Despite the darkness and the dirt, the face was quite clear to him, cheekbones high and chiseled, the nose long and straight. And the reddest hair Marco had seen in all his life. The age was impossible to assess, for the skin of the face had almost liquefied. He sensed that, had it not been so dark, the sight would have been as appalling as the smell.
There was nothing for him here, he decided, his eyes resting in a moment’s distress on the tightened, decaying hand that seemed almost to be trying to grab and hold on to life itself. To this man also, Zola had brought calamity.
And then it was that Marco discovered the chain catch protruding from underneath the corpse’s withered thumb. A tiny, round fastener with a lever. How many times had he opened one just like it as he stole the necklace off some innocent individual’s neck?
He took hold and pulled until the bones gave way and the chain slipped from the hand. As easy as anything.
The trinket was heavy and foreign in appearance. Marco had never seen one like it. An intricate lattice of threads, with a few pieces of horn and small wooden masks dangling from it. It wasn’t appealing, but it was unusual.
Unusual, perhaps, but hardly a piece that could be traded for money.
Just something African.
4
Spring 2011
“What the hell’s going on?” Carl wanted to know, as Tomas Laursen, the stocky former forensics officer and current manager of Copenhagen police headquarters’ under-dimensioned cafeteria stuck his head out of the kitchen area. “What are all these horrible paper flags for? Is it my homecoming from Rotterdam you’re celebrating? I was gone only a day.”
Had it not been for the fact that he’d had to pick up that fantastic ring for Mona and because the jeweler’s was so close to police HQ, not to mention his dying for a cup of coffee, he would have gone straight home from the airport.
Now he was feeling he should have done so anyway.
He stared around the room, shaking his head. What kind of shit was this? Had he walked in on some kid’s birthday party, or had one of his colleagues got himself hitched for the third or fourth time in the vain hope that he was finally safe?
Laursen smiled. “Hi, Carl. No, I’m afraid not. It’s because Lars Bjørn has come back. Lis has been putting up decorations, and Marcus has called the department in for coffee and a bite in half an hour.”
Carl frowned. Lars Bjørn? Back from where? He hadn’t even noticed the homicide department’s deputy commissioner had been away.
“Uhh, back, you say? What, been to Legoland, has he?”
Laursen dumped a plate containing something green in front of the officer at Carl’s side. It didn’t look good. Carl felt sure his colleague was going to regret it.
“You haven’t heard, then? Strange. Anyway, he’s just got back from Kabul.” Laursen laughed. “If you can avoid it, I’d say you were best off not letting on you didn’t know. He’s been away for two months, Carl.”
Carl glanced to his side. Was this poverty of common knowledge what was causing the hand of the man next to him to shake as he lifted his fork to his mouth? But who was the real laughingstock at the moment? Carl or Lars Bjørn, who apparently hadn’t been missed?
Two whole months, according to Tomas. Gasp.
“Kabul, you say? A pretty dangerous neck of the woods. What the fuck’s he been doing there?” It was hard to imagine a boarding-school wuss like Bjørn kitted out in battle dress. “Did they remember to check if he got back alive? You can never tell with a mummy like him,” he added as the green substance slid off the jiggling fork of the man next to him.
“Bjørn was sent there to train the local police,” said Laursen, wiping his hands on the tea towel that was wrapped around his ever-expanding waist. If he was intending to stay on in the cafeteria much longer he’d have to order some bigger tea cloths, thought Carl.
“You don’t say? I reckon he should have stayed there, in that case.”
Carl glanced around the room. The comment had drawn more than a couple of glares in his direction, but he didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned they could all take up residence in the Afghan wilderness with its roadside bombs.
“Thanks very much, Carl,” said a voice behind him. “Nice to know you hold my work in such high esteem.”
Fifteen pairs of eyes converged on the space behind his shoulder. Suddenly a ripple of chuckles passed through the assembly—pure Schadenfreude. Carl turned calmly toward what he anticipated would be a face luminous in every conceivable shade of red.
