by David Hewson
‘You need me, Brix,’ she whispered in the passenger seat of the black unmarked squad car.
I can look, she thought. I can see.
There was an iron walkway on the first floor at the side of the building. Lund ran her eyes along the metal grating. A heavy padlock chain. Broken.
As she watched a figure in black, hooded against the foul night, walked out from the main body of the block, hands in pockets, head down, marched quickly towards a set of the stairs at the end.
Hunched, in a hurry, trying to shrink inside his black winter jacket.
Lund rolled down the window, shouted, ‘Hey!’
One word and then he began to run.
She was out of the vehicle without thinking.
A single exit through a covered car park. Lund broke into a run, went after him, yelling all the time.
Beyond the lee of the block the squall hit her, heavy and icy. He was heading for the gates to Christiania, crude paintings of joints, peace signs, hippie symbols.
Inside the free state. No cars any more. A warren of buildings, groups of people shuffling through the night.
There were only two people running here. He was the other one.
She pushed on, careered through lazy, grumbling crowds, through the dope fumes, past the makeshift cafes. Music on the air, stupid laughter.
Pusher Street. Crowded with curious tourists and local buyers meandering among the busy stands.
Dope stalls lined with trays of hash, suspicious eyes watching her as she careered up and down, torch out, high in her hand, the way only a cop did.
One more brief glimpse of the fleeing hooded figure. Then he was gone. Lund tried to follow, found herself lost in the alleys and dead ends of Christiania, had to take out her phone to work out where she was from the map.
Then made her way back towards the veterans’ club, found the normal streets with cars and people carrying shopping bags, not joints.
Was halfway there when someone leaped out from the side of the road, took her arm.
‘Jesus,’ she gasped, and then saw Strange’s worried, puzzled face.
‘You know that bit where I said stay where you are?’
‘There was a man running away from the building. I called and he couldn’t wait to get away. Something’s wrong.’
He leaned back against the grey brick wall behind him, rain streaming down his face.
‘Isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Search me. I barely got inside before you started yelling. Then I came after you. What else was I supposed to do?’
‘Find Myg Poulsen?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you really want to be a lone cop shouting out your existence to a bunch of dope dealers?’
‘I’m not a cop,’ Lund said. ‘You said so.’
She walked back towards the apartments and the veterans’ club.
Was inside before he caught up.
The door to Poulsen’s room was open. The place looked empty.
‘I’d got this far when you started squawking,’ Strange said, catching her up. ‘Maybe I should call control . . .’
‘And say what?’
She walked in. A chair was overturned. It looked as if there might have been a struggle.
Nothing more here. She came out, went down the corridor. The door ahead had a painted sign, ‘Veterans’ Club’.
Chairs. A table tennis table. A cheap computer. A kettle, some mugs and a gas hob.
‘They really know how to live,’ Strange said. ‘Maybe we can look at the books. See where Dragsholm’s money went.’
He had his torch out, was nosing round. Lund found the light switches, turned on every one.
A line of big, powerful fluorescents came to life. The place was a dump, dusty and bare.
At the end of the room opaque plastic sheeting blocked off a corner. For painting maybe. Or building work.
Lund walked closer. A red stain was smeared against the inside.
She didn’t wait for Strange who was still poking round the desk.
Strode over, threw back the plastic sheeting with her arm, looked.
A man upside down, feet held by a rope round an iron beam above.
Blood seeped from his slit throat, formed a dark sticky pool on the floor.
Lund got out her torch, looked more closely. Was aware Strange was closing in behind her now, muttering curses under his breath.
She still had the forensic gloves she’d used in Anne Dragsholm’s house. Lund took them out of her pocket, pulled them on, crouched down, went close to the corpse strung up in front of her, swinging slowly side to side like a sick pendulum.
Used a pen to stretch out the object hanging round the dead man’s neck.
Silver chain, blood sticky along its length. A piece of metal sawn in half.
