The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (6 page)

Marco shuddered as he felt his way forward with his feet, twigs, pine cones, and thorns jabbing at his ankles and soles. A hundred meters into the woods, he was forced to lie down. Moving on was simply too painful and too slow.

They’d catch him if he didn’t find cover, he told himself, the words pulsing in his mind as he prodded the ground and noted that the earth was cold as ice, hard as stone. The place offered no concealment.

He felt panic now, as he spread his arms out to his sides and wriggled a few meters forward on his stomach through the prickly undergrowth.

He pressed on, and after a minute he suddenly felt his knees sink. For a moment he thought he had ventured into bog, but the soil was dry and loose, as though it had been turned. It was perfect.

So he began to dig, and the farther down he got, the looser the earth became.

Before long the hole was big and deep enough for him to roll into it and draw the soil over his body, twigs and broken branches covering his face and arms.

They wouldn’t see him now unless they stepped on him. Please don’t let the dog be with them, he prayed, trying to control his breathing.

And then he heard the crackle of dry wood under many feet. They were coming.

They spread out in the underbrush, moving slowly toward the place he lay, the sweeping beams of two flashlights hovering between the tree trunks like gigantic fireflies.

“One of you stay by the road so he can’t escape that way. The rest of you search closely, make sure he hasn’t concealed himself underneath something,” Zola shouted into the darkness. “Prod the ground with sticks, there’s plenty of them.”

A moment passed and Marco heard the snapping of branches all around, for Zola’s word was law. Crunching footsteps vibrated through the earth, approaching where he lay as the sound of sticks jabbed against the cold ground made the sweat trickle from his brow in spite of the biting cold. Another minute and the flock was all around him. And then suddenly they were gone.

Stay where you are, he told himself, a stench of rot piercing his nostrils. Somewhere close by an animal lay dead, no doubt about it. He’d found them often when they’d lived in Italy. Dead, stinking corpses of all kinds: squirrels, hares, and birds.

When Zola called off the search they would return the same way
through the woods. If they hadn’t posted a man at the roadside he would have run back whence he came and then out across the fields. But just now he hadn’t the courage, so what else could he do but remain as quiet as a mouse?

And after a long time—as long a time as it would take Marco to beg his way from Rådhuspladsen down to Kongens Nytorv—they came back and passed him by. He’d been lying in the ice-cold earth for nearly an hour now, as the rain poured through the canopy of fir.

He heard them one by one, frustrated by their unsuccessful manhunt, angry that Marco had betrayed them so. Some even expressed their fear of what his betrayal might lead to.

“He’s in for it if we get our hands on him,” said Sascha, one of the girls he’d liked best.

Bringing up the rear were his father and Zola, the sentiment in their voices equally unambiguous.

As was the whining of the dog.

Marco’s heart stood still. He held his breath, knowing it would be no defense against the canine’s sense of smell. And then the animal suddenly began to bark, as though the scent of Marco were the only thing in the world it was capable of focusing on.

Now he was doomed.

“This is about where we dug the hole,” said Zola in a subdued voice, only meters from the place where Marco lay. “Listen to the dog, it’s going crazy, so we must be getting close. Goddammit, you realize, don’t you, that we’ve got an even bigger problem on our hands now? And
your
son is to blame.” He swore again as he dragged the whining dog away. “We need to be real careful for a while. There’s no telling what Marco might do. I think we should consider moving the body as well. It’s a bit too close to home.”

Marco slowly sucked in air through his teeth. With each breath he took, his hatred of Zola grew. The sound of his voice alone made Marco want to spring from his hiding place and cry out his contempt. But he did nothing.

When eventually the voices had left the underbrush, he began to shake away the soil. Later in the night or early the next morning Zola and
Chris were bound to return with the dog. It was something he couldn’t risk.

He had to get away. Far away.

He pulled his frozen arms free with difficulty and arched his back so the soil that covered him could slide from his body.

Then he wriggled in the earth so as to gain purchase to draw himself upright, the sleeves of his pajamas catching as he swept sticks and twigs aside. Suddenly his hand struck a slimy mass covering something hard, and then came the stench, smothering him like death itself.

