“I don’t think we’re far enough in yet, Carl. You can still see the traffic through the trees, so they would risk being seen from the road.”
Carl nodded and peered over the treetops. Maybe they ought to call the dog unit in. This wasn’t going to be easy without them.
He swore under his breath, vowing to put his rubber boots on next time, no matter how stupid they made him look. Right now his own shoes felt like two clods of mud.
“Hey,” Assad called out from farther on. “I think I’m there. But there’s no body as far as I can see.”
Carl frowned as he pushed his way through the underbrush. The earth here was rather looser and drier than it was elsewhere. Here and there the branches of bushes and sapling trees were snapped and broken. Before Assad’s battered old shoes lay a pile of earth heaped on a layer of withered leaves, so someone must have been digging here since the previous autumn.
Carl took the Google printout from his pocket and tried to see if there was anything in the immediate vicinity that he might be able to localize on the map: a tall tree, a clearing, whatever.
“Are we sure this is the right place?”
Assad nodded. “Unless a fox has been playing around with a wig of real human hair, I would say this seems to prove it.”
He pointed down in to the hole. Sure enough. Hair. Red hair.
—
“You keep a low profile now, Assad. If there’s anything you want to say, give me a sign first, OK?”
They went up the garden path to the house that, if the note in Carl’s wallet was anything to go by, was where the person called Zola lived.
Assad nodded. “I will jump up and down and dance the samba before I say a word, Carl. Cross my hearth and hope to die.”
“Heart, Assad. But don’t bother dying just yet, eh?” Carl rang the doorbell, then scanned the neighborhood while they waited. A run-of-the-mill neighborhood of single-family dwellings in an average town, up where northern Zealand stopped being for folks with three cars in the garage.
In front of the house was a yellow van with nothing to distinguish it but its number plates. Carl assumed it meant someone was in, though the place seemed rather dead.
“The DNA test will likely tell us if the hair you found up there matches the specimens from Stark’s home,” Carl said, handing the evidence bag to Assad. “This could turn out to be a major breakthrough, but who the hell is that lad who knows so much about all this?”
“I think we can assume he has been here at some point, don’t you think?” Assad replied, his snout halfway through the mail slot.
“Can you see anything?” Carl managed to ask, just before the door was flung open.
The burly guy glared at Carl and the kneeling Assad with eyes full of trouble and distrust.
“What do you want here?” he said, with the kind of measured coolness usually associated with receptionists in multinational concerns or tax authority staff just before closing time.
Carl produced his ID. “We’d like to speak to Zola,” he said, expecting a cocky smile and a clear statement to the effect that Zola wasn’t in.
“Just a minute, I’ll have a look,” the man answered, and two minutes later they were standing in a living room that would have reduced an interior designer to tears. An unusually gloomy color scheme made the walls look like they were about to fall in on top of them with all their shaggy tapestries, life-sized portraits and an assortment of voodoo-like trinkets. The room was at once pompous and mysterious, a stark contrast to the small, spartan bedrooms with bunk beds they had passed in the hall.
Zola appeared, accompanied by a huge, gangling wolfhound, and sporting a smile noticeably absent from his portraits on the wall.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he inquired in English, gesturing for them to be seated.
Carl briefly explained their business, assessing the man in front of him as he spoke. Powerful, piercing eyes. Long hair. Well-groomed. Clad in a colorful, hippyish jacket and baggy pants. The man looked like the reincarnation of a guru from a forgotten age.
He didn’t react at all to the information that someone had presumably buried a body in a shallow grave close by, and that Zola had been named as a person the police ought to be questioning about it. But as soon as Carl mentioned the boy, and how he’d been close enough to him to lift his wallet, Zola raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.
“That explains a lot,” he said. “Is he in your custody?”
“No, he isn’t. And what does it explain?”
“Why do you come to me with these questions? Marco is an evil little psychopath. No man in the world should wish to cross his path.”
“His name is Marco, you say?”
Zola turned slightly and commanded the hefty individual at his side to bend down so he could whisper something in his ear, after which the man left the room.
“Yes, Marco has lived with us most of his life, but he ran away some six months ago. He’s not a nice kid.”
“What’s his full name? What’s his age? We need his complete data. Civil registration number, everything,” Assad demanded drily.
Carl glanced at his assistant, who sat with his notepad at the ready. It was obvious from the way his jaw muscles were working that he’d taken a dislike to the man in front of them. What had he seen that Carl hadn’t?
Zola smiled slightly. “We are not Danish citizens, and none of us has a civil registration number. We live here only for short periods. It’s our company that owns the properties.”
“Properties?” Carl asked.
“Yes, this house here and the one next door. Marco’s surname is Jameson and he’s fifteen years old. A strange boy. He turned out to be unmanageable, in spite of our trying to do our best for him.”
“What do you people do here in Denmark?” Assad probed.
“Oh, we buy and sell lots of things. Purchase Danish design and sell it abroad. Import rugs and figurines from Africa and Asia. Our family have been tradesmen for generations and everyone in the extended family is involved.”
