by David Hewson
‘We can’t wait any longer,’ Plough said. ‘Krabbe’s going frantic.’
‘Why can’t I speak to the Prime Minister?’
‘He’s on a plane,’ Karina said. ‘Coming back from Oslo.’
‘Dammit. This is going to be on the news before I can raise it with him. Isn’t it?’
Ear to her phone, she nodded.
‘The Swedish police are putting out a statement. If . . .’
The door opened. Krabbe stormed in.
‘What in God’s name is happening?’ he bellowed. ‘We’ve got every political hack in Copenhagen out there and you’re keeping them waiting.’
‘I’m sorry, Krabbe. Something’s come up.’
Krabbe stood over Buch, threw his long arms in the air and laughed.
‘Oh for God’s sake. What game are you playing now?’
‘I can’t tell you. But believe me, it’s important and unavoidable.’
‘So important you’ll put off our deal for it? I don’t believe Grue Eriksen would want that.’
Buch was growing tired of this pompous, small-minded man.
‘Neither of us wishes to make a hasty decision—’
‘Stop this now! I know you don’t like this compromise. I also know Grue Eriksen ordered you to accept it. Our country’s waiting for us to take action.’
Buch wanted to scream.
‘Oh please. We don’t need the histrionics. There’s no audience for you here but us and frankly we’re tired of it.’
The door opened. They could hear the low grumble of the hacks in the conference room beyond.
Krabbe’s voice turned to a whisper.
‘The Prime Minister gave you your orders. I want a damned good explanation for this nonsense. Either that or I walk straight out there and tell them this administration’s rife with incompetence and useless at making the decisions this country needs.’
A press officer put her head round the door and announced the reporters were demanding an explanation.
Vacillation. Thomas Buch loathed it.
‘Last chance,’ Krabbe said. ‘You should put on a tie for pity’s sake. I won’t say—’
‘Oh shut up,’ Buch spat at him then marched into the conference room, aware Krabbe was rushing to keep up behind, walked to the desk and the line of microphones.
‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ Buch said as a beaming Krabbe raced into the seat beside him. ‘It’s a busy day in the Ministry of Justice. The government is pleased to present the new anti-terror agreement which we have reached with the People’s Party.’
A sea of faces, a few them familiar. Thomas Buch never cuddled up to the press. It seemed tacky.
‘Terrorism has sadly become a fact of life,’ he said, improvising all the while. ‘It’s the duty of the government, any government, to ensure the security of the nation under all circumstances. As much . . .’
Plough was at the back of the room, listening intently.
‘As much as we can. These threats must not force us to compromise our democratic values. To forget who we truly are. A generous, open, liberal country, offering justice to all. We must protect these freedoms and fight the dark forces who wish to destroy them.’
‘Quite,’ Krabbe said too loudly by his side.
‘Since the recent killing of Danish soldiers on our native soil the need for such vigilance seems more urgent than ever before. Before we discuss the package itself Erling Krabbe will say a few words.’
Buch sat down, unable to think about anything but Sweden and Frode Monberg. Krabbe fiddled nervously with his tie. This was the most important single victory his party had won in years. He was bound to make the most of it and he did, grinning as he recounted how difficult the negotiations had been, the way the People’s Party had to stick out for ‘the right agreement’ in the face of opposition even – at this he glanced at Buch – from those in the heart of government.
‘Nevertheless I applaud the administration for finding the courage to take the bull by the horns,’ Krabbe declared. ‘For discovering its spine when the Opposition lost theirs. The People’s Party . . .’ His nasal voice took on a distinct whine. ‘. . . makes a point of guarding our freedoms. We will not be trampled by medieval fanatics . . .’
Buch watched the men and women in the audience, noted the disquiet on some of their faces.
‘. . . Nor stand idly by while plots are hatched by parasites from Muslim schools and organizations paid for by the Danish state . . .’
