The Boy in the Suitcase - By Lene Kaaberbol Page 0,28
it is this hot,” he said kindly. “Or so my doctor is always telling me. I often forget.”
“Yes. Yes, you are quite right.”
He tipped his pale gray Fedora to her as he left.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
SHE WENT BACK to the police station in Birželio 23-iosios gatvė. Sergeant Gužas’s face took on a look of resignation when he saw her in his doorway.
“Mrs. Ramoškienė. I thought you were going home.”
“It’s not him. Darius didn’t take him” she said. “Don’t you understand that my son has been kidnapped?”
Resignation gave way to tiredness.
“Mrs. Ramoškienė, a few hours ago you claimed that your husband had taken the boy. Am I to understand that this isn’t so?”
“Yes! That’s what I’m telling you.”
“But your neighbor saw—”
“She must have made a mistake. She’s old, her eyesight is not very good. And I think she has only met Darius once.”
Click, click, click. The point of his ballpen appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared. A habit of his, it seemed, when he was trying to think. Sigita could barely stand it. She wanted to tear the pen away from him, and only the need to appear rational and sober held her back. He simply has to believe me, she thought. He has to.
Finally, he reached for a notepad.
“Sit down, Mrs. Ramoškienė. Give me your description of the chain of events once more.”
She complied, doing the best she could to reconstruct what had happened. Described to him the tall, fair-haired woman in the cotton coat. Told him about the chocolate. But then she reached the gap. The black hole in her mind into which nearly twenty-four hours had disappeared.
“What’s the name of the kindergarden?”
“Voveraitė. He is in the Chipmunk Group.”
“Is there a phone number?”
She gave it to him. Soon he was talking to the director herself, Mrs. Šaraškienė. The compact ladylike form of the director popped into Sigita’s mind’s eye. Always immaculately dressed in jacket and matching skirt, nylons and low-heeled black pumps, as if she were on her way to a board meeting in a company of some size. She was about fifty, with short chestnut hair and a natural air of authority that instantly silenced even the wildest games whenever she entered one of the homerooms. Sigita was just a little bit afraid of her.
Gužas explained his errand; a child, Mikas Ramoška, had been reported missing. A woman involved in the matter might have made contact with the boy in the kindergarten playgrounds. Was it possible that one or more of the staff had observed this woman, or any other stranger, talking to the children or watching them, perhaps?
“The chocolate,” said Sigita. “Don’t forget the chocolate.”
He nodded absently while listening to Mrs. Šaraškienė’s reply.
Then he asked directly, apparently completely unaffected by Sigita’s presence: “What is your impression of Mikas Ramoška’s mother?”
Sigita felt heat rush into her face. The nerve! What would Mrs. Šaraškienė think!
“Thank you. I would like to talk to the group leader in question. Would you ask her to call this number as soon as possible? Thank you very much for your time.”
He hung up.
“It seems one of the staff has in fact noticed your fair-haired woman and has told her not to give the children sweets. But Mikas wasn’t the only child she contacted.”
“Maybe not. But Mikas is the only one who is gone!”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She didn’t want to ask. But she blurted it out anyway:
“What did she say about me?”
The tiniest of smiles curled his upper lip, the first sign of humanity she had observed in him.
“That you were a good mother and a responsible person. One of those who pay. She appreciates your commitment.”
There was no fee as such to be paid for Mikas’s basic care, but the kindergarten had an optional program funded by parents who paid a certain sum into the program’s account every month. The money was used for maintenance and improvements, and for cultural activities with the children—things for which the city did not provide a budget. It had been a sacrifice, especially the first year after she had bought the flat, but to Sigita it was important to be “one of those who pay.”
“Do you believe me now?”
He considered her for a while. Click, click went the damned pen.
“Your statement has been corroborated on certain points,” he said, seeming almost reluctant.
“Then will you please do something!” She could no longer contain her despair. “You have to find him!”
Click, click, click.
“I’ve taken your statement now, and we will of course send out a missing persons bulletin on