“What do you mean by ‘extended family’?” Assad asked with a polemic undertone, his eyebrows arched. Carl only hoped he wasn’t going to bite the man.
“We are a family, most of us, but over the years others have joined.”
“And where are you people from?” Carl inquired.
Zola turned his head calmly toward Carl. It was as if the man was in a dilemma and didn’t know which of them to be most courteous toward.
“All sorts of places,” he replied. “I’m from Little Rock, some are from the Midwest. There are a couple of Italians and Frenchmen. A little bit of everything.”
“And now you are their god,” said Assad, nodding toward the poster-sized photos of the man on the wall.
Zola smiled. “Not at all. I’m merely the chief of our clan.”
Another man entered the room together with the big guy who had let them in. Like Zola, his swarthy features looked vaguely Latin American. A handsome man with jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and cheekbones that perhaps in another situation would have signaled vibrant masculinity.
“This is my brother,” said Zola. “We’ve got business to discuss afterward.”
Carl nodded to the man. He was compact of build, though slightly stooping. His expression was friendly yet somehow shy. His eyes seemed to tremble, if eyes could do that.
“And, chief, what does it mean, not all of you being a family? Is it some kind of commune? A brotherhood? What is it?” Assad asked as he began scribbling words down on his notepad. From where Carl sat it looked like gibberish.
“Yes, my friend. Something like that. A bit of both.”
“This Marco,” Carl asked. “Has he got any relatives here? Anyone we might speak to?”
Zola shook his head slowly and looked up at the man at his side. “I’m sorry. His mo
ther ran off with another man, and his father is dead.”
—
Now Zola knew for certain what he had feared for so long. Marco had squealed.
Everything they had tried to avoid was now a reality. And in contrast to the impression he normally gave, he felt under pressure.
He hated the way the Arab’s round eyes glanced with disdain at the many flower-festooned photos of himself that hung from the walls. Hated the way he regarded the silverware and the gilded candelabra. And besides being an annoying sleazeball, there was something else about him that made Zola uneasy, something the Dane did not possess.
OK, what are my options? he asked himself, as he nodded at the gringo’s stupid questions and weary manner.
Shall we get rid of them, or get out ourselves? he wondered, as the policeman inquired about Marco’s relatives and whether it would be possible to speak with them.
He’d looked only at his brother while telling the policeman that Marco’s father was dead. Yes, my dear elder brother, his eyes said as he stared into his face. You’ve already lost the boy, so you might as well get used to the idea.
Finally he turned back to the Dane. They’d seen Stark’s grave now, and they weren’t dumb. They’d know they might be sitting across from a murderer. He nodded to himself. And they damn well did. If they asked any question that compromised him, they might just have to disappear like Stark and the others had. There was earth enough in which to bury both of them if necessary.
“We’ve got an appeal here for information about the man whose body we suspect was in that grave up on the hill. As you can see, he had thick red hair like we found in the soil. What’s your response to that?” the Dane asked.
“Nothing, really. It’s terrible, of course. What else can one say?”
“Take a look at the photo. Notice anything in particular?”
Zola shook his head, trying to figure out what the Arab’s hands were doing under the table.
“How about this?” said Assad, producing a plastic bag and putting it down in front of him. “It’s the same one as on the photo, but perhaps it’s more tangible when you see it in real life.”
Zola felt a darkness descend upon him. Before him lay the necklace Hector had told him Marco had been wearing. How had they got hold of it? Had the cops been lying when they said Marco wasn’t in custody? Was it some kind of trick?
Zola leaned his head back and tried to think rationally. Could this in reality be a way out, a sword of Damocles that Marco had now turned upon himself?
He mustered a facial expression of sudden realization and snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember now. This is the necklace Marco always used to wear.”
The Arab jabbed at the poster. “And this is the same necklace, see?”
Zola nodded. “I know Marco hated us. We were too much of a clique, too self-righteous for his taste. He refused to adapt. He’s violent and dangerous. Isn’t that right?” he said, catching his brother’s eye. “Remember how many times he came at us with a knife or a club?” He turned back to the policemen. “I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but with that temper of his it wouldn’t surprise me if he were capable of killing a man and then find a way of using it against us.”
He looked at his brother again. “What do you say? Am I right?”
The brother gave an answer, but a bit too hesitant and too late. Could his loyalty be on the wane?
“I guess so,” he said. “But if a dead man’s been lying up there in the woods, there could be any number of ways that he got there. Anyhow, it’s strange the body’s not there anymore, if it ever was.”
Zola nodded and fixed his eyes on the Dane. “Surely there must be some traces left by whoever put him there. Personally, I believe Marco removed the body in order to cover up his own crime.”
Again the Arab interrupted. “Inspector Mørck has seen the boy. He’s not very big. I doubt he would be able to do that.”
“Well, maybe. I don’t know. He’s stronger than he looks.”
