‘I agree. Especially if the autopsy throws up something.’
Vestergaard cleared her throat.
‘I’m sorry…’ Fabel said in English. Then, to the others: ‘Maybe we should all speak in English from now on, for Frau Vestergaard’s sake.’
‘Natural,’ said van Heiden in heavily accented English. ‘We will, of course, you bet.’
The look Vestergaard fired at Fabel eloquently communicated an ‘I-told-you-so’ reminder of their conversation about the difference between how Danes and Germans spoke English.
‘I think Frau Vestergaard has something you should hear,’ said Police President Steinbach. ‘Please, Frau Vestergaard.’
‘My office in Copenhagen has been in touch with me,’ she said. ‘They in turn were notified by the Norwegian National Criminal Investigation Department of an incident in Drobak, near Oslo. This incident, which involved the murder of two men, took place yesterday evening.’
Vestergaard paused while she took her notebook from her bag.
‘Jorgen Halvorsen is — was — a leading investigative journalist for newspapers and magazines throughout Scandinavia,’ she said, referring to the notebook. ‘He was a Norwegian by birth but worked in Copenhagen for a great many years. He moved back to Norway about five years ago. For the sake of his health, you could say. He made some heavyweight enemies in Denmark and Sweden. You see, Halvorsen had two specific areas of interest, areas that were not always mutually exclusive: the extreme right in Europe, and corporate and political corruption. He was assassinated yesterday evening in his home in Drobak. His family were away overnight, so the timing suggests surveillance of the house. Also, Halvorsen was planning a trip abroad. The Far East. Where exactly in the Far East and for what reason we don’t know. But it suggests the killer knew Halvorsen’s schedule and everything points to a timed, planned killing — except that Halvorsen’s gardener obviously happened along at the wrong moment. He was the other victim. Single knife wound to the heart.’
‘And you think this is the work of the alleged Hamburg Valkyrie?’ asked Fabel.
‘It could be…’ Vestergaard shrugged. ‘It was a highly professional job. The other thing is that the Norwegian police had been keeping an on-off eye on Halvorsen’s house.’
‘Why?’ asked Fabel.
‘About two weeks ago someone broke in and stole Halvorsen’s laptop and selective files, including back-ups of his computer data. And this is where it gets creepy… Halvorsen, being a security-minded man, also backed up to an online source. Someone used his access code and passwords to wipe that too. Again, the work of real professionals.’
‘What was it that he was working on?’ asked van Heiden.
‘We don’t have details yet. You see, the Norwegian National Police isn’t the only agency with an interest in Halvorsen: PST, the Norwegian security agency, and Okokrim, the economic and environmental crime bureau, were very much interested in what Halvorsen was into. They had both been cooperating with Halvorsen — basically because they knew he would turn over what he found to them.’
‘Your Norwegian colleagues seem to have been very open with you,’ said van Heiden.
‘That’s the way it is in Scandinavia…’ Vestergaard shrugged. ‘The Nordic Police Agreement has been in force since nineteen sixty-six and was expanded in two thousand and one. We enjoy much more freedom to cooperate without formality across our borders. Anyway, organised crime, right-wing extremism, that kind of thing — it all tends to spread wider than one constituent country.’
‘So do we know what Halvorsen was working on?’ asked Fabel.
‘Without his files or back-ups, no. Over the years Halvorsen has exposed quite a few major figures. Powerful figures. He had learned to play his cards very close to his chest. But we do have a few theories. One is that it may have had something to do with the trafficking of women. Norway, as you probably know, is currently the chair of Interpol’s Working Party against Trafficking in Women, and it’s possible that Halvorsen was tying a story in to coincide. A couple of my colleagues believe that he might have been about to expose a major environmental crime by some corporation or other, or maybe by a government. We’re compiling a list of the information he asked for from Okokrim. One thing we are pretty certain about is that whatever it was he was investigating, it involves Denmark. He made several trips to Copenhagen. He seems to have had a particular interest in the Oresund Region: we do know he did research at Copenhagen University on the region as a politico-economic identity.’
‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Steinbach, with a frown. ‘Maybe my English…’
‘The Oresund Region is partly in Denmark, partly in Sweden,’ explained Vestergaard, speaking more slowly. ‘It’s where the new bridge between Denmark and Sweden is. Historically, that part of Sweden was Danish. Same way we used to own Schleswig-Holstein.’
‘Why was Halvorsen interested in this region particularly?’ asked van Heiden.
‘No idea. It’s maybe not significant in itself. Halvorsen was known to have an interest in Euroregions. You know, groupings within the new EU that tend not to conform to national boundaries. The part of Sweden that is included in the Oresund Region is open to a lot of social and linguistic debate: the majority of linguists say the Scanians speak in an East Danish dialect, while others maintain it is a South Swedish dialect. The point is, there is a sense of Europe dividing into self-identified units rather than traditional national units. You could argue, for example, that Hamburg has more in common with Denmark in terms of identity and culture than it does with Bavaria.’
‘I don’t see a big story for Halvorsen in whether a bunch of Swedes speak with a Danish or a Swedish accent,’ said Fabel.
‘Nor do I,’ said Vestergaard dismissively. ‘And his visits to Copenhagen and visits to the region may have nothing to do with his death. But remember Halvorsen’s special interest was neo-fascism. Scanian identity isn’t just about being Danish or Swedish. There are several extreme-right groups who want autonomy for the region and to expel all Muslims to “Sweden”.’
Vestergaard was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Steinbach answered it.
‘It’s for you,’ he said to Fabel, holding out the receiver.
‘Fabel, Moller here. I’m about to send the autopsy results on Jespersen to your office, but I thought you’d want the main points.’
‘I appreciate that, Herr Doctor. I take it our suspicions were justified?’
‘Just like your less than charming Danish colleague suggested… By the way, do you know she got in touch with me directly and started to harangue me, telling me what I should be looking for?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Fabel, firing a look across the conference table at Vestergaard. ‘My apologies.’
‘Well, anyway,’ continued Moller. ‘Turns out she was right. I found a hypodermic puncture wound. What looks to me like a deliberately concealed hypodermic puncture wound. In his groin. I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for it specifically.’
‘So what was injected?’
‘We’ll have to wait for the full toxicology report, but on a hunch I tested a blood sample myself. I was looking for and found signs of hyperkalaemia.’
‘Which is?’
‘Elevated potassium levels. Whatever was injected pumped up the level of potassium in his system. That would cause hyperkalaemia, which, in turn, would cause arrhythmia and ultimately cardiac arrest. It could be a number of agents that caused this, or a combination of agents, but I’ve included tox screens for potassium chloride and suxamethonium chloride.’
‘Well, we can stop speculating,’ said Fabel after he had hung up the phone. ‘It looks like we are now cooperating on a murder enquiry, Frau Vestergaard.’
7
Ute Cranz examined herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a stranger.
She was tall and slim. Beneath the expensive clothes her body was lithe and sleek. She had spent a great many hours working on her body. Making it strong,
supple, graceful. But she felt disconnected from it. Dislocated from the person who stared back at her, cold and blankly, from the glass.
As a little girl, Ute, like her sister, had excelled as a gymnast. She could have gone far — international competition — but her parents had not approved of what they saw as the abuse of her body. Enjoy your sport for what it is, her father had once told her, but don’t let them abuse your body, damage your health, for the sake of a falsehood. She hadn’t understood then, but she did now. She had seen what they had done to her sister. Margarethe had told her what they had done. Each visiting time a little more, a new horror.
They had stolen Margarethe’s life. What they had done to her was like rape. No, it was worse. They had destroyed her, taken away her humanity. Then, when it became clear to them that she wasn’t up to what they wanted, they cast her away.
Ute turned from the mirror and crossed the lounge to the window that looked down onto the street. No sign yet. She looked at her watch. A few more minutes. Crossing back to the mirror, she applied a little more make-up and pushed at her hair with her hands.
