He shook his head. Of course there could be possibilities he hadn’t considered. The place could have been let. If so, he might just as well give up straightaway, for there would be nothing for him to find.
Marco noticed the man in the window before the man saw him. He seemed to be pondering, in no hurry with whatever he was doing. Not a young man, but seemingly alert, with eyebrows raised, head turning this way and that. He was examining the room methodically, almost like a carpenter or painter appraising a job. But he wasn’t, Marco’s experience told him so. He knew better than anyone what policemen looked like and the kind of movements they made. He remembered how he and Samuel sometimes played a game when they were working the streets, where they’d see who would be the first to spot cops in the crowd. The mere way they checked out people around them was usually enough.
Marco took another look at the dark blue car. There, on the dashboard, was the blue lamp. He would have to make himself scarce.
But just as he was asking himself why they might be there, the policeman turned his face directly toward him. Only the briefest of seconds, and yet Marco had never before felt himself so sized up.
Those eyes have already seen enough of me, he thought, and began to run.
Not until he reached Husum Torv, his lungs wheezing and mouth parched, did he stop and consider what had happened.
The police were at Stark’s house. The case had not been closed. And the knowledge made his next move unavoidable.
He had to go back and get into that house.
–
The house, a small yellow bungalow from the thirties, lay on sloping ground with a spectacular view across the Utterslev marsh, the monumental ugliness of the Høje Gladsaxe ghetto beyond. In this area of Copenhagen, history was thus laid bare, a grim manifestation of why humanity was the worst thing that could happen to this green planet.
Carl shook his head. Welfare-state concrete slapped down in a landscape of beauty, a pillar of shame in Danish architecture. What a flagrant lack of foresight.
“A nice mast, don’t you think, Carl?” said Assad, pointing through the trees toward the Gladsaxe TV transmitter’s Babylonian lattice against the sky.
As far as Carl was concerned, the whole structure could collapse and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
“There was a break-in, you say. When was that?” he asked.
Rose produced a key and opened the front door.
“Shortly after William Stark disappeared. His girlfriend and stepdaughter hadn’t moved out yet, so we’ve got a fairly clear picture of what went missing.”
“The usual stuff?”
“You could say. The thing is, they really made a mess of the place. Slashed mattresses, paintings torn down off the walls. It wasn’t vandalism, more like they were looking for something.”
Carl nodded. Neither a typical disappearance nor a typical break-in. He could understand Rose’s curiosity.
Inside, there was a musty smell about the place, the kind that came when life ground to a halt and no one cared. This was the place where Stark had lived, and most likely he would never live here again.
Carl stepped into the neat front room and stared out of the panorama window across the garden toward the delights of Brønshøj. The lawn had been mown, red currant and black currant bushes pruned and ready for the next harvest.
“Who looks after the place?” he asked.
“His partner still comes, I think. Doesn’t it say in the report, Assad?”
He nodded.
Carl looked around. The whole setup seemed to indicate Stark had made do with less than might be expected of a man in his position. Maybe he just wasn’t interested, judging by the cheap wooden ceiling boards and shoddy DIY extension. But cozy, nevertheless. Not at all the sort of place that gave immediate rise to thoughts of suicide or the urge to vanish.
A few photos on a pinewood shelf told the tale of togetherness and the pleasure of one another’s company. Stark, his partner, and her daughter standing close, a warm huddle. It was easy to see from the way they were laughing that Stark had pressed the shutter timer and had just got back in position in time. The sort of photos that never won prizes.
Malene Kristoffersen was a roundish, pleasant-looking woman with dimples in her cheeks and healthy in appearance, in contrast to her daughter, who seemed exceptionally thin and disheveled in the way of a weak fledgling whose sibling would instinctively push it from the nest.
Stark seemed happy in all the pictures, his arms around his family’s shoulders, bending to put his head between theirs. A man whose most daring fashion exploit would be to wear a purple tie or perhaps even a green-checkered shirt with short sleeves. It was plain to see on this basis alone why his excellent education had failed to elevate him into the upper echelons. The man had been too quiet, too tentative, and probably, in many ways, too honest. He simply radiated this, and Carl was fascinated. If irregularities suddenly intruded upon the life of an upstanding guy like Stark, they usually left traces.
“Tell me about the break-in, Assad,” he said.
Assad opened his folder and pulled out the copy of the report.
“It was a professional job. No fingerprints, no DNA. Some neighbors said they saw a couple of guys arrive in a yellow van wearing blue overalls and black caps, and they waved to the people next door. Very ordinary-looking men, though perhaps rather tanned for the time of year.” Assad smiled. It was an expression he wouldn’t hesitate to use on himself.
“But you can’t really tell with skin color these days, can you? Everyone’s traveling all year-round. Ski trips, vacations at the beach. Soon everyone will look like me, only not quite as handsome.” He raised his eyebrows ingratiatingly. If he was expecting a compliment he’d have a long wait.
He gave a shrug. “In any case they came in through the front door, probably using a lock gun so no one had any idea something was going on. A woman tending her garden next door kept an eye out to see if they came out again with their arms full, but they had nothing. All in all, they were inside for about an hour and then they left again with a wave.”
“Did Malene Kristoffersen report the break-in herself?”
“Yes, and it was the reason they moved. They were uneasy about the place after that, especially with Stark being gone.”
“And the house is still as it was?”
“Yes.”
“How can that be? Who’s paying the mortgage?”
“It’s all paid off, Carl. All other expenses are taken care of by the returns on his assets.”
“Hmm.” Carl scanned the room again. “I wonder what they were looking for since they didn’t make off with the hi-fi over there? Cash, securities, jewelry? Are we sure his money wasn’t from something illegal? Have you checked out the validity of that inheritance? Have you seen the documents from the probate court?”
Assad stared at him in disappointment. Of course he had.
“It all looks innocent enough,” Carl went on, “but that could be a mistaken assumption. Maybe it has something to do with narcotics. Maybe he’s got property or other assets abroad that he hasn’t declared to the Danish authorities. Something he got by way of some criminal activity. Maybe he came back from Cameroon so quickly because something had gone totally wrong and there was a welcoming committee waiting at Kastrup Airport to get rid of him. Is there any CCTV footage showing how he carried on from there?”
“Yes, he took the metro.”
“And then what?”
“You see him on the platform and then that’s it.”
“Is that footage still available?”
Assad shrugged. On that point he had to pass.
“Have a look over here,” said Rose, over by the double doors.
She pointed across the hall to a small office with a safe up against the wall. Fair-sized, massive, and with a handle in the middle.