The Exception Read online

  ‘But even if I were never invited back, they would have something to think about. Afterwards, they might see Malene differently and maybe it would occur to them to wonder about her now and then. “What does go on inside her head when she’s not having a good time? – when she’s not dressed up and smiling at us? God knows. Is she really a witch, as that man claims?” I’d do the same to Iben and Camilla. They all deserve it.’

  ‘I had no idea that you’ve been dreaming about revenge on my behalf.’

  ‘I haven’t. I only want to tell the truth. They’re ganging up against my lovely wife.’

  Clara is allowed some of the berries set aside for the pudding and runs out to Ulrik again. Anne-Lise returns the frying pan to the cooker.

  ‘Henrik, what can I say? You paint quite a picture!’

  A knock on the door. Children’s voices in the driveway.

  Anne-Lise calls from the bedroom. ‘You open it. I’m not quite ready.’

  She throws herself on the bed. She hasn’t had a minute’s peace since she closed the DCGI door behind her this afternoon. She looks up at the white ceiling. Such a large, smooth surface, like a glacier. She stretches out her arms. The white bedspread follows her movement and the folds form a pattern. It’s like making angel’s wings in the snow.

  As if I were dead, she thinks. The thought is meaningless.

  Ulrik rushes into the room. Her fragment of peace shatters. She gets up and helps him find a plastic lizard that he wants to show the other children. Then she walks downstairs.

  ‘Lovely to see you!’

  ‘Many happy returns! Thank you for asking us!’

  ‘Of course. We’re so pleased you could come.’

  Their cheeks are glowing as they step from the cold autumn evening into the golden lamplight of the hall.

  ‘What a tempting smell!’

  ‘I do hope you’ll like it.’

  The children are jostling to get their coats off in the small hall. Mette bends to hand her son two little parcels. ‘Now, off you go to find Ulrik and Clara, and give them their presents.’

  The adults, still trying to deal with their own coats, keep bumping into each other.

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Don’t worry. Here, have a hanger.’

  ‘Oh, Henrik, hello! Happy birthday!’

  ‘Thank you. We wanted to wait and have a big party, but when neither Lotte and Michael nor Rikke and Morten could make it for the next two weekends, we thought …’

  ‘Happy birthday! And, for you, a small token …’

  ‘Thank you! That’s very nice of you.’

  Henrik leads the way into the sitting room, where he offers everyone a glass of white wine.

  Anne-Lise stands in front of the hall mirror. Her body is still tense. This is how she feels each morning, when the alarm clock cuts into the middle of a dream. Even in her sleep, she can sense that something is wrong. Soon everything will fall apart.

  But she is at home, and she’s awake. She must force herself to believe that the Centre isn’t the only reality. Her anxiety stays with her, however, as she joins the others.

  Henrik raises his glass.

  ‘Cheers – and welcome!’

  Upstairs the alarm clock ticks away on the small grey bedside table. The dream will end, and soon she will be walking through the dark morning to face another day.

  Training to become a librarian was something that had appealed to Anne-Lise partly because she had so many happy memories of going to the library as a child. Every evening, when her parents closed their grocery store, she would go to bed in her room over the shop and read long, difficult novels. She’d always dreamed of a job working with books.

  After school, she used to help out in the shop. She was embarrassed that their items were more expensive and worse quality than those in the supermarkets. The customers were mostly old folk or neighbours picking up a last-minute ingredient just before supper, or her schoolmates wanting cigarettes and sweets.

  Many of her school friends came from well-to-do homes and most of them went on to study law, economics or business studies, in line with the family ambitions. Anne-Lise didn’t want to decide her future that way.

  Not until Henrik’s banking career took off had she experienced wealth. Now old friends would make remarks like: ‘It must be such fun to have a lot of money.’ And it was fun; but Henrik’s success also led to rows, especially because Anne-Lise never cared for the lifestyle that many of Henrik’s colleagues considered appropriate for the wives.

  The soup has turned out well. It’s just the right consistency, thanks to her last-minute addition of Jerusalem artichokes. The venison steaks are perhaps a little too well done, but they still taste good with the mushroom casserole. And Henrik’s special selection of red wine suits the main course to perfection. The children have wolfed down fish cakes and chips at a separate table and are already off to play. Anne-Lise’s mother leaves the table to find out what they are up to. The adults propose toasts, drink, talk and laugh.

  Anne-Lise goes to the bathroom. She takes three cotton-wool pads from a clear plastic bag hanging on the side of the cupboard, pulls the pads apart and rolls the woolly fluff into small, hard balls.

  The dessert is a Spanish-style custard layered on top of forest berries.

  Mette, who is married to Henrik’s brother, leans forward to speak to Anne-Lise across the corner of the table. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Fine. I’m busy, but it’s good to know that what you do matters. This week alone we’ve had requests from Buenos Aires and Rome, as well as from New York and Brussels, though that’s not unusual. Lots of other enquiries too. And the project leader who takes most of the calls was away lecturing on a couple of occasions and so I was the one who …’

  ‘Henrik said the other women don’t always … you know, treat you right.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘Well, that it could be hard going at times.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Please … nothing special. Just that sometimes you were fed up when things didn’t go well.’

