The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (25 page)

He skated across the folders on the desktop. They were neatly ordered, labeled according to the period in which the files they contained had been created, from 2003 to 2008. He clicked on a couple, finding their contents rather uninteresting at first blush, mainly large numbers of scientific studies, correspondence with doctors and the families of patients all over the world, Tilde’s test results, copies of medical records, letters of protest, and respectful acknowledgments. All with the sole aim of getting to grips with Tilde’s illness and trying to do something about it. Nothing new or surprising as far as René could make out.

He proceeded into the Documents library to see if there could be folders containing information that might compromise the group or reveal whether Stark had been cognizant of the Baka project fraud. For while Stark’s disappearance had given rise to general consternation, René himself was more interested in finding out why Stark hadn’t already gone missing in Cameroon as planned. Why had he come back early? Something must have happened in Cameroon, and knowing Stark as he did, René could only presume that some kind of prior knowledge had prompted him to react so unexpectedly.

But this was still mere conjecture.

Upon hearing his wife open the bathroom door rather less demonstratively than she had closed it and that the sound of slippers had now been superseded by the padding of bare feet, he knew it was time to stop.

He clicked on a couple of icons and took a quick look at the rest of the folders under Documents. And so it was his eyes came to rest on one without a name.

Five minutes, surely he could allow himself five minutes. So he clicked on the folder, whereupon at least twenty subfolders appeared, each specifying a geographical location and particular subject.

Some bore the names of African states, like Tanzania, Mozambique, Kenya, or Ghana. Others were more cryptically labeled:
CNTCTNME
,
BESTKS., CNTRCT, POL1, POL2, POL3,
and so on.

René found it odd. His ministry no longer provided aid to several of
the countries in question, and some of them belonged to a category of states with whom they’d had considerable problems in recent years when it came to getting them to report back properly.

He clicked on a random folder.
CNTCTNME
, it read, clearly a file containing the names of Stark’s most important contacts. He quickly ran through the list. Many of them had been crossed out in red and replaced by others a fair amount of time before Stark’s disappearance, but René recognized them all.

He shook his head and opened the next folder:
CNTRCT
. In many ways this one seemed more complex.

René frowned as his wife slammed the doors of her wardrobe upstairs. So this was going to be another day on which nothing would please her.

He saw now that several of the contracts in the folder were the kind of confidential material not normally removed from the ministry. But upon opening the first of them to investigate further, he discovered to his surprise that it contained not the contract in its entirety, but merely an appendix.

What would he want with an appendix to a contract? he mused, moving on to the next. Here, too, the contents were an appendix rather than the contract itself. As he proceeded through the entire list of subfolders he realized that Stark had added appendices to at least twenty-five ministerial contracts. Each specified an atypical transfer of money, and only in connection with a development project of considerable magnitude whose budget Stark was responsible for.

He began to add the sums together and when he reached two million kroner René knew for certain that his had not been the only criminal activity taking place in the ministry.

He could hardly believe it. His most trusted and honest coworker, William Stark, had systematically siphoned off funds from their development projects and defrauded the state of two million good Danish kroner!

René smiled to himself, ignoring the sudden appearance and automatic nagging of his wife. Things were beginning to shape up.

Earlier this very same day he had managed to imply to the police that Stark had been a pedophile as well as pressured Teis Snap into
abandoning the theft of his stock in Curaçao. And now this, the most important of all: he had found the man who, with complete plausibility, could be set up as being the brains behind the Baka swindle if it proved necessary to deflect the blame. The perfect scapegoat. A man who had previously embezzled a considerable sum of money from his ministry. In short, he had discovered an individual of extremely dubious morals, who precisely for that reason had rationale enough for disappearing from the face of the earth.

So, Lady Luck, it seemed, was still smiling upon him.

“What’s Rose going to
say when we go to see Malene Kristoffersen without her?”

