DUNJA HOUGAARD WAS WAITING for the elevator doors to open. Her heart was racing and she could feel sweat forcing its way out through her pores, making her shirt stick to her back, and yet she kept making the mistake of cycling too fast. It was as if she was in a rush every time she got on her bike.
Today she was hurrying to see Morten Steenstrup, whose condition had become a matter of national concern; the media were following it as if he had royal blood. Medical experts had been flown in from Germany and England, and they had managed to stop the internal bleeding after a long series of complicated operations. His condition was now listed as “somewhat stable.” This gave Dunja a small window to speak with Morten before he was readied for the next operation.
The elevator arrived and she stepped in, pressing the button for the fourth floor. The elevator moved up, stopping at the second floor to allow two men in green scrubs with masks hanging around their necks to step in. One of the men pressed the button for the third floor.
“How old did you say she was?”
“Forty-two.”
“Kids?”
“Three of them. I don’t usually react to that sort of stuff, but given her age and the fact that she had three kids, I couldn’t believe how perfect they were.”
“Real?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“It was impossible to tell.”
“You can always tell.”
“Believe me, I took a very good look.”
“There’s only one thing to do.” His hands squeezed at the air. “What room did you say she was in?”
They burst into laughter and left the elevator on the third floor.
Dunja was about to run after them to find out their names, but she stopped herself and let the elevator continue to the fourth floor. She was already late.
She stepped out of the open doors and shook off any negative thoughts about whether Steenstrup would be receiving the same care without his hero status. She had to focus and use her time well. After a lot of persuasion, the attending physician had agreed to give Dunja three minutes with Morten, and not a second more. Steenstrup had recently woken up and was in no condition to withstand a long interrogation. He was hardly aware of where he was, much less the excitement his efforts had caused. But that was no problem for Dunja — she knew exactly what she was after and it wouldn’t take her more than thirty seconds to find out.
She made her way down a long corridor that opened into a waiting room full of journalists. A few were typing at their laptops and others were playing chess. She saw a reporter from Jyllands-Posten playing against a reporter from Politiken, and noted with disappointment that Jyllands-Posten was winning.
One of the journalists noticed her and ran up to carpet-bomb her with questions, which caused the other reporters to come to life. Cameras started clicking as if she were the perpetrator; questions flew through the air, hitting her like wet snowballs. No one seemed to hear her when she said she couldn’t give any comment whatsoever at the current time.
After a lot of pleading from the journalists, Dunja finally told them that she was going to have an initial and incredibly brief meeting with Morten Steenstrup, who had just woken up. She showed her badge to the officer on guard and entered the unit. She didn’t exhale until the door had closed behind her.
“Dunja Hougaard?” asked the attending physician. He looked at her without batting an eye.
She nodded.
“When I say stop, it’s over. Do not keep going. Okay?”
Dunja already disliked him, and she continued along the corridor without answering.
“I hope you acknowledge the massive exception I am making for you. The responsibility for this patient’s life rests with me and no one else,” the doctor went on, taking a left into another corridor. “And I intend to fulfill that responsibility.” He stopped at a door guarded by two uniformed officers, and fixed his eyes on Dunja. “I hope you understand the gravity of this situation and that I can count on you to spare my patient any unnecessary digressions during your questioning.”
“I suggest you open the door before he gets Alzheimer’s.”
*
MORTEN STEENSTRUP WAS AT the far end of the room, looking like anything but a hero. Both of his legs were in casts, there was a brace around his neck, and most of his hair had been shaved off. He was hooked up to an IV and a lot of beeping machines that monitored his vital signs.
His mouth was half open and his eyes were aimed straight up at the ceiling. He didn’t react when Dunja entered the room. She couldn’t help thinking that Morten looked dead, and worried he had passed away the moment before she’d entered the room, which would mean she had missed her chance thanks to the irritating doctor, who had followed her into the room to monitor her visit. She pulled up a chair and sat next to Steenstrup’s bed.
“Hi, Morten. My name is Dunja Hougaard and I work as a detective with the crime squad in Copenhagen.” She waited for a reaction and ignored the doctor, who cleared his throat and indicated her time was counting down by tapping his wrist where a watch would be.
“I only have a few minutes and I don’t want to exhaust you. All I want to know right now is whether this is the man who attacked you.” She took out the wanted picture of Rune Schmeckel and held it in front of Morten’s face, but she didn’t get a reaction.
“Morten. Do you see the man in the picture?”
“Yes,” the police officer replied in a slightly raspy voice.
“Is this the same man who attacked you?”
“No.”
His response came as a total shock. Dunja hadn’t even considered the fact that he might not recognize the perpetrator.
“Are you totally sure? I want you to look at the photo again, very, very carefully.”
“I’m positive it’s not him.”
“I don’t want to put pressure on you right now, so I’ll come back in a few days. Then we can —”
“It’s not him.”
“Okay, Morten. Can you tell me what’s different? Is it the hair, or something else that’s easy to change? Take as much time as you need to think. There’s no point in forcing an answer.”
The doctor cleared his throat and poked at his imaginary watch.
“Everything,” Morten hissed.
“What do you mean, everything? I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
“Everything is different. You’ve got the wrong guy.”