Behind him stood two of the adults with somber faces. Once, Marco had heard them whisper that Zola had been expelled by the Damanhur movement for stealing. The other adults seemed not to have paid attention to this seditious comment, for they stood like an arcade of statues, as entranced as the children.
Zola raised his arms above them. “Just as with the Jews, God sentenced the Roma to wander the earth until they made themselves deserving of his grace. A curse lay upon them, as it had upon Job, so they were compelled to beg, steal, and rob their way through life. Yet this was but one example of the trials imposed by God, as when Abraham was instructed to sacrifice his own son. But friends, I say to you: we no longer need to bear the chalice of the Roma, for I have received a message from God and will show you how from this moment forth we can live as ourselves.”
At this point Marco stopped listening. What could he ever believe in now? Were the clothes they wore not like those of the Roma? Had the spittle with which the local inhabitants so often had humiliated them been hawked for no reason at all? Had he listened to their oaths and been shoved aside daily on account of something he was not?
In the course of those few minutes Marco was stripped of everything. And he was shaken, even though he had hated his life almost every day he had lived.
He got to his feet and looked around. He was aware that he had a better head on him than most, but he had not known how painful this could be.
So who were they all now? Was Zola, who called himself his uncle, perhaps not even his father’s brother? And were his cousins just some random children?
And if so, where was his real family? Who was he?
Therefore, Marco considered the day that one newspaper had referred to as the dullest in history as the day that had fostered the worst that could ever befall him: the birth of Zola. The one who beat and tormented them and forced them to beg and steal. The one who forbade them to go to school and denied them the chance to live their lives like everyone else. Zola, who with God’s help now had more power over them than ever before.
The eleventh of April 1954, he’d said.
It was a day Marco truly loathed.
—
Some four years had now passed since Zola had made that speech and elevated himself by the grace of God to clan leader. It had been four years of terror and angst like never before.
The night following his address they decamped, leaving behind everything that belonged to their nomadic existence: tents, Primus stoves, cooking utensils, and many of the primitive tools they employed in their break-ins. The group numbered twenty adults and as many children, all dressed in their finest clothes that they had stolen from the outfitters of Perugia.
As they journeyed through northern Italy, Austria, and Germany during the days that followed, they broke into a total of ten shiny luxury cars with leather interiors, equipping them with false number plates and then heading in a convoy for the border of Germany and Poland at Swiecko and on toward Poznan. No one mentioned how they got rid of the vehicles and how much money they brought in, but one night the whole group found itself traveling northward by train through the Polish night. Some said Zola had summoned two of the men to his compartment to guard the money, and Marco mused that if the job required the services of two, then the sum must be large indeed.
In the ensuing months, Zola demonstrated to them unambiguously what he meant when he had told them new times lay ahead. In any case, these new times were in no way synonymous with good times, and so it was that several members of the clan disappeared without a word. Marco knew why. They had grown sick of beatings, being forced to work, and a life of need.
Everyone in the group knew Zola was a wealthy man and that he loved his money. He always had. The problem was that he kept it all for himself, coercing the others by means of threats into earning more each day. The begging and the stealing on which the clan had survived all through Marco’s life was destined to continue as before.
When winter came they settled in Denmark, renting two adjoining single-story homes on a residential street within comfortable striking distance of Copenhagen. By then their numbers had fallen to only twenty-five in all, and had it not been for Marco’s father’s weak character, he and Marco would probably have disappeared along with the other apostates and the woman Marco had called his mother, and who no longer was mentioned by anyone.
Zola gathered the group together at regular intervals and equipped them with new, presentable clothing. He told them it made a better impression out on the streets. The women and young girls were given long skirts and tight, colorful tops; the men received dark suits and black shoes. Marco found it both wrong and impractical to sit on the pavement begging in his fine clothes, but it was another matter when picking pockets, snatching bags, or breaking and entering. In such cases, the suit was a help, making him a less conspicuous culprit.
In this way three and a half years had passed.
—
After battling the snow and strong winds, Zola, his brother, and their helper, Chris, eventually found the place in the woods where they had buried the body. The dog was with them, though in the circumstances it had been of little help. Frost and wind had banished all scent from the landscape, the ice-blue glare and glittering crystals of snow conspiring to conflate all visual impressions. It was sheer hell to be out in such weather.
“Goddammit, why didn’t we do this before the weather turned? Now the ground’s as hard as stone, we’ll have to hack the corpse free,” Zola’s brother cursed, but Zola was not dissatisfied. Traces of a decomposed body were almost impossible to remove from the ground under normal conditions. A frozen one was that much better.
The most important thing, however, was that they had found it.
But Zola’s spirits sank a moment later when Chris brushed away loose dirt from the body and its red hair lit up like a torch against the white background. Why was it not covered in earth?
“Do you think some animal’s been at work here?” Marco’s father wondered.
