The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [58]
When he went back in, she had succeeded in crawling onto the bed. Her breathing sounded wrong, too wet and bubbly, and she didn’t react when he came into the room.
“Ni-na,” she gurgled. “Ni-na.”
He wasn’t even sure whether it was in answer to the questions he had asked, or whether she was just calling for someone she imagined might help her. But he took her mobile from the bedside table to check if there was a Nina. There was. He took down both the number and her last name and tossed the phone on the bed.
“Ni-na,” she said once more.
She doesn’t even know I’m here, he thought. Then he saw the pool of blood spreading beneath her head.
THE FLAMES WERE dying. He kicked some sand over the embers, then decided to bury the remains of the bonfire properly. With a bit of luck they would never be found. Then he got himself a clean dry shirt from his bag in the car.
He tried to view the situation with a clear mind. One had to. At the moment, he didn’t know where the money was. The blonde had said she had given it back to the Dane. The Dane said the blonde had it. Jučas believed the blonde more than he believed the Dane.
And the boy? Perhaps that gurgling “Ni-na” had actually been the answer. Maybe she was called Nina, the dark-haired boy-bitch who had ogled him back at the railway station. What if she had the brat, and this was why the Dane was suddenly so uncooperative about paying? At the price they had set, it wasn’t too surprising if he wanted delivery of the goods before he handed over the cash.
Once Jučas was fully dressed again, he called Barbara. He had checked her into a hotel before leaving the city. More unnecessary expense, but he couldn’t take her with him.
“Is there a phone book in the room?” he asked.
She said there was.
“I need you to find an address for me,” he said. “But don’t call Directory Enquiries, and don’t ask the operator. Is that clear?”
“When will you be back?” she asked, and he could hear the anxiety in her voice.
“Soon. But you have to do as I say, it’s important.”
“Yes. Yes, okay. What is it you want me to do?”
“Look up someone in the phone book. See if there’s a listing for a Nina Borg.”
HELGOLANDSGADE.
The street was narrow and a bit claustrophobic. On one side was the newly refurbished Hotel Axel with its brilliant white facade and a big golden dragonfly hovering above the entrance. It had become trendy, thought Nina, to spend the night in Vesterbro, with a view of hookers and pick-pockets.
A group of teenage girls had taken up position directly opposite the hotel’s entrance. They looked like ordinary school girls, thought Nina in surprise. No leather, no fishnet stockings or bleached hair. They looked like regular young people ready for a night on the town. And yet, there was somehow no doubt what they were here for.
The four girls all checked the street regularly, eyeing the passersby. Every little while, one would separate herself from the herd, walk a few steps, perhaps get out her mobile, but without ever calling someone. Then she’d return to lean on the small black motor scooter they were all gathered around. While everyone else moved on, they stayed.
Nina gripped the boy’s hand a little more tightly, then approached them. A couple of phrases in accented English rose above the noisy conversation of a couple of drunks going the other way.
“Nineteen. You owe me.”
One of the girls laughed loudly, and took a couple of tottering steps backwards, on heels that were far too high for her.
They had been betting on her age, thought Nina, but she couldn’t tell whether the others had guessed too high or too low. She shivered. Ida would be fourteen at her next