The Marco Effect

41

“Can you pop up to the interview room, Carl?” Assad asked over the phone. “I have something exciting for you.”

“I’m not sure I can cope with more excitement today,” he replied, shoving aside Rose’s stack of printouts on Brage-Schmidt’s financial transactions and career movements. “But give me a couple of minutes, I’ll be right up.” He hung up and called Rose again.

Where the hell was she?

Even though she hadn’t yet got hold of all the documents he’d asked for, it was becoming clearer and clearer to him what lay behind the events of the past few days. The exact whys and wherefores were unknowns, but nonetheless he felt he was beginning to see the perspectives involved in large-scale misappropriation of development funds and their subsequent siphoning off into the accounts of the individuals who had lost their lives over the past few days. The way things were shaping up, this was clearly a case for the fraud squad and other experts in economic crime. They’d have plenty to dig into.

The murders of Snap and his wife down in Karrebæksminde and the apparent arson attack in Rungsted that had cost a further two lives weren’t strictly speaking a matter for Department Q, but it was hard not to suspect that in some way or another they were connected to what had happened to William Stark.

As Carl saw it, Stark had either known too much, or else he was deeply involved in what Snap and the others were up to. But Stark was dead, they knew that now, and whatever criminal activity he might or might not have been engaged in was academic at this point.

Now his role in the Stark case was closed. At some point a presumption-of-death verdict would be pronounced, and maybe one day a dog or a Boy Scout would come across the remains of some bones that Malene Kristoffersen could properly consign to the earth with a regular headstone. Then everyone could get on with their lives. Everyone but Stark himself.

Carl stared at the two phone numbers on the slip of paper before him. One was Mona’s consultancy, the other was Lisbeth’s.

The way he was feeling at the moment, he hadn’t a clue which to choose.

“Have you seen the time, Carl?”

He looked up at Rose, standing in the doorway, then at his watch.

Almost seven.

“I’m just popping out before the shops close. Anything you need?”

“No, thanks. I’m on my way upstairs to Assad. He’s got the last of Zola’s boys in interview. He claims he’s got something interesting for us. After that, I’m off home.”

“OK, but come down here again before you go. I’ve got something for you guys, too.”

Carl sighed as Rose’s footsteps faded down the corridor. You’d better take care of this now, the phone numbers in front of him seemed to be insisting.

He looked at them again.

These were two women, each with her own qualities. No doubt about it.

–

“This here is Hector, Carl. Say hi to Carl, Hector,” said Assad.

Carl nodded. No need to be hostile. The guy seemed softened up already.

Hector put out his hand, but shaking it would be a bit much, Carl reckoned.

“Well, now,” he said, plonking himself down on a chair by the desk. “No handcuffs, I see, so you’ve been a good boy, haven’t you, Hector?”

He nodded.

“Hector is the oldest in his generation of Zola’s children,” Assad explained, clapping him on the shoulder. “Everyone saw him as Zola’s successor when the time came, and now he is sitting here telling me that all his life he has dreamed of getting away.”

Carl looked at Assad and gave a wry smile. “So therefore you’ve told Hector that he could be in line for a permanent residence permit, is that right, Assad?”

He raised a thumb. “Exactly, Carl.”

Christ on a bike!

“Tell Carl then what you told me, Hector.” Assad turned to face his boss. “Now the interesting part is coming.”

The guy looked dapper in his black suit. If Assad had been able to fulfil his promise, his appearance certainly wouldn’t be a hindrance to his assimilation into Danish society. If only a tenth of Denmark’s sartorially challenged citizenry-himself included-dressed like Hector, the nation would take possession of haute couture’s yellow jersey from the Italians and the French.

“I said there were two things that went terribly wrong today,” he said in fluent English. “One was that Zola killed his brother out in Østerbro. If he could do a thing like that, it meant none of us was safe. Until then, I thought I was, at least. The second thing was the Africans. I saw them beat a couple of guys to a pulp. I think they were from Estonia, and they were plenty nasty, too. But the blacks scared me because they were so young, and their eyes were so cold. And now they’re out on the streets, looking for Marco.”

Carl frowned. Here were two important pieces of information he’d need to follow up on, and then he was finished with the case.

“Why are they still hunting Marco, now that Zola’s dead?”

“They’re contract killers. People like them do what they’ve been paid for. Their reputation depends on it.”

Contract killers? In Copenhagen?

“Have you any idea where Marco is now?”

Hector shrugged. “Marco’s good at playing hide-and-seek,” he replied.

“You heard where they were from, didn’t you, Carl?” said Assad.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t what concerned him most at the moment.

“People like them don’t talk,” said Hector, taking a gulp of the water Assad had placed in front of him, the only luxury in this cramped and barren room. “So none of us knows who hired them. All I can say is it wasn’t Zola. He kept well away from blacks.”

