thefolder. Assad came waltzing in with a chased brass tray with three minuscule cups on it.
The smell of peppermint thickened the air. “You will most definitely like this tea,” said Assad as he poured. “It will do wonders for all sorts of things.” He grasped his crotch and winked. The message was abundantly clear.
Laursen switched on another Anglepoise lamp and drew the light up close to the document.
“Do we know who preserved this?”
“A lab in Scotland,” Assad replied. He produced the investigation sheet before Carl had even remembered where he had put it.
“The analysis is here.” Assad placed it in front of Laursen.
“OK,” said Laursen after a few minutes. “I see it was Douglas Gilliam who took care of business there.”
“You know him?”
Laursen gave Carl the kind of look a five-year-old girl would when asked if she knew who Britney Spears was. Hardly respectful, but certainly enough to kindle Carl’s curiosity. Who was this Douglas Gilliam when he was at home, apart from some bloke on the wrong side of the border with England?
“You’re not likely to get very far on this,” said Laursen, picking up his cup of peppermint tea between a thick finger and thumb. “Our Scottish colleagues seem to have done everything in their power to preserve the paper and recover the text by means of various forms of light treatment and chemicals. They’ve found minute traces of printer’s ink, but as far as I can see nothing’s been done to determine the origins of the paper itself. In fact, most of the physical investigation seems to be down to us. Have you run this through the Center of Forensic Services out in Vanløse?”
“No, but then I had no idea the technical investigations were incomplete,” said Carl reluctantly. The mistake was his.
“It says so here.” Laursen indicated the bottom line of the lab report.
Why the hell hadn’t he noticed that? Shit!
“Actually, Carl, Rose did tell me this. But she did not think we needed to know where the paper came from,” Assad chipped in.
“Well, on that count she was most certainly wrong. Let me have another look.” Laursen got up and squeezed his fingers into his pocket. It was no easy task. Rugby thighs in tight jeans.
The type of magnifying glass Laursen now produced was one Carl had seen on many occasions. A small square that could be folded out to stand on top of the object. It looked like the lower part of a little microscope. Standard issue for stamp collectors and similar loonies, but the professional version, equipped with the finest of Zeiss lenses, was most certainly a must for a forensics expert such as Laursen.
He placed it on the document, muttering to himself as he drew the lens across the lines of mostly obliterated writing. He worked systematically from side to side, one line at a time.
“Can you see more characters through that glass?” Assad inquired.
Laursen shook his head but said nothing.
By the time he was halfway through the document, Carl was dying for a smoke.
“Just nipping out for a sec, OK?”
His words were hardly noticed.
He sat down on one of the tables in the corridor and stared blankly at all the equipment they had standing around idle. Scanners, copy machines, and the like. The thought annoyed him. Another time, he would have to make sure Rose finished what she was doing before she dropped everything and split. Poor leadership on his part.
It was at this very moment of painful self-awareness that a series of dull thuds suddenly came from the stairs, making him think of a basketball bouncing down a flight of steps in slow motion, followed by a wheelbarrow with a flat tire. He gawped as a person came toward him looking like a housewife who had just stocked up on duty-frees from the ferries that used to ply the Øresund to Sweden. The high-heeled shoes, the pleated tartan skirt, and the garish shopping cart she dragged in her wake allscreamed the fifties more than the fifties probably ever did
The smell of peppermint thickened the air. “You will most definitely like this tea,” said Assad as he poured. “It will do wonders for all sorts of things.” He grasped his crotch and winked. The message was abundantly clear.
Laursen switched on another Anglepoise lamp and drew the light up close to the document.
“Do we know who preserved this?”
“A lab in Scotland,” Assad replied. He produced the investigation sheet before Carl had even remembered where he had put it.
“The analysis is here.” Assad placed it in front of Laursen.
“OK,” said Laursen after a few minutes. “I see it was Douglas Gilliam who took care of business there.”
“You know him?”
Laursen gave Carl the kind of look a five-year-old girl would when asked if she knew who Britney Spears was. Hardly respectful, but certainly enough to kindle Carl’s curiosity. Who was this Douglas Gilliam when he was at home, apart from some bloke on the wrong side of the border with England?
“You’re not likely to get very far on this,” said Laursen, picking up his cup of peppermint tea between a thick finger and thumb. “Our Scottish colleagues seem to have done everything in their power to preserve the paper and recover the text by means of various forms of light treatment and chemicals. They’ve found minute traces of printer’s ink, but as far as I can see nothing’s been done to determine the origins of the paper itself. In fact, most of the physical investigation seems to be down to us. Have you run this through the Center of Forensic Services out in Vanløse?”
“No, but then I had no idea the technical investigations were incomplete,” said Carl reluctantly. The mistake was his.
“It says so here.” Laursen indicated the bottom line of the lab report.
Why the hell hadn’t he noticed that? Shit!
“Actually, Carl, Rose did tell me this. But she did not think we needed to know where the paper came from,” Assad chipped in.
“Well, on that count she was most certainly wrong. Let me have another look.” Laursen got up and squeezed his fingers into his pocket. It was no easy task. Rugby thighs in tight jeans.
The type of magnifying glass Laursen now produced was one Carl had seen on many occasions. A small square that could be folded out to stand on top of the object. It looked like the lower part of a little microscope. Standard issue for stamp collectors and similar loonies, but the professional version, equipped with the finest of Zeiss lenses, was most certainly a must for a forensics expert such as Laursen.
He placed it on the document, muttering to himself as he drew the lens across the lines of mostly obliterated writing. He worked systematically from side to side, one line at a time.
“Can you see more characters through that glass?” Assad inquired.
Laursen shook his head but said nothing.
By the time he was halfway through the document, Carl was dying for a smoke.
“Just nipping out for a sec, OK?”
His words were hardly noticed.
He sat down on one of the tables in the corridor and stared blankly at all the equipment they had standing around idle. Scanners, copy machines, and the like. The thought annoyed him. Another time, he would have to make sure Rose finished what she was doing before she dropped everything and split. Poor leadership on his part.
It was at this very moment of painful self-awareness that a series of dull thuds suddenly came from the stairs, making him think of a basketball bouncing down a flight of steps in slow motion, followed by a wheelbarrow with a flat tire. He gawped as a person came toward him looking like a housewife who had just stocked up on duty-frees from the ferries that used to ply the Øresund to Sweden. The high-heeled shoes, the pleated tartan skirt, and the garish shopping cart she dragged in her wake allscreamed the fifties more than the fifties probably ever did
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