The Keeper of Lost Causes (47 page)

“Why do you think he locked the door, Carl?” asked Assad as he lifted up the desk blotter to glance underneath. Then he knelt down and looked under the bed.

Carl inspected the rest of the room. Assad was right. There didn’t seem to be anything to hide, so why lock the door?

“There
is
something, Carl. Or there then would not be a lock.”

Carl nodded and began poking around inside the wardrobe. The smell of cologne was even stronger. It seemed to be clinging to the clothes. He knocked on the back wall, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In the meantime Assad lifted up the carpet. No trapdoor.

They examined the ceiling and the walls and then both of them stared at the mirror, hanging there so alone. The wall around it was painted a dull chalk-white.

Carl knocked on the wall with his knuckles. It seemed solid.

Maybe we can take the mirror off, he thought, but it was fastened securely. Then Assad pressed his cheek against the wall and peered behind the mirror.

“I think it hangs on a hinge on the other side. I can see some kind of lock here.”

He stuck his finger behind the mirror and coaxed the latch out of the lock. Then he grabbed the edge and pulled. The whole room panned past in the mirror as it slid aside to reveal a pitch-black hole in the wall, as tall as a man.

The next time we’re out in the field, I’m going to be better prepared, thought Carl. In his mind he saw the pencil-size flashlight lying on top of the piles of paper in his desk drawer. He stuck his hand inside the hole in the wall, fumbling for a light switch and longing for his service revolver. The next instant he felt the pressure in his chest.

He took a deep breath and tried to listen. No, damn it, there couldn’t be anybody inside. How could they have locked themselves in with a padlock on the outer door? Was it conceivable that Lasse Jensen’s brother or mother had been told to lock Lasse in his hiding place if the police came back and started snooping around?

He found the light switch farther along the wall and pressed it, ready to jump back if anyone was inside, waiting for them. It took a second for the scene in front of them to stop flickering as the fluorescent lights came on.

And then everything became clear.

They had found the right person. There was no doubt about it.

Carl noticed how Assad slipped silently into the room behind him as he moved closer to the bulletin boards and the worn steel tables along the wall. He stared at the photos of Merete Lynggaard, taken in all sorts of situations. From her first appearance on the speaker’s podium to the cozy home setting on the leaf-covered lawn in Stevns. Carefree moments captured by someone who wished to do her harm.

Carl looked down at one of the steel tables and understood at once the systematic way in which this Lasse, aka Lars Henrik Jensen, had worked his way toward his goal.

The first papers were from Godhavn. He lifted up a corner of a few documents and saw the original case files on Lars Henrik Jensen, the files that had disappeared years ago. He’d used some of the sheets of paper to practice, making clumsy attempts at altering his CR number. Along the way he got better at it, and by the top sheet of paper, he’d done a good job. Yes, Lasse had tampered with the documents at Godhavn, and that had won him time.

Assad pointed at the next pile of papers, which contained the correspondence between Lasse and Daniel Hale. Apparently InterLab hadn’t yet been paid the balance for the buildings that Lasse’s father had taken over so many years ago. In the beginning of 2002, Daniel Hale had sent a fax stating that he intended to file a lawsuit. He was demanding two million kroner. Hale was bringing about his own demise, but he could never have known the determination of his adversary. Maybe Hale’s demands had set off the entire chain reaction.

Carl picked up the paper on top. It was a copy of a fax that Lasse Jensen had sent on the very day that Hale was killed. It was a message and an unsigned contract: I have the money. We can sign the papers and conclude the deal at my home today. My lawyer will bring the necessary documents; I’m faxing over a draft of the contract. Enter your comments and corrections and then bring the papers with you.

Yes, everything had been carefully planned. If the papers hadn’t burned up in the car, Lasse would probably have made sure they disappeared before the police and ambulances arrived. Carl noted the date and time of the proposed meeting. It all fit together. Hale had been lured to his death. Dennis Knudsen was waiting for him on the Kappelev highway with his foot on the accelerator.

