Lars Bjørn was hardly going to pat them on the back for this.
–
“What’s your name?”
“Miryam Delaporte.”
“Profession?”
“I don’t have one. I beg on the streets.”
Carl nodded. She was the first to say it like it was. Respect.
“You’re one of Zola’s clan?”
She nodded. Some of the other women trembled at the mention of Zola’s name, but not this one.
“Where do you come from, Miryam?” asked Rose.
“From Kregme, up in north Zealand.”
“I see. Is that where you were born?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never seen my birth certificate.”
OK, so it was like that.
“What do your parents say?”
“I don’t know for certain who they are. That’s how it is with many of us. We’re one big family.”
Rose and Carl exchanged glances. Surprising, how dispassionate she was.
“And that’s all I’m saying,” she added.
Carl drew his chair closer. She had good eyes, not just beautiful, but alive and alert. She had noted how Assad sat impatiently behind her, constantly shifting things around on his desk, and she had sussed that behind Rose’s friendly facade was a determination to keep at it as long as necessary.
She was also well aware that the room she was in was not the path to freedom.
“I can tell you that Zola was killed in that accident,” Rose continued. “You saw for yourself how bad it was. Might that not loosen your tongue?”
She turned her head away. There wasn’t a trace of reaction in her face.
“Earlier today, another man was killed out in Østerbro. He died under a heavy vehicle, too. All of a sudden he just flew out in front of a bus. We don’t know who he is, but we think he may be one of your people. We’ve got a photo here of the man’s face. May I show it to you?”
Miryam remained silent, so Rose shoved it across the table toward her.
It took thirty seconds or so before curiosity got the better of her and she turned to look at it.
Both Carl and Rose saw her reaction. She didn’t give a start, nor were there any facial contortions. It was something more profound, something deeper, like a sudden, sickening pain in her diaphragm. She drew in her stomach a bit, leaned slightly forward and adjusted the position of her legs.
“Who is he?” Carl asked. “Someone you cared for?”
She said nothing.
“OK, we’ll find out soon enough. You’re not the only one here at police headquarters. There are others from your group we can ask,” said Rose. “The guys are the ones who talk the most, in case you’d like to know. But why is that so, Miryam? Is it because you women are afraid of being beaten if you talk too much? Is that how you got that bad leg of yours, Miryam? I can tell it didn’t happen by itself.”
Still no answer.
Now Assad stepped forward and pulled a chair up to her side, almost as though he were her solicitor, a kindly disposed person who would answer on her behalf.
“As you can see, she is saying nothing, so ask me instead,” he said calmly, looking at Rose.
She frowned, but Carl nodded. Why not?
“Is it because she’s afraid of getting beaten, Assad?”
“No. She is afraid of not belonging anywhere, that’s why.”
The girl turned her head toward him. Perhaps she wondered what he was getting at, or maybe she just didn’t understand.
“And then she is afraid of herself,” Assad went on. “Afraid she cannot be anything else than what she is. A simple thief and a beggar no one wants anything to do with besides her so-called family. And she is afraid they will think she has a looser tongue than they do, and that in a moment I will beat her until she bleeds.”
Carl was about to protest, but noticed how the skin around her eyes tightened and her gaze grew more intense.
“That’s enough, Assad,” Rose cut in, but Carl put his hand on her shoulder.
“Assad’s right. That’s exactly what she’s afraid of. Not to mention the risk of our booting her into the asylum center where she’d be together with those who’d know she’d been talking. I understand her better now, Assad.”
He turned to the girl, who sat with her fists clenched in her lap.
“You know who Marco is, don’t you?”
“I told you, I’m not saying more,” she replied, almost in a whisper.
So she was softening up.
“Rose, can you tell me what we can do for Miryam if she helps us find out what Marco’s got himself into?” asked Carl.
Rose’s eyes narrowed. “As long as she’s not cooperating, I’m not saying,” she answered. “But I will say to Assad that if she doesn’t help us, I think Marco’s going to be hunted to death.”
“How do you mean, Rose?” Carl asked.
“I think Miryam knows very well who Marco is and that she feels attached to him. Which I understand, because Marco’s a good boy.”
Carl weighed the situation for a moment. Interviews were an art form mastered only by a select few, and right now they’d obviously run into problems. But apart from that, he found Rose and Assad’s interaction quite interesting. He didn’t know quite where Assad was heading, but somewhere inside her Miryam certainly realized by now that she wasn’t going to get away with keeping her mouth shut.
“You lived with Marco, we know that already,” Rose went on. “Zola told us the boy grew up with the rest of you. Why not just say it’s true? Or could it be you hated him?”
“She did not hate him,” replied Assad.
“Why won’t she answer, then?” Rose rejoined.
“Because she…” Assad leaned quickly forward and clasped his hands around her face. “Because she is ashamed. That is why.”
Time to step in before he really gets started, Carl told himself.
But then Assad surprised him again. “You do not need to be ashamed, Miryam. Leave that to the others,” he said, and let his hands fall to her shoulders.
Before she could wriggle free, he drew her toward him and held her tight. “There, there,” he said, laying one hand gently behind her neck. “You are free now. There is no need for you to answer to anyone anymore. You are really free, Miryam. No more begging, no more stealing. If you help us, everything will be all right, do you understand?”
Some sort of reaction was to be expected, but not that she would be sitting there, fighting back the tears as her body relaxed.
Then she extricated herself from his embrace and looked him straight in the eye.
“The other day, I saw Marco outside a cinema, and I hit him in the face.” She swallowed a couple of times, stemming her tears. “I didn’t want to believe him. I didn’t want to. But then I saw the despair in his eyes.”
“Believe what, Miryam?” Rose took her hand and held it tight. “What was it you didn’t want to believe?”
“I didn’t want to believe something that could take my home away from me, just like that other man said before.”
“Explain what you mean.”
She raised her head. “I only knew for sure it would happen anyway when you showed me the photo of Marco’s father.” She pointed at the police photo of the dead man’s face. “Oh, God, I knew it then, but only then.”
“So the man there is Marco’s father?”
She nodded. “One of the others told me Zola had pushed someone under a bus. I didn’t know who it was. I thought it was Marco and that he deserved it.”
“No one deserves that.”
She nodded and lowered her head. “I know.”
Carl indicated it was time for Rose to let go of her hand. He drew his chair up close.
“Tell us then, Miryam. What is it you now know?”
“I know it was all true what Marco said. I know it was Zola who pushed me into the road the time my leg was crushed, and that he was the one who killed his brother. I know that if Marco says Zola has killed others, too, then it must be true. I know that now. But I just don’t understand.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Go on, Miryam. Let’s hear it all.”