Carl looked at Assad. “What are you thinking, Assad?”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things, Carl. I’m thinking about a consul for African countries, a man who is chairman of the board of the same bank that the deceased Snap was the manager of. And a second man who disappears after visiting Africa. Then a third, who goes missing in Africa. And a fourth, a mysterious African who has vanished from the consul’s house. Then there’s the swindle involving development funds for a project in Africa, and a man who works professionally with aid to Africa whom we find dead, together with the consul. And now these Africans, running around Copenhagen and scaring macho types like Hector here.”

Carl nodded. “You’re right, there’s a connection with Africa in all of this. But unfortunately the man most likely able to provide us with answers to all our questions is now little more than a charred lump in a very small body bag over at the Forensic Medicine Institute. A bit of a problem, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, I sure would.”

–

“Listen, Assad. That’s the second time today. You can’t go promising streets paved with gold to everyone you interview, you know.”

Carl sat down at his desk, shaking his head as he turned on TV2’s news channel. Maybe they’d be able to catch something about the arrests they’d made during the day.

“But why not, Carl? It’s so much better than thumbscrews, I’d say. Carrots are always better then whips.”

“So are you suggesting that if you couldn’t trick them with your promises, you’d torture them?”

“Torture, Carl, what is torture, exactly? Can it not be many things?”

They stared at each other for a moment, but neither of them took the initiative to carry on the discussion. It was too volatile an issue.

“I had a word with the guys in the violent crime section,” said Carl. “They’ve heard nothing involving Africans the last few days, apart from the usual pusher problems on Istedgade. So what are we supposed to do? We can’t just go running up to Lars Bjørn with vague accusations about two Africans whose identities we don’t know, saying they pose a threat to a lad whose whereabouts are unknown, can we? I don’t know about you, but I reckon we’re done with this case.”

“Say, do you know what, Carl? You will not find the camel if the sand is lying in dunes, but… erm, how does it go, now?” Assad stared at him, perplexed. It must have been the first time his camels had let him down.

Carl tapped a cigarette from his pack. The two phone numbers were still sitting there in front of him, and soon he’d be heading home. What to do?

“What I mean is, if the sand is lying in large…”

Objectively, Mona probably wouldn’t show that much interest, but if he rang Lisbeth instead, wouldn’t that mean Mona was out of his life for good? Was that he wanted?”

“Now I have it, Carl. If the sand piles up into dunes, you will not find the camel. But if the wind begins blowing hard, you can easily see the humps. Ha-ha. That was a good one, don’t you think?”

Carl looked up at him wearily.

“And?”

“It means we cannot know the whole truth until the wind begins to blow a little. I mean, how can we know we are done with this case if we don’t poke around in it some more?”

“Well, to begin with there’s no wind blowing, and besides that we haven’t the manpower at our disposal to work up a gale out there, have we? So don’t you think we should give those camels a break and let them have a little rest in the dunes?”

“You understand the moral of the story, Carl, that’s the main thing. But then we’ll just have to wait until the wind starts blowing by itself, won’t we?”

Carl nodded. This was a moral he liked. If nothing else, it meant he could allow himself to throw his feet up on his desk and do sod all.

“OK. Now I’m going to have a smoke and watch the news. And if Rose isn’t back in ten minutes, I’m gone.”

He wedged the cigarette between his lips, already sensing the assuaging effect of the nicotine his body craved. He’d been waiting all day for it, and now…

“Forget about that cigarette, Carl,” came a voice from the doorway.

And there stood Rose, with the heartiest smile he’d ever seen her wearing, holding up a paper bag from the bakery.

“Warm wheat buns, lads. I’ll bet you forgot today’s supposed to be a holiday. It’s the fourth Friday after Easter.”

She opened the bag and a wonderful aroma filled the room, bestowing upon their gloomy surroundings an undeserved aura of everyday coziness as well as dim recollections of candles, radio dramas, and end-of-season balls at the Hotel Phønix.

“Delicious,” Carl conceded, already salivating.

And then the phone rang.

“We’ve got two people standing at the desk here, asking for Carl Mørck. Do you want us to send them down?”

–

Marco was scared. Much more than he had been out on the streets. There, at least, he’d had a chance, but now he felt like he was throwing himself directly to the lions.

His breathing grew heavier as he passed through the corridors, feeling hemmed in by the cold, unforgiving walls of Copenhagen police headquarters. From the outside, the place looked like a fortress, but inside it felt even worse, and at this moment they were leading him down into a basement from which the only way a person could get out seemed to be the same way as he got in. All of a sudden he was a cornered rat surrounded by a pack of club-wielding boys, out to kill him for the fun of it.

And Tilde’s mother, who had not loosened her grip on him since parking her car, wasn’t making things any better. All the way to headquarters she’d screamed and yelled at him in desperation. That she’d been able to find her way with the shock and adrenaline coursing through her body was a small miracle.

