at the fragments and tell us what they say. That’s all I ask.
Both the police and the island’s inhabitants call police headquarters in Puerto ‘the Palace’, because it’s located in the ruins of a palace built for the Spanish king at the turn of the twentieth century. Apart from the impressive outer walls and beautiful arches between some smooth columns, however, not much of the royal grandeur remains. The offices, where six or seven men sit sweating behind their computers, resemble that of some building in a sleepy 1960s Copenhagen suburb.
On the way in they pass some metal detectors. Erhard is afraid they’ll body-search him and find the bag with the finger in his pocket, but he ends up just following Bernal down the hallway and into a room that resembles a warehouse or a garage. Bernal closes the door behind them and rummages around on a large shelf; he returns with a big, light-brown box, then slips on rubber gloves.
– Shouldn’t I wear those too?
– It doesn’t matter, Bernal says, glancing momentarily at Erhard’s missing finger. He begins to gather the fragments of newspaper from the box. – The bastards left a little surprise for us on the backseat.
– The bastards, Erhard says. He recognizes the box as the one found on the backseat. Even though it was night time and the only light came from a teetering police lamp.
– We don’t know how the pieces connect, whether they connect at all, or even if it’s worth it for us to sit here putting the puzzle together. Can you read any of it?
Erhard studies the fragments. There are photos, words, some colours. – They must’ve gotten wet. The sheets are stuck together.
– Yes, Bernal says bitterly. – That’s the problem. We can’t tell if it’s just a newspaper, or if there’s a message in it somewhere.
– So what am I supposed to do?
– Read the headlines, the ones in bold. Can you decipher any of that? This one, for example. He points at a large section with a headline and a subhead. It’s very strange seeing so much Danish text gathered in one place. – What’s it say?
– ‘More homeless will die in Copenhagen if the winter is as hard as last year’s. A man froze to death.’
– What does that mean?
– I don’t know. That it’s tough being homeless in a cold country?
Bernal gestures with his hands. – Go on. What about this one?
This fragment is clearer, but it’s stuck to another fragment. – ‘Fathers have no success with appeals.’
– What does that mean?
– I don’t know. That’s what it says.
Bernal looks unhappy. – OK, study the fragments. Tell me if anything seems out of the ordinary.
Erhard rummages through the papers, reading them, then stacking the ones he’s read in a pile. There’s nothing – nothing at all – that captures his attention. They are your typical, not especially interesting articles about Danes and their finances and their children and their institutions and their divorces and their TV programmes. A great deal of what he sees is about the Hell’s Angels. Although it’s been many years since he last read a Danish newspaper, he doesn’t feel it’s much different today. He doesn’t recognize some of the names, but other than that, it’s the usual.
– I don’t think there’s anything, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Bernal gets to his feet. – I don’t know what you’re looking for, either. This is a shitty case.
That last bit he practically whispers. He scoops the fragments in great handfuls and tosses them into the box. A urine stench wafts through the room. From another room, behind the shelves, a small child hiccoughs or whimpers. Bernal doesn’t notice.
– I can’t help you unless you tell me what I’m looking for. I need to know more.
Bernal considers at length. Erhard guesses that he’s weighing his words. How much he’s allowed or wishes to say. – Come, he says. – Over here.
They walk around the shelf and into a dark corner. He turns
Both the police and the island’s inhabitants call police headquarters in Puerto ‘the Palace’, because it’s located in the ruins of a palace built for the Spanish king at the turn of the twentieth century. Apart from the impressive outer walls and beautiful arches between some smooth columns, however, not much of the royal grandeur remains. The offices, where six or seven men sit sweating behind their computers, resemble that of some building in a sleepy 1960s Copenhagen suburb.
On the way in they pass some metal detectors. Erhard is afraid they’ll body-search him and find the bag with the finger in his pocket, but he ends up just following Bernal down the hallway and into a room that resembles a warehouse or a garage. Bernal closes the door behind them and rummages around on a large shelf; he returns with a big, light-brown box, then slips on rubber gloves.
– Shouldn’t I wear those too?
– It doesn’t matter, Bernal says, glancing momentarily at Erhard’s missing finger. He begins to gather the fragments of newspaper from the box. – The bastards left a little surprise for us on the backseat.
– The bastards, Erhard says. He recognizes the box as the one found on the backseat. Even though it was night time and the only light came from a teetering police lamp.
– We don’t know how the pieces connect, whether they connect at all, or even if it’s worth it for us to sit here putting the puzzle together. Can you read any of it?
Erhard studies the fragments. There are photos, words, some colours. – They must’ve gotten wet. The sheets are stuck together.
– Yes, Bernal says bitterly. – That’s the problem. We can’t tell if it’s just a newspaper, or if there’s a message in it somewhere.
– So what am I supposed to do?
– Read the headlines, the ones in bold. Can you decipher any of that? This one, for example. He points at a large section with a headline and a subhead. It’s very strange seeing so much Danish text gathered in one place. – What’s it say?
– ‘More homeless will die in Copenhagen if the winter is as hard as last year’s. A man froze to death.’
– What does that mean?
– I don’t know. That it’s tough being homeless in a cold country?
Bernal gestures with his hands. – Go on. What about this one?
This fragment is clearer, but it’s stuck to another fragment. – ‘Fathers have no success with appeals.’
– What does that mean?
– I don’t know. That’s what it says.
Bernal looks unhappy. – OK, study the fragments. Tell me if anything seems out of the ordinary.
Erhard rummages through the papers, reading them, then stacking the ones he’s read in a pile. There’s nothing – nothing at all – that captures his attention. They are your typical, not especially interesting articles about Danes and their finances and their children and their institutions and their divorces and their TV programmes. A great deal of what he sees is about the Hell’s Angels. Although it’s been many years since he last read a Danish newspaper, he doesn’t feel it’s much different today. He doesn’t recognize some of the names, but other than that, it’s the usual.
– I don’t think there’s anything, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Bernal gets to his feet. – I don’t know what you’re looking for, either. This is a shitty case.
That last bit he practically whispers. He scoops the fragments in great handfuls and tosses them into the box. A urine stench wafts through the room. From another room, behind the shelves, a small child hiccoughs or whimpers. Bernal doesn’t notice.
– I can’t help you unless you tell me what I’m looking for. I need to know more.
Bernal considers at length. Erhard guesses that he’s weighing his words. How much he’s allowed or wishes to say. – Come, he says. – Over here.
They walk around the shelf and into a dark corner. He turns
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