The Boy in the Suitcase (25 page)

The accusation hit Sigita like a hardball to the stomach.

“She knew where I was,” said Sigita. “The entire time. They were the ones who turned their backs on me, not the other way around.”

“Did you ever ask?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sit there in your fancy apartment, waiting for them to come to you, isn’t that right? But you were the one who ran away. Perhaps you should be the one to make the first move if you want to come home again.”

Not now, thought Sigita. I can’t deal with this now. She glanced at her watch. Her plane would be leaving in two hours.

“Goodbye,” she said. And stood there, waiting, even though she wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

Jolita sighed.

“Take the damn money,” she said. “I hope you get your little boy back.”

J
ESU
H
JERTE
K
IRKE
, it was called in Danish. The Church of the Sacred Heart lay in Stenogade, squeezed in between a fashion shop and a private school.

Nina had asked an elderly lady in the Istedgade cornershop where she had bought fresh rolls for herself and the boy. They had struggled a bit over the translation; Nina had guessed herself that it might be Catholic, and the old lady’s local knowledge did the rest.

Afterwards, Nina had called Magnus from a small, seedy bar on Halmtorvet. The bartender at The Grotto had let her use both phone and bathroom at no charge, but her conversation with her boss had been brief and unsatisfying.

“
Fan i helvete
, where are you? The duty roster is shot to hell, and Morten has been ringing us since seven o’clock. The police want to speak to you. Is this anything to do with Natasha?”

Magnus’s tone had become very Swedish, and the words came pouring over her so quickly that she had no time to answer before he interrupted both himself and her.

“No. Don’t. I don’t even want to know. Only … are you okay? Morten wants to know if you’re okay.”

Nina took a deep breath.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she told him. “Although I won’t be in today. Will you please tell Morten there is no need to worry.”

It was a while before Magnus answered. She could hear him exhale and inhale, big, deep barrel-chested breaths.

“Well, as long as you’re not dead, I was to tell you.…” Magnus hesitated again, and softened his voice so much that Nina could barely hear him.

“I was to tell you that this is the last time. If you come back alive, this is the last time.”

Nina felt a sharp little snap in her chest and held the receiver at some distance, battling to control her voice.

“Alive,” she laughed, too thinly. “How dramatic. There’s really no need for such melodrama. Why shouldn’t I be alive? I’m perfectly fine. It’s just that there is something I need to do.”

Magnus gave a brief grunt, and when his voice came back on the line, for the first time he had begun to sound angry.

“Well, fine. If you don’t want anybody’s help, Nina, you won’t get it. But Morten sounded shit scared, I tell you. He says the police have found your mobile phone.”

Nina felt a clammy chill along her backbone as he said it. She slammed the receiver down so abruptly that The Grotto’s barman raised his eyebrows and grinned knowingly at the two regular patrons ensconced at the far end of the bar. Nina didn’t care. Impatiently, she collected the boy, pulling him away from the old table soccer game he had become engrossed in. He yipped in protest as she half carried, half dragged him back to the car, but at that moment, she was too stressed to care. She started the car, turned the corner at Halmorvet and continued down Stenosgade while she followed the second hand on the dashboard clock: 13, 14, 15… .

Annoyingly, she caught herself moving her lips. She was counting the seconds under her breath. Sweet Jesus. How crazy was that?

Crazy. Insane. Mentally challenged. (Perhaps even so crazy that you did it on purpose?)

She managed to insert the Fiat into the row of cars parked by the curb in front of the church, in a slot too small for most cars. The boy in the back seat was staring out the window, steadfastly refusing to look at her. The sense of trust and familiarity from their morning bath had vanished, and it was clear that he had not forgiven her for the rough and hasty way she had bundled him into the car.

Sunlight made the digits on the dashboard clock blur in front of her. She leaned back, fumbling for the water bottle and a breakfast roll. She wasn’t hungry, but she recognized this particular kind of lethargy from long hot days without appetite in the camps of Dadaab. If she didn’t eat something now, she would soon be unable to form coherent thought.

She took tiny bites, chewing carefully and washing down the bland starchy meal with gulps of lukewarm water from the bottle. The she opened the car door and stepped onto the sizzling sidewalk.