A dog tag, the edge feathered with scarlet tissue, sharp and rough and used.
Standing next to Myg Poulsen’s body slowly dripping onto the hard cold floor, Strange called Brix.
Lund listened. The conversation seemed protracted.
‘What is it?’ she asked when he came off the phone.
‘He’s coming with a team.’
‘What else?’
He was looking at her. Puzzled. Interested too, she thought.
‘The terror alert’s gone from yellow to red. The government’s received some kind of threat. It’s to do with the Dragsholm woman. Says she’s the first.’ He paused, looked at the dead body strung up from a hook in front of them. ‘Just the first.’
Lund turned three hundred and sixty degrees on the balls of her feet, taking in the grubby, bare room. Not a lot else to find here, she thought. Not without forensic help. The man she’d pursued into Christiania must have fled by the back stairs, onto the walkway.
She should have caught up with him. Not that she had a gun. Or anything else.
‘You knew it wasn’t the husband all along, didn’t you?’ Strange said.
‘Didn’t you?’ she replied.
It was a mistake to think that crimes were inherently complex. They stemmed from the simplest of urges: fear, lust, envy, hatred, greed. It was the job of the police – her job when she was allowed it – to try to peel away the layers of deceit, the fabric of lies that hid this simple fact.
‘Statistically you look close to home,’ Strange said.
Lund thought of the dog tag on the statue by the books. The torn piece of metal round the neck of Myg Poulsen. Both were fakes. She was sure of it. No numbers, just a line of crosses from some kind of amateur machine.
‘First you have to look,’ she said.
Ten minutes later there was a noise at the door. Brix was there, and with him a sight she thought she’d never witness again: grim-faced officers ready to work as many hours as the chief needed. Men and women in white suits, white boot covers, mob caps.
A case under way.
Three
Monday 14th November
6.52 p.m. Brix took them outside, talked in the blue flashing lights of the police vans. A video had been streamed on an Islamist website earlier that evening after an email from a bogus address was sent to the Ministry of Justice. It showed a bloodied Anne Dragsholm being forced to read out a promise of more attacks against ‘infidels’ in Denmark.
There was a news blackout but details were already leaking out to the media. PET were taking charge of the domestic terrorism side of the case. The murder investigation would remain with homicide for the moment. The formal announcement of the move to the highest terror alert would be made any minute.
They went inside and Strange took over.
‘The dead man’s Allan Myg Poulsen. Thirty-six, unmarried. Professional soldier. He’s been based in the Ryvangen Barracks for ten years. Moved between there and the veterans’ club. Quit the army for a while two years ago but re-enlisted last month. Stayed here sometimes. In the barracks when he was on duty.’
Army recruitment posters on the wall. Photos of men on duty in distant, dust
y locations.
Poulsen’s well-used military boots were on a newspaper on the floor, next to them a brush, a can of polish. By their side was a scattered pile of leaflets in what looked like Arabic: images of a bloody sword wielded by a shrieking warrior.
‘We’ve got a search in hand for the man who ran off,’ Strange went on. ‘Lund didn’t really see him.’
‘It was dark,’ she said. ‘He could run. He went straight into Pusher Street. Young and fit.’ She looked at Strange. ‘About his height and build.’
‘Any witnesses?’ Brix asked.
‘A door at the back looks forced. Maybe the killer was waiting for him.’
Lund stared at the dirty boots and the polish. Brix was watching her.
‘I wouldn’t expect a soldier to start something without finishing it,’ she said. ‘I’d work on the idea Poulsen was sitting here when someone came through the door.’
‘No sign of a struggle,’ Strange added.
Lund walked back to the body. The two men followed her.
‘He was tortured,’ Strange said. ‘All those cuts . . .’
The wounds were much like those on Anne Dragsholm. Methodical slashes.
‘He must have known the building was derelict. Took his time here.’
‘The murder weapon . . . ?’ Brix began.
