The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (23 page)

“Gordon, take a look around you. Can’t you see we’re busy on another case? The Anweiler case is history, all right?
Solved
, get it? S-O-L-V-E-D means solved. Hasn’t it sunk into that thick skull of yours yet?”

“Have you any idea how lovely you are when you’re angry, Rose? It’s like all the elements come together in that beautiful face of yours all at once,” he replied with empathy. Was there a song coming on?

If Assad hadn’t begun to snigger, Carl would have chucked something heavy at the man. Instead, he looked at Rose, anticipating the thunderstorm that was about to break, but she seemed almost ill at ease with the situation.

Carl drew himself to his full height. Not quite as tall as this puppy, but on the other hand in a different weight class altogether.

“Farewell, Gordon,” he said, torpedoing the poor devil’s hip with his twelve-pack, as Mona liked to call his stomach region.

They managed to hear the crash as Bjørn’s hapless patsy collided with the corridor wall before Carl slammed the door so hard that even the workmen at the far end stopped drilling for a moment.

“He’s wild about you, Rose,” Assad commented, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you feel the same way about him, too?”

Rose glanced away. It was her only reaction and open to interpretation. Carl, in any case, had his own explanation.

“Should we carry on?” she said, trying to sound normal. “This is what I’ve noted down so far. Stark’s got no family left, his mother having died and left him all her money. But before that, he’d already spent a lot more than he actually had. At the time of his disappearance he seems to
have had no debts, and he hasn’t made any withdrawals from his accounts since he went missing. There’s no tax arrears, no life insurance besides the usual, and the mortgage on the house is all paid up. First-class degree from the university and never been in trouble with the police. The neighbors in Brønshøj all speak highly of him.”

She looked up from her notes. “But again: Why did the man disappear? Was it some kind of sexual obsession? Did he have enemies? Gambling debts?”

“No, not gambling debts,” Assad interrupted. “Why would anyone get rid of him because of money he could easily pay? A person does not throw a kite up into the air when there is no wind.”

Carl shook his head. Sometimes it would help if Assad came with subtitles.

“Listen,” Carl said. “My feeling is that the answer to all this lies somewhere in his trip to Africa. Rose, I want copies of all his bank statements by tomorrow, plus whatever else the two of you have already compiled. In the meantime, Assad and I are going over to the ministry to have a word with Stark’s boss and colleagues. So we might not get back here today. And as for Gordon, Rose, I’d say you were best served keeping work and play separate.”

He felt the stab of her kohl-rimmed eyes, but it was no use. She could do as she was told, simple as that.

—

The man seated in front of them wasn’t exactly heartthrob material. Pasty complexion, thin white hair, and a set of worn-out dentures. If charm could be measured in terms of temperature he would be hovering around zero. He wore a wedding ring, which only proved he had found a woman who wasn’t fussy.

“Yes, William Stark’s disappearance was a terrible business,” he said, oddly dispassionate. “I think all of us here are still rather puzzled by it. ‘Distressed’ is probably a better word. Stark was a highly capable man, well-liked and exceptionally reliable, so his disappearing is probably the last thing I would have expected.”

“You were his boss, but were you friends, too?” Assad asked.

Daft question. How could anyone be friends with a boss like René E. Eriksen? It was hard to imagine.

“Not friends exactly, but there was a great fellow-feeling between us. Of all the people on my staff, I think William was the one I felt most attached to.”

“What exactly was his mission in Africa?” Carl asked. “We understand he was down there in connection with an aid program for the benefit of a rural pygmy community, but we don’t know why.”

“He supervised the work. When you hire local Africans as middlemen you need to make sure things are going according to plan.”

“Was his trip routine or was it because there was something in particular that needed looking into?”

“Purely routine.”

“We can see he changed his return ticket and came home a day early. Is that normal?”

The department head smiled. “Actually, no. I can’t say for sure, but I
think
the heat got to be too much for him. And Stark was very efficient, so he probably saw no reason to hang around once the job was done. But like I said, I’ve no way of knowing for certain. He never got round to writing his report, as you know.”

