The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [68]
He always talks as if he has swallowed one of his own reports, thought Sigita. I wonder what he sounds like when he is off duty? She was temporarily distracted by a mental image of Gužas up to his waist in cold water, dressed as the complete angler and sporting a newly caught fish. “The direction of the current gave reason to suspect that trout might be active in the upper left quadrant of the search area,” commented off-duty Gužas in her head.
I’m very, very tired, Sigita told herself. Or else it’s the concussion. It was as if the imagination she normally kept effortlessly locked down was suddenly bubbling up from the nether reaches of her mind like marsh gas. It made her uncomfortable.
“We have asked your husband, and he has agreed that the broadcast should be made. But we would really like for you to make that direct appeal in front of the cameras. In our experience, this has an effect even on people who would not normally contact the police. Especially when children are involved.”
She rubbed her whole face with her good hand. She was exhausted. Too little to eat and drink all day, she thought. Her headache had become so constant she was almost getting used to it.
“I don’t know… . Will it really help?”
“I wouldn’t suggest this to you if there had been any communication from the abductors. Any opening for negotation or coercion. In those circumstances, public uproar might serve only to increase the pressure on the kidnappers and might endanger the life of the child. But there has been no such communication. Is that not so?”
He is testing me, thought Sigita. He still doesn’t believe me.
“No,” she said. “But if it’s dangerous for Mikas, I won’t do it.”
“It’s a question of weighing the options,” he repeated. “I am not saying it is completely without risk, but in our estimation, it is our best chance of finding Mikas right now.”
Sigita could hear her own pulse. How could one decide something so vital when it felt as if one’s head belonged to someone else?
“We can of course make the broadcast without your consent,” he finally said, when the silence had gone on for too long.
Was that a threat? Suddenly, anger roared through her.
“No,” she said. “I won’t do it. And if you go ahead without me, I’ll… .” But there was no way to finish. What threats could she make? He had all the weapons.
She sensed a sigh somewhere at the other end of the connection.
“Mrs. Ramoškienė, I am not the enemy,” he said.
Anger left her as suddenly as it had arrived.
“No,” she said. “I know that.”
But once she had disconnected, she couldn’t help but wonder. What was more important to an ambitious young officer like Gužas? Arresting the criminals, or saving the victims?
Her blouse was sticking to her back, and she decided to wrap a plastic bag around the cast and attempt a shower. She had to squirt the shampoo onto her scalp directly from the bottle, instead of measuring a suitable dollop into her palm, and it was equally impossible to wrap the towel around her head in the usual turbanstyle afterwards. When it was time for the late news, she turned on the television with a fresh attack of nerves. Despite Gužas’s words there was no dramatic report on three-year-old Mikas Ramoska, missing since Saturday. And then of course all her doubts came rushing back. Should she have done it? Was there someone out there who had seen her little boy? Someone who might help?
When the phone rang, she snatched at it with such clumsy haste that it clattered to the floor. She retrieved it with another snatch and pressed “Accept Call” even though she didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Er … who?”
“Tomas.”
She nearly said “Who?” once more before she realized that the caller was her little brother. She had never heard his grown-up voice, only the first hoarse cracks of puberty. He had been twelve when she fled