The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (44 page)

“Brage-Schmidt happens to be honorary consul for several central African states.”

“Not including Cameroon, by any chance?”

Gordon nodded, making the fringe of hair dance above his eyes like a line of washing in a stiff westerly.

“Well, I’ll be . . . damned. Cameroon’s honorary consul on the same board as Eriksen, who’s disappeared, and Teis Snap, who’s stone-dead?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s loaded, yeah?”

“Major shareholder in Karrebæk Bank, yes.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No, I didn’t dare, thanks to you.”

Carl smiled. Good boy. He was beginning to learn. A little respect was a good thing.

“Assad, check and see if this Brage-Schmidt’s at home, will you?”

A couple of minutes passed before his curly head reappeared in the doorway. “There’s a message from someone called Lisbeth on my voice mail. Has your mobile conked out, or is it because you can’t be bothered to talk to her, Carl? This is what she asks.”

Lisbeth! Shit.

He pulled his mobile out of his back pocket. Blank screen, dead as a doornail. That explained it.

“And what about Brage-Schmidt?”

“I think we should drive up there, Carl. He lives in Rungsted.”

“Drive up there? Why?”

“Because his house is on fire.”

—

They saw the coil of black smoke a mile off, spiraling into the sky above the Øresund strait. The flashing blue lights of ten fire engines and the feverish activity surrounding them assailed their senses as they turned into the road. The asphalt was already awash with sooty water.

The blaze was enormous, and it seemed clear that nothing would be left of the grandness of the residence but its foundations and its memories. The heat had melted the paint jobs on the Audis and Mercedes parked opposite, and the leaves of the surrounding trees were smoldering. Pandemonium reigned.

Carl shielded his face and tapped the fire brigade chief on the shoulder.

“Are there any fatalities?”

“Yes, we’ve pulled two bodies out.”

“Can they be identified?”

The man broke into a wide smile, the way only a hardened firefighter could when asked such a question. “You’ll have quite a job on your hands. I think you’d better start by finding yourself a couple of heavy-duty body bags and some good blokes with microscopes.”

Carl looked over at the two heaps he was pointing at. Leaning against one of them were a pair of wheels and a crumpled metal frame.

“Was one of them in a wheelchair?”

“Looks like it. Most probably the owner of the house. A couple of the neighbors say they haven’t seen him for ages. Maybe he couldn’t get about.”

“Brage-Schmidt?”

The fire chief checked his notes. “That’s it. Jens Linus Brage-Schmidt, Honorary Consul, it says here.”

Carl surveyed the hardworking firefighters, the boiling steam and the blaze. How the hell could anything burn like this?

“Any theories about what caused it?”

“That’ll have to come later. But inflammable liquids are in there somewhere, no doubt about that. The neighbors say something smelled like spirits just before they raised the alarm.”

“What about the other fatality?”

“No idea. The only person registered at the address was this Brage-Schmidt.”

Carl walked over to an elderly couple standing just inside their wrought-iron gate, as if it could protect them in some way.

“Oh, how awful, how awful,” the wife kept saying. “All our houses could have gone up in flames. Just look at our Mercedes.”

Carl stood scratching his neck. Brage-Schmidt could hardly have been their best friend.

“Were you the people who called for help?” he asked.

They shook their heads emphatically. Obviously they were steering clear of the entire affair.

“OK, then, thanks. Let’s just cross our fingers the hand-grenade depot explodes in the other direction, shall we?” He raised a finger to his
imaginary hat in parting and they were back inside their house before he knew it.

“Over here, Carl,” shouted Assad.

He nodded toward a youngish couple who, like their elderly neighbors, seemed to slot in nicely in these opulent surroundings. What it cost for all the makeup in which the woman had encased herself would have fed a fair-sized Bangladeshi family for at least a couple of decades.

“Well,” she said. “Ernst had a feeling there was something amiss, so of course we advised the fire brigade.”

She forgot to say “forthwith,” Carl thought, then the sentence would be complete.

“We’ve already spoken to the police,” said the man, when Carl showed him his ID. “Nothing more to say, really,” he added. “We neither saw nor heard anything. People up here aren’t very nosy.”

“That’s a shame. Did you have any contact with Mr. Brage-Schmidt?”

“Oh, you know. A bit of Rotary when he was younger. Not much of late, though. The delivery boy came with groceries every day and left them in the garage, but to tell you the truth, we never saw him come out to take them in. He was a bit peculiar.”

Carl nodded as he and Assad walked back toward the smoldering ruin.

“Have you spoken to the fire investigators?” he asked.

“Yes, but they’re no further than us, Carl, because the fire’s still burning, sort of.”

