Carl nodded. “You’re right, there’s a connection with Africa in all of this. But unfortunately the man most likely able to provide us with answers to all our questions is now little more than a charred lump in a very small body bag over at the Forensic Medicine Institute. A bit of a problem, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I sure would.”
–
“Listen, Assad. That’s the second time today. You can’t go promising streets paved with gold to everyone you interview, you know.”
Carl sat down at his desk, shaking his head as he turned on TV2’s news channel. Maybe they’d be able to catch something about the arrests they’d made during the day.
“But why not, Carl? It’s so much better than thumbscrews, I’d say. Carrots are always better then whips.”
“So are you suggesting that if you couldn’t trick them with your promises, you’d torture them?”
“Torture, Carl, what is torture, exactly? Can it not be many things?”
They stared at each other for a moment, but neither of them took the initiative to carry on the discussion. It was too volatile an issue.
“I had a word with the guys in the violent crime section,” said Carl. “They’ve heard nothing involving Africans the last few days, apart from the usual pusher problems on Istedgade. So what are we supposed to do? We can’t just go running up to Lars Bjørn with vague accusations about two Africans whose identities we don’t know, saying they pose a threat to a lad whose whereabouts are unknown, can we? I don’t know about you, but I reckon we’re done with this case.”
“Say, do you know what, Carl? You will not find the camel if the sand is lying in dunes, but… erm, how does it go, now?” Assad stared at him, perplexed. It must have been the first time his camels had let him down.
Carl tapped a cigarette from his pack. The two phone numbers were still sitting there in front of him, and soon he’d be heading home. What to do?
“What I mean is, if the sand is lying in large…”
Objectively, Mona probably wouldn’t show that much interest, but if he rang Lisbeth instead, wouldn’t that mean Mona was out of his life for good? Was that he wanted?”
“Now I have it, Carl. If the sand piles up into dunes, you will not find the camel. But if the wind begins blowing hard, you can easily see the humps. Ha-ha. That was a good one, don’t you think?”
Carl looked up at him wearily.
“And?”
“It means we cannot know the whole truth until the wind begins to blow a little. I mean, how can we know we are done with this case if we don’t poke around in it some more?”
“Well, to begin with there’s no wind blowing, and besides that we haven’t the manpower at our disposal to work up a gale out there, have we? So don’t you think we should give those camels a break and let them have a little rest in the dunes?”
“You understand the moral of the story, Carl, that’s the main thing. But then we’ll just have to wait until the wind starts blowing by itself, won’t we?”
Carl nodded. This was a moral he liked. If nothing else, it meant he could allow himself to throw his feet up on his desk and do sod all.
“OK. Now I’m going to have a smoke and watch the news. And if Rose isn’t back in ten minutes, I’m gone.”
He wedged the cigarette between his lips, already sensing the assuaging effect of the nicotine his body craved. He’d been waiting all day for it, and now…
“Forget about that cigarette, Carl,” came a voice from the doorway.
And there stood Rose, with the heartiest smile he’d ever seen her wearing, holding up a paper bag from the bakery.
“Warm wheat buns, lads. I’ll bet you forgot today’s supposed to be a holiday. It’s the fourth Friday after Easter.”
She opened the bag and a wonderful aroma filled the room, bestowing upon their gloomy surroundings an undeserved aura of everyday coziness as well as dim recollections of candles, radio dramas, and end-of-season balls at the Hotel Phønix.
“Delicious,” Carl conceded, already salivating.
And then the phone rang.
“We’ve got two people standing at the desk here, asking for Carl Mørck. Do you want us to send them down?”
–
Marco was scared. Much more than he had been out on the streets. There, at least, he’d had a chance, but now he felt like he was throwing himself directly to the lions.
His breathing grew heavier as he passed through the corridors, feeling hemmed in by the cold, unforgiving walls of Copenhagen police headquarters. From the outside, the place looked like a fortress, but inside it felt even worse, and at this moment they were leading him down into a basement from which the only way a person could get out seemed to be the same way as he got in. All of a sudden he was a cornered rat surrounded by a pack of club-wielding boys, out to kill him for the fun of it.
And Tilde’s mother, who had not loosened her grip on him since parking her car, wasn’t making things any better. All the way to headquarters she’d screamed and yelled at him in desperation. That she’d been able to find her way with the shock and adrenaline coursing through her body was a small miracle.
But Marco understood her, for now he had told her all about Tilde and the black men and their threats, and what had happened to William Stark. She had reacted fiercely, attacking him verbally, then crying, her entire body trembling. So much pain and anxiety all at once was too much for her to manage. And suddenly she had struck him, only to regret it immediately and apologize in a shaky voice. And now, as they hurried down the stairs to meet the police officers with whom he’d been playing cat-and-mouse for the past few days, it seemed like she was about to undergo a total meltdown.
Marco knew this was to be his final hour as a free person in a free country. If he survived what the evening had in store for him, he was sure he would be thrown out of the country, but to where?
With all that had befallen him in life, he feared the worst.
Therefore the sight that confronted him was completely unexpected.
Mørck and his two assistants were seated around an untidy desk, munching bread rolls that crunched noisily as the TV news blathered in the background. A sweet, reassuring aroma hung in the air, and the faces that turned toward them were friendly enough, but also profoundly astonished.
Once they realized who their visitors were, all three rose to their feet abruptly, as though witnessing nothing less than a miracle.
“You’re Marco, aren’t you?” said Mørck, stepping toward him. He towered above the boy as he reached out with his long arms.
Marco’s heart was pounding. The man from whom he had fled had stopped smiling now. His lips were pressed tight, his eyes much too intense.
And then he grasped him and lifted him up, as though he were about to crush his every bone.
“Thank God,” he said quietly, clutching him to his chest for a moment. “You’re OK.”
He set him down again and bent forward to look into his face.
“There’s a lot we want to ask you about. Do you want to talk to us now?”
Marco nodded, holding his breath. The man had put his arms around him. He seemed accommodating and glad to see him. It was just too overwhelming. If he didn’t watch out, he’d start to cry. This was the last thing he’d been expecting.
“Good boy,” said the one called Assad, and patted him on the head. Even the girl with the black makeup smiled at him.
“Thank you for bringing him in, Malene,” said Mørck.
She nodded, and then it burst out of her: “Something terrible’s happened. Please help us!”