The Purity of Vengeance (40 page)

“My neighbor’s name is Nete Rosen,” the woman interrupted, full of mistrust. “It says so on the door.”

Nete took a deep breath. “Yes, I am sorry. Hermansen is my maiden name, you see. It’s the name I’ve reverted to. And that’s what’s on the door now.”

As the woman bent forward to peer at the evidence, Nete raised her eyebrows, brightening her countenance, endeavoring to appear trustworthy, as a proper neighbor should. But inside, desperation was tearing her apart.

“I’ll pay, of course,” she proffered, controlling her breathing and opening her purse to produce a twenty-kroner note.

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t any coffee beans,” the woman replied.

Nete forced a smile, thanked her, and turned back to her apartment. It would have to be the hammer.

“I do have some instant, though,” came the voice from behind.

 • • • 

“Be with you in a sec,” Nete called from the kitchen, as she poured milk into a little jug.

“Lovely place you’ve got here, Nete,” said Viggo from the doorway.

Nete almost dropped the coffee cup as he reached out to take it. He wasn’t supposed to have it yet. Not before she’d put the henbane in.

She held on to the cup and stepped past him.

“No, let me. Come in and sit down,” she said. “We’ve a lot to do before the lawyer gets here.”

She heard him lumber along behind her and pause in the doorway of the living room.

She glanced back at him and felt herself jump as he bent down toward the door’s bottom hinge to investigate something that seemed to be stuck there. She saw right away what it was. So that was where Tage’s jacket had been torn.

“What might that be?” he inquired with a smile, holding up the shred of cloth.

Nete shook her head slightly, then put the milk jug down on the sideboard next to the decanter of henbane extract. A couple of seconds later the coffee was spiked. The milk could come afterward.

“Would you like sugar?” she asked, turning to face him with the cup in her hand.

He was only a pace away. “Hope you didn’t tear a skirt or something?”

She stepped toward him, trying to look puzzled.

Then she laughed softly. “Goodness, no. Whoever would go about in something like that?”

He frowned, much to her concern.

Then he stepped into the light of the windows and considered the strip of material for a moment. Rather too long, rather too intensely.

The cup in her hand began to tinkle on its saucer.

He turned to face her, pinpointing the source of the sound.

“You seem nervous, Nete,” he said, noticing her trembling hand. “Anything the matter?”

“No, not at all. Why should there be?”

She put the cup down on the little table next to the armchair. “Sit down, Viggo. We need to talk about why I’ve asked you to come here today, and I’m afraid time is rather short. Drink your coffee and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.”

Would he ever stop pondering that piece of cloth?

He looked at her. “It seems to me you’re out of sorts, Nete. Am I right?” he asked, tipping his head to one side inquiringly as Nete gestured for him to take a seat.

Was it really that obvious? She would have to take better control of herself.

“Yes, well,” she replied. “I’m not in the best of health, as you know.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said without feeling, handing her the scrap of material. “I’d say that was a piece of someone’s breast pocket. How on earth would a piece of cloth from a breast pocket get stuck on the bottom hinge of a door?”

She took it in her hand and examined it more closely. What was she supposed to say?

“I think I do have an idea where it might be from, though it puzzles me, too.”

She looked up at him anxiously. What’s going on? How much does he know? she wondered.

Viggo frowned. “You seemed a bit surprised for a moment there, Nete.”

He took back the fragment of cloth and seemed almost to be gauging its weight in his hand, fixing his eyes on her as the furrows in his brow deepened. “I came half an hour early today, Nete. Stood under the chestnuts and had a couple of smokes while I waited. And do you know what I saw?”

She shook her head, but the lines on his forehead remained.

“I saw a fat man come waddling along in the cheapest-looking suit I’ve ever seen. And do you know what? I’d say it was the exact same material as this. Rather a coincidence, don’t you think? What’s more, he rang your entry phone. A man dressed in this very same cloth.” He held up the scrap in his hand. “Don’t you think that’s odd, Nete?”

He nodded as if to confirm his own suspicion. And then his expression changed. She realized his next question could be fatal.

“We were told to arrive on the dot today. Because of other appointments, your letter said. I took that to mean you were expecting other visitors. Was the man in this ugly suit one of them, by any chance? And if so, how come I didn’t see him leave again? He wouldn’t still be here, would he?”

It was clear to her that the slightest untoward reaction would provide him with the answer to his question, so all she did was smile, calmly getting to her feet and going out into the kitchen, where she opened the pantry, bent down to the toolbox, and took out the hammer.

She had no time to wrap it in a tea towel before he appeared behind her and repeated his question.

It was her signal. Seamlessly, she spun round and brought the hammer down hard against his temple with a loud crunch.

He sank to the floor, out cold. There wasn’t much blood. When she realized he was still breathing, she went back into the living room and fetched his coffee.

He spluttered slightly as she opened his mouth and poured the warm liquid inside him. But that was all.

For a moment she sat and looked at him. If only Viggo had never existed, everything would have been different.

But now he existed no more.

 • • • 

The shame and disgust at what she had witnessed that night at the Retreat weighed so heavily upon her that eventually Nete was unable to conceal it any longer.

Rita asked her a few times what was wrong, but Nete merely recoiled. Only in the darkness underneath her duvet when Nete was drifting away into sleep was there any contact between them. The kind of contact Rita demanded in return for her friendship.

As if Nete needed it any longer.

A single glance during the slaughtering was what gave her away.

Some of the field girls in overalls had brought one of the pigs up to the courtyard to be butchered, and Rita came out of the washhouse to see what was going on. Nete, too, appeared from inside to get some fresh air into her lungs. Rita noticed her presence and turned her head toward her, their eyes meeting across the yard amid the squeals of the distressed animal.

