Lene Kaaberbol - Death of a Nightingale

Natasha leaves this picture alone too. What does she need the past for? The present is bright and happy, at least most of the time—Natasha has discovered that it is entirely possible to be jealous of old ladies, even ones who decidedly do not want to sleep with her husband. Why do they have to chat so intimately in German all the time? Then she scolds herself as he would have, stupid Natasha, silly Natasha, takes the aspirin and joins the others again. They revert to English when they hear her on the steps, and Anna asks if she is feeling better now.

“ANNA!”

Jurij had opened the car door wide, ready to slam it again when Natasha suddenly said the name. Now he hesitated.

“I know where it is,” said Natasha. “The picture. I know who has it!”

Jurij let go of the door. She felt the relief flood her like soft, warm water. Could it really be that simple? Was that really all they wanted? A picture from Anna? Her wrist pounded, sore and painful, but she could still move her fingers and hands, and in a miraculous way she now had a new chance to save Katerina.

“Where?” asked Jurij, and Natasha felt the wire loosen around her aching wrist.

“It’s here,” she said. “In Denmark. I’ll show you where it is.”

“We sent a man over there,” explained Heide with somewhat exaggerated patience. “They are packing up out there so they can get home before the roads close, but Veng fought his way through the snowdrifts, and there was no one home. No sign of the girl, and Anna Olesen only showed up while he was actually knocking on the door. She had apparently been out searching for that dog again. He went through everything, including the stables, and the girl wasn’t there.”

“That’s the number Katerina phoned.”

“Yes, I understand that. But she isn’t there.”

“Okay. Thank you for trying.”

“We’d like to find her as well,” said Heide, refraining—pretty generously, Søren thought—from commenting on the fact that he—and the PET—was the one who had managed to lose the child in the first place. “Has her description been circulated?”

“Yes.” Søren stared out across Polititorvet without really seeing his surroundings. “Will you keep me posted if something happens at your end?”

Heide promised. He knew she had her hands full, not just with the investigation of the Vestergaard killing, but also with the coordination of the hunt for Rina’s mother. Natasha had been observed close to the Coal-House Camp earlier in the day when, according to the first brief report he had received, she had hit another car and fled from the scene of the accident. In spite of the apparently fairly definite identification, they were having trouble locating the fugitive. The weather was so bad that there was no point in using helicopters. On the smaller roads, especially north of Copenhagen, the snow had started to make its own roadblocks—and snow made no exception for patrol cars.

He had so far declined to put out an appeal in the media for information regarding Rina’s disappearance. There was no reason to let the bad guys know she was out there, vulnerable and alone, if they didn’t know already.

His stomach rumbled sourly. Too much coffee and not enough proper food. He hadn’t eaten anything except two dry breakfast rolls and a cheese sandwich from the cafeteria since Susse’s chicken stew the previous evening.

Susse. Ben. He had totally lost track: Herlev, the heart attack, even Susse’s tears on the phone. Damn it. He quickly dialed. She was still in the hospital, he could tell from the background noise, but she sounded less distraught.

“It’s better now,” she said. “He slept well last night, and we’re out of intensive care now. He says to say hello. And thanks for taking care of the dogs …”

“Anytime. You know that.”

Babko, who was by now starting to find his way around the police headquarters’s labyrinthine corridors like a native, came in and placed a cup of coffee in front of him, this time accompanied by a pastry.

“You look like you need this.”

“Thanks,” Søren said, though his stomach didn’t quite agree.

“And one of the Danes gave me this.”

It was a yellow Post-it note with a scrawled message from Don Carlo in the Radio service.

Call me. Car spotted.

Søren looked at his cell again and noted that Carlo had tried to reach him several times. Before he’d called Susse and Heide, there had been a number of conversations about mobilizing the search for Rina as well as a lengthy telephone report to Torben. He dialed.

“Hi, Carlo.”

“Sonny boy. You asked us to let you know if anyone saw a Beemer with Ukrainian plates.”

“Yes.”

“We haven’t. But a colleague who was on duty at a road accident on Englandsvej saw a black BMW 5 with Danish plates. He noticed it because one side window was smashed. He didn’t get the whole number, but the Register can’t find any BMWs with the partial he noted.”

“Stolen plates.”

“Yes. Almost certainly.”

“Put out an APB. And alert the airport just in case that’s where he’s going.” It was, after all, right around the corner from the Englandsvej sighting.

“Done, my friend.”

“Thanks.”

“No prob.”

There could, of course, be several reasons for a BMW to drive around with false plates, but it was the first possible trace of Savchuk they had had at all.

Søren quickly put Babko in the loop. “There wasn’t anything wrong with the window in the BMW when you saw it, was there?” he asked.

“No. But that could have happened later.”

Søren checked his other missed calls. Don Carlo wasn’t the only one who had called in vain. Mikael Nielsen was on the list too. Søren called him back.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Borg walked out.”

“What?”

“She and the Swede went out to search in the immediate vicinity. The Swede has just returned. He hasn’t found the girl, and now he can’t find the nurse either.”

What was the matter with this case and these people? Couldn’t Søren turn his back for one second without someone else disappearing?

“Hang on a sec.”

He put Nielsen on hold and called Nina’s cell. A second later it rang cheerfully in his inner pocket. Damn. He had taken it from her himself. For safety reasons …

“How long ago?” he asked Nielsen.

“They went out to search forty-five minutes ago. They went in opposite directions and had apparently arranged to meet again after thirty minutes. The nurse didn’t show up. The Swede is worried.”

So am I, thought Søren.

The wind was picking up. A corner of the red tarp on the stable roof flapped wildly, and the snow blew like smoke from the ridge of the thatch, so that for one distorted second, Nina’s eyes insisted on telling her that the roof was on fire.

The light was on in the main house and in the courtyard, but otherwise the sky was dark, the pitch black that was a winter night in the country.

She gave the driver her credit card and blindly signed the receipt he handed her. He hadn’t been eager to come all the way out here, had cursed the weather and the driving conditions and the long trip back to town. But she had said something, she didn’t even remember what, that had made him to shut up and drive pretty abruptly. Now he was so eager to get out of the yard again that his wheels started to spin by the gable, and he had to let the car roll back a length before he could clear the little rise that led to the road.

The light came on in the hall, and the front door opened.

“Can I help you?” A small, slender silhouette stood in the lit square of the doorway.

“Anna?” said Nina. “It’s Nina Borg. I don’t know if you remember me.”