The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

But although it made sense, Marco just couldn’t understand why Hector would have taken it. It was unlikely that Hector knew about the dead man, and besides, he was as thick as a plank and hardly likely to give it a thought, even if he had noticed Marco’s interest.

  Marco stared at the space where the notice had been. Shit. Now the information he needed was gone.

  “Hey,” said a voice all of a sudden.

  Marco gave a start. Were they behind him? If so, he would drop everything and leg it toward the stadium. It was not a voice he recognized, but then he didn’t know everyone Zola had on his payroll.

  “Take it easy, mate. I swiped one of the posters you took down. Is that OK? If not, you can have it back. It’s just that my sister was at the gig, so I thought she might like . . .”

  Marco heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The young guy sitting on the ground laughed as he held up a crumpled poster for a Sade concert the day before, and the girls around him giggled accordingly.

  Marco nodded curtly and picked up his ladder. He needed to get away and quick. He’d already been there too long.

  It was awkward, hurrying along with all the tools of his trade dangling, but Marco could see no other option.

  If he was quick, he could trace back along the route and see if the notice was on any of the other columns.

  Later, when the sun had faded and there weren’t as many people about, he would check into the depot, get his money, and then do the rounds of the businesses on his turf. He would ask them to keep their mouths shut about knowing him if Zola’s people happened to show up.

  After that, I’ll check out the man on the notice, he thought. Maybe there’ll be something on the Internet.

  And though, knowing Zola, he anticipated having to abandon the idea, he resolved nonetheless to see if he could get near Kaj and Eivind’s apartment when the day drew to a close.

  He would have to be extremely cautious, for who could tell what Zola’s next move might be? When it all boiled down, it was more than likely he’d already sent his people out to ransack the place.

  Thank God they weren’t at home just now.

  He glanced around, breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. “Dear God,” he whispered. “If they come, please don’t let them harm Kaj and Eivind. And please don’t let them find my money.”

  He stood for a second, then repeated the prayer for emphasis, just as his mother had taught him God would appreciate. When he opened his eyes, he struggled to find peace in this new alliance, but it wasn’t easy. The thought of them finding his savings behind the baseboard made his blood run cold.

  The money was his only security, his only way forward.

  —

  A couple of hours later, when Marco had almost given up hope, he found what he was looking for, a good way out along Strandvejen. By that time, he had scraped four columns to the base without result, but on the fifth were two of the missing persons notices.

  He removed them carefully, folding them up and concealing them under his shirt. Now he had the information he wanted. It felt good and bad at the same time. It struck him rather overwhelmingly that he had taken on the responsibility of finding out who this William Stark was and, if possible, the circumstances that had surrounded his disappearance.

  What on earth had this man had to do with Zola and Marco’s father? So many things seemed to depend on the answer to that question.

  The best thing would be if he could get Zola behind bars without his father getting into trouble, too. But if that couldn’t happen, he would have to consider the possibility of them both being brought to justice.

  Marco folded his arms in front of his chest. The very thought was painful to him. He loved his father, and yet he hated him for standing in Zola’s shadow and being so weak. It was the kind of weakness that only led to malice and betrayal. How often had he wished for a father who might provide him and his mother with a life that did not include Zola’s daily doses of poison? No, Marco had had enough.

  Something had to happen.

  —

  He had thought of visiting the library like he usually did, but his courage failed him. Instead, he decided to go to Kasim’s Internet Café, in the most inferior of locations on Nordre Frihavnsgade, but close enough to Nordhavn station for Marco to be able to get away through Kasim’s backyard in an emergency and jump on a commuter train within a minute. Thus, he sat now in the dim light at the farthest whirring computer and typed in William Stark’s name.

  To his surprise, he got thousands of hits. He refined his search to include only Danish results, but there were still thousands.

  Most were copies of each other, but the general message was plain enough. William Stark was not some down-and-out who’d had enough of sleeping in cardboard boxes on the street, or staggered about the city in an alcoholic daze, or shouted dementedly at the crowds. No, William Stark was apparently an ordinary man with a respectable job whose function Marco didn’t quite grasp and would therefore have to look up afterward. What he did understand was that Stark had worked for a government minister and at the time of his disappearance had just returned home from an assignment in Cameroon. That much was clear.

  Marco looked up at the net café’s peeling walls with an odd feeling in his stomach. Why would they want William Stark out of the way? Nothing he could find online seemed to provide even the slightest hint of an explanation. On the other hand, he could see how old Stark had been when he went missing, and where he had lived. And he knew now that Stark could not be declared dead until five years after his disappearance, and that he had left a girlfriend and her daughter behind.

  Marco found the phone directory on the net and typed in the number given on the notice, but without result. Disappointed, he typed the same number into Google’s search bar, though with little expectation of a hit. Mobile numbers tended to be changed very quickly, especially those of young people. But an old Web page about a girl suffering from some painful illness mentioned this mobile number as one that other girls in the same situation might call if they needed someone to talk to.