“Look at this, Carl,” said Assad, picking up the paper on top of the next pile. It was an article from the
Fredriksborg Amts
newspaper that mentioned Dennis Knudsen’s death at the bottom of the page. “Death a Result of Drug Abuse” was the curt headline.

The perfect “cause-of-death” category to be filed under.

Carl looked at the next pages in the pile. There was no doubt that Lasse had offered Dennis a lot of money to cause the car accident. Nor was there any doubt that it was Lasse’s brother, Hans, who had stepped out in front of Hale’s car, forcing him to veer into the middle of the road. Everything went as planned, except for the fact that Lasse never paid Dennis, as he’d promised, and Dennis got mad.

A surprisingly well-formulated letter from Dennis Knudsen to Lasse presented an ultimatum: either he paid the three hundred thousand kroner or Dennis would obliterate him somewhere out on some road or highway when he least expected it.

Carl thought about Dennis’s sister. What a lovely kid brother she was mourning.

He looked up at the bulletin boards and got an overview of the devastating events in the course of Lasse Jensen’s life. The car accident, the rebuff from the insurance company. A request for funding from the Lynggaard Foundation denied. The motives accumulated and became much clearer than before.

“Do you think he went good and crazy in the head from all this?” asked Assad, handing something to Carl.

Carl frowned. “I don’t dare think about it, Assad.”

He looked closely at the object that Assad had given him. It was a small, compact Nokia mobile phone. Red and new and shiny. On the back someone had printed in tiny, crooked letters “Sanne Jønsson” under a little heart. He wondered what the girl would say when she found out her cell phone still existed.

“We’ve got everything here,” he said to Assad, nodding at the photos on the wall of Lasse’s mother sitting in a hospital bed, weeping, of the Godhavn buildings and of a man with the words “foster father Satan” written underneath in thick letters. Old newspaper clippings praising HJ Industries and Lasse Jensen’s father for his exceptional pioneering work in the field of high-tech Danish industry. There were at least twenty detailed photos taken on board the
Schleswig-Holstein
, along with sailing schedules and measurements of the distance down to the car deck, as well as the number of steps. There was also a time schedule in two columns. One for Lasse, and one for his brother. So both of them had been involved.

“What does this mean?” asked Assad, pointing at the numbers.

Carl wasn’t sure.

“It could mean that they kidnapped her and killed her somewhere. I’m afraid that might be the explanation.”

“And what does this mean then?” Assad went on, pointing at the last steel table, on top of which were several ring binders and a series of technical cross-section diagrams.

Carl picked up the first ring binder. There were section dividers inside, and the first one was labeled “Handbook for Diving — The Naval Weapons Academy AUG 1985.” He leafed through the pages, reading the headers: diving physiology, valve maintenance, surface decompression tables, oxygen handling tables, Boyle’s law, Dalton’s law.

It was pure gibberish to Carl.

“Does a first mate need to know about diving then, Carl?” asked Assad.

Carl shook his head. “Maybe it’s just a hobby of his.”

He went through the pile of papers and found a meticulous, handwritten draft for a manual. It was titled “Instructions for the pressure testing of containments, by Henrik Jensen, HJ Industries, November 10, 1986.”

“Can you read that, Carl?” asked Assad, who apparently couldn’t, his eyes glued to the text.

Several diagrams had been drawn on the first page along with surveys of pipe lead-ins. Apparently they had to do with specifications for changes in an existing installation, presumably the one that HJ Industries had taken over from InterLab when the buildings were purchased.

Carl did his best to skim through the handwritten pages, stopping at the words “pressure chamber” and “enclosure.”

He raised his head and looked at a close-up photo of Merete Lynggaard that hung above the stack of papers. Once more the words “pressure chamber” thundered through his mind.

