Jussi Adler-Olsen - The Keeper of Lost Causes

“We’ve got everything here,” he said to Assad, nodding at the photos on the wall of Lasse’s mother sitting in a hospital bed, weeping, of the Godhavn buildings and of a man with the words “foster father Satan” written underneath in thick letters. Old newspaper clippings praising HJ Industries and Lasse Jensen’s father for his exceptional pioneering work in the field of high-tech Danish industry. There were at least twenty detailed photos taken on board the Schleswig-Holstein , along with sailing schedules and measurements of the distance down to the car deck, as well as the number of steps. There was also a time schedule in two columns. One for Lasse, and one for his brother. So both of them had been involved.

“What does this mean?” asked Assad, pointing at the numbers.

Carl wasn’t sure.

“It could mean that they kidnapped her and killed her somewhere. I’m afraid that might be the explanation.”

“And what does this mean then?” Assad went on, pointing at the last steel table, on top of which were several ring binders and a series of technical cross-section diagrams.

Carl picked up the first ring binder. There were section dividers inside, and the first one was labeled “Handbook for Diving — The Naval Weapons Academy AUG 1985.” He leafed through the pages, reading the headers: diving physiology, valve maintenance, surface decompression tables, oxygen handling tables, Boyle’s law, Dalton’s law.

It was pure gibberish to Carl.

“Does a first mate need to know about diving then, Carl?” asked Assad.

Carl shook his head. “Maybe it’s just a hobby of his.”

He went through the pile of papers and found a meticulous, handwritten draft for a manual. It was titled “Instructions for the pressure testing of containments, by Henrik Jensen, HJ Industries, November 10, 1986.”

“Can you read that, Carl?” asked Assad, who apparently couldn’t, his eyes glued to the text.

Several diagrams had been drawn on the first page along with surveys of pipe lead-ins. Apparently they had to do with specifications for changes in an existing installation, presumably the one that HJ Industries had taken over from InterLab when the buildings were purchased.

Carl did his best to skim through the handwritten pages, stopping at the words “pressure chamber” and “enclosure.”

He raised his head and looked at a close-up photo of Merete Lynggaard that hung above the stack of papers. Once more the words “pressure chamber” thundered through his mind.

The thought sent shivers down his back. Could it really be true? It was a gruesome, horrifying thought. Horrifying enough to get the sweat trickling.

“What is wrong, Carl?” asked Assad.

“Go outside and keep watch on the place. Do it now , Assad.”

His partner was about to repeat his question when Carl turned to look at the last pile of papers. “Go now, Assad. And be careful. Take this with you.” He handed Assad the iron bar that they’d used to prize open the lock.

He paged quickly through the papers. There were lots of mathematical calculations, mostly written by Henrik Jensen, and also by others. But he found nothing related to what he was looking for.

Again he studied the knife-sharp photo of Merete Lynggaard. It had presumably been taken at close range, but she probably hadn’t noticed, since her attention was directed slightly to the side. There was a particular look in her eyes. Something vital and alert that couldn’t help affecting the viewer. But Carl was certain that wasn’t why Lasse Jensen had hung up this photo in particular. On the contrary. There were lots of holes around its edges. Presumably it had been taken down and put up again, time after time.

One by one Carl pulled out the four pins that held the picture. Then he lifted it off and turned it over. What was written on the back was the work of a madman. He read it several times.

These disgusting eyes will pop out of your head. Your ridiculous smile will be drowned in blood. Your hair will shrivel up, and your thoughts will be pulverized. Your teeth will rot. Nobody will remember you for anything other than what you are: a whore, a bitch, a devil, a fucking murderer. Die like that, Merete Lynggaard.

And underneath had been added in block letters:

July 6, 2002: 2 Atmospheres

July 6, 2003: 3 Atmospheres

July 6, 2004: 4 Atmospheres

July 6, 2005: 5 Atmospheres

July 6, 2006: 6 Atmospheres

May 15, 2007: 1 Atmosphere

Carl glanced over his shoulder. It felt as if the walls were closing in around him. He put his hand to his forehead and stood there, thinking hard. They had her here, he was sure of it. She was somewhere close by. It said here they were going to kill her in five weeks, on May 15, but it was likely they’d already done so. He had a feeling that he and Assad might have provoked the deed, and it had definitely happened somewhere nearby.

What do I do? Who would know something? Carl wondered, as he dug through his memory.

He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number of Kurt Hansen, his former colleague who’d ended up as an MP of the Conservative Party.

He paced the room as he listened to the phone ring. Father Time was out there somewhere, laughing at all of them, he could feel it so clearly now.

A second before he was going to put the phone down, he heard Kurt Hansen’s distinctive throat-clearing, then his voice.

Carl told him not to speak, just listen and think fast. No questions, just answers.

“You want to know what would happen to a person who was subjected to up to six atmospheres of pressure over a period of five years and then the pressure was released all at once?” Kurt repeated. “That’s a strange question. This is a hypothetical situation, right?”

“Just answer me, Kurt. You’re the only one I can think of who knows about these things. I don’t know anybody else who has a professional diving certificate, so tell me what would happen.”

“Well, the person would die, of course.”

“Yes, but how fast?”

“I have no idea, but it would be a horrible affair.”

“In what way?”

“Everything would explode from the inside. The alveoli would burst the lungs. The nitrogen in the bones would shred the tissue. The organs, and everything in the body would expand because there’s oxygen everywhere. Blood clots, cerebral hemorrhages, massive bleeding, even—”

Carl stopped him. “Who could help somebody in this situation?”

Kurt Hansen again cleared his throat. Maybe he didn’t know the answer. “Is this an actual situation, Carl?” he asked.

“I’m seriously afraid that it is, yes.”

“Then you need to call the naval station at Holmen. They have a mobile decompression chamber. A Duocom from Dräger.” He gave Carl the number. Carl thanked him and ended the call.

It took only a moment to explain the situation to the naval officer on duty.

“You’ve got to hurry. This is incredibly urgent,” said Carl. “Bring people with pneumatic drills and other equipment, because I don’t know what kind of obstacles you’re going to encounter. And notify police headquarters. I need reinforcements.”

“I think I understand the situation,” said the voice on the phone.

They approached the last ofthe buildings with the greatest of caution. They studied the ground carefully to see if any digging had been done recently. They stared at the slippery plastic drums lined up along the wall, as if they might contain a bomb.

This door also had a padlock that Assad broke open with the iron bar — a skill that would soon have to be added to his job description.