He wrested his concentration back to the case, if it could be called that. Right now, there wasn’t much PET meat on it, he knew.
“I’ve called police headquarters,” he said. “They have a Ukrainian policeman sitting there who doesn’t speak English. From GUBOZ, apparently.” GUBOZ was the special division that dealt with organized crime in Ukraine. That was pretty much the only alibi Søren had for looking into the case. Fighting organized crime was, after all, a PET concern.
Torben considered him over the top of the water bottle with his cool steel-grey gaze. “That’s right. You used to be a language officer,” he said.
“Russian and Polish. Nineteen eighty-one and nineteen eighty-three.” Possibly the most intensive schooling Søren had ever been subjected to—a bombardment of words that approached brainwashing, constant tests, an eternal rhythm of classes, homework, physical training, sleep—classes, homework, physical training, sleep …
“Yes, today they’re learning Arabic and Afghani,” said Torben and screwed the lid onto the bottle again.
“Pashto. Or Farsi, depending.”
“Yes. Is your Russian still usable?”
“Pretty much.”
Torben nodded and dried his face, neck and shaved head with an often-washed greyish-white towel.
“Okay. Go ahead and give them a hand, since you’re so curious. And why is that, by the way?”
It was stupid to try to lie to Torben. As Søren’s boss, he took that kind of thing very badly, and besides, they considered each other old friends. That Søren had begun to doubt whether constant physical competition really could be called a friendship didn’t change the fact that they had known each other for over twenty-five years. “Natasha Dmytrenko’s daughter apparently lives in the Coal-House Camp. And Nina Borg, you know, the nurse from …”
“Yes, I remember her.”
“… Nina called because she was worried about the girl. And about the mother too.”
“What did she imagine you could do? Save mother and child from the cruel Danish police?”
Søren shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.”
Torben shook his head. “Aren’t you a little too old to be playing Don Quixote?”
“Don Quixote is old. Or at least middle-aged. That’s the point.”
Torben got up and returned the weights to the rack. “Thank you,” he said. “If there are other literary niceties I need to have explained, I’ll be sure to tell you. The point here, my friend, is that you are getting involved in something that most likely doesn’t concern either you or us.”
“I know. But the man is from GUBOZ, and that must mean—”
“That there is some suspicion of organized crime, yes, thanks, you don’t need to spell it out. Okay. Talk to the Ukrainian if you absolutely have to get involved. And if there’s something in it, it goes directly to our own OC boys. I want my group leader back on his counterterrorism perch by Monday at the latest. Understood?”
With PET’s usual fondness for English terms, OC was the accepted abbreviation for the Center for Organized Crime.
Søren mentally clicked his heels and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Torben gave him a look but otherwise ignored the sarcasm. “Want to grab a brew later?”
That was Torben’s way of dealing with the boss/friend issue. The beer invitations usually came when he had been most boss-like.
“Maybe. Or … There probably won’t be time.”
“Up to you. You can join us for dinner if you feel like it. Annelise is doing a roast.”
“Thank you. But … maybe another time.”
“Mmm. Okay.” Torben had already turned around and was making his way over to the pull-down machine. Søren suddenly realized that Torben hadn’t for one moment expected him to say yes.
“I need a word with you.”
It sounded more like an order than a request, Nina realized, but she didn’t care. The policeman was so young, he automatically started to obey. He was on his feet before it occurred to him that a nurse was not actually above him in the chain of command. But by then it was too late for him to sit down again without looking like an idiot. He was also young enough that not looking like an idiot was pretty high on his list of priorities.
“What about?” he asked.
“Let’s go outside,” she said.
Rina looked at them with the alertness of a wounded animal, and the policeman apparently realized—much, much too late in Nina’s opinion—that there were certain things you didn’t discuss while an eight-year-old was listening. He followed her into the hall. Rina’s eyes trailed them the whole way. She sat on her bed with the Moomintroll-patterned comforter pulled all the way up to her chest. Nina had found her a Donald Duck comic, which she dutifully had looked at, but judging by the random page turning, she wasn’t getting a lot out of the story.
“We’ll be right outside, sweetie,” said Nina, and she didn’t know if that sounded like a comfort or a threat to the child. Her anger swelled another notch, and she closed the door carefully before letting loose on the policeman.
“I understand that Rina’s stepfather is dead.” She didn’t like to give the bastard the legitimacy of having any kind of place in Rina’s life even now, but Rina had called him “Poppa Mike.” Whether Nina liked it or not, he was, in fact, a part of what Rina had lost after Natasha’s ill-considered attempt at homicide.
“May I ask where you received that information?” asked the young policeman, possibly in an attempt to regain his authority.
“From Rina, who got it from you.”
He actually blushed. The color rose along his neck and washed over his well-defined cheekbones. He couldn’t maintain eye contact.
“Fuck,” was all he said.
“Yes,” Nina said and felt her attitude soften. He didn’t try to explain it away or apologize, and that was something. “How could that happen?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We didn’t think she spoke Danish,” he said. “She didn’t answer when we asked and didn’t say anything at all to anyone. We were told that she was mute.”
“Mute?” Nina’s voice rose again.
“No, that probably wasn’t the word. ‘Speech issues’ is what I think they said.”
“That just means she has a hard time talking to strangers,” said Nina. “And that she often can’t speak in stressful situations. And no matter how little she says, she hasn’t lost her hearing.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“When was he killed? And how?”
He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case with … anyone.”
“A little late for that, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did it happen after Natasha escaped?” asked Nina. “Is she a suspect?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“And what about Rina’s father? Is it true that he was murdered too?”
But if there had been an opening, it had closed again. He was once more annoyingly police-like and looked as if the word “fuck” had never crossed his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t comment on that.”
“Well, then comment on this,” she said, irritated. “I don’t want you in Rina’s room. I don’t want any of you in there. She’s traumatized enough already, and as long as you are there, I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of talking with her about it or getting her to relax. We can easily make it an official medical order if that’s necessary and outline precisely why your presence has already had a powerfully negative effect.” The last part was pure coercion.