The Forgotten Dead: A dark, twisted, unputdownable thriller. Tove Alsterdal
waiting for someone. They’ll be here any minute,’ I said. The street was deserted. Not a single Jaguar as far as the eye could see. Even the doorman had abandoned me. I was getting ready to kick the man in a sensitive spot and then take off running when I noticed someone sitting in the car behind him. It was dark, but I was almost certain I saw a woman in the driver’s seat. She wore a headscarf. With my heart pounding, I went over to the car. The man followed close behind.
‘Are you the one who called me?’ I said, leaning forward. The back car door was open.
‘Get in,’ she said, motioning to the back seat. I complied. The man crowded in next to me and slammed the door shut. A second later the woman started up the car and drove off. Fear surged like a hot wave through my body.
‘Where are we going?’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Why are you asking about Patrick Cornwall?’ said the woman. ‘What do you know about Josef K?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know anything about Josef K. That’s why I called.’
I saw her looking at me in the rear-view mirror. Brown eyes with heavy eyeliner. The rest of her face was hidden by the scarf.
‘Where is Patrick?’ I said. ‘Do you know where he’s staying? Is that where we’re going?’
She turned onto yet another dark back street, again changing direction.
‘First I want to know who gave you my number.’ She had a deep voice with a melodic lilt to it. Aside from her accent, she spoke fluent English. ‘Who’s been talking about Josef K? Who do you work for?’
‘Who do you work for?’
The woman made a sharp turn and braked. We were on the outskirts of a park. Not a soul in sight. I was starting to feel truly scared.
She turned halfway around.
‘Was it Alain Thery who sent you?’
‘Alain who?’ I said, confused.
My instincts told me to lie. Then I’d have the upper hand, even though there were two of them.
‘I work for the same magazine as Patrick,’ I said. ‘The editor hasn’t been able to get hold of him. He was supposed to turn in a story, and the deadline is coming up. They go nuts if we don’t stick to the deadline.’
‘Let me see your press credentials,’ said the woman.
‘I’m not a journalist,’ I told her. ‘I work in the office.’
‘What’s your name?’
I don’t know where it came from, whether it was fear that cast me back to the person I used to be, or whether it was a rational decision not to tell them who I was. A lie, and yet not a lie. As close to the truth as possible.
‘My name is Alena Sarkanova,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘What’s your name?’
But the woman didn’t return the courtesy. She lit a cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco stirred up hazy memories from my childhood. At that instant my cell rang, chirruping merrily in my bag, like an old acquaintance. I leaned down and fished it out.
‘Don’t answer,’ said the woman. The man grabbed my wrist. I managed to see Benji’s name on the display before I switched it off. It hurt to cut him off like that. Sweet little Benji, who right now was the only link to my normal life.
‘You need to stop poking around,’ said the woman. ‘Do you hear me? You need to go back home to New York.’ She met my eye in the rear-view mirror again. I swallowed hard. I hadn’t said anything about coming from New York. So she must know where Patrick lived and worked.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘Go home,’ said the woman, and then she motioned to the man. He leaned across me to open the car door on my side, signalling that the conversation was over.
‘And don’t tell a fucking soul about any of this.’
The man gave me a shove and I climbed out. I drew the evening air deep into my lungs, feeling vaguely euphoric at being outside again. The car door slammed shut, and with a lurch they were gone.
I walked quickly away, heading in the direction where the city lights were brightest.
‘Good evening,’ said the desk clerk as I entered the hotel. He gave me a welcoming look through his rectangular designer glasses. There had been a shift change since I had left around lunchtime, an eternity ago.
‘Is it possible to get something to drink at this time of the evening?’ I said, running my hand through my hair. I had a feeling that I looked awful. ‘Nothing alcoholic, but anything else. Water.’
‘Of course,’ said the clerk, quickly getting to his feet. He came around the counter and disappeared up a small staircase to the dining room.
‘I’d be grateful for something to eat too,’ I called after him, and then sank down onto a sagging armchair. I’d walked at least three miles before I found a taxi. I hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch at Starbucks, and my stomach was churning with hunger. Or maybe it was the baby. My legs still felt shaky after the episode inside the car.
Facts, I told myself. That’s all that matters. The essentials.
The people in the car: a woman and a man. Age: somewhere between thirty and fifty. Definitely French.
The woman was the one in charge. Her English was grammatically correct. Well-educated. Her phone number was the last thing in Patrick’s notebook. She’d had a dual agenda: to find out who I was and what I knew, plus make sure that I left Paris.
I rubbed my forehead. Jetlag was still clamped like a helmet around my head. No matter how many times I replayed the conversation in my mind, I didn’t feel any wiser.
‘Pardon me for asking, but aren’t you Patrick Cornwall’s wife?’
The desk clerk placed a small tray in front of me. Salami and cheese. Water, and a glass of juice. It looked heavenly.
‘You don’t happen to have another one of these, do you?’ I said, my mouth full of bread roll.
I quickly drank all the juice. Then leaned my head back against the soft upholstery of the armchair.
Going home was not an option. I could always contact the police and the American embassy, get them to look for Patrick. Wait for him to get in touch.
I have a bigger responsibility now, I thought, placing my hand on my stomach. A real mother would go home. Not take any more risks. Eat regular meals and go jogging at a sensible pace, start crocheting. Put together the baby’s wardrobe. Buy a crib and buggy.
But my next thought was: the child will grow up, and one day ask about his father. And I’ll have to say: ‘He disappeared. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. I was too cowardly to stay and find out.’
‘Patrick Cornwall was a much appreciated guest when he stayed here with us,’ said the desk clerk, setting another roll on the tray. ‘He’s the first American in the last decade who didn’t think the Louvre was a murder scene.’
The clerk laughed a bit at his own joke. He spoke excellent English. According to the name badge he wore on his breast pocket, his name was Olivier.
‘Do you know the Taillevent restaurant?’ I asked between bites.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, perching on the arm of the sofa across from me. ‘It’s one of the finest. Not as well known as La Tour d’Argent, but undoubtedly better. They lost their third star in the Guide Michelin this year, but their loyal customers continue to dine there. I think the restaurant opened just after the war.’
‘Who are their customers? Who goes there?’
‘Politicians, businessmen. People who attended the right schools. The elite. It’s not a trendy place. If you’re