Dark Unions

Part 4

Mortensen was about his age but much better looking, and just like Oana he didn't seem to be particularly modest about his own good looks. He had a thoroughly worked-out body, tattoos on the bulging muscles on his arms and a splendid, long beard that made him look like a Viking warrior. The only thing spoiling his martial appearance was the strange softness in his blue eyes. Checking his data, Hansen found that the Viking warrior was more like a Germanic one, as Mortensen, despite his Scandinavian-sounding name, was actually from Germany.

No matter how Hansen tried to preserve his cool, Mortensen's latest photograph filled him with envy. The Viking warrior was resting his handsome head on a pillow, smiling softly through his beard, his blanket pulled up to his wide chest to make sure the image was decent. Next to him was Oana's head resting on the same pillow, her face looking tired and happy at the same time, giving the camera an ear-to-ear smile full of joy and satisfaction.

LOVE. That was all that was written under the photograph. It had lots of likes and comments, mostly from Mortensen's German buddies. Oana hadn't bothered to comment on their picture except for adding a laughing emoticon.

Hansen sighed heavily and leant back in Rasmussen's chair. He saved the image with the comments, transferred it over to his own phone through Bluetooth and sent it to Mary Cameron.

"I've found her muscles," he wrote.

Mary's reply came a few moments later. "She's found herself a yoga trainer? What a cliché."

"She could have used him to get rid of Mr V."

Hansen knew that he was being too presumptuous too soon, and just nodded when he saw Mary's reply.

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions yet if I were you."

Mary Cameron was right. Thinking about the triangle of motive, means and opportunity, he couldn't be sure at this stage if he had found the means by which Oana could have killed Viggo Rasmussen. Even the motive was barely more than a hunch, an assumption. So far, he hadn't discovered any clue that might indicate a flirtation gone awry, a favour refused or blackmail. The trainee and her principal weren't exactly on friendly terms, that much was true, but considering the generation gap and the difference in their characters this was anything but a surprise.

At this stage, the only thing Mads Hansen had to do was stay focused on the facts. What seemed obvious could be masking less spectacular but more serious motives and details. He stretched his arms and shoulders and sighed, wishing he could check the victim's phone for any further clues.

Rome wasn't built in a day, Hansen thought. He stood up and moved towards the window. The rain was growing more intense in the darkness outside. The heavy raindrops splattered on the shades and rolled down the glass surface, slowly, as if they had lost their way.

Hansen was already waiting for the lift when he changed his mind. Instead of going down to the garage level where his scooter was waiting for him, he went up to the thirteenth floor. Maybe the settings would reveal a detail he had overlooked earlier, or remind him of some small thing, a word spoken during the questioning that he'd forgotten about.

The floor was cordoned off with the blue-white ribbons of the Brussels police. A stout policeman stood in front of Rasmussen's office. Two members of the crime-scene forensics squad were about to take off their white jumpsuits. Hansen could hear them talking about yesterday's football match.

The policeman guarding the victim's office made a gesture as if to push Hansen away with kinetic powers. He left the door and approached the investigator.

'Désolé, monsieur, mais vous n'êtes pas autorisé ...'

Hansen showed him his special badge. 'I'm an investigator with the Directorate of Security.'

The policeman wasn't impressed and tried to usher him away. Hansen protested but he knew that once Belgian police had taken over the scene, they would only let people in at their discretion.

Commissar Leclerc appeared out of Rasmussen's office. Hansen saw in his face that the detective was not about to help him.

'What do you want? Go home and let us professionals do our jobs.'

Hansen wasn't in a confrontational frame of mind, but he felt compelled to give it a try. 'I presume Monsieur Ruiz has informed you of the progress we've made.'

'Calling it progress would be an overstatement.'

'Now you're teasing me. You sound as if you've found a smoking gun. Go on. Enlighten me.'

'File an information request. You Commission people are good at producing papers, aren't you?'

Hansen gave up. 'You know what, inspector? You're right. After all, I shouldn't care. I won't be here to see the outcome of this investigation anyway.'

'Really?'

He replied as if Leclerc had asked his question out of real interest. 'That's right. My contract expires this Saturday.'

The inspector smiled. 'In that case you'd do better to let us handle this and stay put. Be careful not to step on a mine on your last week.'

'Yeah, right.' Hansen was about to leave when he suddenly turned back to Leclerc. 'How funny – that's exactly what I was told back in Kabul. After all, you know how it goes. This is just another kind of army.'

Hansen nodded to the inspector and stepped away.

'Kabul?' the inspector asked.

The investigator halted. 'Bagram.'

'When?'

'My third tour of duty ended in late 2008. Why?'

'We were stationed at Mazar-i-Sharif during that time.'

Hansen tried to remember quickly which Belgian units were stationed in the far-away country. 'Second Special Operations Battalion?'

Leclerc smiled as he shook his head. 'Third Para.' His smile turned wolfish as he added, 'Military police.'

'I was with the Jæger Corps.'

'You were with special forces then?'

'Yes.'

'An operator?'

Now it was Hansen's turn to give a slight shake of his head. 'I was a human intel specialist. Extraction of intelligence mostly.'

Leclerc looked him up and down. 'I heard you lost a lot of good people over there.'

'We did our best to make them lose more.'

'That's the other thing I heard. You Jaegers are real psychopaths. Exactly the sort of people to do the job.'

He offered his hand, and his handshake was as firm as Hansen had expected. The detective's remark made him smile. Regardless of their countries of origin, "psychopath" was a word of approval among soldiers serving in Afghanistan. They also had a word for the military police, but Hansen preferred not to mention it.

The detective raised the blue-white ribbon so that Hansen could duck underneath it. Together they walked down the corridor to the victim's office.

'Matter of fact, it's good that you showed up. Didier, give me that evidence bag with the rag we found, s'il te plaît!'