She nodded. As long as they were back before the hour of rest it was fine by her. Perhaps he could take the other children along, too, if they wanted?
His expression became suddenly apologetic. “Well, I’d like to, of course, but I’m afraid there’s only room for three on the front seat of the van, and it’s against the law to take passengers in the back. But I’d be more than happy to take two of them along. The others could have their turn later, perhaps. What about Magdalena, would she like that, do you think? She seems like such an energetic young girl, and very attached to Samuel.”
She smiled, her husband likewise. It was a fine observation, and so nice of him to ask. It felt almost like there was some special bond between them already. As though he knew how close to her heart the two of them had always been. Samuel and Magdalena. The two children who resembled her most.
“Well, I think that sounds marvelous, don’t you, Joshua?”
“Indeed!” Joshua agreed. As long as no difficulty arose, he was easy enough to please.
She patted the hand of their guest that was placed flat against the table. And found it oddly cold to the touch.
“I’m sure Samuel and Magdalena would love to go,” she said. “What time should they be ready?”
He pursed his lips and gauged the journey. “Well, the competition starts at eleven, so how about if I pick them up here at ten?”
After he had gone, the peace of God descended upon the house. He had drunk their coffee and afterward he had taken the cups from the table and rinsed them at the sink as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He had smiled and thanked them for their hospitality. And said how much he looked forward to seeing them again.
Her abdomen was aching still, but the nausea had gone.
Charity was such a wonderful thing. Perhaps the greatest of all God’s gifts to man.
13
“It’s not good at all, Carl,” said Assad.
Carl had no idea what he was on about. One two-minute story on DR.’s Update channel about green bailouts to the tune of trillions and he was off in the land of nod.
“What’s not good, Assad?” he heard himself say, from miles away.
“I have looked everywhere and now I am able to say with certainty that no incident of attempted kidnapping was reported at anytime in that place. Not for as long as any road called Lautrupvang has existed in Ballerup.”
Carl rubbed his eyes. No, it wasn’t good, Assad was right about that. Assuming the message in the bottle was on the level, that is.
Assad was standing in front of him with his trusty pocketknife stuck into a plastic tub covered with Arabic scribble and filled with some mystery foodstuff. He smiled in anticipation, dug out a dollop, and shoveled it into his mouth. Above his head, the faithful fly buzzed attentively.
Carl looked up. Maybe it was time he expended some energy on its extermination, he thought to himself.
He turned his head lazily in search of an appropriate murder weapon, finding it almost immediately on the desk in front of him. A battered bottle containing correction fluid, made of the kind of hard plastic flies most definitely did not survive collisions with.
It’s all in the aim, he thought for a brief second before hurling the bottle toward the dratted insect and discovering the top hadn’t been screwed on properly.
The splatter against the wall caused Assad to look up in perplexity at the white matter now slowly descending toward the floor.
The fly was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s very odd,” Assad muttered with his mouth still full. “All along I was thinking in my head that Lautrupvang was a place where people lived, but then I see that it is only offices and industry.”
“So what?” said Carl, puzzling over what the smell of the mud-colored gunge in Assad’s little tub reminded him of. Was it vanilla?
“Yes, offices and industry, you know,” Assad went on. “What was he doing there, the person who claims he was kidnapped?”
“Presumably he worked there?” Carl suggested.
Assad’s face contorted into an expression that could best be described as total skepticism. “Come on now, Carl. Think about it. He spelled so badly he could not even spell the name of the road.”
“Maybe he just wasn’t born into the language, Assad. Do you know the type?” Carl turned to his computer and entered the name of the road.
“Have a look here, Assad. There are all sorts of workplaces, schools, and colleges in that area. So there’s bound to be any number of people of ethnic background around there during the daytime.” He indicated one of the addresses on the screen. “Lautrupgård School, for instance. A school for kids with social and emotional difficulties. Maybe it was all just a sick joke, after all. Let’s see once we’ve deciphered the rest of the message. It might turn out to be just a perverted way of nettling some poor sod of a teacher.”
“Deciphering here and nettling there. Such words, Carl. But what if it is someone who worked for a firm there? The businesses are plenty.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think the firm would have reported it to the police if one of their employees went missing? I see where you’re coming from, but we have to bear in mind that nothing even resembling the kind of crime mentioned in the message was ever reported. Are there any other streets of the same name anywhere else in the country?”
Assad shook his head. “You are saying perhaps that you do not think it to be the right kidnapping?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“I think you are mistaken, Carl.”
“But listen, Assad. If there really was a kidnapping, what’s to say whoever was kidnapped wasn’t released again after a ransom was paid? It’s conceivable, wouldn’t you say? And then maybe it was all forgotten about. In which case, our investigations are going to lead us nowhere, right? Maybe only a very few individuals even knew about it.”
Assad looked at him for a moment. “Yes, Carl. That is something we don’t know. But we will never find out if you say we should not proceed with the case.”
He turned and tramped off without another word, leaving his tub of goo and his pocketknife behind on Carl’s desk. What the hell was the matter with him? Was it what he’d said about poor spelling and immigrants? He wasn’t usually that sensitive. Or was he so wound up in the case he couldn’t concentrate on anything else?
Carl cocked his head and listened to Assad’s and Yrsa’s combined voices in the corridor. Bellyaching, he shouldn’t wonder.
Then he remembered Antonsen’s question and got to his feet.
“Mind if I disturb you two turtle doves for a moment?” he quipped as he approached his two staff members, who were back in front of the blow-up on the wall. Yrsa had been standing there ever since she’d given him those annual reports he’d asked her for. Four or five hours that day, all in all, and not so much as an exclamation mark on the notepad she’d dumped on the floor in front of her feet.
“Turtle doves! You should let those thoughts of yours rotate a while inside your skull before opening your mouth and letting them out,” said Yrsa, then turned once more toward the giant photocopy on the wall.
“Listen up a minute, would you, Assad? There’s a superintendent over in Rødovre says he’s received an application from Samir Ghazi. Apparently, Samir wants to go back there. Do you know anything about it?”
Assad looked at Carl as if he didn’t know what he was talking about, but he was definitely on his guard. “Why should I know about that?”
“You’ve been avoiding Samir, haven’t you? Maybe you’re not the best of mates. Am I right?”