Then her face contorted as the tears ran freely.
Marco let her cry, but put his arm around her shoulder.
She looked up at him when she calmed down again. “Look. He tried, anyway. He set his work aside for another time, and he saved the jewelry for me.”
She shook her head as she collected herself. Then she dried her eyes and stood up abruptly.
“Come on, it’s no use waiting. We need to dig them all up.”
Ten minutes later they were sitting with four more open containers in front of them.
Under C4 they found a notebook, under C6, some bank statements, and under F6, an envelope on which was written “My Will.” And under F7 lay a plastic pocket full of documents bearing the ministry’s logo, on front of which was written the words, “BAKA PROJECT,” in bold capital letters.
Tilde opened the notebook and recognized William’s handwriting straightaway.
She scanned the first page, then raised her hands to her head and began massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers.
Marco could see the tears welling again.
Her eyes glided repeatedly up and down the first page, and each time her face grew slightly paler.
“Aren’t you going to see what’s on the other pages?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”
She nodded.
They remained kneeling on the ground for a while, and then she put the notebook back in the container.
“The police were right. William took a lot of money. It’s all recorded there.” She pressed her lips together, then continued. “And he did it for me, I know he did. That makes me very sad. And sorry that I can’t talk to him now.”
Marco knew the feeling better than anyone.
“What about the other things?” he asked.
She picked up the bank statements that had been hidden under C6 and paged through them before putting them down again with a sigh. “It’s the same. All the deposits and payments he made. It all fits.”
“Fits?”
“Yes. He transferred money into the account and paid my hospital bills the same day. I recognize the names of all the places I was, and the dates, too, more or less.”
“He really loved you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Marco looked away for a second. He wondered if she knew how lucky she had been.
“Will you open this, Marco? I don’t think I can,” she said, handing him the envelope with the words “My Will” written on it.
He opened the envelope. Inside was a document written on a solicitor’s letterhead and stamped with the word “copy” in red. It was headed LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
“He’s left everything he had to you and your mother, Tilde,” he told her.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut. It was simply too much for her.
Marco picked up the final collection of papers that had been buried under flagstone F7.
“Any idea what these are?” he asked her, waiting until she opened her despairing eyes.
“They’re from his workplace. The Baka project was the last thing he was involved in, I think.”
“Why would he bury it here? It can’t be as important as the other stuff, surely?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we should hand it in to his office.”
They heard the car pull up outside.
Tilde turned toward the sound. “That’ll be my mum. But why isn’t she parking in the drive?”
“Are you planning to show her all this?” he asked, as she tossed the items back in their respective containers and gathered them together.
She shook her head. “Will you put them back in the ground, and the flagstones, too, while I go out to her? I’ll call for you when I’ve told her you’re here. Then you can tell her everything you’ve told me, because I don’t think I can do it myself, OK?”
Marco nodded, though he was afraid of how her mother might react.
He hurried to do as she’d requested, and when he’d finished he leaned the spade back up against the shed. Everything had to be as it was before. He stood looking at the patio and nodded to himself. He had scuffed away Tilde’s chalk marks as best he could. They weren’t completely gone, but it was good enough. No one would know what they’d been up to.
Hearing the car horn sound insistently a couple of times in the road, he wondered if it meant Tilde wanted him to come out front.
He brushed the dirt from his hands and walked cautiously round the side of the house toward the drive, not wishing to give anyone a start.
He saw the rear end of the car, but didn’t recognize it as Tilde’s mother’s. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it had been two-toned. A lot of old cars were.
He heard Tilde’s scream from the street at the same instant as he sensed a movement at the corner of the house, but before he could react, a black figure leaped at him with such force that they both stumbled backward, slamming their heads against the rough planks of the bike shed and landing in a heap on the ground. He saw something flash in the air above him, but didn’t realize it was a knife until his assailant lunged at his arm and raised the weapon once more.
“Help!” he screamed, hammering his knee up into the man’s groin and rolling to the side. “Help me!”
But apart from the noise of their heavy breathing, there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the neighborhood. No one reacted. And now Marco recognized the man. These wild eyes, this white scar, the shiny blade. He was the one who had confronted him at the building site, the one who’d got stuck in the rubble chute. And the savagery of his expression made it plain that this time he would not fail.
“Help!” Marco yelled again, jumping toward the shed as his adversary lunged at him again, twisting his ankle in the process and almost losing his footing.
His loss of balance now proved costly as Marco grasped the handle of the spade and swung it through the air, its sharp edge leaving a deep gash in the man’s left shoulder.
He dropped the knife in a roar of pain, clutching the gaping wound as blood pumped out of him.
For a split second he stared at Marco with his yellow eyes, then fled back to the car that was waiting in the road.
Marco ran after him and saw Tilde in the back of the car, being held down by a huge corpulent black woman. A woman he had seen before.
Then, as he sprinted toward the car, he was stopped abruptly in his tracks by the crack of a gun and a bullet that slammed into the house wall behind him.
There was another shot, and the sound of a second projectile whistling past his ear.
He ducked back round the side of the house and stood for a moment, hyperventilating. It was because of him they had caught Tilde, and now the situation was hopeless. If he approached the car, they would kill him. But what else could he do?
Then he shut his eyes and shouted at the top of his voice in English: “Let her go. I’ll come instead.”
He peeked round the corner and saw the man he’d taken out with the spade screaming inside the car. Judging by the blood on the pavement, he was in bad shape.
Then he saw the woman in the backseat slap the driver-the one who’d done the shooting-on the back of the head, and the car took off down the street.
Marco ran after it, trying to pick out the number plate, but it had been covered up. A hundred meters farther down the road the vehicle suddenly stopped and a small item was dropped out of the side window onto the asphalt.
Then the car disappeared.
Marco was stunned. Was he now to blame for more misfortune befalling this little family? Was it to be Tilde and her mother’s curse that he, his father, and the tyrant, Zola, had ever existed?
He proceeded cautiously toward the object in the road, full of dread. What could it be? A hand grenade? Or worse stilclass="underline" a body part they had cut off her?
Then he heard it ring. It was a mobile phone.
He picked it up and answered: “Yes?”
“We’ll kill her unless you give yourself up,” the woman said in English.