“Have you been over there?”

Carl pointed to a path that cut through the meter-tall beech-tree hedge surrounding the majority of houses along the road.

“It’s too hot, I think. Why?”

“We could have a word with the neighbors from round the back.”

“In that case, you can just as well talk to him over there.”

Carl saw a boy standing at the curb with his bike. He seemed oddly intense, his eyes aflame and a reddish-yellow glow reflecting in his face.

“Assad says you live in the house behind here. Did you notice anything strange going on today?” he asked, as he approached.

The lad shook his head.

“No one who happened to be walking along the path or who squeezed through a hole in the hedge?”

“There isn’t a hole. There’s a gate.”

“How do you mean?”

“You can get from our road into the consul’s garden through a gate. That’s what the Negro always does.”

“The Negro?”

“Yeah, the one who lives in the house.”

“We didn’t know anyone was living there apart from Brage-Schmidt. But you’re saying someone does?”

“He’s lived there for years. He always leaves his car on one of the other roads and walks to the house from there.”

It was from the mouths of babes and drunks that the truth emerged.

Carl gave the lad a friendly punch on the shoulder. Thanks for the tip.

“Let’s have a look at those barbecued bodies, shall we? I think I know who the other one is now,” he said, drawing Assad over toward the two charred mounds lying on the tarps by the hedge.

The flesh was as good as burned away. There were still remnants of leather on the exposed bones of one the body’s fingers, probably from the armrest of the wheelchair. From the permanent S-shaped position of the corpse, it looked like he’d been sitting in it when the place went up.

The other body was little but a heap of scorched bones held together by fused tendons and charred muscle. The eye sockets were burned empty and the facial skin melted off. It was impossible to tell whether the person had been white or black, let alone male or female.

“What’s that?” said Assad, indicating the corpse’s mouth. He glanced around. There were no forensic technicians in sight.

He stuck his finger in between what had once been lips and pushed the slop of remains aside.

“I’ve seen these dentures before,” he said.

Carl gave a nod of surprise as Assad wiggled one of the front teeth with his finger.

There was no doubt about it, Carl had to admit. The body was René
E. Eriksen’s. A set of choppers like that wasn’t something you forgot in a hurry.

Assad wiped his hands on his trousers. “What do you say, Carl?”

“The same as you, probably, that now they’ve all bumped each other off, and the case is drawing to a close. I reckon Laursen will agree, once he sees the technicians’ reports and the DNA analyses.”

For a long time
Marco thought about how much space emptiness can actually take up inside a person. Only hours ago everything had been so chaotic, yet so, so straightforward. He’d been on the run, his father and Zola were still alive, and the clan had been working the streets. But now both his father and Zola were dead, and a whole lot of clan members had been arrested.

And here he was, wondering what was next. Was he free? With Zola gone, who would call off the hunt? And how was he supposed to get along with no money at the same time as he was wanted by the police?

It was all so difficult. No matter how hard he tried to think, his mind was awash with sorrow, relief and fear, rendering futile all attempts to make any kind of decision.

Perhaps it would all pass if he just waited a day or two. Why should they all be after him when Zola was no more? And why should the police continue their search as well? After all, he’d done nothing wrong. No, a couple of days lying low, considering his next move—that’s what he needed. And who could tell? Maybe now he could even get his money out of Kaj and Eivind’s apartment.

He hailed a taxi outside the Søpavillion nightclub and a quarter of an hour later he was standing in front of Stark’s house. Inside there was a bed and some food, he knew that. A good place to pass the time and wait.

He looked up the drive as the taxi pulled away, immediately seeing an old Mazda parked at the end of the house, tailgate raised and back doors
wide-open. Bulging black trash bags had been deposited along the wall of the house. And now came two more, in the hands of a woman he recognized as Tilde’s mother.

Marco ducked behind a tree with his back to the lake.

His head popped in and out from his hiding place as Tilde’s mother began to load the car, like an inquisitive animal, registering every movement. What if the girl was there, too? What new options would be open to him then? Wasn’t this the moment for him to take his chance?

He took one step out from behind the tree. The car was perhaps only fifty meters away, yet his legs felt like lead. How would he ever be able to tell them the truth?

“Why are you standing there, watching my mother?” said a voice from behind.

Marco gave a start and whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Tilde, her shoes covered in mud, her trouser legs wet.

“It’s lucky I was down here by the lake. What is it you want?”

She seemed ethereal in her loose blouse, with her hair hanging down her back. But her face was like stone. He hadn’t seen her like this before, and it certainly wasn’t the way he’d hoped they would meet for the first time.