It was a naive question. What animal of decent size and strength would not have gnawed on the meat? None of which Zola was aware. The hound at his side, at least, could hardly contain itself, even though the corpse was frozen solid.
“I thought I told you to keep the beast in check, Chris,” he hissed. “Tie it to the tree and start digging the body out.”
Zola turned to his brother. “Unless he was still alive when we chucked him in the hole, someone else has been here.”
“He was dead,” his brother replied.
Zola nodded. Of course he had been dead, but who had removed the earth around the body and yet not raised the alarm? There were even finger marks where the soil had been scraped away.
His eyes scanned the scene in detail, stopping at the thin branch of a fir tree that reached out over the hole. It was covered in snow, but at its tip something was visible that obviously did not belong.
Zola nudged the branch with his boot, sending a powdery cloud of snow over the corpse and prompting him to shield his eyes.
“Do you recognize this piece of material?” he asked, pointing to the little shred caught on the point of the branch.
The way the color disappeared from his brother’s face was answer enough.
Zola considered the situation. “Disastrous” was probably the best way to describe it.
“So now we know why we didn’t find Marco that night. He was lying in this hole while we were out searching for him. He may even have heard what I said to you.”
Zola’s brother’s eyes were dark and troubled as he stared disconsolately back at his leader. Desperation had set in, and that was the difference between them. Zola never grew desperate. That was why his younger brother had been appointed bloodhound.
“I can see from your expression that you realize I need to think about this. Only now there is no way back, do you understand me?”
His brother nodded almost imperceptibly, more a tremble than a nod. It was all he could muster.
“But that’s how things stand now, and you need to grasp the fact. Marco must be eliminated. Completely eliminated.”
—
Money aside, to a man such as Zola only two things really mattered: awe and respect from those around him. Without them, he would be unable to manage the clan. Without the aura of divine light in which he always took care to be reflected, there would be limits to what he could demand of his subjects. The absence of these limits was crucial.
The years in Denmark had been good to them. The Schengen Agreement, the police reforms that had increased bureaucracy and reduced the numbers of police on the street, the cutbacks in public services, all had been beneficial to Zola’s setting up a network that took on all manner of shady activity. Here in Kregme, they could live without risk of being checked by the authorities, unless they were reported by neighbors. From Denmark, stolen goods could be transported across the borders without control. And within Denmark it was easy to recruit any number of Balts, Russians, and Africans, already resident in the country with the purpose of milking its hubristic abundance in every conceivable and inconceivable way. As long as he could keep the Eastern Europeans in check and his own clan in reverential esteem all was in order. But Zola was wary of the downside. The moment he showed signs of weakness, there were those in the group who would gladly and unscrupulously attempt to topple him from the throne.
Thus Zola maintained his grip as undisputed leader by acts of vengeance and other demonstrations of power, and no one withdrew from his circle without knowing they would be wise to stick to the unwritten laws and above all keep their mouths shut. But now he had encountered a problem that compelled him to submit to the decisions and motives of others, and here he wanted no witnesses. Not even Chris. For that reason, Zola locked himself in his bedroom at the appointed time and waited for the phone to ring.
“We have a renegade,” was the first thing he said when his contact called.
His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence.
Although the man at the other end hired Zola’s people to do his dirty work, he was more than capable of doing it himself if the need should arise, as Zola knew from several of his informants. The deal had been unequivocal from the start. If anything went wrong it would be Zola’s responsibility and his alone. And if Zola proved unable to fulfil his responsibility it was he who would have to suffer the consequences.
“Our relationship exists within a web,” the man had said when they entered into agreement. “It is a web of unanimity, silence, and loyalty from which we cannot and must not withdraw. And if in spite of this you should be tempted to try, the threads of this web will run with blood. That is the condition, and I shall assume we are in agreement.”
There were no ifs, ands, or buts. Zola realized the man was capable of anything.
“A renegade,” said the voice. “Would you be so kind as to explain to me how this occurred?”
Zola considered his reply. There was no other way than to tell it like it was. “One of the boys in the clan has run away. By chance, during his flight he hid himself in the grave we dug for William Star—”
“Careful what you say,” warned the voice immediately. “Where is the boy now?”
“We don’t know. I’m organizing a search.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s my nephew.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“Not at all. He will be treated like anyone else.”
“Description?”
“Fifteen years old but looks younger. Approximately five foot five but still growing. Black curly hair, green-brown eyes, rather dark skin. No distinguishing marks, I’m afraid. He ran off in his pajamas, but we can assume he’s managed to change since then.” Zola laughed nervously with no response. “We know he took a necklace from the body. African origin. We might hope he decides to wear it himself.”
“A necklace? You left a necklace on the body? Are you stark raving mad?”
“We meant to retrieve it, but we never got round to it.”
“Idiocy!”
Zola clenched his teeth. It had been years since he had been spoken to like this. Had the man been a member of the clan it would have cost him dearly.
