The crash of a door being slammed rang through the silence.
Her heart gave a wild leap and raced even faster under her sweat-soaked T-shirt. She stumbled to her feet, still with the boy locked in her arms.
And then she ran.
The boy’s body was tense with resistance and difficult to manage, and she felt the extra weight now in her knees and ankles. She was getting older, she thought, too old to be fleeing with a child in her arms.
Seconds later, she reached the Fiat and yanked open the door to the driver’s seat. She glanced up at the cottage through the foliage of the birches flanking the drive. She could see no signs of any human presence up there, and for a moment she began to doubt her senses. Had the footsteps really been footsteps? Or had it really just been the wind rustling the grass, or perhaps Mr. Kitty? Her phone. Should she go back and look for it? Did she dare? She felt an irrational urge to protect the still, unliving body in there, to guard it against… .
Against what? It was too late. For Karin, everything was too late. Now Nina had to think of the boy, and of herself. Yet still she hesitated, child on her hip, as she peered through the dusty, dry leaves. Then she froze. A light had come on in the kitchen, and she saw someone move about in there. Then the dark form seemed to grow bigger as it approached the window, and for a moment, she saw the pale outline of a face.
Nina practically threw the boy into the passenger seat. She thrust the key into the ignition with frantic haste, and the second the engine caught, she backed wildly down the lane, careening from one side of the road to the other. The long grass hissed against the sides of the car, and once, a stone or a root knocked against the undercarriage. The other cottages all had black, dark windows and empty drives. No help to be had there. Gravel from the road whipped up against the windscreen when she finally managed to turn the car around and continued, still at much too furious a speed, down the partially paved road towards the sea. It was only then she realized that she had forgotten to turn on the headlights.
She had forgotten to turn on the lights, and the boy next to her had begun to scream so loudly that anyone would think she was trying to kill him.
Nina forced a deep breath into her abdomen, slowed the car a fraction, and turned on the lights with a dry little click. The boy’s screaming softened into sobs, but he was now crouched on the floor of the car, his arms clutched around his head. And suddenly, amidst the soft, gurgling sobs, intelligible words began to form.
“Mama. Noriu pas Mama!”
Sweet Jesus, she thought. He has a mother somewhere.
J
AN HAD DECIDED
to spend the night in the company’s downtown flat in Laksegade. This was mainly in order to avoid Anne. With her peculiar Anne-radar she had naturally spotted something wasn’t going quite according to plan, and right now he had to keep his distance from her, or she might realize just how much of a shambles the whole thing was. Besides, it would be much easier to deal with Karin without Anne somewhere in the vicinity.
He bought a TV dinner in Magasin’s delicatessen and heated it in the microwave of the small kitchen. Karin’s betrayal still left a bitterness in his mouth. How he could be so wrong? But it would seem she was both less loyal and more mercenary than he would have guessed. At home, in her flat above the garage, he had found only two things worth noticing: the empty briefcase and a note announcing in bold letters, “I QUIT.”
So that was gratitude for you. Normally, he was a better judge of whom to guard against, and whom to trust. And Karin had known what was at stake. Even now, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that it was all a misunderstandng. That once he got to talk to her, everything would work itself out.
But the Lithuanian hadn’t called, which had to mean he hadn’t found her. Jan felt his stomach cramp at the thought of what this would do to him and his life. The chances that it would ever be normal again lessened with each hour that went by. He didn’t exactly have all the time in the world—didn’t she understand that?
He made himself a cup of coffee and tried to watch the news, but he couldn’t concentrate. Perhaps he should go for a run in Kongens Have? But he hadn’t brought his running clothes or shoes, and although Magasin’s Men’s Department was just around the corner, he didn’t feel like another shopping expedition. He had already purchased a shirt and some underwear for tomorrow, the way he often did when he had been working so late that making the drive back to the house wasn’t practical.
