The Valkyrie Song jf-5

by Craig Russell

  ‘Even if I were remotely interested in such an offer, I’m not in a position to agree to it. Our press department has got really good relationships with the local media. It wouldn’t have for long if we cut them out of breaking news.’

  ‘Your press people would get over it. And you’d have your killer.’ Achtenhagen tugged at the collar of her coat. ‘Listen, it’s freezing here. My apartment isn’t far. Why don’t I make you a coffee and we can talk about it in comfort?’

  ‘I’m going home, Frau Achtenhagen,’ said Fabel, his voice suddenly cold and hard.

  ‘Well, at least think about what I’ve said.’

  ‘Goodnight, Frau Achtenhagen.’

  Fabel got into his car. He watched Achtenhagen in his rear-view mirror until she had driven off. He sat for a moment, his mind going over his exchange with the television journalist, before he put the BMW in gear and headed towards Othmarschen.

  7

  Fabel parked outside the Psychiatric Centre of the University Clinic Hamburg-Eppendorf and, with a nod to the security man on the desk, headed up the stairs to the first floor. He knocked on the door displaying the nameplate: ‘Dr Eckhardt: Forensic Psychology’.

  ‘Hello, stranger…’ The woman behind the desk was in her late thirties with dense, dark hair gathered up in a French plait. She spoke in a soft Bavarian accent. Fabel smiled.

  ‘Hi… I hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night.’

  ‘You know me,’ said Susanne. ‘When I’m out, I’m out. When did you get in?’

  ‘About four. I had a lie-in this morning, though.’ He yawned loudly.

  ‘It didn’t do you much good. You won’t be working late tonight, will you?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Fabel. ‘Anyway, I can’t stop. You were on my way. I called in to give you this…’ He dropped a heavy buff file on Susanne’s desk. ‘I couldn’t email it all.’

  ‘This to do with the Angel case?’

  ‘The Angel Copycat case, if my instincts are right. Could you have a look through it? I’ll raise the appropriate paperwork to cover your time.’

  Fabel made for the door, but checked himself, frowning. ‘Do you want to know something strange? About last night, I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sylvie Achtenhagen — you know, the TV presenter and reporter, the one on HanSat — well, she was following me. I had a silver-and-blue pull her over. She started to offer me help on this case. Nonsense, I know, but the strange thing is…’ He stopped mid-sentence, laughed and shook his head. ‘No, I must have been too tired.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘Well, she was really trying to persuade me to help her get the scoop on the Angel case. I could have sworn she was offering to have sex with me…’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No — she said I should come to her place so we could discuss it in comfort.’

  ‘She must be really desperate for a story.’ Susanne arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Thanks for that. But yes, I rather think she is. God knows she did more harm than good with the original Angel case. It’s almost as if she has to find out who the killer is.’

  Susanne leaned back in her chair, rattling a pencil between perfect porcelain-white teeth. ‘As I remember, Sylvie Achtenhagen is a rather attractive woman.’

  ‘Her charms are completely wasted on me, then,’ said Fabel. ‘Can’t stand the woman.’

  ‘On your way where?’ asked Susanne.

  ‘What?’ Fabel frowned.

  ‘You said I was on your way.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got to pick up this Danish cop from the airport.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shit, I’d better go. Have a look at that when you get a chance and I’ll talk to you later.’

  8

  Standing in the arrivals hall of Hamburg-Fuhlsbuttel airport and holding up a clipboard with the name ‘VESTERGAARD’ on it in large block capitals written with a felt-tip marker, Fabel felt faintly ridiculous. He stood alongside others doing exactly the same thing, some with names, others with company logos; all the others, however, were professional drivers sent to pick up business travellers flying into Hamburg.

  Fabel could simply have sent a patrol car with a uniformed officer to pick up the Danish cop, but he had thought it more diplomatic to collect him himself. There seemed to be a protocol, an etiquette to these things that Fabel always seemed to get wrong. He had decided it was best for him to make a personal appearance: it appeared that Vestergaard was a high-ranking officer and, after all, one of his men had died while in Hamburg. But, standing there with his clipboard, Fabel felt less like a diplomat, more like a chauffeur and a lot like an idiot.

  The arrivals board announced the landing of the Copenhagen flight and after a few minutes a wave of business suits swelled through the arrivals gate. Fabel played the game of scanning the emerging figures, making a bet with himself that he would be able pick out Vestergaard before he made himself known to Fabel. He was momentarily distracted by a very attractive blonde woman wearing an expensive suit and a deep blue coat. She caught his eye for a moment and he looked away, partly in embarrassment at having been caught watching her and partly in annoyance that he had been distracted from his challenge.

  Then he saw him: a tall, light-blond man of about fifty whose business suit did nothing to disguise the bulk of his shoulders or take the edge off his tough look. He had cop written all over him and Fabel imagined that Jespersen, in life, had looked a little like that. The man nodded in Fabel’s direction and headed his way. Fabel smiled and was about to offer his hand when the man walked straight past him and handed his bags to the chauffeur who had been standing next to Fabel, holding up a board with the IBM logo on it. To add insult to the injury Fabel’s deductive powers had suffered, the ‘Dane’ proceeded to give instructions to the driver in a broad Bavarian accent.

