In the reception area, Holger was met by an elderly, plain-clothes officer who introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Jørn Andersen. Solemnly, Holger was handed the warrant, which he read three times, and slowly the seriousness of the situation sank in. Even though Holger knew he had never been involved in selling companies with tax deficits, the accusation against him was troubling. Typically, these cases involved the sale of firms to unscrupulous businessmen who would use complex corporate structures to siphon off the company’s capital before letting it fall into bankruptcy with the effect that Revenue and Customs could whistle for the tax owed. The politicians had declared everyone involved in these activities to be crooked regardless of whether they had merely sold a company, and whether or not they had understood what the intentions of the buyer had been. Asset strippers were the legitimate targets of modern-day witch hunts; even being associated with them could have severe consequences for his firm.
‘There must be a misunderstanding. I’ve been mistaken for someone else,’ Holger said, trying to suppress the unease that spread through his nerves.
But the DCI was not paying attention. He had already short-circuited the process. And decided on the question of guilt. 222Finally, money and prestige mean nothing, he thought. These lawyers are raking it in on other people’s problems so they can afford to live in swanky Hellerup and Charlottenlund, while I, as the servant of justice, can barely afford a cramped terrace in the suburbs. But today, I am wielding the power, and I will ensure this overweight lawyer is banged up. I might not know him, but that is of no consequence; they are all cut from the same cloth. Vultures. He was about to crack a self-righteous smile. But he regained control over his facial muscles and pretended to be listening to the lawyer droning on about his innocence. Contempt oozed from the DCI. His body language did nothing to hide that he enjoyed the situation. On the contrary, he had long ago made his mind up that all the accused were guilty in the end, and the endless flow of whitewash was merely shades of grey complicating his work; he signalled this, unequivocally.
Holger suddenly felt light-headed and let his body slump into one of the soft Le Corbusier chairs in the reception area. He chastised himself for his weakness – not so much as before the DCI, as before his own staff. Recovering, after what felt like ages, he permitted the detective to proceed with the search. Holger felt his palms sweating and loosened his tie to free up his breathing. But to no avail. He got up from the leather chair and headed for the washroom. He turned the cold tap on full and let it run. He filled his cupped hands and sank his face into the chilled water. The water hit him like needles, and he stared long and hard at his reflection in the mirror. The black rings under his eyes made him look exhausted. Did they also make him look guilty? The doubt was not allowed to take root; the cold water had the effect of rushing revitalising oxygen to his brain. Strengthened, he left the room.
In his office, four plain-clothes detectives were in the process 223of searching everything. Records cabinets and drawers. The whole lot. Everything was emptied into large movable boxes without consideration for the content. The policemen acted as if he was a criminal. And as if the case files that were of importance to the clients would never again be of relevance. The anger shot up in Holger as he powerlessly watched his secretary attempting to save what she could. Even in this bizarre situation, her sense of responsibility was formidable. Something he must reward her for, he noted, as he just managed to rescue his mobile from ending up in a cardboard box with the rest of the stuff on his desk. One of the policemen moved towards the desktop PC but was shoved aside by the secretary as he reached for the mouse.
‘Leave that to me. I know the password.’
Holger had been reduced to an onlooker, forced to move aside as the policemen shifted one box after another from his office in an orderly convoy. The Kafkaesque plot that unfolded around him emotionally kicked his feet from under him. The walls closed in on him, and he wanted to scream. Holger detached himself from the frustrations, hurried out of the office, down the stairs and entered the street rapidly.
It was drizzling outside, and he turned his face towards the rain, which felt strangely liberating. It was a light late-summer rain and he just stood there for a while, letting it soak him. It was rush hour, and the traffic was moving even more slowly than usual on Amaliegade. But Holger did not register it. His thoughts were darting in all directions, and unwittingly he started walking. His feet steered him through towards the harbour. Like a sleepwalker, he continued through the Palace Square and to the small garden along the quay. He paid no heed to the Palace guard. He finally 224came across a bench and sat down. Gazing blankly over the harbour basin while he tried to focus on what was important, right now. To find answers to the questions cartwheeling in his head. How could he possibly be found guilty for something he’d never done? And who had reported him?
It took the trembling arising from the onset of hypothermia to make him realise he was drenched. Slowly, like a fog lifting, priorities started to line up. He was innocent. This situation made no sense. His life was anchored in the world of logic and reason, and he called on the skills he had cultivated as a lawyer to find answers. His brain ran full tilt, but a splitting headache was getting in the way of his processes. He was used to thinking on his feet, especially under pressure, but his frustration at not being able to analyse his way out of his confusion made him question his abilities. And to question whether he had, in fact, done something wrong. Not all of his clients over the years had exactly been saints. But no. He had never been involved in asset stripping. Did someone have a vendetta against him? Sure, there had been a few disgruntled clients who had complained about their bills. But would any of them go so far as to report him for asset-stripping? No, that was too farfetched.
