The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  He heard the sound of fists hammering against the front door and Kaj and Eivind’s pitiful attempts to get to their feet and open up.

  It was difficult to climb onto the roof of the bike shed with his hands tied and also hold on to the knife. Only when he had crossed through two more backyards and had slipped into the labyrinth of side streets did he dare to stop and sever the bond around his wrists.

  He made it precisely twenty meters down the street before he saw the Balts at the other end. They hadn’t seen him yet, but it was only a matter of seconds.

  So he ducked into the nearest stairwell where he stood with his back pressed up against the blue-painted door of a massage parlor and kicked at it with his heel.

  “Open up, open up, open up,” he repeated silently, in time with each kick.

  Now he could sense someone running toward the place where he stood as cries erupted at the other end of the street.

  “Open up, please, open up.”

  Then he heard a sound behind the door.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked, in heavily accented Danish.

  “Help me. I’m only a boy and there are people after me,” he whispered.

  A moment passed as the thudding feet against pavement flagstones grew ever louder. And then the door opened, so suddenly that he fell backward into the room.

  “Close the door, close the door,” he pleaded, lying on his back and looking straight into the sleepy face of an Asian girl without makeup.

  She did as he asked, and five seconds later the man outside dashed past.

  She called herself Marlene, though her name was doubtless something else. She drew him over to a blue-striped sofa beneath a framed price list on the wall itemizing massage services in a variety of languages. She sat him down so he could catch his breath and have a good cry.

  A moment later two more girls appeared. Like the first, they were in nightclothes and anything but ready to meet the challenges of a new day.

  “What are you running from?” one of them asked, stroking his cheek. She was gentle and engulfed in a heavy scent of perfume, but her face was pockmarked and her body oddly proportioned, with tremendous breasts that defied gravity.

  Marco dried his eyes and tried to explain his predicament, but it was obvious they understood little more than that some Eastern Europeans were running around outside and shouting. The information made them visibly uneasy, prompting them to withdraw into a corner, where they huddled together, whispering.

  “You listen,” the one who had comforted him eventually said. “You cannot stay here with us. In two hours a man comes for money. He must not find you here, otherwise trouble, not just for you, for us, too.”

  “We give you some food,” the third girl added. “You wash, and then you go. You can only go out back door, but we try to get you across the yard and through a apartment to Willemoesgade. Then you on your own.”

  He asked them to please call a taxi, but their hospitality would not extend that far. Calls from their mobiles were checked every day by their pimp, to make sure they weren’t freelancing outside opening hours. And who but a john would want a taxi?

  Marco felt sorry for them. These were full-grown women living alone here, and yet they were being tormented in the same way as Zola tormented his own. He didn’t understand. Why didn’t they run away as well?

  —

  The women did as they promised and led him through the yard and up the back stairs, then on to the second floor of the building across the street, where the man lived who had allowed his flat to be used as an escape route. He was just an old customer, the girls explained, who would do anything to help them out.

  “Next time, extra loving treatment for you, Benny,” one of the girls promised. So that was probably why. He certainly looked satisfied with the deal.

  Marco knew Willemoesgade. Here he had gone from shop to shop without securing work, so at least the proprietors here weren’t hostile, if they even recognized him. The only problem was the Irma supermarket on the corner, where there was a high turnover of young lads managing the bottle return and you never knew where they were from. So Marco crossed the street and continued toward the junction of Østerbrogade.

  He was entering dangerous territory indeed. But maybe he could quickly flag down a taxi to take him to the airport train station where he could jump on a train to Sweden and then he’d be free.

  He leaned up against a wall and stuck his hand in his pocket. There was just under five thousand kroner left of what he’d taken from Samuel’s shopping bag. A tidy sum that was sure to get him far. Soon it would be summer, and the weather was mild. What more could he ask? Sleeping under the stars was free, and once he’d got farther north, around Dalarna or Jämtland, he knew he would have little trouble finding an abandoned house or an empty summer cottage rarely in use. He’d be all right, though it pained him to think of all the money behind the baseboard in Kaj and Eivind’s apartment. Now he had to start again from the beginning, and who could tell how things would go next time around?

  The cabs that passed by were taken, so Marco decided he would walk along Sortedamssøen and then up to Trianglen, where he knew there would be ranks of taxis waiting for customers.

  But he never got that far.

  Suddenly he saw Chris’s van parked sideways on the pavement some distance farther up the street. Presumably the Balts had alerted Zola’s right-hand man after Eivind had called them, and now the van was there, waiting to pick up its cargo, dead or alive.

  That cargo was Marco.

  He felt cold inside. If only he had the courage, he would sneak up to the vehicle and slash its tires with Kaj and Eivind’s kitchen knife that he still had concealed under his jersey.

  He looked along Sortedam Dossering. Maybe he should run that way, though it could be dangerous if someone blocked his path, with the lake on one side and hardly a single side street on the other. It was not an optimal route. Either he had to go back the way he’d come, or else he would have to stay put and wait for a vacant taxi.

