“That explains a lot,” he said. “Is he in your custody?”
“No, he isn’t. And what does it explain?”
“Why do you come to me with these questions? Marco is an evil little psychopath. No man in the world should wish to cross his path.”
“His name is Marco, you say?”
Zola turned slightly and commanded the hefty individual at his side to bend down so he could whisper something in his ear, after which the man left the room.
“Yes, Marco has lived with us most of his life, but he ran away some six months ago. He’s not a nice kid.”
“What’s his full name? What’s his age? We need his complete data. Civil registration number, everything,” Assad demanded drily.
Carl glanced at his assistant, who sat with his notepad at the ready. It was obvious from the way his jaw muscles were working that he’d taken a dislike to the man in front of them. What had he seen that Carl hadn’t?
Zola smiled slightly. “We are not Danish citizens, and none of us has a civil registration number. We live here only for short periods. It’s our company that owns the properties.”
“Properties?” Carl asked.
“Yes, this house here and the one next door. Marco’s surname is Jameson and he’s fifteen years old. A strange boy. He turned out to be unmanageable, in spite of our trying to do our best for him.”
“What do you people do here in Denmark?” Assad probed.
“Oh, we buy and sell lots of things. Purchase Danish design and sell it abroad. Import rugs and figurines from Africa and Asia. Our family have been tradesmen for generations and everyone in the extended family is involved.”
“What do you mean by ‘extended family’?” Assad asked with a polemic undertone, his eyebrows arched. Carl only hoped he wasn’t going to bite the man.
“We are a family, most of us, but over the years others have joined.”
“And where are you people from?” Carl inquired.
Zola turned his head calmly toward Carl. It was as if the man was in a dilemma and didn’t know which of them to be most courteous toward.
“All sorts of places,” he replied. “I’m from Little Rock, some are from the Midwest. There are a couple of Italians and Frenchmen. A little bit of everything.”
“And now you are their god,” said Assad, nodding toward the poster-sized photos of the man on the wall.
Zola smiled. “Not at all. I’m merely the chief of our clan.”
Another man entered the room together with the big guy who had let them in. Like Zola, his swarthy features looked vaguely Latin American. A handsome man with jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and cheekbones that perhaps in another situation would have signaled vibrant masculinity.
“This is my brother,” said Zola. “We’ve got business to discuss afterward.”
Carl nodded to the man. He was compact of build, though slightly stooping. His expression was friendly yet somehow shy. His eyes seemed to tremble, if eyes could do that.
“And, chief, what does it mean, not all of you being a family? Is it some kind of commune? A brotherhood? What is it?” Assad asked as he began scribbling words down on his notepad. From where Carl sat it looked like gibberish.
“Yes, my friend. Something like that. A bit of both.”
“This Marco,” Carl asked. “Has he got any relatives here? Anyone we might speak to?”
Zola shook his head slowly and looked up at the man at his side. “I’m sorry. His mother ran off with another man, and his father is dead.”
–
Now Zola knew for certain what he had feared for so long. Marco had squealed.
Everything they had tried to avoid was now a reality. And in contrast to the impression he normally gave, he felt under pressure.
He hated the way the Arab’s round eyes glanced with disdain at the many flower-festooned photos of himself that hung from the walls. Hated the way he regarded the silverware and the gilded candelabra. And besides being an annoying sleazeball, there was something else about him that made Zola uneasy, something the Dane did not possess.
OK, what are my options? he asked himself, as he nodded at the gringo’s stupid questions and weary manner.
Shall we get rid of them, or get out ourselves? he wondered, as the policeman inquired about Marco’s relatives and whether it would be possible to speak with them.
He’d looked only at his brother while telling the policeman that Marco’s father was dead. Yes, my dear elder brother, his eyes said as he stared into his face. You’ve already lost the boy, so you might as well get used to the idea.
Finally he turned back to the Dane. They’d seen Stark’s grave now, and they weren’t dumb. They’d know they might be sitting across from a murderer. He nodded to himself. And they damn well did. If they asked any question that compromised him, they might just have to disappear like Stark and the others had. There was earth enough in which to bury both of them if necessary.
“We’ve got an appeal here for information about the man whose body we suspect was in that grave up on the hill. As you can see, he had thick red hair like we found in the soil. What’s your response to that?” the Dane asked.
“Nothing, really. It’s terrible, of course. What else can one say?”
“Take a look at the photo. Notice anything in particular?”
Zola shook his head, trying to figure out what the Arab’s hands were doing under the table.
“How about this?” said Assad, producing a plastic bag and putting it down in front of him. “It’s the same one as on the photo, but perhaps it’s more tangible when you see it in real life.”
Zola felt a darkness descend upon him. Before him lay the necklace Hector had told him Marco had been wearing. How had they got hold of it? Had the cops been lying when they said Marco wasn’t in custody? Was it some kind of trick?
Zola leaned his head back and tried to think rationally. Could this in reality be a way out, a sword of Damocles that Marco had now turned upon himself?
He mustered a facial expression of sudden realization and snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember now. This is the necklace Marco always used to wear.”
The Arab jabbed at the poster. “And this is the same necklace, see?”
Zola nodded. “I know Marco hated us. We were too much of a clique, too self-righteous for his taste. He refused to adapt. He’s violent and dangerous. Isn’t that right?” he said, catching his brother’s eye. “Remember how many times he came at us with a knife or a club?” He turned back to the policemen. “I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but with that temper of his it wouldn’t surprise me if he were capable of killing a man and then find a way of using it against us.”
He looked at his brother again. “What do you say? Am I right?”
The brother gave an answer, but a bit too hesitant and too late. Could his loyalty be on the wane?
“I guess so,” he said. “But if a dead man’s been lying up there in the woods, there could be any number of ways that he got there. Anyhow, it’s strange the body’s not there anymore, if it ever was.”
Zola nodded and fixed his eyes on the Dane. “Surely there must be some traces left by whoever put him there. Personally, I believe Marco removed the body in order to cover up his own crime.”
Again the Arab interrupted. “Inspector Mørck has seen the boy. He’s not very big. I doubt he would be able to do that.”
“Well, maybe. I don’t know. He’s stronger than he looks.”
Zola looked again at the poster, a new idea taking shape in his mind.
“I remember now,” he said to his brother. “Marco used to keep all kinds of things in his room. Maybe you could fetch that cardboard box he kept them in? There might be something there that could put these two gentlemen on the right track.”
His brother frowned, albeit fleetingly.
Come on, you idiot, improvise! Zola’s eyes signaled. As far as he was concerned, he could come back with anything or nothing at all. That wasn’t the point. This was about winning time and leaving these cops thinking he was a man who would do his utmost to have the truth revealed.