“Talking of reports, we’d like access to Stark’s files and whatever else might be relevant. Is there a computer of his here?”

“No, unfortunately. We use a server, and all Stark’s tasks and portfolios have long since been handed on to other staff.”

“And his laptop and other luggage from his final trip have never turned up?”

“If they had, I’d probably have been the first to know.”

“What we’re trying to establish is not only what happened to William Stark but also
why
it happened. Did he ever indicate to you that he might have been in trouble in some way? Was he susceptible to depression?”

Eriksen fiddled with the fountain pen on his desk. It looked like the sort of thing he’d been given for twenty-five years of loyal service. “Depression? He certainly had his ups and downs. Since it happened I’ve been inclined to think he may have been depressed, yes.”

“What makes you think that? Was he off sick a lot?”

He smiled again. “Stark? No, he was probably the most conscientious man I’ve ever met. If I’m not mistaken, he never missed a single day in all the years we worked together. But yes, sometimes there was a look of sadness about him. I think his stepdaughter’s illness hit him hard, and somehow I have an inkling things perhaps weren’t running that smoothly with his girlfriend. He came to work one day sporting a black eye. Not that I read anything into it, but women these days can be quite determined, don’t you agree?”

Carl nodded. René E. Eriksen, in any case, definitely looked like the type whose wife knocked him about a bit from time to time.

“Actually, the last couple of months he seemed to be having a harder and harder time keeping his spirits up,” Eriksen continued. “So, yes, depression did spring to mind.”

“And therefore you wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he committed suicide?” Carl asked.

He gave a shrug. “How well do we really know each other when it all boils down?”

—

René E. Eriksen’s mind was in turmoil. In front of him sat two police investigators who had turned up precisely a mail delivery too early for him to assess what information to feed them. It had been damned silly of him to suggest Stark’s partner had hit him, and what he’d said about that black eye. It was the kind of thing that could be checked up on. He needed to keep himself on a tighter leash. Making things up on the spur of the moment was pure folly.

The less he gave them to go on, the less chance there was of their scam being uncovered. On the other hand, if he now began working on his cover story he could draw Stark in as the brains of the department and orchestrator of the fraud, thereby removing himself from the spotlight. So skilfully had he manipulated Stark’s documents that he was now able to prove it.

The only drawback then was that his associates at Karrebæk Bank
would be caught up in his net, in which case they would without a doubt point the finger at him. Moreover, he would have difficulty explaining why he had not presented the documents to the police before now. Damn it. Why hadn’t he prepared himself more carefully so as to provide a plausible explanation as to the appearance of these so-called new documents? Could he claim to have only just discovered them? And why hadn’t he then informed the police? Why hadn’t he?

He looked at the two men in front of him. Had either of them come alone he might not have been that concerned. It was the two of them together that worried him.

He knew the feeling from his time in Danida, the government’s development aid agency, and from his travels through the world’s most desolate wildernesses. The sense of eyes all around you, watching for signs of weakness, even in the most abject places. And right now he felt exactly like someone sitting cross-legged on a straw mat in the sand before a crackling campfire, surrounded by armed Somalis. The one commanded his attention while the other awaited his turn. All the time negotiating under changing conditions, facing new demands. He had never been good at it.

At the moment, it was the Danish investigator who was taking the lead. Obviously, he was the higher ranking officer, with the power to conclude the interview at will. As such, he was the one who needed persuading. The little Arab-looking man was the one who growled and snapped. Despite his friendly eyes and a smile which in any other situation would put a person at ease, behind this facade lurked an oddly inscrutable ruthlessness. René had seen quietly grazing gazelles suddenly torn to pieces from behind by attacking lions that seemed to come from nowhere. It was the same feeling he had now about this man.

“Yes, how well do we really know each other?” he repeated.

“Did Stark ever mention places or people to which he had some special attachment, besides his home and family?” the investigator asked. “Somewhere he might have chosen as a place to hide away, or even take his own life?”

