Friday, December 18, 2020
“I’m sorry, Carl, but I haven’t had any luck finding reporters who want or need a police piece at the moment,” said Rose. “There’s more than enough about the police on TV right now, they said, and I have to say I agree. Apart from the corona-related programs, there are all the old cases that former investigators analyze, shows about traffic police chasing down speed demons, technical reviews of old murder cases, and so on and so forth, from Denmark and abroad. So if we can’t offer them anything new or specific, they aren’t interested.”
“Then damn well give them something specific, Rose. Something to get their blood pumping. And don’t hold back.”
“Yes, but what? We can’t just blurt out that we think someone is going to be murdered on December twenty-sixth, can we? And it wouldn’t be fair to worry a lot of different families that the potential victim might be their missing relative.”
Carl knew she was right. They could not put the cart before the horse.
He glanced over at the gap on the bottom of the whiteboard. Were they really going to allow management, who had never spent a single minute on a real investigation, to obstruct the best department in the force from preventing a murder? Hell no!
“I’ll tell you what, Rose, tell the program planners at TV Avisen or any of the news channels, or whoever it is you need to contact, that Department Q is currently working on something big and that the media have to be quick if they want to get in on it. Tell them that this is a rare opportunity to see behind the scenes of our investigation. That ought to make them sit up and take notice. And I don’t care who takes the bait. As long as someone does, I’m happy.”
After their talk, Carl swung his feet onto the desk and tried to sum up the facts. Everything pointed to the perpetrator being active for almost thirty-five years and having worked systematically to a specific pattern. First and foremost, he only chose to kill every second year, which made good sense, because the more infrequently a killer struck, the greater the chance that each crime would not be connected with the others. Until now, each murder had been committed at a slightly later date in the relevant year, and they were up to sixteen murders over the entire period. And that number might soon be seventeen. At the moment, their investigation suggested that all the murders were linked to the birthdays of infamous dictators and other cynical bastards who had committed crimes against humanity. Carl had no doubt that his talented team would soon identify more of these dates and, hopefully, also the murders linked to them.
But a few questions remained unanswered: What was the overall common denominator between these tyrants and the murder victims? And what was the relevance of salt? Was it merely a signature linking the murders? Was the perpetrator so convinced of his ability to stay one step ahead of the police that he did not shy away from leaving a signature that would link the crimes? Carl had met many conceited idiots in his time, but this one really took the prize for foolhardiness, aggressiveness, and, not least, audacity. And what kind of person would brag about being a killer? Someone who is mentally ill? A callous psychopath? Someone seeking revenge?
Carl took a cigarette and tapped it on his desk. Maybe a few puffs would help him understand how these murders on the whiteboard were connected to the deaths of Tabitha and Ragnhild. They must be connected, given that Ragnhild Bengtsen’s body was found next to the two latest victims in the series of ritual murders. But then why hadn’t there been any salt in Ragnhild’s grave? And why did she kill Tabitha? Could it be that the two women were not part of the grand plan but just collateral damage dealt with resolutely and without hesitation?
Carl sighed and let the cigarette dangle unlit from the corner of his mouth while he racked his brain.
Maybe he should only concentrate on the two latest victims. What kind of people were they? Birger von Brandstrup facilitated gambling and caused people to become addicts. Frank Svendsen polluted the soil, air, and seas, and he sent ships off for scrapping in Bangladesh. Definitely two men who had not contributed anything positive to the world.
“Do you have a minute, Carl?”
It was Assad who pulled him from his thoughts.
“I’ll just turn on your TV and go on to TV2 Play. You need to see the latest update on TV2 News!”
He fumbled around with the remote for a second and then a photo of Pauline Rasmussen appeared on the screen, while the breaking news banner text rolled across the bottom: “Actress Pauline Rasmussen, 52, one of the country’s most popular cabaret stars, was found dead in her home yesterday. Several sources believe the death to be a suicide.”
“They’re interviewing the friend who found her,” said Assad.
The friend sat stony faced in the studio.
“Yes! Pauline had been feeling terrible for some time,” she said. “The recent lockdown was especially hard for her because she had only just rebuilt her faith that she’d soon be back onstage—and then the government pulled the rug from under her again.”