She had planned her costume carefully: it was dressy without looking too much for this time of afternoon on a Wednesday. And it was exactly at this time of afternoon on a Wednesday that Herr Gerdes came home. He lived in the top-floor apartment — the one with the roof terrace. Ute had established that Herr Gerdes lived alone, although she had no idea if he was divorced, a widower or a confirmed bachelor. He really was a quiet neighbour: the only sound she had ever heard issuing from his apartment was the music he listened to — Brahms and some Bruch, she thought — and she had only heard that occasionally when making her way up to her own apartment.
Ute laid her hand on the brass snib, eased the door open and listened. After a moment she heard the outer door downstairs slam shut and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She stepped out onto the landing just as Herr Gerdes reached it.
‘Oh, hello, Frau Cranz,’ he said, and smiled. He was wearing a chunky polo-neck jumper under an expensive-looking tweed coat. He carried pale pigskin gloves in one hand. ‘It’s a cold one today. Are you going out?’
‘I’m glad I caught you, Herr Gerdes,’ she said formally and ignoring his question. ‘As you know I’ve not long moved into the apartment and I have a problem with the lease. I wondered if you could explain it to me.’
‘Well,’ he said, frowning. ‘I would love to, but at the moment…’
‘Oh no — not right now.’ She gestured an apology. ‘I wouldn’t impose on you at such short notice. I was thinking… well… I wondered if you would join me for a meal on Saturday evening.’ There was a short silence and she rushed to fill it. ‘You see, I don’t get the chance to cook for anyone any more and I’ve got these fillets…’
He silenced her by taking a step towards her, his smile broadening. ‘Frau Cranz, I would be delighted.’
8
It had been a tiring day. Partly because he had had to spend so much of it with Karin Vestergaard. Fabel would never have imagined that spending time with a beautiful woman could be so tedious. She was beautiful, wasn’t she? He still found that if he were out of her presence for any length of time her face was almost impossible to recall. And Fabel was good at remembering faces: after all, he had made a career of it. He phoned Susanne from his office before he left, explaining that he had felt obliged to volunteer to pick up Vestergaard at eight and take her for a meal.
‘Please, please come along,’ he pleaded. ‘This woman is incredibly hard work and I need your support.’
‘I couldn’t possibly burden the taxpayer. You’ll be putting this all on expenses, I take it?’
‘You’re involved in the St Pauli investigation. It’s a legitimate expense. Vestergaard would be interested in how you work with the Commission. I’ll even pay myself.’
‘God, she must be hard work.’
‘I’m booking a table at the fish restaurant in Neumuhlen — your favourite.’
‘I don’t think…’
‘Did I tell you that this particular Nordic ice maiden is also particularly beautiful? And there’ll just be the two of us if you don’t come…’
‘Okay — I’ll come and protect your honour. Pick me up at the apartment.’
Fabel was aware that he had become an object of envy. Every man in the restaurant turned in their direction as he, Susanne and Karin Vestergaard entered. The truth was, he got a kick out of being seen in the company of two such beautiful women. Seeing them together, Fabel was struck by how different they were: Susanne’s hair was raven black, her eyes a rich hazel and her skin, even in the middle of a Hamburg winter, had a hint of summer gold to it; in complete contrast, Karin Vestergaard’s hair was almost ash-blonde, her complexion light and her eyes a striking pale blue. The southern Celt and the Viking maiden.
Again Karin Vestergaard had done something different with her make-up and it had totally changed her look. Softened it. Susanne and Vestergaard chatted warmly as they sat at the table by the window. The restaurant deliberately kept its lighting subdued to allow diners to watch the silent ballet of vast container ships and other vessels drift past the huge picture windows that looked out over the Elbe. It was odd for Fabel to hear Susanne talk in English — he had only heard her say a few words in the language during their whole relationship. He noticed that even though Susanne could speak it well, her Bavarian accent was even more noticeable in this second language.
