by Inger Wolf
A few years earlier, she'd been sent over to Århus to help on a hacker case. Agersund had liked the idea of having his own IT specialist, so she had negotiated a position with a minimum of child pornography cases involved.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Lisa had isolated all the frames in which the boy was visible. She chose one of them and opened it in Photoshop. For the first time, she studied it carefully. In the foreground was a cherry wood counter with the debit card machine, a bowl of candy, and a gumball dispenser. A customer stood on the right, counting money in her pocketbook. The young girl behind the counter was folding a cardboard box for a cake. Lukas was visible through the window about a third of the way from the left edge of the frame. She was absolutely certain now. Even over two shelves of cream cakes and various pastries, and through the plate glass window, his chestnut hair was unmistakable. Also, his boxy blue schoolbag with the ladybug on the flap hung from his back. It was definitely Lukas. Before the snowstorm. Unaware of any danger, alone, probably thinking about what he’d been doing that day. But like everything outside the shop, he was out of focus and therefore blurry.
"Damn," she mumbled. She found a Mars bar in the drawer and munched on it. She could sharpen the image to an extent, but she couldn't do anything with the blurriness of the objects. Yet sharpening it might help make everything outside more recognizable.
Her phone rang, and she picked it up off the stack of papers beside her. Trokic. Why couldn't he be just the tiniest bit patient?
"How's it going? Can we identify him?"
"I've just started on it," she snapped; in addition to being impatient, he was loud. "But I have sharpened the image up some; it's a bit clearer."
"Great, Lisa. But what about the man Jasper talked about?"
Lisa peered at her screen. He was at the very top of the frame, farther away from the bakery. It was true, he seemed to be waiting. He faced the boy.
"It's very blurry," she said. "You can see it's a person, probably a man. If it's not a ghost. That's it. I can work on it a little more, but it's limited what I can do with this equipment. I happen to know this nerd though, his image editing equipment will blow you away. I'm sure he could do more with it."
Trokic didn't hesitate. "Send it to him right away."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Lisa was on the phone with her old neighbor Morten Birk, aka Routeless. It was definitely best that she handle all contact with him. Morten loved conspiracy theories
and politics, and he had no sense whatsoever of when certain sensitive discussions were inappropriate. If she remembered right, one of his theories was that Croatians were a bunch of extreme nationalists who started the civil war in ex-Yugoslavia because they demanded the borders set by Hitler in World War II be maintained, despite the presence of ethnic groups in places such as Krajina. Similar nationalists in Germany supposedly supplied the Croatians with weapons from depots in the former East Germany, and they manipulated the media to demonize the Serbs. In addition, it was a lie that Serbs had destroyed Dubrovnik and many of its cultural treasures–she could go down and see for herself. Lisa had no idea if any of this was true or not, but she did know that Trokic had lost his father and brother in the war. He wasn't someone Morten should be talking to about his theories. Should the urge strike him.
"Have you looked at the frame?" Lisa asked.
He was tapping something on his table in a rapid rhythm. A CD case, maybe. She could see him now, his bleached, unruly hair and face scarred from acne. He was one of the most fidgety persons she'd ever met.
"What do you think this place is, freaking NASA? That person is a total blur."
"I know. That's why I sent it to you."
"Listen, I could have everything the CIA has, and it still wouldn't make a difference. How's it going, anyway?"
She held back a sigh. A question like that usually led to Morten raving about something new. She waited patiently; he was doing just fine himself, and by the way, he was convinced that Jim Morrison didn't die in Paris, he faked his own death and moved to Africa, he'd been talking about doing that anyway. Morten couldn’t figure out how Jimmy could stay underground on that wild continent for decades, but who could know what was hiding in those rain forests. He’d done it to shake the hordes following him everywhere, so he could find his inner self. And when he discovered the ultimate truth, he'd return and give it to the world.
