Free The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel by Jussi Adler-Olsen Page B

the next two seconds, he was going to unbury the hatchet with ceremony, and nothing would please him more.
    Bak could see where this was going.
    “Anyway, best be getting off upstairs with this lot here. Be seeing you, Carl!”
    He managed to lift his foot about three centimeters toward the next step before Carl’s fist twisted his collar tight around his throat.
    “What rumors, Bak?”
    “Let go,” Bak wheezed. “Otherwise I’ll make sure thosedisciplinary proceedings you managed to avoid after the Amager incident are reinstated.”
    Disciplinary proceedings? What the hell was he going on about? Carl tightened his grip around Bak’s double chins. “Let me tell you something, Bak. From now on . . .”
    He paused at the sound of footsteps, releasing his clutch as one of HQ’s new intake tried to squeeze past unnoticed, a sheepish grin on his face. Carl recognized him. The newcomer was a pain in the neck, and of all the possible names he could have been equipped with, his parents had chosen the highly un-Danish moniker “Gordon.” A beanstalk of a lad with legs like ski poles, swinging arms more appropriate to a gibbon, the neatly parted hairstyle of an English public schoolboy, and not least of all a mouth on him that never knew when to shut up. Not exactly a boost for criminal investigation in Copenhagen.
    Carl nodded reluctantly to the lanky lighthouse before returning his attention to the now gasping Børge Bak.
    “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Bak. But if you ever happen to find the courage to tell me what you’re insinuating, you’ll be more than welcome to come and see me in the basement and tell me to my face. Until then, I advise you to stay in your stolen-goods cage and save yourself the indignity of listening to any more unverified gossip. It makes you such a horrible little man.”
    And with that he shoved him aside and continued on down the stairs. Aside from the little silk pouch he had in his jacket pocket, Mona’s reaction to which he could hardly wait for, his day had been crap. The flight home had almost made him throw up even before they had taken off from Schiphol, Marcus had decided to abandon ship, Lars Bjørn was already settling in on the throne, and now this. He should never have bothered coming in today.
    Effing Børge Bak and his ilk. No matter what they all thought about the Amager shooting and his part in the investigation of that damned nail-gun killing, it was their fucking duty to respect a colleague’s right to defend himself against all accusations, not least those left unsaid. He’d had it up to here with all their shit.
    —
    Amid the noise of builders on the job somewhere at the far end of the corridor and the dense fumes of incense sticks and tea made from candied fruit, he found Assad rolling up his prayer mat.
    Apart from his lopsided face and an unusually pale version of his Middle Eastern complexion, the man was looking OK.
    “Great to see you back, Assad,” Carl said, doing his best not to glance at the time. Assad still had a couple of weeks of treatment left to go, so hauling him over the coals for being late would have to wait. “How are you doing?” he asked almost automatically.
    “As a matter of fact I am doing splendidly.”
    Carl raised his head. He needed to hear it again.
    “Did you say splendidly?”
    Assad turned to face him with drooping eyelids. “Don’t you worry, Carl. It will soon pass.”
    He leaned the prayer mat against the shelves and reached out for some of his caramel substance, keeping hold of the table for support. Who wouldn’t need steadying, faced with the prospect of putting that sticky goo in their mouth?
    Carl gave his assistant a pat on the back. He had made a marvelous recovery since the assault in December. The doctors had been in no doubt: without Assad’s armor-plated skull and his iron constitution, the blow he had received to the back of his head would have turned him into a vegetable if it