The reporters weren’t watching Krabbe at all. They were staring at Buch and he knew the question they wanted to ask because it was the same one running through his own head: why are you quietly listening to this nonsense? Is this what you feel too?
‘. . . We shall take the most severe measures against the groups involved,’ Krabbe said in a voice so strident it sounded as if he were at a party meeting of his own. His skinny fist thumped on the desk. ‘Those who seek to undermine our cherished Danish principles will find they have made implacable enemies. They shall not steal our identity from us. They shall not stamp on our traditional Christian values . . .’
Buch couldn’t look at them any more. So he gazed at the silver water jug on the desk and saw his own miserable, podgy walrus features staring back at him. The face of a farmer, not a politician. Back in Jutland, managing the estate, a man who said what he thought, not what he felt people wanted to hear. He liked that.
‘. . . And now . . .’ Krabbe had uttered a couple of sentences Buch hadn’t even heard, and he was glad of that. ‘The Minister of Justice will give a summary of the anti-terror package we have agreed.’
Buch couldn’t take his eyes off the reflection in the jug. He thought of his wife, his girls. Of Jutland where decisions seemed so simple, where good and bad, right and wrong, were as easy to spot as a sick cow or a field that needed fertilizer.
The silence continued. He could feel the heat of their stares.
A hand jogged his elbow and it took him a moment to realize it belonged to Erling Krabbe.
Jolted awake, Thomas Buch took one last look at his face in the shiny metal and knew what he had to do.
‘Well, this is no good,’ he said standing up.
His arm had nudged the jug. Falling it caught two full tumblers. Water, glass and metal tipped sideways as he got to his feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ Buch announced. ‘This has to come to an end.’
They were so shocked that for once no one asked a question.
‘That’s it.’ He clapped his flabby hands. ‘Meeting over. I can’t go into details.’
Krabbe was on his feet, mouth flapping, trying to speak. Buch did his best to look serious and formal. ‘You will have to excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I have urgent business to attend to. Good night.’
And with that he strode out of the room.
An hour later Gert Grue Eriksen was back in Slotsholmen marching into Buch’s office with his grey security men struggling to keep up.
Plough was in the middle of explaining the disciplinary procedure for Karina’s dismissal. Buch didn’t want to hear it.
‘I’ll leave you,’ the civil servant announced then closed the door behind him.
Grue Eriksen was still in his coat.
‘I haven’t been here since Monberg’s fiftieth birthday,’ he said, walking round the office. ‘These portraits of your predecessor should remind a Minister of the Crown of his responsibility.’
‘They do,’ Buch confessed. ‘I know this doesn’t look good. But if you’ll bear with me . . .’
The dapper man with the silver hair turned and stared. The genial uncle was gone for good.
‘Are you even faintly aware of the repercussions of your actions?’
‘I’m aware of the consequences of bad laws.’
‘This is a crisis of some magnitude now, one of your making.’
‘It would be wrong to put forward the anti-terror package in the belief it somehow relates to the murder cases. Monberg—’
‘Don’t try and blame Monberg. I can’t believe you’re still peddling this rubbish.’
Buch was determined to keep his temper. He went to the table, found some of Plough’s papers.
‘It’s not rubbish. I wish it were. We’ve got written proof. Here . . .’
He held out the documents. Grue Eriksen didn’t move to take them.
‘Very well,’ Buch said. ‘Let me tell you what we know. Monberg met with the first victim. She was a lawyer. She wanted Monberg to help her reopen a military case. An inquiry into an atrocity.’
‘What has this—?’
‘The soldiers who were murdered were all involved in that inquiry. They were witnesses. Their squad was accused of killing civilians in Afghanistan.’
Grue Eriksen seemed to soften a little. He came to the table and looked at the papers there.
‘The squad were cleared but their story about an atrocity was dismissed as a fantasy,’ Buch went on. ‘The lawyer wasn’t happy with that judgment. She gave Monberg the case file. Five days later she was murdered.’
