only a hundred yards below. Everything was getting clearer. The voices. The bloodthirsty rage of the hunters.

How would they do it? A single shot, a single bolt from a crossbow, and it would be over? Was that it?

No, no, why would they settle for that? They’d never show any mercy, those bastards. That’s not how they were. They had their rifles and their filthy knives. He’d seen how effective their crossbows could be.

Where can I hide? Is there any place to hide? Can I make it back in time? Can I?

His eyes searched the forest floor, back and forth. Eyes almost blinded by the tape, but his legs kept up their stumbling pace.

Now I’m going to find out for myself what it feels like to be in their power. They won’t make an exception for me. That’s how they get their kicks. It’s the only way.

His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt.

1

She was practically walking a tightrope as she ventured along the pedestrian street called Strøget. With her face half-hidden by a mud-green shawl, she slipped past the glaring shop windows, her alert eyes scanning the street scene. It was a matter of recognizing people without being recognized herself. Being able to live with her demons in peace and leave everything else to the people rushing past. Leave the rest to those fucking bastards who wanted to harm her, and to those who shied away with a dead look in their eyes.

Kimmie glanced up at the street lamps that were sending an ice-cold sheen over Vesterbrogade. Her nostrils flared. Soon the nights would grow chilly. She had to get ready for winter hibernation.

She was standing near the crossing with a cluster of frozen people emerging from Tivoli, looking towards the main train station, when she noticed the woman in the tweed coat next to her. A pair of squinting eyes looked her up and down, then the woman wrinkled her nose and took a step away. Only an inch or two, but that was enough.

‘Don’t, Kimmie,’ a warning signal pulsed in the back of her head as the fury tried to take hold.

Her eyes moved down the woman’s body until they reached the calves of her legs – her stockings gleaming, her ankles taut in the high-heeled shoes. Kimmie noticed a treacherous smile curling the woman’s lips. With a good kick she could snap those heels in half. The woman would topple over backwards. She’d find out that even a Christian Lacroix suit would get dirty on a wet pavement. That would teach the bitch to mind her own business.

Kimmie looked up, right into the woman’s face. Heavy eyeliner, powdered nose, her hair meticulously cut, one strand at a time. Her expression rigid and dismissive. Oh yes, she knew the type better than most people did. She’d been there herself at one time. Among those arrogant, upper-class snobs with the gaping emptiness inside. That’s what her so-called women friends were like back then. That’s what her stepmother was like.

She despised them.

‘So do something,’ whispered the voices inside her head. ‘You don’t have to put up with this. Show her who you are. Come on!’

Kimmie stared at a group of dark-skinned boys across the street. If it hadn’t been for their roving eyes, she would have given the woman a shove just as the number 47 bus roared past. She pictured it so clearly: what a glorious bloodstain the bus would leave behind. What a shock wave the snooty woman’s smashed body would transmit through the crowd. What a delicious sense of justice.

But Kimmie didn’t push her. There was always a vigilant eye in a crowd of people, and there was also something inside holding her back. That terrible echo from long, long ago.

She held her sleeve up to her face and took in a deep breath. It was true, what the woman next to her had noticed. A horrible stench came from her clothes.

When the light turned green, she stepped on to the crossing with her suitcase bumping along behind on its crooked wheels. This was going to be its last trip because it was time to get rid of the old rags.

It was time to change her skin.

In the middle of the main hall of the train station a sign was posted in front of the Danish Railways kiosk displaying the day’s newspaper headlines and making life bitter for those who were in a hurry or blind. She’d seen the newspaper placards several times on her way through the city, and they made her sick with disgust.

‘That sonofabitch,’ she muttered as she passed the signs, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead. But then she did turn her head and caught a glimpse of the face on the
BT
tabloid placard.

The mere sight of that man made her shake all over.

Under the PR photo it said: ‘Ditlev Pram buying up private hospitals in Poland for 12 billion kroner.’ She spat on the tile floor and paused for a moment until her body’s reaction subsided. She hated Ditlev Pram. Him and Torsten and Ulrik. But one day she’d show them. Sooner or later there’d be hell to pay. Just wait.

She laughed out loud, making a passer-by smile. Yet another naive idiot who thought he knew what went on inside other people’s heads.

Then she stopped abruptly.

Up ahead she saw Ratty Tina in her usual spot. Bent over and rocking slightly, with filthy hands and drooping eyelids, spaced out, one arm extended, trusting that somewhere in this swarming anthill at least one person would be willing to give up a ten-krone coin. Only drug addicts could get themselves to stand in one place like that, hour after hour. Miserable wretches.

Kimmie slipped past behind her and headed straight for the stairs down to Reventlowsgade, but Tina saw her.

‘Hi! Hey, Kimmie! Wait up, damn it!’ she heard Tina snuffle behind her in a flash of lucidity. But Kimmie didn’t respond. In that huge open space, Ratty Tina wasn’t any good. It was only when they sat on a bench together that her brain managed to function at all.

On the other hand, she was the only person that Kimmie would even tolerate.

The wind whistling through the streets on that day was inexplicably cold, so everyone was hurrying home. That was why there were still five black Mercedes with their engines running in the queue of taxis on Istedgade outside the steps to the train station. She thought there was bound to be one left when she needed it. That was all she wanted to know.

She dragged her suitcase across the street to the basement Thai shop and set it next to the window. Only once had she had a suitcase stolen when she’d left it here. But she was sure it wouldn’t get stolen in this weather, when even the thieves were staying indoors. Besides, it really didn’t matter. There was nothing important inside.

She waited a scant ten minutes at Banegårdspladsen in front of the train station before she saw her pigeon. An extravagantly beautiful woman wearing a mink coat, her agile body not much bigger than a size 10, was removing a suitcase on solid rubber wheels from the boot of a hired car. Previously Kimmie had always looked for women who were a size 12, but that was years ago now. Living on the streets as a homeless person never made anyone fat.

Kimmie stole the suitcase while the woman was standing next to a ticket machine and getting her bearings in the entrance hall.

Then she strode towards the rear exit and was outside among the taxis on Reventlowsgade in no time.

Practice makes perfect.

There she loaded the stolen suitcase into the boot of the first taxi in the queue and asked the driver to take her for a little ride.

She pulled a thick bundle of hundred-krone bills out of her coat pocket. ‘I’ll give you another couple of hundred if you do what I say,’ she told him, ignoring his suspicious glance and quivering nostrils.

In about an hour they’d be back to get her old suitcase. By then she’d be dressed in new clothes, with another woman’s scent on her body.

And the taxi driver’s nostrils would be quivering for a whole different reason.