  Marco carefully highlighted the number on the screen. So the girl who had put up the notice was apparently sick, her name was Tilde Kristoffersen, and her stepfather had gone missing. Gone missing because Marco’s own father . . .

  It was so dreadful he couldn’t pursue the thought to its conclusion.

  A gleam of light from the entrance door at the other end of the room filled him with a sudden rush of adrenaline, prompting him to look up from the screen. A man wearing long robes came in, and Kasim, the café’s owner, greeted him warmly. It was a false alarm, thank God.

  Marco stood up and approached the two men. “Kasim, would you have a mobile phone I could buy?” he asked. “I’ve lost mine.”

  The elderly Indian said nothing, indicating to his friend with a gesture that he would be back in a moment.

  Kasim led Marco into a back room that in many ways seemed atypical for an Indian: bright walls, rather than white; IKEA furniture, rather than massive, dark-stained wood; a green office chair with yellow flecking, and a radio playing classical music. No cold light emanating from hand-chased brass lamps or a flickering TV screen with old Bollywood movies.

  “Take one of these,” Kasim said, pulling out a drawer. “I’ve a couple of old ones you can have for nothing, but you’ll have to pay for the SIM cards. If you want a scratch card for foreign calls you can buy one of them, too.”

  “Maybe just a SIM card and a two-hundred-kroner pay-as-you-go card.” Marco put his hand in his pocket and produced a note. “I’ve only got fifty for the moment, but you know you can trust me, don’t you?”

  The sun-seasoned man studied him with a look that all too clearly showed how these were words that had proven to be empty on far too many occasions.

  “Of course,” he said, after a few seconds of thought. “All in all, with t
he Internet time, you owe me three hundred and fifty kroner.”

  “Thanks. Is it OK if I go back to the computer again? I need to look up the phone numbers of some people I know. I can’t remember them offhand.”

  “I’d already figured that one out,” Kasim replied.

  —

  The calls he made were dispiriting. The greengrocer, the shopkeeper, and the guy who supplied him with posters were furious. What was he up to that prompted such suspect individuals to be looking for him? Was he some kind of criminal?

  Their disappointment was worded most succinctly by the man from the bicycle shop: they were sure as hell having nothing more to do with a boy involved in crime. Was he a member of the mafia, or what?

  All of them had been threatened with having their businesses burned to the ground if they refused to spit out what they knew about Marco, so they did. The mini-mart’s counter had been smashed and the manager punched in the face.

  Marco was on his own again.

  He picked up the piece of paper on which he had written down the number of the girl, smoothed it out on the desk, and dialed.

  After a few seconds there was a jingle, then a woman’s voice at the other end. “The number you have called is unobtainable. Please try again.”

  In other words, the number no longer existed.

  —

  The doorway across the street from Eivind and Kaj’s ground-floor apartment was one preferred by the youngsters of the area when they needed a place to hang around smoking, making out, or just messing around. Bicycles no one knew who owned were abandoned for no apparent reason against the wall, and the ground was littered with enough cigarette ends to make any bum more than happy. Marco now stood there as well, hugging the wall, his face turned toward the darkened windows.

  He had been there an hour and would stay another hour or more, if necessary. As long as the lights didn’t go on in the living room and he couldn’t see the figures of Eivind or Kaj, he dared not step into the street.

  Amorous youngsters kept hassling him, telling him to get lost when they realized he wasn’t going of his own accord. But Marco didn’t care. His only thoughts were for Eivind and Kaj and his belongings inside the apartment, and how to get in touch with the girl named Tilde, whose phone number was no longer in use. He wanted to know more before he went to the police with the posters he’d stuck inside his shirt.

  Perhaps the girl or her mother could help him establish some connection between William Stark and Zola and his father. And if he couldn’t get hold of the girl, at least he knew where they used to live. He had the address. Maybe there was someone at Stark’s house he could talk to, someone who might know something.

  He heard the drag of footsteps before he saw the figure coming along the street, outlined against the sinking sun. The man had a slight limp, as though his knee were unable to bear his full weight, and at this sedate tempo he crossed the side streets that knitted the district together. In his hand were two plastic bags from the dry cleaners. He used them for receipts and invoices when the books needed doing. So Eivind had gone to the shop after they had been to the hospital. But why wasn’t Kaj with him? Was he so ill they’d kept him in? Was that why Eivind’s gait seemed heavier than usual, or was he just tired?

  Marco frowned. It was good that Eivind was coming now, but there was something about it he didn’t like. Maybe Zola’s people were inside the apartment. So he decided to step forward into the light of the street lamps.

  The smile that lit up Eivind’s face when he saw Marco was worthy of any father. But his expression changed to perplexity when he realized something was afoot.

  “What are you doing standing here, Marco?” He looked up toward the apartment. “And why isn’t there anyone in?” he wanted to know, as the unlit windows and Marco’s silence made his smile wither.

  “Why isn’t Kaj with you, Eivind?” Marco replied.

  “Isn’t he home?” Eivind’s smile vanished completely.

  “I don’t know. I’ve haven’t been in yet. I thought the two of you were together.”

