Read Online The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel by Jussi Adler-Olsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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cobra hadn’t completely died of dehydration down there in the desert.
“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.
He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.
“What did those reports say from Holland, anyway?” Laursen asked, changing the subject. “Was there any link between the nail-gun killings in Schiedam and the ones here in Denmark?”
Carl snorted. “The reports said fuck all. Complete waste of time.”
“And that’s got you frustrated, I can see. Am I right?”
Carl studied Laursen’s face. Not many people at HQ could be bothered to ask him such elementary questions, but on the other hand not many could expect an answer either, certainly none of the dickheads here now.
“Any unsolved case is always going to get a decent copper riled,” he replied, his eyes scanning the faces, giving them something to think about. “Especially one in which a colleague is the victim.”
“And Hardy?”
“Hardy’s still living with me. I reckon it’s going to stay that way until one of us kicks the bucket.”
The man munching salad at his side nodded.
“You’re a prick, Carl, but I’ll give you credit for looking after the man. Not many people would have done that.”
Carl frowned slightly. His lips may even have curled into a reluctant smile. At any rate, it was a strange feeling to hear such praise from a colleague. There was a first time for everything.
—
Downstairs in homicide it was all go. The number of paper flags seemed well over the top in the modest conference room, a bit like a cross between the queen’s birthday and a convention of the Denmark Party.
“Hey, Lis. Looks like you’ve been on quite a rampage. Bulk offer on the flags, was there?”
Department A’s absolutely most stimulating feature sent Mørck a sidelong glance. “Bit cocky, aren’t we, Carl? Do you want me to put them up again for
you
when you get back from Afghanistan?”
“Sure, whatever,” he said, hungrily noting the slight curl of her mouth. It was pure sex, underplayed just the way he loved it. Not even Mona could smile like that, the way it hit home straight below the belt. “But unfortunately they’ll all be covered in moss by then, won’t they? Is Marcus in?”
She gestured toward the door.
The homicide department’s head, Marcus Jacobsen, sat by the window staring out across the rooftops, his reading glasses pushed up onto his brow. Judging by the look on his face, his frame of mind was somewhere between chronic fatigue and a feeling of being eternally lost. It was not a pretty sight. But in view of the stacks of case folders mounted up on the desk around him, making the place look more like a paper warehouse, the oddest part was that he hadn’t yet succumbed to sitting like that every single day.
He swiveled round on his chair to face Carl, studying him with the same sort of weariness as when kids in the backseat of the car began asking if they’d be in Italy soon, when they were only ten kilometers south of Copenhagen.
“What’s up, Carl?” he asked, as though he’d prefer no answer. The man no doubt had a lot on his mind as it was.
“Party going on, I see,” said Carl, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the front office. “When are the fireworks on?”
“God knows. How was the Netherlands? Are we any closer to tying up those nail-gun killings?”
Cark shook his head. “Closer? The only thing I got any closer to was the realization that we’re not the only police force in Europe that can fuck things up. If that was what they call a draft of a coordinated report of all murders committed with a nail gun in our joint neck of the woods during the past couple of years, then I’m the Grand Mogul of Vesterbro. I couldn’t come to any conclusion at all on the basis of the data they’d collected. In fact, the only decent job was Ploug’s report on our own killings in Sorø and Amager. I’m afraid
“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.
He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.
“What did those reports say from Holland, anyway?” Laursen asked, changing the subject. “Was there any link between the nail-gun killings in Schiedam and the ones here in Denmark?”
Carl snorted. “The reports said fuck all. Complete waste of time.”
“And that’s got you frustrated, I can see. Am I right?”
Carl studied Laursen’s face. Not many people at HQ could be bothered to ask him such elementary questions, but on the other hand not many could expect an answer either, certainly none of the dickheads here now.
“Any unsolved case is always going to get a decent copper riled,” he replied, his eyes scanning the faces, giving them something to think about. “Especially one in which a colleague is the victim.”
“And Hardy?”
“Hardy’s still living with me. I reckon it’s going to stay that way until one of us kicks the bucket.”
The man munching salad at his side nodded.
“You’re a prick, Carl, but I’ll give you credit for looking after the man. Not many people would have done that.”
Carl frowned slightly. His lips may even have curled into a reluctant smile. At any rate, it was a strange feeling to hear such praise from a colleague. There was a first time for everything.
—
Downstairs in homicide it was all go. The number of paper flags seemed well over the top in the modest conference room, a bit like a cross between the queen’s birthday and a convention of the Denmark Party.
“Hey, Lis. Looks like you’ve been on quite a rampage. Bulk offer on the flags, was there?”
Department A’s absolutely most stimulating feature sent Mørck a sidelong glance. “Bit cocky, aren’t we, Carl? Do you want me to put them up again for
you
when you get back from Afghanistan?”
“Sure, whatever,” he said, hungrily noting the slight curl of her mouth. It was pure sex, underplayed just the way he loved it. Not even Mona could smile like that, the way it hit home straight below the belt. “But unfortunately they’ll all be covered in moss by then, won’t they? Is Marcus in?”
She gestured toward the door.
The homicide department’s head, Marcus Jacobsen, sat by the window staring out across the rooftops, his reading glasses pushed up onto his brow. Judging by the look on his face, his frame of mind was somewhere between chronic fatigue and a feeling of being eternally lost. It was not a pretty sight. But in view of the stacks of case folders mounted up on the desk around him, making the place look more like a paper warehouse, the oddest part was that he hadn’t yet succumbed to sitting like that every single day.
He swiveled round on his chair to face Carl, studying him with the same sort of weariness as when kids in the backseat of the car began asking if they’d be in Italy soon, when they were only ten kilometers south of Copenhagen.
“What’s up, Carl?” he asked, as though he’d prefer no answer. The man no doubt had a lot on his mind as it was.
“Party going on, I see,” said Carl, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the front office. “When are the fireworks on?”
“God knows. How was the Netherlands? Are we any closer to tying up those nail-gun killings?”
Cark shook his head. “Closer? The only thing I got any closer to was the realization that we’re not the only police force in Europe that can fuck things up. If that was what they call a draft of a coordinated report of all murders committed with a nail gun in our joint neck of the woods during the past couple of years, then I’m the Grand Mogul of Vesterbro. I couldn’t come to any conclusion at all on the basis of the data they’d collected. In fact, the only decent job was Ploug’s report on our own killings in Sorø and Amager. I’m afraid
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