“You’re the one the police have a photo of, aren’t you?” she said coldly.

Marco frowned.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream. OK?”

He nodded. “I won’t do anything to you,” he replied. “I just want to talk with the two of you. With you, I mean,” he added, correcting himself.

“Why?”

He swallowed. How to begin?

“The police say you know something. How come you know William?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

“I don’t. But I know what happened to him.”

She struggled to appear calm, but everything inside her was screaming that there was nothing in the world she wanted to know more, yet
was afraid to hear. It was so obvious. Marco could hardly stand to see her like this.

Tilde’s voice trembled. “If you don’t know him, then how do you know it’s him?”

“He had red hair and he was wearing an African necklace. I’ve seen a picture of him, and it is the same man I saw. I just know, that’s all.”

She put a hand to her mouth, the other fluttering at her hip.

“You say ‘had’ red hair.”

Now was the time. “I’m very sorry, Tilde, but he’s dead.”

He’d expected her to collapse with a howl of anguish, that she would clench her teeth and take out her grief on him with her fists, but she didn’t.

Instead, she seemed to retreat inside herself, as if something inside her had been extinguished. A spark that might otherwise have ignited the desire to look ahead, a fire to fuel the dreams these past years had taken from her. Everything went out at once as her arms fell to her sides and her head dropped.

Standing there, she resembled someone resigned to facing a firing squad. No tears, no struggle, no cries for mercy, no cries in anger. Just a person yielding to her fate.

“Are you sure?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Yes.”

And then she began ever so quietly to sob.

Marco put his arms around her as she cried, and told her everything that had tormented him for so long. And when he told her his own father had played a part in the death of her stepfather, he too began to weep. But instead of pushing him away, instead of spitting on him, she drew herself still closer to him so he felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek and the rapid pounding of her heart.

“I knew it,” she said, tears pouring now. “I knew he was dead. William would never just leave us, so I knew.”

“I’m off with this first carload, Tilde,” a woman’s voice called from the house.

She pulled away from Marco, dried her eyes on her sleeve, and told him to stay put.

“I’m staying here,” she called back, stepping forward into sight. “Is that OK?”

“Yes, fine. Just stay in the house till I come back. I’ll bring us something to eat. What would you like?”

From behind the trees Marco could see her whole body trembling again. But her voice was under control.

“Whatever,” she replied. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

They waved to each other, and when the car was gone she turned to him.

“We’re moving all our stuff out now. The police were here a few days ago, and after that, my mum didn’t want anything left here.”

“Why not?”

“They said all kinds of things about William that upset her. And something about you, too.”

“About me? What did they say?”

“It doesn’t matter; it wasn’t true. And they said he’d spent money that might not have been his. That’s something we simply can’t understand. We don’t believe he kept things secret from us. You wouldn’t either, if you knew him and had been in the house. It’s not a home with secrets.”

“I
have
been in the house,” he said.

Her face darkened as he told her about the times he had hidden there. About his curiosity, and the strange bond he felt he had with the place. And he told her about the time he’d hidden in the safe, and his puzzlement over the code inside.

“I don’t like the idea of you just breaking in. I don’t even know if I should be standing here, talking to you. It seems wrong all of a sudden.”

He nodded, but said nothing. What was there to say? He understood her completely.

“Have you lost your tongue?” she asked after a moment.

“You don’t have to talk to me. I just came to tell you the truth. Now you can pass it on to the police. Tell it to a detective called Carl Mørck. He was here, too.”

She looked surprised. “I know who he is. He was the one who told us about you.”

Marco looked up at her. So they had actually had contact. That was good news.

“What was that code in the safe you mentioned?” she asked. “Will you show me?”

—

She lay on her back on the floor and peered up inside the safe.

“A4C4C6F67,” she repeated to herself a couple of times, until she could remember it by heart.

Then she wriggled out and looked at him pensively.

“It’s a chess move,” she said with a frown. “A4 to C4 to C6 to F6 and 7. But why? It makes no sense at all.”

She shook her head. “William and I often played together, and those moves are useless, believe me.”

“I’ve never played chess. What does it mean? What’s C6, for instance?”

“It’s a square on the board. If you think of a chessboard, there are sixty-four squares in all. Eight horizontal and eight vertical. Each square has a label, starting in the bottom left corner, then moving horizontally from left to right, A, B, C, and so on, and from bottom to top, one, two, three, four, and up to eight.”

Marco tried to picture it. “So C6 is three to the side from the left and six up?”

“Yes, it is, but it’s a move that doesn’t make much sense.”

“But it was written inside the safe as well, so I don’t think they’re moves in a game. Maybe it’s supposed to indicate something else entirely.”

