and stops Erhard, who’s right behind him. In the darkness Erhard sees only half of Bernal’s face. – You don’t have a weak stomach, do you?
Erhard shakes his head.
– Do you remember that girl Madeleine?
– Did you find her?
Bernal looks annoyed. – Do you remember her?
Erhard nods.
– Good. We don’t want that kind of case here. Not at all. We’ve done what we can. You need to know that. No one is working at cross purposes here. What happened in Portugal completely destroyed the tourist industry in Praia da Luz, and the police were hung out to dry in the media as a flock of fucking Thomson and Thompsons. The difference here is that no one is missing the child. No crying mothers or fathers, or cute siblings pining for their little brother.
– The child?
Bernal flicks on two wall lamps, then moves to the whiteboard. – The boy, he says, pointing at a photograph.
It’s a large black-and-white photograph, probably a colour photo originally, and difficult to look at. But there is no colour now, only gradations of black, maybe brown or some greenish tint. Crossing through it is a big, black square marked by four light-grey cubes that provide the square with depth. In the centre of the square, as though surrounded by an invisible eggshell, is a tiny human being. One hand is up near its head as if to scratch itself, while the other hand is, almost impossibly, wrapped around its back. The child is covered in pale-grey newspaper fragments.
Erhard has to turn away. His eyes slide towards the whiteboard and more photographs with the same horrible scene. Close-up images of the boy’s mouth, his eyes – which are closed, sunken in a sickened darkness. Photographs of the car, of the backseat where the box rests between seatbelts as if someone had tried to secure it.
– How old is…? Erhard’s mouth is so dry he can hardly speak. – How old is he?
– Three months. Thereabouts.
– Someone must be missing him.
– Unfortunately not. Whenever a case like this arises, it’s always worst with the babies. They don’t know anyone. They don’t have nannies or playmates. They leave behind no colleagues, ex-girlfriends, or empty flats with unpaid rent. If Mum and Dad don’t care, then there’s no one worry to worry over them.
– Someone must’ve reported the child missing. On the islands or in Spain?
Bernal goes on: – If you ask me, Mum went out in the waves and drowned herself like some cowardly dog. No one walks out on her child like that, unless something’s wrong with her.
– What if something happened to the mother and the father? What if they went for a walk out on the beach and fell and…
– What if they shagged in one of the caves? Problem is, we’ve scoured the area. With dogs. With helicopters. There’s nothing. It’s Bill Haji’s bloody ring all over again. Gone.
– Someone must have seen the car arrive. What about that guy on the beach? The surfer?
– We’ve spoken to him twice. He didn’t get to Cotillo until the day after the car turned up. Nobody knows anything. Nada. And the car was registered to an importer outside of Lisbon, but the car never arrived; he thought it was on some lorry in Amsterdam two months ago.
– Maybe a car thief stole it with the boy inside?
– Where? In Amsterdam?
Erhard doesn’t have an answer.
– The most bizarre thing of all is the odometer. It registered thirty-one miles. Thirty-one.
– What about fingerprints?
– No fingerprints on the wheel, the gearstick, or the front seat. Finding prints is not as easy as some people think. And maybe Mum was wearing gloves? Maybe someone removed all traces? We found prints on the cardboard box, but no one we recognize, and who knows who had the box before the boy was shoved inside it? Someone, in any case, secured the box tightly in the seatbelt. It appears as though it’s been shaken around quite a bit, perhaps when they drove the car off the hilltop near the car park. It was on the beach at
Erhard shakes his head.
– Do you remember that girl Madeleine?
– Did you find her?
Bernal looks annoyed. – Do you remember her?
Erhard nods.
– Good. We don’t want that kind of case here. Not at all. We’ve done what we can. You need to know that. No one is working at cross purposes here. What happened in Portugal completely destroyed the tourist industry in Praia da Luz, and the police were hung out to dry in the media as a flock of fucking Thomson and Thompsons. The difference here is that no one is missing the child. No crying mothers or fathers, or cute siblings pining for their little brother.
– The child?
Bernal flicks on two wall lamps, then moves to the whiteboard. – The boy, he says, pointing at a photograph.
It’s a large black-and-white photograph, probably a colour photo originally, and difficult to look at. But there is no colour now, only gradations of black, maybe brown or some greenish tint. Crossing through it is a big, black square marked by four light-grey cubes that provide the square with depth. In the centre of the square, as though surrounded by an invisible eggshell, is a tiny human being. One hand is up near its head as if to scratch itself, while the other hand is, almost impossibly, wrapped around its back. The child is covered in pale-grey newspaper fragments.
Erhard has to turn away. His eyes slide towards the whiteboard and more photographs with the same horrible scene. Close-up images of the boy’s mouth, his eyes – which are closed, sunken in a sickened darkness. Photographs of the car, of the backseat where the box rests between seatbelts as if someone had tried to secure it.
– How old is…? Erhard’s mouth is so dry he can hardly speak. – How old is he?
– Three months. Thereabouts.
– Someone must be missing him.
– Unfortunately not. Whenever a case like this arises, it’s always worst with the babies. They don’t know anyone. They don’t have nannies or playmates. They leave behind no colleagues, ex-girlfriends, or empty flats with unpaid rent. If Mum and Dad don’t care, then there’s no one worry to worry over them.
– Someone must’ve reported the child missing. On the islands or in Spain?
Bernal goes on: – If you ask me, Mum went out in the waves and drowned herself like some cowardly dog. No one walks out on her child like that, unless something’s wrong with her.
– What if something happened to the mother and the father? What if they went for a walk out on the beach and fell and…
– What if they shagged in one of the caves? Problem is, we’ve scoured the area. With dogs. With helicopters. There’s nothing. It’s Bill Haji’s bloody ring all over again. Gone.
– Someone must have seen the car arrive. What about that guy on the beach? The surfer?
– We’ve spoken to him twice. He didn’t get to Cotillo until the day after the car turned up. Nobody knows anything. Nada. And the car was registered to an importer outside of Lisbon, but the car never arrived; he thought it was on some lorry in Amsterdam two months ago.
– Maybe a car thief stole it with the boy inside?
– Where? In Amsterdam?
Erhard doesn’t have an answer.
– The most bizarre thing of all is the odometer. It registered thirty-one miles. Thirty-one.
– What about fingerprints?
– No fingerprints on the wheel, the gearstick, or the front seat. Finding prints is not as easy as some people think. And maybe Mum was wearing gloves? Maybe someone removed all traces? We found prints on the cardboard box, but no one we recognize, and who knows who had the box before the boy was shoved inside it? Someone, in any case, secured the box tightly in the seatbelt. It appears as though it’s been shaken around quite a bit, perhaps when they drove the car off the hilltop near the car park. It was on the beach at
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