Jesu Hjerte Kirke, Sacred Heart, Sacre Coeur. The English and French translations were posted helpfully below the Danish name of the church in slightly smaller letters. A very Catholic name, she thought to herself, full of dramatic beauty and signifying very little. The Lithuanian girl must be a Catholic, or she wouldn’t have known about this church.

Mass was announced at 17:00 hours, she noted, but right now the doors were closed, and the huge cast-iron gate to the grounds proved unremittingly locked.

Nina got back in the car again, looking at the church with a vague feeling of unease. It looked like many other city churches in Copenhagen. Red-brick solidity and a couple of striving towers, squeezed in among tenement buildings. It looked cramped compared to the Cathedral grounds in Viborg (where they had buried him) and the small whitewashed village churches of the country parishes around it.

(Goest thou thither, and dig my grave.)

She blinked a couple of times, then scanned the street for any sign of the girl. Would she actually show? If she did, Nina was going to try to buy a few hours of her time. She turned her head, but the boy was still refusing to meet her eyes. Sunlight ricocheted off a window somewhere, forcing him to squint.

(Alas, this world is cold, and all its light is only shadow.)

Nina shuddered, and without thinking drew the blanket up to cover the boy’s legs, despite the heat of the day. At that moment, she saw her. The girl from Helgolandsgade was peering into the car through the rear window, her face a pale outline. Nina jerked in her seat, then nodded, and leaned across to open the passenger door.

“I wil pay you,” she said, hastily. “You just tell me how much you need, and where we can go.”

It was 12:06.

The girl jackknifed herself into the passenger seat, looking quickly up and down Stenogade before closing the door. She smelled strongly of perfume and something sweet and rather chemical, possibly rinse aid. She fumbled in her bag and produced a stick of gum.

“It is five hundred kroner an hour, and three thousand for eight hours. How long will it take?” she answered, throwing a calculating look at the boy in the back.

Then she suddenly smiled at Nina, a crooked and unexpectedly genuine smile.

“He is so little,” she said. “So cute.”

She held out her hand, and Nina shook it, somewhat taken aback.

“Marija,” said the girl slowly and clearly, and Nina nodded.

“I will pay for the eight hours,” she said, offering up a quiet prayer to the bank. She had been uncomfortably close to the overdraft limit the last time she had checked, but she was uncertain whether this was before or after her latest paycheck had registered. She had never been very good at the money thing.

Nina turned the key in the ignition, and then sat in indecision, hands locked around the wheel. Where could they go? MacDonald’s? A café?

No. Suddenly resolute, she turned left onto Vesterbrogade and headed for Amager. They could all do with a bit of fresh air.

T
HROUGH THE YELLOWED
blinds, there was a view of the road, the parking lot, and the grimy concrete walls of some industrial warehouse or other. Every twenty minutes, a bus went past. Jan knew this because he had been sitting there staring out the window for nearly four hours now.

He hadn’t considered that boredom would be a factor. But this was like sitting an exam at which one had offered what little one had to say on the subject inside the first ten minutes, and now had to repeat oneself ad infinitum. Even though the context was hideous, and he really shouldn’t be
able
to be bored when talking about the brutal murder of someone who had been close to him, this was what had begun to happen. It felt as if his lips were growing thicker with each repetition, his mouth drier. The words wore thin. Concentration faltered. All pretense at naturalness had long since vanished.

“I met Karin Kongsted two and a half years ago, in Bern; she was employed by the clinic that performed my renal surgery. We probably grew more familiar than might otherwise have been the case, due to the fact that we were both Danes on foreign soil; it often works that way. After the operation, I needed fairly frequent check-ups and medical attention, but it was crucial that I didn’t neglect my business any more than I had to. Karin agreed to return to Denmark and work for me in a private capacity, and this proved an excellent solution.”

At the moment he was telling his story to an older detective, a calm, almost flegmatic man whose Jutland roots could still be heard in his intonation. His name was Anders Kvistgård, and he was more rigidly polite than the others, punctiliously addressing Jan as “Mr. Marquart.” In his white shirt, black tie and slightly threadbare navy blue pullover, he looked like a railroad clerk, thought Jan.