  “Good Lord!” Any second now, Eivind was going to go charging into the apartment, driven by apprehension. Suddenly the feelings for the man he loved had been converted to anxiety at the prospect of unexpected loss. Marco could feel it, too.

  “Wait!” Marco blurted. “You can’t go in. There might be someone waiting in there. Someone who’s after me, Eivind. Someone you don’t want to meet.”

  Eivind stared at him as though of all the disappointments life could inflict, he was standing face-to-face with the greatest. And then, in spite of Marco’s warning, he let go of his bags, rushed across the street, and entered the apartment building. Seconds passed and a light went on in the window, accompanied by Eivind’s wails of distress.

  Marco hugged the wall. At the slightest sound of a scuffle inside he would have to make himself scarce. It was cowardly, but if the front door was flung open he would have to disappear in a flash. These were his thoughts as his heart pounded in his chest, aware that Zola’s evil had now spread to these two people’s lives through him. And then he thought of his savings, hidden away behind the baseboard, realizing shamefully that they were foremost in his mind.

  “MARCO!” Eivind shouted from inside. It wasn’t a cry for help. This was rage of the kind Marco had so often seen followed by violence in Zola’s world. He had never heard Eivind yell like this before.

  His eyes scanned the street. All was quiet.

  So he crossed over and stepped through the front door, which was still open. Even from a distance Eivind’s indecipherable ranting could be heard from within.

  As in all the gay homes he had broken into, the hall was an overture to the dwelling’s contents and character. This narrow passageway provided clues enough to identify the passions of those who lived there. In Eivind and Kaj’s case it was actors, and especially actresses, of old, all presented in the most exclusive of mahogany and silver frames, adorning the walls like icons in the churches of northern Italy where Marco had once tried to find solace. Now these idols lay strewn across the floor amid shards of glass and broken frames. And beyond the alarming disarray, two feet in familiar slippers protruded from the doorway. Marco’s heart almost stopped.

  He glanced warily into the rooms he passed before stepping into the living room.

  The sight that met him was a shock, but unfortunately not unexpected.

  Eivind was kneeling beside Kaj, holding his head in his hands. Thankfully, he was alive and his eyes were open, but the blood that covered his face and the floor around him was a sign that everything might easily have ended differently.

  “What have you done, Marco?” Eivind’s voice was shrill with emotion. “Who were those people? Are you in trouble, you little bugger? How dare you bring this into our home! Tell me who did it! I know you know!”

  Marco shook his head. Not because he didn’t want to answer, or because he couldn’t. He shook his head because it was the way his shame came to expression.

  “Call an ambulance, Marco. NOW! And then leave. Get out and don’t come back! Do you hear me? Get out!”

  He made the call as Eivind, with stifled sobs, tried to console his life’s companion on the floor. And when Marco went to his room to get his things, noting in a moment of relief that the baseboard was still intact, Eivind came charging in after him.

  White in the face and convulsed with all the emotions that accompany complete and all-consuming rage, he took a swing at Marco and yelled: “Give me your key and get out of my sight, you fucking Gyppo runt. Right this minute!”

  Marco protested and asked for permission to take his belongings with him, but in desperation Eivind tried to hit him again, then thrust his hand into Marco’s pocket and poked around until he retrieved the key to the apartment.

  He wanted to make sure the boy wouldn’t be coming back.

  The
last Marco saw of Eivind was when he threw open the window and unloaded Marco’s earthly possessions onto the pavement below.

  Everything but his duvet and what lay concealed behind the baseboard.

  Forced to leave behind the most important thing of all.

  The couple in the doorway just sniggered.

  11

  That evening, Carl lingered outside his house waiting until the light was turned off in the kitchen, having no desire to deal with Morten’s monkish compassion or Mika’s gestalt-therapeutic manipulations. All he wanted was to get upstairs into bed and lick his wounds. In fact, he was planning to stay there until he went moldy.

  Mona had given him the boot, and he was at a total loss. He hadn’t a clue why, especially just now; nor could he understand why he hadn’t charmed the panties off her before she demolished all his hopes with just a couple of sentences. He didn’t get it at all, and the way he was feeling now he suspected he never had. At least not where women were concerned. What made them act so outlandishly, with such predictable unpredictability? Soft and fluffy on the outside; jagged and prickly underneath.

  When would he ever learn?

  He crept up the stairs, his spirits in free fall, and threw himself down on the bed with all his clothes on, trying desperately to understand what had happened and what the consequences might be. Usually he would reach for his mobile and consult Mona when such a Gordian-knotted noose tightened around his neck. But what about now? What the fuck was he supposed to do?

  —

  Café Bohème had not been Carl’s choice, but when he finally looked around this exclusive restaurant and gazed out the windows along the Esplanade, he realized it wasn’t the worst place in which to declare his undying love. He had been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time, but it wasn’t until a couple of days before, when he’d stumbled upon the shop of a Russian silversmith who created jewelry worthy of the gods, that he realized the time had come.

  Carl had the ring with him, expectations sky-high, his fingers already clamped around the silk pouch in his pocket, when she looked him straight in the eye.