The Serbian Dane

by Leif Davidsen

  He opened the door of the headmistress’s office. The headmistress herself was a small, slightly built woman in her forties who greeted them politely then left, saying that they were in the best possible hands with Gustav Hansen.

  Mr Hansen laid nine class photos out on the desk, as if he were dealing cards, explaining as he did so in his distinct didactic tones:

  ‘Here they are. These are the photographs of the final-year classes of 1984, ’85, ’86 and ’87. Difficult classes but good. Still bearing the marks of a rather too liberal upbringing; victims, if you like, of all the confusion of the seventies, but they were bright those children. That they were. That they were.’

  The photographs were in colour and were all pretty much identical. The young people were arranged in rows and looking straight at the camera. The length of the boys’ hair was the only indication of the passage of time. Each year it was a little shorter than the year before.

  ‘Do you also happen to have the class registers, sir?’ Per asked as he examined the pictures.

  ‘Why would you need those, Detective-Inspector?’

  ‘Because we would like to be able to put names to some of these faces.’

  Gustav Hansen straightened his shoulders and eyed Per squarely.

  ‘I was a teacher for fifty years,’ he said. ‘I remember every single child I ever taught. I do not need registers. I even took part in a so-called quiz programme on television once, where they tried to catch me out. I am proud to say that not even on television could they do that. I would also like to point out…’

  ‘Sorry, no offence meant,’ Per interjected. Lise caught the note of impatience in his voice, but she found the old teacher charming and quite fascinating. She thought she would like to write a piece about him at some point. What they had here was a small piece of bygone Denmark. It would make a nice little human-interest story.

  ‘How many of these kids are Yugoslavian?’ Per asked.

  Gustav Hansen regarded the pictures with what might have been wistfulness, or love even, Lise thought, before he said:

  ‘We had quite a few of them at that time. Thirteen children, in all, from Yugoslavian homes. Six of them were girls. Quiet, but very bright. That they were. Oh yes, that they were. It’s terrible what’s happening down there now. There was never any trouble between them during my time here. Seven boys…although we couldn’t have said whether they were Croatian or…’

  Now it was Lise’s turn to interrupt:

  ‘Can you remember which of them went on to high school?’

  ‘From these years? Let me see now. A handful. There was Janos, and Jaumin. Apart from them…no. Oh, yes, there was one girl. A bit weak in physics, but otherwise…let me see…they were really starting to make progress. With their Danish. The ones who were born here. A command of the language really is so important.’

  Hansen stood there, sunk in thought. They seemed to have lost him to his memories.

  ‘Were any of the boys fair-haired and blue-eyed?’ Lise asked.

  Gustav Hansen’s face lit up once more and he was back with them again.

  ‘How extraordinary that you should ask that,’ he said. ‘You know, I was just thinking about him. In fact I mentioned him only a moment ago. Janos?’

  He picked up one of the class photographs and pointed to a very young version of Vuk. Standing among the other teenagers, grinning broadly at the camera. The boy on his left was Mikael, and to the right of him stood another boy whose face seemed familiar to Lise. She took the picture. There was something about the young, fair-haired Yugoslavian whom Gustav Hansen had pointed out that stirred something in her memory, but it was the boy to the right whom she recognized.

  ‘What is it?’ Per asked.

  ‘Isn’t that Peter Sørensen from the evening news?’ she said, looking at Gustav Hansen.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Janos?’ said Per.

  ‘Janos Milosovic. An extraordinarily gifted boy. I wonder what became of him,’ Hansen said.

  ‘That’s something we’d like to know too,’ Per commented, running his eye down his list. The name was there.

  ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, why don’t you ask his old friend?’ Hansen said, sighing impatiently as if he were talking to two rather inattentive children. ‘He might know. I have to say I am rather proud to have had him as a pupil. One cannot help feeling that one has had a hand in his success. Those first years are so crucial, you know. The moulding of these young characters.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’ Per said, no longer able to conceal his irritation.