But Lars Bjørn was looking annoyingly good and he knew it. It was as if a taut animal skin had been stretched over his slight frame and the sun had conspired to straighten his back and shoulders. Whatever it was, he suddenly seemed somewhat larger than usual. Maybe the colorful array of ribbons in four measured rows above his left breast pocket helped.
Carl gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Well, well, Bjørn. Gave you a purple heart, did they? Good for you. Play your cards right and the Cub Scouts will give you a merit badge next.”
Carl felt Laursen’s gentle tug on his sleeve, but he didn’t care. What trouble could Bjørn land him in that he hadn’t already?
“Anyone would think it was you who got hit on the head instead of Assad, Mørck. How he’s getting on, anyway?”
“Such concern, Bjørn. Back on the job as head of personnel now, are we? But thanks, he’s doing OK. We expect him to be firing on all cylinders again in a couple of weeks. Until then I’ve got Rose, and thank Christ for that.”
He noticed wry smiles appearing at the mention of her name, but as long as that was all, he’d let it go. Otherwise he’d give them what for. What did he care? There wasn’t a man here who could begin to match her.
“Assad’s face is still a bit lopsided, though, isn’t it?” Laursen interjected. He was probably the only one in the cafeteria to have noticed.
Carl nodded. “True, but then he’s not the only one at HQ with his head off balance.” He looked straight at Bjørn, who was over by the cashier, paying for his beverage. Oddly enough he ignored the slight.
“But you’re right, Laursen,” Carl went on. “The hemorrhage Assad suffered after the attack affected his facial muscles and his sense of balance, so he’s been going for regular check-ups all this spring and is still taking a fair amount of medicine. The way things are going, I reckon he’ll soon be completely recovered, which we’re all very relieved about. He still has a bit of difficulty talking, but then he always did, didn’t he?”
He laughed, though no one else joined in. And so what?
Bjørn stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and turned to face him, this time with the dark venomous look he had perfected over the years.
“I’m very happy for Assad that he’s making such good progress, Carl. All we can hope is that the same will be true of you, down there in the depths. Perhaps we ought to accord you rather more attention in the future so we can keep a better eye on whether you need assistance, don’t you think?”
He turned to Laursen. “Thanks for the reception, very nice indeed, Tomas. Makes it a pleasure to be home. Wouldn’t you say so, Mørck? Oh, and by the way, welcome home from the Netherlands.”
Carl returned the snaky glare in kind as Bjørn marched past him and went off down the stairs. Apparently the cobra hadn’t completely died of dehydration down there in the desert.
“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.
He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.
“What did those reports say from Holland, anyway?” Laursen asked, changing the subject. “Was there any link between the nail-gun killings in Schiedam and the ones here in Denmark?”
Carl snorted. “The reports said fuck all. Complete waste of time.”
“And that’s got you frustrated, I can see.
Am I right?”
Carl studied Laursen’s face. Not many people at HQ could be bothered to ask him such elementary questions, but on the other hand not many could expect an answer either, certainly none of the dickheads here now.
“Any unsolved case is always going to get a decent copper riled,” he replied, his eyes scanning the faces, giving them something to think about. “Especially one in which a colleague is the victim.”
“And Hardy?”
“Hardy’s still living with me. I reckon it’s going to stay that way until one of us kicks the bucket.”
The man munching salad at his side nodded.
“You’re a prick, Carl, but I’ll give you credit for looking after the man. Not many people would have done that.”
Carl frowned slightly. His lips may even have curled into a reluctant smile. At any rate, it was a strange feeling to hear such praise from a colleague. There was a first time for everything.
—
Downstairs in homicide it was all go. The number of paper flags seemed well over the top in the modest conference room, a bit like a cross between the queen’s birthday and a convention of the Denmark Party.
“Hey, Lis. Looks like you’ve been on quite a rampage. Bulk offer on the flags, was there?”
