The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [85]
“A private nurse. Isn’t that a little … extravagant?”
“My time is the most precious commodity I possess. I simply can’t be stuck in a waiting room for hours every time I need to have a blood sample taken. Believe me, Karin’s paycheck has been a worthwhile investment.”
“I see. And apart from this, how was your relationship with Ms. Kongsted?”
“Excellent. She was a very warm and friendly person.”
“How warm?”
Jan was jerked from his near-somnolent repetition. This question was new.
“What do you mean?”
“Were the two of you having it on? Playing doctor when the missus wasn’t around? I understand you lived under the same roof?”
Jan could feel his jaw drop. He stared at this sixty-year-old Danish Rails ticket puncher lookalike with a feeling of complete unreality. This was bizarre. The man’s expression of benign interest hadn’t shifted a millimeter.
“I … no. Bloody hell. I’m married!”
“Quite a few people are. This doesn’t stop around seventy percent of them from having a bit on the side. But not you and Ms. Kongsted, then?”
“No, I tell you!”
“Are you quite certain of that?”
Jan felt fresh sweat break out on his palms and forehead. Did they know anything? Would it be better to come clean and be casual about it, rather than be caught in a lie? Did they know, or were they just bluffing?
He realized that his hesitation had already given him away.
“It was very brief,” he said. “I think I was taken by surprise at… . Oh, I don’t know. Have you ever been through a serious operation?”
“No,” said the railway clerk.
“The relief at still being alive can cause a certain … exuberance.”
“And in this rush of exuberance you began a relationship with Karin Kongsted?”
“No, I wouldn’t call it that. Not a relationship. I think we both realized that it was a mistake. And neither of us wanted to hurt Anne.”
“So your wife was ignorant of the affair?”
“Stop it. It wasn’t an affair. At the most, it was … oh, it sounds so sordid to call it a one-night stand, and it wasn’t, but I think you know what I mean.”
“Do I, Mr. Marquart? I’m not so sure. What are we talking about? One night? A week? A couple of months? How long did it take you to realize that it was a mistake? And are you certain that Ms. Kongsted understood that just because she was having sex with you, she had better not think this constituted an affair?”
Jan tried to remain calm, but the man was subjecting him to verbal acupuncture, sticking in his needles with impeccable precision, and observing him blandly all the while.
“You’re twisting everything,” he said. “Karin is … like I said, Karin was a very warm person, very … womanly. But I am perfectly sure she understood how much my marriage means to me.”
“How fortunate. Is your wife equally certain?”
“Of course! Or … no, I didn’t tell Anne about the … episode with Karin. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t either. Anne is easily hurt.”
“We will just have to hope it doesn’t become necessary, then. Can you tell me why Karin Kongsted left the house so suddenly yesterday?”
“No. I … I wasn’t there myself. But seeing that she went to the summer cottage, she must have decided to take a few days off.”
“Am I to believe you haven’t seen this?” Kvistgård fished out a vinyl sleeve and placed it on the table in front of Jan. Inside was Karin’s note, with the brief, bald phrase clearly visible through the plastic: I QUIT.
“I didn’t take it seriously. I think it was meant as a joke. She had been complaining that it was too hot to work … like I said, I think she was simply taking a few days off and had a slightly … untraditional way of announcing it.”
“According to your wife, Karin Kongsted appeared upset and off balance when she drove off.”
“Did