The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (31 page)

“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.

It was 9:25 and
an unusually chilly morning for the time of year as René E. Eriksen stood waiting at the arrivals gate in Kastrup Airport’s Terminal 3.

His sole aim was to get Teis Snap to hand over his shares from Curaçao, and he was confident he would succeed. An ugly scene in public was the last thing Snap wanted, and Eriksen was prepared to kick up a fuss.

Hordes of scorched Danes filed past him in sandals and espadrilles, welcomed home by fluttering Danish flags and warm embraces of reunion. But where the hell was the dickhead? Had he gotten off the plane in Amsterdam? Did he find the whole situation so trivial that canal trips and
poffertjes
were more important than returning home and getting matters under control?

Or had he found a buyer for the shares that didn’t belong to him?

Eriksen was in despair. If only he could be sure the UPS delivery was on the level. And if it wasn’t, and Snap failed to show, what about his careful timing for the next few days?

He took a deep breath and spared himself the sight of more ridiculous repatriated vacationers as he fidgeted with the car keys in his terylene trousers.

What was the point of waiting if the bastard wasn’t going to turn up?

Then, just as he was about to go, Snap and his wife came strolling through the gates with a pair of suitcases trundling in their wake.

His wife saw him first, her face lighting up in a smile as she pointed. But Snap wasn’t smiling when he realized who she was pointing at.

“What are you doing here?” was the first thing he said.

“Gee, have you been waiting for us, René?” his wife asked. “Sorry we were such a long time, but Teis’s suitcase wasn’t on the conveyor.” She gave her husband a nudge. “You were white as a sheet for half an hour, toots, ha-ha.”

They moved aside, away from the throng, and René got straight to the point.

“The share certificates weren’t in the package you sent. Where are they?”

Snap seemed surprised, shocked almost, which of course he would have been if the certificates really had been in the package as agreed. But this was a different kind of surprise altogether, caused more by the fact that René was already able to confront him with the matter. Or was it because he was able to be there in the first place? Was that it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, René.” Snap took René by the arm and drew him away from his wife. “Why are you saying this? You can’t possibly have received the package yet. Are you expecting other deliveries?”

There was something about the way he said it that sounded wrong. He was clutching his briefcase too tightly. Everything about him seemed out of sync.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Teis. Don’t you think I know who attacked me yesterday?” He turned his head, indicating the bandage and the bump on the back of his head. “C’mon, show me what you’ve got in that briefcase.”

Snap began fumbling with the handle, then shook his head. “OK, Lisa, we’re leaving. I think René must be suffering from some sort of brain concussion.”

But René grabbed his well upholstered arm. “You’re going nowhere until you’ve shown me what’s inside that briefcase, you bastard.”

Snap turned to his wife. “There’s no reason you should witness this, Lisa. Take the luggage and grab a taxi home. I’ve got some appointments in town today anyway. I’ll be back this evening, darling.”

René let them kiss each other good-bye and attempted to send Snap’s
wife a reassuring smile, as the situation dictated. But as soon as she was out of sight, trailing the two Samsonites, he was ready.

“You’re a fool, René,” said Snap, seizing the initiative. “That package hasn’t arrived yet, it’s written all over your face. And what’s all this talk about being attacked? Tell me what happened. Who did it, and where’d it happen?”

OK, so that was his strategy. A halo of innocence shining over the imbecile’s Brylcreemed hair.

“Open your briefcase, Teis,” he commanded, trying to grab it out of Snap’s hand. “I want to see what you’re hiding in it.”

Snap held it tight. “Certainly not. That bump on the head must have knocked the sense out of you. Go home to your wife, René. Take the day off. You need it.”

“Open it, or I’ll make a scene.”

Teis Snap’s eyes narrowed as a smirk appeared on his lips. “You? Make a scene? Excuse my mirth, you silly little man. What on earth is there to make a scene about? You’re losing your powers of judgment, René, can’t you see?”

“Open it, or I’ll kick your fat ass for you.”

Snap shook his head in exasperation and handed him the briefcase.

Right there René knew intuitively that he had lost the first round. Nonetheless, he opened the case and rummaged through its contents: crossword puzzles, magazines, and a copy of the
Financial Times
.

How blessedly simple. So that was why for once he’d hung around in baggage claim until his suitcase finally turned up. The suitcase his wife was now on her way to Karrebæksminde with, and which he would have been loath to have left in the care of the baggage handling company.

Why hadn’t René seen it coming?

“There are two possibilities here, Teis. Either you’re telling the truth and the shares are on their way to me. Or else you’re not, and those suitcases your little wife took with her have some very interesting contents. If the latter happens to be the case, I’d advise you to deliver the certificates to me immediately, otherwise I shall be going to the police with everything I know.”

Snap didn’t exactly look unnerved by the threat, but he was. René knew the guy too well.

He turned on his heel, glancing at his watch as he strode away. Ten past ten.

The day was still young.