‘He was slashed with the dog tag to begin with,’ Lund said. There was a wider, deeper wound to his chest. ‘He used a knife at the end. We’ve got to get people searching the vicinity. Get into Christiania. He knew his way through there. Look at how he got in here. It’s not easy. Maybe he wasn’t on his own. Except . . .’
‘What?’ Strange asked.
She bent down and looked at the dark pool beneath Poulsen’s torn corpse.
‘I’d guess this is an hour or two old,’ Lund said.
‘We need to speak.’ Brix glanced at Strange. ‘Alone.’
A crowd was gathering by the gate. Locals, photographers, reporters waving voice recorders. The rain was steady and relentless.
‘I only saw one but there might have been others,’ Lund told Brix. ‘What did PET say?’
Hands in pockets, long face, he walked her to the edge of the building.
‘I guess they were taken by surprise,’ she added when he didn’t answer. ‘We need to start from scratch. I want those leaflets translated. If you can get me a copy of the video I’ll take a look at it straight away . . .’
Something was bothering her.
‘The soldier had been dead for a while. So why did he come back? He was looking for something. Let’s check the files, the computer . . .’
‘Lund,’ he said with a long, pained sigh. ‘You’re not on this case. I asked you to read the files. That’s all.’
She shook her head.
‘What do you mean? You sent Strange to Gedser to get me.’
‘To take a look. Give an opinion. Nothing more.’
She didn’t get angry often. But it had been a long day. No sleep. A visit from a stranger when she came off shift. Mark’s almost forgotten birthday. Her mother getting married.
But, more than anything, two bodies. Bloodied dog tags. A mystery begging for an explanation. Hers.
‘You knew it wasn’t the husband, Brix. Cut out the games, please.’
He didn’t like that.
‘Then why did he confess?’
‘To get that pig Svendsen off his back. He’s a lawyer. He knows you had no case. He’s probably getting ready to sue you right now . . .’
‘The case may have changed,’ Brix cried. ‘Your record hasn’t. Two years ago I had to fight to keep you out of court. You didn’t obey orders. You threatened a colleague with a weapon.’
‘Yes. Svendsen. I told you. He wouldn’t listen.’
‘They haven’t forgotten in the Politigården. They’re not likely to. Your negligence . . .’
‘I was fighting everyone. You included . . .’
‘Meyer won’t walk again. Or work. Do you think he blames me? Or you?’
That was too much. She prodded the chest of his expensive black winter coat.
‘I think he blames all of us. I know it.’
‘Have you asked him recently?’
He knew all the right questions. Meyer’s shooting weighed on her conscience every day. Of course she hadn’t.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘A reason I should trust you.’
Lund stuffed her hands in her pockets, wondered what she’d do if she went back to Gedser. How she could get a case like this out of her head.
‘I made mistakes. I wasn’t the only one.’
She looked up into his grey, unsmiling face.
‘If I could change things . . .’ There was no way to tell if she was getting anywhere with this man. ‘But I can’t.’
She looked at the flashing blue lights, the officers checking out the yard, the white suits going to and fro.
‘This is what I do best,’ she said, for him, and for herself. ‘This is the only thing I do and I’m good at it. That . . .’
She stabbed him again in the chest with a firm forefinger.
‘. . . is why you summoned me here. Not because you wanted me. Because you need me.’ Lund pulled out her phone, looked at the time. ‘I can still catch a train back to Gedser if you want . . .’
‘I’ll call them in the morning,’ he said quickly. ‘We’ll borrow you for a while. A couple of days to start with.’
She nodded.
‘Are we agreed?’ he asked.
‘Same rank as Strange,’ she said, and it wasn’t a question. ‘Whatever it’s called these days.’
‘Vicepolitikommissær.’
‘I want ID. I want that video. I want everything.’ She smiled at Brix. ‘And I want him to do as he’s told.’
‘Don’t screw up this time,’ Brix grumbled. ‘What am I letting myself in for?’
