Carl reached for his phone. He pressed the number of the homicide chief, only to wind up with the misery-inducing voice of Ms. Sørensen instead.
“Very briefly, Ms. Sørensen,” he began, “how many cases-”
“Is that you, Mørck? Let me put you through to someone who doesn’t cringe at the mention of your name.”
One of these days he would make her a gift of some lethally poisonous animal.
“Hello, darling,” came the sound of Lis’s buoyant voice.
Thank Christ for that. Apparently, Ms. Sørensen was not entirely lacking in compassion.
“Can you tell me how many victims have actually been identified in these recent arsons? In fact, how many arsons have we got now, altogether?”
“The most recent, you mean? There are three, and we’ve barely established the identity of one of them.”
“Barely?”
“Well, we’ve got the first name from a medallion he was wearing, but apart from that we don’t actually know who he is. We might even be wrong on the first name.”
“OK. Tell me again where the fires were.”
“Haven’t you read the files?”
“Only sort of.” He exhaled sharply. “One of them was in Rødovre in 1995, I know that. And you’ve got, what…?”
“One last Saturday on Stockholmsgade, one the day after in Emdrup, and the last one so far in the Nordvest district.”
“Stockholmsgade? Sounds upmarket. Do you happen to know which of the buildings was most damaged?”
“Nordvest, I think. The address was Dortheavej.”
“Has any link been established between these fires? What about the owners? Renovation work? Neighbors noticing lights on in the night? Terrorism?”
“None, as far as I know. There’s loads of people on the case, though. You should ask one of them.”
“Thanks, Lis. And I would, but it’s not my case, is it?”
He added some resonance to his voice in the hope of making an impression, then dropped the folder back on the desk. Seems like they know what they’re doing, he thought to himself. But now there were voices in the corridor outside. Most likely those fucking sticklers from Health and Safety had come back to have another go at them.
“Yes, his office is just there,” he heard Assad’s traitorous voice croak.
Carl fixed his eyes on a fly buzzing around the room. If he timed it right, he might be able to swat it in the face of that obsequious worm from Health and Safety.
He positioned himself behind the door with the Rødovre folder raised at the ready.
But the face that appeared was one he had never seen before.
“Hello,” the visitor said, extending a hand. “Yding’s the name. Inspector. Copenhagen West, Albertslund.”
Carl nodded. “Yding? Would that be your first name or last?”
The man smiled. Maybe he wasn’t sure himself.
“I’m here about these latest arsons. It was me who assisted Antonsen in the Rødovre investigation in 1995. Marcus Jacobsen said he wanted to be briefed in person. He told me to have a word with you so you could introduce me to your assistant.”
Carl heaved a sigh of relief. “You just met him. He’s the one climbing about on the ladder out there.”
Yding narrowed his eyes. “The guy I just spoke to, you mean?”
“Yeah. Won’t he do? He took his exams in New York, then all sorts of special training with Scotland Yard in DNA and image analysis.”
Yding rose to the bait and nodded respectfully.
“Assad, come here a minute, will you?” Carl yelled, taking a sudden swat with the Rødovre folder at the fly.
He introduced Yding and Assad to each other.
“Are you finished putting those photocopies up?” he asked.
Assad’s eyelids drooped. Enough said.
“Marcus Jacobsen tells me the original file on the Rødovre case is with you,” said Yding as he shook Assad’s hand. “He said you’d know where it was.”
Assad pointed toward the folder in Carl’s hand at the same instant that Carl was about to have another go at the fly. “That’s it there,” he said. “Was that all?” He was most certainly not on form today. All that carry-on with Rose had put a damper on him.
“The chief was just inquiring about a detail I couldn’t quite recall. Do you mind if I have a quick look through the file?”
“Feel free,” said Carl. “We’re a bit busy here, so perhaps you’ll excuse us while you’re at it?”
He dragged Assad across the corridor and sat down at his desk beneath a poster showing some sandy ruin. It read Rasafa, whatever that was.
“Is that furnace of yours on the go, Assad?” he asked, pointing to the tea urn.
“You can have the last cup, Carl. I’ll make fresh for myself.” He smiled, his eyes lighting up in gratitude.
“As soon as What’s-his-face has cleared off again, you and I are going out, Assad.”
“Where to?”
“Nordvest. To see a building that’s been all but burned to the ground.”
“But that’s not our case, Carl. The others will be angry with us.”
“To begin with, maybe. But it’ll blow over.”
Assad looked anything but convinced. Then his expression changed. “I have found another letter in our message,” he announced. “And now I have a very bad suspicion, too.”
“You don’t say. What is it, then?”
“Now I won’t tell you. You will only laugh.”
That sounded like the best news he’d had all day.
“Cheers, thanks,” said Yding. He was poking his head around the door, his eyes fixed on the cup decorated with dancing elephants from which Carl was drinking. “I’ll pop this up to Jacobsen, if that’s all right with you?” He held up a couple of documents in his hand.
They both nodded.
“Oh, and by the way, I said I’d say hello from an acquaintance of mine. I bumped into him just now in the cafeteria. Laursen, from Forensics.”
“Tomas Laursen?”
“That’s him, yeah.”
Carl frowned. “But he won ten million in the lottery and packed it all in. Sick and tired of dead bodies, that’s what he used to say. What’s he doing here? Back in the bunny suit, is he?”
“Sadly, no. Forensics could certainly do with him. The only funny garment he’s got on now is an apron. He’s working in the cafeteria.”
“That’s a joke, right?” Carl pictured the brick shithouse of a rugby player in his mind’s eye. If the slogan on that apron didn’t say something masculine along the lines of BIG DADDY’S SWEAT RAG, it would be a comical sight indeed. “What happened? I thought he’d invested in companies all over the shop.”
Yding nodded. “He did. And got cleaned out. Bit of a downer, I’d say.”
Carl shook his head incredulously. That’s what you got for trying to be sensible. It was a good thing he didn’t have a penny himself.
“How long’s he been back?”
“About a month, so he said. Don’t you ever eat in the cafeteria?”
“Do I look like a half-wit? There are ten million stairs to that soup kitchen from down here. I suppose you noticed the lift’s out of order?”
The number of businesses and institutions that had not at some point been based somewhere along the six-hundred-meter stretch of tarmac that was Dortheavej could be counted on the fingers of one hand. At present, the street housed crisis support centers, a recording studio, a driving school, arts and cultural activity centers, ethnic associations, and lots more besides. A former industrial neighborhood, seemingly indomitable, unless razed to the ground as in the case of K. Frandsen Wholesalers.
The bulk of the clearance work had been completed in the yard, but the work of the investigation unit had barely begun. Several colleagues walked past without even a nod, but Carl wasn’t surprised. He took this to be a sign of envy, knowing deep down that it probably wasn’t. It didn’t matter, because he didn’t give a shit.