The Woman from Bratislava

by Leif Davidsen

  Bastrup’s search had paid off. She had noticed that, according to Irma’s bank statements, in the weeks prior to her arrest she had made regular trips across the Storebælt Bridge, paid for with her bank debit card. A clear pattern began to emerge. These trips usually followed a call from abroad – from a call box to Irma’s mobile. Not always, but often enough for it to be more than a coincidence. Between the brief call to her mobile and the debiting of the bridge toll from her account she received an email, sent via a public domain such as Hotmail or Yahoo mail from a computer in some library or Internet café. In each instance the sender address, set up for this express purpose, was used only once, thus ensuring that the sender could not be traced.

  Leaning over the long printouts spread out on Vuldom’s white conference table, Bastrup explained how these regular meetings had been arranged. She had chosen to circle four groups of numbers which closely predated Irma’s arrest.

  The first three read: 1302 /54, 2402/ 47 and 0303/ 65/15. The fourth circle was drawn around a double set of figures: 1203/30/13 and 1203/68/16. This was all that appeared in the emails. Sent via Hotmail, each time using a new, randomly selected sender name. In this universe people could invent both names and identities for themselves when chatting with others or sending messages. You could reinvent yourself again and again. Become the person you dreamed of being, or highlight those sides of yourself which were normally kept under wraps.

  What Charlotte detected in these random numerical sequences were coded messages – setting up meetings or telling Irma to pick up a document, a roll of microfilm or a package, possibly from E–. From what, in the trade, was known as a dead letter drop or dead letter box. The first part of the sequence, she explained, gave the date. In the first set of numbers she had circled this would, therefore, be February 13th. The second part denoted the closest motorway lay-by – in that first set the Kildebjerg lay-by on Fünen, off exit number 54. So: on February 13th, Irma could pick up a message from her controller or from E– at the Kildebjerg lay-by. They must have agreed in advance whether the drop would be made on the southbound or the northbound side since the coded message did not say. What had struck Bastrup was that each trip tied in with an e-mail. She had checked the other sets of numbers. She pointed to the fourth, longer, sequence and explained that the numbers thirteen and sixteen referred to times. This too she had concluded after comparing the emails and the record of the bridge-toll payments with the driving distance from Copenhagen or Roskilde. In each case the dates and times fitted. And each time Irma had received a brief call, or had made a call herself at the lay-by. Or close enough to it to confirm the pattern.

  So on March 12th it appeared that Irma had met someone at one p.m. at the closest lay-by to exit 30. Which would be the Karslunde Vest services, south of Copenhagen. There she had picked up the person in question and driven on. Almost an hour later she had used her debit card at Halsskov. The travelling time – driving at normal speed, observing the speed limit – corresponded with the closest lay-by to exit 68: Ulstrup services, south of Haderselv, not far from the German border. At any rate, Irma had made a call from there around five p.m., a seemingly routine call to the university. Which accorded with her having rung to say that she was unwell and would have to cancel her lecture for the following morning. On March 12th the war drums had started thundering and NATO had prepared to initiate its bombing raids. On March 12th the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland had become members of NATO. This move on NATO’s part was regarded in Moscow as an unnecessary and alarming measure which could only result in a crisis-hit Russia turning inwards and electing a hawkish, nationalistic president. The doom and gloom merchants had not minced their words. By then E– must have been well and truly active again. Things were, it appeared, coming to a head – or so Charlotte Bastrup reckoned.

  Vuldom eyed her approvingly:

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘But exactly how does all of this help us?’

  Toftlund could tell from Charlotte’s face that she had saved her trump card till last. That she had been looking forward to revealing it to him, to Bjergager, the silent secretary and Vuldom who, fair though she was, made no secret of the fact that if she had to choose between two equally good candidates for a job, one male, one female, she would choose the woman.

