He knows I’m here! The thought hammered in Marco’s brain. And his finger responded to his anxiety by secreting more moisture so he could no longer keep his grip and the door slipped gently away from him, white light slicing through the crack like the blade of a knife.
Through the tiny aperture that ensued, he saw Pico’s feet disappear into the bathroom. Adidas running shoes, new and soundless. Pico in a nutshell.
Marco feverishly pushed open the door of the safe, realizing now that he had to get out and find a place Pico had already looked. But in the same instant, Pico shouted out his frustration from the bathroom: the little bastard wasn’t there either. So Marco withdrew his hand immediately, wiping his finger on his shirt, hooking it onto the inner edge of the steel door and pulling it to again.
He got just a glimpse of the toe of a running shoe as it crossed the doorsill from the bathroom before the door of the safe swung almost shut again.
Pico was in the room now, looking around, and the whole house creaked in the silence. Every tiny breath Marco took sounded like the pumping of a leaky bellows, his body on the brink of exploding. All his dreams of freedom and a life of his own rained down on him like molten metal. Reality was about to take over.
The feet on the floor took another step forward, and again Marco sensed this piercing X-ray vision burning up the room.
Pico was in the office now, so close to the safe that Marco could almost touch the fabric of his trousers through the crack. It sounded like he was rifling through the shelves above the safe. Pico wasn’t one to leave a stone unturned.
He muttered something to himself, shoving books and ring binders aside. Then a book fell to the floor with a bang, landing directly in front of Marco’s hiding place. Marco gasped, adrenaline hurtling through his body. If Pico couldn’t hear his heart thumping now, he had to be deaf.
He saw Pico’s dexterous arm reach down to pick up the book, brushing the door of the safe so that Marco lost his grip. The crack of light gradually widened as Pico stooped. Any second now he would be on his knees, peering inside.
At the very moment Marco was considering giving himself up voluntarily so he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp, a sudden infernal bird-squawk split the air, causing Pico to stop in his tracks.
“Pico, quick! Grab the photo and get out!” Romeo shouted from outside.
Pico’s response was an athletic sprint through the hall and living room, followed by the sound of breaking glass and finally the patio door slamming against the outside wall.
And then all was quiet. The man at the front door had called the whole thing off with his alarm. Apparently someone had got too close to the house.
Marco tumbled out onto the floor of the office like a lump of compressed metal that would never regain its shape. All his limbs were numb, even though he rubbed them vigorously. If he didn’t get his circulation going so he could get out of there, he risked being cornered if someone came barging in.
Then he forced himself onto his feet. His only chance was to take the patio door out into the open, through the back garden and hedges to the houses next door and beyond. And he would have to pray to God he didn’t run into Pico and the others.
The last thing he saw as he left the house were the shards of an overturned picture frame in the living room. That, and the empty space where the photo of William Stark had been, the one his stepdaughter had used in her poster appeal.
16
Zola sat for a moment and reviewed the situation. Any minute now, his contact would be calling routinely to hear his report on how the Marco case was developing. The timing was hardly appropriate.
He had sent the others out of the room, which was how it had to be. Only the dog remained behind. What had happened had happened and there were undoubtedly going to be repercussions the clan members definitely didn’t need to hear. It was imperative his near-divine status within the family remain uncompromised, for Zola’s dominance relied solely on maintaining his authority. No, this was a phone call of the utmost privacy.
When it came, he tried to begin without humility, declaring boldly that the whole sorry business was merely the fault of a silly young boy and that, as usual, he had the situation under control.
A frigid voice turned this arrogant sword of Damocles against him.
“We should never have chosen you people for the job,” came the curt reply. “If this boy is allowed to wander the streets, the consequences could be enormous for everyone, not least for yourselves. I take it you’re aware of that?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“So you’ve said before. How long has the boy been on the loose?”
“Listen! Marco’s been spotted in Østerbro. All the men operating out there have been alerted.”
“And what good is that when you’ve just told me he committed a break-in somewhere else in town entirely? He could be anywhere.”
Zola clenched his teeth. The man was right. It wasn’t good.
“Listen to me. All my own boys are out in Brønshøj right now. We’re dragging a net from there toward the city. Besides that, we’ve got three cars cruising the whole area up to Gladsaxe and out toward Husum.”
The voice at the other end didn’t sound satisfied. “I hope for your sake it’s sufficient. Apart from having his personal description, we know now that he’s actually wearing Stark’s necklace. Make sure the photo of it that you’ve procured gets out to everyone who’s searching. Next time you see him, just be absolutely certain you catch him, otherwise it’s better that you let him go. Do you understand? If he doesn’t realize we’re looking for him, it probably won’t be that long before we get another chance. OK?”
Zola nodded, though he resented the tone. The job had already been too costly by half. His brother had protested at the time, saying they should let it go, but the three hundred thousand they took in for taking care of Stark’s disappearance had been too tempting. The consequence of that decision had meant half the clan had been preoccupied since the end of November when Marco disappeared, and especially the last couple of days, which was extremely bad for business. With begging and thieving activities brought to a minimum, twenty-five thousand kroner were being lost every single day. The three hundred grand they’d got for kidnapping and murdering William Stark had long since been swallowed up.
A curse on that Marco! He should have clipped the boy’s wings the first day he realized how smart he was.
“We’ll be careful, don’t worry,” he assured his contact. “He won’t give us the slip again.”
“What was he doing out in Stark’s house?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know how he found it either. We’ll try to sort it out, OK?”
“We’ve talked about this before: Do you think the kid will go to the police?”
Zola paused to think. Anything he said in response would be a shot in the dark. Of course there was a chance he would turn them in. But the boy had been lying in that shallow grave when Zola and his father had discussed the body, so he knew his father was an accomplice. Maybe that would be enough to prevent him. On the other hand, it was true that he had broken into Stark’s house, and why had he done that? Blackmail was the first thing that came to mind. The little parasite would likely turn all his criminal tendencies back upon those who had fostered him. The more Zola thought about it, the more probable it sounded. Under no circumstances could Marco be given the chance.
“Go to the police? Yes, I’m afraid there might be a risk of that,” he therefore replied. “The boy must be stopped, whatever the price.”