by Inger Wolf
“What did they look like?”
“One of them had bleached hair and sort of a square face, a broad mouth, if my memory is right. The other had long dark hair, almost black. Not so tall, very thin. I think they were eighteen, nineteen years old. Their names were Ana and Sinka. I don’t remember which one was which. Oh, and the dark-haired girl was missing part of her little finger. And I think that’s all I can remember.”
Adrenaline shot through Trokic’s blood, his heart began pounding. Kalinovic was very far from home, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. “I think the dark-haired girl was my cousin, Sinka.”
Maria sighed heavily. “I’m sorry to hear you say that. It has taken me many years to be able to talk about this. I was lucky, I got married. Many of us weren’t so lucky.”
She hesitated. Trokic knew it was a disgrace for a Muslim woman to be raped.
“Did they say anything about where they came from?”
“Zagreb. Both of them. They were traveling somewhere to go on vacation, and they ran into a Serbian patrol. Later, they were sent down to us. This was the time when Croatians were driving the Serbs out of Krajina. They were cruel to us all, but those two girls were treated especially badly.”
Trokic swallowed. Any doubts he had left were being swept away. “But can you tell me anything about what happened to her? The dark-haired one?”
“The same as with all of us. It was almost always in the evening, we were taken in for their entertainment, and they brought us back in the morning when they were finished with us. We were taken to apartments, burned-down houses, stores. Any place they could have their way with us without being disturbed.”
“But didn’t any of the guards or police try to stop the soldiers?”
“Yes, but then they would say they had a certificate from the police chief in the area, that they needed sex to keep the morale up at the front. No one ever asked to see the certificate.”
“What happened later on, do you know?”
“I think they killed her for what she did.”
Trokic was getting frustrated at how slowly the conversation was going. “And what did she do?”
“She knifed one of the guards to get away.”
“Knifed?”
“Yes, I think so. He screamed. We didn’t dare look, and anyway it was dark. But the next morning, we saw blood on the floor.”
“Then what happened?”
“I heard that the guard called some policemen near there. They came and dragged her away. I don’t know what happened to her. But one of the policemen treated us well. He always told us, don’t give the soldiers lighters or matches in the evening when they come for us. That was so the soldiers couldn’t see our faces and pick out the youngest. They all wanted the young ones.”
Trokic’s heart fell. So few words, yet so much horror. All the stories he’d heard and everything he’d seen himself were buried somewhere deep inside him, but now the images rose and began streaming in his mind. “But did you see what they did to her?”
“No. I didn’t dare look. But I can’t imagine the policeman was able to protect her. I heard some of the soldiers shouting, screaming.”
All along, Trokic had hoped that knowing what had happened to her, ridding himself of the constant uncertainty, would be better. Now that the hopes of finding her alive were slipping away, though, he wasn’t so sure. “Do you remember the names of the policemen who took her away?”
After a few moments, she said, “Borislav Kostovic, I think. The friendly one. The other’s name was Janko.”
“Janko, that’s all?”
“That’s all I remember.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“But do you remember where they came from?”
“No, but they were probably local police.”
Trokic took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “May I call you if I think of anything else?”
“Yes. I hope you find out what happened. Good luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Trokic knocked on the door. His left hand held an enormous gift basket from the specialty grocers. Everyone in Department A had chipped in, and due to the fact that many of them were generous, and that Agersund was popular too, it took the grocer twenty minutes to fill the basket. Trokic was still shaken from speaking to Maria; he had the feeling more answers were coming that he didn’t want to hear.
Agersund was clearly moved by the sight in front of him. “I don’t know what to say; this is so nice of all of you. Come on in; I was just reading the paper, but you’re a lot better company.”
Trokic followed him into the cozy little kitchen and set the basket on the table.
“You’re all out to fatten me up, I see!” Agersund laughed and pointed at the mountain of chocolates, cookies, and red wine. “I’m guessing you’d like a cup of coffee?”
He held up the thermos.
“You guessed right. How’s it going?”
The corners of Agersund’s mouth fell as he poured coffee into the two mugs. He looked older than the last time Trokic had seen him. His skin was pallid, and his crew cut had been allowed to grow out a bit.
“I’m doing okay. All the tests are boring as hell. But the doctors are optimistic, and I get to read a bunch of crime novels and watch a helluva lot of TV series. Come on, I want to hear about the Maja Nielsen case. I read the paper, but you know how far you can trust the press.”
“For once, we have quite a bit of physical evidence to go on.” Trokic gave him a thorough account of the case that lasted two cups of coffee. Finally, he leaned back in the chair.
“Just one thing,” Agersund said. “You said you met a Colombian in the Buller Bar.”
“Yes, but I’m not so sure she could have known him. Apparently, she was affected by some drug we haven’t been able to identify. He didn’t look like somebody she’d hang out with, though.”
“Most likely not, but I think I know who he is.”