This story took almost fifteen minutes. Sometimes, there was a price to pay when you needed help and had to turn to eccentric experts, but she felt she should have at least gotten something out of it.
"But," Morten said, making a sudden U-turn back to the frame. "I know someone in England; I could send him the photo. You have any problem with that?"
Lisa glimpsed a ray of hope. In the world of nerds, there was always a way out. She sighed in relief. "Who?"
"A guy in the British defense ministry."
"Interesting. Tell me more."
* * *
Later, she sat for a moment staring at the screen, trying to imagine what had happened. Suddenly, her heart began pounding. Two sets of digital numbers were visible up in one corner. The first one, the date, was unremarkable: 04.01. January 4. Underneath, though, was the time: 16:28. She gazed at the two angular green numbers and stiffened. The surveillance camera's clock was correct, no doubt about that. That had been the first thing they'd checked. But now she realized it was almost an hour after he’d left the club.
It didn't take an hour to walk from the club to the bakery, that she was sure of. Ten minutes, twelve minutes tops if he'd been daydreaming or something. The image showed Lukas on the street. But much later than expected. Where the hell had the boy been for an entire hour?
Chapter Thirteen
Johnny Nielsen, aka Poker Johnny, who lived in the apartment underneath Lukas's parents, was sullen, nearly even rude. He was wearing only a pair of jeans when he opened the door halfway, and his black hair flew out in every direction. When he stepped aside and let them in, Trokic saw at least one reason why they were unwelcome. The whole apartment was filled with modern design far too expensive for someone on disability. If he'd been more on the ball, he'd have hidden it somewhere–surely, he realized a murder investigation in the neighborhood meant the police would be knocking on doors? On the other hand, they weren't there to sniff out illegal activities. Trokic decided to ignore it.
Nielsen reluctantly showed them into a messy living room with classic leather furniture, the latest equipment from B&O, herringbone mahogany floors, and works of art on beige walls. A sleeping man with a big gut lay on one of the sofas. Nielsen nudged him a few times and pointed to the bedroom door, and after waking up, he set course for the door without a glance at the newcomers. Stacks of a Danish tabloid, Ekstra Bladet, and M, a men's magazine, took up the other sofa. The poker player swept them aside and offered his visitors a seat. He buttoned up his jeans and picked a T-shirt up off the floor.
"I don't see how I can help you," he mumbled. He sniffed the T-shirt before putting it on.
"We have to speak to everyone in the area and clarify their movements the day Lukas disappeared," Trokic explained for the umpteenth time.
Nielsen grabbed a pack of Marlboros off the table and lit one. He took a long drag. "If you're talking about Thursday, I was here all afternoon with some friends."
"And they can confirm that?"
"Yeah, 'course they can if they have to."
"They have to. Names and addresses. Please."
Nielsen glared, but he gave them the names of two men. Trokic glanced around the room. Such a strange combo: dump and upscale design. As if someone had expensively decorated the place for him, and he couldn't at all live up to it. "The rumor is that people are playing poker here. For money."
"So? You guys can't figure out if it's a game of chance or a game of skill, so for the time being, I'll play for matches or buttons or…jet fighters, or money if that's what I feel like. That local cop keeps snif
fing around here. I wish you'd stop all this bullshit until you get it figured out."
His nervous laugh revealed a set of crooked teeth. He looked back and forth between them.
"Someone mentioned something about hashish," Jasper said, his voice oh-so-friendly.
Now, Nielsen looked sheepish, pale. Like a Russian miner who hadn't seen sunshine in a few decades, Trokic thought.
"I dunno anything about that. We play poker. You can't do that when you're stoned, now, can you?" His smile was frozen stiff.
"I'll be straight with you," Jasper said. "Just how big this gambling operation is you got here, and whatever other shady things are going on, we're not all that interested in today. But this is a murder investigation, and we want a list of all the people who show up here."