Carl cast a glance up at the imposing gates of Vestre prison as they drove past. How many fools had he gotten dispatched behind those dreadful walls in his time? Not so few. It was just a damned shame that they came out again.

“Rose? She’s otherwise occupied at the ministry. I reckon she’ll get over it,” Carl replied curtly. After yesterday’s shenanigans with Gordon, preferential treatment wasn’t the first thing that sprang to mind at the mention of her name. Besides, he didn’t give a toss what she’d say. He had other things to think about.

Ever since their visit to Danida’s office for evaluating development assistance he’d had a strong feeling in his bones that they had proceeded too quickly. That he should have waited to interview department head René E. Eriksen until the case had been considered from more angles.

“Tell me again why you think our visit cheered Eriksen up, Assad. I noticed a reaction when you asked him about Stark’s sexuality, but I wouldn’t exactly say it cheered him up.”

“Don’t you know what happens when you give a camel a slap on the backside, Carl? It begins to run and stretch its neck toward where it thinks its goal is. Almost as if having a long neck in itself could make it arrive faster.”

“Sounds reasonable. But what exactly are you trying to say?”

“It was like we gave Eriksen a slap on the backside when I mentioned
Stark’s sexual preferences. All of a sudden he seemed to set his sights on a goal and stretched his neck out toward it faster than his legs could keep up.”

“You mean he’d been keeping a secret he wanted to get off his chest?”

“No, you do not understand, Carl. It seemed like he suddenly saw a goal that had not been there before.”

“What sort of goal?”

“That’s what I can’t work out.”

“You’re saying he was lying?”

“I don’t know. But all of a sudden there were stories that could easily have come out earlier. Stories about young boys and glances and what else the devil knows.”

“
Other way around
, Assad. It’s ‘and the devil knows what else.’”

“Anyway, I think Eriksen had that look in his eye like when a person is given the chance to tell a good story.”

“And?”

“It’s just that suspecting a man you work with of being a pedophile is not a good story.”

Carl turned down Sjælør Boulevard. They would soon be there. “I got the same feeling myself, now you mention it. There was a lack of . . . shame in his voice.”

The house on Strindbergsvej was typical of the era in which it was built. A sloping, French-style roof and a bit of ornamentation to make it look more imposing than building costs justified. Homes like this were often divided into two, with a dwelling on each floor so Copenhagen’s exorbitant property taxes could be spread between incomes. A small green oasis in the suburb of Valby that satisfied both the desire to live close to the city center and the dream of living farther away.

Malene Kristoffersen received them looking like she hadn’t quite come home from her package tour. The suitcases in the hall were still to be unpacked and equal parts of self-tanner and intense sunbathing on the beaches of Turkey had left her skin discolored in the peculiar way that always made people at work envious. Despite the somewhat lower temperatures at home her flowing dress was colorful and light as a feather,
almost certainly purchased on her vacation. She was an attractive woman who didn’t need to advertise the fact, even though the look on Assad’s face said he was quite impressed.

“We stayed home today. We need to sometimes when Tilde’s been for her checkup. It takes quite a bit out of her,” she said. “She’s sleeping at the moment, so you’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.”

Assad nodded very accommodatingly. “We’d be glad to come back again if necessary,” he said with a sheepish grin.

Carl wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’m very grateful for what you’re doing,” she went on.

An unusually promising opener, so seldom heard in Carl’s line of work.

He smiled slightly. “It’s always a sad thing when people disappear. But unfortunately, finding an explanation so long after the event is often quite a hopeless task.”

“Yes, I realize that, but I still hope. William is such a lovely man.”

Assad and Carl exchanged glances. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“We’ve been to his place of work and spoken to his boss and a couple of his colleagues,” Carl said. “Mostly to gain more of an idea of what he was doing in Cameroon. Did he tell you anything about that trip before he went?”

“Yes, he did, and he wasn’t keen on having to go. Tilde was doing poorly in the hospital, and William wanted to stay home and be here for the two of us. That’s the way he is,” she explained, adding a rather sad smile by way of emphasis.

