The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Some sort of reaction was to be expected, but not that she would be sitting there, fighting back the tears as her body relaxed.

  Then she extricated herself from his embrace and looked him straight in the eye.

  “The other day, I saw Marco outside a cinema, and I hit him in the face.” She swallowed a couple of times, stemming her tears. “I didn’t want to believe him. I didn’t want to. But then I saw the despair in his eyes.”

  “Believe what, Miryam?” Rose took her hand and held it tight. “What was it you didn’t want to believe?”

  “I didn’t want to believe something that could take my home away from me, just like that other man said before.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  She raised her head. “I only knew for sure it would happen anyway when you showed me the photo of Marco’s father.” She pointed at the police photo of the dead man’s face. “Oh, God, I knew it then, but only then.”

  “So the man there is Marco’s father?”

  She nodded. “One of the others told me Zola had pushed someone under a bus. I didn’t know who it was. I thought it was Marco and that he deserved it.”

  “No one deserves that.”

  She nodded and lowered her head. “I know.”

  Carl indicated it was time for Rose to let go of her hand. He drew his chair up close.

  “Tell us then, Miryam. What is it you now know?”

  “I know it was all true what Marco said. I know it was Zola who pushed me into the road the time my leg was crushed, and that he was the one who killed his brother. I know that if Marco says Zola has killed others, too, then it must be true. I know that now. But I just don’t understand.”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Go on, Miryam. Let’s hear it all.”

  She nodded again. “Two of the boys called Pico and Romeo came back one day and gave Zola a photo they’d taken from a house. They talked about the African necklace and about the man who was wearing it in the picture. I saw the photo later that day and recognized it.”

  “You recognized the necklace?”

  “Yes. I remember I thought it was pretty. I’d seen it on a man they brought in with them one night. He was unconscious, so I thought he’d been drinking. But that was all I saw, because they sent me next door to the other house. I thought maybe he’d had an accident up on the main road and that they were helping him.”

  “And what did they do with this man?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think it was anything good.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I heard Zola’s car drive away later the same night, and Zola never did that if he didn’t really have to. At night he liked to be in bed with one of his women.”

  “Does that prove anything?”

  “No, but the next day there was a muddy spade leaned up against the bins, and Chris’s and Zola’s brother’s boots were covered in mud, too.”

  “So you think they killed the man?”

  “I don’t know, but I think he died.” She stared pensively into space. “That has to be what Marco found out, too.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The spade, I guess.”

  “How quickly did they come back?”

  “After about half an hour.”

  “So if they’d buried the body, it could have been in the woods at the top of the hill?”

  She nodded.

  “We can confirm all this, Miryam. The man’s name was William Stark and his body is no longer in the grave up there. Have you any idea where they might have moved it?”

  She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. “There was a gravel pit close by. They went there sometimes for target practice.”

  Carl nodded. “OK, Miryam, thanks. We’re in possession of some of the man’s belongings and we also have a dog with a good sense of smell, so there’s a good chance we’ll find him.”

  “What’s going to happen to me now?” she asked.

  Assad got to his feet and quickly left the room while Rose remained seated.

  Resolving situations was mostly her field.

  —

  “The motive, Assad, what is it? If you see the connection, then speak up,” said Carl. “In any case we’ve got a fair amount to go on now, like Miryam’s and Romeo’s statements, and what Marco’s been going around saying. We’ve got two missing persons, Stark and René E. Eriksen. We’ve got a link between Eriksen and Teis Snap, now deceased, as well as between Snap’s bank and once again, strangely enough, our Eriksen. We’ve got a person who disappeared in Africa and a development project in the middle of nowhere that never materialized. Basically, a long chain of individuals and circumstances all connected in some way to René E. Eriksen.”

  Assad rasped a hand across the stubble of his chin. “The question is how this chain is then joined together, is it not? What came to the desert first, the camel or the dromedary? Do you understand, Carl?”

  “Here we say the chicken or the egg, Assad. But I think we’ve got to assume that since Eriksen is at the center of all the links, the whole story begins in his ministry, and therefore he’s still the one we need to concentrate on getting hold of.”

  “And Marco?”

  Carl nodded. Yeah, where was Marco?

  There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor. Unmistakably Gordon’s big flat feet.

  “Rose isn’t here,” said Carl, without looking up.

  “Oh, really? Actually, it’s you I wanted to see, Carl.”

  What now? Was the dork about to sound off again with more of his dubious bright ideas, or was it just some excuse for not having got his ass into gear with the job Carl had given him?

  “I did as you told me. I checked up on Eriksen’s financial affairs and discovered he recently sold off shares in Karrebæk Bank to the tune of ten million kroner.”

  “So you said two hours ago.”

  “I know, but we were interrupted. I really would have preferred to discuss it some more with you, but then I decided to pursue the matter myself.”

  “And what matter would that be?”