"But I can't…I mean, they're not going to be hap…"
"All right, listen. If you don't cough up a complete list of everyone who frequents this den of iniquity, I’m sure our distinguished colleagues would love to look into this business about the hashish. Colleagues in Narcotics. And when I say a complete list, I mean a complete list. If there's so much as a letter missing in one of the names, you are in big trouble. Got it?"
Trokic stared at Jasper in amazement; he wasn't playing around this morning. Even after a long night checking surveillance recordings and searching houses. Nielsen stared at the floor. He seemed to have gotten the message, as Trokic sensed a greater eagerness to cooperate.
"I'll do what I can to get them all on board."
Jasper smiled. "Thank you."
"We'd like to hear what you knew about Lukas," Trokic said.
"Hey, I didn't even know the little guy. I saw him outside playing once in a while, that's all. I never talked to him. Well, actually I talked to him once last summer; it looked like he was going to take a bite out of that golden rain tree, over in the corner of the yard. So, I opened my window and yelled at him that it could kill him if he ate it. That seemed to scare him; anyway, he ran back inside."
"You don't get out much, is that right?" Jasper said.
"Not really, I guess. Should I?"
"How about your neighbors? What do you know about them?"
"What do you mean? Lukas's parents?"
"Yes, them for example."
"I don't really know them."
"Not really? But you know them a little bit?"
Nielsen let out a long, drawn-out sigh, like a sidetracked locomotive, and put out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Okay, yeah. Karsten comes down and plays once in a while."
"What do you mean, once in a while?" Trokic asked.
Nielsen shrugged. "It's nothing regular."
"Come on, goddammit," Jasper said. This wasn't one of his easygoing days. "How much does he play down here?"
"Maybe a few times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. He hasn't been around for about a month if I remember right. But it's been Christmas, hasn't it. Family get-togethers and all that."
"And you don't think you really know him?"
"For chrissake, we don't sit around sharing our private lives in the middle of a pot, now, do we. He shows up to play; I don't talk to the guy otherwise."
"Not at all? Not even small talk. After all, you're neighbors."
"Nope, not at all."
Jasper leaned back in resignation.
"What kind of stakes are we talking about here?" Trokic said.
"It's different from time to time. I got no idea how much he's played for in here. Some of them play for a lot of money, others just for peanuts."
"Is he a good player?"
"Not particularly. He only plays Texas Hold'em. Nothing else. And he's like an open book. Plays way too tight."
Trokic glanced around the room again, then back to Nielsen and the Cartier watch around his wrist. Was poker playing really so profitable nowadays? "What about his wife?"
"No."
"No what?"
"She doesn't come here. I say hi to her on the stairs, that's it. She's sort of a grump. Really, come on, I don't know anything about these people."
Trokic stood up and once more pulled out his card. "We expect that list tomorrow."
* * *
The air felt colder back outside in the yard.
"Hell of a crummy place, so close to the victim," Jasper mumbled. He zipped his coat up to his nose; all Trokic could see of his face was his eyes. "It wouldn't surprise me if a few perverts hang around in there."
Trokic swung his car keys as he stared thoughtfully up at the building. "We'll wait for his list. Let's pay a visit to where all this started."
"And that would be?"
"The after-school club."
Chapter Fourteen
The leader of the club, Tina Witt, was younger than he had imagined. A small woman in her late 20s, no makeup, hair dyed henna and in a ponytail, with a few extra kilos hanging over her black jeans. She spoke with a thick southern Jutland accent.
"Grab those chairs over there and have a seat." She pointed at two blue upholstered chairs in the corner of the small office, then sat on the corner of her desk. The office was practically wallpapered with children's drawings. As if the kids had competed for a spot on the walls. The room beamed with color.
"You're here to question some of my colleagues, I guess?" she said. "I get that, I do, but I can tell you right now, no one in this club had anything to do with what happened."
"Sounds like you're certain about that," Trokic said. He'd been expecting her to start out by saying how sorry she was; after all, she worked with kids. "We're only trying to place all of you at the time Lukas disappeared, so we can cross you off the list."