“How so?” Trokic said.
“There aren’t many Colombians here in town. And none named Federico. It was before your time, when I was still a detective. He was young. Danish mother, Colombian father, as I recall. Thick accent, very thick.”
“It hasn’t improved. What did he do?”
Agersund scratched the pale skin under his chin. “I believe he was here on vacation, and he stole a car and drove it into a fence at a daycare center. Yeah, that was it.”
“Not while there were kids around, I hope?”
“No, it was late evening. But it wasn’t a pretty sight. The kid is bad news. Back then I spoke to a colleague with a Colombian wife, and he said the criminal world in the cities back there is really tough. A lot of pandillas, gangs with kids as young as eleven. You know, the usual gang things, the initiations of violence, staking out territories, fighting for recognition from the other gangs. They have no respect for life; they’ll kill you for nothing. And it’s easy for them to do, guns are available and very cheap. Easily paid for by selling drugs.”
“But what’s he doing here?” Trokic asked.
“Maybe he’s just visiting. But if I know him, he brought along some of his goods from back home. Have Narcotics keep an eye on him. He’s a product of the gangs and what he learned when he was a kid. They steal your soul and teach you to hurt others as you’ve been hurt. And you pay in blood when you have to.”
“Sounds like it’s not a good idea to get in his way,” Trokic said.
“No, and definitely not for you. Then there wouldn’t be anyone to take over for me.”
Trokic nodded distractedly. Something told him they were on the right track with this strange Colombian. They needed to get ahold of him again.
When he walked into the station, one of the office girls called him over.
“You have a message. Detention called and said Kurt Egebjerg asked them to tell you that he remembered what was on the card he found on Maja, the one he threw away.”
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Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I think the bird has learned to say ‘fuck’ enough ways by now.”
Lisa grabbed a cola from the fridge and stared pointedly at her niece as she handed it to her. Nanna often stopped by on her way home from school. She smiled through her curtain of black hair, which apparently was her new pride and joy, and picked up one of Flossy’s toys from the floor. Within the past year, the girl had grown from a rangy young teen to a young woman with a female form. But that didn’t stop her from trying to teach Flossy new ways of cussing.
“Okay, Auntie Lisa, message received. Where’s Jacob?”
“In Copenhagen, packing, clearing out the apartment.” Lisa sounded distracted. Which she was. She’d just learned that Kurt Egebjerg had remembered what was printed on the card he’d found on Maja: Atlantis. And it was her job to find out what it meant.
“So, he’s really moving in?”
“Yes. On the first.”
“Cool. So, are you going to have children? Then I can babysit and earn some money.”
“We’ll see.”
The truth was that Jacob hadn’t yet shown any great interest in having children. As long as they lived so far apart, children didn’t make sense to him. But now they were moving in together, and she felt he avoided the subject when she brought it up.
“Okay.” Nanna didn’t look all that interested in children either. “So, how’s work going? You’re home early, actually; I hadn’t counted on you being here, but anyway I’m going to a concert with Veto tonight, and no I won’t drink or take ecstasy or go home with some strange guy.”
“Nice to know. I had to come home; somebody from the district heating is coming by to read the meter. So, it’s work at home this evening.”
She laid her laptop on the kitchen table.
“What are you working on?” Her niece knew very well that Lisa couldn’t say anything more than what the media already had come out with.
“It’s the Maja Nielsen case. And right now, I have to find out what Atlantis means.”
“What for?”
“We’ve just learned that Maja was carrying a business card that named Atlantis.”
“It’s this city on the bottom of the ocean.” Nanna drank half of her cola in one shot.
“Right. You’ve had ancient history, then?”
“Yup. It’s a great class for taking a little nap. Really, it is so boring.” She stifled a fake yawn.
“I’m sure it is, but maybe before you dozed off you heard about Plato. He’s the one who told us about Atlantis. It’s a mythical land he used for a utopia. But like you say, the country or city or whatever vanished from the face of the earth in the tenth century B.C. Anyway, the name has popped up in our case, and I have a hard time seeing what a sunken city has to do with any of this.”
“Mom and I were in Egypt once, and the travel bureau was called Atlantis. Maybe they have something to do with it?”
“That’s not impossible. It could have something to do with travel, a trip.”
“I’m going to crash on your sofa a few minutes, okay?”
“It’s all yours,” Lisa said. She turned on her laptop.
A half hour later, Lisa had googled Atlantis to death. Atlantis Travels flew to Egypt, Thailand, the Maldives, Zanzibar, and a number of other exotic destinations. After a short call to their office in Copenhagen, much of which was spent in convincing them to release information, she’d been told that neither Maja Nielsen nor Martin Isaksen had traveled with them, nor had they booked any future trip. A company called Atlantis that specialized in bathroom interiors had never had a customer named Maja Nielsen. A southern Sealand cover band was also eliminated, along with the space shuttle Atlantis and its many journeys between Earth and the space station, Mir.