‘How did you get hold of this material?’
Buch shook his head.
‘I don’t understand that either. Monberg had it posted to an address he knew didn’t exist. He did that knowing it would be returned here. It turned up just before the press conference.’
Grue Eriksen was sifting through the other documents.
‘I begged Krabbe to give me a little time but he wouldn’t wait. He wanted his moment of fame.’
‘He’s got that, hasn’t he?’
‘Monberg should have raised this case with the civil servants, with Plough, the moment he came to know of it. But he didn’t. I need to understand why.’
The Prime Minister sat down, put his head in his hands.
‘I know he’s too ill to talk to anyone,’ Buch went on. ‘But when he’s well we must ask him what this was all about. It raises so many questions. I can’t put legislation through the Folketinget without knowing more. Birgitte Agger will crucify us—’
‘Monberg didn’t have a heart attack,’ Grue Eriksen said wearily.
Buch took the seat opposite him, put a hand to his chin, waited.
‘He took an overdose. He’d been depressed for a while. His marriage was on the rocks. I think the strain of government—’
‘I should have been told.’
Grue Eriksen nodded.
‘You should. I’m sorry. His wife’s devastated. Monberg’s a good man at heart. We agreed to give the press a different story for the sake of both of them.’
Buch groaned.
‘Wonderful. That makes life even more interesting.’
‘You seem to be coping, Thomas.’
‘You seem surprised.’
Grue Eriksen nodded.
‘I am, to be honest. Most men would buckle under.’ He shuffled the papers again. ‘What on earth was Monberg up to? Why was he sticking his nose into an old military investigation?’
‘I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘You’re right. We need to know,’ the Prime Minister said earnestly. ‘You’ve got to find out. Look into it. Mum’s the word. This woman murdered. Two soldiers—’
‘Three.’
Grue Eriksen stopped reading the papers and gazed at him.
‘What was that?’
‘Three,’ Buch repeated. ‘Another member of the squad was killed in Sweden this evening. We’re still getting details. They were coming in when Krabbe demanded I play second fiddle at his damned press conference.’
Buch had no idea whether Grue Eriksen had heard the news already or was simply taking it in his stride.
‘I came here to haul you over the coals, Minister Buch. It seems I owe you an apology instead. You did the right thing. I’ll talk to Krabbe. He’s a little man, and all the smaller because he doesn’t know it.’
‘He really mustn’t rant like that in public. Not while I’m around.’
The Prime Minister got up from the table, slapped Buch on the shoulder.
‘I’ll fix Erling Krabbe.’ He pointed at the documents on the table. ‘You must get to the bottom of these.’
Lund stood amidst the stench of explosives and blood, trying to still her fury. The forestry truck was parked facing the sea, all lights blazing. More Swedish officers were arriving by helicopter from the mainland. Men in uniform, forensic teams. Figures in plain clothes who didn’t speak much at all. The whiff of terrorism always brought them running.
And Lisbeth Thomsen, an odd, evasive woman, was dead. The phlegmatic Swedish cops Lund had regarded as bumpkins were slowly picking pieces of her out of the water, a few with tears in their eyes.
Strange was on the phone to the Politigården again. Brix by the sound of it. Lund didn’t have the temper or the patience to deal with that.
‘How were we to know she’d run off?’
He was doing his best but it was a ridiculous question. Thomsen was a soldier too. She’d take every opportunity. Lund would have realized this if she’d stopped to think. But all she could see was Strange blundering into the woods, gun out, stumbling towards whatever lay out there.
Perk.
A ghost.
There were shadows like that everywhere. One of them had taken Jan Meyer and left an empty husk in his place. That guilty memory weighed heavily on Sarah Lund, always would. It had sent her scuttling into the dark forest after Ulrik Strange, a decent man, a father too.
She’d never thought about Lisbeth Thomsen for one moment. Now she couldn’t get the woman out of her head.
