She explained everything about the car.
“It wasn’t Patrick, was it?” asked Denise.
“No,” she said with a laugh. What kind of a question was that? Hadn’t she just said that it was a small, old, red rust bucket? As if Patrick would be seen dead in something like that.
“Patrick drives an Alfa Romeo. It’s bigger and black.”
“Drivers are psychos,” said Jazmine.
Then came the thing she just had to say. “But I do think I recognized the face of the woman in the car.”
They went silent as if they expected a complete description on top of her explanation.
“Have you told the police?” asked Denise.
“No.” Michelle kicked her blanket off. It felt suffocating.
She nodded over to the screen separating the person in the next bed. It was none of her business what she was about to say.
“I was just about to tell the policeman,” she whispered, “but I wanted to ask you first what you think I should do.” She put her finger to her mouth to remind them to keep their voices down.
“What do you mean?” Denise whispered.
“I think it was Anne-Line Svendsen behind the wheel.”
She got the reactions she had hoped for: shock, disbelief, and confusion.
“Christ! Are you sure?” asked Denise.
She shrugged. “I think so. At least it was someone who looked like her. Even the sweater.”
Denise and Jazmine looked at each other. Didn’t they believe her?
“Do you think I should report it?” she asked.
They sat for a while staring blankly. All three of them hated Anne-Line Svendsen. Three claimants whose lives the bitch had made difficult for years.
Michelle was sure that she was thinking the same as they were just now. If it really was Anne-Line Svendsen, who would believe a girl like her? Why would a caseworker who on top of everything else had won a huge sum of money do something like that? She could see the problem.
I’m the one who’s committed fraud, she thought. And wasn’t it extremely risky to make false accusations? Wouldn’t there be severe consequences? Yes, that much she knew from TV shows.
“I have a meeting with her on Monday,” said Jazmine a moment later. “So I’ll just ask her straight out if it was her who did it.”
Denise nodded. “Okay. ‘Straight to the point,’ as my granddad always said.”
“But if she denies it—and she will—what do we do then?” asked Jazmine. “Any suggestions?”
Denise smiled but said nothing.
13
Friday, May 13th, and Tuesday, May 17th, 2016
In Aller?d, the barbecue was already in full swing, and while before there had been a mild aroma of smoke from the neighbor’s garden, now the entire parking lot was covered in a thick haze that smelled strongly of burned meat.
“Howdy, Morten and Hardy!” shouted Carl, throwing his jacket in the hallway. “Are you also having a barbecue?”
There was a faint humming from Hardy’s electric wheelchair as he approached. He was dressed in white from top to toe—a stark contrast to his gloomy expression.
“Anything wrong?” asked Carl.
“Mika has just been here.”
“Oh! Are you having treatment with him on Fridays now? I thought . . .”
“Mika has been here with Morten’s stuff. They’ve split up. Morten’s sitting in a corner of the sitting room in a right state, I can tell you. He needs his friends around him just now, so I’ve told him that he can move back into the basement, okay?”
Carl nodded. “What the . . .” He put his hand on Hardy’s shoulder. It was a good thing that at least Morten and Hardy had each other.
The rejected lover was huddled up in the corner of the sofa looking as dejected as someone who had just received a death sentence. Ashen, tearful, and by all appearances totally exhausted.
“Hi, mate, what’s this I hear?” asked Carl.
Perhaps he should have approached the subject more delicately, because the result was that Morten jumped up and threw his arms around Carl with a guttural wail as the tears streamed down his face.
“There, there!” was the only thing he could think of to say.
“I can hardly bear to think about it,” Morten sobbed in Carl’s ear. “I’m so miserable! And at Whitsun of all times. We were supposed to be going to Sweden together.”
“Tell me what happened, Morten.” He held him at arm’s length and looked directly into his tearful eyes.
“Mika wants to study medicine,” he cried, snot running from his nose. It didn’t really sound so drastic.
“And he says he doesn’t have time for a serious relationship anymore. But I know there must be another reason.”
Carl sighed. Now they’d have to clear the basement again so Morten could move back to his old quarters. His stepson’s things would have to go. And not too soon. How many years had it been since Jesper actually moved out?
“You can stay in the basement if you want,” he said, trying to change the subject. “Jesper still has some stuff down there, but I’ll get him to . . .”
Morten nodded and thanked him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand like a little boy. His once plump body looked starved, Carl noticed now for the first time. He almost didn’t recognize him.
“Are you ill, Morten?” he asked tentatively.
Morten grimaced. “Yes. I’m dying of a broken heart. Where in the world will I find a guy as divine as Mika? I won’t, because he’s a dream. Heavenly. So groomed and handsome and extremely adventurous in bed. He has the stamina, strength, and dominance of a stallion. If only you knew how . . .”
Carl held up the palms of his hands to stop him. “Thanks, Morten. You don’t need to explain further. I think I get it.”
After dinner, which Morten had managed to serve despite his recurring hysterics and tears, though he himself had been unable to muster the appetite to eat, Hardy looked intensely at Carl. A look Carl knew only too well. It was the look of a seasoned investigator.
“Yeah, yeah, Hardy. You’re right. I do actually have something to tell you,” he said. “I’ve met up with Marcus.”
Hardy nodded without seeming surprised. Had they already spoken?
“I think I know why, Carl,” he said. “I was just waiting for it to happen, but I’d anticipated you being the one to start the ball rolling.”
“I’m confused. Help me out here. What are you talking about?”
Hardy pulled at his control, moving his chair a bit away from the dining table. “Coincidences, Carl. The attack in the King’s Garden in 2016 and the attack in ?stre Anl?g in 2004. Am I right?”
Carl nodded. “Okay, spot-on. But if you have any more of these well-founded hunches, give me a heads-up straightaway, all right?”