The Marco Effect

27

An unfamiliar feeling of sun wakened Carl to the sweet smell of perfume and sex.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled recollections of wantonness and no-nonsense shagging. Good Lord, he thought, eyes tight shut as he stuck his hand under the duvet and sensed how incredibly naked he felt with his half-erect member and his rump pressed close against soft female skin.

Opening his eyes tentatively to the world, he found himself staring up at a ceiling with two-tone stucco and a lamp that glowed faintly through a silk scarf.

My God, he mused, immediately aware of the sticky situation he’d got himself into.

“Are you awake, Carl?” Lisbeth purred, beneath the covers.

Did he dare say yes?

She turned over, snuggling her downy face up close as featherlight fingers drew circles around his belly button and twirled the hairs of his chest.

“It’s not going to be a one-night stand, is it, Carl?” she whispered, moving the inside of her thigh against his nether regions.

Oh, wow, was all he could think, trying not to let out a sigh.

The fact of the matter was that he was confused as hell. She’d been absolutely amazing to make love to. Utterly uninhibited despite being out of training, as she’d called it. He thought himself lucky she hadn’t been completely match-fit, otherwise he’d have been down for the count.

“I thought we were great last night. How about you?” she asked, rubbing her nose against his. It felt nice. Not the kind of tenderness he was used to.

“You were gorgeous, Lisbeth, and still are,” he said, and meant it.

He avoided her searching gaze and closed his eyes again, racked by feelings of guilt. What the hell was he playing at?

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked, as though he was ready to sleep a couple of hours more.

“It’s eight, but you don’t really need to go to work this early, do you?”

She giggled as her hand crept downward. Her breathing grew heavy almost immediately.

“Did you say eight?” he cried, extracting himself from her arms. “I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes at headquarters. Shit! Today of all days! I’m really sorry, Lisbeth, but I’ve got to go.”

He jumped out of bed without looking at her, pulled on his trousers, and wriggled his bare feet into his shoes.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he said, pecking her quickly on the cheek and then dashing off before she had a chance to ask the obligatory question of when they’d see each other again.

Who could answer that one?

“What a predicament,” he muttered as he tried to work out where he’d left the car the evening before. As far as he remembered, they’d stood and had a grope by a blossoming cherry tree that was fairly close to the scene of a murder he’d investigated some years back in the vicinity of the Syvstjernehusene housing development. It was there they had been making out like a pair of teenagers, hands all over each other. Arousing as hell, but which cherry tree, and where, for Chrissake?

“Let’s park at a distance from my house,” she’d said. “The neighbors are still friends with my ex.”

Now, feeling like a fool as he trawled the Højlundshusene neighborhood, the thought of Mona kept coming back to him, seriously weighing on his conscience. Why did he still have these feelings for her, anyway, after she’d kicked him to the curb like that? And how come he felt so sullied, so ridden by guilt? Lisbeth wasn’t just some casual one-nighter. She was so sweet and bright and warm.

Maybe that was precisely why.

He crossed another couple of streets, noting as he went that blossoming cherry trees were damn popular in these parts. What would Mona say if she saw him now, wandering about in search of his car like a confused adolescent? How would she feel if she sniffed his body?

And how would he feel if she had done the same thing?

He flinched at the thought. Of course, goddammit. It was an act of preemptive rationalization on his part.

For who was to say she hadn’t?

Carl looked up and glanced around him as he realized he was basically back where he started. There they were, the green bedroom curtains behind which only a few hours ago he had cast to the wind all thought of what Mona might think about him and what he was doing with another woman.

And there was his car. Less than fifty meters from Lisbeth’s house. How the hell did it take them so long to walk such a short distance?

He fumbled in his pockets for the keys and felt a lump that wasn’t supposed to be there.

His wallet.

Carl frowned. Had he really been in such a state yesterday that he hadn’t checked all his pockets properly when he’d discovered it was gone?

But he had, he knew he had. So how could it possibly be there now? Had Lisbeth played a trick on him? Did she want him to feel indebted? Did she somehow think it would aid the nocturnal cause? That it would help her believe she had him hooked?

He shook his head. If that was it, then she must be crazy.

He opened the wallet, convinced he was going to find a note containing something like: Sorry, darling, your turn to pay next time.

Or just: I’m wild about you. Call me, Here’s my number.

He smiled as he found an unfamiliar piece of paper folded among his receipts. Good coppering, mate, he congratulated himself. Can’t fool me, ha-ha.

But the note wasn’t what he was expecting. Nowhere near.

It was a printout of a satellite photo of Kregme, marked with a cross in the middle.

HERE IS STARK’S BODY, someone had scrawled in irregular block letters. ZOLA KILLED HIM.

And at the bottom was an address. Likewise in Kregme.

–

More than an hour passed before Carl had picked up Assad and they finally got to the patch of woods between the lake and the road on the one side and hedgerows and fields on the other.

“Sure doesn’t smell good here, Carl,” Assad mumbled, looking askance at a muck spreader trundling its way over the landscape. But Carl wasn’t bothered. He was from north Jutland, where the delectable fragrance of shit was the smell of money. Any farmer with great ambitions needed shit, tons of the stuff.

“It’s pretty open here,” he said, scanning the terrain ahead where the road dipped out of sight.

He glanced at the map he’d found in his wallet. “How far do we have to go into these woods, do you reckon?”

Assad rasped his hand across the stubble of his chin. “Seventy-five meters, max. A hundred, maybe.”

How could seventy-five meters, max, be a hundred?

“OK, let’s pull in at that gap in the trees over there.” Carl nodded toward farther up the road to the right, locating the same point on the satellite photo. “Seems like a logical place to go into the woods if you’re dragging a body away from the road. A car could park here with the trunk facing the top of the hill and nobody would be able to see what you were doing unless they were doing thirty kilometers an hour. And no one drives that slowly here, believe me. This is hillbilly country.”

“Hill Billy? Who’s he? Does he own the land here?”

“Yeah, precisely,” Carl replied, shaking his head. Hill Billy? Where did the guy think they were, anyway?

They stepped cautiously through the vegetation, noting snapped branches as well as stones trampled into the earth. There were a surprising number of the latter, as though someone had been here only recently.

“It looks like a whole herd was here,” said Assad, indicating a pile of leaves pressed flat.

Carl nodded and looked up at the ominous black clouds that were gathering overhead. Was it really going to rain now? Brilliant timing, after so many days of scorching sunshine.

“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 mother 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.