  ‘I see. And was that all?’

  Mette glances apologetically at Henrik, who’s looking alarmed.

  ‘It was like this,’ she says, speaking more rapidly than before. ‘I was telling Henrik about one of my superiors who is being difficult. He’s out to get me, you know. And Henrik said that it’s normal to have problems with people at work. At some point when we were talking about how common it is, he said that, to him, your colleagues seem extremely unpleasant. He also said that you’re very, very good at your work and have always treated them as pleasantly as you can, but they don’t talk to you.’

  ‘It isn’t that bad, you know.’

  Anne-Lise looks at Mette, and then at Henrik. She’s unable to organise her thoughts enough to let her sister-in-law know that she hasn’t said anything wrong. Instead she stays very quiet. She smiles at Mette but can feel the corners of her mouth start to stiffen into a grimace.

  She knows what has happened. It is the office atmosphere – its sheer nastiness; she has dragged it home and is inflicting it on these innocent people.

  She has to get away.

  Henrik hurries after her and catches up with her at the top of the stairs. She pulls him into the bedroom and slams the door.

  ‘Everyone judges each other by how well they do in their jobs. And they believe it’s your own fault if you’re doing badly. I don’t need my friends to think that I can’t get on with my colleagues.’

  ‘Of course they don’t think that.’

  ‘No? I’ll tell you, they do! Right now some of them are wondering if it isn’t Anne-Lise who is being difficult, Anne-Lise who is trouble. She’s an oddball.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re wrong.’

  ‘And I’m sure I’m right. I trusted you and confided in you and now you’ve betrayed that trust. Why don’t you tell everyone your own secrets instead?’

  ‘Anne-Lise …’

&n
bsp; She throws herself on the bed and buries her head in her pillow, though no tears come. ‘All I want is just one place where I’m free to be myself – where I’m not marked down as a lousy, boring librarian.’

  ‘Nobody ever called you anything of the sort.’

  ‘If people don’t respect you they start treating you like dirt.’

  She feels Henrik stroking the back of her head and neck.

  ‘Darling, calm down. Please forgive me for mentioning it. I’ll never ever look down on you. Neither will our children, nor our friends. That just won’t ever happen.’

  ‘If I lose you, if I lose what we have together, there’s nothing left for me. Nothing.’

  8

  Two policemen stop Anne-Lise when she steps into the lobby of the DCGI building the following morning.

  ‘Where are you headed, madam?’

  The policemen seem so serious she thinks someone in the building has died. Their manner affects her.

  ‘I work in the Danish Centre for Genocide Information.’

  ‘Do you have any identification?’

  ‘Of course. But could you tell me what this is about?’

  The men speak without emotion: there have been threats against the employees of the Centre.

  ‘Is anybody hurt?’

  ‘Nothing like that. But you’d better speak to our colleagues. They are in your office right now.’

  They let Anne-Lise pass. She hurries along to the lift and phones Henrik on the way up, but he’s not in his office.

  No policemen on the landing. No guard at the door to the Centre. Anne-Lise steps into the Winter Garden. Camilla is just coming out of Paul’s office and when she sees Anne-Lise her face lights up as if she were about to hug her colleague out of sheer relief.

  ‘Oh, Anne-Lise! There you are! We had no idea where you were.’

  ‘I only …’

  ‘Come in here! We’re all in Paul’s room.’

  The others are seated around Paul’s conference table. Two police officers are at the head. One of them has a sensitive face that reminds her of a teacher in Clara’s nursery school, the other one looks older and is presumably more senior. Iben makes room for Anne-Lise by shifting a pile of folders with data on East Timor.

  ‘We tried to get in touch with you last night. We phoned several times, but you weren’t in and you hadn’t turned your answering machine on. And then when you didn’t turn up at your usual time …’

  ‘I was just a little delayed. I’m so sorry, I had no idea.’

  Now Paul takes the lead. ‘You see, we were quite worried about you, afraid that something might have happened. Listen, did you get one of the emails?’

  Anne-Lise’s colleagues are all staring at her with interest. That’s new.

  ‘Emails? No. What do you mean? Anyway, I was at home last night.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes. It was Henrik’s birthday.’

  Anne-Lise sits down. Iben looks in her address book and realises that she has the wrong number for Anne-Lise.

  Iben turns to the policemen. ‘Well, so far, it looks like only Malene and I have received these messages.’

  Anne-Lise pours herself a cup of coffee while Paul explains what happened and Iben elaborates.

  ‘It was only when we found out that the emails had probably been sent by Mirko Zigic that the police—’

  The older of the two officers interrupts. ‘Interpol is looking for Zigic. We hope there might a chance of picking him up here in Denmark.’

  Apparently Iben and Malene spent hours in an Internet café last night, but found nothing to lead them to Zigic. The emails were sent via an anonymiser site and are impossible to trace. The two look exhausted, especially Iben, who has deep shadows under her eyes. Even so, they appear to be bursting with energy – on an adrenaline high. Their eyes seem to be urging everyone, even Anne-Lise, to stick together.

