The Serbian Dane by Leif Davidsen

Author:Leif Davidsen [Leif Davidsen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908129284
Publisher: Arcadia Books Limited
Published: 2011-05-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Vuk switched hotels to avoid arousing suspicion by paying for a longer stay in cash. He called from the one he was in and booked a room in a similar, modest-sized family hotel a couple of streets further up. There were scores of small hotels in the Vesterbro area. Again he was able to check in without showing any form of identification. After breakfast he walked over, as usual, to the post office in Købmagergade. He wore dark glasses and stepped out smartly in the crisp morning air. Summer was gradually giving way to autumn. He wondered what he would do if he happened to meet anyone he knew from the old days. Would he have to kill them? Or would he be able to talk his way out of trouble? He would have to play it by ear. The odds of him bumping into an old acquaintance were slight. He didn’t venture out more than was absolutely necessary, but he had to admit that he could feel his old love for Copenhagen blossoming again. He had the urge just to stroll, to soak up the city. It had its own easy tempo, as slow and easy as the traffic. It amused him that the Danes thought the traffic here was so bad and so chaotic. Compared to that of any other big city, it flowed smoothly and steadily. Cars were parked within the bays reserved for them and not simply abandoned any old where, up on pavements and in all sorts of odd corners as they were in other cities. There was possibly a bit more litter than he remembered. There were potholes in the roads and a strange air of immutability about this town, which never seemed to grow up the way. It was clean, though, and well cared for, and the old Nørrebro area was teeming with new cafés and restaurants. Other cities had changed very fast, but Copenhagen still had a provincial, small-town feel to it; it didn’t seem like a city at all. In the newspaper he read reports of murders and killings, but he also noted the statistics: in Copenhagen there were fourteen to fifteen murders a year. Where he came from, that many were killed in a village an hour. In another life he could happily have made his home in Copenhagen. The light falling over the city was clear and opalescent, reflected off the sea, and at night, when it rained, the raindrops glittered like crystal beads on the cobbles and tarmac. It was a strangely hushed town, where all sounds were muffled, especially at nightfall – as if the people and buildings were wrapped in cotton wool. The occasional voices one heard seemed to come from a long way off, and the engines of the few cars on the road purred gently and smoothly.

Vuk took a number at the post office in Købmagergade, waited his turn, then asked for poste restante. He spoke English and showed his British passport. He

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