‘I’ll do my very best,’ Lund said, nothing more.
Thomas Buch called home, wondered what people were saying, thinking in distant Jutland. Told his wife to kiss the girls goodnight. Then sat down with Erik König, the head of PET, and Ruth Hedeby, the deputy commissioner of police, wondering if this day would ever end.
König was an ascetic-looking man, a little too intellectual to be a police officer. Mid-fifties, grey hair carefully tended, rimless spectacles, he came in first, sat down first, treated Hedeby, a quiet woman, as a subordinate from the outset. With some reason. PET handled internal security issues such as terrorism. The police answered to them, always.
‘The video was on a server in London,’ König said. ‘The site had a Danish address. We’ve closed it naturally.’
‘Did many people see it?’ Buch asked.
‘Quite a few.’ König took out some documents. ‘The link you received was sent to other ministries, to the media here and internationally. We have . . .’ König took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. ‘. . . a situation on our hands. I think it’s safe to say that.’
‘Quite,’ Buch agreed. ‘Any idea who sent the emails?’
He frowned as if the question were too obvious.
‘Of course not. Spoof addresses, sent through proxy servers. The website was a forum for fundamentalists. That’s our most promising lead. As I said it was registered in Denmark.’
Carsten Plough, taking minutes, lifted his head and asked, ‘By whom? When?’
‘Six months ago. We’re trying to trace the domain holder.’
Buch nodded.
‘And this Muslim League?’
König almost seemed to resent such questions.
‘New to us. It may be an existing group working under a different name. The number of individuals involved in these organizations is tiny. They work hard at making themselves seem bigger than they are.’
‘The woman?’ Plough asked.
‘She’s the victim from Mindelunden,’ Ruth Hedeby replied. ‘Anne Dragsholm. A lawyer.’
‘And now
there’s a second death?’ Buch asked.
‘It was discovered while the video was going online,’ Hedeby continued. ‘A soldier. Allan Myg Poulsen. Thirty-six.’
She handed Carsten Plough a file.
‘A soldier?’ the civil servant asked. ‘A lawyer? Where’s the connection?’
‘Poulsen served abroad, in Iraq and Afghanistan. The woman also worked there, briefly, as a military legal adviser.’
Plough passed the file across the table. Buch glanced at it, then at her.
‘You’re saying they’re symbolic targets because of their connections to the army?’
‘Precisely,’ König agreed, taking over again. ‘This is a clear act of retribution, planned in advance with some precision it appears . . .’
‘Yet it took us by surprise,’ Buch interrupted. ‘How am I to explain this to the Prime Minister? To the public?’
Ruth Hedeby leaned back in her chair and was silent. König was on his own.
‘It’s an unusual case,’ he insisted. ‘There was no indication of a terrorist connection in the murder at the memorial park. The police assumed it was the husband. He confessed, didn’t he?’
They looked at Ruth Hedeby.
‘He withdrew that earlier this evening,’ Hedeby said quietly. ‘Perhaps the questioning was a little . . . robust.’
‘Had we heard earlier there was a dog tag in Dragsholm’s house . . . ?’ König added.
‘Nobody’s trying to pin blame here,’ Carsten Plough said. ‘How do we solve this? Where do we go from here?’
König nodded in agreement.
‘The threat appears to be against the military so we’ll issue a warning to all barracks. Increase the level of security at airports, train stations. The usual places. I don’t want the media writing about the second victim. Let’s keep a lid on this for now.’
Buch was aghast.
‘Keep a lid on this? There are two people dead in Copenhagen. A terror plot’s been hatched under our noses without you even noticing. People are entitled to hear what’s going on. We’ll inform them, responsibly, accurately, with as much as they need to know.’
‘Minister, that’s not really how things are done,’ Plough said.
‘So I see. We’ve had a group of terrorists working inside this country for weeks, months . . . And now they’re here and we’ve no idea who they are or what they’re doing. König?’