The Exception Page 21

  After more typing Rasmus says he has cracked it. He removes both his disks, turns the computer off and then on again. Startup brings the usual password request and Rasmus keys in the code he has just broken. Bjarne has chosen to protect the computer system with the word ‘Superspliff’.

  They laugh a little uncertainly. Rasmus looks more alive than Iben has ever seen him.

  ‘There. I’m logged on as the administrator for your entire network. It’s set up in a rather outdated way, but it means we can read what’s in any of the office computers.’

  ‘What? Can Paul and Bjarne read everything on our computers?’

  ‘The lot! There’s no hiding place.’ He doesn’t bother to look up at Iben and Malene. ‘First, I’ll search for any file containing that email address “revenge_is_near”.’

  Paul and Camilla’s computers are switched off and can’t be searched. Rasmus could turn them on, but there’s no point. Several of Iben and Malene’s files turn up, because they have been emailing people all over the world to ask about the possible identity of the sender. Anne-Lise, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have written a single email containing the phrase ‘revenge_is_near’. Strange. Hasn’t she told anybody what happened?

  Rasmus starts looking for other revealing phrases.

  ‘Of course, what we’re specifically looking for is a trail to any private webmail address she might have on the net rather than in this computer. That is, apart from Outlook, has she been using Explorer to check email accounts held elsewhere? Like an anonymiser site?’

  He makes several searches, but finds nothing. His next move is to go through her computer folders, searching for any interesting files.

  ‘Weird … Most people keep personal stuff somewhere on their hard disk.’ Rasmus stares at the screen, completely transfixed. Suddenly he calls out: ‘Hey! Look at this!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a program that wipes all traces of your Internet activity. She must have downloaded it from the net. That’s why we can’t find anything. It means that she knows what she’s doing. Did you know that she was good at that kind of thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘With this, she’d be able to create her own addresses on the net, and cover her tracks afterwards – that kind of thing?’ Malene asks.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  While Rasmus searches Anne-Lise’s files, Iben and Malene go to the library to look through her papers.

  The corridor is windowless too, so they could put the light on, but they don’t need to. Their bodies have memorised the precise layout of the office. Iben remembers a dream she had in which the tight passages between the shelving in the Centre merged with images from a film about the sinking of a German submarine. She had watched the film on television a few months earlier. The action mainly took place inside the torpedoed and fatally damaged submarine. In her dream its crew was locked into the narrow aisles between the office bookshelves. Lamps blinking ‘Red Alert’ warned them of the Centre’s slow, silent descent towards the bottom of the sea.

  While they wait for Rasmus, Iben and Malene decide to play a game walking through the dark faster and faster to discover just how well they instinctively know where any obstacles are. Iben starts running and Malene runs after her.

  They race through the Winter Garden. Their bodies compute distances and directions precisely. No need to use their head, or their eyes. Malene must be thrilled to be able to move so freely without pain.

  Iben catches her breath.

  ‘You know, it’s great to be here and say and do whatever one likes. Just for once.’ Malene speaks loudly enough for Rasmus to hear.

  ‘Isn’t it? Look, I can say, for instance, “Paul, you simply have to relocate Anne-Lise to a fish-filleting factory in Svalbard, because she’s ruining everything here.”’

  ‘And I can say, “Paul, it’s time you woke up. If you don’t lock her into a phone box with a year’s supply of fish-paste sandwiches …”’

  ‘And a clock. She’ll need a clock.’

  ‘“ … then the Centre is going to become such a dump that Frederik will get Kjærum’s job at Human Rights, and not you!”’

  ‘Got that, Paul?’

  ‘You have no idea, have you? Always off to your bloody meetings, or whatever.’

  They spend some time at Anne-Lise’s desk, searching her papers for evidence, before returning to see what Rasmus has found. He is busy tracing preserved fragments of Anne-Lise’s emails, the pieces her clean-up program couldn’t delete.

  ‘We should’ve brought a few beers.’