At last, she leaned back in frustration and stared straight ahead. Then she googled the names Anja, Louise, and Maja, a shot in the dark that missed completely. Nanna lay on the sofa, texting friends and leafing through advertisements.
She glanced up from her phone. “There’s also a bookstore here in town called Atlantis.”
“Now you tell me! Where’s it at?”
“I just thought of it! It’s up on Ingerslev Boulevard. I ride by it every day on the way to school. It’s really small, doesn’t look so great from the outside. I don’t think it’s like a regular bookstore. It’s creepy.”
Lisa stood up. “I’ll bike over there right now. You’ll lock the door when you leave, right?”
“Sure. Can I have some chips?”
“You may, just don’t eat the whole bag. Save some appetite for when you get home.”
She grabbed her keys and bag and waved goodbye to her niece. And to the rest of her chips, most likely.
Chapter Thirty
If reading the Bible didn’t satisfy a craving for apocalyptic visions, Atlantis was the place to go. Just as Nanna had said, the place looked gloomy from the outside, but it was nothing compared to the pessimism lining the shelves. The owner of the store was apparently obsessed with catastrophes. For a moment, Lisa pretended she was just another customer as she glanced over the topics and book titles. The store seemed devoted to the idea of natural catastrophe as the foundation for the Earth’s development and the mass extinction of animals and humans. Comets, asteroids, and meteoroids all threatened us from space, and a single one of them could destroy all life on Earth from the dust and ash a collision would send up into the atmosphere. If calculating the chances of such a thing happening became too tedious, there were plenty of books about volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, and the greenhouse effect. Currently, the greatest threat was an asteroid that possibly could ram into Earth in the year 2042. Lisa did the math in her head; she would be sixty-nine. So maybe it was a waste of time and money for the world’s women to use so much anti-wrinkle cream.
And if natural catastrophes weren’t enough, many other books covered the greatest viral and bacteriological threats, including the bubonic plague, the Spanish flu, AIDS, hemorrhagic fevers such as the Marburg virus and the avian flu. Also, a small row of books was dedicated to nuclear war and its consequences.
The air inside was dry and dusty. Lisa seemed to be the only customer. In a corner, plastic cups and a thermos stood on a small green table with two chairs. The store’s employee, a young frail girl in her twenties wearing a lavender one-piece suit, seemed to be tallying up the day’s sales, which judging from the bills in her hand was very modest. She looked totally focused on the money, but suddenly, without raising her eyes, she said, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m with the police, Criminal Investigations. We’re looking into the death of Maja Nielsen, and we’ve stumbled onto the name Atlantis. I’m trying to find out if Maja had any connection to your store. Does her name ring a bell?”
The girl froze while still holding the bills. She frowned at Lisa. “I read about Maja. How did you stumble onto Atlantis?”
“Maja had one of your business cards.”
“I think my brother knows who she is. He said so anyway. He must have given her a card for some reason.”
Lisa held her breath. She’d found the right Atlantis. “Do you know where he knows her from?”
She shook her head. “All he said was that he knew who she was through his job.”
“What does your brother do?”
“He’s an substance abuse consultant.”
“Does he work at Transit?”
“Yeah, I think he’s there once in a while.”
Lisa nodded. They were on the right track.
The girl flicked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her smile was crooked. “I asked him what she was like, and he said he didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Why do you think he gave her a card?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted her to come here. A lot of times he brings somebody in for a cup of coffee.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“Michael Tarp.”
“Do you have his phone number or an address where I can get ahold of him?”
She gave Lisa his number. “He’s in Berlin today and tomorrow, taking some course. But he said leave a message if I needed to get ahold of him, and he’d call back. You could do the same.”
Lisa nodded. That’s exactly what she would do. And Michael Tarp was going to tell her what he knew.
Saturday, May 9
Chapter Thirty-One
Mornings at police headquarters had their own atmosphere. Sounds normally drowned out were heard. A person’s own footsteps in the hall. A door shutting somewhere. A coffee machine toiling away. Only a few people were there at five-thirty, which provided an opportunity to think things over undisturbed. To dig deeper. Trokic had given up on sleep and driven into headquarters in a heavy white fog. Maybe he could at least get something done in the early hours. He read the daily incident report; so much had happened over the past twenty-four hours, and yet so little. There were moments when he felt that nothing they did mattered.
Maybe it was all about accepting that the world had never been better and would never be better. Tiny splinters of change, in certain situations: that was all he and others could do. Was the sum of good and evil a constant, though? Maybe that was even necessary because the one defined the other.
At seven, the phone rang.
“I’m not going to tell you who I am,” the man said. “I have some information about a friend.”
“Who?”
“Kurt Egebjerg. I read in the paper that he’s a suspect in the murder of Maja Nielsen. But he couldn’t have done it.”