Zola looked again at the poster, a new idea taking shape in his mind.
“I remember now,” he said to his brother. “Marco used to keep all kinds of things in his room. Maybe you could fetch that cardboard box he kept them in? There might be something there that could put these two gentlemen on the right track.”
His brother frowned, albeit fleetingly.
Come on, you idiot, improvise! Zola’s eyes signaled. As far as he was concerned, he could come back with anything or nothing at all. That wasn’t the point. This was about winning time and leaving these cops thinking he was a man who would do his utmost to have the truth revealed.
Five minutes or more passed before the brother returned and tossed a sock onto the table in front of them.
“This might be something. I found it in his cupboard.”
Zola nodded. Nice thinking. After the latest round of beatings, several of the boys had bled. The sock was most probably Samuel’s. He could bleed like a pig at the slightest prod, but what did it matter?
Who could tell from a sock who had worn it last?
—
“What do you reckon, Assad? I saw you were really eyeing all the silverware in there.”
“Yes, and the camphorwood table, the Persian rugs, the crystal chandelier, the Japanese bureau, and his Rolex. Not to mention that ugly gold chain around his neck.”
“We’ll check him out, don’t worry. I’m with you completely on that one, Assad.”
“And this story about the sock.” He patted the pocket in which he’d put it. “Do you believe it? Do you think it might be a souvenir from Stark’s murder?”
Carl looked out across the countryside as they drove. The trees had just burst into leaf. What was he going to do about Lisbeth? Should he jump in with both feet and carry on where they’d left off last night? He certainly felt like it now, but ten minutes ago she hadn’t crossed his mind since morning. He frowned and looked up at the clouds that still hung over the landscape. If it was going to rain, why couldn’t it just get on with it?
“Do you believe it?” Assad repeated.
“Hmm,” he said in reply, suddenly feeling nauseous, as if he might throw up any minute. “I don’t know. The DNA test will settle it. For the time being we need to find this Marco Jameson.”
He swallowed a couple of times, leaning toward the steering wheel to ease the unpleasantness, but the colic in his stomach moved upward toward his breastbone like a tennis ball forcing its way through his esophagus.
What’s happening? he wondered, trying to keep his eye on the road ahead.
“What’s the matter, Carl?” Assad asked with concern. “Are you sick?”
Carl shook his head and focused on his driving. Was this another one of his anxiety attacks? Or something worse?
They passed the supermarket in Ølsted as Carl tried to pump oxygen into his system, Assad repeatedly insisting that he take over the wheel.
When eventually he pulled to the side and stretched his legs out of the car door, the air again smelled of cowshit, but Carl was conscious of one thing only.
Mona.
In half an hour they would be back at police HQ, and it was Wednesday.
The day Mona always worked in special detention.
28
It was 9:25 and an unusually chilly morning for the time of year as René E. Eriksen stood waiting at the arrivals gate in Kastrup Airport’s Terminal 3.
His sole aim was to get Teis Snap to hand over his shares from Curaçao, and he was confident he would succeed. An ugly scene in public was the last thing Snap wanted, and Eriksen was prepared to kick up a fuss.
Hordes of scorched Danes filed past him in sandals and espadrilles, welcomed home by fluttering Danish flags and warm embraces of reunion. But where the hell was the dickhead? Had he gotten off the plane in Amsterdam? Did he find the whole situatio
n so trivial that canal trips and poffertjes were more important than returning home and getting matters under control?
Or had he found a buyer for the shares that didn’t belong to him?
Eriksen was in despair. If only he could be sure the UPS delivery was on the level. And if it wasn’t, and Snap failed to show, what about his careful timing for the next few days?
He took a deep breath and spared himself the sight of more ridiculous repatriated vacationers as he fidgeted with the car keys in his terylene trousers.
What was the point of waiting if the bastard wasn’t going to turn up?
Then, just as he was about to go, Snap and his wife came strolling through the gates with a pair of suitcases trundling in their wake.
His wife saw him first, her face lighting up in a smile as she pointed. But Snap wasn’t smiling when he realized who she was pointing at.
“What are you doing here?” was the first thing he said.
“Gee, have you been waiting for us, René?” his wife asked. “Sorry we were such a long time, but Teis’s suitcase wasn’t on the conveyor.” She gave her husband a nudge. “You were white as a sheet for half an hour, toots, ha-ha.”
They moved aside, away from the throng, and René got straight to the point.
“The share certificates weren’t in the package you sent. Where are they?”
Snap seemed surprised, shocked almost, which of course he would have been if the certificates really had been in the package as agreed. But this was a different kind of surprise altogether, caused more by the fact that René was already able to confront him with the matter. Or was it because he was able to be there in the first place? Was that it?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, René.” Snap took René by the arm and drew him away from his wife. “Why are you saying this? You can’t possibly have received the package yet. Are you expecting other deliveries?”
There was something about the way he said it that sounded wrong. He was clutching his briefcase too tightly. Everything about him seemed out of sync.
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