  The police have given the office a preliminary once-over and have checked Iben and Malene’s flats, but so far they have found no clues. They ask general questions about the women’s work at the DCGI.

  About half an hour later the older policeman begins to tap on the table. ‘That’s it for now. We can’t do much more at present. The investigation will be handed over to the Computer Crime Unit here in Copenhagen.’

  Iben shoves away a pile of photocopies. ‘I see. So you’re leaving?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what if Zigic turns up here?’

  ‘Two of our men are downstairs, guarding the door. They know the score. Don’t worry.’

  They stare at him.

  ‘I can assure you that it is highly unlikely – extremely unlikely – that Zigic would come here. If he does, he’ll be doing us all a good turn because then we can put him away.’

  Iben refuses to be reassured. ‘Are you telling me that the two guards downstairs know all about arresting an experienced mercenary? A mass murderer, who’s personally killed and tortured hundreds of victims?’

  The younger officer nods calmly. ‘You’re obviously upset, but please remember that men like Zigic don’t bother to email their victims first before assassinating them.’

  ‘Sure. He’ll just sneak up behind his victim in the street without warning … like Olof Palme’s killer, right?’ Malene interjects.

  The older policeman looks at Malene and pushes his mug of coffee out of the way. ‘That was a problem handled by the Swedish police. Bloody tragic. But a Swedish case.’

  He begins to pack his briefcase. ‘We’re all busy people. My colleague and I have to get back to the station. If there are any new developments, call the Computer Crime Unit.’

  The door closes behind them.

  The five employees stay on in the boardroom to talk about the situation.

  Iben speaks without her usual composure and repeats herself several times. ‘Of course the cops are right. This isn’t serious.’

  But something has changed.

  Anne-Lise scans the others for signs of fear. What about Camilla, Paul and Malene? Are they really scared? Or are they play-acting as well?

  They talk about the risks and about who, apart from Mirko Zigic, could have sent the emails. For much of the time they are simply making the same points again and again, and after about an hour, Paul gets up.

  ‘You all stay here. I understand that there’s a lot for you to talk about. The trouble is, I simply have to go. I have an appointment at the Foreign Affairs Ministry. Fill me in later if you come up with something.’

  Camilla looks up with disbelief. ‘Paul! You’re not leaving?’

  ‘That’s the idea. Is there a problem?’

  ‘But think of the danger!’

  ‘Come on, I don’t think anything bad will happen.’

  Iben interrupts. ‘It seems to me that we should regard this as a very serious matter.’

  Paul’s face looks grave and he sits back down on the edge of his chair. ‘You must believe me, I am taking it seriously. Honestly. Very much so.’

  He studies each face in turn. Anne-Lise enjoys the attention.

  ‘However, what that police officer said is surely true,’ Paul continues. ‘No experienced soldier would bother emailing his victims before murdering them. The sender’s aim is only to scare us. Maybe to distract us from our work here, which seems to me to be the real danger. We mustn’t let it happen.’

  He stands up. ‘Anyway, you keep talking. I don’t expect you to do much more than that today. Later this week, we’ll get up to speed again.’

  They stay seated around the table and discuss options for protecting themselves and catching Zigic, aware that there is something faintly insulting about Paul’s manner. It was all very well of him to say, ‘I understand that there’s a lot for you to talk about,’ but then he made it obvious he personally hadn’t the slightest need to talk. Does he think that they need to sit about empathising all day just because they’re women?

  They decide to try to concentrate on work.

/>   Back in the library Anne-Lise phones Henrik. ‘They looked at me … properly!’ She can’t get over it. ‘And spoke to me as if I were really there. No barriers!’

  Henrik is pleased. ‘Heartfelt thanks to whoever sent those emails.’

  She twists the phone cord around her finger. ‘Shush.’

  Everyone in the office knows that the one thing that can disturb Paul’s unruffled demeanour is the prospect of another meeting at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, since the outcome of such visits determines the DCGI’s ability to grow and its future existence. Although the Ministry for Science, Technology and Development pays its running costs, the Centre is an independent organisation and has to raise money for its projects, publications and conferences by applying for grants from private and state foundations. One way or another, a substantial proportion of its finances can be traced back to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.

  Paul carries a heavy responsibility. To avoid redundancies, each year he must convince the Foreign Affairs ministry that the Centre is effective enough to justify their approval for new project funding. As he has told his staff, that isn’t his only problem. The men from the Ministry might well decide that the DCGI is too effective. It could occur to them that it would be desirable, all things considered, to shift the DCGI maintenance grant to their Ministry. True, at first glance it might not seem to matter which arm of the government supports the Centre, but Paul knows better.

  The working briefs of the DCGI and the Danish Institute for Human Rights are very similar. The DIHR is an independent organisation too, but its fixed costs are paid by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. The day may come when some young, inexperienced civil service adviser sees the advantages of making the DCGI part of the DIHR, with its hundred or so staff members. The upshot for Paul would be the loss of his special claim to give television interviews. And according to Paul, the DCGI’s duty to inform the public about genocide issues would be undermined.