The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [86]
“No. But you did make a call to SecuriTrack in order to locate the car she was driving. Why did you do that, Mr. Marquart?”
There was a high-pitched whine of pressure in his ears. He was aware that he was still sitting there with a stiff smile glued to his face, but he also knew that any illusion of casual innocence had long since evaporated. There was no way he could make light of this, no way he could pretend it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a routine precaution when a company car went missing. He couldn’t do it. That bloody railway clerk had unbalanced him completely and nailed him in free fall, with no life lines left to clutch.
“I can see this needs a bit of mature consideration,” said Anders Kvistgård. “Perhaps you wish to call an attorney? I’m afraid that I have to caution you that charges may be brought against you.”
THE MILE-LONG, SURPRISINGLY natural-looking beach of the Amager Strandpark was only sparsely populated by bathers, despite the dragging heat. Weeks of drought and sunshine had apparently satisfied the city’s hunger for beach life and firstdegree burns, thought Nina. For most people, the holidays were over. In the spot Nina had chosen for them, they were alone except for a couple of students lying on too-small bath towels with open textbooks in front of them, and their only other human encounter had been with a sweat-soaked young man on rollerblades who had narrowly missed ploughing into the boy on the cement path.
Now here they were, sitting side by side on their brand-new soft towels, staring out across the mirror-smooth sea. Not a breath of wind rippled the surface, and the waves merely lapped the sand in soft, flat, nearly soundless surges. The silence among the three of them was equally noticeable, thought Nina. The boy sat still, with his head lowered, only moving his hand now and then to let the dry sand sift through his fingers in a steady stream. Marija reclined on her towel with half-closed eyes behind new shades bought at a local convenience store. She had taken off her tight jeans, revealing a pair of long, pale legs, as slender as the rest of her T-shirt-clad body. She hadn’t said much in the car. A trip to the seaside would be okay, she agreed, as long as towels, sunscreen, sunglasses and a new bikini were part of the deal. Nina had had a brief flashback to negotiations with her own sulky teenage daughter, and had in the end secured a compromise that left out the bikini. For the boy, she had found a small dusty set of bucket, sieve, rake, and spade in red and yellow, languishing on a rack at the back of the store. Later, she had also bought them all ice cream from the kiosk. Marija had taken the boy by the hand and pointed to the faded pictures of cones and popsicles, and to Nina’s relief the boy had answered her, opting for the biggest of the lot. After that encouraging breakthrough, silence had unfortunately descended, even though Marija had tried to encourage the child with soft, careful questions. Demonstratively, the boy sat with his back to them, working his fingers through the hot, white sand.
Glancing at Marija, Nina decided to break the silence. She and the girl, at least, could have a conversation. But what did one ask someone like Marija? Her work in Helgolandsgade? Her life before Copenhagen? Her hopes and dreams, if any had survived? The fact that Nina had bought her time and her presence here lay like a vague discomfort between them—it was a little too much like the selling and buying that went on between Marija and the men that sought her out at night.
“How long have you been in Denmark?”
Nina had meant to ask how she liked it here, but caught herself in time.
Raising her head, Marija looked at Nina with a faint smile that was at the same time amiable and distant.
“Seven weeks,” she said, jerking her head at the city behind them. “It is a beautiful city.”
Nina looked at Marija’s long slender legs and feet, half buried in the sand. Two small round scars gleamed pinkly on her thigh, just above