Susanne and Karin Vestergaard had hit it off as soon as they’d met and Fabel had felt a vague confusion at the way Vestergaard’s personality seemed to have changed totally. Not for the first time he felt completely lost when faced with the complexity of the female mind. He had seen this kind of thing before: women interacting with each other in a completely different way than they did with him. He had seen it before, but had never understood it: sitting there, it was as if he had been allowed admission to an exclusive club, only to find out he had been handed a limited day pass.
‘So you’ve been stuck with Jan for most of the day,’ said Susanne. ‘You must need a drink.’ She beckoned the waiter over and they ordered a bottle of white wine.
‘He’s not so bad,’ said Vestergaard. She smiled at Fabel and he realised it was the first time she had done so. ‘Just takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Susanne arched an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. ‘How do you like Hamburg?’
‘I like it fine,’ Vestergaard said. ‘It’s odd, but it doesn’t feel that foreign. Like it’s a little bit Danish.’
‘You said yourself, earlier today,’ said Fabel, ‘when you were talking about Euroregions, that Hamburg had a Nordic element. Well, where we’re sitting right now is in Altona. Altona was a city in its own right until the nineteen-thirties when it became part of Hamburg under the Greater Hamburg Act. All of this was Danish soil for more than two hundred years. And Hamburg itself was jammed right up against the Danish border for most of its history.’
‘God, don’t get him started,’ Susanne said to Vestergaard. ‘Everything turns into a bloody history lesson. I know what you mean, Karin. I’m from the south. Bavaria. When I first came to Hamburg I felt it was very Scandinavian. Although they’re always banging on here about how English they all are. By the way, do you know what Jan’s nickname is?’
‘Oh, not that old chestnut,’ said Fabel. ‘Some people call me der Englishe Kommissar, because I’m half-British. Scottish, actually.’
Susanne laughed. ‘No, not that. I bet you don’t even know this one: Lord Gentleman.’
‘Who calls me that?’ Fabel looked accusingly at Susanne.
‘See?’ she said to Vestergaard. ‘Now he’s all offended. Do you know he buys all his stuff in the English shops in Hamburg? I used to think Harris Tweed was a romantic novelist until I met this one.’
Vestergaard laughed. ‘Actually, it’s funny,’ she said to Fabel, ‘when I first met you I thought you looked like a Dane. But so do a lot of people here
.’
‘Aha.’ Fabel pointed his fork in her direction. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I get my blond hair from the Scottish side of the family.’
‘I thought they were all red-haired with big bushy beards and drunk half the time.’
‘That’s only the women,’ said Fabel.
‘I’ll tell your mother you said that…’ Susanne smiled.
‘How did you two get together?’ asked Vestergaard. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. Was it through work?’
‘We worked together on a case about four years ago. He pursued me more relentlessly than he did the killer.’
‘As I remember, you didn’t try very hard to escape.’ Fabel grinned and took a sip of his wine.
‘Doesn’t work get in the way? I mean, having a personal and a professional relationship?’ asked Vestergaard.
‘We try not to let it,’ said Fabel. ‘We used to have this rule that we didn’t talk shop outside work. We still pretty much keep to that. But, of course, there are times when you can’t help it. The other thing is that Susanne is only involved in a small percentage of the cases I investigate. Ones like this killer we’ve got on the loose in St Pauli.’
‘I think that’s what went wrong with Jens and me.’ Vestergaard stared blankly at the table as she spoke.
‘You and Jespersen?’ Fabel put his wine glass down. ‘You were involved? Oh God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
She smiled weakly. ‘We split up about four years ago. Like I said, Jens found it difficult to accept that my career had overtaken his. Everyone knows that Denmark is a very liberal country. Along with Sweden and Finland we score the highest in the world for gender equality. But statistics don’t take the Danish character into account. Jens was a Jutlander and a very old-fashioned Dane. Sometimes I think it just stung too much that I was a woman promoted over him.’
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