Death of a Nightingale by Lene Kaaberbøl Page A

Donetsk Oblast. It’s not the greatest place in the world to live when you are a young girl wanting a bit of fun in life. Since the coal mine began shutting down production, everything has ground to a halt. There are whole neighborhoods that are practically ghost towns. He was a journalist, lived in Kiev in a fancy apartment—her ticket to the city and a completely different lifestyle.”
    “Do you know whether there were, in fact, ‘other ladies’?”
    “He had the reputation at least for being a bit of a babolyub before he married. Maybe the leopard hadn’t changed his spots just because he signed a wedding license.”
    Søren considered the possibilities. There was apparently a certain amount of substance to the case against Nina’s young widow, and yet … certain peculiarities jumped out.
    “Am I correct in assuming that Colonel Savchuk is a man of a certain position?” he asked.
    For the first time in the course of the conversation, Babko sat totally still. The bouncing heel stopped bouncing; the fingers ceased drumming against the coffee mug.
    “That’s correct,” he said. “In SBU.”
    SBU was the Ukrainian secret police. Not exactly an organization with a spotless reputation.
    “Not GUBOZ, then.”
    “No.”
    “What is his interest in this case?” asked Søren. “Wouldn’t it normally be handled by someone at a lower level?”
    Babko looked at him for a few seconds with a poker face. “Correct again,” he said finally.
    His replies became more and more minimal, Søren observed, the closer you got to Savchuk.
    “Is he carrying his cell phone?”
    “Presumably.”
    Now we’re down to one word, thought Søren dryly. What would be next? Syllables?
    “Do you have a number?” He deliberately shifted from the formal to the informal address to reduce the distance between them. We are colleagues , he tried to say. Help me out here.
    Babko shook his head—a single abrupt gesture.
    Silence filled the office. You could hear the traffic outside in Hambrosgade accompanied by the hissing of radial tires through slush.
    “So you have no way of contacting him?”
    “No.”
    Not only was Babko a man playing away from home, but his only teammate was apparently more of an opponent than a fellow player. Søren could almost pity him, but only almost. Because one thing was clear: Babko was by no means telling Søren everything that he knew.
    The Ukrainian militia was no knitting circle. Every year Amnesty International registered countless instances of torture, misuse of power and corruption, and the country’s own ombudsman in this area had had to note that up to three-quarters of those arrested were subjected to some form of abuse. In many instances the interrogation methods appeared not to have changed significantly since Soviet times when quick confessions were necessary if you were to solve the required 80 percent of your cases. Whether you had the correct guilty party was less important. It was all about closing the case in a hurry.
    Was Babko one of the bully boys who routinely beat detainees with water-filled plastic bottles or kept them handcuffed for days? He didn’t look like the type, but then, not many torturers did.

UKRAINE, 1934
    “You’re to keep your mouth shut. Understand? What I do in my own house is none of your business or anyone else’s.”
    Grandfather pounded the table so hard that the warm tea in his mug sloshed over the rim and soaked into the rough grain of the wood. Oxana started, but she didn’t lower her eyes. On the contrary, she raised her chin in defiance, giving him a small, stubborn smile of the kind she normally offered Olga when she thought Olga had done something particularly childish.
    But Grandfather wasn’t a child. How did she dare? True, he was little and bent and moved with difficulty, but when he hit, he hit hard, fists to the face. He had gotten up, swaying and threatening, planting both his broad, lumpy hands on the table for support while he glared at