Marco scanned the square minutely as he approached from the park. Again, there were too many people, too many dabs of color. Which one would leap out from the palette and accost him? Who among the café guests would suddenly turn in his direction, revealing an all too familiar face? It was impossible to keep an eye on them all. The café tables were all occupied, and everywhere young people sat cross-legged in clusters on the paving stones with bottles in hand, spirits high.
As far as Marco could see, his ladder was still where he’d left it. And behind the statue, his bucket with all his gear.
He found it odd that his things should have remained untouched. Had Zola instructed Hector to leave them where they were? Were they the bait?
Marco put his hands behind his head and stretched his back. He realized the cramp in his stomach was the result of nervous tension. Trepidation was the worst thing he knew. Rather the disaster itself rearing up before him than the knowledge that it was about to happen.
Would Hector leap forth the moment he stepped out into the open? Were there other clan members in the area? Should he cry for help if they caught him?
Would anyone even react if he did?
The doubt was real, for Danes preferred to stay in the shade when things heated up. He had seen it so often before. How many times had anyone tried to stop Marco or any of the other clan members in their crimes, even to the cries of Stop, thief? Formerly this passivity would make him feel secure. Now it served only to increase his feelings of unease.
He proceeded cautiously, step by step, across the square toward the poster column. And when eventually he got there he realized the missing persons notice was gone and his scraper lay on the paving stones.
Why was the notice gone? Had Hector seen him studying it?
He nodded. Perhaps that was precisely why Hector had removed it, so he could take it back to Zola and they could try to figure out what it meant to them and why Marco was so interested in it.
But although it made sense, Marco just couldn’t understand why Hector would have taken it. It was unlikely that Hector knew about the dead man, and besides, he was as thick as a plank and hardly likely to give it a thought, even if he had noticed Marco’s interest.
Marco stared at the space where the notice had been. Shit. Now the information he needed was gone.
“Hey,” said a voice all of a sudden.
Marco gave a start. Were they behind him? If so, he would drop everything and leg it toward the stadium. It was not a voice he recognized, but then he didn’t know everyone Zola had on his payroll.
“Take it easy, mate. I swiped one of the posters you took down. Is that OK? If not, you can have it back. It’s just that my sister was at the gig, so I thought she might like…”
Marco heaved an enormous sigh of relief. The young guy sitting on the ground laughed as he held up a crumpled poster for a Sade concert the day before, and the girls around him giggled accordingly.
Marco nodded curtly and picked up his ladder. He needed to get away and quick. He’d already been there too long.
It was awkward, hurrying along with all the tools of his trade dangling, but Marco could see no other option.
If he was quick, he could trace back along the route and see if the notice was on any of the other columns.
Later, when the sun had faded and there weren’t as many people about, he would check into the depot, get his money, and then do the rounds of the businesses on his turf. He would ask them to keep their mouths shut about knowing him if Zola’s people happened to show up.
After that, I’ll check out the man on the notice, he thought. Maybe there’ll be something on the Internet.
And though, knowing Zola, he anticipated having to abandon the idea, he resolved nonetheless to see if he could get near Kaj and Eivind’s apartment when the day drew to a close.
He would have to be extremely cautious, for who could tell what Zola’s next move might be? When it all boiled down, it was more than likely he’d already sent his people out to ransack the place.
Thank God they weren’t at home just now.
He glanced around, breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. “Dear God,” he whispered. “If they come, please don’t let them harm Kaj and Eivind. And please don’t let them find my money.”
He stood for a second, then repeated the prayer for emphasis, just as his mother had taught him God would appreciate. When he opened his eyes, he struggled to find peace in this new alliance, but it wasn’t easy. The thought of them finding his savings behind the baseboard made his blood run cold.
The money was his only security, his only way forward.
–
A couple of hours later, when Marco had almost given up hope, he found what he was looking for, a good way out along Strandvejen. By that time, he had scraped four columns to the base without result, but on the fifth were two of the missing persons notices.
He removed them carefully, folding them up and concealing them under his shirt. Now he had the information he wanted. It felt good and bad at the same time. It struck him rather overwhelmingly that he had taken on the responsibility of finding out who this William Stark was and, if possible, the circumstances that had surrounded his disappearance.
What on earth had this man had to do with Zola and Marco’s father? So many things seemed to depend on the answer to that question.
The best thing would be if he could get Zola behind bars without his father getting into trouble, too. But if that couldn’t happen, he would have to consider the possibility of them both being brought to justice.
Marco folded his arms in front of his chest. The very thought was painful to him. He loved his father, and yet he hated him for standing in Zola’s shadow and being so weak. It was the kind of weakness that only led to malice and betrayal. How often had he wished for a father who might provide him and his mother with a life that did not include Zola’s daily doses of poison? No, Marco had had enough.
Something had to happen.
–
He had thought of visiting the library like he usually did, but his courage failed him. Instead, he decided to go to Kasim’s Internet Café, in the most inferior of locations on Nordre Frihavnsgade, but close enough to Nordhavn station for Marco to be able to get away through Kasim’s backyard in an emergency and jump on a commuter train within a minute. Thus, he sat now in the dim light at the farthest whirring computer and typed in William Stark’s name.
To his surprise, he got thousands of hits. He refined his search to include only Danish results, but there were still thousands.
Most were copies of each other, but the general message was plain enough. William Stark was not some down-and-out who’d had enough of sleeping in cardboard boxes on the street, or staggered about the city in an alcoholic daze, or shouted dementedly at the crowds. No, William Stark was apparently an ordinary man with a respectable job whose function Marco didn’t quite grasp and would therefore have to look up afterward. What he did understand was that Stark had worked for a government minister and at the time of his disappearance had just returned home from an assignment in Cameroon. That much was clear.
Marco looked up at the net café’s peeling walls with an odd feeling in his stomach. Why would they want William Stark out of the way? Nothing he could find online seemed to provide even the slightest hint of an explanation. On the other hand, he could see how old Stark had been when he went missing, and where he had lived. And he knew now that Stark could not be declared dead until five years after his disappearance, and that he had left a girlfriend and her daughter behind.
Marco found the phone directory on the net and typed in the number given on the notice, but without result. Disappointed, he typed the same number into Google’s search bar, though with little expectation of a hit. Mobile numbers tended to be changed very quickly, especially those of young people. But an old Web page about a girl suffering from some painful illness mentioned this mobile number as one that other girls in the same situation might call if they needed someone to talk to.