Instinctively he held his breath as he sat up and tried to see what it was his hands had found, which was barely possible by the dim light of the moon. So he tipped forward, his nostrils pinched, and then he saw it.

At that moment it was almost as if his heart had stopped. Before him lay a human hand. Helpless, crooked fingers with the skin peeled away, nails as brown as the earth itself.

Marco flung himself to one side. For a long time he sat on his haunches a short distance away, staring at the arm of the corpse as rain slowly revealed its decaying face and body.

“This is about where we dug the hole,” Zola had said to his father. The hole in which he himself had been lying.

Together with a rotting corpse.

Marco got to his feet. It was not the first time he had seen a dead body, but he had never touched one before, and he never wished to again.

For a while he considered what to do next. On the one hand, his discovery had suddenly given him the opportunity to have Zola put behind bars and to finally free himself of the man. But on the other hand, his father had helped bury the body, and probably also more than that. That made all the difference.

As he stood pondering, slowly becoming used to the smell, he realized there was no way to get at Zola without incriminating his own father. And though his father was weak and in Zola’s thrall, Marco loved him. What else could he do? His father was all he had. How, then, could he go to the authorities and ask for help? He couldn’t.

Not now, not tomorrow . . . not ever.

Marco felt his icy skin turn even colder. Somehow the world had
suddenly become too big for him. In this moment of pain he realized that without his clan he had only the streets to fall back on. From now on he was on his own. No yellow van would collect him again when the day was over. No one would prepare his meals. No one in the world would know who he was or where he came from.

He hardly knew himself.

He began to sob but then stopped. Neither pity nor self-pity were emotions that were to be found in the world he’d been raised in.

He looked down at his night clothes. They were the first thing he had to do something about. There were houses, of course, that he could break into, but nocturnal burglaries were something he preferred to leave to others. People never slept that heavily in Denmark. They often lounged in front of their TV screens until the early hours, and in the darkness ears had a habit of growing far too big.

He prodded the ground with a bare foot. Perhaps there was something useful to be found in the grave with this dead man. He needed to check, so he picked up a stick from the undergrowth and began to hollow out the soil around the shoulders of the corpse, continuing until the torso was completely exposed.

Despite the darkness and the dirt, the face was quite clear to him, cheekbones high and chiseled, the nose long and straight. And the reddest hair Marco had seen in all his life. The age was impossible to assess, for the skin of the face had almost liquefied. He sensed that, had it not been so dark, the sight would have been as appalling as the smell.

There was nothing for him here, he decided, his eyes resting in a moment’s distress on the tightened, decaying hand that seemed almost to be trying to grab and hold on to life itself. To this man also, Zola had brought calamity.

And then it was that Marco discovered the chain catch protruding from underneath the corpse’s withered thumb. A tiny, round fastener with a lever. How many times had he opened one just like it as he stole the necklace off some innocent individual’s neck?

He took hold and pulled until the bones gave way and the chain slipped from the hand. As easy as anything.

The trinket was heavy and foreign in appearance. Marco had never
seen one like it. An intricate lattice of threads, with a few pieces of horn and small wooden masks dangling from it. It wasn’t appealing, but it was unusual.

Unusual, perhaps, but hardly a piece that could be traded for money.

Just something African.

Spring 2011

“What the hell’s going on?”
Carl wanted to know, as Tomas Laursen, the stocky former forensics officer and current manager of Copenhagen police headquarters’ under-dimensioned cafeteria stuck his head out of the kitchen area. “What are all these horrible paper flags for? Is it my homecoming from Rotterdam you’re celebrating? I was gone only a day.”

Had it not been for the fact that he’d had to pick up that fantastic ring for Mona and because the jeweler’s was so close to police HQ, not to mention his dying for a cup of coffee, he would have gone straight home from the airport.

Now he was feeling he should have done so anyway.

He stared around the room, shaking his head. What kind of shit was this? Had he walked in on some kid’s birthday party, or had one of his colleagues got himself hitched for the third or fourth time in the vain hope that he was finally safe?

