Free Death of a Nightingale by Lene Kaaberbøl

letting loose on the policeman.
    “I understand that Rina’s stepfather is dead.” She didn’t like togive the bastard the legitimacy of having any kind of place in Rina’s life even now, but Rina had called him “Poppa Mike.” Whether Nina liked it or not, he was, in fact, a part of what Rina had lost after Natasha’s ill-considered attempt at homicide.
    “May I ask where you received that information?” asked the young policeman, possibly in an attempt to regain his authority.
    “From Rina, who got it from you.”
    He actually blushed. The color rose along his neck and washed over his well-defined cheekbones. He couldn’t maintain eye contact.
    “Fuck,” was all he said.
    “Yes,” Nina said and felt her attitude soften. He didn’t try to explain it away or apologize, and that was something. “How could that happen?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “We didn’t think she spoke Danish,” he said. “She didn’t answer when we asked and didn’t say anything at all to anyone. We were told that she was mute.”
    “Mute?” Nina’s voice rose again.
    “No, that probably wasn’t the word. ‘Speech issues’ is what I think they said.”
    “That just means she has a hard time talking to strangers,” said Nina. “And that she often can’t speak in stressful situations. And no matter how little she says, she hasn’t lost her hearing.”
    “No. I’m sorry.”
    “When was he killed? And how?”
    He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case with … anyone.”
    “A little late for that, isn’t it?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “Did it happen after Natasha escaped?” asked Nina. “Is she a suspect?”
    “I can’t comment on that.”
    “And what about Rina’s father? Is it true that he was murdered too?”
    But if there had been an opening, it had closed again. He was once more annoyingly police-like and looked as if the word “fuck” had never crossed his lips.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t comment on that.”
    “Well, then comment on this,” she said, irritated. “I don’t want you in Rina’s room. I don’t want any of you in there. She’s traumatized enough already, and as long as you are there, I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of talking with her about it or getting her to relax. We can easily make it an official medical order if that’s necessary and outline precisely why your presence has already had a powerfully negative effect.” The last part was pure coercion.
    He squirmed. “I have to consult,” he said.
    “Consult all you want,” she said. “As long as you do it out here and not in there.”
    She turned her back on him and went back into Rina’s room.
    The Donald Duck comic lay on the floor like a discarded prop. Rina sat with an old, broken cell phone, the only toy she had brought with her to the camp when she had arrived at the age of not-quite-six.
    The psychologist had found it interesting, Nina remembered. “Does she ever speak into it?” he’d asked.
    “She whispers,” Nina had said. “Mostly she just presses the buttons and listens. But sometimes she whispers as well.”
    “Is there any pattern to when she does it?”
    “I think it’s mostly when she’s feeling sad,” said Nina. “Perhaps it distracts her.”
    “I think it’s encouraging that she attempts to communicate her feelings,” the psychologist had said. “Even if it’s not with us. You should definitely let her keep it.”
    Now, more than two years later, Rina still had her phone andclearly needed it more than ever. Her bitten nails pressed the buttons with almost manic intent.
    Nina picked up the Donald Duck comic and placed it on the little dresser next to the bed. “Would you like another ice cream?” she asked.
    Rina looked up. She shook her head silently and finished dialing. She held the telephone up to her ear and listened.
    It occurred to Nina that that was precisely what she was doing—listening. She wasn’t pretending; this