The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [30]
“The chocolate,” said Sigita. “Don’t forget the chocolate.”
He nodded absently while listening to Mrs. Šaraškienė’s reply.
Then he asked directly, apparently completely unaffected by Sigita’s presence: “What is your impression of Mikas Ramoška’s mother?”
Sigita felt heat rush into her face. The nerve! What would Mrs. Šaraškienė think!
“Thank you. I would like to talk to the group leader in question. Would you ask her to call this number as soon as possible? Thank you very much for your time.”
He hung up.
“It seems one of the staff has in fact noticed your fair-haired woman and has told her not to give the children sweets. But Mikas wasn’t the only child she contacted.”
“Maybe not. But Mikas is the only one who is gone!”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She didn’t want to ask. But she blurted it out anyway:
“What did she say about me?”
The tiniest of smiles curled his upper lip, the first sign of humanity she had observed in him.
“That you were a good mother and a responsible person. One of those who pay. She appreciates your commitment.”
There was no fee as such to be paid for Mikas’s basic care, but the kindergarten had an optional program funded by parents who paid a certain sum into the program’s account every month. The money was used for maintenance and improvements, and for cultural activities with the children—things for which the city did not provide a budget. It had been a sacrifice, especially the first year after she had bought the flat, but to Sigita it was important to be “one of those who pay.”
“Do you believe me now?”
He considered her for a while. Click, click went the damned pen.
“Your statement has been corroborated on certain points,” he said, seeming almost reluctant.
“Then will you please do something!” She could no longer contain her despair. “You have to find him!”
Click, click, click.
“I’ve taken your statement now, and we will of course send out a missing persons bulletin on Mikas,” he said. “We’ll look for him.”
At first Sigita felt a vast relief at being believed. She opened her purse and pushed the picture of Mikas out of its plastic pocket. The picture had been taken at the kindergarten’s midsummer celebration, and Mikas was in his Sunday best, with a garland of oak leaves clutched in his hands and an uncertain smile on his face. He had objected to wearing the garland in his hair because he didn’t want to look like a girl, she recalled.
“Thank you,” she said. “Will this do? It’s a good likeness.”
She put it on the desk in front of Gužas. He took it, but there was something in the way he did it, a certain hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure how much use it was going to be. It was then she realized that it was much too soon to feel any kind of relief.
“Mrs. Ramoškienė … is there any chance that the couple who took the boy are someone you know, or perhaps someone you are related to?”
“No, I … don’t think so. I certainly didn’t know the woman. But I didn’t really ask Mrs. Mažekienė about the man because I thought it was Darius.”
“We will try to get a description from your neighbor. Have the kidnappers tried to contact you in any way? Any demands, or threats? And can you think of anyone who might want to pressure you for any reason?”
She shook her head silently. The only thing she could think of was that it might be something to do with Janus Construction, with Dobrovolskij and other clients like him, and the figures she kept only in her head. But how? It didn’t make sense. And in any case, no one had said a thing. No threats. No demands.
She realized that he was watching her intently, and that the clicking of the pen had finally ceased.
“What do they want with him?” she said softly, hardly daring to say it out loud, because it made it that much more real. “Why do people steal someone else’s child?”
“When a child is taken, it is often personal—aimed at a specific child, for specific reasons that might be to do with custody rights, or with something the kidnappers want from the parents. But there is a second category. One