The thought sent shivers down his back. Could it really be true? It was a gruesome, horrifying thought. Horrifying enough to get the sweat trickling.

“What is wrong, Carl?” asked Assad.

“Go outside and keep watch on the place. Do it
now
, Assad.”

His partner was about to repeat his question when Carl turned to look at the last pile of papers. “Go now, Assad. And be careful. Take this with you.” He handed Assad the iron bar that they’d used to prize open the lock.

He paged quickly through the papers. There were lots of mathematical calculations, mostly written by Henrik Jensen, and also by others. But he found nothing related to what he was looking for.

Again he studied the knife-sharp photo of Merete Lynggaard. It had presumably been taken at close range, but she probably hadn’t noticed, since her attention was directed slightly to the side. There was a particular look in her eyes. Something vital and alert that couldn’t help affecting the viewer. But Carl was certain that wasn’t why Lasse Jensen had hung up this photo in particular. On the contrary. There were lots of holes around its edges. Presumably it had been taken down and put up again, time after time.

One by one Carl pulled out the four pins that held the picture. Then he lifted it off and turned it over. What was written on the back was the work of a madman. He read it several times.

These disgusting eyes will pop out of your head. Your ridiculous smile will be drowned in blood. Your hair will shrivel up, and your thoughts will be pulverized. Your teeth will rot. Nobody will remember you for anything other than what you are: a whore, a bitch, a devil, a fucking murderer. Die like that, Merete Lynggaard.

And underneath had been added in block letters:

Carl glanced over his shoulder. It felt as if the walls were closing in around him. He put his hand to his forehead and stood there, thinking hard. They had her here, he was sure of it. She was somewhere close by. It said here they were going to kill her in five weeks, on May 15, but it was likely they’d already done so. He had a feeling that he and Assad might have provoked the deed, and it had definitely happened somewhere nearby.

What do I do? Who would know something? Carl wondered, as he dug through his memory.

He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number of Kurt Hansen, his former colleague who’d ended up as an MP of the Conservative Party.

He paced the room as he listened to the phone ring. Father Time was out there somewhere, laughing at all of them, he could feel it so clearly now.

A second before he was going to put the phone down, he heard Kurt Hansen’s distinctive throat-clearing, then his voice.

Carl told him not to speak, just listen and think fast. No questions, just answers.

“You want to know what would happen to a person who was subjected to up to six atmospheres of pressure over a period of five years and then the pressure was released all at once?” Kurt repeated. “That’s a strange question. This is a hypothetical situation, right?”

“Just answer me, Kurt. You’re the only one I can think of who knows about these things. I don’t know anybody else who has a professional diving certificate, so tell me what would happen.”

“Well, the person would die, of course.”

“Yes, but how fast?”

“I have no idea, but it would be a horrible affair.”

“In what way?”

“Everything would explode from the inside. The alveoli would burst the lungs. The nitrogen in the bones would shred the tissue. The organs, and everything in the body would expand because there’s oxygen everywhere. Blood clots, cerebral hemorrhages, massive bleeding, even—”

Carl stopped him. “Who could help somebody in this situation?”

Kurt Hansen again cleared his throat. Maybe he didn’t know the answer. “Is this an actual situation, Carl?” he asked.

“I’m seriously afraid that it is, yes.”

“Then you need to call the naval station at Holmen. They have a mobile decompression chamber. A Duocom from Dräger.” He gave Carl the number. Carl thanked him and ended the call.

It took only a moment to explain the situation to the naval officer on duty.

“You’ve got to hurry. This is incredibly urgent,” said Carl. “Bring people with pneumatic drills and other equipment, because I don’t know what kind of obstacles you’re going to encounter. And notify police headquarters. I need reinforcements.”

“I think I understand the situation,” said the voice on the phone.

They approached the last of
the buildings with the greatest of caution. They studied the ground carefully to see if any digging had been done recently. They stared at the slippery plastic drums lined up along the wall, as if they might contain a bomb.