Laursen smiled. “Hi, Carl. No, I’m afraid not. It’s because Lars Bjørn has come back. Lis has been putting up decorations, and Marcus has called the department in for coffee and a bite in half an hour.”

Carl frowned. Lars Bjørn? Back from where? He hadn’t even noticed the homicide department’s deputy commissioner had been away.

“Uhh,
back
, you say? What, been to Legoland, has he?”

Laursen dumped a plate containing something green in front of the officer at Carl’s side. It didn’t look good. Carl felt sure his colleague was going to regret it.

“You haven’t heard, then? Strange. Anyway, he’s just got back from
Kabul.” Laursen laughed. “If you can avoid it, I’d say you were best off not letting on you didn’t know. He’s been away for two months, Carl.”

Carl glanced to his side. Was this poverty of common knowledge what was causing the hand of the man next to him to shake as he lifted his fork to his mouth? But who was the real laughingstock at the moment? Carl or Lars Bjørn, who apparently hadn’t been missed?

Two whole months, according to Tomas. Gasp.

“Kabul, you say? A pretty dangerous neck of the woods. What the fuck’s he been doing there?” It was hard to imagine a boarding-school wuss like Bjørn kitted out in battle dress. “Did they remember to check if he got back alive? You can never tell with a mummy like him,” he added as the green substance slid off the jiggling fork of the man next to him.

“Bjørn was sent there to train the local police,” said Laursen, wiping his hands on the tea towel that was wrapped around his ever-expanding waist. If he was intending to stay on in the cafeteria much longer he’d have to order some bigger tea cloths, thought Carl.

“You don’t say? I reckon he should have stayed there, in that case.”

Carl glanced around the room. The comment had drawn more than a couple of glares in his direction, but he didn’t give a shit. As far as he was concerned they could
all
take up residence in the Afghan wilderness with its roadside bombs.

“Thanks very much, Carl,” said a voice behind him. “Nice to know you hold my work in such high esteem.”

Fifteen pairs of eyes converged on the space behind his shoulder. Suddenly a ripple of chuckles passed through the assembly—pure Schadenfreude. Carl turned calmly toward what he anticipated would be a face luminous in every conceivable shade of red.

But Lars Bjørn was looking annoyingly good and he knew it. It was as if a taut animal skin had been stretched over his slight frame and the sun had conspired to straighten his back and shoulders. Whatever it was, he suddenly seemed somewhat larger than usual. Maybe the colorful array of ribbons in four measured rows above his left breast pocket helped.

Carl gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Well, well, Bjørn. Gave you a
purple heart, did they? Good for you. Play your cards right and the Cub Scouts will give you a merit badge next.”

Carl felt Laursen’s gentle tug on his sleeve, but he didn’t care. What trouble could Bjørn land him in that he hadn’t already?

“Anyone would think it was you who got hit on the head instead of Assad, Mørck. How he’s getting on, anyway?”

“Such concern, Bjørn. Back on the job as head of personnel now, are we? But thanks, he’s doing OK. We expect him to be firing on all cylinders again in a couple of weeks. Until then I’ve got Rose, and thank Christ for that.”

He noticed wry smiles appearing at the mention of her name, but as long as that was all, he’d let it go. Otherwise he’d give them what for. What did he care? There wasn’t a man here who could begin to match her.

“Assad’s face is still a bit lopsided, though, isn’t it?” Laursen interjected. He was probably the only one in the cafeteria to have noticed.

Carl nodded. “True, but then he’s not the only one at HQ with his head off balance.” He looked straight at Bjørn, who was over by the cashier, paying for his beverage. Oddly enough he ignored the slight.

“But you’re right, Laursen,” Carl went on. “The hemorrhage Assad suffered after the attack affected his facial muscles and his sense of balance, so he’s been going for regular check-ups all this spring and is still taking a fair amount of medicine. The way things are going, I reckon he’ll soon be completely recovered, which we’re all very relieved about. He still has a bit of difficulty talking, but then he always did, didn’t he?”

