Yvette raised her almost non-existent eyebrow a smidgen. ‘Lisbet was Martha’s daughter, and the boy was called Søren. You know that, right?’ Assad and Carl nodded. ‘Maybe Lisbet’s friend still has the file, I don’t know.’ She gazed towards the conservatory. ‘Apparently he expressly promised Martha he’d bring it back someday.’ She looked at them so sadly, one felt the urge to give her a hug. ‘He probably won’t be able to do so before it’s too late.’
‘This man who took the case file, can you remember his name, Yvette?’ Assad asked.
‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t there when she gave it to him, and her memory isn’t what it used to be.’ She patted the side of her head. ‘The tumour, you know.’
‘Do you know if he was a policeman?’ Carl added.
‘I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Why didn’t he take this with him then?’ Assad asked, referring to the Peter Hahn box under his arm.
‘Oh, that. It was just something Martha wanted to do. Someone has already confessed to the murders, haven’t they? I helped her collect newspapers clippings because it was good for her. The man who borrowed the case file probably didn’t believe they were especially important. And they most likely aren’t.’
They asked about the key to Martha’s summer cottage, which Yvette told them about, and made inquiries about the days around the time of the murders. But Yvette had nothing else to add. As she explained, it had happened twenty years ago. And besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone wanted to remember.
When the home help arrived, they said goodbye.
Hardy kept a photograph of his son on his bedside table, the only hint that this prostrate figure with matted, greasy hair and tubes in his urinary tract had once had a life other than that which the respirator, the permanently turned-on television and the busy nurses provided for him.
‘Took your bloody time to get your arse here,’ he said, eyes fixed on an imaginary point a thousand yards above the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries in Hornbæk. A place with a 360-degree view, and from which a person could fall so hard and far that he’d never wake up again.
Carl racked his brain for a good excuse, but gave up. Instead he picked up the framed photo, saying, ‘I hear Mads has begun studying at the university.’
‘Who told you that? Are you banging my wife?’ he said, without even blinking.
‘No, Hardy. Why the hell would you say such a thing? I know because ... because, oh, I don’t fucking remember who at headquarters told me.’
‘Where’s your little Syrian? Have they thrown him back into the sand dunes?’
Carl knew Hardy. This was just small talk.
‘Tell me what’s on your mind, Hardy. I’m here now, OK?’ He breathed deeply. ‘In the future I’ll visit you more often, old boy. I’ve been on holiday, I’m sure you understand.’
‘Do you see the shears on the table?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘They’re always there. They use them to cut the gauze.And the tape that secures my probes and syringes. They look sharp, don’t you think?’
Carl looked at them. ‘Sure, Hardy.’
‘Couldn’t you take them and stab me in my carotid artery, Carl? It’d make me very happy.’ He laughed briefly, then stopped suddenly. ‘My arm is twitching, Carl, right below my shoulder muscle, I think.’
Carl frowned. So Hardy felt some twitching, the poor man. If only it were so. ‘Do you want me to scratch it for you, Hardy?’ Pulling the blanket a bit to the side, he considered whether he should yank the shirt down or scratch over it.
‘Damn it, you dumb bastard. Listen to what I’m saying. It’s twitching. Can you see it?’
Carl moved the shirt. Hardy had always made it a point to look attractive. Well groomed and tanned. Now, apart from delicate, pale blue veins, his skin was white as a maggot’s.
Carl touched Hardy’s arm. There wasn’t a muscle left; it felt like tenderized hung beef. And
‘This man who took the case file, can you remember his name, Yvette?’ Assad asked.
‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t there when she gave it to him, and her memory isn’t what it used to be.’ She patted the side of her head. ‘The tumour, you know.’
‘Do you know if he was a policeman?’ Carl added.
‘I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Why didn’t he take this with him then?’ Assad asked, referring to the Peter Hahn box under his arm.
‘Oh, that. It was just something Martha wanted to do. Someone has already confessed to the murders, haven’t they? I helped her collect newspapers clippings because it was good for her. The man who borrowed the case file probably didn’t believe they were especially important. And they most likely aren’t.’
They asked about the key to Martha’s summer cottage, which Yvette told them about, and made inquiries about the days around the time of the murders. But Yvette had nothing else to add. As she explained, it had happened twenty years ago. And besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone wanted to remember.
When the home help arrived, they said goodbye.
Hardy kept a photograph of his son on his bedside table, the only hint that this prostrate figure with matted, greasy hair and tubes in his urinary tract had once had a life other than that which the respirator, the permanently turned-on television and the busy nurses provided for him.
‘Took your bloody time to get your arse here,’ he said, eyes fixed on an imaginary point a thousand yards above the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries in Hornbæk. A place with a 360-degree view, and from which a person could fall so hard and far that he’d never wake up again.
Carl racked his brain for a good excuse, but gave up. Instead he picked up the framed photo, saying, ‘I hear Mads has begun studying at the university.’
‘Who told you that? Are you banging my wife?’ he said, without even blinking.
‘No, Hardy. Why the hell would you say such a thing? I know because ... because, oh, I don’t fucking remember who at headquarters told me.’
‘Where’s your little Syrian? Have they thrown him back into the sand dunes?’
Carl knew Hardy. This was just small talk.
‘Tell me what’s on your mind, Hardy. I’m here now, OK?’ He breathed deeply. ‘In the future I’ll visit you more often, old boy. I’ve been on holiday, I’m sure you understand.’
‘Do you see the shears on the table?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘They’re always there. They use them to cut the gauze.And the tape that secures my probes and syringes. They look sharp, don’t you think?’
Carl looked at them. ‘Sure, Hardy.’
‘Couldn’t you take them and stab me in my carotid artery, Carl? It’d make me very happy.’ He laughed briefly, then stopped suddenly. ‘My arm is twitching, Carl, right below my shoulder muscle, I think.’
Carl frowned. So Hardy felt some twitching, the poor man. If only it were so. ‘Do you want me to scratch it for you, Hardy?’ Pulling the blanket a bit to the side, he considered whether he should yank the shirt down or scratch over it.
‘Damn it, you dumb bastard. Listen to what I’m saying. It’s twitching. Can you see it?’
Carl moved the shirt. Hardy had always made it a point to look attractive. Well groomed and tanned. Now, apart from delicate, pale blue veins, his skin was white as a maggot’s.
Carl touched Hardy’s arm. There wasn’t a muscle left; it felt like tenderized hung beef. And
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