  With a smile on her thin red lips Charlotte said:

  ‘Everyone who pays by credit or debit card at the Storebælt toll plaza is photographed, and these pictures are kept on computer file for at least three months. We know the dates and times of Irma’s payments. I thought maybe the people down at the bridge might be able to dig up her picture. We might be able to see her passenger.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘The Storebælt guys say they’re happy to help the police, but that we’ll need a warrant. We’re talking confidential information here.’

  ‘So we’ll get one. I’ll fax it down to them. Now off you go. Go get a picture of little Irma with the big, bad wolf who’s hiding behind the initial E–. And thinks he can play games with us.’

  The massive pylons of the bridge loomed into view, then disappeared again as yet another shower of sleet burst from a low, black cloud, then gradually turned to lashing rain which stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘Spring in Denmark,’ Charlotte said. She had a light, but very pleasant voice.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘When this is over I’m heading south. I’ve got about a million hours of overtime owing to me.’

  ‘On your own?’

  She turned to look at him and he held that amazingly clear gaze for a second before concentrating on the road again. There was not much traffic. Mainly heavy trucks which he overtook without any trouble. Muddy water spraying the windscreen every time.

  ‘That depends on whether there’s anyone who fancies coming with me,’ she said.

  ‘A boyfriend, maybe?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘Or, not anyone I’d want to go on holiday with anyway.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You’re wearing a ring.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, and was saved by a sign informing them that they were approaching the toll plaza. Toftlund indicated to leave the motorway, drove up to the roundabout and past a petrol station, heading for the Storebælt Bridge administration building. They passed the defunct ferry terminal where yellow grass had forced cracks in the grey cement of the old marshalling lanes, although it was less than a year since the cars had last queued up here to board the ferries. It all looked so derelict and forsaken, as if no one knew quite what to do with it now. It might have been years since it had been in use. Dilapidated pipes ran down to the water and the snack bar was dark and deserted. It was a long time since its opening hours had accorded with reality. The wind whipped up the water in the empty ferry berth. The gulls hovered almost motionless on the wind as if waiting for a boat to leave, not knowing that the age of the ferries was long past.

  ‘God, many’s the time I’ve sat here waiting for the ferry,’ Toftlund said, nodding towards the abandoned marshalling lanes. To their right the cars were driving in under the toll plaza canopy which extended from the administration building to hang suspended, like a flying carpet of glass and steel, over the driving lanes. They could see the small cameras directed at each booth and even with the windows closed they could hear the squeal of the trucks’ brakes as they pulled up to them.

  ‘I do miss the ferries sometimes,’ Charlotte said. ‘They were kind of part of being Danish. Of being a kid, in fact. Going on summer holiday, racing up the stairs to grab a table in the cafeteria, have a hotdog. And a lemonade. Don’t you miss that?’

  ‘Not one bit,’ came the curt reply. ‘Load of romantic claptrap.’

  ‘Well, pardon me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. But that bridge is a blessing. It’s made life so much easier. It feels as if it’s always been there. No one ever regretted a bridge being built.’


  ‘Well, there was plenty of opposition to the idea of this one being built.’

  ‘The Danes are a conservative lot. They’re like children. They want everything to stay the same as it’s always been. We’re a nation of romantics, dreaming of a Denmark straight out of some corny old Morten Korch film – all country lasses and jolly vagabonds breaking into song. A Denmark which we imagine once existed, but which never did. Come up with a suggestion for any new venture in this country, from EU membership to a bridge, and right away someone will form an action group to protest against it. Because we don’t want change.’

  ‘How perceptive,’ she said wryly, but with a smile, as he parked the car. ‘I had no idea you were such a thoughtful man.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, pulling on the handbrake. There were only two other cars in the car park. The wind buffeted the trees and they could hear the sea as they stood there shivering in the bitter cold. The concrete and steel administration building stood square and solid in the grey light which played across its big windows.

  ‘What’s the name of the guy you’ve arranged to meet?’

