Despite the darkness and the dirt, the face was quite clear to him, cheekbones high and chiseled, the nose long and straight. And the reddest hair Marco had seen in all his life. The age was impossible to assess, for the skin of the face had almost liquefied. He sensed that, had it not been so dark, the sight would have been as appalling as the smell.
There was nothing for him here, he decided, his eyes resting in a moment’s distress on the tightened, decaying hand that seemed almost to be trying to grab and hold on to life itself. To this man also, Zola had brought calamity.
And then it was that Marco discovered the chain catch protruding from underneath the corpse’s withered thumb. A tiny, round fastener with a lever. How many times had he opened one just like it as he stole the necklace off some innocent individual’s neck?
He took hold and pulled until the bones gave way and the chain slipped from the hand. As easy as anything.
The trinket was heavy and foreign in appearance. Marco had never seen one like it. An intricate lattice of threads, with a few pieces of horn and small wooden masks dangling from it. It wasn’t appealing, but it was unusual.
Unusual, perhaps, but hardly a piece that could be traded for money.
Just something African.
4
Spring 2011
“What the hell’s going on?” Carl wanted to know, as Tomas Laursen, the stocky former forensics officer and current manager of Copenhagen police headquarters’ under-dimensioned cafeteria stuck his head out of the kitchen area. “What are all these horrible paper flags for? Is it my homecoming from Rotterdam you’re celebrating? I was gone only a day.”
Had it not been for the fact that he’d had to pick up that fantastic ring for Mona and because the jeweler’s was so close to police HQ, not to mention his dying for a cup of coffee, he would have gone straight home from the airport.
Now he was feeling he should have done so anyway.
He stared around the room, shaking his head. What kind of shit was this? Had he walked in on some kid’s birthday party, or had one of his colleagues got himself hitched for the third or fourth time in the vain hope that he was finally safe?
Laursen smiled. “Hi, Carl. No, I’m afraid not. It’s because Lars Bjørn has come back. Lis has been putting up decorations, and Marcus has called the department in for coffee and a bite in half an hour.”
Carl frowned. Lars Bjørn? Back from where? He hadn’t even noticed the homicide department’s deputy commissioner had been away.
“Uhh, back, you say? What, been to Legoland, has he?”
Laursen dumped a plate containing something green in front of the officer at Carl’s side. It didn’t look good. Carl felt sure his colleague was going to regret it.
“You haven’t heard, then? Strange. Anyway, he’s just got back from Kabul.” Laursen laughed. “If you can avoid it, I’d say you were best off not letting on you didn’t know. He’s been away for two months, Carl.”
Carl glanced to his side. Was this poverty of common knowledge what was causing the hand of the man next to him to shake as he lifted his fork to his mouth? But who was the real laughingstock at the moment? Carl or Lars Bjørn, who apparently hadn’t been missed?
Two whole months, according to Tomas. Gasp.
“Kabul, you say? A pretty dangerous neck of the woods. What the fuck’s he been doing there?” It was hard to imagine a boarding-school wuss like Bjørn kitted out in battle dress. “Did they remember to check if he got back alive? You can never tell with a mummy like him,” he added as the green substance slid off the jiggling fork of the man next to him.
“Bjørn was sent there to train the local police,” said Laursen, wiping his hands on the tea towel that was wrapped around his ever-expanding waist. If he was intending to stay on in the cafeteria much longer he’d have to order some bigger tea cloths, thought Carl.
“You don’t say? I reckon he should have stayed there, in that case.”
Carl glanced around the room. The comment had drawn more than a couple of glares in his direction, but he didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned they could all take up residence in the Afghan wilderness with its roadside bombs.
“Thanks very much, Carl,” said a voice behind him. “Nice to know you hold my work in such high esteem.”
Fifteen pairs of eyes converged on the space behind his shoulder. Suddenly a ripple of chuckles passed through the assembly-pure Schadenfreude. Carl turned calmly toward what he anticipated would be a face luminous in every conceivable shade of red.
But Lars Bjørn was looking annoyingly good and he knew it. It was as if a taut animal skin had been stretched over his slight frame and the sun had conspired to straighten his back and shoulders. Whatever it was, he suddenly seemed somewhat larger than usual. Maybe the colorful array of ribbons in four measured rows above his left breast pocket helped.
Carl gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Well, well, Bjørn. Gave you a purple heart, did they? Good for you. Play your cards right and the Cub Scouts will give you a merit badge next.”
Carl felt Laursen’s gentle tug on his sleeve, but he didn’t care. What trouble could Bjørn land him in that he hadn’t already?
“Anyone would think it was you who got hit on the head instead of Assad, Mørck. How he’s getting on, anyway?”
“Such concern, Bjørn. Back on the job as head of personnel now, are we? But thanks, he’s doing OK. We expect him to be firing on all cylinders again in a couple of weeks. Until then I’ve got Rose, and thank Christ for that.”
He noticed wry smiles appearing at the mention of her name, but as long as that was all, he’d let it go. Otherwise he’d give them what for. What did he care? There wasn’t a man here who could begin to match her.
“Assad’s face is still a bit lopsided, though, isn’t it?” Laursen interjected. He was probably the only one in the cafeteria to have noticed.
Carl nodded. “True, but then he’s not the only one at HQ with his head off balance.” He looked straight at Bjørn, who was over by the cashier, paying for his beverage. Oddly enough he ignored the slight.
“But you’re right, Laursen,” Carl went on. “The hemorrhage Assad suffered after the attack affected his facial muscles and his sense of balance, so he’s been going for regular check-ups all this spring and is still taking a fair amount of medicine. The way things are going, I reckon he’ll soon be completely recovered, which we’re all very relieved about. He still has a bit of difficulty talking, but then he always did, didn’t he?”
He laughed, though no one else joined in. And so what?
Bjørn stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and turned to face him, this time with the dark venomous look he had perfected over the years.
“I’m very happy for Assad that he’s making such good progress, Carl. All we can hope is that the same will be true of you, down there in the depths. Perhaps we ought to accord you rather more attention in the future so we can keep a better eye on whether you need assistance, don’t you think?”
He turned to Laursen. “Thanks for the reception, very nice indeed, Tomas. Makes it a pleasure to be home. Wouldn’t you say so, Mørck? Oh, and by the way, welcome home from the Netherlands.”
Carl returned the snaky glare in kind as Bjørn marched past him and went off down the stairs. Apparently the cobra hadn’t completely died of dehydration down there in the desert.
“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.
He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.