“IS IT JUST me or does this look like a dead body that’s been lying in the water for too long?”
Journalist Mogens Bøttger prodded the overcooked ham with the metal tongs before moving on in the newspaper’s cafeteria, hunting for one last addition to his lunch.
His plate was already full and looked like a brunch buffet at a suburban café: a schizophrenic hodgepodge of lackluster appetizers that did not go together at all. There was both tuna salad and warm liverwurst. Mini pancakes, blue cheese, and pineapple slices. A blob of tartar sauce and a sausage roll.
“Ah!” he said enthusiastically and helped himself to a slice of smoked salmon from the buffet.
“I’ll find us a table,” Heloise said and carried her tomato soup over to the open table by the window that she had spotted at the far end of the cafeteria. She sat down with her back to the room and looked down at Store Strandstræde, where people were cautiously making their way along the slick, icy sidewalks carrying bags full of groceries and steaming coffees.
Adrenaline still tingled uncomfortably in her body, like little firecrackers of indignation that kept going off at random locations in her bloodstream. She kept half an eye on her phone the whole time, but there hadn’t been a peep out of Gerda since Heloise had left the barracks.
Heloise brought a spoonful of soup to her lips and blew on it. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted food critic Kaj Clevin’s distended gut. He slowly limped closer with his lunch that he had brought from home, then stopped and scanned the employee cafeteria for somewhere to sit.
Heloise turned away, hoping that he would move on. The last time she and Mogens had had the pleasure of his company, he had entertained them with a far too detailed anecdote about a knee operation that he had recently undergone. The word “cartilage” had been uttered so many times over Heloise’s slightly underdone roast pork with parsley sauce that she didn’t think she would ever be able to eat pork again without thinking of Kaj Clevin’s osteoarthritis.
She sensed that he had limped on and exhaled in relief.
“Well, what’s up?” Mogens set his tray on the table next to theirs and started arranging his meal across the table from Heloise.
“What’s up with what?” she asked, tasting her soup. It was way too sweet, a bit thin and devoid of the least bit of anything that had ever been a proper vegetable.
“How’s the soldier story coming?”
“It’s dead. Karen told me to drop it. She wants me to cover the Lukas Bjerre case instead.”
“That makes sense,” Mogens nodded and ate a pancake. It was typical of him to start with the sweets. “That story is hotter right now, a giant carrot to lure in the readers. I guarantee you that article will be number one on the website’s most read list once it’s published.”
“No doubt,” Heloise nodded. “But when did we turn into such a tabloid?”
“Since we—like all the other newspapers—started having problems with the only thing that matters: the money, honey!”
“Yeah, yeah. I know there needs to be money in the till. But don’t you think it’s problematic for Karen to cancel a story that’s societally important and tell me I need to cover some tabloid story instead?”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s just the way it is.” He reached for the glass of apple juice he had poured himself.
“That’s just the way it is?” Heloise laughed. “Okay, what are you, a politician now? Seriously, wouldn’t you be annoyed if Karen suddenly came and pulled the plug on your statistics story?”
Mogens smiled smugly. “She would never do that.”
“Because you’re just that good, you mean?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, that, plus I’ve found new sources in the police who are willing to make a public statement, naming names—sources who are high up in the hierarchy. I’m going to roast the national police commissioner over a slow fire when this story breaks—like a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth and the whole pigsty to boot! And that is exactly the kind of thing that makes Mikkelsen clap his fat little editor-in-chief hands. And if Mikkelsen’s happy, Karen’s happy.”
“Well, good for you, kiss ass.”
Mogens laughed. “Why so bitter? I honestly can’t understand why you’d rather write about a couple of soldiers who lost their marbles than cover the Lukas Bjerre case.”
“Don’t you think it’s a huge conflict of interest if I’m friends with the head of the investigation?”
“Aren’t you also friends with that sex bomb lady you’re planning to interview for your PTSD piece?”
Heloise received a text right then and had time to forgive Gerda a thousand times over before she had even opened the message. But once she had read it, her anger returned. It wasn’t from Gerda. It was from Martin.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight. I’ll pick you up at 6:30 sharp. Kisses, M.
“Everything okay?” Mogens asked.
“Yes.” Heloise pushed her soup bowl away. “But is it okay if I leave you alone here with your smorgasbord?”
“Of course. Are you going to the Citadel?”
Heloise furrowed her brow. “Why? What’s going on at the Citadel?”
“Weren’t you going to cover the story about that boy who disappeared?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem like I have any choice.” She got up and pushed in her chair. “But what does that have to do with the Citadel?”
“One of my sources at police headquarters tipped me off this morning. They found something over there.”
“Well, since you’ve apparently got a much better handle on the story than I do, couldn’t you just write the article for me? Then I’ll just go drink until I pass out.”
“Hell no!” Mogens stuck his fork into a slice of pineapple. “If you’re going out drinking, I’m coming with you!”