  Marco did not let the van out of his sight. Everything evil was symbolized by its presence. How often had they sat on the floor in the back, being led like lambs to slaughter into a life they’d been unable to refuse? How often had he lain there exhausted, dreaming that the drive would never end? But it always did. Every single day they ended up in their prison in Kregme. Eat, sleep, then off again early the next morning, such was their life. How he hated that van.

  His chain of thought was broken abruptly. Was that his father coming out of the shop behind the van? And wasn’t that Zola himself right behind him? Were they so keen on finding him that they were now out in person, going from door-to-door? They were insane, there was no other word.

  He ducked behind the trees and watched them spitefully as they went into the next shop. People like Zola and his father should never be allowed anywhere near children.

  He saw the cyclist coming from the direction of Trianglen. An ordinary-looking type, though obviously unfamiliar with the bike he was riding.

  Marco smiled to himself. That’s not yours, you just stole it, he thought, comparing the bike’s size, age, and color with its rider. Whatever made him think nobody would notice?

  Then, all of a sudden, the guy wrenched his front wheel over the curb and headed straight for Marco, who managed to run only a couple of steps before the cyclist sailed right into him.

  There were other cyclists on the cycle path who shouted to the man that he should watch where he was going, but Marco knew better, so instinctively he rolled to the side on the ground as the guy tried to grab him. He drew the knife from his jersey by reflex and stabbed his assailant in the ankle. There was a roar of pain as the man recoiled and fell backward. Marco leaped to his feet and legged it as fast as he could.

  “Not that way, Marco,” cried a voice from the other side of the street. Marco looked up and
saw that almost everyone was staring at him. In the same instant he also saw a man come running around the corner of Ryesgade at full speed and he was now only a hundred and fifty meters away.

  Marco glanced around. A taxi from Østerport station with its green for-hire light on was heading toward him. He darted across the road to flag it down as the cyclist got to his feet and his second pursuer closed in.

  “There’s one more, Marco!” the voice shouted.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw his father standing with his hands cupped to his mouth. He was about to cry out again, but at the same moment Zola came from behind and shoved him so hard that his father lost his footing, stumbled over the cycle path and out into the street.

  Marco saw the bus slam on its brakes and swerve. He heard people scream as his father disappeared beneath it, but was immediately compelled to turn and face the new threat bearing down on him. It was a dreadful moment. His father had just been run over, and Marco himself was surrounded on three sides as he stood at the curb, his arms flailing at the oncoming taxi.

  An immigrant sat behind the wheel, the kind of taxi driver who didn’t own his own vehicle and wanted to demonstrate how content he was to drive someone else’s, as long as it had a leather interior and a motor powerful enough to leave everything else in its wake.

  “Drive!” Marco commanded shrilly, his whole body feeling like it was about to collapse.

  Two of his pursuers appeared alongside the taxi, hammering their fists against the window as the driver gave them the finger and floored the accelerator.

  They took off so fast that Marco didn’t manage to see his father under the bus, only the blood spreading over the asphalt and the horrified crowd that had gathered on the pavement within seconds.

  The last thing he saw before the Skoda Superb shot across Trianglen was the bus driver behind the steering wheel, face buried in his hands. Then his eyes locked on to Zola’s. The man was standing with his head held high, cold as ice amid the tumult of onlookers, none of whom seemed to have noticed what he had done.

  That’s what’s in store for you, Zola’s look told him.

  “Terrible accident. Happens all too often, if you ask me. People drive like shit.” The taxi driver looked at Marco in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  Marco sat with his head back, gasping for air. If he leaned forward he knew he would be sick. His father had tried to warn him, and for that Zola had killed him.

  His father had tried to save him. His father.

  Marco pictured his eyes. They were green-brown and full of warmth. This loving gaze was from a distant time, he realized that. But his father had just tried to warn him, so who cared about the time in between?

  Now his father was dead and Zola had got away. And the taxi driver was asking him where he wanted to go.

  Only five minutes ago he would have said the airport. Yesterday, he would have said Tilde’s house.

  Now, he no longer knew . . .

  Zola had murdered in cold blood, and Marco had seen with his own eyes how he’d done it. The man was completely without feeling, as he must also have been the time he turned Miryam into an invalid. William Stark had been killed just as cynically, and most likely others besides. And it was with that same callousness that Zola would have killed him. Feeling nothing.

  “Have you gone deaf, mate, or what? Where do you want to go? You’ve got money, yeah?”

  Marco nodded and passed two hundred kroner to the driver.

  “OK, two hundred. Think about it for a bit.”

  Marco shook his head. He didn’t need to think. Zola’s eyes had decided for him. Marco was staying to complete his mission. Zola was going to pay, no matter what.

  “They weren’t half after you, those guys out there. Something to do with drugs, was it? Yeah, I know all about it. As soon as you start doing a bit of business for yourself, they flip totally out, don’t they? It’s a downer. Well, whaddaya say? Found out where you want to go?”

  “Do you know the Hereford Beefstouw next to Tivoli Gardens?” Marco asked.

