The Purity of Vengeance (20 page)

“OK. And what do they make of that?”

“The prints are very clear and well preserved, so wrapping the coins up like that served the intended purpose, I’d say.”

“And whose prints were they?”

“One was Anker Henningsen’s.”

Carl’s eyes widened. He recalled the look of suspicion on Hardy’s face, heard his embittered voice telling him about Anker’s cocaine habit.

Laursen handed him back his beer before studying him with searching eyes.

“The other one was yours, Carl.”

16

August 1987

Curt Wad sat for
a moment, weighing Nete’s letter in his hand before tearing it open with the same lack of expectation as he would have opened unsolicited mail from a drug company.

Once, Nete had been the girl who aroused his abusive urges, but there had been dozens after her. So why even bother with this insignificant little peasant now? What possible interest could he have in her opinions or thoughts?

He read through the letter, then put it aside with a smile.

The little hussy. Charity and forgiveness, who would have thought it? And why should he believe a single word?

“Nice try, Nete Hermansen,” he said out loud. “But I shall check up on you.”

He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling it out as far as it could go until he heard the click, then pushed the desktop gently sideways until it revealed the shallow compartment in which lay his indispensable address book with all its phone numbers.

He opened it at one of the first pages, dialed a number, and introduced himself.

“I need a civil registration number. Can you help me? A Nete Hermansen, possibly registered in her married name, Rosen. The address is Peblinge Dossering 32, fourth floor, in Nørrebro, Copenhagen. Yes, that’s her. You remember her? Indeed, her husband was such a clever man, though I believe his judgment may have been failing him in later years. You’ve found the number? Excellent, that was very quick, I must say.”

He noted it down and expressed his thanks, reminding his contact that the favor would be returned with pleasure whenever required. It was the way of all brotherhoods.

Then he flicked through his address book again, dialed another number, put the book back in its place, and clicked the desktop shut.

“Svenne, Curt Wad here,” he said. “I need some information on a Nete Rosen, I’ve got the civil registration number here. I believe she’s receiving hospital treatment and I need to have that confirmed. In Copenhagen, I assume. How long before you can let me know? All right, if you can get back to me today I’d be most grateful. You’ll try? Excellent, thank you so much!”

When he’d finished he leaned back in his chair and read through the letter one more time. It was astonishingly well written, devoid of spelling mistakes and errors of grammar. Even the punctuation was impeccable, so there was no doubt that someone must have helped her. A slow-witted dyslexic like her with no schooling to speak of. As if she could fool him.

He smiled wryly. The most immediate assumption was that the lawyer had helped her with it. Hadn’t it said something about a lawyer taking part in the meeting if Curt decided to accept her invitation?

He laughed out loud. Did she really imagine he would come?

“What are you laughing about all on your own, Curt?”

He turned to face his wife and shook his head dismissively.

“I’m in a good mood, that’s all,” he replied, putting his arms around her waist as she came to him at the desk.

“You deserve it, my dear. You’ve done such splendid work.”

Curt Wad nodded. He was rather pleased with himself, too.

 • • • 

When eventually his father retired, Curt took on his practice, patients, medical records from a lifetime’s work, and various files pertaining to the Anti-Debauchery Committee and the Community of Danes. Important documents to Curt and poison in the wrong hands, though not nearly as toxic as the work he was asked to carry on: the work of The Cause.

This involved not only seeking out pregnant women whose unborn children were deemed undeserving of life, but also meticulous recruitment efforts to secure a continued influx of qualified individuals. People who would rather die than reveal what this clandestine organization stood for.

For some years Curt’s surgery on Fyn worked well as the hub of The Cause’s activities. But with an ever-increasing number of the organization’s abortions being carried out in the capital region he eventually decided to break with the past and move to Brøndby, an uninspiring suburb to the west of the city, and yet an epicenter with respect to his work. Here the major hospitals were near at hand, there was easy access to the most skilled general practitioners and specialists with considerable practices, and not least of all, the location was in close proximity to the clientele that were the organization’s primary focus.

Here in this concrete hinterland he met his wife, Beate, in the mid-1960s. A marvelous woman, a nurse with good genes, a sense of nation, and a winning mentality from which Curt derived much advantage in the years that followed.

Even before they were married he initiated her into his work and the benefits of devoting oneself to the organization and its aims. He had anticipated a certain reluctance or at best trepidation, yet she had shown both understanding and initiative. In fact, she soon proved invaluable in establishing bonds among nurses and midwives. Within a year she had brought into the fold more than twenty-five scouts, as she called them, and from there things took off. She it was who coined the name Purity Party, proposing that the political aspect of The Cause be intensified parallel to its day-to-day practical work.

She was the ideal woman and mother.

 • • • 

“Have a look at this, Beate.” He handed her Nete’s letter, giving her time to read it through. She smiled as she did so. The same winsome smile she had passed on to their two magnificent sons.

“Well, I must say. How will you answer her, Curt?” she asked. “Do you think she means it? Does she really have that kind of money?”

He nodded. “There’s no doubt she does. But she’s up to something more than simply lining our pockets, of that we can be certain.”

He stood up, drawing back a curtain that hung in front of the wall behind him, thereby revealing five large filing cabinets in olive-green metal that he’d been guarding for years. In a month’s time the fireproof strong room in the old stables that now served as storage space would be finished and everything would be moved out there. No one outside the inner circle would have access.

“I remember the number even now,” he chuckled, pulling out a drawer from the second cabinet.

“Here,” he said, and tossed a gray suspension file onto the desk in front of her.

It had been a long time since it had seen the light of day. There had been no reason until now. But on seeing the file he nonetheless tipped his head back slightly and for a brief moment allowed his gaze to drift out of focus.

