At the libraries Marco found peace, for Zola’s people would never set foot in such places. He knew that for sure. And Eivind and Kaj had told him that as long as he just sat and read in the reading rooms without borrowing anything, he would never need to show an ID to anyone. It was perfect.
Every day, Marco skimmed the headlines in all the newspapers. Every day, he paged through a new book. Those around him took note of his presence, he sensed it clearly. They saw that he was unlike the other dark-skinned boys who were always making a disturbance and hanging out at the computers to play games on the Internet. When Marco visited the library, it was to read, and if he used the computer terminals, it was to search for answers.
In just over two years he would be eighteen and would apply for enrollment at the Frederiksberg Preparatory College, and from there he would go on to university, no matter what. He had read a study somewhere that found women had to make an extra effort on the job market in order to secure the right job, something the study had been highly critical of. Marco thought they should have mentioned it was even more difficult for boys with an extra dash of pigment in their skin. Especially those who had not been able to afford proper schooling.
But Marco was determined. If he took care of his money he would be able to study without a student grant. And he wanted to study medicine; he wanted to get ahead in the world and be somebody. Not like his family, but rather the opposite.
Marco wasn’t naive. He knew that all this at the very least required that he avoid the long arm of the law. Therefore, he needed to stay away from the kind of people who always paid under the counter, who more often than not turned out to be careless and ended up in court. It was what Marco was most afraid of: being turned in by those he knew and had trusted. For that reason, he was always cautious when dealing with any potential new employer.
Marco was ever wary.
At the same time, he kept a watchful eye on those who made a living from street crime. He saw them everywhere, like black shadows in the crowds. Suddenly they would step forward and pounce. Most often, their victims failed to notice, but Marco did. He knew the game from the inside.
Out here in Østerbro he never saw anyone from the clan. It didn’t surprise him much. Zola’s people operated in the city center, where the pickings were best, the crowds denser, so Marco stayed away. He also had to remember that Zola had many shady friends and business connections, not all of whom Marco would recognize by sight. He knew Zola’s net was expansive and fine-meshed. Zola could trawl the streets for allies and anyone whose work might boost his earnings with no questions asked. Most were from Eastern Europe, but thankfully they weren’t too difficult to spot. Criminal Poles, Balts, and Russians had a style all their own.
—
In no time at all the cityscape changed as warm, piercing sunshine brought Østerbro to life like a garden. Girls with bare arms, frisky children hopping and skipping. Only occasionally had days in Italy given Marco the same feeling of gladness. All of a sudden his aluminum ladder, his bucket of paste, and all his posters seemed so light upon his shoulder.
He waved across Østerbrogade to the kiosk owner who was leaning against the wall, taking in the sun as though he were home in Karachi. Then he deposited his gear behind the statue of the man who had given name to the square. It was out of the way there and would bother no one.
The poster column here was one of the city’s best, at least on Marco’s route. Squat and expansive, not too tall. Someone had told him the city had once been dotted with others just like it, but it must have been a long time ago.
It was a good spot, too. Gunnar Nu Hansens Plads. Bistros and coffee shops, the stadium, café tables in the middle of the square, cinemas just down the street, and throngs of well-to-do young people who were the target group for the events Marco’s posters advertised. Which was why the column had grown a two-centimeter-thick layer of notices, advertisements, and event posters whose collective weight now threatened to remove the entire mass from its mooring. It was just the job for Marco. He took out his scraper and set to work.
When he was down to the next-to-last layer, he noticed a “missing person” notice. He had seen many that were similar, taped to telephone poles around the district, only they were for pets, not people. Help! My cat has run away, or Has anyone seen my dog?
But this one was different.
MISSING, it read. IF YOU’VE SEEN MY STEPDAD, WILLIAM STARK, PLEASE CALL THIS NUMBER, ran the text above a photo of a man, and then a phone number and a date underneath.