“So he was ordered to go?”

“Yes, and at short notice, too. He was told only the day before, as I remember it.”

“And what was the point of the trip?”

“They suspected one of the local helpers of running off with some of the funding.”

“A local, you say?”

“Yes. A guy named Louis. Louis Fon. William had met him on several occasions and thought he was doing a good job. I don’t think he really believed what they were saying. There was also something about Fon
having sent William an odd text message, too, that had William puzzled. He sat by Tilde’s bed all evening the night before he left, trying to work out what it meant, but it just seemed like a lot of gibberish.”

“He showed it to you, then?”

“Yes. Tilde’s into texting, but she didn’t understand it either.”

“Did you speak to William after he arrived in Yaoundé?”

“No, but he did phone just after he landed in Douala. He always did that. He complained about the heat and was sorry he wasn’t home.”

“But nothing about coming back the next day?”

“No.”

There was a rasping sound as Assad drew his palm back and forth against the stubble of his chin. Carl could almost hear his colleague’s gray matter creaking and groaning.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you so directly, but what about the possibility of suicide? Does that sound plausible to you?”

She smiled without reservation. “William’s not like that at all. He was happy with his life and his work. The only thing that weighed on him was Tilde’s condition. He would never leave anyone in the lurch like that, least of all us.”

“And the two of you got along well together?”

She nodded. First quickly, then again, more slowly. As though the question triggered forces inside her that had accumulated over a long time. She wasn’t upset, but mentally she seemed to have reached a point where feelings of grief were no longer welcome.

“We were soul mates. Do you know what I mean?” She looked up at Carl abruptly, in a manner that felt uncomfortable considering the way he and love were doing at the moment.

Assad slid menacingly close to the edge of his chair, his introduction to a round of potential shock treatment already formulated “We heard it suggested at William’s workplace that he may have certain interests you possibly know nothing about. Have you any idea as to what they might be?”

She shook her head. “Nope, William was always very open about everything. There were only three things he really cared about. Tilde first, then me, then his job.” She smiled, as if everything about the man were unassailable. “But what were you thinking about, exactly?”

“Open about everything, you say?” Carl knew of no one but Assad who could toss a sentence into the air so vivid that it remained suspended long after a conversation had come to an end. “Would that include the most intimate of matters? Sex fantasies and such?”

She stifled a laugh, presumably because in terms of the world she lived in, she knew William Stark’s sexual desires to be as normal and predictable as could be. “How do you mean, fantasies? What’s wrong with fantasies? Don’t you have any of your own?”

Assad’s smile was perhaps a mite too overbearing in light of the sentence that followed. “Indeed I do, but not about young boys and girls.”

Malene Kristoffersen was shocked. She sucked her lower lip in and her face drained of color quicker than Carl had ever seen. She grasped the hem of her skirt, wringing the material so hard they could hear the stitching split. Though momentarily stunned, she shook her head like a metronome. The words she was looking for were on their way.

They came slowly and deliberately, like small, measured punches. “Are you telling me that William is suspected of being a pedophile? Is that what you’re saying, you little shit? Is it? Answer me! I want to hear the word from your own filthy mouth, do you hear me?”

The way Assad tipped his head and turned the other cheek was almost biblical. But things could develop fast.

“Let me say it, then,” said Carl. “Have you ever had the slightest suspicion that William might have pedophile tendencies? Have you ever seen him staring at children or spending too much time at the computer late at night?”

The tears in her eyes could have come from anger, but they did not. Everything about her body language suggested otherwise. She shook her head slowly. “William was a completely normal man.” She swallowed a couple of times to stifle her urge to cry. “And yes, he did sit up late at the computer, but it was his work. Don’t you think a woman like me knows how to uncover the inner workings of her husband—or of a computer, for that matter?”

“External hard drives are quite small these days, easy to hide away in a pocket. Did he use them?”