He laughed, though no one else joined in. And so what?

Bjørn stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and turned to face him, this time with the dark venomous look he had perfected over the years.

“I’m very happy for Assad that he’s making such good progress, Carl. All we can hope is that the same will be true of you, down there in the depths. Perhaps we ought to accord you rather more attention in the future so we can keep a better eye on whether you need assistance, don’t you think?”

He turned to Laursen. “Thanks for the reception, very nice indeed,
Tomas. Makes it a pleasure to be home. Wouldn’t you say so, Mørck? Oh, and by the way, welcome home from the Netherlands.”

Carl returned the snaky glare in kind as Bjørn marched past him and went off down the stairs. Apparently the cobra hadn’t completely died of dehydration down there in the desert.

“Idiot,” said a voice from behind. Carl didn’t catch who it belonged to.

He felt Laursen tug at his shirt again. A brawl was the last thing he needed in his domain.

“What did those reports say from Holland, anyway?” Laursen asked, changing the subject. “Was there any link between the nail-gun killings in Schiedam and the ones here in Denmark?”

Carl snorted. “The reports said fuck all. Complete waste of time.”

“And that’s got you frustrated, I can see. Am I right?”

Carl studied Laursen’s face. Not many people at HQ could be bothered to ask him such elementary questions, but on the other hand not many could expect an answer either, certainly none of the dickheads here now.

“Any unsolved case is always going to get a decent copper riled,” he replied, his eyes scanning the faces, giving them something to think about. “Especially one in which a colleague is the victim.”

“And Hardy?”

“Hardy’s still living with me. I reckon it’s going to stay that way until one of us kicks the bucket.”

The man munching salad at his side nodded.

“You’re a prick, Carl, but I’ll give you credit for looking after the man. Not many people would have done that.”

Carl frowned slightly. His lips may even have curled into a reluctant smile. At any rate, it was a strange feeling to hear such praise from a colleague. There was a first time for everything.

—

Downstairs in homicide it was all go. The number of paper flags seemed well over the top in the modest conference room, a bit like a cross between the queen’s birthday and a convention of the Denmark Party.

“Hey, Lis. Looks like you’ve been on quite a rampage. Bulk offer on the flags, was there?”

Department A’s absolutely most stimulating feature sent Mørck a sidelong glance. “Bit cocky, aren’t we, Carl? Do you want me to put them up again for
you
when you get back from Afghanistan?”

“Sure, whatever,” he said, hungrily noting the slight curl of her mouth. It was pure sex, underplayed just the way he loved it. Not even Mona could smile like that, the way it hit home straight below the belt. “But unfortunately they’ll all be covered in moss by then, won’t they? Is Marcus in?”

She gestured toward the door.

The homicide department’s head, Marcus Jacobsen, sat by the window staring out across the rooftops, his reading glasses pushed up onto his brow. Judging by the look on his face, his frame of mind was somewhere between chronic fatigue and a feeling of being eternally lost. It was not a pretty sight. But in view of the stacks of case folders mounted up on the desk around him, making the place look more like a paper warehouse, the oddest part was that he hadn’t yet succumbed to sitting like that every single day.

He swiveled round on his chair to face Carl, studying him with the same sort of weariness as when kids in the backseat of the car began asking if they’d be in Italy soon, when they were only ten kilometers south of Copenhagen.

“What’s up, Carl?” he asked, as though he’d prefer no answer. The man no doubt had a lot on his mind as it was.

“Party going on, I see,” said Carl, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the front office. “When are the fireworks on?”

“God knows. How was the Netherlands? Are we any closer to tying up those nail-gun killings?”

Cark shook his head. “Closer? The only thing I got any closer to was the realization that we’re not the only police force in Europe that can fuck things up. If that was what they call a draft of a coordinated report of all murders committed with a nail gun in our joint neck of the woods during the past couple of years, then I’m the Grand Mogul of Vesterbro. I couldn’t come to any conclusion at all on the basis of the data they’d collected. In fact, the only decent job was Ploug’s report on our own killings in Sorø and Amager. I’m afraid the Dutch did a shoddy piece of work
indeed. Inadequate forensic analyses, incompetent investigation reports, too-slow reaction time. Effing infuriating, to put it mildly. We’re not going to get any further pursuing that course unless they suddenly come up with something new entirely down there.”