  “Sure, I’m a taxi driver, aren’t I? Ask me something I don’t know and you can have your two hundred back.”

  36

  “Eriksen has left the ministry, Carl.”

  Carl looked at his watch. “He’s off early, then. When’s he—” He broke off, realizing from the look on Gordon’s face that for once he seemed to have something important to say, so he shut up.

  “Eriksen has handed in his resignation with immediate effect. He went straight to his boss after we’d been over there, announced he was ill, and said he wouldn’t be coming back.”

  Carl frowned. “Dammit, Gordon. I don’t know what you’ve done, but you’ve certainly set something in motion.”

  He called for Rose and Assad and filled them in on the situation.

  “Assad, you call Eriksen’s home and see if he’s there. And Rose, you call the ministry and get hold of the department head. We need to know what’s going on here. And when you’re done with that, call the Frederiksværk police and ask them to keep an eye on this Zola bloke and see if he’s about to do a runner. And to make sure they grab him if he tries.”

  “On what grounds?” she asked.

  “You’ll think of something, Rose.”

  “And what about me?” asked Gordon.

  “You check Eriksen’s background. We want to know if he owns a summer cottage or some other place where he can lie low. Call the tax authorities, people like that.”

  It warmed Carl’s heart to see how disappointed the boy looked.

  —

  Assad nodded and snapped his mobile shut.

  “It was Department Q’s very own Rose,” he said, putting his feet back up on the dashboard.

  “That’s nice. Now let’s try and sum up,” said Carl, changing lanes. How come the traffic was already like being inside an anthill?

  Assad nodded again.

  “First thing is, do we agree that your methods of interrogation go a bit too far, Assad?”

  “Too far? How do you mean, Carl? Aren’t they just creative?”

  He shook his head. Creative? One day Assad’s creativity might just be their undoing.

  “Secondly, I now know that Lars Bjørn spent time in Abu Ghraib prison while Saddam was in power. Don’t tell me you didn’t know, Assad, because I won’t believe you. Just tell me if you and Bjørn knowing each other has anything to do with that.”

  Assad raised his head and stared out pensively along Ballerup Boulevard. Not exactly an uplifting sight.

  Then he turned to Carl and nodded calmly. “Yes, it has. And now you must ask me no more about this. OK, Carl?”

  Carl glanced at the GPS. Two more junctions and they’d be there.

  “OK,” he replied. So far, so good. It was a step in the right direction. The question was, when would he take the next one? He certainly wasn’t going to let Assad off the hook that easily.

  “All right, back to business. What did Rose have to say? Did she get hold of that department head?”

  “Yes, and she got a rather more nuanced story than the one Gordon gave us.” He skimmed through his notepad. “I have it here. I wrote it all down.” He tapped his finger against the page. “It is true this René E. Eriksen has resigned his position with immediate effect. The reason he gave was that after having spoken with us he realized Stark had committed fraud and that it was his fault it was never detected. With this weighing down his shoulders he could no longer remain with the department. The permanent secretary said that by rights he ought to have been suspended, but Eriksen was looking so poorly that they agreed he should go on sick leave as of that same day. Most likely there will be an internal investigation at some point, but for the moment he was unable to tell us any more.”

  “OK.” Carl peered at the house numbers. A couple more and they could pull
in. “Now it’s up to us whether we believe this or not. Is it really plausible that Stark’s actions shocked Eriksen as much as he claims? And not least of all, are we prepared to believe Stark was doing something illegal?”

  Assad nodded. A bit absently.

  —

  For someone living in Rønneholtparken, the single-story dwelling in Ballerup maybe wasn’t that bad, but the location at the end of a dreary residential avenue was awfully bleak. Though the street was lined with trees, their closest neighbor was the Ringvej 4 motorway. Not that one actually heard the traffic that much, one simply smelled it. All in all, he’d rather stay put in the concrete boxes of his own estate, lined up in rows in the open landscape, with lots of friends around.

  They rang the doorbell and were received by Eriksen’s wife, who clearly let them know they could come in for a minute, but she had other things to do besides answering their questions. Therefore she declined to offer them a seat, or ask if she might fetch them some refreshment.

  “Looks like quite an accident,” Carl commented, pointing to the tarpaulin the emergency glaziers had rigged up where the window was supposed to be in the living room.

  “I wouldn’t call it an accident. It was a planned assault, the day before yesterday. They smashed the window and set about attacking us, but I fended them off with my iron.”

  Carl frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m not with you. As far as I know, nothing’s been reported to the police at this address.”

  “No, I wanted to call the police, but my husband wouldn’t.”

  “Hmm, strange. So what happened? Did they make off with anything?”

  “As I said, I sorted them out with my iron before they had a chance.”

  “So you do not actually know if this was intended to be a burglary?” Assad inquired.

  “I don’t know what it was. Ask my husband.” She laughed, for no apparent reason.

  “Would you happen to know where he is at the moment?” Carl asked, as he scanned the interior. Was there any sign of Eriksen being at home, but not making himself known?