She shook her head. “Why did you come here, anyway? Don’t you think it’s bad enough not knowing what’s happened to William?” She was about to say more but turned her head away with a pained expression. Swallowing was no longer sufficient to stave off her crying. It was the kind of situation that revealed a person’s true age. Her skin seemed almost to become transparent. Then she took a deep breath and turned to face them again. “No, he didn’t have any external hard drives, he wasn’t good when it came to technology or electronics. In fact, William was as analog you could imagine. Real world, with both feet on the ground. That’s how he was. Understand?”

Carl nodded to Assad, who pulled a photo out of his pocket.

“Do you know this boy? I realize it’s hard to see his face, but perhaps you can recognize his clothes or something else about him?” he asked, showing her the still from the CCTV footage of Marco.

She frowned but said nothing while Assad described him in more detail, adding that the boy had been seen outside Stark’s house. “Don’t you think it strange for a boy of that age to be so interested in William, especially after such a long time?”

“Yes, of course I find it strange. But there could be any number of reasons, not just . . .”

Assad turned the screws. “The boy can’t have been very old when William went missing.”

She understood what he was getting at, and her claws were already extended. Carl gave Assad a prudent nudge with his elbow before taking over.

“The question is what relationship this boy, who must have been no more than twelve or thirteen at the time, could have to William. Can you suggest anything?”

“My suggestion is that you keep your mouths shut with such disgusting allegations, do you hear me? William was
not
a pedophile, he . . .”

She stopped, as if someone had switched her off, at the sound of padded feet in the hall.

All three of them looked toward the door as a sleepy, blonde-haired girl with angular eyebrows came into the room.

Carl tried to smile as Malene raised her hand in a motherly greeting, hoping her daughter hadn’t heard what had been said, but the expression on Tilde’s face was unambiguous.

“Are you OK now, darling?” Malene asked.

The girl ignored her. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice acidic.

Assad got up first. “We are from the police, Tilde. My name is—”

“Have you found William?”

They shook their heads.

“In that case I think you should go.”

Her mother tried to explain, but Tilde had already passed judgment.

“You two are a couple of idiots. William wasn’t like that at all. Or perhaps you knew him better than us?”

Neither of them answered. What could they say to a child like her, who had screamed out her loss on every billboard in the city?

The girl clutched her abdomen and her hands trembled. Malene made to get up, but Tilde gave her a look that clearly demonstrated just what kind of person they were dealing with. Here was a girl who knew all about pain. The body’s internal knife stab, the torments of the soul, and the realization that the future had not much else to offer. And yet she did not flee from the room and leave the grown-ups with all the accusations. She stood her ground, though everything inside her clamored for her to give up. She stood her ground and looked them each in the eye. “William was my father. I loved him, he was always there for me, even when I was really ill. Ask anyone I know and they’ll tell you he never did me or any of my friends any harm whatsoever.” She looked down at the floor. “And I miss him so very much. Now just tell me why you’re here; I’m not angry anymore. Have you found him?”

“I’m afraid not, Tilde. But we think there’s someone who knows what happened to him.” Carl showed her the photo of the boy. “He was at Bellahøj police station yesterday with your poster. And he had this with him.”

He nodded to Assad, who produced a clear bag containing the African necklace from his pocket, placing it carefully on the coffee table in front of her.

Tilde blinked, as though the repeated opening and shutting of her eyelids could keep the world at bay and reveal to her some new path
forward. She remained so long in this apparent state of paralysis that Malene got to her feet and put her arms round her without the girl noticing. All she saw was the necklace.

Carl looked at Assad, who avoided his gaze. They all knew what Tilde was going through now. A person who had never felt what it was like to suddenly be overwhelmed by the realization of having lost a loved one had either never known loss or had never truly lived. Here at this particular moment were four people, each with his or her own way of dealing with that feeling, and Assad’s was definitely not the easiest.