Well-endowed? Did he really say that?
Carl scratched his cheek. “What more can you say about this, Laursen? Was there anything else?”
“Well, I can’t tell whether the person who wrote it is right- or left-handed, which is quite unusual in cases where the paper is as porous as this. Usually, you can pick out raised areas all going in a certain direction. For that reason we might assume that the letter was written under difficult circumstances. Perhaps against an uneven surface, or with hands that were tied. Maybe just by someone unpracticed in writing. Besides that, my bet is that the paper was used to wrap fish in. As far as I can see, it’s got traces of slime all over it, most likely from a fish. We know the bottle was watertight, so it won’t be from having been in the sea. As for those shadowy areas there, I’m not sure. It could be nothing. Mold, perhaps, or more probably just stains from being inside the bottle.”
“Interesting! What about the message itself? Do you think it’s worth pursuing, or is it simply some prank?”
“A prank?” Laursen retracted his upper lip to reveal two slightly crossed front teeth. It did not mean he was laughing, but simply that whoever was listening would do well to prick up his ears. “I can see indentations in the paper showing the handwriting to be rather unsteady. The splinter we’ve got here drew a narrow, rather deep scratch across the paper until it broke off. In places it’s so sharply done you’d think it was a groove on a vinyl LP.” He shook his head. “So no, definitely not a prank. It looks more like it was written by someone whose hand was shaking. Again due to the circumstances, perhaps, but conceivably because the person was scared to death. So my instinct says yes, this is serious. Of course, you can never tell for sure.”
At this point, Assad interrupted. “When you look so close at the letters and the scratches, can you see more letters?”
“One or two, maybe. But only up to where the point breaks off the writing instrument.”
Assad handed him a copy of the message he and Rose had blown up and stuck to the wall in the corridor.
“Will you not then write the ones you think are missing here?” he said.
Laursen nodded and placed the magnifying glass against the original letter once again. After studying the first couple of lines for another few minutes, he said: “Well, this is my take on it, without putting my head on the block.”
And then he added figures and letters of the alphabet, so that the first lines of the message now ran:
HELP
.he.6 febrary 1996 w… k…naped… got.s.t the.us sdop on.aut.opv… i. Bal… u.-T… man… 18. t.ll…h…r. hair
They stood for a moment and considered the result until Carl broke their silence.
“February 1996! That means the bottle was in the sea for six years before it got caught up in that net.”
Laursen nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure about the year, but the nines were back to front.”
“That’d be why the Scots couldn’t work it out.”
Laursen shrugged. Maybe.
Beside them, Assad stood frowning.
“What’s up, Assad?” Laursen asked.
“It is just as I thought. Very bad shit, indeed,” he sighed, indicating three of the words.
Carl scrutinized the letter.
“If we cannot find more characters in the last part of the letter, then our job will be very, very difficult,” Assad went on.
And now Carl saw what he meant. Of all people on earth, it had fallen to Assad to recognize the full extent of the problem. A man who had lived in the country for no more than a few years. No one would credit it.
Febrary, kidnaped and bus sdop.
Whoever wrote the letter couldn’t spell.
11
They hardly heard a peep from Yrsa in Rose’s office. It was a good sign indeed. If she carried on like that, they could send her off home again in a couple of days and Rose would have to come back.
They needed the money, Yrsa had said.
Since the archive contained no information about any kidnapping in February 1996, Carl went back to the arson file and called up Antonsen, the superintendent out in Rødovre. Rather go to an old hand than an office boy like Yding. Why on earth the useless oaf hadn’t made a note in the report about the financial state of the arson-hit Rødovre company was beyond his comprehension. In Carl’s opinion it was tantamount to dereliction of duty. Moreover, the gas company had told them they had turned off the mains, so how come the place went up like it did? As long as questions like these were left dangling, anyone with a brain could see they were dealing with a possible murder, and in that case everything had to be considered.
“Well, here’s a turnup for the books,” said Antonsen when Carl’s call was put through. “To what do we owe the honor of speaking to Carl Mørck himself, expert in blowing dust off antique case files?” he chuckled. “Have you found out who did away with the Grauballe Man?”
“Yeah, and we’ve nailed Jack the Ripper, too,” Carl rejoined. “What’s more, we might have one of your own cases cleared up soon. Looks that way, at least.”
Antonsen laughed. “I know what you’re getting at, I spoke to Marcus Jacobsen only yesterday,” he replied. “You’ll be wanting to know about that fire in 1995, I suppose. Haven’t you read the report?”
Carl repressed the urge to splutter some invective, knowing too well that Antonsen would respond in kind, swiftly and quite as incisively. “I have, yeah. And that report reads like something the cat dragged in. Would one of your lads be responsible?”
“Come off it, Carl. Yding did some fine work on that case. What do you need to know?”
“Details on the company that owned the premises. Important details completely ignored in this fine work Yding’s supposed to have done.”
“All right, I thought it might be something along those lines. And as it happens, we do have something here. There was an audit done on that firm a couple of years later, resulting in a charge being preferred against them. It never amounted to anything, but it did give us some more insight into their affairs. Do you want me to fax it over, or would you prefer me to come crawling and place it before your feet at the throne?”
Carl laughed. Colleagues who could parry Carl’s bollockings as disarmingly as Antonsen were few and far between.
“I’m on my way over now, Anton. Get the coffee on.”
Antonsen hung up with a groan.
Carl sat for a moment and stared at the flatscreen on the wall showing another of the news channel’s endless loops on the shooting of Mustafa Hsownay, another innocent victim who happened to get in the way of the continuing gang war. Now, it seemed, police had given the go-ahead for his coffin to be paraded through the city streets. Certain jingoist flag-wavers he could think of would be choking on their bacon.
Then came a grunt from the door opening. “I’m waiting for something to do.”
Carl gave a start. It wasn’t the custom in the basement for people to go sneaking about without a sound. And if gangly Yrsa Knudsen could move with such stealth one minute and then sound like a herd of stampeding gnu the next, he was going to end up a nervous wreck in no time.
She swatted at something in the air. “Ugh, a fly. I hate those things, they’re disgusting.”
Carl followed the insect with his eyes and wondered what it had been up to since last time they’d seen each other. He picked up a case folder from the desk. Splattering time.
“I’m settled in now. Do you want to come and have a look?” Yrsa asked in a voice that sounded uncannily like Rose’s.
Would he like to come and have a look? Nothing could interest him less.
For a moment he forgot all about his winged adversary and turned to face her.
“Did you say you needed something to do? Just as well, because that’s why you’re here. You can start by calling the Business Authority. Get them to send us the last five annual reports for K. Frandsen Wholesalers, Public Consult, and JPP Fittings A/S. Then have a look at their credit facilities and short-term loans. OK?” He wrote the three company names down on a piece of notepaper.