Mr. Kvistgård was the third detective to interview him. First there had been a younger man who had approached Jan with an air of comradery, as if they both played for the same soccer team. Then a woman, who to Jan seemed far too young and feminine for her job. Each time it had been back to square one, excuse-me-but-would-you-mind-repeating, how-exactly-was-it, could-you-please-tell-us, how-would-you-describe… .

“A private nurse. Isn’t that a little … extravagant?”

“My time is the most precious commodity I possess. I simply can’t be stuck in a waiting room for hours every time I need to have a blood sample taken. Believe me, Karin’s paycheck has been a worthwhile investment.”

“I see. And apart from this, how was your relationship with Ms. Kongsted?”

“Excellent. She was a very warm and friendly person.”

“How warm?”

Jan was jerked from his near-somnolent repetition. This question was new.

“What do you mean?”

“Were the two of you having it on? Playing doctor when the missus wasn’t around? I understand you lived under the same roof?”

Jan could feel his jaw drop. He stared at this sixty-year-old Danish Rails ticket puncher lookalike with a feeling of complete unreality. This was bizarre. The man’s expression of benign interest hadn’t shifted a millimeter.

“I … no. Bloody hell. I’m married!”

“Quite a few people are. This doesn’t stop around seventy percent of them from having a bit on the side. But not you and Ms. Kongsted, then?”

“No, I tell you!”

“Are you quite certain of that?”

Jan felt fresh sweat break out on his palms and forehead. Did they know anything? Would it be better to come clean and be casual about it, rather than be caught in a lie? Did they
know
, or were they just bluffing?

He realized that his hesitation had already given him away.

“It was very brief,” he said. “I think I was taken by surprise at… . Oh, I don’t know. Have you ever been through a serious operation?”

“No,” said the railway clerk.

“The relief at still being alive can cause a certain … exuberance.”

“And in this rush of exuberance you began a relationship with Karin Kongsted?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it that. Not a relationship. I think we both realized that it was a mistake. And neither of us wanted to hurt Anne.”

“So your wife was ignorant of the affair?”

“Stop it. It wasn’t an affair. At the most, it was … oh, it sounds so sordid to call it a one-night stand, and it wasn’t, but I think you know what I mean.”

“Do I, Mr. Marquart? I’m not so sure. What are we talking about? One night? A week? A couple of months? How long did it take you to realize that it was a mistake? And are you certain that Ms. Kongsted understood that just because she was having sex with you, she had better not think this constituted an
affair
?”

Jan tried to remain calm, but the man was subjecting him to verbal acupuncture, sticking in his needles with impeccable precision, and observing him blandly all the while.

“You’re twisting everything,” he said. “Karin is … like I said, Karin was a very warm person, very … womanly. But I am perfectly sure she understood how much my marriage means to me.”

“How fortunate. Is your wife equally certain?”

“Of course! Or … no, I didn’t tell Anne about the … episode with Karin. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t either. Anne is easily hurt.”

“We will just have to hope it doesn’t become necessary, then. Can you tell me why Karin Kongsted left the house so suddenly yesterday?”

“No. I … I wasn’t there myself. But seeing that she went to the summer cottage, she must have decided to take a few days off.”

“Am I to believe you haven’t seen this?” Kvistgård fished out a vinyl sleeve and placed it on the table in front of Jan. Inside was Karin’s note, with the brief, bald phrase clearly visible through the plastic: I QUIT.

“I didn’t take it seriously. I think it was meant as a joke. She had been complaining that it was too hot to work … like I said, I think she was simply taking a few days off and had a slightly … untraditional way of announcing it.”

“According to your wife, Karin Kongsted appeared upset and off balance when she drove off.”

“Did she? Well, I can’t really say. I told you, I wasn’t there.”

“No. But you did make a call to SecuriTrack in order to locate the car she was driving. Why did you do that, Mr. Marquart?”

There was a high-pitched whine of pressure in his ears. He was aware that he was still sitting there with a stiff smile glued to his face, but he also knew that any illusion of casual innocence had long since evaporated. There was no way he could make light of this, no way he could pretend it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a routine precaution when a company car went missing. He couldn’t do it. That bloody railway clerk had unbalanced him completely and nailed him in free fall, with no life lines left to clutch.