“Do you know what he’s been living off all these years?”
“No, and I don’t think anyone does except him. He’s probably lived hand to mouth like a hobo. I think he’s a real pity case. But if you ask me, I don’t think he’s been involved in any criminal activity, because the last thing he’d want is to be arrested and deported to a country where he’s wanted for desertion.”
“Yes, we do have an extradition agreement with the US, don’t we?” asked Carl.
“Yes, and unfortunately for Frank, the agreement was already in place in 2003. They have a similar agreement in Sweden, but unlike us, they don’t extradite people under suspicion for military or political crimes. If we had extradited him, he would simply have ended up in the darkest dungeon the US could find. Deserters have never been popular in God’s own country. Basically, there’s nothing glamorous about being a war vet, wherever you come from.”
Assad nodded. He apparently knew better than most.
Carl thanked Marcus for all his work. Imagine that, James Frank was in Denmark.
Following the call, he slowed down for a while. “Can you wait a little longer before we eat, Assad?” he asked without waiting for an answer. “Now that we have this new information, I’d like to pay this James Lester Frank a visit. I’m thinking that we might find Denise Zimmermann with her father. That would be one hell of a bonus.”
—
Fritzl Zimmermann’s old shoe shop in R?dovre was a shadow of its former self. A run-down building with empty, dirty shop windows and a lot of junk inside. The shop sign painted on the wall could still be made out despite the amateurish attempt at covering it. As far as Carl could count, at least five different types of businesses had been forced to close their doors since Zimmermann’s day.
Assad pointed at the apartment above the shop. With a single bay window out to the street, it was probably just a studio—but then again, shop assistants and servants couldn’t expect more back in those days.
The name “Mark Johnson” was typed with a black handheld printer directly on the flaking paint of the door. They knocked and waited.
“Just come in,” said a voice in a strong American accent.
They had expected the place to be a total mess, but they were mistaken. The smell of the type of fabric softener used to wash baby clothes permeated the entire apartment. They walked past a couple of painted beer crates in the hallway and on into the sitting room, where there was a sofa bed, TV, chest of drawers, and not much else.
Carl looked around. If Denise Zimmermann was hiding somewhere in this sitting room, she must have shrunk.
He signaled to Assad to check the rest of the apartment.
“You’re from the police,” said the man on the sofa. His skin was yellow and he was wrapped in quilts, even though the temperature outside was up to almost ninety degrees. “Have you come to arrest me?” he asked.
A rather surprising introduction.
“No, we’re not from immigration. We’re detectives from homicide in Copenhagen.”
Perhaps Carl had imagined that it would make the man feel uncomfortable—that often happened. But instead, he pursed his lips and nodded knowingly.
“We’ve come because we’re looking for your daughter.”
Assad returned to the sitting room and gestured that the girl was nowhere to be found.
“Can you tell me when you last saw Denise, James? Or would you prefer that I call you Mark?”
He shrugged. Apparently he didn’t care what they called him.
“Denise? Well, she’s still Dorrit to me. But I haven’t seen her since 2004. And I heard today that you’re looking for her. You can probably imagine that it worried me.” He reached out for a glass on the table. Apparently it contained water.
“We’re investigating the murder of your ex-mother-in-law, and we have to suspect anyone who she was in contact with immediately before she died. So we need to question your daughter about her movements.”
The visibly ill man took a drink and rested the glass on his stomach. “You know I risk being extradited, right?”
Both Carl and Assad nodded.
“When a deserter like me ends up in the hands of the US military, they are thrilled. When I deserted, I was about to be promoted to major. I had received so many medals that I almost walked lopsided. I’ve lost count of how many missions I’ve been on because there were also a lot back when I was younger. But none of them were glorious, I can tell you that much. That’s why they’re so eager to get people like me back and out of the way. They don’t want us to reveal anything, and especially not high-ranking decorated soldiers.” He shook his head. “And the US military never forgets a deserter. They’ve just demanded an extradition from Sweden, even though the man has lived there for twenty-eight years and has a family. So what would keep Denmark from extraditing me? My illness?”
Carl nodded. It sounded plausible after all.
“You think so, do you? Well, you can forget all about that, because the US will swear blind that they’ll offer me the necessary treatment, and before you know it the plane will be ready to take off.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with the purpose of our visit?” asked Carl.
He wasn’t a Catholic priest or spiritual guide.
“The purpose? I’m about to tell you something that will prevent my extradition, and I feel good about that.”
“And that is?”
“That I’ve done something even worse than deserting, which no one seems to really care about in Denmark anyway.”
Assad moved closer. “Why did you go back to the US in the first place when you had your family here?”
“I’ll get to that too.”
“The thing that happened in 1995?”
He nodded.
“You know that I’m seriously ill, right?”
“Yes, but not the details.”
“You won’t need to save up for my next Christmas present, if you get my drift.” He laughed at his own joke. “And that’s why I don’t want to go back to rot and slowly waste away in an American prison. I’d rather die here in Denmark, where you’re looked after when you’re at death’s door. Even in prison.”
Carl was unsure what would come next. The guy had really set alarm bells ringing.
“James, I might as well tell you that only a few days ago I kicked a man out of my office for making a false murder confession. If that’s your game, I warn you. It’s not going to help your case.”
He smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Carl M?rck.”