Free Mercy by Jussi Adler-Olsen Page A

used coffee cups standing on his little meeting table. ‘Give me twenty minutes, Marcus. Then you’re welcome to come down here. We’re right in the middle of something at the moment.’
    He put down the phone and puffed out his cheeks. Then he slowly exhaled as he stood up and went across the hall to the room where Assad had made himself at home.
    On his abnormally small desk stood two framed photographs showing a big group of people. On the wall above the desk hung a poster with Arabic script and a lovely picture of an exotic building that Carl couldn’t immediately identify. From a hook on the door hung a brown smock of the type that had gone out of fashion along with leg warmers. Assad had neatly arranged his cleaning implements in a row along the far wall: a bucket, mop, vacuum cleaner, and a sea of bottles containing caustic cleaning fluids. On the bookshelves were rubber gloves and a little transistor radio with a cassette player that was emitting muted sounds that were reminiscent of the bazaar in Sousse. Next to the radio lay a notebook, some paper, a pencil, a copy of the Koran, and a small selection of magazines with Arabic text. Spread out on the floor in front of the bookshelf was a multicoloured prayer rug that hardly looked big enough for Assad to kneel on. All in all, quite a picturesque scene.
    ‘Assad,’ said Carl. ‘We’re in a hurry. The homicide chief will be here in twenty minutes, and we’ve got to get things ready. When he arrives, I’d appreciate it if you could be washing the floor at the other end of the hall. It’s going to mean a little overtime, but I hope that’s OK.’
    ‘I must say, I’m impressed, Carl,’ said Marcus Jacobsen, nodding at the bulletin board with tired eyes. ‘You’ve certainly got this place organized. Are you getting back on your feet?’
    ‘Back on my feet? Yeah, well, I’m doing what I can. But you need to realize it’s going to be a while before I’m up to speed.’
    ‘Let me know if you need to have a talk with a crisis counsellor again. You shouldn’t underestimate the amount of trauma that can result from the type of experience you’ve been through.’
    ‘I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.’
    ‘That’s good, Carl. But don’t hesitate to speak up.’ Jacobsen turned to look at the far wall. ‘I see you’ve got your flat-screen up,’ he said, staring at the forty-inch image of the news programme on Channel 2.
    ‘Yes, we have to keep up with events in the world,’ said Carl, thinking gratefully of Assad. It had taken his assistant all of five minutes to set up the whole damn thing. Apparently that was something else he was good at.
    ‘By the way, it was just reported that the witness in the case of the murdered cyclist tried to commit suicide,’ Carl went on.
    ‘What? For Christ’s sake, how did that leak out already?’ exclaimed the homicide chief, looking even more knackered.
    Carl shrugged. After ten years as head of the homicide division, the man must be used to the game by now. ‘I’ve divided up the cases into three categories,’ he said, pointing at the piles of folders. ‘They’re big, complicated cases. I’ve spent days reading through the material. This is going to take a lot of time, Marcus.’
    Jacobsen shifted his gaze away from the TV screen. ‘Take however much time you need, Carl. Just as long as you produce results once in a while. Let me know if anyone upstairs can assist you.’ He attempted a smile. ‘So which case have you decided to work on first?’
    ‘Well, er, I’m looking at several initially. But the Merete Lynggaard case will probably be the first.’
    Jacobsen’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, that was a strange one. The way she disappeared from the Rødby–Puttgarden ferry. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. And without a single eyewitness.’
    ‘There are plenty of strange aspects to the case,’ said Carl, trying to recall just one.
    ‘I remember that her brother was