Since Assad had sent the Serbian gorilla flying down the basement corridor, a lot of water had run under that particular bridge. Marcus Jacobsen’s people had taken care of the three most recent arsons, but the one from Rødovre in 1995 had been kicked back downstairs to Department Q. The continuing gang conflict was taking up too many resources for the third floor to be arsed with it.
Arrests had been made in Serbia and Denmark. Now all they needed were a couple of confessions. Carl reckoned they’d have a long wait. The Serbs they’d apprehended would rather molder in a Danish prison for fifteen years than get on the wrong side of those they had been working for.
The rest was up to the regional prosecutor.
He stretched and decided to grab a few minutes’ shut-eye in the flicker of the flatscreen. The drone of the news channel. Something about government ministers not being able to get on a bike without falling off again and breaking their bones.
Then the phone rang. Fucking contraption.
“We’ve got visitors, Carl,” said Marcus at the other end. “Could you come upstairs, all three of you?”
It was the middle of July, and it had been raining for ten days solid. The sun had gone into hibernation. What reason on earth could there possibly be to go upstairs? The third floor was just as dark as the basement.
He climbed the stairs without managing so much as a word to Rose and Assad. These god-awful holidays. Jesper was home all day and his girlfriend with him. Morten was away on a cycling trip with some bloke called Preben, and they seemed to be in no hurry to get back. In the meantime, they had a nurse looking after Hardy, and Vigga was traipsing around India in the company of a man who kept two meters of hair stashed in his turban.
And he was stuck here while Mona and her kids were off tanning in Greece. If only Assad and Rose had got their arses away somewhere, too, he could have spent the whole day with his feet up on the desk watching the Tour de France in peace.
Holidays were the pits. Especially when they weren’t his.
He glanced in the direction of Lis’s empty chair as they arrived on the third floor. Maybe she was away in that camper van again with her horny husband. Perhaps Ms. Sørensen ought to give that a try. A couple of weeks shagging in the back of a camper would surely put some life into even a mummified specimen like her.
He gave the old heron a restrained wave and was given the finger in return. Very sophisticated. Miserable cow.
He opened the door of Marcus Jacobsen’s office and found himself face-to-face with a woman he failed to recognize.
“Carl,” said Marcus from behind his desk. “Mia Larsen is here with her husband to thank the three of you in person.”
Only then did Carl notice the man standing slightly apart. He knew his face instantly. The man from outside the burning house in Roskilde. Kenneth, the one who rescued Mia from the blaze. He looked again at the woman standing so sheepishly in front of him. Was this really the same person?
Rose and Assad extended their hands in greeting. Carl hesitantly followed suit.
“I do apologize,” said the young woman. “I know how busy you must be, but I wanted to thank you personally for saving my life.”
They stood for a moment and stared at each other. Carl was at a loss for words.
“I would not wish to say it was nothing, if I may say so,” said Assad.
“Me neither,” Rose added.
The others laughed.
“How are you getting on now? OK?” Carl asked.
Mia took a deep breath and bit her lip for a moment. “I’d like to know how the two children are doing. Samuel and Magdalena, wasn’t that what they were called?”
Carl raised his eyebrows. “To be honest, there’s no real way of knowing. The two oldest, the boys, moved away from home. I think Samuel’s doing OK. As for Magdalena and her two sisters, the congregation took care of them, so I heard. Maybe it’s for the best, who knows. Losing both parents like that must be almost unbearable.”
Mia nodded. “I understand. My former husband caused a lot of suffering. If there’s anything I can do for the girl, I’d very much like to.” She tried to smile, only for more words to come instead. “Losing your parents is a terrible thing, of course. But for a mother to lose her child is unbearable, too.”
Marcus Jacobsen placed his hand on her arm. “We’re still working on that, Mia. The police are doing everything they can with the information you’ve given us. It’ll pay off, I’m certain of it. No one can keep a child hidden away in this country forever, believe me.”
Her head dropped as the word “forever” sank in. Carl would have put it differently.
The young man at Mia’s side now spoke. “We want you to know how grateful we are,” he said, his gaze fixed on Carl and Assad. “The uncertainty is tearing Mia apart, but that’s another matter.”
This poor couple. Why not just say it like it was? Four months had passed, and the boy still hadn’t been found. The proper resources hadn’t been allocated in the various systems, and now it was probably too late.
“We haven’t much to go on,” said Carl tentatively. “Your former husband’s sister is called Eva, that much we think we know. But what about her surname? His, too, for that matter? It could be anything at all. We’re not even sure of his first name. In fact, we know precious little about your former husband or his past. All we know is that his and Eva’s father was a pastor somewhere. Eva wouldn’t be that uncommon a name for a clergyman’s daughter. We know she’s about forty years old, but apart from that, nothing. We’ve got Benjamin’s picture on display at every police station in the country, and my colleagues have informed the social authorities to be on the lookout. That’s where we are right now.”
She nodded, trying not to be disheartened by what Carl was saying.
Kenneth held a bunch of roses up in front of him and explained that Mia spent every day trawling the Internet and everywhere else for church newsletters or newspaper articles that might contain a picture of her former husband’s father. It had become a full-time activity, and if she ever found anything they would be the first to know.
And then he thrust the flowers toward Carl with their thanks.
After they had gone, Carl stood for a moment with the bouquet in his hand and a funny taste in his mouth. Forty bloodred roses, at least. He wished they were for someone else.
He shook his head. No way was he going to have them on his desk. But he wasn’t about to give them to Rose and Yrsa, either. There was no telling what the consequences might be.
Instead, he dumped the bouquet on the counter in front of Ms. Sørensen as they went by. “Thank you so much for holding the fort, Ms. Sørensen,” was all he said, leaving her in a flurry of confusion and inarticulate protest.
The three of them exchanged glances as they went down the stairs.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, nodding.
They needed to put out a bulletin to all relevant authorities to be on the lookout for a child of Benjamin’s age and description suddenly popping up somewhere unexpectedly. The same bulletin, in fact, that had already been put out once. Only this time with the additional instruction to the leading officials of these authorities to take care of the matter personally.
That would at least ensure the search was made a priority and delegated to the appropriate persons in a hurry.
In the last two weeks, Benjamin had learned at least fifty new words, and Eva could hardly keep up.
It was only to be expected. They chatted so much together, the two of them, for Eva loved the little boy more dearly than anything in the world. They were a family now, and her husband felt the same way.
“What time are they coming?” he asked for the tenth time that day. He had been busy for hours. Hoovering, baking bread, getting Benjamin ready. It all had to be perfect.