The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(71)
They touched down in Denmark’s capital just after eleven, a traffic detail picking them up, transporting them to the city’s headquarters swiftly with the aid of blues and twos. With a plan to stay over for one night only, they had a full schedule ahead of them: a briefing with Danish detectives; visits to the embassy and crime scene; an interview with a key witness – the only witness as far as they could tell – and a meeting with P?l Friis.
With a reputation for excellent international cooperation through Interpol – and with Europol in the Hague – Danish police had been quick to respond to O’Neil’s request for information, first through their liaison officer in London and later with the Efterforskningsenheden, the Danish equivalent of British CID. The branch responsible for murder investigation, the Drabsafdelingen, had put her in touch with the senior investigating officer dealing with Ambassador Paul Dean’s murder, Politikommis?r Liisa ?lgaard.
It was agreed that they would meet at Copenhagen Police HQ located on Polititorvet, southwest of the city centre. It was unlike any headquarters either Northumbria detective had ever visited, a piece of architecture to behold: neoclassical, triangular in shape, four storeys high with a circular central courtyard close to Copenhagen’s Havn.
?lgaard was no Sarah Lund, the fictional detective who’d shot to fame in the internationally successful and incomparable Danish TV crime series, The Killing. In place of the Faroese jumper and jeans the screen character was known for, ?lgaard wore a no-nonsense pair of strides and a crisp pink shirt, sleeves rolled up ready for business. She was very approachable, if a little reserved – and tiny. Ryan had the feeling that their joint case was every bit as complex as the storylines and plot-twists Lund had to cope with.
‘Because of Dean’s diplomatic status, our Security and Intelligence Service were brought in as soon as the DVD arrived at the embassy.’ ?lgaard uploaded photographs onto a smart screen on the wall. ‘As you can see, the scene was an abandoned building, not that far from the Ambassador’s residence, but an unlikely spot for him to visit willingly. There must have been some coercion going on.’
‘I understand you reported it as a robbery,’ O’Neil said.
‘At the request of your government, yes. Our investigators knew it wasn’t a straightforward robbery case, though the ambassador’s wallet was not on the body. His secretary is adamant that he had it with him when he left. She saw him pick it up along with his telephone before he left the embassy that day. We found his phone but not the wallet. Either the offender took it or someone else picked it up.’
‘No attempt to use his credit cards since?’ Ryan asked.
‘None.’ ?lgaard paused. ‘They probably took the cash and dumped the rest. Our Security and Intelligence Service were recalled to the case when British Intelligence informed us of a possible link with a second death in the UK.’
The Brits exchanged a look.
‘You’re very well informed,’ O’Neil said.
‘They have reason to keep me sweet.’ Before Ryan could query that odd comment, ?lgaard picked up the baton. ‘I’ve been told that a senior member of your judiciary was the second victim. That he was due to try members of a terror cell operating across European borders and planning an attack on your country. This is of great concern to us. We must all be vigilant.’
‘Indeed we must,’ O’Neil said. ‘May we go to the embassy before we visit the crime scene?’
‘Of course, not that it will take you anywhere,’ ?lgaard said. ‘I have a car waiting.’
Ryan and O’Neil sat in the back, wondering what ?lgaard meant by the British government keeping her sweet. Sounded like an information exchange. She sat up front next to a female traffic officer whose driving style reminded Ryan of Grace. One speed. No dawdling. They left HQ heading south-east on Polititorvet until they reached a crossroads, then right into Bernstoffsgade, right again into Vester Farimagsgade, passing two large parks in quick succession.
It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the embassy.
The red stucco building was surrounded by iron railings and flanked by smart apartment blocks; a trio of flags – British, Danish and European – flapping in the breeze outside. The main gate opened as the traffic car approached. It was obvious that they were expected.
?lgaard was very efficient.
A keen sense of direction – confirmed by a quick Google search – confirmed Ryan’s belief that they had merely skirted the harbour and were now a lot closer to the open sea. He could smell it in the air as he got out of the car. It made him instantly homesick.
Dean’s replacement greeted the group in person as they entered the building. For a diplomat, she was relatively young, around Ryan’s age. She examined them with sharp, intelligent eyes, a half-smile all she could summon due to the solemnity of the occasion.
‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘I’m Ambassador Dean’s replacement, Ruth Calvert. I’m only sorry your visit here is under such tragic circumstances. Please, Nora will take your coats, then we can adjourn to the library.’
Formalities dispensed with, they moved through an adjoining door and all sat down. Ryan and O’Neil went through the motions, paying their respects to the Ambassador’s predecessor. Half an hour later, they left on foot, following the path he’d taken on that fateful day, their driver agreeing to go by road and meet them at the crime scene.