“Yes, much better, thanks.”
And that was that. Rose was hardly the sentimental type. If she were ever to succumb to heartfelt emotion, it certainly wouldn’t be other people’s.
Carl nodded. Right, then. The intimacy was over, the workday had begun.
“Two things,” she said. “I’ve been round the shops in the streets surrounding Trianglen and showed people the photo of Marco. No luck. A couple of slight reactions, maybe, but nothing for me to go on. That’s all I can say, really. I got some fresh air and a pair of sore feet, though, so thanks a bundle.”
“What’s the parking ticket got to do with it?” Carl asked.
“Nothing. That was the next thing. Have a good look,” she said, pointing her finger at it. “Block letters. See?”
Both Carl and Assad focused on the slip of paper. Sure enough, someone had written in block letters around the edge.
“I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Carl when he read the message: ZOLA IS A THIEF. HIS PEOPLE STASH STOLEN GOODS IN LOCKERS AT BLACK DIAMOND. THEY COME OFTEN AND EMPTY THEM ABOUT 4. THE CLAN MEET UP EVERY DAY AT TIVOLI CASTLE AT 5. MARCO
Assad rolled his eyes. “It would be very nice to have this boy’s fingers when one has to scratch one’s back,” he said. “They can reach everywhere.”
It was true. The boy was like a shadow in the shade.
“Do we still believe Zola’s story about the lad having killed a man?” asked Carl.
Assad lowered his head and peered at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. What more was there to say?
“I don’t either, really,” said Rose. “But we can’t ignore the fact that a couple of years ago he was at the age just before puberty when the majority of pedophiles are most interested. The boy might have been forced into it, you never know. It might even have been a relationship Zola got him into.”
“I’ll ask again, Rose. Do you think this boy, who’s putting himself at great risk to get in touch with us, could have killed a full-grown man, buried him, dug him up again, and then tried to put the blame on his own extended family?”
Rose shook her head. “Of course not, but one has to consider all the possibilities, right?”
“Why doesn’t he just come and see us? I think you already hinted at a possible answer, Assad. You said it was most likely because he had no firm affiliation with Denmark and didn’t have a national identity card.”
The pair of bushy eyebrows dropped and two dark brown eyes darted a couple of times to the side. Carl didn’t get it.
“It was Rose,” Assad mimed, out of the corner of his mouth.
Carl turned his head. “OK, my prompter here tells me it was you who said it, Rose.”
“Carl,” said Assad. “Look at that writing. Does it look like the writing of someone who is fifteen?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Rose intervened. “It’s as childish as yours, Assad.”
“Indeed, my point exactly! Very childish handwriting, just like mine.”
What kind of a thing was that to be so delighted about?
“So now we know nearly all of it, do we not?” Assad concluded.
Carl wrinkled his nose. “Nearly all of what?”
“Well, he had no identity card, so we believe he never had one at all. Therefore we also believe he is perhaps not a Dane, nor does he look like one. Unlike myself.”
A grunt emanated from deep inside Assad’s abdominal region. “Ha-ha. A nice nut-brown color, and curly black hair, as opposed to me, yes? The writing shows he is not very old, and yet his Danish is almost perfect. How can this be, then? It is because he has been in the country for quite some time, I think. But he is not a Danish citizen, and neither is anybody else in Zola’s household, as far as I’ve been informed. So the boy is here illegally. He and the others from Zola’s clan are not just here now and then to do business. They are here permanently and must therefore be considered to be illegal immigrants. This is why I think the boy will not speak to us.”
Rose nodded. “He’s afraid of us, Carl. And now we’ve got the entire police force looking for him.”
–
They didn’t have to wait long in the cafeteria of the new Royal Library, dubbed the Black Diamond, and Assad had to leave his sandwich half-eaten, his eyes doleful with disappointment.
The guy came ambling in with a shopping bag in his hand, oblivious to the literary merits of the location as he steered directly toward the far bank of lockers by the restrooms. Unlike Marco, there was an unhealthy look about him. He was older and rather more pallid, oddly well-dressed in a black suit and white shirt. Not exactly the kind of getup you’d expect from a person who made his living from street crime.
“Do you mind if we have a look in your bag?” asked Carl, holding out his badge.
It took the guy a fraction of a second to realize his predicament and make a dash for the exit where Assad stood, so his astonishment was indescribable when his escape was suddenly blocked by a flat hand against his chest that sent him backward, straight on his ass.
“Where’s all this from?” Carl inquired a couple of minutes later, turning round in the front seat of the car and emptying the shopping bag’s contents of mobile phones, watches, and wallets into the lap of their thief, who sat in the back with Assad.
The guy shrugged. “Don’t understand,” he said in English.
“OK, Carl, he doesn’t speak Danish, so this might be too difficult,” Assad said. “Let’s drive him out to the marshes and kill him like the two from yesterday. What are you doing tonight, anyway, Carl? Any good parties on so we can then let our hair down?”
Carl gawped at him, but it was nothing compared to the look in the eyes of the man in the backseat.
“Hey, you know what?” Assad added. “I actually think two thousand kroner is OK for offing this idiot. I hear the Anatomical Institute is short of bodies at the moment.”
With an imagination like that, he ought to have been a crime writer.
“I want to talk to lawyer,” came the response in fractured Danish.
Assad smiled. “I suggest you start talking instead. Don’t worry, we’ll get you into a prison without too many skinheads.”
His despair was hard to conceal, and his demeanor had hardly improved by the time the police van turned up half an hour later to take him away.
An hour later they were in luck again.
This time the guy who came in through the revolving doors was rather more exotic looking and seemed in better physical shape. He, too, was clad in a black suit, but his eyes were so alert that they quickly caught Carl and Assad’s attention.
“If he goes over to the lockers, we close in from both sides,” Carl whispered.
–
The guy refused to talk, and if it weren’t for the pair of ladies’ watches in his pocket, they’d have had to let him go.
Now he sat glowering at them in the interview room on the second floor of police HQ.
“We’ve got your mate Samuel sitting next door,” Carl said. “Plus we’ve got officers posted at the Black Diamond so we can nab you one by one. If no one else shows, we’ll pick up the rest of you at Rådhuspladsen later this afternoon.”
The guy shifted slightly in his chair and kept silent. It looked like nothing bothered him: not the sterile environment or the police who were questioning him, or the handcuffs on his wrists. He was the kind of lad who wouldn’t need much more on-the-job training before he was truly a menace to society. The prisons were full of them, but unfortunately there were lots more on the loose than behind bars.
Carl drew Assad aside. “We’ll have to wait and see what the magistrates’ court says in the morning, but I reckon we’ll have a few more in by the end of the day who might be more cooperative.”
“I will stay behind here for a little while, Carl,” said Assad. “Maybe I can soften him up.”
Carl squinted at him. He didn’t doubt Assad’s abilities in that area. Unfortunately.