Mercy by Jussi Adler-Olsen Page B

director took off his glasses and peered at Carl from under his bushy eyebrows. He was the epitome of seriousness. ‘Uffe Lynggaard has been thoroughly examined. He has scar tissue from bleeding in the speech centre of his brain, which is explanation enough for his muteness. But he also suffered severe trauma from the accident. The death of his parents, his own injuries. As you may know, he was seriously hurt.’
    ‘Yes, I read the report.’ He hadn’t actually, but Assad had, and the man hadn’t stopped jabbering about it as they cruised along the motorways of northern Zealand. ‘He spent five months in the hospital with severe internal bleeding in his liver, spleen and lung tissue. His vision was also impaired.’
    The director gave a brief nod. ‘That’s correct. It says in his medical file that Uffe Lynggaard was unable to see for several weeks. He had massive retinal bleeding.’
    ‘What about now? Is his body functioning as it should, from a physiological perspective?’
    ‘By all indications, yes. He’s a strong young man.’
    ‘He’s nearly thirty-four years old. So he’s been in this condition for twenty-one years.’
    The pale man again nodded. ‘So you can understand why you’re not going to get anywhere with him.’
    ‘And you won’t let me talk to him?’
    ‘I don’t think it would serve any purpose.’
    ‘He was the last one to see Merete Lynggaard alive. I’d like to see him.’
    The director straightened up. Now he looked out at the fjord, as Carl had predicted he would. ‘I don’t think I’m going to allow it.’
    Pompous idiots like him deserved to be stabbed with a blunt knife. ‘You don’t trust me to behave myself, but I think you should.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘Are you familiar with the police?’
    The director turned to look at Carl. His face was an ashen grey, his brow furrowed. Years spent behind a desk had worn him out, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. He had no idea what Carl meant by that question, only that silence would not be to his benefit.
    ‘What exactly are you getting at?’
    ‘We police officers are an inquisitive lot. Sometimes we’ve got a question burning in our minds and we just have to find an answer. This time it’s obvious.’
    ‘And the question is?’
    ‘Where do your patients get their money? Five per cent of twenty-two million, minus taxes of course, is just a drop in the bucket. Do your patients receive full value for their money, or is the price too high when the state funding is added in? And is the price the same for everybody?’ Carl nodded to himself, drinking in the light coming off the fjord. ‘New questions always keep popping up when we can’t get an answer to the one we’re initially interested in. That’s just how policemen are. We can’t help ourselves. Maybe it’s a disease, but who the hell could we consult to find a cure?’
    Maybe now there was a hint of colour in the director’s face. ‘I don’t think we’re going to reach any kind of middle ground here.’
    ‘So why don’t you let me see Uffe Lynggaard? To be perfectly honest, what harm could it do? You haven’t locked him up in a damned cage or anything, have you?’
    The pictures in Merete Lynggaard’s case file didn’t do full justice to her brother, Uffe. The police photographs, the sketches from the preliminary examination, and a couple of press photos had all shown a young man with a bowed figure. A pale fellow who looked like what he apparently was: an emotionally retarded, passive, slow-witted person. But reality revealed something different.
    Uffe was sitting in a pleasant room with pictures on the wall and a view that was at least as good as the one from the director’s office. His bed had been newly made up, and his shoes were freshly polished. His clothes were clean and had nothing institutional about them. He had strong arms and long blond hair. He was broad-shouldered and presumably quite tall. Many would call him handsome. There was