similar pictures emerged for the companies owning the premises that had burned down in Emdrup and on Stockholmsgade. The firm in Emdrup, JPP Fittings A/S, turned over some twenty-five million kroner a year supplying mainly DIY stores and major timber outlets. Most likely a thriving business last year, and a struggling one now. The same seemed to be true of the Østerbro company, Public Consult, which earned its money generating tendering projects for leading firms of architects, and which had probably also felt the effects of hitting that nasty concrete wall called recession.
Besides the obvious vulnerability of all three companies in the present financial climate, however, they seemed to have little else in common. Different owners, different clients.
Carl drummed his fingers on the desk. What about the Rødovre blaze in 1995? Would that fit the picture? A business suddenly finding itself struggling against a headwind? This was where he needed Rose. Fucking woman.
“Knock, knock,” said a husky voice at the door.
That’ll be Yrsa, Carl thought to himself, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter past nine. She was even on time.
“What time do you call this?” he said with his back turned. It was something he had learned once. The boss who addressed minions with his back turned reigned supreme.
“I didn’t know we had an appointment,” a rather nasal male voice replied.
Carl whirled around in his chair so fast he carried on half a turn too far.
It was Laursen. Good old Tomas Laursen, forensics officer and rugby player. The man who won a fortune in the lottery, only to lose it again and end up working in the cafeteria on the top floor.
“Tomas. Fucking hell! What are you doing here?”
“Your kind assistant asked me down to say hello.”
Assad put his cheeky face around the door. What was he up to? Had he really been upstairs to the cafeteria? Weren’t his spicy specialties and culinary colon busters enough for him anymore?
“I popped up to buy a banana, Carl,” Assad said, waving the curviform fruit in front of him. Who was he kidding? All the way to the top floor for a banana?
Carl nodded. Assad was a monkey. He’d known all along.
He and Laursen greeted each other with a handshake and squeezed as hard as they could. The same excruciatingly painful joke as always.
“Funny you should turn up, Laursen. I’ve just been hearing about you from What’s-his-face, Yding from Albertslund. I gather your return to the madhouse isn’t entirely voluntary?”
Laursen shook his head deliberately. “Well, it was my own fault, I suppose. The bank put one over on me, told me it was a good idea to borrow with a view to investment. The capital was there, so all I had to do was sign. And now there’s fuck all left.”
“They should cover your losses, the bastards,” said Carl. He had heard it said on the news.
Laursen nodded. There was no doubt that he agreed, but here he was back again. Last man in. Buttering
smørrebrød
and washing up. One of the finest forensics officers on the force. What a waste.
“Still, I’m happy enough,” he said. “I see a lot of people I know from when I was out in the field, without having to get back out there with them again.” He smiled awkwardly, just like in the old days. “I got sick of it, Carl. Picking at corpses at all hours of the day and night. Not a single day went by the last five years when I didn’t think of jacking it all in. So the money got me out, even if I did lose it all again. That’s how I choose to look at it, anyway. Nothing’s ever so bad as not to be good for something.”
Carl nodded. “You won’t know Assad, of course, but I’m sure he didn’t drag you down here to discuss the cafeteria menu with an old colleague over a cup of peppermint tea.”
“He told me about the message in the bottle. I think I got the gist of it. Can I see the letter?”
The crafty little—!
Laursen sat down as Carl gingerly removed the document from
Besides the obvious vulnerability of all three companies in the present financial climate, however, they seemed to have little else in common. Different owners, different clients.
Carl drummed his fingers on the desk. What about the Rødovre blaze in 1995? Would that fit the picture? A business suddenly finding itself struggling against a headwind? This was where he needed Rose. Fucking woman.
“Knock, knock,” said a husky voice at the door.
That’ll be Yrsa, Carl thought to himself, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter past nine. She was even on time.
“What time do you call this?” he said with his back turned. It was something he had learned once. The boss who addressed minions with his back turned reigned supreme.
“I didn’t know we had an appointment,” a rather nasal male voice replied.
Carl whirled around in his chair so fast he carried on half a turn too far.
It was Laursen. Good old Tomas Laursen, forensics officer and rugby player. The man who won a fortune in the lottery, only to lose it again and end up working in the cafeteria on the top floor.
“Tomas. Fucking hell! What are you doing here?”
“Your kind assistant asked me down to say hello.”
Assad put his cheeky face around the door. What was he up to? Had he really been upstairs to the cafeteria? Weren’t his spicy specialties and culinary colon busters enough for him anymore?
“I popped up to buy a banana, Carl,” Assad said, waving the curviform fruit in front of him. Who was he kidding? All the way to the top floor for a banana?
Carl nodded. Assad was a monkey. He’d known all along.
He and Laursen greeted each other with a handshake and squeezed as hard as they could. The same excruciatingly painful joke as always.
“Funny you should turn up, Laursen. I’ve just been hearing about you from What’s-his-face, Yding from Albertslund. I gather your return to the madhouse isn’t entirely voluntary?”
Laursen shook his head deliberately. “Well, it was my own fault, I suppose. The bank put one over on me, told me it was a good idea to borrow with a view to investment. The capital was there, so all I had to do was sign. And now there’s fuck all left.”
“They should cover your losses, the bastards,” said Carl. He had heard it said on the news.
Laursen nodded. There was no doubt that he agreed, but here he was back again. Last man in. Buttering
smørrebrød
and washing up. One of the finest forensics officers on the force. What a waste.
“Still, I’m happy enough,” he said. “I see a lot of people I know from when I was out in the field, without having to get back out there with them again.” He smiled awkwardly, just like in the old days. “I got sick of it, Carl. Picking at corpses at all hours of the day and night. Not a single day went by the last five years when I didn’t think of jacking it all in. So the money got me out, even if I did lose it all again. That’s how I choose to look at it, anyway. Nothing’s ever so bad as not to be good for something.”
Carl nodded. “You won’t know Assad, of course, but I’m sure he didn’t drag you down here to discuss the cafeteria menu with an old colleague over a cup of peppermint tea.”
“He told me about the message in the bottle. I think I got the gist of it. Can I see the letter?”
The crafty little—!
Laursen sat down as Carl gingerly removed the document from
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