  ‘I guess I wasn’t what you were expecting…’ a female voice said in English. Fabel turned in the direction of the voice. The attractive young woman he had noticed earlier was now standing directly in front of him. She arched an eyebrow.

  ‘ Politidirektor Vestergaard?’ he asked feebly.

  ‘Yes, I’m Karin Vestergaard. I’m sorry — I know it’s so confusing.’ She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘I got promoted because I’m so damned good at making coffee and they sent me here because all the men were too busy solving really complicated cases.’

  Fabel gave a half-laugh at the joke, then let his smile die when he saw the cold glint in Vestergaard’s ice-blue eyes. Not a good start. ‘My car is parked outside,’ he said weakly.

  It wasn’t a cosy journey. After Fabel asked Karin Vestergaard how her flight had been, and what the weather was like in Copenhagen, he struggled to make small-talk as they walked to his parked BMW. Politidirektor Vestergaard was obviously not the small-talk type. They drove in silence down the Alsterkrugchausee towards the city centre.

  ‘We have an election coming up in a few months,’ he said eventually, with artificial cheer. ‘For Principal Mayor. Effectively that’s Prime Minister for the State of Hamburg. Anyway, one of the candidates is actually a Dane. Well, she’s a German-Dane — you know, from the Danish-speaking minority in Schleswig-Holstein.’

  Karin Vestergaard turned to Fabel and gave him a weak smile of uninterested indulgence. There was something about her face that troubled him, but he couldn’t work out what it was. They passed the sign informing them that they were entering the city quarter of Eppendorf.

  ‘Isn’t this where your Institute for Judicial Medicine is based?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fabel. ‘Indeed it is. You know Hamburg?’

  ‘No. I checked before I came down. Is that where Jens is?’

  ‘That’s where the morgue is, yes.’

  ‘I’d like to see Jens. Now.’

  ‘You want to go now? I thought I’d take you to your hotel first before going into the Presidium. I know that-’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Karin Vestergaard interrupte
d him, her voice cold and hard. ‘I don’t see the problem if we’re passing through Eppendorf. I want to see Jens’s body. Can we go or not?’

  Fabel shrugged and turned off into Geschwister-Scholl-Strasse.

  The University Clinic Hamburg-Eppendorf was a huge complex of buildings, almost like a small town in itself, sitting between Geschwister-Scholl-Strasse to the north and Martinistrasse to the south. The University Clinic even had its own park to the south of Martinistrasse and, as Fabel passed along its northern boundary towards Butenfeld, huge cranes towered above the complex.

  ‘The hospital here is a teaching one,’ explained Fabel. ‘They’re building a new campus. It’s all going to be very high-tech.’

  If Vestergaard was impressed, she hid it well; instead she stared grimly ahead, as if her mind was already ahead of them and in the morgue with her dead colleague. Fabel found a parking space outside the Institute for Judicial Medicine and led Vestergaard in through the glass double doors to the waiting area. It took Fabel a couple of minutes to arrange a viewing of Jespersen’s body, during which time Vestergaard sat impassively in the reception area.

  ‘We can go in now,’ he explained and she followed him into the morgue.

  Fabel didn’t know what to expect in the mortuary. Despite having shared the journey from the airport with her, the Danish policewoman remained a complete stranger to him. He didn’t know anything about her professional relationship with Jespersen, or what kind of personal relationship they might have had. Fabel watched her face when the sheet was pulled back from Jespersen’s body. Again he found himself distracted by her appearance. There really was something about the way she looked that perplexed him… Then he realised what it was: her features were perfect. Her face possessed an absolute symmetry and every feature was in classic proportion. The effect was strange: it gave her beauty; true archetypal beauty. But it was also a forgettable beauty.

  Fabel watched the bland beauty of Karin Vestergaard’s face as her subordinate’s dead body was revealed to her. There was a flicker of something in the expression and then it was gone in the same instant. But Fabel had recognised it: anger. She was angry with Jespersen for having died.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Fabel. ‘Had you worked together long?’

  ‘When is the autopsy scheduled?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Fabel. ‘Two p.m.’

  Vestergaard leaned forward and examined Jespersen’s face more closely. Then she pulled the sheet completely clear of his body.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Fabel, no longer hiding his irritation with her uncommunicativeness.

  ‘Who’ll be doing the autopsy?’

  ‘Herr Doctor Moller. He’s our Chief Pathologist. He’s really-’

  ‘Tell him to look for puncture wounds. Needle marks. Particularly in hidden areas: under hair, skin folds, around the anus…’

  ‘Look, said Fabel. ‘I think this has gone on long-’

  ‘Do you believe this is a natural death?’ Vestergaard turned to him. More cold fire in her eyes.

  Fabel sighed. ‘It looks very much like a heart attack.’

  ‘Do you believe this was a natural death?’ she repeated.

  ‘No. Or at least I have my doubts. It was Anna Wolff, one of my officers, who brought me into this. She thinks there’s something fishy going on too.’

  Vestergaard straightened up but continued to gaze at the face of her dead colleague. After a moment she turned to Fabel again. ‘We need to talk…’

  Fabel took Vestergaard to her hotel on the Alter Wall. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that she had booked into the same hotel where Jespersen had died. It didn’t surprise him but he thought it ill-advised. He arranged for coffee to be served in a quiet seating area off the bar while Vestergaard took her bags to her room.

  ‘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 ha
d 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?’