  The wind made her short, black hair flutter around her neat rounded head and her cheeks were already pink. Her skin was very delicate, almost transparent despite the faint olive teint. Her nose was straight, but there was a little white scar over one nostril where she must have cut herself at some time. It was very attractive, the tiny flaw in that pure complexion.

  ‘Peter Svendsen. He’s the operations and security manager.’

  Svendsen, a tall thin man in an open-necked blue shirt, came down a spiral staircase to meet them in reception. He was around forty, with close-cropped hair and a friendly smile on his fine-featured face. He shook hands and asked to see their ID: ‘Purely as a matter of form,’ then he led them up the spiral staircase to his office. Upstairs the corridor walls were painted grey, the pale parquet flooring was new and scrupulously clean. Svendsen’s office was large and bright; there was a desk with a computer on it and a conference table strewn with papers. Pleasant, unremarkable Danish prints on the walls. A view of cars driving onto Zealand. Others on their way across the bridge.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Peter Svendsen said. ‘I’ve just received the warrant, so that’s okay. As I said, we’re more than happy to help the police, but I’m not sure how much we can do.’

  Svendsen had a military air about him. Toftlund recognised it from himself: the way former professional soldiers carried themselves, a certain self-assurance teamed with a clipped, precise way of speaking.

  ‘Just tell us what you keep on file here,’ Toftlund said.

  ‘Okay. And afterwards we’ll go up to the Ops room.’ He crossed his arms and explained, as if he had given this spiel a hundred times: ‘The system isn’t designed to record who crosses the bridge. The video cameras are there only to enable us to monitor the toll payments. We’re linked up online to the PBS direct debit system and can match up a credit or debit card transaction with a registration number, but not the driver. We hold onto the video footage for three to four months. With almost twenty thousand cars a day that’s an awful lot of photographs. So if you’ve come here with just a name or a registration number then I’m sorry to say there’s no way we could trace the car owner without some very time-consuming computer searches.’

  ‘Is every car photographed and filed?’ Toftlund asked.

  ‘Not if the driver pays cash. As I say: the system is designed to check credit and debit card payments, because we don’t operate with pin codes. So if someone pays in cash no photograph is taken.’ He paused for effect, his eye going to Charlotte who had her notebook out. ‘Unfortunately the crooks have caught on to this,’ he went on. ‘They pay cash, that way they know we have no record of them.’

  ‘So what’s the point then?’ Charlotte asked.

  He looked her straight in the eye and clasped his hands on the table:

  ‘If, for example, someone pays with a stolen card, we have the vehicle’s registration number and can pass that on to PBS or to you if you need it. Or it could be a matter of insufficient funds or whatever. Although there’s surprisingly little of that, considering the volume of traffic we handle.’ There was a note of pride in his voice: ‘When the ferries were running they carried between eight and nine thousand cars a day. On any normal day now an average of nineteen thousand vehicles pass through here,’ he said, as if every car was a victory for the bridge.

  Toftlund leaned forward:

  ‘If we have a date for a transaction, and a time, what can you do?’

  ‘With that I can locate a picture of the car. That’s for sure. But that’s not to say there will be a clear shot of the driver. These aren’t speed cameras. You have a warrant granting you access to the suspect’s bank accounts, I expect, and you have a warrant authorising me to let you see the photographs, so that takes care of the formalities. If that’s what you’re after I can help you.’

  Toftlund pointed to the computer on Svendsen’s desk.

  ‘Can you do it from here?’

  ‘Yes. But let’s go up to the Ops room first, to give you an idea of how the system works.’

