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?”
“Are you planning to show her all this?” he asked, as she tossed the items back in their respective containers and gathered them together.
She shook her head. “Will you put them back in the ground, and the flagstones, too, while I go out to her? I’ll call for you when I’ve told her you’re here. Then you can tell her everything you’ve told me, because I don’t think I can do it myself, OK?”
Marco nodded, though he was afraid of how her mother might react.
He hurried to do as she’d requested, and when he’d finished he leaned the spade back up against the shed. Everything had to be as it was before. He stood looking at the patio and nodded to himself. He had scuffed away Tilde’s chalk marks as best he could. They weren’t completely gone, but it was good enough. No one would know what they’d been up to.
Hearing the car horn sound insistently a couple of times in the road, he wondered if it meant Tilde wanted him to come out front.
He brushed the dirt from his hands and walked cautiously round the side of the house toward the drive, not wishing to give anyone a start.
He saw the rear end of the car, but didn’t recognize it as Tilde’s mother’s. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it had been two-toned. A lot of old cars were.
He heard Tilde’s scream from the street at the same instant as he sensed a movement at the corner of the house, but before he could react, a black figure leaped at him with such force that they both stumbled backward, slamming their heads against the rough planks of the bike shed and landing in a heap on the ground. He saw something flash in the air above him, but didn’t realize it was a knife until his assailant lunged at his arm and raised the weapon once more.
“Help!” he screamed, hammering his knee up into the man’s groin and rolling to the side. “Help me!”
But apart from the noise of their heavy breathing, there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the neighborhood. No one reacted. And now Marco recognized the man. These wild eyes, this white scar, the shiny blade. He was the one who had confronted him at the building site, the one who’d got stuck in the rubble chute. And the savagery of his expression made it plain that this time he would not fail.
“Help!” Marco yelled again, jumping toward the shed as his adversary lunged at him again, twisting his ankle in the process and almost losing his footing.
His loss of balance now proved costly as Marco grasped the handle of the spade and swung it through the air, its sharp edge leaving a deep gash in the man’s left shoulder.
He dropped the knife in a roar of pain, clutching the gaping wound as blood pumped out of him.
For a split second he stared at Marco with his yellow eyes, then fled back to the car that was waiting in the road.
Marco ran after him and saw Tilde in the back of the car, being held down by a huge corpulent black woman. A woman he had seen before.
Then, as he sprinted toward the car, he was stopped abruptly in his tracks by the crack of a gun and a bullet that slammed into the house wall behind him.
There was another shot, and the sound of a second projectile whistling past his ear.
He ducked back round the side of the house and stood for a moment, hyperventilating. It was because of him they had caught Tilde, and now the situation was hopeless. If he approached the car, they would kill him. But what else could he do?
Then he shut his eyes and shouted at the top of his voice in English: “Let her go. I’ll come instead.”
He peeked round the corner and saw the man he’d taken out with the spade screaming inside the car. Judging by the blood on the pavement, he was in bad shape.
Then he saw the woman in the backseat slap the driver—the one who’d
done the shooting—on the back of the head, and the car took off down the street.
Marco ran after it, trying to pick out the number plate, but it had been covered up. A hundred meters farther down the road the vehicle suddenly stopped and a small item was dropped out of the side window onto the asphalt.
Then the car disappeared.
Marco was stunned. Was he now to blame for more misfortune befalling this little family? Was it to be Tilde and her mother’s curse that he, his father, and the tyrant, Zola, had ever existed?
He proceeded cautiously toward the object in the road, full of dread. What could it be? A hand grenade? Or worse still: a body part they had cut off her?
Then he heard it ring. It was a mobile phone.
He picked it up and answered: “Yes?”
“We’ll kill her unless you give yourself up,” the woman said in English.
Marco felt a shiver run down his spine. “Zola’s dead. Why are you still hunting me?”
“He’s not the one who’s paying us.”
His shoulders sagged. “I was going to surrender myself to you. Why didn’t you let me?”
“We’ve got other things to think about now, thanks to you.”
“Let me speak to Tilde.”
“You’ll see her when we do the exchange. We’ll call and tell you where. If you go to the police, we’ll kill her. If we sense something is wrong when we exchange you two, we’ll kill her.”
“But I—”
“We’ll be in touch,” the woman snapped, and hung up.
Marco rang back immediately, but the line was already dead.
When the world collapses into tiny pieces, one is able to comprehend the individual elements of the catastrophe as it unfolds. Thus it must have been for the hapless souls in the Twin Towers on 9/11, as well as for the stunned onlookers who witnessed it all from the ground. For Marco, that moment where he stood in the middle of the road, totally impotent, was but one of a chain of misfortunes leading to the definitive finale: his own demise.
He knew now that he had to make a sacrifice. There was no time to acquire a firearm, for where would he get one, and who would sell him such a thing? And even if he tried to fight back, he ran the risk of not only losing his own life, but of Tilde losing hers as well.
The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel Page 47