  ‘Peter Sørensen, the foreign correspondent, of course. From the evening news. Miss Carlsen mentioned him herself. He lived next door to Janos. They were very good friends.’

  Per thought for a moment. Then:

  ‘Lise, do you happen to know offhand the number for the Danmarks Radio news desk?’ he asked, pulling out his mobile.

  Peter Sørensen was out on a shoot, but they were given a mobile number at which they could reach him. He said he would be back in the office around seven, but then he had the story to edit so he was going to be really busy. If they could come around eight-thirty, though, that would be okay. Per explained what it was they wanted to talk to him about, and he sounded very interested, but that didn’t alter the fact that he had a story to edit first.

  They called in at the last school on their list, but it did not furnish them with any likely candidates. Then they found a restaurant in Nørreport and had dinner together, eating mostly in silence. Sara Santanda was arriving the next day, and in three days’ time she would be travelling on to Sweden. Lise wondered whether things would be different between them once they were no longer working together. She didn’t know. Her usual healthy appetite had deserted her, and she merely picked at her food. To save Per knowing that she was calling home again, she used the payphone next to the toilets but still got only her own answering machine. She also rang the paper and spoke to the sub-editor, who told her that her pieces were fantastic and would be given all the space they needed. Normally this would have given her a tremendous boost, but somehow she couldn’t get worked up about it at all. She was scared and did not know exactly why, although she realized it was probably because she was so worried about Ole. Where could he have got to?

  At 8.00 pm they drove out to the Danmarks Radio studios. The breeze had stiffened, and it had started to rain, but Lise knew that the forecast for the next day was for a clearer, brighter morning with the possibility of showers in the afternoon. Just at that moment, in the dark and the rain, the idea of a press conference at Flakfortet did not seem such a brilliant idea.

  Peter Sørensen came down to meet them at the security desk and led them up to his office. He shook Per’s hand formally and introduced himself, then turned to Lise, shook her hand too, with a ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ His office was tiny and chaotic, but he pushed a pile of newspapers off one chair, fetched another from the corridor and got them settled. He took his own seat behind his overloaded desk. On his computer screen, in white characters on a blue background, was a wire story from Reuters about the situation in Bosnia. He gave them coffee in plastic cups, and Per showed him the class picture.

  ‘Yeah, sure. That’s Janos. And muggins there, that’s me. Where the hell did you dig up this old picture?’

  ‘So you know him?’ Per said.

  ‘I should think so. Janos went back to Yugoslavia at the end of our second year in high school. It was a bloody shame. He was so fucking bright, that guy. I actually tried to trace him when I was down there for DR. My sources tell me he’s one of the Serbs’ top hit men. They say he kills people as casually as you would squash a fly.’

  Per’s eyes were fixed on him. Lise thought he looked like a hunter or a wild beast – a puma – that has caught wind of its prey.

  ‘Did you find him?’ Lise asked.

  ‘No. I heard something down there about the Muslims having massacred his whole family. I tried to trace them
too. I really liked his parents, and he had the sweetest little sister, but there was just no way, what with the war and all.’ He turned to Per and added: ‘But why are the police asking questions about him? Has it to do with Bosnia? Or…has it something to do with Scheer?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Toftlund said.

  ‘Well, Lise here has called a press conference with Scheer for tomorrow afternoon. And they’re out to get him in Germany. I’ll be covering the event for the evening news.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that,’ Per replied stiffly.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. But what do you want with Janos?’

  ‘To talk to him.’

  Peter Sørensen sipped his coffee. His curiosity was piqued, Lise could tell. The newshound in him scented a story here. He guessed that there was more to this than met the eye, although obviously he couldn’t know what. Ten to one he would be on the phone to her later, when the police weren’t around, trying to pump her for information.

  ‘I lost touch with him. But have you spoken to Mikael?’