“So she was worried about a future with no work?” asked the interviewer.
“Yes, and no money. She had nothing left to live for, and she’d used her savings up over the last year.”
“And you found her in bed in her home?”
“Yes, but the first thing I noticed was the pile of pills on her nightstand.”
The screen showed a photo of the nightstand with the empty pill bottle, a pile of pills, and an empty water glass. The forensic technicians certainly would not have provided that sort of photo, so it must have been taken by the friend.
“I knew instinctively that something was wrong because the first thing I saw when I walked into the bedroom was all the pills lying there. And she hadn’t answered the phone when I called that morning. I thought she must’ve drowned her sorrows and been sleeping it off. But I was sorely mistaken.”
“We invited you here today because we know you have a message in connection with Pauline’s death. Care to share?”
Carl wondered why TV journalists always fell in love with stupid phrases like that. Who ever actually said “care to share”?
The woman leaned in toward the interviewer as if she wanted to tell her something in confidence.
“It’s the situation in the arts,” she said. “Actors and artists have way too many sleeping pills lying around at a time when their lives have been ruined. I think the minister for culture and everyone else who chose to disregard the arts when distributing financial help should seriously think about what they’ve done. They have a lot to answer for.”
Carl looked at Assad with a frown.
“Well,” he said. “She was quite a character. First of all, I must admit that I’m very surprised by Pauline Rasmussen’s death. She didn’t strike me as the type to do this.”
“ ‘First of all,’ you said?” Assad grinned. Did he already know what Carl was going to say next?
“You’re also thinking about the pills, aren’t you, Assad? It must’ve been a very full pill bottle to have so many left on the nightstand and still have been enough to kill her.”
“Yes, Carl. Very suspicious! And it also raised suspicions with Sigurd Harms’s team, so they looked for something that might indicate a crime. But all they found were Pauline’s own fingerprints. They searched the pill bottle, the bedroom, and the corridor meticulously. She was found with all her clothes on, and her bag had been thrown on the footstool at the end of the bed. Harms went through the contents and there was nothing suspicious in it.”
“I bet Harms wasn’t pleased with that,” said Carl. “Thanks for filling me in, Assad. I agree that this doesn’t look like a regular case of suicide. I think it’s even more urgent now to get Palle Rasmussen’s bloody computer back from NC3. Can’t you get Marcus to pull some strings? We need NC3 to restore as many of the deleted files as they possibly can.”
Assad gave him a thumbs-up. He was already on his way.
High time to light this cigarette, thought Carl while looking out over the parking lot. He had just caught sight of two young guys with a camera and a microphone rushing in the cold toward the main entrance, when Rose appeared in his doorway.
“They’re here now,” she said with a reproachful look at the flame from Carl’s match.
“They? You mean the TV crew?”
He had only just managed to sort the papers on the desk when the two guys appeared.
“Hi! Erik!” said the guy with the microphone. Carl gave him an elbow bump while the cameraman took up position.
“We’re in a bit of a rush,” said the reporter, shoving the microphone in Carl’s face.
Carl focused on the red recording signal and saw the logo above it: lorry.
“Rose, come in here for a minute,” he shouted, turning his back to the camera.
“Am I imagining things, Rose, or have you invited Lorry to come? A local Copenhagen-based TV station?”
She looked in confusion at the two guys.
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
Carl turned toward them and tried to look apologetic, even though he knew it did not work.
“Thank you for coming, and thank you for leaving again so promptly. What we have to say is of national interest.”
“But our reports are sometimes shown on other regional . . . ,” the reporter attempted, but the cameraman had already gotten the message.
Five minutes later they were rushing back across the parking lot in the opposite direction with the tip that Department Q would make an official statement two hours later on the square in front of the old police headquarters.
“Are you sure that’s the right decision, Carl?” asked Rose.
“As sure as night follows day, yes.”
“What are you planning to say?”
“Well, our dilemma is that we can’t say we’re looking for a person who answers to the description of ‘bastard.’ But apart from that, I’ll say it like it is. That we have a suspicion that a very industrious and probably successful person who hasn’t been in contact with their family for some time is in imminent danger. So if anyone thinks this might apply to their family, they should contact you directly, Rose.”
She did not look pleased.