JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (17 page)

‘I thought we’d have a coffee and then head up to the Police Presidium and talk about Jespersen.’

‘Let’s talk here,’ she said. ‘There’s no one around. Neutral territory. Then we can head up to the Presidium.’

‘Neutral territory?’ said Fabel. ‘We’re supposed to be cooperating. I didn’t think that colleagues needed “neutral territory”.’

‘Just an expression,’ said Vestergaard, sipping her coffee and leaving a trace of pink on the rim of the cup. ‘Maybe it’s just that my English isn’t as good as yours. I notice you don’t speak English with a German accent.’

‘I learned it when I was young,’ he said, annoyed at the distraction technique. He knew what she was doing, and she knew he knew. They were both police officers; both interrogators. ‘I am half-Scottish. I grew up bilingual.’

‘I see.’ Another sip. ‘It’s unusual to hear a German speak without an accent. In Denmark we subtitle all English-language films and TV. You dub them. Germans don’t have the true exposure to the language we do. Like a cultural condom. That’s why we Danes and the Dutch speak better English. With less of an accent, I mean. But I noticed your lack of accent when you picked me up at the airport. It would have made things easier for Jens. You didn’t meet him, you say?’

‘We spoke on the phone. Once.’ Fabel laughed without warmth. ‘Is this an interrogation, Frau Vestergaard? If so, I’d remind you that I am the police officer here. And if there is anything suspicious about Jespersen’s death then it is my case, not yours. This is my jurisdiction.’

‘Jens didn’t like Germans,’ she said, still cool. Cold. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No,’ Fabel sighed. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘The usual. The war. Like me, Jens was very proud to be a Danish police officer. It’s a noble heritage to have. Do you know one of our proudest moments?’

‘I imagine you’re going to tell me.’

‘During the war, unlike the police in other occupied countries, the Danish police wouldn’t collaborate. They barely cooperated. Basically they just tried to get on with the job they were supposed to do. Being policemen. Then, when you Germans told them they had to guard installations against attack by the Danish resistance, they told you to shove it. So do you know what happened?’

Fabel shrugged.

‘You sent them to Buchenwald concentration camp.’

‘Listen, Frau Vestergaard, I didn’t send anyone to concentration camps. I wasn’t alive then. And even if I had been, I wouldn’t have been a Nazi.’ Fabel was annoyed that he had let his irritation show. She was deliberately baiting him.

‘Really?’ she said as if vaguely surprised. ‘Anyway, dozens of Danish police officers died in Buchenwald. It was only after they were transferred and their status changed to that of prisoners of war that the death rate slowed down. But they still wouldn’t do what you … I mean the Germans … I mean the Nazis … sorry, I get confused who it was who was supposed to have violated Denmark … wanted them to do.’

‘And that’s why Jespersen hated Germans? To be frank, I get the feeling you share his prejudice.’

‘Jens was from a long family tradition of police service. His grandfather was a policeman during the war and his father, who was only twenty-one back then, was also a police officer. They were both transported to Buchenwald. Jens’s
grandfather was one of the ones who died. His father barely survived.’

‘I see. I understand. But what’s your point?’

‘That Jens would not have set foot in Germany unless he had a damned good reason to do so.’

‘And you don’t know why he was here?’

‘I have an idea. But that’s all. Jens was …’ For the first time since he had met her, Vestergaard looked lost for the right word. ‘Jens could be difficult. He had a tendency to go off and do his own thing. Follow a hunch.’

‘There’s nothing wrong in following a hunch.’

‘No, not if you keep your colleagues – your superior – informed of where you are and what you are doing.’

‘But we got an official request from you yourself to assist Jespersen. You knew he was coming here.’

‘He told me some of what he had going on, but not all. Things were difficult with Jens. He was old-school and I started out under his command. He found it difficult to accept that he was now accountable to me. Added to which he had a habit of going off on his own little crusades.’

Vestergaard must have picked up on the subtle change in Fabel’s expression. ‘It looks like I’ve struck a chord,’ she said.

‘Long story,’ said Fabel. ‘I have … I
had
an officer who did the same thing. It cost her her sanity.’

‘I see. Well, I think Jespersen’s last crusade might have cost him his life. Have you heard of the Sirius Patrol?’

Fabel shook his head.

‘The Sirius Patrol is a special-forces unit of the Danish Navy. It is responsible for patrolling the extreme north-east of Greenland, just in case our Russian friends ever come to call. These guys are the toughest you’re likely to come across. They cover nearly twenty thousand kilometres of coastline, travelling mainly by dogsled in temperatures that can hit minus thirty. And, of course, in winter they do it all in perpetual night.’

‘Jespersen?’

‘A two-year tour. After that, when he joined the Danish National Police, he was accepted for the
Politiets Aktionsstyrke
or AKS. It’s our police special forces. A national SWAT team used for major incidents, drug busts, et cetera. I take it you can see where I’m going with this?’

‘That Jespersen was a tough son of a bitch?’

‘That, and the fact that he was extremely fit. He kept himself in the same kind of shape he’d been in as a Sirius soldier.’

‘Not a heart-attack candidate …’

‘Not a normal heart-attack candidate, let’s say. Of course it’s possible and it would be the most straightforward of explanations, but I just don’t see it unless the autopsy reveals some congenital cardiac weakness.’ Vestergaard drained her cup and shook her head when Fabel went to refill it. ‘Too much coffee makes me nervy.’