  He could tell by their faces that they had no idea who he was talking about, so he continued:

  ‘He was Janos’s other friend. We three hung out together a lot.’ He lifted the class photograph and pointed to Mikael as he went on talking: ‘Mikael’s a real screwball, computer mad. He’s become a bit of a hermit, you might say. Lives alone in his parents’ old house in Hellerup. They’re rolling in money and spend most of the year in Spain. They were doing that even when we were kids. So Mikael lived with his aunt and grew up along with the rest of us lads in Nørrebro. They wanted to send him to boarding school, but Mikael kept running away, so he ended up staying with his aunt. Have you spoken to Mikael?’

  ‘Do you have a number for him?’ Per asked.

  Sørensen fished a little notebook out of the clutter on the table, leafed through it and wrote down a telephone number and an address in Hellerup on a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Toftlund.

  ‘He can’t always be depended on to answer the phone. He’s kind of special. But listen, what’s this all about? Is Janos in Denmark? You’re not from PET are you?’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Per said.

  ‘Is Janos in Denmark?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Lise said, disregarding a warning glance from Per.

  Toftlund called PET headquarters on his mobile from the DR car park. He said that he was bringing in an old photograph. He was going to need a photo technician, an artist and an Identikit expert. He had a face and a name. Then he called Mikael’s number. He let the phone ring and ring, then eventually shook his head and flicked the mobile shut.

  ‘Now what?’ Lise asked.

  ‘I’m going to run you home.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’m going to pay a call on Mikael. He might be in.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have backup for something like this?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, what if this guy Janos is somewhere around?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘But you don’t want help?’ she said.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  He put the car into gear and drove off.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Lise said.

  ‘Why? What for?’

  ‘So we can hold hands and neck like a couple of American teenagers.’

  He laughed.

  ‘All right then.’

  The house in Hellerup lay hushed and still behind its hedge, but there was a light burning in the kitchen and in one of the upstairs rooms. Lise waited in the car while Per rang the doorbell, then took a walk around the house. It was almost 11.00 pm, and all was quiet in the streets round about. The grass was long and damp under his feet. It looked as though something had been dragged across the grass and down to the water. The Sound stretched out, black and rain-drenched, at his feet. He noticed a couple of flashing lights out on the water, but visibility was very poor in the driving rain. He peered through the French windows, but the rooms were in darkness. He tried the door. It was locked. He walked back to the car. There was a light on upstairs in the house opposite, and he was conscious of someone tweaking a curtain aside and peering down at him. They keep close tabs on one another around here, he thought to himself.

  He climbed into the car beside Lise. He smelled of rain, and the windows steamed up.

  ‘Right, let’s go home. I don’t know whether he’s in there, or whether he’ll be back later, but I’ll organize a search warrant tomorrow morning. I’m pretty certain I can get one if he isn’t answering the door or the phone.’

  ‘Do you think there’s something wrong?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling. But yes, I think there’s something wrong.’ He placed a hand on his stomach. ‘Gut instinct. That’s all it is,’ he said.

  ‘Intuition.’

  ‘That’s another word for it.’

  ‘And what happens after tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, we have a couple of days’ more of her, and then Simba is no longer our problem but our Swedish colleagues’. And by then everyone will know that she’s on the move. They’re going to have their work cut out for them over there, but they’ll probably have more resources to draw on too.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I’ve got a whole lot of time off owing to me,’ he said.

  ‘So have I,’ she said, keeping her eyes front. Raindrops coursed down the windscreen.

  ‘Maybe we could go to Spain,’ he said softly, but Lise thought that even so she heard a hidden prayer there, a new uncertainty, which said he did not take her for granted.

  ‘That sounds wonderful, Per. Only…’

  ‘It’s your husband, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Ole. As long as he’s missing I don’t see how I can…’

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll find him. And then we’ll go.’

  She turned her face to his, and they kissed, and at that same moment the car was flooded by a light from the rear that made the raindrops on the windows sparkle like tiny crystals. A patrol car had pulled up behind them, and as they watched one of the officers got out. His partner remained behind the wheel, already in the process of keying Per’s registration number into the car’s computer.

