The teachers had known about it since that morning, but Nina only found out about it when she came to spend her lunch break with Rina, a habit she had fallen into since the trial.
“She ate breakfast and grabbed her schoolbag, like all the other kids,” Rikke said defensively. “But she never showed up in the classroom. The teachers have been out looking for her most of the day.”
Nina looked at her watch. It was 1:45 P.M., and there was a chilly wind blowing over the Coal-House Camp. It took a certain amount of determination for a seven-year-old to stay out so long on her own, but that was still what she chose to believe for the time being—that Rina had left the camp alone and of her own free will. It was not completely unthinkable that Natasha’s former fiancé had taken her, but Nina couldn’t quite believe it. She pictured Michael Anders Vestergaard as he had appeared in court. Freshly ironed shirt, expensive cologne, and a broad, self-satisfied grin. He was a sadistic bastard, no doubt about that, but he went in for risk-free crimes. Women on the margins of society and possibly also their children; victims he could control without winding up behind bars with all those nasty Hells Angels thugs. For the moment, Rina was too big a risk for him now.
“We contacted the police,” said Rikke, the carer. “They asked if there were any family members she might be with.”
“They know damn well her mother’s in jail,” Nina said, pulling out her car keys. “Rina doesn’t have anyone else.”
“Well, you know how it is. They don’t have unlimited resources.”
Yes, Nina knew that quite well. Children ran away from asylum centers every single week, and it was true that some of them turned up with family members somewhere or other in the constantly migrating population that flowed back and forth across Europe’s borders. But Rina wasn’t that kind of child.
“She’ll probably come back on her own,” Rikke said, giving her best stab at a smile.
Nina couldn’t even muster a response. Rina had been gone for almost six hours, and in Nina’s opinion contacting the police now was too little, too late. Rina was seven. The world was a dangerous place for kids like her. This wasn’t something that could wait until some duty officer could be persuaded to find the resources.
Magnus had apparently had the same thought, because when she returned to the clinic he was already ready to go, jacket and phone in his hand.
“I’ll search the shrubbery behind the school grounds. Are you taking the car?”
Nina nodded, hastily typing a text message to Ida. Delayed. Take 300 kroner from the kitchen envelope and call a cab. I’ll be there as soon as I can. It was roller hockey Wednesday.
“I took her to see Natasha last week,” Nina said. “I think she made a note of the route. I’ll try driving in that direction, anyway.”
“It’s is a long way for a seven-year-old,” Magnus said. The district prison where Natasha was serving her sentence was on the other side of the city, nearly thirty kilometers away.
“Yes,” said Nina. “But if you were Rina, where else would you go?”
THE GIRLS WERE almost half an hour into their match by the time Nina found her way to the asphalt rink in one of the southern suburbs. They were playing outdoors today and had been lucky with the weather. The rink was dry and clean, and the air was cool. Nina settled next to the coach on the spectator side of the graffiti-covered boards, and looked around for her daughter. She caught sight of Ida’s helmet, black and decorated with pink skulls. Ida had been playing on the Pink Ladies team for almost two years now and was small and lightning-fast and impressive to watch, out there in the thick of the action. Most of the girls Ida’s age were taller and heavier, but that did not appear to bother her. Not even if it cost her bruises and countless scrapes.
Ida was playing the attack now. She crossed in front of a player from the other team and stole the ball with a couple of rapid jerks of her stick, then raced toward the goal at full speed, cannoning the ball into the net with an explosive and totally clean shot. She only just managed to evade the goal’s metal bars and slammed into the boards with a hollow thud instead.
Nina had seen that kind of move before and knew it was part of the game, but it still seemed to her that Ida was playing even more offensively than she usually did. She glanced over at the coach, who nodded briefly at her and then turned back to look at the rink again.
Ida was on her way back to her half of the rink with her stick raised in a short victory celebration. Her hair shone wetly under the edge of her helmet; her face was clenched in concentration. Nina followed her with her eyes and felt a joyous tug in her chest at the sight of Ida surrounded by all the others.
Another face-off.
Ida was ready at the front of her own field, and as soon as the ball was in play, she hammered her stick between the legs of the other team’s forwards. The sticks scraped and struck the asphalt until Ida finally got the ball free and continued, running amok in a new attack on their goal. She almost seemed to be alone on the court. The other players set out after her in a halfhearted job until she again hammered the ball in behind the goalie. This time she didn’t manage to slow down properly; she stumbled, took a couple of quick tap-dancing steps in her rollerblades, and smashed onto the asphalt with her stomach, chest, and hands in a brutal smack. She lay there doubled over in front of the goal without making a sound, and the coach swore and hastily leapt over the sideboards.
“Goddamn it! No one was even on her.”
Nina followed. She tried to ignore that distinctive jolt it caused because it was Ida. Of course nothing serious had happened to her. Of course not. She squatted down next to Ida in front of the goal. She probably just got the wind knocked out of her, Nina thought, her wrists and hands ought to be pretty well protected by her equipment. She cautiously touched her daughter’s shoulder.
“Try to stretch out a little,” she said. “It’ll help.”
Ida glared at her angrily.
“You keep out of this,” she said, rolling away from Nina with a stubborn groan. “What the hell are you even doing here?”
The other Pink Ladies were there now. Anna and the new one, Josefine. They helped Ida to her feet, shooting awkward glances at Nina.
“We thought you couldn’t make it,” Anna said in a tone that Nina couldn’t quite interpret. “It took forever to find a cab. And with all our equipment.…”
“Look, I’m really sorry, but.…”
With a jerk, Ida turned her back and skated slowly back toward her team’s goal. Nina was left to deliver her apology to Anna and the empty space where Ida had been.
THEY HADN’T FOUND Rina until 3:45 P.M. The owner of an allotment garden in Gladsaxe called after seeing the girl sitting for more than twenty minutes, curled up next to the fence along the highway, her school bag still on her back. That was how far she had been sure of which way to go, Nina thought. At the Ring 3 overpass, she must have become discouraged. Rina cried when Nina came to get her, but apart from being generally exhausted from a day without food or water, there was nothing wrong with her. Nothing more than usual, as Magnus flatly remarked. He had volunteered to watch Rina for the rest of the afternoon, and Nina had driven off to the hockey rink as if her life depended on it, or at least as fast as rush-hour traffic would permit on the congested roads. Shit, shit, shit.
The girls won by a landslide, but Ida painstakingly avoided meeting her eyes as she rolled off the rink and started taking off her gear. Nina wasn’t even permitted to pack it up for her.
“My mom will be here soon,” Anna said, talking to Ida. “We don’t really have time for a shower.”
Ida was still struggling with her shin guards, but Nina didn’t need any help interpreting what was going on. Ida had arranged for another ride home.