“And the motorbike?”
“I reckon he probably bought some Russian job for a handful of coppers, don’t you?” She gave him a dozy look. Was he thick or what?
Carl chose to ignore it and turned to Assad.
“So Interpol’s warrant on Anweiler wasn’t put out until he’d already swanned off across the tundra, is that what you’re both thinking?”
His two assistants shrugged. It was by no means unlikely, they all knew that.
“What about after he got home, Rose?”
“He sublet a apartment in Malmö and became a roadie for Daggers and Swords.”
Carl frowned, but she was ahead of him.
“A death metal band from Skåne, Carl. Anweiler’s just been in Copenhagen with them, they played a gig at Pumpehuset last week. That’s why he was here.”
He nodded. “OK, it’s taking shape. In theory, then, he was in Russia from a few days before the fire broke out until just a short time ago. In the intervening period there’s been a warrant out on him from Interpol, but most likely he hasn’t been in contact with the Russian authorities, and Swedish-Danish border control on the bridge over the sound isn’t exactly likely to put anyone off. But if we’re right about this, then Anweiler never knew about the fire and just carried on with his life like nothing ever happened. The apartment in Malmö was only a sublet, so the police won’t necessarily have much to go on in respect of his movements.” Carl nodded to himself. It all sounded plausible, though he wasn’t convinced.
“And this Birthe woman borrowed his pad in Malmö while he was over here, is that right?”
“Yeah, the place is practically next door to the opera house, so it’s very convenient for her,” Rose replied.
Assad stretched back in his chair. “A rather odd friendship, I would say then. How did Birthe Enevoldsen and Anweiler get to know each other in the first place, Rose?”
“Through Louise Kristiansen. The woman on the CCTV footage who he met up with outside the Park Café. She was trained as a percussionist at the conservatory and played in a few bands Sverre Anweiler roadied for. She was playing in Copenhagen last week, too.”
Carl looked at the time. He was meeting Mona in half an hour. At a posh café, for once. Not exactly her style, but for him the choice of venue was excellent, for otherwise he risked the bonus of having to deal with her unmanageable, eternally snot-nosed grandson.
“OK,” he said in a suitably subdued tone of voice that signaled the meeting was over. “There is a lot that points in Anweiler’s favor, I can see that. And a lot that would have been nice to find in our colleagues’ reports. Things that might have shed a better light on his circumstances, such as his income source the last couple of years and his dual citizenship, not to mention the Kaliningrad connection. Whoever was responsible was most likely up to his ears in work while the investigation was in progress, so it’s hardly surprising if those ears turn red.”
He smiled at the cleverness of his wit, but his assistants were nonplussed. Then he slapped his palms down on the desk. “Let’s adjourn, then, shall we? I’ve got things to do, so maybe you can check up on those containers in the meantime, Rose. And Assad, you can go upstairs to Department A and fill them in. I think we should spare Marcus, seeing as it’s his last few days. But tell Lars Bjørn there’s been a development in an old case that’ll probably give rise to some criticism being leveled. And then I don’t want to have any more to do with that case.”
He was about to get to his feet when Rose held the crumpled notice up in front of him. The edges were frayed and there was a rip through the middle, but the message came across clearly enough:
MISSING, it read.
What the hell did he care, only a quarter of an hour from the day’s most interesting meeting?
He clenched the silk pouch in his pocket and felt immediately buoyant as the song began to play in his mind.
Hey-ay, Mona! Ooo-ooo, Mona…!
10
Marco was shaken up. He was just as unnerved as the people around him who pottered about in the sunshine on the walkways between the boats were relaxed.
The clan had found him. His secure day-to-day life had been abruptly torn away from him. Moreover, he was now marked by a dead man’s stare.
The dilemma he found himself in was crushing. What was he supposed to do now, when all his instincts were screaming at him to get out of the city for good if he valued his life, and at the same time he knew he could not?
He had to protect his friends from Zola’s brutal methods, and he had to protect himself. But in which order was he to proceed?
He looked out across the masts and tried to calm himself. The first thing he needed to do was to call Eivind and Kaj and warn them. Then he would have to pick up his things from the apartment. Without them he would be set back months, unable to pursue his goals.
And he would also need to do the rounds and collect the money he was owed. Altogether, it was a fairly large sum.
Marco buried his face in his hands. The case of the man with the red hair was sickening. He needed to go back and see if the notice was still there. All he could do was hope it was, for then he would take it with him and do some investigating. Perhaps then he would be able to understand why his father…
He shook his head. If only Hector hadn’t got his jacket and his mobile, all these worries would be superfluous.
Now, instead, he had to be more alert than ever: he needed the eyes of the deaf and the ears of the blind.
–
He stood at the pay phone at Svanemølle station, eyes closed, trying to remember the number of Kaj and Eivind’s dry cleaners. What were the last three digits? 386 or 368? Or maybe something else entirely? If only he had his mobile, a press of a button and he’d be connected. But now…
At his fifth try, the ringing tone sounding in his ear, he felt reasonably sure. And then he got through to voice mail.
“You’ve called Kajvind’s Cleaners,” came the sound of Eivind’s soft voice. “I’m afraid we’re not here at the moment. Our normal opening hours are…”
Marco hung up. He was worried now. Why couldn’t they come to the phone? Had Zola’s people been round? He prayed they hadn’t. Maybe they’d just called it a day and gone home? No, that couldn’t be it, not this early. What, then? How was he to warn them when he was too scared to venture anywhere near where they lived, at least for the time being?
And then he realized why the shop was closed. Today was Wednesday. For months, Kaj had complained about his bladder playing up, and he wasn’t the type who went to the doctor on his own. Eivind had promised to go with him to the hospital, Marco remembered now. The CLOSED sign was already in the window when he’d passed by the place a couple of hours before. How could he have forgotten?
He turned away from the yachts down in the harbor, knowing this would be the last occasion in a very long time when the cries of the gulls and the salty breeze would be able to elicit happy thoughts about a future life.
Some time later he approached Østerbrogade from Strandboulevarden. He gauged the distance to Gunnar Nu Hansens Plads, about six hundred meters, and noted nothing untoward on the pavements or the street. Still Marco preferred the cover of the trees and bushes, now in leaf. They would offer him protection against being spotted from a distance, so he chose the longer route by way of Jagtvej and Fælledparken.
It took him twenty minutes, but he was leaving nothing to chance. All around him, people lay on the grass, relaxing in the sunshine, but who were they? Were Zola’s spies among them? Removing your shirt and pretending to be taking in the sun would be effective camouflage here. Hector would certainly think so, but then modesty had never characterized Zola’s world.