  ‘No problem. There’s a bottle of whisky in Paul’s cupboard.’

  ‘Do you think it’s really safe to have some?’

  ‘Sure. He’ll never notice. Camilla had some the other day.’

  The whisky is an exclusive brand of single malt, but over time Paul has been given so many similar bottles that he doesn’t mind leaving one in the office. Iben goes to fetch it and three glasses.

  ‘Look, I’ve brought some water as well. I’ve read that water “opens up” a good whisky. Just a little, to release the aroma.’

  ‘Isn’t it a shame to dilute it?’

  ‘But it’s not diluting it – that really would be a shame. Only a drop or two. I’ll put it in my glass and you can keep your drink neat. Then we’ll swap to see if we can taste the difference.’

  When they’ve all tested the whisky several times, mixed with different amounts of water, Iben and Malene return to Anne-Lise’s desk. This time they put on the overhead lights. No need to be neurotic. It makes their search much quicker and easier and, anyway, who’d be standing down in the street staring at the top-floor windows?

  One of Anne-Lise’s desk drawers is locked. They try to shift the lock with a ruler, but it breaks. Iben puts the bits in the back pocket of her jeans. So what if Anne-Lise doesn’t find it tomorrow? All anyone can say is that it’s lost.

  They try inserting a paperknife instead. Neither of them knows a thing about locks, but this time it works. It’s a cheap desk and the locks are mainly just for show, but it’s fun all the same. They must have an unexpected talent for robbery.

  It’s as if the normal rules no longer apply. Everything in the office is familiar and at the same time strange and new.

  ‘Now we can close that fucking door at last!’ Malene almost shouts.

  She slams it shut and they both laugh.

  Rasmus comes in and seems surprised at the lights and noise.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Nobody will come here at this hour!’ Iben is very loud now.

  ‘Any way, we’re allowed. We work here.’

  ‘We work all sorts of hours!’

  ‘See? We’re just keen!’

  Rasmus speaks quietly. ‘Listen, I’ve found something.’

  They turn the light off and he explains as they walk along. ‘I’ve loaded a program that searches the whole network for fragments of deleted files.’

  Back in the server room he shows them a few lines from a file that was probably on Anne-Lise’s hard disk. In two lines of apparently random characters the word ‘Malene’ turns up and, a little later on, a sentence: ‘I no longer know myself. I have never experienced hating anyone the way I hate her … I might do anything to her … she makes me feel sick through and through.’

  They stand in silence, staring at the screen.

  Malene suddenly needs to sit down. ‘You see … So what’s new?’

  Iben feels a little groggy owing to lack of sleep. She leans forward over Malene’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think it will be enough for Paul. Surely he won’t admit this as evidence?’

  ‘No, he won’t. He knows perfectly well that she can’t stand me. His only reaction so far has been to hand my responsibilities over to her. Like I said: nothing we don’t know already.’

  Rasmus goes off to have a pee. While he’s away, they read Anne-Lise’s latest incoming emails. Only two are marked as
unread. The first one is a request.

  ‘Dear Anne-Lise. I need to know as much as possible about child killings in East Timor. Please collate a list of what is in the library and email it to me as soon as you can. Is tomorrow morning possible? Regards, Tatiana.’

  Malene quietly deletes it.

  The next mail is from Sweden.

  ‘Hi, Anne-Lise. Thanks a million for that list. Brilliant! Best, Lotta.’

  They delete that one too.

  Anne-Lise has read all the other emails, so they leave them untouched.

  Then they both drink some more whisky before going back to Anne-Lise’s desk. They keep the lights off, this time, ambling about in the dark, happy that the Centre is theirs for the time being.

  Iben misjudges the layout of the rooms only once. She walks straight into the door between the Winter Garden and the library, forgetting that Malene has closed it. She falls and knocks a few magazine folders off a shelf, but doesn’t hurt herself. She gets up quickly. Some magazines have landed on the floor, but putting the light on seems too much hassle, so she picks up the ones nearby and puts them back any old how. Time enough to sort them out tomorrow.

