“Did anyone ever try to make a pass at her, here at Christiansborg?”
“Oh, yes. Men were always leaving her messages, but there was only one who made a serious attempt.”
“Would you care to reveal who that might be?”
She smiled. She was willing to reveal anything if it pleased her.
“Of course. It was Tage Baggesen.”
“OK, I’ve heard that name before.”
“That would really make him happy to know. I think he’s held chairman positions for the Radical Center Party for at least a thousand years.”
“Have you ever mentioned this to anyone else?”
“Yes, to the police, but they didn’t seem to think it was relevant.”
“Do you?”
She shrugged.
“Were there others?”
“Lots of others, but nobody serious. She took what she needed whenever she was traveling.”
“Are you saying she was an easy lay?”
“Good Lord, is that how you interpret it?” She turned away, trying to suppress her laughter. “No, she definitely was not. But she was no nun either. I just don’t happen to know who she went into the convent with. She never told me.”
“But her preference was for men?”
“Well, put it this way, she always laughed when the gossipmongers hinted otherwise.”
“Could you think of any reason why Merete might want to put her past behind her and create a whole new life?”
“You mean whether she might be sitting out there in Mumbai, soaking up the sun?” Marianne looked indignant.
“Some place where life might be less problematic, yes. Could you picture her doing anything like that?”
“That’s totally absurd. She was extremely conscientious. I know that some people collapse like a house of cards and one fine day they just disappear, but not Merete.” She paused for a moment, looking pensive. “But it’s a lovely thought.” She smiled. “I mean, that Merete might still be alive.”
Carl nodded. Plenty of psychological profiles had been done of Merete Lynggaard just after she disappeared, and all of them had come to the same conclusion. Merete had not simply run away from her old life. Even the tabloids dismissed that possibility.
“Did you ever hear anything about a telegram that she received during her last week here at the castle?” he asked.
“A valentine telegram?”
The question seemed to annoy Marianne. Apparently she was still upset that she hadn’t been part of Merete’s life at the end. “No. The police asked me about that, but just as I told them I have to refer you to Søs Norup, who took over my job.”
He raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. “Are you bitter about that?”
“Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be? We’d worked together for two years without any problem.”
“Do you happen to know where Søs Norup is today?”
She shrugged. Nothing could have interested her less.
“What about this Tage Baggesen? Where can I get in touch with him?”
She drew Carl a little map showing the way to Baggesen’s office. It didn’t look easy to find.
It took Carl nearly half an hour to find his way to the domain of Tage Baggesen and the Radical Center Party, and it was no cakewalk. It was a mystery to him how the hell anybody could work in such a hypocritical environment. At least at police headquarters you knew what you were dealing with, where friends and enemies weren’t afraid to show their true colors, and yet everyone was able to work side by side toward a common goal. Here it was just the opposite. Everybody pretended to be the best of friends, but they were all thinking only of themselves when it came to settling scores. Everything was based on kroner and øre and power, not so much on results. A big man in this place was someone who made the others seem small. Maybe it hadn’t always been this way, but that’s how it was now.
Tage Baggesen was obviously no exception. His role was to safeguard the interests of his distant constituency and handle the traffic policies of his party, but after one look at him, you knew better. He’d already secured himself a nice fat pension, and whatever he took in before he retired was spent on expensive clothes and lucrative investments. Carl looked up at the walls that were covered with certificates from golf tournaments and detailed aerial photographs of Baggesen’s country homes all over Denmark.
He considered asking whether the man might have misunderstood which party he belonged to, but Tage Baggesen disarmed him with a friendly slap on the back and a cordial welcome.
“I suggest that you close the door,” said Carl, pointing to the corridor.
That prompted a jovial squint from Baggesen. A little trick that he used successfully in negotiating new motorways in Holstebro but it had no effect on a deputy detective superintendent whose specialty was bullshit.
“I don’t think we need to do that. I’ve got nothing to hide from my fellow party members,” said Baggesen.
“We’ve heard that you took a great interest in Merete Lynggaard. You sent her a telegram among other things. And it was a valentine telegram at that.”
The man’s complexion turned a bit paler, but his self-confident smile was back.
“A valentine telegram?” he said. “I don’t remember that.”
Carl nodded. The lie shone out of the man’s face. Of course Baggesen remembered. Now Carl had an opportunity to really go to work on the MP.
“When I suggested that you close the door, it was because I wanted to ask you bluntly if you were the one who murdered Merete. You were in love with her. She rejected you, and you lost control. Was that what happened?”
For a split second every cell in Tage Baggesen’s brain, otherwise so self-confident, considered whether he should stand up and slam the door or whether he should work himself up into an apoplectic fit. His complexion was suddenly almost the same shade of red as his hair. He was deeply shocked, completely exposed. Sweat trickled from every pore of his body. Carl knew all the tricks in the book, but this reaction was something entirely different. If the man had anything to do with the case, and judging by his response he did, then he might as well write his own confession. If he didn’t, then there was still something pushing him to the wall. His mouth gaped. If Carl wasn’t careful, the man would clam up for good. Never before in his finely tuned life had Tage Baggesen heard anything like this; that much was certain.
Carl tried to smile at the man. Somehow his dramatic reaction also seemed conciliatory. As if somewhere inside that body, nourished on highclass reception delicacies, there still might be a human being.
“Now listen here, Baggesen. You left notes for Merete. Lots of notes. I can tell you that her previous secretary, Marianne Koch, kept a close eye on your advances.”
“Everyone writes notes to each other in this place.” Baggesen tried to lean back nonchalantly, but the distance to the back of his chair was too great for it to look casual.
“So you’re saying the notes contained nothing of a personal nature?”
