Free Invisible Murder by Lene Kaaberbøl Page B

his hand.
    “Does a Sándor Horváth live here?” he asked.
    Sándor froze. The other four also suddenly went still, their laughter faded, their faces stiffened.
    “What seems to be the problem, officer?” Ferenc asked politely.
    “That’s him,” the other officer said, pointing at Sándor.
    “Turn around,” the first one said sharply. “Hands up against the wall. Now!”
    When Sándor didn’t move, remaining rigid and mute, they grabbed his arm, spun him around, pushed him up against the wall, and kicked athis ankles until he was leaning against the sun-baked bricks at an angle. If he moved his hands, he would fall over. They frisked him quickly and matter-of-factly.
    “What are you doing?” Lujza yelled at them. “Let him go! What is it you think he did?”
    “None of your business, little lady,” the one with the sweat stains replied.
    “You can’t just.…” Lujza yelled. “Stop!”
    Sándor couldn’t see her. He couldn’t see anything except a couple of square meters of crumbling sidewalk and the drop of sweat that was trickling down his nose.
    “Sándor,” Mihály said suddenly. “You ask them. If you ask, they have to answer.
The detainee must be informed of the charges
and all that.”
    But Sándor couldn’t say a thing. His tongue was just a lump of flesh, his jaw was so tight he might as well have had lockjaw. The officers cuffed his wrists with plastic cable ties and bundled him across the street and into their squad car. He didn’t put up any resistance.
    “Sándor!” Of course it was Lujza who was yelling. “We’ll file a complaint. Don’t let them do this to you. There must be someone we can complain to.…”
    “Call 1-475-7100,” the older of the two officers said placidly. “It’s toll-free.”
    O NCE WHEN HIS stepfather Elvis went to record a CD with a band called Chavale, Sándor had been allowed to tag along. That was back when they were playing enough gigs to actually earn a little money, and his stepfather still believed firmly in his Big Break, as he called it. It was also before Tamás was born, so his stepfather would sometimes take him places without referring to him as “Valeria’s kid from before we got married.” Sándor could still remember the feeling of sitting quiet as a mouse on a chair that could spin around, but squeaked when you did it, so you couldn’t. He could remember the men’s concentration and laughter, the smell of their cigarettes, the multitude of buttons on the mixing board, and the pane of glass between the studio and the recording equipment.
    The memory popped into his head now because the room they put him in reminded him of that studio. The gray, insulated walls, the pane of glass facing the hallway, and then of course the fact that they were recording everything he said.
    “Where were you born, Sándor?” said the man who had introduced himself only as Gábor.
    “Galbeno. It’s a village near Miskolc.”
    “And your parents?”
    Did he mean who were they or where were they born? Sándor’s brain felt as thick as porridge.
    “My father was born in Miskolc.”
    “Name?”
    “Gusztáv Horváth. He’s dead now.” Gusztáv Horváth had keeled over in front of twenty-seven dumbstruck physics students at the Béla Uitz School on a warm day in September almost three years ago.
    “And your mother?”
    There was that stiffness in his jaws again, as if all his chewing muscles were in spasms. He was having a hard time opening his mouth, and every last bit of spit had evaporated. He didn’t dare lie. This was the NBH.
Nemzetbiztonsági Hivatal
, Hungary’s National Security Service. These days, they might have a fancy home page and a press secretary and even several ombudsmen who were supposed to keep tabs on things and ensure openness and protect the legal rights of the individual, but they were still the NBH.
    “Ágnes Horváth.”
    The man whose name might be Gábor sat quietly, calmly, and expectantly, and the silence somehow