Read Online Death of a Nightingale by Lene Kaaberbøl - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lene Kaaberbøl
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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 aregetting 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
“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 aregetting 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
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