"I know every single one of them, and they couldn’t do something like this; I guarantee it. Most of them I’ve known several years. And anyway most of us were here when Lukas was sent home. We'd scheduled a personnel meeting at five, after all the kids left, so the ones who usually were off work early stuck around. The only ones not here were a few from the morning shift."
"Did Lukas come here in the mornings too?" Trokic said.
"No, and both of them are women with families. Surely, you can't suspect them?"
They didn't answer, though Jasper scribbled in his notepad.
"Anyway, we started the meeting just after five," she said. "But then we became involved in a way with the search for Lukas. His parents stopped by and wanted to know exactly when Lukas left. We spent some time on that. Then we went through our agenda, and I sent everyone home between five-thirty and six. I stayed a little while longer, in case I might be needed, I spent the time doing paperwork. But I didn't hear from anyone by seven-thirty, so I went home."
"We'd like a list of those you’re absolutely certain were here Thursday afternoon, and also those who weren’t here."
"I've already done it. I figured you’d ask." She handed them a sheet of paper with a list of names. "Here's all the employees, and what they do."
"And you're sure about all these people, and the times?"
A corner of her mouth quivered for just a second, then she nodded energetically.
"It's very important," Jasper emphasized.
"Like I said, I'm sure."
"You don't have any temporary employees who aren't part of the daily routine like the regulars?" Trokic asked. "I'm thinking along the lines of trainees or substitutes, something like that."
"Yes. Adam. He substitutes here regularly. He's an aide. But he was here too; he took part in the meeting because some of what we discussed involved his work here."
Her voice softened, and she looked down at the floor. "Adam is the one who sent Lukas off; he talked to the police about it yesterday. Several other workers here did too, while the search for Lukas was still going on. Adam was really upset about it."
Trokic nodded. He'd noticed the name earlier on one of the reports.
"How did Lukas get along here at the club?" Jasper asked.
"I have to confess, I didn't know him very well. I've run the place a few years now; I
don't have the same contact with each child like I did before. But I'm sure there were no major problems with him; otherwise, I would've heard about it. Although, I believe…"
Witt frowned and stared blankly at the wall.
"Yes?"
"No, it's nothing. I just thought about something to do with a rabbit, but honestly, I can't say it was him…really, I don't think I can tell you so much about Lukas. All I remember is a happy boy. You'll have to talk to the ones working with the second-grade classes. They’re on the list."
Jasper persisted. "So, you didn't know the parents either?"
The short woman's ponytail swung as she shook her head. "No, and to tell the truth, I didn't even know who they were before they showed up Thursday, wanting to know where Lukas was."
"Okay," Trokic said. "I think that's about it for now."
He finished up the questioning with the usual formalities, and a moment later they were outside on the street. Nothing suspicious about this youth club, he felt. Absolutely nothing.
Chapter Fifteen
Mathias Riise pressed his head against the wall with the Linkin Park poster and clenched his teeth so hard that his jaws hurt. Swarms of thoughts kept coming at him, and soon they occupied every niche and cranny of his mind. Every muscle was tense, and his breath was shallow and rapid. They'd talked to Jonna, his mom, then they'd headed over to Poker Johnny. Johnny the Fag, with all his luxury designer stuff. How many times were the police going to come out here? Another bunch of policemen had been sneaking around the house the day before; Mathias didn't like them sticking their nose in people's business. The police dug things up, looked underneath rugs. Exposed secrets.
The mood around there was gloomy anyway, and now after Lukas's death, it was like a cemetery. No wonder his kid brother spent most of his time with a classmate, Thomas; since they'd become friends, you hardly ever saw Frederick. Lucky for him, having a friend from the classy part of Mårslet. A lot luckier than their curly-haired little sister, who was stuck here all alone–at least now that her playmate Lukas was history. There was something wrong with Julie. Like her sense of reality was way off. And she lied her way through life, big-time.