Marco stared at the image. It was as if the man’s eyes and his shock of hair had suddenly become electric. At once, every fiber in Marco’s body suddenly tensed and began to tremble, for it seemed that all the crimes of his past lay embedded in these sorrowful and yet so accusing eyes.
Marco took a deep breath and felt shock and nausea kick in, for now he knew he had stared into this face before. He began to shake, unable to resume his work. It was a sight that would remain etched in his memory forever: the face, the red hair, the African necklace.
The necklace Marco was now wearing beneath his shirt.
At once he felt hot. He loosened some buttons and tossed his cap onto the ground, studying the poster once again with bated breath.
He looked at the date. The man had disappeared three years ago. It all fit. This was the man Marco had seen in the shallow grave in the woods. The man whose decomposed body he had touched with his own hands. The man he had at first sensed to be a dead animal. The man his father and Zola had buried in the underbrush close to Kregme.
WILLIAM STARK, the notice read.
Now he had a name.
Marco stood as if paralyzed. Have you seen my stepdad?
And he had.
In that brief moment as he stared at the notice, with despair and bewilderment pumping through his body, his concentration lapsed. Normally his eyes were darting around, always on guard. But not at just this moment.
Like a hand brushing against his coat, he sensed a shadow come from the side. A figure silhouetted by the sun taking a swift, seamless movement over the flagstones toward him. Marco turned abruptly to face the man who was about to strike. So lithe and silent was the attacker that it could be only one person: Hector, his cousin. (Perhaps he was even Marco’s half brother. Zola had never been choosy about his sleeping partners and neither had Marco’s mother.) Hector had more beard and seemed coarser now than the last time Marco had seen him, but there was no doubt it was him. Yet even the brief moment it took Marco to recognize him and react was too long.
Hector made a grab for the African necklace, but Marco turned and Hector latched on to his jacket sleeve instead. Instinctively Marco let himself topple off his ladder, knocking his cousin to the ground and wriggling out of his jacket as he fell.
And with that he’d broken free.
He knew every corner of this part of the city. Over on the other side of Østerbrogade lay his escape route, a lattice of possibilities, a cobblestoned web of streets. He heard his own pounding feet against the cobbles as he ran through Ålborggade, across Bopa Plads and down Krausesvej without looking back. There was always an open door somewhere, or a backyard that led to other backyards. In this rabbit warren Hector didn’t have a chance in hell of finding him if only he could gain a half-street lead.
It wasn’t until he reached Svaneknoppen and the gentle rhythm of Svanemølle Harbor, where people were readying their yachts for the summer season, that he dared glance back over his shoulder.
This was his turf. Here he would always be able to disappear among the boats. Hundreds of masts had already sprouted forth in the spirit of springtime, auguring renewed life in a landscape of container terminals that lined the old harbor front.
He stopped to get his breath back and assess the situation.
What had just occurred was the worst thing that could have happened. They had his jacket and hi
s tools. They had everything. Without his tools he had no income. And what was worse: in his jacket pocket was his mobile with the numbers of many of the people he worked for. And worst of all, they now had Eivind and Kaj’s numbers, too. How could he be so careless? Why had he typed in Dry cleaners and Home in his list of contacts?
Marco drew his fist up to his lips. What was he to do now? He knew the ways of Zola’s pack. Soon they would be on the scent, they would find out where he lived, of that he was in no doubt. Hector would not hesitate a second in reporting back to his leader.
Now it had happened.
He’d been found.
9
Spring 2011
“All right, Rose, have you found our perp? What did Birthe from Brumleby have to say for herself?”
Carl pictured his funereally clad and almost certainly thoroughly pissed-off assistant as he held the mobile to his ear and Assad’s face popped up in the doorway. He waved him in with a wry smile and turned on the mobile’s speaker. No doubt Rose had waited in vain for the woman most of the afternoon, and he didn’t want Assad to miss out on the tantrum he felt sure was coming. It ought to cheer him up a bit. Rose at full throttle was always the high point of the day. Carl chuckled to himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cleaning woman with the bad attitude had given them the runaround and her employer had never showed.