It was one of those days the sewing room had got Nete in the dumps. All she could do was sob, and her longing for a better life made her bitter and angry. Therefore the look she sent Rita was unguarded, and the look Rita gave in return was alert and full of mistrust.

“So, you are going to tell me what’s wrong,” Rita demanded in their room that night.

“You fuck men for cigarettes, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And I know what you use this for.” She plunged her hand under Rita’s mattress and pulled out the piece of wire Rita used to silence the alarm bell.

If Rita was at all capable of being shocked, she was now. “If I hear you’ve told anyone about this, you’ll pay.” She jabbed an index finger at her. “If you ever betray me or drop me in the shit, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life, understand?” she warned, eyes flashing with rage.

And so it came to be.

Rita made good on her threat, and the consequences proved immense for them both. Now, more than a quarter of a century later, Nete had finally exacted her revenge and Rita and Viggo sat dead in the airtight room of her apartment.

Twine around their waists and their sparkling eyes now sightless.

32

November 2010

Curt Wad was worried.
Ever since the police had been to see Herbert Sønderskov, Mie Nørvig, and Louis Petterson, everything seemed to be going wrong. The safety net they had meticulously established over a number of years was being unraveled faster than he had ever thought possible.

Curt had always been keenly aware that his activities demanded the utmost care and discretion, and for that reason he had felt convinced that as soon as any threat arose it would be a small matter for his people to nip it in the bud. What he had not envisaged was that events from a distant past would return to haunt him.

But what were these two policemen after? Something to do with a missing person, Herbert Sønderskov had said. Why on earth had he not questioned Herbert sufficiently on the matter while he had the chance? Was it a first sign of dementia? He certainly hoped not.

And now Herbert and Mie seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Herbert had not sent a single photo of where they were, as Curt had instructed him to, and his failure to comply could mean only one thing.

When it all boiled down, Curt ought to have seen it coming. He should have known that the officious little pen-pusher wouldn’t have the guts to do what was necessary when the time came.

He arrested his train of thought and shook his head. There he went again, letting his mind run away with him. He never used to succumb like that. He would have to keep himself in check. For who was to say Herbert hadn’t had the courage to do away with Mie? After all, there were so many other ways to end the problem for good, besides the method he had demanded. Perhaps one day the decomposed remains of Herbert and Mie would be found, hand in hand in a ditch by the side of a road. Was suicide not the best option in their case? The idea was by no means foreign to Curt himself, certainly not if this chaos should escalate and begin to approach closer to home. If it should come to that, he knew plenty of painless ways a person could shuffle off the coil.

What would it matter? He was an old man, and Beate was ill. His sons were well established and could look after themselves. Wasn’t the most important thing the Purity Party? Defeating debauchery and the degeneration that threatened Danish society? Was this not his life’s work? The party, and The Cause?

It was his moral obligation to continue safeguarding these values in the short time that was left to him. To see his work come to nothing would be almost like never having existed. Like leaving the world without progeny or having made his mark. All the ideas and visions would have been to no avail. All the risks and honorable ambitions would be in vain. It was a thought he found unbearable, and it readied him for battle. No means would be shunned to prevent these police investigations from blocking the path of the Purity Party into parliament. None.

That was why he now took precautions and set off the chain of text messages that compelled members of The Cause to follow up on the decision of the meeting after the national congress. Everything was to be burned! Files, referrals, correspondence, the lot! The documentation of fifty years of work was to go up in smoke that very day.

He had no cause for concern as regards his own archives. His files were safe in the strong room in the outbuilding. In the event of his death, there were instructions to Mikael as to what to do with them. He had taken care of it.

Elsewhere, he had set the incineration in motion, and a good thing, too, he told himself later that same Saturday afternoon as his landline phone rang.

It was Caspersen.

“I’ve spoken to our contact at Station City. He’s given us some details about the two detectives who were poking around at Nørvig’s place. Not encouraging, I’m afraid.”

He explained that Carl Mørck and his assistant, Hafez el-Assad, were attached to what was called Department Q at Police Headquarters. El-Assad was apparently not trained with the police, but was gifted with remarkable intuition, talked about in police districts throughout the capital region.

Curt shook his head. An Arab! How he despised the thought of a wog nosing about in his affairs. The very idea!

“According to our contact, Carl Mørck’s Department Q, or the Department for Cases Requiring Special Scrutiny, to use its more unsettling official title, may prove to be something of a threat. They specialize in cold cases and, though our contact was loath to admit it, the unit appears to be more efficient than most. The bright spot, however, is that they seem to work mostly on their own, so other departments are likely to be in the dark as to what they’re up to at any given time.”

The information threw Wad into a state of alert, not least the fact that the unit’s specialty was apparently digging around in dirt from the past.

Caspersen went on, explaining that he had inquired into how vulnerable these two men might be and had been told by the man from City that while Carl Mørck had the shadow of a somewhat nasty case hanging over him, a case that in its worst scenario could end up costing him a suspension, it now appeared to be in competent hands at Police HQ and for that reason would be difficult to manipulate from outside. Even if it were possible, it would take at least a week to effect a suspension, which was time they probably didn’t have. Alternatively, they might delve into Hafez el-Assad’s terms of employment and find something useful to them there, but that, too, would take time. Again, it was time they didn’t have.

Caspersen was right. If they were to act, they would have to do so now.

“Ask our man at City to e-mail me a couple of photos of them both,” Wad said, and then hung up.

The e-mail arrived within the hour. He opened it and studied the faces. Two men smirking as if the photographer had just cracked a stupid joke, but it could also have been arrogance. They were as different as night and day. Both of somewhat indeterminable age, though Carl Mørck was probably older than his assistant. He found it hard to tell with Arabs.

“You clowns are not going to stop us,” he said out loud, slapping the palm of his hand against the screen just as his secure mobile began to chime.