Department A’s absolutely most stimulating feature sent Mørck a sidelong glance. “Bit cocky, aren’t we, Carl? Do you want me to put them up again for you when you get back from Afghanistan?”
“Sure, whatever,” he said, hungrily noting the slight curl of her mouth. It was pure sex, underplayed just the way he loved it. Not even Mona could smile like that, the way it hit home straight below the belt. “But unfortunately they’ll all be covered in moss by then, won’t they? Is Marcus in?”
She gestured toward the door.
The homicide department’s head, Marcus Jacobsen, sat by the window staring out across the rooftops, his reading glasses pushed up onto his brow. Judging by the look on his face, his frame of mind was somewhere between chronic fatigue and a feeling of being eternally lost. It was not a pretty sight. But in view of the stacks of case folders mounted up on the desk around him, making the place look more like a paper warehouse, the oddest part was that he hadn’t yet succumbed to sitting like that every single day.
He swiveled round on his chair to face Carl, studying him with the same sort of weariness as when kids in the backseat of the car began asking if they’d be in Italy soon, when they were only ten kilometers south of Copenhagen.
“What’s up, Carl?” he asked, as though he’d prefer no answer. The man no doubt had a lot on his mind as it was.
“Party going on, I see,” said Carl, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the front office. “When are the fireworks on?”
“God knows. How was the Netherlands? Are we any closer to tying up those nail-gun killings?”
Cark shook his head. “Closer? The only thing I got any closer to was the realization that we’re not the only police force in Europe that can fuck things up. If that was what they call a draft of a coordinated report of all murders committed with a nail gun in our joint neck of the woods during the past couple of years, then I’m the Grand Mogul of Vesterbro. I couldn’t come to any conclusion at all on the basis of the data they’d collected. In fact, the only decent job was Ploug’s report on our own killings in Sorø and Amager. I’m afraid the Dutch did a shoddy piece of work indeed. Inadequate forensic analyses, incompetent investigation reports, too-slow reaction time. Effing infuriating, to put it mildly. We’re not going to get any further pursuing that course unless they suddenly come up with something new entirely down there.”
“I see. So I shouldn’t be expecting one of your devastatingly detailed reports littered with the usual golden nuggets, is that it?”
Carl pondered for a moment on Jacobsen’s sarcastic tone of voice. Something was definitely wrong here in the command bunker.
“That’s not actually why I’m here.”
“OK. To what do I owe the honor, then, Carl?”
“I’ve got a problem. Assad’s still not up to scratch, so we’re a bit adrift at the moment. I’m utilizing the time tidying up all my portfolios.” He loved the word. No other was anywhere near as vacuous. “But it’s hard going not actually being on a case, because Rose keeps interrupting me all the time. Maybe we ought to kill two birds with one stone and take the opportunity to upgrade her. Can’t she tag along with a couple of your lads for a bit? She needs to be shown the ropes, learn how to knock on doors. I thought maybe she could team up with Terje Ploug or Bente Hansen’s boys. From what I’ve heard, they’re all moaning about how short-staffed they are.”
His eyes narrowed as he peered in hope at his boss. While he’d been away, Rose had already amassed a pile of proposals as to what they ought to focus on. If he didn’t get her supertanker of excess energy rerouted in the very near future he’d be up to his eyeballs in case folders in ten seconds.
“Manpower shortages, indeed. Nothing new under the sun, Carl.” Marcus Jacobsen smiled drily and began to toy with the cigarette pack on his desk. “You’ll have to make your own training program for Rose. None of my lot will want her getting in the way, that’s for sure. She’s not a fully trained police officer, Carl. She’s no business out there on the streets, you tend to forget that.”
“I forget nothing. Especially not the fact that since the beginning of the year we’ve successfully wrapped up two cases thanks to Rose, even though Assad’s still on half days. In my book, Rose has completed her training to the full. Besides, we’ve got no investigation going on at the moment in Department Q. I’m sifting through cases in my own time and I don’t want Rose getting bored. It’s bad for the nerves.”
