Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

‘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.’

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…’