At this point the MP hauled his bulk out of his chair and went over to quietly close the door. “It’s true that I harbored strong feelings for Merete Lynggaard,” he said, looking so sincerely mournful that Carl almost felt sorry for him. “It’s been very difficult for me to get over her death.”
“I understand. I’ll try to make this brief.” Carl’s words were met with a grateful smile. Now the man was getting realistic.
“We know that you sent Merete Lynggaard a valentine telegram in February 2002. We received confirmation of this from the telegram company today.”
Now Baggesen looked dejected. The past was truly gnawing at him.
He sighed. “Of course I knew that she wasn’t interested in me in that way. Unfortunately. I’d known that for a long time, even back then.”
“But you still kept trying?”
He nodded without saying a word.
“What did the telegram say? Try to stick to the truth this time.”
He tilted his head a bit to the side. “Just the usual. That I’d like to see her. I don’t remember the exact words. And that’s the truth.”
“And so you killed her because she wasn’t interested in you?”
Now Baggesen’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. His lips were closed tight. A second before the tears began running down the side of the politician’s nose, Carl was inclined to arrest him. Then Baggesen raised his head and looked at him. Not as if Carl were the executioner who had placed a noose around his neck, but as if he were a father confessor to whom he could finally open his heart.
“Who would kill the one person who made life worth living?” he asked.
They sat there for a moment, looking at each other. Then Carl looked away.
“Do you know whether Merete had any enemies here? Not political adversaries. I mean real enemies.”
Baggesen wiped his eyes. “All of us have enemies, but not what you’d call real enemies,” he replied.
“Nobody who might have had designs on her life?”
Baggesen shook his head. “That would really surprise me. She was well liked, even by her political opponents.”
“I have a different impression. So you don’t think she was working with key issues that might have proved so problematic for someone that they’d do anything to stop her? Special-interest groups that felt pressured or threatened?”
Baggesen gave Carl an indulgent look. “Ask her own party members. She and I were not what you’d call political confidants. Far from it, I must say. Have you found out anything in particular?”
“Politicians the world over are always held accountable for their opinions, right? Opponents of abortion, animal-rights fanatics, people with anti-Muslim attitudes, or the opposite — anything at all can elicit a violent reaction. Just look at Sweden or Holland or the United States.” Carl made a motion to stand up and noticed the look of relief already appearing on the face of the MP sitting across from him. But maybe he shouldn’t read too much into that. Who wouldn’t want this sort of conversation to come to an end?
“Baggesen,” Carl went on. “Maybe you’d be kind enough to get in touch with me if you happen to stumble on anything at all that I should know.” He handed the man his card. “If not for my sake, then for your own. Not many people in this place felt as positive about Merete Lynggaard as you did, I’m afraid.”
That hit home. The tears would undoubtedly begin flowing again, even before Carl was out the door.
According to the Civil Register, Søs Norup’s last place of residence was the same as that of her parents, right in the middle of Copenhagen’s snooty Frederiksberg district. On the brass plate next to the front door it said: “Wholesaler Vilhelm Norup and actress Kaja Brandt Norup.”
Carl rang the bell and heard the sound reverberating behind the massive oak door. A moment later it was supplemented by a quiet “Yes, yes, I’m coming.”
The man who opened the door must have retired at least a quarter of a century earlier. Judging by the waistcoat he was wearing and the silk cravat around his neck, his fortune hadn’t dried up yet. He stared uneasily at Carl with eyes ravaged by illness, as if this stranger on his doorstep might be the Grim Reaper. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly, ready to slam the door.
Carl introduced himself, and again took his badge out of his pocket. He asked if he might come inside.
“Has something happened to Søs?” the man demanded to know.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask? Isn’t she at home?”
“She doesn’t live here anymore, if she’s the one you’re looking for.”
“Who is it, Vilhelm?” called a faint voice from behind the double doors to the living room.
“Just somebody who wants to talk to Søs, dear.”
“Then he’ll have to go elsewhere,” she replied.
The wholesaler grabbed Carl’s sleeve. “She lives in Valby. Tell her we want her to come and get her things if she’s planning to go on living like that.”
“Like what?”
The man didn’t answer. He gave Carl the address on Valhøjvej, then slammed the door shut.
* * *
In the small co-op building there were only three names next to the intercom. In the past the place had undoubtedly been home to six families, each with four or five children. What had previously been a slum was now gentrified. It was here in this attic apartment that Søs Norup had found her true love, a woman in her mid-forties whose skepticism regarding Carl’s police badge manifested itself in pale lips that were pressed tight.
Søs’s lips were not much friendlier. Even at first glance, Carl understood why DJØF and the Democrats’ office at Christiansborg hadn’t fallen apart when she left. One would have to search far and wide to find someone who presented a less sympathetic aura.
“Merete Lynggaard was a frivolous boss,” she remarked.
“You mean, she didn’t take her job seriously? That’s not what I heard.”
“She left everything up to me.”
“I’d think that would be a plus.” He looked at her. She seemed like a woman who’d always been kept on a short leash and hated it. Wholesaler Norup and his wife, no doubt once very prominent, had probably taught Søs the meaning of blind obedience. That must have been hard to take for an only child who saw her parents as gifts from God. Carl was convinced it must have reached the point where she both detested and loved them. Detested what they stood for, and loved them for the very same thing. In Carl’s humble opinion, that was why she’d moved back and forth from home all her adult life.
He glanced over at her girlfriend. Dressed in loose-fitting garb and with a smoldering cigarette hanging from her lips, she sat there making sure he wouldn’t try to molest anyone. She was determined to provide Søs with a permanent anchor here from now on. That much was obvious.
“I heard that Merete Lynggaard was very satisfied with your work.”
“Oh, really.”
“I’d like to ask you about Merete’s personal life. Was there any reason to think that she might have been pregnant when she disappeared?”