“I see. So I shouldn’t be expecting one of your devastatingly detailed reports littered with the usual golden nuggets, is that it?”

Carl pondered for a moment on Jacobsen’s sarcastic tone of voice. Something was definitely wrong here in the command bunker.

“That’s not actually why I’m here.”

“OK. To what do I owe the honor, then, Carl?”

“I’ve got a problem. Assad’s still not up to scratch, so we’re a bit adrift at the moment. I’m utilizing the time tidying up all my portfolios.” He loved the word. No other was anywhere near as vacuous. “But it’s hard going not actually being on a case, because Rose keeps interrupting me all the time. Maybe we ought to kill two birds with one stone and take the opportunity to upgrade her. Can’t she tag along with a couple of your lads for a bit? She needs to be shown the ropes, learn how to knock on doors. I thought maybe she could team up with Terje Ploug or Bente Hansen’s boys. From what I’ve heard, they’re all moaning about how short-staffed they are.”

His eyes narrowed as he peered in hope at his boss. While he’d been away, Rose had already amassed a pile of proposals as to what they ought to focus on. If he didn’t get her supertanker of excess energy rerouted in the very near future he’d be up to his eyeballs in case folders in ten seconds.

“Manpower shortages, indeed. Nothing new under the sun, Carl.” Marcus Jacobsen smiled drily and began to toy with the cigarette pack on his desk. “You’ll have to make your own training program for Rose. None of my lot will want her getting in the way, that’s for sure. She’s not a fully trained police officer, Carl. She’s no business out there on the streets, you tend to forget that.”

“I forget nothing. Especially not the fact that since the beginning of the year we’ve successfully wrapped up two cases thanks to Rose, even though Assad’s still on half days. In my book, Rose has completed her training to the full. Besides, we’ve got no investigation going on at
the moment in Department Q. I’m sifting through cases in my own time and I don’t want Rose getting bored. It’s bad for the nerves.”

Marcus Jacobsen sat up straight. “I’m afraid that now you mention it, I reckon I
do
have something she could help us with. But before you send her out onto the streets on her own to mess things up, I suggest you go with her for a couple of days, OK?”

He pulled out a folder ten centimeters down in a half-meter-high pile. If it was the right one, the man possessed a truly uncanny ability.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Carl as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Sverre Anweiler. Prime suspect in a case of arson involving a houseboat out in Sydhavnen. I’ve only skimmed the report, but it looks like insurance fraud gone wrong. Anweiler was listed as the owner and was nowhere to be found when it exploded and went down. Somewhat regrettable in view of the fact that his girlfriend, Minna Virklund, happened to be on board at the time and perished.”

Perished
. It had become a typical Marcus expression. A bit cynical, perhaps, even for police HQ.

“How do you mean,
perished
? Did she burn to death or drown or what?”

“Haven’t a clue. All I know is that what used to be her body was found bobbing around the harbor, nothing more than charred lump among the wreckage.”

“Sverre Anweiler, you say. Foreign?”

“Swedish. The bulletin we put out on him led us nowhere. It’s like he just vanished off the map.”

“Maybe he was a charred lump as well, at the bottom of the harbor?”

“No, they checked that thoroughly.”

“So he’s in Sweden, hiding out in some abandoned farmhouse in Norrbotten.”

“A reasonable assumption, only now he’s turned up in Denmark again, a year and a half after the event. Someone was going through CCTV footage and spotted him by chance on Østerbrogade last Tuesday. See for yourself.”

Jacobsen handed Carl a surveillance disc labeled
MAY 3, 2011
and a photo of the man. Anweiler’s face was as blank as they came: high
forehead; fair, wispy hair; dark blue eyes; eyelids seemingly bereft of lashes, almost like a delicate child’s. It was the kind of face that could be transformed beyond recognition by simply adding a mole to a cheek.