Holger buried his head in his hands and felt the increasingly heavy rain run under his shirt collar and down his back. It just did not stack up at all! He rubbed his eyes and looked out across the tranquil, black water of the harbour basin. Calm down. There had to be an explanation. Think clearly. He focused on the raindrops dancing on the harbour’s oil-black surface and slowly found peace of mind in this monotony. Not even the Canal Cruise could persuade tourists to venture out in this weather. Minute by minute, his brain regained its functioning and pushed back his frustrations. 225Resolve and a fighting spirit claimed the void left by them with an intoxicating sensation. How often had he told his clients not to let emotions cloud their clarity of thought? And never to be confused by allegations made by the Crown Prosecution Service. The prosecution’s job is not to be objective. It’s down to the defence to point out the inconsistencies and flaws in the prosecution’s argument. He had repeatedly told clients that the CPS was lousy at their job, especially in financial crime cases. The many acquittals were a testimony to that. No, in not one case were the prosecution’s allegations a reliable indicator of its conclusion.
Holger stayed sat down until he was fully convinced that he now controlled his thoughts. Once that was the case, he wiped his wet face, got up from the bench and headed determinedly back to the office.
As he re-entered the office, cardboard boxes were still being hauled out, and a strange, apathetic sensation lingered like smog in the reception area. Nobody noticed him, despite him looking like he had been dragged from the harbour basin. Powerlessness radiated from his secretary’s eyes, and the sight enraged him. Damn it, this isn’t fair to the employees. Headstrong, he charged towards DCI Jorn Andersen.
‘I bloody well know the rules, and this is a violation. Completely incompatible with the rule of law.’
Holger fought hard to harness his furiousness but felt no inclination to be polite to the DCI. Holger poked him in the chest with his index finger as he continued:
‘I know absolutely nothing of what you’re talking about. Can’t you see you’re ruining my business? What do you think the clients will think of this? But you couldn’t give a shit, could you!’226
The Detective Chief Inspector just gave Holger a deadpan stare while he gesticulated instructions to the other policemen. Holger had seen his type in the army: people in a position of power who took pleasure in denying something to others and who had powers way out of proportion to their actual importance. They are megalomaniacs, mental gnomes, thought Holger angrily, cursing under his breath. And I bet he’s done military service.
‘As the Detective Chief Inspector, you should surely be able to see that there are other ways of doing this,’ Holger said in an authoritative voice to regain some respect.
‘Those of your colleagues that we’ve paid a visit to were all certain of their innocence. We have, however, had most of them convicted for asset-stripping anyway. I’m sure you know that, right?’ snarled Jorn Andersen and crossed his arms as he continued: ‘If there’s something you’re unhappy about, you can contact the Public Prosecutor for Financial Crime. He’s the one leading this investigation.’ He turned on his heel and followed his men out.
On impulse, he stopped in the door, and after a short whispering with one of the other plain-clothes detectives, he took a form out of his inner pocket and handed it to Holger.
Holger skim-read the document. It was a standard form stating that the search had been conducted and that he, as accused, had been present and witnessed what had been impounded. Although the wording was grossly one-sided, Holger signed it with a shrug. He had no way of knowing precisely what had been seized, and he could not be bothered to care at all. A young officer took the form and extended his hand in farewell. Holger just turned towards the window, and after a few seconds, the policeman shook his head and left.
Holger suddenly heard his secretary challenge someone in a 227loud voice, and as he turned around, he saw two men in the doorway. One had a camera in his hand and started taking pictures, while the other slipped past the secretary.
‘I’m Michael Bonde from Jyllands-Posten. Can you tell me where Holger Berg is?’
Holger instinctively knew this was an opportunity and a risk simultaneously. An opportunity to tell the truth and risk because most journalists have no interest in the granularity of truth. But he decided to go for the opportunity.
‘I’m Holger Berg. What can I do for you?’ he said calmly.
‘Great. I understand you’ve been charged in one of the largest asset-stripping cases in Danish history. We’ve already spoken to your ex-wife. To get a complete picture of your financial situation, you see. And now, I would like to hear your version of events.’
The journalist’s casual reference to Susanne was like a smack in the face – not because of Susanne – she was a grown woman and undoubtedly intelligent enough to handle a journalist’s enquiry. It was Louise he was anxious for. The thought of her being picked on at school because her dad was a criminal, or worse, her believing he had done something wrong. The thoughts sent cold shivers down his back. He had always tried to share his values and views on life with her. And a crooked father just wasn’t part of that universe. What if she were to cut him off? Holger would never be able to stomach that. He felt his gut clench, as a mountain climber hanging on with one hand and looking into the abyss. He turned towards the window again to buy himself some time as he focused all his energy on not letting the fear get the better of him. Finally, he turned to face the journalist again.
‘Let’s find a meeting room to talk further, shall we?’ he said with a smile and suppressed an overpowering urge to vomit.