“And the boy’s name?”
“Marco. Marco Jameson.”
“Jameson, right. Does he speak Danish?”
“That and several other languages besides. He’s clever. A bit too clever.”
“Track him down and bring him back in. Where is he likely to have gone?”
Zola rubbed his brow. If only he knew. What the hell was he supposed to say? That Marco could be just about anywhere by now? That he had learned well and could be as inconspicuous as a chameleon in a rain forest?
“No need to worry,” Zola replied, as convincingly as he was able. “Our network covers the whole of Sjælland. We’ll take Copenhagen district by district, street by street, day and night. We’ll keep at it until we have him.”
“Are you up to it? Who’s on the job?”
“Absolutely everyone. Everyone in the clan, the Romanians, the boys from Malmö, my Ukrainian fence. His organization is especially widespread.”
“OK. I don’t need to know everything.” A brief silence ensued. “I’ll be following this closely, do you understand?”
And then he put the phone down.
Yes, Zola definitely understood.
Marco mustn’t have a chance.
It was imperative.
7
Spring 2011
The shadows were long and heavy when Carl finally pulled into a space in Rønneholtparken’s parking lot. Normally the sight of the light from the exhaust hood over the steaming pots and casseroles would have given him a sense of comfort at having returned to the nest, but not today. Crap days at work always had their price.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment as Morten, his lodger, waved to him at the window. But for once he wished the house had been empty, devoid of all life.
“Hey, Carl, welcome home. Fancy a glass of wine?” were the first words of greeting, as he dumped his jacket onto the nearest chair.
One glass? This was one of those evenings he could drink a whole bottle, no bother.
“Your dear ex-wife, Vigga, called,” was Morten’s second offering. Carl groaned. “She says you owe her mother a visit.”
Carl glanced at the bottle. Unfortunately it was already half empty.
Morten handed him a glass and was about to pour. “You’re looking a bit peaky, Carl. Didn’t the trip go well? Is it one of those nasty cases again?”
Carl shook his head, took hold of his lodger’s wrist, and carefully removed the bottle from his grasp. He’d pour the stuff himself.
“Oh, like that, is it?” Morten wasn’t always the brightest of souls when it came to gauging Carl’s moods, but today seemed to be an exception. He turned and went back to his cooking. “Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
“Where’s Jesper?” Carl asked, downing the first glass in one gulp with scant attention to bouquet, oak-wood aging, or vintage.
“You might well ask. God knows.” Morten spread his fingers in the air and shook his head. “He said he was off to do some homework,” he tittered.
Carl found this rather less funny, his stepson’s final exam being only a month away. If he didn’t pass it would be a new Danish record for uncompleted preparatory exams and what would a lad of twenty-one do then, the way the world was shaping up these days? No, there was damn little to laugh about.
“Aloha, Carl,” came a voice from the bed in the middle of the living room, indicating that Hardy was awake.
Carl switched off the perennial drivel emanating from the flat-screen TV and went over to sit at Hardy’s bedside
.
It had been a few days since he’d studied his friend’s ashen face so closely. Was that a little sparkle in the paralyzed man’s eyes? Certainly there was something there he hadn’t noticed before. It almost reminded him of someone whose love life was suddenly looking up, or perhaps a promise that had just been fulfilled.
But besides that, Hardy was equipped with a built-in prism that served to filter the moods of his surroundings and that most probably had evolved through years of experience in the questioning of criminals. It was as if he possessed the particular ability to draw all the colors from a person’s aura that represented his state of mind and emotions. It was through this filter he now looked at Carl.
“What’s up, mate? Things not go well in Rotterdam?” he asked.
“Can’t say they did, no. I’m afraid we’re no closer to clearing up the case, Hardy. Their reports were like a bad movie script. No substance, poor groundwork, and very little reflection in any of it.”
Hardy nodded. It obviously wasn’t what he’d been hoping for, yet strangely enough he didn’t seem bothered. What’s more, he’d called him mate. When had he last done that?
“Anyway, I was going to ask you the same thing, Hardy. What’s up with you? Something’s happened, I can tell.”
Hardy smiled. “OK. Well, in that case maybe you can also make a swift assessment and tell me what you reckon, Mr. Detective, though it may not be that obvious at the moment. Let’s just call it a party game, shall we?”
Carl took a sip of his wine and scrutinized Hardy’s long frame. Six feet, nine and half inches of ill fate under a duvet cover as white as only a home-health-care nurse could procure. The shape of his immobile size 141/2 feet and bony legs that had once been so muscular. A torso that in days gone by could press anyone resisting arrest into submission. Arms as thin as spaghetti that were once more than a match for the flailing haymakers of weekend drunks. Yes, this was but the shadow of a whole person lying before him. The lines of his face, etched by endless days and nights of grief and worry, were ample evidence.
The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel Page 9