Oddly enough, Rose was as dry as a slice of toast. “Sverre Anweiler was staying in the apartment for a couple of days last week,” she began, much to Carl’s surprise. “He’d lost his own key to the place, but the woman he was with on the CCTV footage, a Louise Kristiansen, was staying in the apartment at the same time and she had one. So Anweiler arranged for them to meet up so they could go back together. Anything else you’d like to know, my little assistant?”
Carl’s smile wilted a little as he did his best to ignore Assad’s mirth. “OK, Rose, I’d say that joke’s wearing a bit thin now, wouldn’t you? Anyway, interesting information, but run it by me one more time, eh? Are you telling me this girl, Birthe, had invited the wanker to stay in her place?”
“Yeah, and this girl, Birthe, as you call her, is sitting right here next to me, so you can speak to her yourself if you like.”
Good Lord, how indiscreet of him, but judging by the knowing grin now spreading across Assad’s face, he found it funny, at least.
“I’m sure you can manage on your own, but thanks anyway. How come Anweiler was staying with her? Were all three of them there at once, or what?”
“No, Birthe’s playing flute in the Malmö Symphony Orchestra at the moment, so they just swapped apartments for a couple of days while she’s over for rehearsals. It’s a very demanding concert, apparently.”
“Whoooaa, just hold on a minute, will you, Rose? This is going too fast for me. Have you told Birthe there’s a warrant out on Anweiler?”
“Yeah, and she didn’t know. Neither does Anweiler, she says.”
“She must be damn naive if she believes that.”
“Do you want me to tell her? Like I said, she’s sitting—”
“No, thanks, I’d rather you didn’t. Just tell her we’d very much like to get in contact with the man.”
“I’ve got his phone number.”
Jesus! This was almost too much.
“Full report as soon as you get back, OK? And we’ll keep an eye on this Birthe. She’ll have to inform us of her whereabouts the next few days.”
“I’ve already told her.”
Assad emitted a suppressed grunt. It wasn’t helping Carl’s mood.
“One more thing, Carl,” Rose continued. “We’re sitting here at a table outside the Park Café, and next to us there’s this ladder leaned up against a poster column. It looks kind of strange. Like whoever was up it suddenly did a bunk. Left his scraper stuck there and everything.”
“No, you don’t say. Man leaves job. Do you want me to phone it in to the Work Authority?”
Carl let out a sigh. What the hell was she doing, sitting at a café instead of back at Birthe Enevoldsen’s apartment? If she thought he was going to get her latte refunded, she had another thing coming.
“Just listen, Carl. I’m about to get to the point. Just where his scraper’s stuck in the layers of posters there’s a notice about a missing person, a man. I’m pretty sure it’s one of our cases, so I’ve taken it down to bring back with me. Just so you’re warned.”
Christ! No sooner had he let Rose loose than she was digging up more work for Department Q. If she reckoned every missing persons case in Denmark was best off on his desk, he might just as well book his bypass operation now.
He concluded the conversation, expecting to see a glimmer of irony in Assad’s crumpled face, but the man’s thoughts seemed to be buried in the folder he’d placed on the other side of the desk.
“I’ve been reading the Anweiler report, Carl,” he said. “There are many things I do not really understand, especially now that Rose tells us this about the man.”
What the hell? Had Assad started on a new case off his own bat? Was he picking up Rose’s bad habits? What a fucking pair they were! Under normal circumstances Carl would have sent up a couple of blimps to ward them off, but right now he could hardly conceal his delight. Not in regards to the Anweiler case, which as far as he was concerned they could chuck into the Mariana Trench, but because Assad appeared to have mobilized an interest in something. What a welcome miracle.
Since yesterday’s blunder about his relationship with Lars Bjørn, it was as if Assad had suddenly woken up, and Carl, for one, definitely didn’t want him spacing out again.