Marcus Jacobsen sat up straight. “I’m afraid that now you mention it, I reckon I do have something she could help us with. But before you send her out onto the streets on her own to mess things up, I suggest you go with her for a couple of days, OK?”
He pulled out a folder ten centimeters down in a half-meter-high pile. If it was the right one, the man possessed a truly uncanny ability.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Carl as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Sverre Anweiler. Prime suspect in a case of arson involving a houseboat out in Sydhavnen. I’ve only skimmed the report, but it looks like insurance fraud gone wrong. Anweiler was listed as the owner and was nowhere to be found when it exploded and went down. Somewhat regrettable in view of the fact that his girlfriend, Minna Virklund, happened to be on board at the time and perished.”
Perished. It had become a typical Marcus expression. A bit cynical, perhaps, even for police HQ.
“How do you mean, perished? Did she burn to death or drown or what?”
“Haven’t a clue. All I know is that what used to be her body was found bobbing around the harbor, nothing more than charred lump among the wreckage.”
“Sverre Anweiler, you say. Foreign?”
“Swedish. The bulletin we put out on him led us nowhere. It’s like he just vanished off the map.”
“Maybe he was a charred lump as well, at the bottom of the harbor?”
“No, they checked that thoroughly.”
“So he’s in Sweden, hiding out in some abandoned farmhouse in Norrbotten.”
“A reasonable assumption, only now he’s turned up in Denmark again, a year and a half after the event. Someone was going through CCTV footage and spotted him by chance on Østerbrogade last Tuesday. See for yourself.”
Jacobsen handed Carl a surveillance disc labeled MAY 3, 2011 and a photo of the man. Anweiler’s face was as blank as they came: high forehead; fair, wispy hair; dark blue eyes; eyelids seemingly bereft of lashes, almost like a delicate child’s. It was the kind of face that could be transformed beyond recognition by simply adding a mole to a cheek.
“CCTV? Where from exactly?”
The ch
ief gave a shrug. “There’s more where that came from.”
“It sure won’t be easy, Marcus. But how in the world could anyone recognize someone so peculiar? He’s like a waxwork; he could look like anyone, or no one at all.”
“Have a look at the footage, then you’ll know.”
Carl shook his head. Marcus was clearly trying to put one over on him. “If this is the best you can give me, I’ll go out with Rose, but only for a day, Marcus. Just so you know. This looks like it could end up taking all my time.”
“Your needs, your decision, Carl. Do as you see fit.”
Again, that rather defeatist tone, so unlike Marcus Jacobsen.
“Nice to have Lars Bjørn back, don’t you think?” Carl ventured, in order to add some positivity to the general air of disgruntlement.
“Yes. And another thing, Carl. We’ve got a budget meeting tomorrow, and I want you to know that in the future there may be changes. Not immediately, but now that Bjørn’s been pulled back home we’re going to be redistributing responsibilities differently until things slot into place.”
Carl didn’t get it. “Bjørn was pulled back?”
“Yes, he was supposed to be in Kabul for another month and a half, but it was more practical this way.”
“I’m not with you. ‘Until things slot into place,’ you say. ‘More practical’? What’s going on?”
“Oh, I’m forgetting you were away in the Netherlands yesterday, so you weren’t at the executive meeting. Sorry, you won’t have heard yet, then. Did I ask you how things went in Rotterdam yesterday, Carl?”
He gave a shrug. “Never mind that; tell me what’s going on, Marcus.”
“Oh, nothing much. It’s just the wife and I have decided to retire before the government gets a chance to take our pensions off us.”
“Pensions? Aren’t you too young for that?”
“I’m afraid not. Friday’s my last day.” He gave a somewhat resigned smile. “Friday the thirteenth. It’ll be all right.”
The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel Page 6