  Malene is back in the library. Iben hears her rummaging over by the readers’ desks. There is a huge crash.

  Malene doesn’t laugh out loud, but her voice shakes a little. ‘Oops!’

  Iben gets the drift at once. Malene has knocked over one of the very tall stacks of books that Anne-Lise has put on the floor while she sorts them.

  Iben goes in to check the damage.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter. It kind of fell over, all by itself.’ Malene seems unfazed.

  Iben gives another stack a brisk tap. ‘You mean, like this? Oh, look! It fell over too.’

  Malene gives a third stack a push. ‘It’s like the domino effect!’

  Iben is on her way through the Winter Garden to put the bottle of whisky back in Paul’s cupboard when she hears the whining of the lift. The sound lasts only a moment then stops. Someone gets out on their floor.

  Iben rushes quietly back to the library. She tells Malene in a loud whisper: ‘Zigic! It’s Zigic!’

  She walks towards Malene’s voice whispering in the dark.

  ‘No. No …’

  She reaches out and touches Malene’s blouse.

  ‘No, it can’t be.’

  They stand side by side, holding hands, their backs against the shelving on the far side of the open door to the Winter Garden.

  Someone is fiddling with the locks on the front door.

  Malene’s voice is low. ‘Are all the lights off?’

  ‘Not in the server room. Where Rasmus is.’

  ‘I wonder can he hear …?’

  There are many hiding places in the maze of shelving at the back of the library, but Iben lacks the courage to go there. Once more, she has a fleeting impression of the Centre’s network of passages transforming into the torpedoed submarine as it sinks inexorably into the deep ocean trenches with their intolerable pressure.

  The main door opens. The lights are switched on. How can they tell if it’s Zigic just by listening?

  There are two people outside the door. One walks in shoes with hard soles towards Paul’s office; the other walks more quietly. The quiet one stops at Malene’s desk and rustles through her papers, looking for something.

  Iben stands absolutely still, her heart hammering in her chest. The man in the Winter Garden is only a few metres away. She feels the sweat soaking through her top; a drop runs down her leg until it’s stopped by the tape that holds the knife in place.

  A woman speaks: ‘You must’ve had something in mind when you drove her to Århus.’

  It’s Helen’s voice, Paul’s wife. Iben relaxes.

  Helen is a secondary-school teacher. Despite her faded looks, her features and her shock of blonde curls still hint at how very good-looking she once was. Her manner has changed as well and with time she’s become rather odd. She always excuses herself from Centre get-togethers, such as the Christmas lunch, and always at the last minute.

  Paul’s voice comes from his office. ‘Just shut up! Stop harping on about it!’

  Helen is shouting now. ‘It’s your fault! You make me like this, the way you keep avoiding my questions. It reminds me.’

  ‘What utter crap!’

  Iben has never heard Paul speak this way – despairing, superior and angry, like someone telling a disabled child off for pestering them.

  Helen’s voice is still very loud. Maybe they’ve been out and she has drunk too much. ‘But it’s true! You always avoid things – that’s what you do.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! I’m telling you the truth. End of story.’ Paul is closer now, somewhere in the Winter Garden. He must have picked up some papers he needs for tomorrow, since he’s due to be away from the Centre all day.

  He speaks again, sounding resigned more than anything else: ‘If I really thought Malene was so gorgeous, I’d have lunch with these people once in a while, wouldn’t I?’ A bunch of papers lands on a desk top. ‘Which is what I ought to do. I’m their boss. But I can’t face having to listen to all their chit-chat. I don’t think of Malene in that way, believe me.’

  Helen doesn’t say anything, but seems to be rolling about in one of the office chairs.

  Silence.

  When Paul speaks again, he uses his more familiar, if slightly too controlled, office voice.