  “Well, I ran a check on Karrebæk Bank and found out the name of the chairman of the board is Brage-Schmidt.”

  “Chairmen are always called something like that. A little hyphen now and again. Anything less would never do. So where are you going with this, Gordon?”

  “Here comes the odd bit.”

  “Well, come on, man, before we turn to dust.”

  “Brage-Schmidt happens to be honorary consul for several central African states.”

  “Not including Cameroon, by any chance?”

  Gordon nodded, making the fringe of hair dance above his eyes like a line of washing in a stiff westerly.

  “Well, I’ll be . . . damned. Cameroon’s honorary consul on the same board as Eriksen, who’s disappeared, and Teis Snap, who’s stone-dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s loaded, yeah?”

  “Major shareholder in Karrebæk Bank, yes.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No, I didn’t dare, thanks to you.”

  Carl smiled. Good boy. He was beginning to learn. A little respect was a good thing.

  “Assad, check and see if this Brage-Schmidt’s at home, will you?”

  A couple of minutes passed before his curly head reappeared in the doorway. “There’s a message from someone called Lisbeth on my voice mail. Has your mobile conked out, or is it because you can’t be bothered to talk to her, Carl? This is what she asks.”

  Lisbeth! Shit.

  He pulled his mobile out of his back pocket. Blank screen, dead as a doornail. That explained it.

  “And what about Brage-Schmidt?”

  “I think we should drive up there, Carl. He lives in Rungsted.”


  “Drive up there? Why?”

  “Because his house is on fire.”

  —

  They saw the coil of black smoke a mile off, spiraling into the sky above the Øresund strait. The flashing blue lights of ten fire engines and the feverish activity surrounding them assailed their senses as they turned into the road. The asphalt was already awash with sooty water.

  The blaze was enormous, and it seemed clear that nothing would be left of the grandness of the residence but its foundations and its memories. The heat had melted the paint jobs on the Audis and Mercedes parked opposite, and the leaves of the surrounding trees were smoldering. Pandemonium reigned.

  Carl shielded his face and tapped the fire brigade chief on the shoulder.

  “Are there any fatalities?”

  “Yes, we’ve pulled two bodies out.”

  “Can they be identified?”

  The man broke into a wide smile, the way only a hardened firefighter could when asked such a question. “You’ll have quite a job on your hands. I think you’d better start by finding yourself a couple of heavy-duty body bags and some good blokes with microscopes.”

  Carl looked over at the two heaps he was pointing at. Leaning against one of them were a pair of wheels and a crumpled metal frame.

  “Was one of them in a wheelchair?”

  “Looks like it. Most probably the owner of the house. A couple of the neighbors say they haven’t seen him for ages. Maybe he couldn’t get about.”

  “Brage-Schmidt?”

  The fire chief checked his notes. “That’s it. Jens Linus Brage-Schmidt, Honorary Consul, it says here.”

  Carl surveyed the hardworking firefighters, the boiling steam and the blaze. How the hell could anything burn like this?

  “Any theories about what caused it?”

  “That’ll have to come later. But inflammable liquids are in there somewhere, no doubt about that. The neighbors say something smelled like spirits just before they raised the alarm.”

  “What about the other fatality?”

  “No idea. The only person registered at the address was this Brage-Schmidt.”

  Carl walked over to an elderly couple standing just inside their wrought-iron gate, as if it could protect them in some way.

  “Oh, how awful, how awful,” the wife kept saying. “All our houses could have gone up in flames. Just look at our Mercedes.”

  Carl stood scratching his neck. Brage-Schmidt could hardly have been their best friend.

  “Were you the people who called for help?” he asked.

  They shook their heads emphatically. Obviously they were steering clear of the entire affair.

  “OK, then, thanks. Let’s just cross our fingers the hand-grenade depot explodes in the other direction, shall we?” He raised a finger to his imaginary hat in parting and they were back inside their house before he knew it.

  “Over here, Carl,” shouted Assad.

  He nodded toward a youngish couple who, like their elderly neighbors, seemed to slot in nicely in these opulent surroundings. What it cost for all the makeup in which the woman had encased herself would have fed a fair-sized Bangladeshi family for at least a couple of decades.

  “Well,” she said. “Ernst had a feeling there was something amiss, so of course we advised the fire brigade.”

  She forgot to say “forthwith,” Carl thought, then the sentence would be complete.

  “We’ve already spoken to the police,” said the man, when Carl showed him his ID. “Nothing more to say, really,” he added. “We neither saw nor heard anything. People up here aren’t very nosy.”

  “That’s a shame. Did you have any contact with Mr. Brage-Schmidt?”

  “Oh, you know. A bit of Rotary when he was younger. Not much of late, though. The delivery boy came with groceries every day and left them in the garage, but to tell you the truth, we never saw him come out to take them in. He was a bit peculiar.”

  Carl nodded as he and Assad walked back toward the smoldering ruin.