  Toftlund got out:

  ‘Good evening,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening,’ the policeman said.

  Toftlund slipped his hand slowly into his jacket pocket and pulled out his ID card.

  ‘Toftlund. G division,’ he said.

  The policeman behind the wheel opened his door a little way and shouted:

  ‘It’s okay, Niels. He’s one of us.’

  ‘Christensen,’ the uniformed cop said and offered his hand. The rain had slackened to little more than a drizzle, veiling houses and hedges and enveloping the lampposts in a lovely soft glow.

  ‘The lady across the road gave us a call,’ the policeman continued. He wasn’t very old, and like so many other young policemen, he spoke with a pronounced Jutland accent. He sported a neatly trimmed moustache and most likely dreamed of a couple of years of working undercover before landing a plum job somewhere in Jutland. ‘She thought you two looked a little suspicious. There are a lot of embassies in this area, you know, so we keep an eye out.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Toftlund said.

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s called. She’s an old lady, we know her. She hasn’t seen the owner of this house for some days. But she has seen another young man coming and going, which she thought was a bit strange. And then suddenly there was this car parked here, so she called us.’

  Toftlund thought for a moment. Then:

  ‘Tell your partner that you and I are going in,’ he said.

  ‘But we can’t just go breaking into people’s houses,’ the officer protested.

  ‘I’ll take responsibility. Have your gun at the ready.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Maybe no
thing. But it may have to do with a man we’re looking for,’ Toftlund said, already moving towards the garden gate. Whatever way you looked at it, Toftlund was a superior officer, so the uniformed cop glanced back at his partner, pointed to Toftlund, then followed after him.

  ‘What about your partner?’ the young policeman asked.

  ‘She’s a civilian. She stays where she is.’

  Toftlund rang the bell again but there was still no answer. He pulled his gun and saw the young policeman do the same. There were beads of sweat on his brow, even though the evening was chilly, and Toftlund could see that he was nervous. It could be that he was still just a probationer. They stole round to the back garden. The inky waters of the Sound lapped gently, and the grass felt wet and clammy against their shoes. Per crept up to the French windows, which consisted of lots of small panes of glass set into a white wooden frame flaking slightly along the seams. He turned to Constable Christensen.

  ‘Now, Christensen. You watch what I do, and you listen to what I say, and then you write it all down in your report. I am about to force entry to this residence because I have reasonable grounds for believing that a person possibly wanted by the police may be on the premises. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Christensen.

  Per Toftlund turned his gun around and used the butt to smash the pane next to the keyhole. He poked a hand inside and found the key in the lock. People just never learned. They made it so easy for burglars to get in and so easy for them to get away again with their loot. He opened the door, cocked his gun and stepped inside, followed by the young policeman who – prompted by the tense set of Toftlund’s body – cocked his own pistol before entering the dark gloomy house.

  Chapter 20

  But the man who called himself Vuk was gone. At that precise moment he was approaching Flakfortet, which lay shrouded in the mist of rain. Using a short double-bladed paddle he manoeuvred the black rubber raft alongside the outer face of the breakwater on the north side of the man-made island. With slow but efficient strokes he skirted the breakwater. He was dressed in black from head to toe and almost impossible to make out in the rain-dark sea. Lashed securely to the bottom of the dinghy was a black waterproof sack the size of a sailor’s duffle bag. A few lights still burned on Flakfortet, but the last guests had sailed back to Copenhagen long ago; the crew on the two pleasure boats were asleep, and the restaurant staff were either flopped in front of some TV programme or had gone to bed. They had had a visit from the police, who had checked their ID, gone over the whole place with dogs and informed the yacht owners, whose identities had also been confirmed, that they would have to leave the harbour early the next morning, since the fort would be closed for a fire drill between the hours of 10.00 am and 5.00 pm.