“A chessboard, perhaps?”

“But I just said . . .”

“Yes, I know, but maybe something that looks like one. Something with sixty-four squares.”

They looked at each other at once, the same thought dawning.

“How many flagstones are there in the patio?” Marco asked.

She took his hand and tugged him out of the house and into the garden.

The weather was still warm even though it was late in the day, but Tilde began to shiver as they counted the flags.

“You’re right. Eight one way and eight the other,” said Marco, trying to figure out what she was doing.

“This ought to work,” she said, picking up a white stone form the flower bed.

Then she counted the flagstones, index finger extended, and every time she came to one of the squares in question she wrote its number on it: A4, C4, C6, F6 and F7. Seven flagstones in all.

“You do it,” she said, and pointed at A4.

Marco glanced around.

“Over there,” she said, nodding toward a spade that was leaned against the shed.

Marco stuck it between the flags and upended A4.

There was a frenzy of insects in the sand, but nothing else.

“Dig into the sand,” she instructed.

He thrust the blade downward and felt an immediate resistance.

“Be careful,” she said, growing excited. “Use your hands.”

He got down on his knees and scraped away the sand until a small plastic container appeared in front of him. Now he, too, began to breathe more rapidly.

He opened the lid and removed the contents. Two gold rings, a coral necklace with matching bracelet and earrings, two brooches shaped like daisies, and a floppy disk labeled with small block letters: “
AN INTERNATIONAL PERSPECTIVE ON PENSION FUNDS, RETIREMENT INCOME SECURITY AND CAPITAL MARKETS
,” it read.

Marco didn’t get it. The jewelry wasn’t worth much, and he couldn’t make sense of the disk at all.

Tilde sat for a long while on her haunches, considering the items one by one before speaking. “Mum said she was sure he’d got rid of everything. But there was one time when I was really doing poorly and thought I was going to die, and William said that one day when I got married I was to wear the same jewelry as his mother had on when she got married.” She pressed her lips together. “And then there’s this.” She clutched the disk tight in her hand. “I knew why he never finished his thesis. He didn’t have time because of my illness. And look, he . . .”

Then her face contorted as the tears ran freely.

Marco let her cry, but put his arm around her shoulder.

She looked up at him when she calmed down again. “Look. He tried, anyway. He set his work aside for another time, and he saved the jewelry for me.”

She shook her head as she collected herself. Then she dried her eyes and stood up abruptly.

“Come on, it’s no use waiting. We need to dig them all up.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting with four more open containers in front of them.

Under C4 they found a notebook, under C6, some bank statements, and under F6, an envelope on which was written “My Will.” And under F7 lay a plastic pocket full of documents bearing the ministry’s logo, on front of which was written the words, “BAKA PROJECT,” in bold capital letters.

Tilde opened the notebook and recognized William’s handwriting straightaway.

She scanned the first page, then raised her hands to her head and began massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers.

Marco could see the tears welling again.

Her eyes glided repeatedly up and down the first page, and each time her face grew slightly paler.

“Aren’t you going to see what’s on the other pages?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

She nodded.

They remained kneeling on the ground for a while, and then she put the notebook back in the container.

“The police were right. William took a lot of money. It’s all recorded there.” She pressed her lips together, then continued. “And he did it for me, I know he did. That makes me very sad. And sorry that I can’t talk to him now.”

Marco knew the feeling better than anyone.

“What about the other things?” he asked.

She picked up the bank statements that had been hidden under C6 and paged through them before putting them down again with a sigh. “It’s the same. All the deposits and payments he made. It all fits.”

“Fits?”

“Yes. He transferred money into the account and paid my hospital bills the same day. I recognize the names of all the places I was, and the dates, too, more or less.”

“He really loved you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Marco looked away for a second. He wondered if she knew how lucky she had been.

“Will you open this, Marco? I don’t think I can,” she said, handing him the envelope with the words “My Will” written on it.

He opened the envelope. Inside was a document written on a solicitor’s letterhead and stamped with the word “copy” in red. It was headed
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
.

“He’s left everything he had to you and your mother, Tilde,” he told her.

She squeezed her eyes tight shut. It was simply too much for her.

Marco picked up the final collection of papers that had been buried under flagstone F7.

“Any idea what these are?” he asked her, waiting until she opened her despairing eyes.

“They’re from his workplace. The Baka project was the last thing he was involved in, I think.”

“Why would he bury it here? It can’t be as important as the other stuff, surely?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we should hand it in to his office.”

They heard the car pull up outside.

Tilde turned toward the sound. “That’ll be my mum. But why isn’t she parking in the drive?”