‘There’s no trace of Raben here,’ Strange barked into the phone. He was getting angry. That never worked with Brix. ‘Maybe he’s got another boat . . .’
The white suits were turning up. One of them berated the old island police chief for picking up something Lund didn’t want to look at and gently placing it on a plastic sheet by the jetty.
‘We’re looking,’ Strange went on. ‘So are the Swedish coastguard, the police, the navy.’
He came off the phone, walked back to her.
‘PET want a meeting first thing tomorrow. Brix says someone broke into the barracks in Ryvangen and stole five kilos of explosive. It looks like the type he used here.’
‘Perk,’ she said and it wasn’t a question. Lund had told Strange what Thomsen had said. It still sounded wrong.
He frowned.
‘Soldiers . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘Sometimes they go a bit crazy. They invent stuff here.’ He tapped his own cropped skull. ‘Heroes and villains. Crazy things.’ He sighed. ‘I served with a guy in Iraq who never went anywhere without going through his little rituals. When he ate breakfast the salt and pepper had to be in the right place. If you spilled something only he could wipe it up. There was a way he had to hold his rifle. Go to the latrines. If he didn’t do it right he was a mess and—’
‘Did it work?’ she asked.
‘I guess. He’s stuck behind the counter of a bank now. I used to hear stories like that. About shadow units. Faceless guys who could come and go as they pleased. They weren’t true. They were just part of the game. Thomsen knew that. She was leading you on.’
‘I could have stopped her. If—’
‘No!’ It was one of the few times she’d heard him raise his voice. ‘Enough of this. They’ve found a bag in the shed. Raben rigged something there—’
‘Raben was in jail when Anne Dragsholm died. And Myg Poulsen.’
Strange was getting mad with her. This was new too.
‘He was there when David Grüner was killed. He’s in this somehow.’
She turned and walked off into the trees.
‘Lund?’ he cried. ‘Sarah?’
Away from the water the smell receded though the familiar clatter of a murder scene – male voices, officers lugging gear and lights – never left her. She’d brought it to Sweden now, the little island of Skogö, a
place that never deserved it, a woman, Lisbeth Thomsen, who didn’t either.
Ulrik Strange could argue all he liked but it was their failure – her failure – that did this, nothing else.
Six
Friday 18th November
8.04 a.m. First thing the following morning Lund and Strange found themselves back in the Politigården watching Brix, Ruth Hedeby and an anxious Erik König in a meeting room across the corridor.
The TV news was still calling it terrorism. Four victims now, and the police and PET had no clue who was behind the Muslim League. Strange turned off the set.
‘What the hell are they going on about?’ He nodded at the three people talking earnestly just a few metres away. ‘Why aren’t we in there too?’
Lund had the latest reports on her desk. Hadn’t read them much. She was thinking of Gedser, the easy blank days. Trying to pick up illegals as they turned up on the trucks. Something told her she’d be back there before long.
‘Will you please speak to me?’
Strange had drawn up a chair. He didn’t tire much, she thought. Or perhaps he always looked this way: nervously active, always waiting for the next lead, the next place to go.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Anything! We can’t give up now. We’re on to something here.’ He looked at her very directly. ‘You’re on to something.’
‘No we’re not. All we do is find the bodies.’
This was so like the Birk Larsen case. Seemingly obvious one moment, baffling the next. She and Meyer struggled with that because, as he yelled at her from his wheelchair in the hospital, everyone lied to them. Politicians, school kids, teachers, even family and police looked after their own interests, not those of a murdered teenager. They failed back then, Meyer said, because they weren’t connected. To each other, to their families, to the need to deliver an explanation, however inadequate, to Nanna’s grieving, raging parents.
It didn’t feel so different now, not that Ulrik Strange could appreciate that.
‘We’re running round and round the same rooms,’ Lund whispered, ‘when the one we want’s locked up somewhere we can’t see.’
The door to the office opened. König walked in, followed by a scowling Hedeby and Brix.