The flat was cramped as a coffin compared to the house, but there was something about it that he liked. His assistant, Marianne, had seen to the redecoration, and she had hit a note that made him feel comfortable here. Sort of a luxury version of a student’s digs. Old armchairs draped with pale rugs. Retro lamps she had found in flea markets. Seven different plates, rather than a single pattern, and equally unmatching coffee mugs. Marianne liked doing that kind of thing. “It needs personality,” she had said. “Or you might as well put people up in a hotel.” Perhaps the place reminded him of the small flat he had shared with his student friend Kristian, back when the world was new, when they both had dreams of becoming IT millionaires. Briefly, he wondered what Kristian was doing now. As far as he knew, Jan had been the only one to make the millionaire dream come true.
What an absolutely bloody day. He stretched, and felt a twinge from the operation scar just above his hip. He scratched it reflexively. What the hell was the Lithuanian doing? And what the hell was Karin thinking?
Suddenly, the door phone buzzed aggressively. Jan set the mug on the worktop and went to press the button.
“Yes.”
“It’s Inger.”
A fraction of a second ticked by before he realized which Inger. His mother-in-law.
“Inger,” he said, trying to put a smile into his voice. “Come in!”
She was slim and fair like Anne, exactly the same figure. Right now she was wearing one of her bright African dresses, her bare, tanned arms sporting four or five carved ebony bracelets. This was the sort of thing Inger could carry off—making something like that look exactly right.
“Anne said you were here,” she said. “So I thought I would seize the moment.”
“What a lovely surprise,” said Jan. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No thank you,” she said. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Oh dear,” he said, trying for a humorous note. “What have I done now?”
She didn’t buy his attempt at levity.
“Anne is upset,” she said.
“Did she say that?”
“Of course not. Anne is Anne. She would never say a thing like that. But something isn’t right with her, and I am asking you now. Is it Aleksander?”
His heart pounded madly.
“No, no,” he said. “That’s all been taken care of.”
She looked at him directly. Her eyes weren’t quite as blue as Anne’s were; there was more gray in them.
“What, then?” she asked. “Is there something wrong between the two of you?”
His smile felt as if it were glued to his face, and he was sure the lack of naturalness was showing. Why could he never do things right? He admired Inger. She was a wonderful woman, feminine and strong at the same time, just the sort of soulmate a man like Keld deserved. He so wanted her to
like
him.
“I would never hurt Anne,” he said.
Her eyebrows shot up.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t think you would. But that wasn’t the question I asked.”
Wrong again. Sometimes he felt as if there were a little man inside his head with one of those ear-splitting buzzers they used on quiz shows whenever a contestant got it wrong.
“Then I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said. “We’re fine.”
She sighed. Shook her head.
“Do you know,” she said. “I don’t think so.” She got up, hitching the strap from her stylishly fringed handbag onto one bare shoulder.
“Are you leaving already?” he said.
“There doesn’t seem to be much point in staying,” she said, and again, he had the feeling that he had failed some test he didn’t really understand.
“Have you talked to Keld about this?” he burst out.
Again, she gave him one of those very direct, gray-blue looks. She shook her head once more, but he wasn’t certain it meant no. What if she had been sitting out there in the Taarbæk villa, discussing it with Keld, in the conservatory, perhaps, over a glass of late evening wine and some really good cheese, talking about him, about him and Anne and their marriage, wondering if everything were the way it should be … his stomach became a small, rocksolid lump at the thought.
“Goodnight,” she said. “I hope you work it out.” She put a hand on his arm for a moment before she left, and he was pretty sure that there was pity in her glance.
He stood by the window, watching her walk down the street. From the rear, she could still pass for a young woman, her stride full of energy and grace, her feet turned slightly out. Once, she had laughingly told him she had been a ballet child for three whole years before they kicked her out. “And you never stop walking like a duck after that.” She still took some kind of dancing class in the evenings.
He discovered he was shaking all over. Stop it, he told himself. In a little while, the Lithuanian will call. He will have found Karin. And there is still time. It will all be fine.
Just before midnight, the phone rang, but it wasn’t the Nokia. It was Anne, on his personal mobile.
“The police have been here,” she said, and he could hear the fragile cracks in her voice. “They say that Karin is dead.”