  ‘Hey, come and look at this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come and see the library. Anne-Lise has started to clear the readers’ desks. It’s going to look really good.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s right next door.’

  Paul walks towards the library door. Now he is only a few metres away.

  Iben jumps when Helen shouts angrily: ‘I don’t care about your fucking readers’ desks. Can’t you get that into your thick head!’

  Nothing more can be heard for a moment, except the drumming of the rain. Then Paul sighs deeply. Something makes a slapping noise.

  The front door opens, the light is turned off, the door slams shut.

  They’re gone.

  Iben’s heart is still pounding in her chest. She stays where she is, pressed against the shelf.

  Besides, Paul and Helen may well come back. Malene takes Iben’s hand and places it over her heart. It beats wildly and she too has been sweating.

  Despite the dark, Iben knows that they’re smiling tensely at each other. They listen as the lift descends and stops.

  They can’t hear anybody walk across the downstairs hallway.

  They can’t hear the street door open and close and a car start in the rain.

  Even so, after several minutes, they have to assume that Paul will not come back.

  They’re still standing in the same place. Iben feels strange – drunk and queasy. But she didn’t drink that much, so it must be the fear that’s making her feel sick.

  A little later Rasmus comes in. ‘Holy shit!’ he whispers to them.

  They laugh from sheer relief.

  ‘Look, girls, I wouldn’t mind going home now.’

  ‘We’re with you!’

  ‘I turned the light off and stayed under the server desk all the time they were here. Now I have to restore everything on the server to the way it was before.’

  They stay close to him as they leave the library and use the bicycle lights until they get into the server room, where the light is on. It is good to be able to see properly.

  Rasmus fixes the computer while Iben and Malene look on distractedly. At one point, the emails from Tatiana and Lotta to Anne-Lise pop up on the screen.

  ‘Why did you delete them?’

  Malene shrugs.

  Rasmus reads the emails. ‘Hmm …’

  He keys in the right command. ‘You have to remove them from the system entirely then.’

  He has deleted Anne-Lise’s unread mail. And no one says any more about it.
r />   23

  The telephone wakes Iben the next morning. It is Malene and she has been crying. It doesn’t take Iben long to figure out what’s wrong. She knows that Malene has been taking painkillers recently but still hasn’t been able to get much sleep.

  ‘Iben, I have to go to the clinic.’

  Iben sits up and pushes a pillow behind her back. ‘Oh, Malene, you poor thing. But you seemed so well yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened either. It doesn’t usually hit me like this.’

  ‘Is it very bad?’

  ‘Bloody awful. It came on during the night. It doesn’t usually happen that quickly. I don’t know … oh God, I can’t trust anything any more. And it hurts so much, even though I’ve taken my pills. I can barely think. My knee is huge and the skin feels tight right up my thigh. I’ve never heard of it coming on so quickly.’

  ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘Could you bear it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s just that Rasmus left for the airport not long ago. I’ve called Out Patients and they’ll try to fit me in soon after nine.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  Iben has gone with Malene to the rheumatological clinic several times before, when her friend was too ill to walk down the stairs by herself. In the hospital Iben would always stay by her side, while Malene lay on the paper-covered couch in the doctor’s examination room. She would hold her friend’s hand, while the doctor inserted a wide-bore needle into Malene’s kneejoint, draining off one syringe of liquid after another.

  The last time, they both believed that there would be no more visits for a while, but the doctor had been worried.

  ‘We shouldn’t do this too often, you know. Recurrence of inflammatory episodes can erode the joint surfaces. I’ll prescribe something that should help.’

  Malene was put on methotrexate. It helped a great deal. Until today, that is.

  ‘I can’t walk … I can barely stand. All I can do is sit here.’

  Faintly, Iben hears Malene cough or sob, or maybe both. She must have put her hand over the receiver.

  Then Malene speaks in a voice that is no longer familiar. ‘I can’t do anything. Because it hurts so bad. I can’t do anything at all.’