The sixty-three files before it, containing the medical records of as many individuals, had been his and his father’s in tandem, but this one was his and his alone. His first solo accomplishment for The Cause.

FILE NO. 64
it read on the front.

“Born 18 May 1937. That makes her just a week older than me,” said his wife.

He laughed. “The difference is that you’re fifty and look like you’re thirty-five, whereas she almost certainly looks more like she’s sixty-five.”

“I see she was sent away to Sprogø. How on earth can a person like that express herself so well?”

“I imagine she had help.”

He drew his wife toward him and gave her hand a squeeze. What he’d said wasn’t entirely true. Beate and Nete resembled each other a great deal. Both were just the type he preferred. Blonde, blue-eyed, and Nordic, with all the curves. Women with smooth skin and lips that could take a man’s breath away.

“What makes you think she’s up to something? According to your file on her she was given a D and C in 1955. Nothing out of the ordinary in a woman having her womb scraped, surely?”

“Nete Hermansen has always been a woman of split personality, exhibiting a strong tendency to take on different personas as she sees fit. The result of a feeble mind, not to mention psychopathic tendencies and utterly warped self-perception. I can deal with her, of course, but I shall be taking precautions.”

“How?”

“I’ve put out an inquiry through the organization. Soon we’ll know if she really is as ill as she’d like us to believe from her letter.”

 • • • 

Curt Wad received an answer to his inquiry the next morning. It was an answer that confirmed his suspicions.

No person with that civil registration number had received treatment in any public hospital since Nete’s road accident in which her husband lost his life in November 1985, nor did such a person figure in the records of any private clinic. Since her hospitalization at Nykøbing Falster General and a couple of biannual check-ups both there and later at Copenhagen’s Rigshospital, nothing else was to be found.

What the devil was she up to? Why was she lying about being ill? Plainly she was trying to lure him into a trap with kind words and plausible explanations as to the reason for her sudden approach. But what did she intend to do if he didn’t turn up? Was he to be punished? Or was she simply trying to find a chink in his armor? Did she really not think he knew how to protect himself? Did she think she could catch him off guard with a tape recorder, spilling secrets and making admissions?

He laughed.

The silly little cow. What on earth could make her believe he would rise to the bait, that she could expose what he had done to her all those years before? Especially after Nørvig, the lawyer, had refuted her claims once and for all.

Again he laughed at the thought. In less than ten minutes he could muster a crew of strapping young men brimming with national pride who were used to applying the thumbscrews when necessary. If he accepted the invitation and turned up at Nete Hermansen’s home on Friday with such supporters at his side, she’d soon find out who was going to be punished and who was in for a surprise.

The prospect was tempting indeed, but on that particular day he was scheduled to take part in the inaugural meeting of a new branch of the organization in Hadsten, so entertainment would have to yield to more important matters.

He shoved her letter across the desktop into the wastepaper basket, resolving that next time she tried a similar stunt he would teach her a lesson once and for all about who ruled whom and exactly what that involved.

He went into the consulting room and took his time putting on his doctor’s coat, smoothing out the creases and making sure it was just right. After all, this was his uniform. In it he exuded the greatest authority and professional expertise.

Then he sat down at the glass-topped desk, pulled his appointment diary toward him, and glanced through it. Today was not going to be busy. A referral for abortion, three fertility consultations, another referral, and then the day’s only case from The Cause.

His first patient was a presentable, rather subdued young woman. According to her GP she was a healthy, well-bred student seeking abortion on account of her boyfriend’s desertion, which in turn had sparked off a bout of depression.

“And you’re Sofie, is that right?” he asked with a smile.

Her lips tightened. She was already on the verge of tears.

Curt Wad studied her for a moment without speaking. The girl had clear blue eyes. A noble brow. Neat, symmetrical eyebrows and ears positioned nicely, close against the skull. She was well proportioned and in good shape, her hands fine and slender.

“I understand your boyfriend left you. That’s very sad, Sofie. You were fond of him, I take it.”

She nodded silently.

“He was a decent chap, and good-looking, am I right?”

She nodded again.

“And yet everything would seem to indicate that he was rather silly, wouldn’t you say? Choosing the easy way out and leaving you in the lurch?”

She protested, just as he thought she would.

“He’s not silly at all. He goes to the university, like I was going to.”

Curt Wad fixed his eyes on her. “You’re not happy about this, are you, Sofie?”

She stared at the floor and shook her head. Now she was crying.

“At present you’re working in your parents’ shoe shop. Don’t you like it?”

“It’s all right, but it’s only for the time being. Like I said, I’m planning to go to university at some point.”

“What do your parents think about you wanting to have an abortion, Sofie?”

“They keep it to themselves. They say it’s my decision. They don’t interfere. At least not in a negative way.”

“And you’re quite sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

He went over and sat down on the chair next to her and took her hand in his. “Listen, Sofie. You’re a healthy young woman, and the child you want to have removed is completely at the mercy of your decision. I know you would be able to give this child the most wonderful life, if you changed your mind. Would you like me to call your parents and have a word with them, see how they feel about the matter? It sounds to me like you have very good parents indeed, not the sort who would force you into doing something you didn’t want. Don’t you think we should hear what they have to say? What do you think?”

She raised her head and looked at him, as though he had pressed a button. Reluctant, on her guard, and very much in doubt.

Curt Wad said nothing. He knew this was the moment to hold back.

 • • • 

“How’s your day been, Curt?” Beate asked as she filled his cup. Three o’clock tea, she called it. These moments together were the best thing about having the practice and their private residence in the same house.

“Fine. Managed to talk a lovely young girl out of an abortion this morning. She broke down in tears when I assured her that her parents would give her all the support they could. That she could have the baby and go on working in their shop to the best of her abilities. I told her they’d help look after the child and that it wouldn’t affect her going on to university.”