When Lars Bjørn and Deputy Police Superintendent Terje Ploug, who’d taken over the nail-gun case, entered the room, the homicide chief flipped the case file closed and turned to Carl. “I want you to know that I’ve called you in because two more murders were discovered this morning. The bodies of two young men were found in a car-repair shop outside Sorø.”
Sorø, thought Carl. What the devil did that have to do with them?
“They were both found with ninety-millimeter nails from a Paslode nail gun in their skulls. I’m sure that reminds you of something, right?”
Carl turned his head to look out of the window, staring at a flock of birds flying over the buildings across the road. He could feel his boss’s eyes fixed on him, but that wasn’t going to do him much good. What had happened in Sorø yesterday didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the case out in Amager. Even on TV shows they used nail guns as weapons these days.
“Will you take it from here, Terje?” he heard Marcus Jacobsen say, as if from far off.
“Sure. We’re convinced that it’s the same perpetrators who killed Georg Madsen in the barracks out in Amager.”
Carl turned to face him. “And why is that?”
“Because Georg Madsen was the uncle of one of the victims in Sorø.”
Carl turned back to watch the birds again.
“We’ve got a description of one of the individuals who apparently was at the scene when the murders were committed. Police Detective Stoltz and his team in Sorø want you to drive down there today to compare your description with theirs.”
“I didn’t see shit. I was unconscious.”
Terje Ploug gave Carl a look that he didn’t care for. He of all people must have studied the report in detail, so why was he playing dumb? Hadn’t Carl insisted that he was unconscious from the moment he was shot in the temple until they put the IV drip in his arm in the hospital? Didn’t they believe him? What possible reason could they have for wanting to speak with him?
“In the report it says that you saw a red-checked shirt before the shots were fired.”
The shirt. Was that all this was about? “So they want me to identify a shirt?” he replied. “Because if that’s what they need, I think they should just e-mail me a photo of it.”
“They’ve got their own reasons, Carl,” Marcus interjected. “It’s in everyone’s interest that you drive down to Sorø. Not least your own.”
“I don’t really feel like it.” He glanced at his watch. “Besides, it’s already getting late.”
“You don’t really feel like it? Tell me, Carl, when is it that you have an appointment to see the crisis counselor?”
Carl pursed his lips. Did Marcus really have to announce that to the whole department?
“Tomorrow.”
“Then I think you should drive to Sorø today, and you’ll have your reaction to the experience fresh in your mind when you see Mona Ibsen tomorrow.” He flashed Carl a phony smile and picked a file off the top of the tallest stack on his desk. “Oh, and by the way, here are copies of the documents we received from Immigration regarding Hafez el-Assad. You can take them with you.”
Assad ended up doing the driving. He’d brought along some of the spicy rolls and triangles in a lunch box and shoveled them in his mouth as they shot along the E20. Sitting there behind the wheel, he was a happy and contented man, as evidenced by his smiling face. He moved his head from side to side in time to whatever music was playing on the radio.
“I got your papers from the Immigration Service, Assad, but I haven’t read them yet,” Carl said. “Why don’t you tell me what they say?”
For a second his driver gave him an alert look as they roared past a procession of trucks. “My birth date, where I come from, and then what I did there. Is that what you mean, Carl?”
“Why were you granted permanent residency, Assad? Does it say that too?”
He nodded. “Carl, I would be killed if I went back. That is how it is. The government in Syria was not really very happy with me, you understand.”
“Why not?”
“We did not just think the same. And that is enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Syria is a big country. People just disappear.”
“OK, so you’re sure that you’ll be killed if you go back?”
“That is how it is, Carl.”
“Were you working for the Americans?”
Assad turned his head sharply to look at Carl. “Why do you say that?”
Carl looked away. “No reason, Assad. Just asking.”
The last time Carl visited the old Sorø police station on Storgade, it was part of District 16, under the Ringsted police force. Now it belonged to southern Jutland and Lolland-Falster’s police district, but the bricks were still red, the mugs behind the counter were the same, and the workload hadn’t got any lighter. What benefits were achieved by moving people from one box into another was a question worthy of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
Carl was expecting one of the detectives at the station to ask him for yet another description of a checked shirt. But they weren’t that amateurish. A welcome party, four men strong, was waiting for him in an office the size of Assad’s, looking as if each of them had lost a family member in connection with the violent events of the night before.
“Jørgensen,” announced one of them, holding out his hand. It was ice cold. A few hours earlier this same Jørgensen had undoubtedly been staring into the eyes of a couple of men who’d had their lives blown away with a pneumatic nail gun. And in that case, he probably hadn’t slept a wink all night.
“Do you want to see the crime scene?” asked one of the officers.
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s not completely identical to the scene in Amager. They were killed in a car-repair shop. One in the garage and one in the office. The nails were fired at close range, since they went all the way in. We had to look closely even to see them.”
One of the other officers handed a couple of A4-size photos to Carl. They were right. The heads of the nails were just barely visible in the skull. There wasn’t even any significant bleeding.
“As you can see, they were both working. There was dirt on their hands and they were wearing boiler suits.”
“Was anything missing?”
“Zilch!”
Carl hadn’t heard that expression in a while.
“What were they working on? Wasn’t it late at night? Were they moonlighting, or what?”
The detectives exchanged glances. This was clearly a question they were still working on.
“There were footprints from hundreds of shoes. Looks like they never cleaned the place,” Jørgensen added. This wasn’t going to be an easy case for him. “We want you to have a close look at this, Carl,” he went on as he picked up a corner of a cloth that was covering the table. “And don’t say anything until you’re sure.”
He took off the cloth to reveal four shirts with big red checks, lying side by side like lumberjacks taking a nap on the forest floor.