  The operations room reminded Toftlund of the bridge of a modern cargo vessel. The large panorama windows offered an excellent overview of the toll plaza beneath the canopy which arched over the driving lanes in both directions. On a large monitor suspended from the ceiling Toftlund could see the traffic passing smoothly and steadily through the toll lanes and up onto the beautiful, curving sweep of the high section of the bridge. The monitor showed the traffic on both the low and high sections. There were four people on duty, three men and a woman. They nodded and smiled when Svendsen briefly introduced Toftlund and Bastrup, but otherwise kept their eyes on their computer screens. One screen showed different angled shots of the red and white barriers on Sprogø, there to prevent some motorist from driving off for a look around the little island which everyone drove over, but on which no one stopped. Another monitor showed the wind and weather conditions, the current wind strength and the surface temperature on the bridge. At the moment conditions were normal, Toftlund could see, but it was from here, in the Ops room that the speed limit would be lowered in the case of high winds, or the bridge be closed completely should a real storm blow up.

  Toftlund and Bastrup watched the stream of trucks and cars driving into the toll lanes, their drivers either paying cash or sticking a card into the narrow slit in the machine, pressing a button and driving on. They could follow the flow of traffic with the naked eye, but each transaction also flashed up onto another of the computer screens, along with a wide shot and a semi-wide of the vehicle and a close-up of the number plate. Thus tying together the card transaction and the car registration. Toftlund glanced up at the underside of the canopy. Three video cameras sat above each lane: one which apparently took a wide shot of the vehicle, one which zoomed in a little closer, and one focusing solely on the number plate. Toftlund also noticed that unfortunately only every now and again was it possible to make out the faces of drivers or passengers in the various vehicles before the three pictures, now stored on the server’s massive hard disk, disappeared and were replaced by a fresh set. He was duly impressed by the efficiency and the simplicity of the whole process. Nineteen thousand cars on such a capricious April day. And yet there had been a campaign in protest against this bridge! The Danes were crazy!

  ‘Impressive,’ he said.

  ‘It is, isn’t it,’ Svendsen agreed, proudly surveying his work. ‘Shall we go back down …?’

  Svendsen seated himself at his computer and logged in, using a password. The warrant lay next to the keyboard on his desk. ‘Okay, now I’m into the database,’ he said. ‘What have you got there?’

  Charlotte Bastrup referred to her notebook and read out the details she had copied from the PBS payment advice: ‘Date: March 12th, 1999, Time: 13.59. There are some terminal reference numbers. Do you need those?’

  ‘Not to start with, no,’ Svend
sen said. He keyed in the date and the time. A moment later a whole series of transaction reports flashed up onto the screen, row upon row of them. Thirteen vehicles had passed through the toll plaza and paid by card at 13.59 on March 12th, 1999.

  ‘Card number?’ Svendsen asked.

  Bastrup read it out:

  ‘Dankort no. 4573 3002, four times x, 8652. 220.00 kroner. Terminal 9006015–07699. Ref. No. 7799, no. 234801. Lane no. 15. Cat. 2.’

  ‘Okay, okay. That’s more than enough, thanks,’ Svendsen said. He typed again and a picture of a vehicle appeared on the screen. It was a digital still from a video camera and not particularly sharp, but what they were looking at was quite clearly a blue Toyota Corolla, not quite new, seen from above.

  ‘Irma’s car,’ Bastrup said, although the shot of the number plate had not yet come up on the screen.

  Svendsen pressed some more buttons. The wide shot gave way to a closer shot of the car taken from a sharper downward angle. By camera two. They were in luck. They recognised Irma’s face, but only because they knew it had to be her. Again the image was not very clear, nonetheless they thought they glimpsed someone else in the passenger seat.

  ‘The picture quality’s not great,’ Svendsen said. ‘We keep it low on purpose to save space on the hard disk. Do you want to see the last shot?’

  Toftlund felt his heart pounding. Svendsen pressd the keys. Up came a clear shot of the number plate, taken by camera three. But neither the passenger’s face nor Irma’s was visible. Irma’s hands could be seen on the steering wheel, and barely discernible was another hand which seemed to be resting on top of the dashboard. It was a slender hand with long, well-shaped nails. They could also see the back of a head covered in short, black curls – it looked as though this person was bending down. Possibly to pick up something that had fallen onto the floor of the car – a lighter or a cigarette maybe?