The Keeper of Lost Causes by Jussi Adler-Olsen Page A

that was hardly the case during Assad’s frantic parking maneuvers on the road directly outside Carl’s bedroom window.
    “Awesome,” muttered Jesper as he stared out the window. Carl couldn’t recall the last time his stepson had said even one word so early in the morning. But it sure as hell was appropriate.
    “I left you a note from Vigga,” Morten called out after Carl as he headed out the door. But he wasn’t about to read any note from Vigga. The prospect of receiving an invitation to look at galleries in the company of an undoubtedly narrow-hipped artist named Hugin who painted big blotches on canvas wasn’t exactly at the top of Carl’s list right now.
    “Hello,” greeted Assad as he stood leaning against the driver’s door. On his head he wore a camel-hair cap of unknown origin. He looked like anything but a private chauffeur assigned to the criminal police department, if such a title even existed. Carl glanced up at the sky. It was pale blue and clear; the temperature was tolerable.
    “I know just exactly the location of Egely,” said Assad, pointing at the GPS as Carl got into the passenger seat. Carl cast a weary glance at the image on the screen. He saw an X on a road that was a comfortable distance from the waters of Roskilde Fjord, so that the residents of the nursing home wouldn’t be likely to fall in, but close enough so the director would have a good view of most of the delights of northern Zealand, if he ever bothered to look out of the window. That was where institutions for mentally disturbed patients were often placed. God only knew for whose sake the location had actually been chosen.
    Assad started the engine, put the car in reverse, and sped backward along Magnolievangen, stopping only when the rear of the vehicle was halfway up on the grass embankment on the other side of Rønneholt Parkvei. Before Carl’s body could even react, Assad had slammed through the gears and was now cruising along at ninety kilometers an hour, where the speed limit was only fifty.
    “Stop, damn it!” yelled Carl just before they entered the roundabout at the end of the road. But Assad merely gave him a sly look, like a cab driver in Beirut, and yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The next second they were headed for the motorway.
    “Fast car!” shouted Assad, flooring the accelerator as they entered the slip road.
    Maybe it would put a damper on him if Carl pulled that cap down over his rapturous face.
     
    Egely was a whitewashed building that splendidly proclaimed its purpose. No one ever entered voluntarily, and it was far from easy for anyone to get out. It was obvious that this was not a place for finger-painting or guitar lessons. This was where people with money and status placed the weak members of their families.
    Private care, in the spirit of the government itself.
    The director’s office matched the overall impression, and the director himself, an unsmiling, bony and pallid-looking man, suited the interior as if specifically designed for it.
    “Uffe Lynggaard’s expenses here are paid by the proceeds from funds deposited in the Lynggaard trust,” replied the director to Carl’s question.
    Carl glanced at the bookshelf, which held numerous case files, many of them labeled with the word “trust.”
    “I see. And how exactly was the trust created?”
    “An inheritance from his parents, who were both killed in a car accident which also injured Uffe. And an inheritance from his sister, of course.”
    “She was a member of parliament, so I don’t imagine we’re talking about large sums of money.”
    “No, but the sale of their house brought in two million kroner, when a presumption of death was handed down by court order not too long ago. Thank God for that. At the moment the trust is worth about twenty-two million kroner, but I’m sure you already know that.”
    Carl whistled softly. He hadn’t known that. “Twenty-two million, at five per cent interest. I suppose that