“Let’s go downstairs into the basement,” Assad suggested.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM-HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN AT ROSKILDE BOWLING CENTER-SPORT, FUN, AND EXCITEMENT! read a sign on the other side of the door.
Carl wondered if the last phrase was supposed to refer to bowling. To his mind, bowling was neither a sport nor fun nor exciting. It was more lukewarm beer, saggy arses, and indigestible food.
They went straight through to reception, where a man was on the phone amid a jumble of rules and regulations, bags of sweets, and reminders to display your parking permit.
Carl glanced around the place. The bar was packed. Bowling bags and duffel bags dumped all over. People gathered in animated clusters around the twenty-odd lanes. Men and women in shapeless trousers and a variety of polo shirts with club logos on them. It looked like a typical match night.
“We need to speak to a Lars Brande. Do you know him?” Carl asked when the man behind the counter had finished on the phone.
He gestured toward a group at the bar. “That’s him over there, with the glasses on his head. Just shout for Bumble, you’ll see.”
“Bumble?”
“Yeah, that’s what we call him.”
They went over, noting inquisitive eyes weighing up their conspicuous clothes and footwear, wondering what they wanted.
“Lars Brande? Or do you prefer Bumble?” Carl asked, extending a hand. “My name’s Carl Mørck, Copenhagen Police, Department Q. Mind if we have a word?”
Lars Brande smiled and shook hands. “Oh, right, I’d almost forgotten. One of our teammates just dropped a bombshell. Says he’s leaving us, just as we’ve got the district championships coming up. Bit distracted. Sorry about that.”
He gave the man next to him a thump on the back. Most likely the one who was letting them down.
“Are these your teammates?” Carl asked with a nod in the direction of the others.
“Roskilde’s finest,” Brande replied, thumbs aloft.
Carl gave Assad a look: Stay here and keep a sharp eye on them, so no one does a runner. That was the last thing they needed.
Lars Brande was a tall, sinewy man with a slender frame. His features distinguished him as a man whose work involved long hours sitting indoors, a watchmaker, perhaps, or maybe a dentist. But his skin was weathered and his hands broad and tanned. All in all, it was a rather confusing impression.
They went over to the rear wall and watched the bowling for a moment before Carl commenced.
“You spoke to my assistant, Rose Knudsen. I understand you identified a coincidence of names and that you found it quite amusing. The bowling ball on the key ring, too. I want you to know that this isn’t just some routine matter we’re dealing with. We’re investigating a very serious case of the greatest urgency, and everything you say may be taken down in evidence.”
Brande looked out of sorts. The glasses perched on top of his head seemed almost to sag into his hair.
“Am I under suspicion? What’s this about?” The man was clearly ill at ease with the situation. It felt odd, especially as Carl had in no way considered him a suspect. Why would he have been so accommodating with Rose if he had something to hide? No, it didn’t make sense.
“Under suspicion? Not at all. I’d just like to ask you some questions, if that’s OK?”
Brande glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s rather a bad time, to be honest. We’re on in twenty minutes, so normally we’d be getting ourselves together now. Can’t it wait until later? Not that I’m not curious, mind.”
“No can do, I’m afraid. Can we go over to the officials’ desk a minute?”
Brande looked puzzled but nodded all the same.
The tournament officials seemed just as bewildered, but when Carl produced his badge, they were immediately compliant.
Carl and Brande returned to the far wall, passing a number of tables as the message came over the speakers.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, the order of play has now been revised,” one of the officials explained and proceeded to outline the changes.
Carl glanced toward the bar, where five pairs of eyes now stared in their direction. Five faces wearing baffled expressions, and behind them Assad, his gaze fixed on the backs of their necks with the keenness of a hyena.
One of these men was the man they were looking for. Carl was certain of it. As long as they remained here, the children would be safe. Provided they were still alive.
“How well do you know your teammates, exactly? I understand you’re the captain?”
Brande nodded and answered without returning Carl’s gaze. “We’ve been together since the center opened. Before that, we played in Rødovre, but this is more convenient. There were a couple more of us back then, but those of us who live in the Roskilde area decided to carry on here instead. So, yeah, I know them pretty well. Especially Beehive, the guy with the gold watch over there. He’s my brother, Jonas.”
Carl thought Lars Brande seemed nervous. Was he hiding something?
“Beehive and Bumble. Odd names,” said Carl. Perhaps a polite distraction would ease the tension. Right now, it was imperative that the man opened up as quickly as possible.
Brande gave what looked like a wry smile.
“Maybe. But Jonas and I are beekeepers, so it’s not that strange really,” he explained. “We’ve all got nicknames on the team. You know how it is.”
Carl nodded, even though he didn’t. “I notice you’re all rather tall. You’re not all related, are you?”
If they were, they would cover each other’s backs, come what may.
Brande smiled again. “No, only Jonas and me. But you’re right, we are above average height, all of us. Long arms make for a better swing, you see.” He laughed. “No, it’s pure coincidence, that’s all. Never really thought about it until now.”
“I’m going to ask for your civil registration numbers in a minute, the whole team. But before I do, would you happen to know if any of you has been in trouble with the police?”
Brande seemed genuinely astonished. Perhaps the gravity of the matter was only now dawning on him.
He took a deep breath. “We don’t know each other well enough to say,” he said. It was clearly not entirely true.
“Do any of you drive a Mercedes?”
He shook his head. “Not Jonas or me. I’ve no idea what the other lads have got, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
Was he covering up for someone?
“Surely you know what cars they drive? Don’t you go off to tournaments together?”
He nodded. “Yes, but we always meet up here first. Some of us keep our gear in the lockers upstairs, and Jonas and I have got an old VW camper with room for the six of us. It’s cheaper, going together.”
His answers were plausible and seemed natural enough, even if the man was beginning to look like a poor excuse for himself.
“Who are the other team members, exactly? Can you point them out to me?” Carl said, then thought better of it. “No, hang on a minute. First tell me where you got those bowling-ball key rings of yours. Are they common? The sort of thing you can buy in any bowling alley?”
Brande shook his head. “Not these ones. The number one is because we’re good.” He smiled wryly again. “Normally there’s nothing on them, or just a number indicating the ball size you use. Never a number one, because they don’t make them that small. No, one of the lads brought these home from Thailand.” He produced his own from his pocket. Small, dark, and worn. Nothing special to look at, not even with the number engraved on it.
“The lads here and a couple more from the old team are the only ones who’ve got them,” he went on. “I think he came home with ten, if my memory serves me right.”