Carl walked over to an elderly couple standing just inside their wrought-iron gate, as if it could protect them in some way.
“Oh, how awful, how awful,” the wife kept saying. “All our houses could have gone up in flames. Just look at our Mercedes.”
Carl stood scratching his neck. Brage-Schmidt could hardly have been their best friend.
“Were you the people who called for help?” he asked.
They shook their heads emphatically. Obviously they were steering clear of the entire affair.
“OK, then, thanks. Let’s just cross our fingers the hand-grenade depot explodes in the other direction, shall we?” He raised a finger to his imaginary hat in parting and they were back inside their house before he knew it.
“Over here, Carl,” shouted Assad.
He nodded toward a youngish couple who, like their elderly neighbors, seemed to slot in nicely in these opulent surroundings. What it cost for all the makeup in which the woman had encased herself would have fed a fair-sized Bangladeshi family for at least a couple of decades.
“Well,” she said. “Ernst had a feeling there was something amiss, so of course we advised the fire brigade.”
She forgot to say “forthwith,” Carl thought, then the sentence would be complete.
“We’ve already spoken to the police,” said the man, when Carl showed him his ID. “Nothing more to say, really,” he added. “We neither saw nor heard anything. People up here aren’t very nosy.”
“That’s a shame. Did you have any contact with Mr. Brage-Schmidt?”
“Oh, you know. A bit of Rotary when he was younger. Not much of late, though. The delivery boy came with groceries every day and left them in the garage, but to tell you the truth, we never saw him come out to take them in. He was a bit peculiar.”
Carl nodded as he and Assad walked back toward the smoldering ruin.
“Have you spoken to the fire investigators?” he asked.
“Yes, but they’re no further than us, Carl, because the fire’s still burning, sort of.”
“Have you been over there?”
Carl pointed to a path that cut through the meter-tall beech-tree hedge surrounding the majority of houses along the road.
“It’s too hot, I think. Why?”
“We could have a word with the neighbors from round the back.”
“In that case, you can just as well talk to him over there.”
Carl saw a boy standing at the curb with his bike. He seemed oddly intense, his eyes aflame and a reddish-yellow glow reflecting in his face.
“Assad says you live in the house behind here. Did you notice anything strange going on today?” he asked, as he approached.
The lad shook his head.
“No one who happened to be walking along the path or who squeezed through a hole in the hedge?”
“There isn’t a hole. There’s a gate.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can get from our road into the consul’s garden through a gate. That’s what the Negro always does.”
“The Negro?”
“Yeah, the one who lives in the house.”
“We didn’t know anyone was living there apart from Brage-Schmidt. But you’re saying someone does?”
“He’s lived there for years. He always leaves his car on one of the other roads and walks to the house from there.”
It was from the mouths of babes and drunks that the truth emerged.
Carl gave the lad a friendly punch on the shoulder. Thanks for the tip.
“Let’s have a look at those barbecued bodies, shall we? I think I know who the other one is now,” he said, drawing Assad over toward the two charred mounds lying on the tarps by the hedge.
The flesh was as good as burned away. There were still remnants of leather on the exposed bones of one the body’s fingers, probably from the armrest of the wheelchair. From the permanent S-shaped position of the corpse, it looked like he’d been sitting in it when the place went up.
The other body was little but a heap of scorched bones held together by fused tendons and charred muscle. The eye sockets were burned empty and the facial skin melted off. It was impossible to tell whether the person had been white or black, let alone male or female.
“What’s that?” said Assad, indicating the corpse’s mouth. He glanced around. There were no forensic technicians in sight.
He stuck his finger in between what had once been lips and pushed the slop of remains aside.
“I’ve seen these dentures before,” he said.
Carl gave a nod of surprise as Assad wiggled one of the front teeth with his finger.
There was no doubt about it, Carl had to admit. The body was René E. Eriksen’s. A set of choppers like that wasn’t something you forgot in a hurry.
Assad wiped his hands on his trousers. “What do you say, Carl?”
“The same as you, probably, that now they’ve all bumped each other off, and the case is drawing to a close. I reckon Laursen will agree, once he sees the technicians’ reports and the DNA analyses.”
40
For a long time Marco thought about how much space emptiness can actually take up inside a person. Only hours ago everything had been so chaotic, yet so, so straightforward. He’d been on the run, his father and Zola were still alive, and the clan had been working the streets. But now both his father and Zola were dead, and a whole lot of clan members had been arrested.
And here he was, wondering what was next. Was he free? With Zola gone, who would call off the hunt? And how was he supposed to get along with no money at the same time as he was wanted by the police?
It was all so difficult. No matter how hard he tried to think, his mind was awash with sorrow, relief and fear, rendering futile all attempts to make any kind of decision.
Perhaps it would all pass if he just waited a day or two. Why should they all be after him when Zola was no more? And why should the police continue their search as well? After all, he’d done nothing wrong. No, a couple of days lying low, considering his next move-that’s what he needed. And who could tell? Maybe now he could even get his money out of Kaj and Eivind’s apartment.
He hailed a taxi outside the Søpavillion nightclub and a quarter of an hour later he was standing in front of Stark’s house. Inside there was a bed and some food, he knew that. A good place to pass the time and wait.
He looked up the drive as the taxi pulled away, immediately seeing an old Mazda parked at the end of the house, tailgate raised and back doors wide-open. Bulging black trash bags had been deposited along the wall of the house. And now came two more, in the hands of a woman he recognized as Tilde’s mother.
Marco ducked behind a tree with his back to the lake.
His head popped in and out from his hiding place as Tilde’s mother began to load the car, like an inquisitive animal, registering every movement. What if the girl was there, too? What new options would be open to him then? Wasn’t this the moment for him to take his chance?
He took one step out from behind the tree. The car was perhaps only fifty meters away, yet his legs felt like lead. How would he ever be able to tell them the truth?
“Why are you standing there, watching my mother?” said a voice from behind.
Marco gave a start and whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Tilde, her shoes covered in mud, her trouser legs wet.
“It’s lucky I was down here by the lake. What is it you want?”
She seemed ethereal in her loose blouse, with her hair hanging down her back. But her face was like stone. He hadn’t seen her like this before, and it certainly wasn’t the way he’d hoped they would meet for the first time.
“You’re the one the police have a photo of, aren’t you?” she said coldly.
Marco frowned.
“If you touch me, I’ll scream. OK?”
He nodded. “I won’t do anything to you,” he replied. “I just want to talk with the two of you. With you, I mean,” he added, correcting himself.
“Why?”