T
HE DOBROVOLSKIJS WERE
Russian, but not from the Soviet era. The family had lived in Vilnius for more than a hundred years, and old man Dobrovolskij himself, the present patriarch, still inhabited one of the old wooden mansions behind Znamenskaya, the Orthodox Church of the Apparition of the Holy Mother of God. Sigita had been there once before, with Algirdas, and they had been served black Russian tea on the porch, in tall glasses so gilded that they were only barely transparent.
Sigita paused by the garden gate, suddenly indecisive. Now that she was actually here, it was hard to imagine that the Dobrovolskijs could be holding Mikas somewhere in that beautiful, freshly painted house. And there was no silver Cayenne parked by the curb.
If
Dobrovolskij had anything to do with this, he wouldn’t do it here. Not in his childhood home, so close to the Church its huge silvery dome could be seen through the treetops. Where others tore down the old wooden houses and built modern brick monstrosities as soon as they came into money, Dobrovolskij had instead carefully renovated. The delicately carved trimmings shone with fresh yellow paint, the intricate window frames and shutters likewise; and though there might still be a well in the garden outside, it was for decorative purposes only. Sigita knew for a fact that there were three shiny new bathrooms in the house—that had been part of the agreement between Janus Construction and the old man.
She had stood there long enough to be noticed. The white lace curtain in one window twitched, and a little later a young darkhaired girl came out onto the porch.
“Mrs. Dobrovolskaja is asking whether there is anything we can do for you?” she said, her Lithuanian heavily accented. Her slim, girlish figure was dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of black Calvin Kleins, and Sigita guessed her to be some kind of Russian relative, or perhaps an au pair. Or both.
Sigita cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry. This may sound odd. But do you know if Pavel Dobrovolskij still owns a silver Porsche Cayenne?”
“Has something happened?” The girl focused on Sigita’s plaster cast. “An accident? Is he all right?”
“No, nothing has happened … or, not in that way. I had a fall on the stairs.”
“Is it broken?”
“Yes.”
“What a pity. I hope it will soon be new again.” She smiled awkwardly. “Forgive me. My Lithuanian is not yet very good. I am Anna, Pavel’s fiancée. How do you know Pavel?”
“It’s really more my boss who knows him. Algirdas Janusevičius. They do projects together from time to time. My name is Sigita.”
They shook hands.
“The Porsche?” said Sigita. “He still has it?”
Anna smiled.
“He’s trying to sell it. He calls it an elephant. But no one has bought it yet. If you’re interested, you can see it in Super Auto’s showroom in Pusu gatvė. It’s only two blocks from here.”
THE PORCHE CAYENNE
stood proudly in the best window at Super Auto, behind bars and armored glass, and without license plates. A price sticker announced that Sigita could become the happy owner of this vehicle if only she were willing to pay six years’ wages for it. Algirdas had been right, thought Sigita miserably. There was absolutely no evidence that Dobrovolskij had taken Mikas, or had anything to do with his disappearance.
Not until she felt that straw break did she realize how hard she had been clinging to it. It had to be Dobrovolskij because Dobrovolskij was someone she knew, he had a face, she knew where he lived. If it was Dobrovolskij, Mikas would come back to her.
But it wasn’t Dobrovolskij.
SIGITA WALKED TO
the nearest trolley stop on legs that felt disconnected. The trolley stop did not represent a conscious decision, more a conditioned reflex. She had lived in this neighborhood herself, once, in two attic rooms in one of the wooden houses where the well was anything but decorative. For three years she had climbed the narrow stairs every day with a couple of ten-liter plastic water containers in her hands, one for Mrs. Jovaišienė , who owned the house, and one for herself. If she needed to bathe, she had to use the public facilities some blocks away, so usually she took sponge baths and relied heavily on a wonder-product called Nuvola, which came in an aerosol can; one sprayed it into one’s hair, waited for a few minutes, and then brushed vigorously, after which everything would be as clean as if one had just showered. Or that was the theory. Once a week she borrowed Mrs. Jovaišienė’s little hand-cranked washing machine, but most of the time she just washed her clothes in the sink, like they had done back home in Tauragė.