But Marco understood her, for now he had told her all about Tilde and the black men and their threats, and what had happened to William Stark. She had reacted fiercely, attacking him verbally, then crying, her entire body trembling. So much pain and anxiety all at once was too much for her to manage. And suddenly she had struck him, only to regret it immediately and apologize in a shaky voice. And now, as they hurried down the stairs to meet the police officers with whom he’d been playing cat-and-mouse for the past few days, it seemed like she was about to undergo a total meltdown.

Marco knew this was to be his final hour as a free person in a free country. If he survived what the evening had in store for him, he was sure he would be thrown out of the country, but to where?

With all that had befallen him in life, he feared the worst.

Therefore the sight that confronted him was completely unexpected.

Mørck and his two assistants were seated around an untidy desk, munching bread rolls that crunched noisily as the TV news blathered in the background. A sweet, reassuring aroma hung in the air, and the faces that turned toward them were friendly enough, but also profoundly astonished.

Once they realized who their visitors were, all three rose to their feet abruptly, as though witnessing nothing less than a miracle.

“You’re Marco, aren’t you?” said Mørck, stepping toward him. He towered above the boy as he reached out with his long arms.

Marco’s heart was pounding. The man from whom he had fled had stopped smiling now. His lips were pressed tight, his eyes much too intense.

And then he grasped him and lifted him up, as though he were about to crush his every bone.

“Thank God,” he said quietly, clutching him to his chest for a moment. “You’re OK.”

He set him down again and bent forward to look into his face.

“There’s a lot we want to ask you about. Do you want to talk to us now?”

Marco nodded, holding his breath. The man had put his arms around him. He seemed accommodating and glad to see him. It was just too overwhelming. If he didn’t watch out, he’d start to cry. This was the last thing he’d been expecting.

“Good boy,” said the one called Assad, and patted him on the head. Even the girl with the black makeup smiled at him.

“Thank you for bringing him in, Malene,” said Mørck.

She nodded, and then it burst out of her: “Something terrible’s happened. Please help us!”

Mørck caught her gaze. Now they could all see the desperation in her eyes. “What happened, Malene?”

It was a simple question, but it triggered a burst of tears, beseeching, and rampant alarm. Marco could see how hard it was for the three police officers to follow her disjointed, staccato narrative.

But when she said two Africans who were pursuing Marco had taken Tilde, they stiffened.

The woman they called Rose asked them both to take a seat. Mørck put a hand on Marco’s shoulder and squeezed it warm, just the way his father had done all too rarely, and then he turned his attention to Malene.

Marco trembled. He had never experienced anything like this. It almost pained him physically to think of how all his misgivings had been put to shame. Especially now, when it wasn’t long before he would have to sacrifice himself.

Assad asked if he should make some tea, but Mørck stopped him abruptly and sat down in front of Tilde’s mother, taking her hand in his.

She began to speak, slower now and more coherently, as Rose and Assad whispered to each other in the background.

On the flat screen behind Mørck a reporter was speaking outside Tivoli as a streaming text at the bottom of the screen told of police rolling up a band of thieves from north Zealand that had been ravaging Copenhagen, and that many arrests had ensued.

Then the newscast cut to one of the more dramatic arrests showing several officers subduing a fiercely resisting man.

It was Pico.

Mørck turned to the boy with a grave expression on his face. “May I see the mobile they left in the road for you, Marco?”

He handed it over and Mørck studied it. A quite ordinary Nokia, five or six years old, from the time the company had been riding high. Marco had stolen hundreds of them.

Mørck turned it over in his hands. There was a number on the back in felt-tip, probably put there by whoever had got the phone unlocked before selling it on. These things were to be found all over Copenhagen, Marco knew that better than anyone.

“Give this number a call, will you, Rose?” Mørck instructed. “It might be this one’s, or another one entirely. It may even be the one we’re waiting to hear from.”

She entered the number. The mobile in Mørck’s hand rang.

“OK, so that’s sorted. But have a look at the display and check the number the kidnappers called from, Rose. It looks like an African country code.”

She glanced at the display, then left with the phone in her hand.

In the minutes that followed they succeeded in getting Tilde’s mother to breathe more regularly, but they couldn’t make her hands stop shaking.

“How are you feeling, Marco? Not too good either?” Mørck asked.

He shook his head in confirmation.

“We’ll get Tilde back, you’ll see,” he said. But Marco didn’t like the looks he and Assad exchanged.

“The Ivory Coast. That’s the country code,” Rose announced as she came back in. “I don’t think we’re going to get too far with that number, unfortunately. It doesn’t seem to be registered in an existing name.”

“Oh, God,” Tilde’s mother gasped.

Then the African mobile in Rose’s hand beeped quietly.

“It’s a text message,” she said in a quiet voice.

“What’s it say?” Mørck asked.

“It says: Pusher Street, Christiania. Tonight eight P.M.-and they want Marco to come alone, otherwise…”

Her voice trailed off as she looked up at Tilde’s mother, then handed Marco the phone.

They had exactly twenty-five minutes.