  “Have you spoken to the fire investigators?” he asked.

  “Yes, but they’re no further than us, Carl, because the fire’s still burning, sort of.”

  “Have you been over there?”

  Carl pointed to a path that cut through the meter-tall beech-tree hedge surrounding the majority of houses along the road.

  “It’s too hot, I think. Why?”

  “We could have a word with the neighbors from round the back.”

  “In that case, you can just as well talk to him over there.”

  Carl saw a boy standing at the curb with his bike. He seemed oddly intense, his eyes aflame and a reddish-yellow glow reflecting in his face.

  “Assad says you live in the house behind here. Did you notice anything strange going on today?” he asked, as he approached.

  The lad shook his head.

  “No one who happened to be walking along the path or who squeezed through a hole in the hedge?”

  “There isn’t a hole. There’s a gate.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You can get from our road into the consul’s garden through a gate. That’s what the Negro always does.”

  “The Negro?”

  “Yeah, the one who lives in the house.”

  “We didn’t know anyone was living there apart from Brage-Schmidt. But you’re saying someone does?”

  “He’s lived there for years. He always leaves his car on one of the other roads and walks to the house from there.”

  It was from the mouths of babes and drunks that the truth emerged.

  Carl gave the lad a friendly punch on the shoulder. Thanks for the tip.

  “Let’s have a look at those barbecued bodies, shall we? I think I know who the other one is now,” he said, drawing Assad over toward the two charred mounds lying on the tarps by the hedge.

  The flesh was as good as burned away. There were still remnants of leather on the exposed bones of one the body’s fingers, probably from the armrest of the wheelchair. From the permanent S-shaped position of the corpse, it looked like he’d been sitting in it when the place went up.

  The other body was little but a heap of scorched bones held together by fused tendons and charred muscle. The eye sockets were burned empty and the facial skin melted off. It was impossible to tell whether the person had been white or black, let alone male or female.

  “What’s that?” said Assad, indicating the corpse’s mouth. He glanced around. There were no forensic technicians in sight.

  He stuck his finger in between what had once been lips and pushed the slop of remains aside.

  “I’ve seen these dentures before,” he said.

  Carl gave a nod of surprise as Assad wiggled one of the front teeth with his finger.

  There was no doubt about it, Carl had to admit. The body was René E. Eriksen’s. A set of choppers like that wasn’t something you forgot in a hurry.

  Assad wiped his hands on his trousers. “What do you say, Carl?”

  “The same as you, probably, that now they’ve all bumped each other off, and the case is drawing to a close. I reckon Laursen will agree, once he sees the technicians’ reports and the DNA analyses.”

  40

  For a long time Marco thought about how much space emptiness can actually take up inside a person. Only hours ago everything had been so chaotic, yet so, so straightforward. He’d been on the run, his father and Zola were still alive, and the clan had been working the streets. But now both his father and Zola were dead, and a whole lot of clan members had been arrested.

  And here he was, wondering what was next. Was he free? With Zola gone, who would call off the hunt? And how was he supposed to get along with no money at the same time as he was wanted by the police?

  It was all so difficult. No matter how hard he
tried to think, his mind was awash with sorrow, relief and fear, rendering futile all attempts to make any kind of decision.

  Perhaps it would all pass if he just waited a day or two. Why should they all be after him when Zola was no more? And why should the police continue their search as well? After all, he’d done nothing wrong. No, a couple of days lying low, considering his next move—that’s what he needed. And who could tell? Maybe now he could even get his money out of Kaj and Eivind’s apartment.

  He hailed a taxi outside the Søpavillion nightclub and a quarter of an hour later he was standing in front of Stark’s house. Inside there was a bed and some food, he knew that. A good place to pass the time and wait.

  He looked up the drive as the taxi pulled away, immediately seeing an old Mazda parked at the end of the house, tailgate raised and back doors wide-open. Bulging black trash bags had been deposited along the wall of the house. And now came two more, in the hands of a woman he recognized as Tilde’s mother.

  Marco ducked behind a tree with his back to the lake.

  His head popped in and out from his hiding place as Tilde’s mother began to load the car, like an inquisitive animal, registering every movement. What if the girl was there, too? What new options would be open to him then? Wasn’t this the moment for him to take his chance?

  He took one step out from behind the tree. The car was perhaps only fifty meters away, yet his legs felt like lead. How would he ever be able to tell them the truth?

  “Why are you standing there, watching my mother?” said a voice from behind.

  Marco gave a start and whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Tilde, her shoes covered in mud, her trouser legs wet.

  “It’s lucky I was down here by the lake. What is it you want?”

  She seemed ethereal in her loose blouse, with her hair hanging down her back. But her face was like stone. He hadn’t seen her like this before, and it certainly wasn’t the way he’d hoped they would meet for the first time.

  “You’re the one the police have a photo of, aren’t you?” she said coldly.