“What exactly don’t you understand, Assad?”
“The houseboat had no motor.”
“No engine. Really? And so what?”
“It was quite a big boat, Carl, with lots of rooms and everything, almost like a little house. A living room with furniture, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. Cheap rugs and bookcases. Reproductions on the walls.”
Carl shook his head. This was brilliant. If Assad kept going on like this he’d probably end up confiding that he used to be an interior designer.
“There was even a stereo they found among the wreckage.”
Oh, boy, more details. Next thing, Assad would be telling him what sort of music they left in the CD player.
“And there was a Whitney Houston CD in the CD player.”
There it was. Of course. Carl nodded and gave him a look that said, Get to the point, Assad.
“There are so many things that do not fit in with this fire on the houseboat, Carl. Especially the insurance.”
Carl frowned. He knew what it meant when Assad’s round eyes suddenly transformed into fathomless pools. It looked like this was going to take more time than he’d bargained for.
“The policy had been canceled. Yeah, I know that. And you think that’s odd?”
“Yes, because only a week before, the boat was fully covered. Home contents, third-party liability, hull coverage, everything. Sverre Anweiler must have liked that boat and all the things inside it very much, don’t you think, Carl?”
“Yes, maybe. Insurance fraud was my first thought, too, until I started reading up. If you read closely, the police report faults him exactly on that count, Assad, for the insurance having been canceled. The theory is that the woman’s death was planned and the lack of any insurance payout would make sure no one suspected him of anything. The policy would have given him a hundred and fifty thousand for the boat and a hundred thousand for the contents if it hadn’t been canceled. Not exactly a fortune, but a tidy little sum. Since Anweiler’s got a record for fraud, linking the death with another insurance fiddle would have been the first thing to spring to mind if the barge had been insured. Some reckon he might have canceled the policy to give himself an alibi, and that the woman was killed for reasons other than economic.”
Assad
nodded. “Yes, I know this, Carl. But what is then the motive behind the killing? And the music in the CD player, what about that? I don’t think a man like this Anweiler would listen to Whitney Houston, so most likely he did not put it there himself.”
“Maybe. But what are you getting at? And what on earth makes you think a man like him wouldn’t listen to Whitney Houston? Because he looks like a skinhead? You don’t have to have hair to listen to pop, surely?”
Assad gave a shrug. “Have a look at this police photo.”
He pulled it out of the folder and handed it over the desk to Carl. Anweiler was definitely an unappealing, anemic sort by the looks of him. Indeed, it was hard to imagine why anyone would want to have anything to do with this withered creature.
Assad jabbed a finger at the man’s open-necked shirt. “There’s a tattoo visible here. You can read about it in the reports on the other cases Anweiler was involved in. He had it done during his first stretch in prison.”
“I’m guessing it doesn’t read ‘Whitney Houston.’”
“No, it reads ‘Aria’ in Russian letters. Look: A, and then a P that is an R, an upside-down N that is an I, and a back-to-front R, which in this case is an A.”
“OK, easy as pie, I can see. I didn’t know you knew Cyrillic script. ‘Aria,’ you say. Opera buff, is he?”
Assad’s lip twitched. “Ha, ha, not exactly. One can hear you’re a little stuck in the mud, Carl. Aria is a heavy metal band from Russia. Quite well-known.”
A heavy metal band! Jesper had most probably given him a barrage of their decibels at some point.
Carl nodded. He could see that Assad’s reasoning made some kind of sense. A devoted heavy metal freak was hardly likely to go soppy over Whitney Houston’s cuddly vibrato.
“OK, so you think it was the victim, Minna Virklund, who put the CD in the player. But so what? There must have been loads of time between her arriving and the explosion that killed her. Why shouldn’t she have put some music on? You probably reckon that if she’d just done a bunk from her husband, Whitney Houston probably wasn’t the first thing she made sure to bring with her. Is that it?”
The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel Page 12