Eriksen wondered what to say. Should he make something up? Something that would safely ease them out of here?

He looked at the Arab assistant. The penetrating stare that met his eye made him drop the notion of trying to be creative.

“I can’t say that he did, I’m afraid. He was rather introverted when it came to talking about his private life.”

“You weren’t friends, but did you ever visit Stark at home?” the Arab asked.

René E. Eriksen shook his head. “No, I don’t believe in mixing work and private affairs like that.”

“So you cannot tell us anything about his peculiarities either?”

“Peculiarities?” He allowed himself a chuckle. “Aren’t we all a bit peculiar when it comes down to it? Working for the Danish civil service, I’d say you need to be.”

His jocular diversion maneuver had no effect on either of them.

“I am thinking mostly about his sexuality,” the Arab went on.

Eriksen held his breath as the adrenaline coursed through every cell of his body. It was a question he had not been expecting. Was this a way out? Was this odd little man handing him the keys to freedom?

Could they tell how strongly he reacted to the question? It was imperative they did not.

He elected to remain silent for a moment before stroking his mustache and pushing his half-rims up onto the bridge of his nose. He drew a deep breath, folding his hands on the table and preparing to reply. The same routine as during difficult budget negotiations.

“I don’t know anything for certain,” he replied eventually, glancing at the Arab with an apologetic smile before turning his eyes to the detective inspector. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I lead you up a blind alley that does Stark a disservice. As I said, there really wasn’t any private confidentiality between us.”

The two investigators nodded at him like pigeons grateful for the crumbs put out for them. Clearly, the sustenance they had come for was now finally within reach.

“I think basically he had a weakness in that respect. What I mean is . . .” He cleared his throat. “On the face of it he seemed to lead a very normal life with his girlfriend. However, on the few occasions we
traveled together I found his eyes wandered in a manner that disturbed my impression of him.”

Mørck tipped his head inquiringly. “In what way?”

“Well, looking at young boys in an inappropriate manner. I noticed it especially in Bangladesh.”

The two men exchanged glances. Did their solemn expressions mean they were buying it? Had he succeeded in turning their focus in another direction?

Yes, by God, it seemed he had.

“Did you ever see him make advances to any of these boys?”

Be careful now, René, don’t appear too certain here, he told himself.

“I may have done. I’m not sure,” he replied.

“What does that mean?”

“We weren’t together all the time, of course. Sometimes I’d go into a shop and he’d be outside in the street. I may by chance have caught a glimpse of his need for contact.”

The Arab scratched his cheek at the near invisible transition between sideburn and stubble. “But you never saw him take any of them up to his room?” he asked, amid audible rasping.

“No. But he also traveled on his own sometimes.”

“So what you’re suggesting here is that William Stark was a pedophile with a preference for boys. Are there any members of your staff who traveled with Stark and could corroborate your assumption, do you think?” Mørck asked.

Eriksen threw up his hands. Sometimes, this gesture was a kind of confirmation in itself and saved him from being more explicit.

Sensing his advantage, he went on anyway. “I shouldn’t think so. If Stark wasn’t traveling with me, he would do so alone. But feel free to ask around the department. Far be it from me to hamper your investigation.”

—

“It was a good idea going over to the ministry, Assad, but you’ve hardly said a word since. What’s up?” said Carl, as they went down the stairs of the rotunda to the basement.

“I’m doing some luminating, Carl. That interview with Eriksen was very strange indeed.”

“I think that’d be
ruminating
, Assad. Mulling things over.”

“Mulling?”

“Never mind. You’re right about Eriksen. A lot of strange things came out of his mouth.”

Assad smiled. “A good thing his dentures didn’t come out, too. Did you notice one of his front teeth was loose?”

Carl nodded.

Abruptly Assad held up his hand. Sounds emanating from Rose’s office farther down the corridor stopped them both in their tracks. Sounds not normally associated with a mundane afternoon in a state institution milling with police officers.