Fabel tried to picture a nervy Karin Vestergaard but it was beyond his powers of imagination. ‘So what’s all this about looking for puncture wounds? Do you have some kind of idea who’s behind Jespersen’s death?’

‘All I have, Chief Commissar, is a bundle of unconnected facts. And I suspect that’s all Jens had, but he somehow saw a bigger picture. I am willing to share everything I know, but I expect a little quid pro quo … I was assured of your full cooperation by Herr van Heiden. I would appreciate it if that cooperation extended to keeping me fully informed of your progress. I suspect that this case extends across our common border. Maybe beyond. And if my … if
our
suspicions are right, then we are talking about the assassination in Hamburg of a senior Danish police officer. No small matter.’

Fabel looked at Vestergaard for a moment. She had freshened up her make-up when she had gone up to her room. A different shade. It had changed her look subtly. Maybe having perfectly regular features allowed you to alter your look more
easily than other people. Despite her beauty, Fabel imagined that Karin Vestergaard could even make herself look plain and uninteresting.

‘I take it you’re staying in Hamburg for some time?’

‘I’ve left my booking open.’

‘Maybe we should think about a different hotel – this was the murder scene, if Jespersen’s death was murder.’

‘Then it might help to be close to it.’ Vestergaard’s expression still gave nothing away of the emotions that might be behind it.

‘As you wish,’ said Fabel. ‘But I’m going to assign an officer to you. Just to keep an eye on things.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I told you that Jens Jespersen had once been my superior, rather than the other way around. Well, that was when we were both in the
Politiets Aktionsstyrke
. Trust me, Mr Fabel, I’m more than capable of looking after myself.’

‘So was Jespersen,’ said Fabel.

It was comforting to be back. In Norway. In Oslo. In this light. Strange but comforting.

The clouds had dispersed from the sky and the ever-optimistic Oslo café owners had placed aluminium tables and chairs, and the occasional strategically placed patio heater, outside on the streets.

Birta Henningsen sat at a pavement café, drinking her coffee and watching, from behind her sunglasses, the ice-blue
Oslotrikken
tramcars passing up and down the street under a matching ice-blue sky lightly streaked with wisps of white cloud. The February sun that shone on Oslo did so brightly if without any real warmth. But that suited Birta perfectly: she belonged in this climate, in this light, this clean, cool air; in this environment. Birta had, of course, spent time in the
Mediterranean and other beautiful parts of the world, mainly through her work, but there she had always felt conspicuous: foreign. And Birta did not like to feel conspicuous.

It was here, in the North, that she felt at home.

Birta had eaten a light meal and now the coffee restored some of her energy. It had been a long drive from Stockholm – seven hours – and the day before she had driven all the way from Copenhagen, crossing the Öresund Bridge. She would drive back to Stockholm afterwards. She found her thoughts drifting to the meeting arranged for later in the day. It was an important one. One of the most important of her career. She had prepared well for it: she found that she performed better, was less nervous, if she had concluded all her research and preparation well in advance and simply relaxed immediately before.

There was a mother with two children three tables away. Birta watched them. The mother would have been roughly the same age, shared Birta’s colouring and was dressed in typical Oslo chic. Expensive but restrained. And warm. But, unlike Birta, there was something not entirely contained about the young mother: a vague sense of chaos. Birta recognised it as the consequence of motherhood; that a substantial fraction of the woman’s life was no longer hers to control and Birta wondered what that must feel like.

She turned back to watch the trams and the passers-by. She had never had children. She had never divided herself. And she never would. She had chosen career and herself above all else. And now she sat under the pale Norwegian sky, watching the trams pass and glancing over at the woman and her two children and felt a vague ache in her chest.

This was futile. Sentimental wandering. She was annoyed with her own self-indulgence since she’d arrived. Like the trip to Holmenkollen.

Birta had not planned to visit Holmenkollen, but she had felt the need as soon as she had approached Oslo.
She had driven overnight and had approached the city along the Mosseveien highway that ran along the shore, as the day had broken painfully beautiful in deep red and purple-blue silk over the Oslofjord. She had parked in a municipal car park on the outskirts of the city and had taken the T-Bane train to Holmenkollen and mingled with the handful of off-season tourists at the ski centre. Like the tourists, she had looked out over the city from the top of the ski jump. But it had been the circuit around the centre, the one used for the biathlon, that she had come to see. One more time. It had been a pointless exercise and so unlike her. And now she sat in the centre of Oslo surrendering to pangs of jealousy as she watched a woman fuss over her children.

This was not what she was here for. She was in Oslo on business, not to sightsee or for indulgent self-reflection. She paid in cash for her coffee and left without another glance at the woman and her children.

The sun was already low and the long Nordic winter night would come soon. It would be dark. Time for her meeting.

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘It’s a deal. We share information. But I have to say that for the moment it’s going to be very much a one-way trade. You’re the one with the background info. All I’ve got at the moment is something that looks like a death from natural causes.’

‘Like I told you,’ said Vestergaard, ‘Jens Jespersen was my commanding officer when we were both in the
Politiets Aktionsstyrke
. I learned a hell of a lot from him during that time. I don’t think I’d be where I am today if it hadn’t been for him.’

Fabel watched Vestergaard closely for signs of thaw in the ice maiden. If they were there, they were too small for him
to detect. She spoke of Jespersen with respect, even a hint of affection, but there was no warmth in her voice.

‘There was a major drugs bust, six years ago. We set up an elaborate sting – or more correctly Jens set up an elaborate sting and we landed Goran Vuja
i
ć
. You know, the Bosnian Serb warlord turned drug smuggler.’