The Valkyrie Song

8

He looked at his watch: four-fifty. Nothing irritated Fabel more than people being late.

He was the first to admit that he was too obsessive about punctuality. Ever since he had been a boy, the idea of being too late for something had tied knots in Fabel’s gut. It was one of those things, like his inability to get drunk, to push himself that one carefree drink too far, that characterised him. That made Jan Fabel who he was.

But this time, as he sat at his desk fuming, Fabel felt justified in his irritation: he had impressed on Jespersen that he was in the middle of launching a major murder inquiry. To be twenty minutes late was more than a lack of courtesy: it was unprofessional. Fabel picked up his phone and called the number he’d been given for Jespersen’s cellphone. It rang for a while and then switched to voicemail. Fabel left a message for Jespersen to call him as soon as possible.

Fabel’s desk phone rang almost instantly he hung up and he answered expecting it to be Jespersen. It wasn’t.

‘Hi, Chef,’ said Anna Wolff. ‘I’ve got something you’ve got to see.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m up in Butenfeld.’ Butenfeld was police shorthand for the morgue at the Institute for Judicial Medicine which was based on the Eppendorf street of that name. ‘You’re really going to want to see this.’

Fabel looked at his watch and thought about the Dane’s infuriating lack of punctuality. ‘Okay, I’ll come right up.’