Death of a Nightingale

Søren positioned himself behind a snowplow on Isterødvej and stayed there. The driving had been bad even on the main highway to Elsinore, and after the exit, it had gotten much worse. It did no good to push it, especially not in a flimsy little car like the Hyundai.

“We run the risk of not being able to get back to the city tonight,” he said to Babko. Not so good when Torben had made it very clear that he wanted Søren back at his usual post on Monday morning.

“I think I’ve had about enough of your headquarters,” said the Ukrainian. “Fancy though it is.”

The message that the BMW with the shattered window had been spotted at the exit to Isterødvej had come in almost three-quarters of an hour ago and had set off a whole chorus of alarm bells in Søren’s head. It was simply way too close to two of the central locations of the case: the scene of Michael Vestergaard’s murder and Anna Olesen’s house, which was the address Rina had telephoned a few hours before she disappeared. He had practically dragged Babko with him out to the car and on the few stretches where conditions had allowed it, the little Hyundai had had its not particularly impressive acceleration pushed to the utmost.

Tundra Lane. He almost missed it even though he had been there the day before. Snow and more snow. The visibility was terrible. But it looked as if the tractor had been by relatively recently, and it wasn’t as impassable as he had feared. He stopped and got out of the car to look at the tire tracks, but the snow was blowing so strongly, he could only determine that one or more cars had driven this way not too long ago. Whether one of them was a BMW with a defective side window, he could not say.

They stopped at the barricade by Michael Vestergaard’s house.

“You go one way around; I’ll go the other?” he suggested to Babko. He wished he had taken the time to get the Ukrainian a radio. Søren had a “colleague in trouble” button, but Babko didn’t. The only channel of communication between them was their cell phones.

Babko nodded. Out of old habit, he patted himself where at the moment there was neither radio nor service weapon nor bulletproof vest, and grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. “I feel a little underdressed.”

Søren just nodded. They ducked under the tape, which in any case was being quietly buried in a snowbank. Søren turned on the flashlight he did have and then turned it off again. He had no idea what to expect if they came upon Savchuk. It would depend on the situation, and he would like to have the option of observing before he was observed.

The wind moaned around the corner of the house, but otherwise he couldn’t hear anything except his own footsteps. It didn’t look as if a car had come through here. Behind the bungalow he met Babko, who had just as little to report.

“Let’s go see the lady with the good oven,” suggested the Ukrainian.

When they were still about a hundred meters from the yellow farmhouse, Søren stopped the Hyundai in the middle of the road.

“Same procedure?” asked Babko.

“Yep.”

There was a light on in the yard, but the only car parked there was Anna Olesen’s red Mazda. Babko headed down along one stable wing; Søren turned his attention to the farmhouse. There was no dog barking, but there was a light on in the hallway. He went along the gable and into the garden to get a discreet look through the kitchen windows.

Just then his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, a single buzz. A signal from Babko.

The car is here, the text message said.

“LIEUTENANT BABKO, I see you’ve been busy.”

Søren stopped mid-step, on his way around the stable corner. He carefully set his foot down into the snow again. In front of him, a few steps away and with his back to Søren, stood a large, broad-shouldered man in a long, classic overcoat. Babko was facing Søren but carefully avoided looking in his direction.

“Colonel. You’ve been missed.”

“Really. By whom, Mr. Lieutenant? Who has such a burning interest in what I do?”

Søren had absolutely no intention of interrupting this fascinating conversation. He took a slow, silent step backward in the direction of the half wall around the old midden.

“The Danish police do,” said Babko. “It’s an unfortunate situation. If you have news of Natasha Doroshenko, you should report it to the Danes.”

“And why would you think I have such news?”

“Among other reasons … because you are here. So close to where her Danish fiancé was murdered.”

“The Danes won’t know I’m here—unless you tell them.”

Søren slid behind the half wall and began to crouch down to be less visible. In the middle of the move, his bum knee, the one that he’d had surgery on, cracked loudly.

Savchuk spun around. His hand disappeared into his coat, but at the moment the gun came out, Babko hammered the edge of one of his large, bony hands against the Colonel’s neck.

The blow didn’t hit with true precision, partly because of the thick, woolly overcoat, but mostly because Savchuk was moving. The gun was free of its holster, but by this point, Søren had left his half-covered position to come to Babko’s aid. He threw his flashlight as hard as he could in Savchuk’s direction just as the first shot rang out.

Savchuk fell over in the snow with Babko partly under him. There was yet another shot, a second before Søren kicked Savchuk under his jaw with all the strength he could muster. He grabbed the bigger man by the arm and rolled him on his stomach. Søren didn’t have handcuffs, but right now there wasn’t any resistance in the arm he was holding. Savchuk was unconscious.

“Are you okay?” Søren asked. His sense was that both shots had been fired in his direction without hitting him.

It took awhile for Babko to answer. “Not quite,” he said.

Søren whirled around. Babko sat in the snow with both hands pressed against one thigh. Blood was seeping through his fingers.

Søren let go of Savchuk. He pressed the ASSISTANCE NEEDED button on the radio with one hand. Where the hell was the gun? It must be lying somewhere in the snow.

“Where are you hit?”

“On the outside of the thigh.”

Better than the inside, where a huge artery supplied blood to the entire leg.

“We have an alarm from you,” came the dispassionate voice over the radio. “What is the emergency?”

Something hit Søren in the side with a whistling kick, and suddenly he didn’t have the air to answer. The radio slipped from his hand. He stretched his hands out in front of him without quite knowing why, maybe to support himself so he wouldn’t fall. He still ended up in the snow, with a growing worry about where his next breath was going to come from. The kick had completely knocked the air out of him.

By the stable wall stood the tiniest, most ancient woman he had ever seen. Her mouth shone red in a powdered beige face, and in front of her she held a pistol that looked grotesquely huge in her wrinkled hands. She took aim again.

It was only then that Søren realized that he hadn’t been kicked.

Fuck, he thought. I’ve been shot by a little old lady. And in another second, she’ll do it again.