by David Hewson
Meeting over, the PET chief marched straight over to them.
‘This incident in Afghanistan,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what happened for certain. It seems some fundamentalist group there has decided these soldiers were guilty, whatever the judge advocate’s report says.’
Lund took a deep breath and kept quiet.
‘The evidence is clear,’ König went on. ‘The websites. There were threats, fatwas, against the soldiers and the system that exonerated them. This is the focus for the inquiry from now on. Whoever deals with it.’
Hedeby listened, arms folded, not looking at anyone. Lund knew what was coming.
‘This hasn’t gone well,’ the deputy commissioner said. ‘I’m asking Brix to restructure his team from today.’
Strange leapt to his feet.
‘What?’
‘You can take a few days off . . .’ Hedeby began.
Lund didn’t listen. She’d been here before. So she looked at the gathering collection of forensic photos on the wall. Grüner’s incinerated skull, locked in a charred scream. Lisbeth Thomsen’s severed torso. Anne Dragsholm pleading for her life into a camera. And Myg Poulsen’s dog tag, filed to a sharp edge, covered in his blood.
‘We’re making progress,’ Strange objected.
‘You let your witness go!’ Hedeby shouted. ‘When the killer was in the area.’
‘She ran off! We could hardly put her in chains.’
Hedeby’s voice was turning shrill. She didn’t like it when someone argued with her.
‘You knew some religious fanatics were out to kill that squad, Strange. You fouled up. Don’t try and pretend otherwise . . .’
So many photos. Lund scanned them, wondered why they said so little. Once, when she was here full time, she could look at these things, use her imagination, see a narrative begin to emerge.
‘This is outrageous,’ Strange howled.
‘Will you all shut up?’ Lund yelled at them. ‘I’m trying to think.’
They went quiet at that. Then Hedeby said, ‘You can both go home.’
‘What if it’s someone else?’ Lund said, not moving an inch. ‘What if it’s not the fundamentalists who want to get rid of the squad?’
She got up, walked past the pictures of the dead.
‘This is all so . . . symmetrical. So logical. Do terrorists work like that? Do they have a list? Like a business plan?’
‘What are you saying?’ Brix asked, interested, even if König and Hedeby were sighing at one another.
‘Imagine we’re supposed to think this.’ Lund turned, peered at him. ‘It’s all manufactured to make us believe a myth. The flyers, the video, Faith Fellow, the Muslim League. That stooge Kodmani.’
‘What in God’s name is she talking about now, Brix?’ Hedeby moaned.
Lund looked at her.
‘Think about it for a minute, will you? Dragsholm wanted the case reopened. She asked Thomsen if she’d testify.’
Hands on hips, staring at the photographs. Running through the possibilities. Imagining.
‘Someone doesn’t want this looked at again.’
‘Like who?’ Hedeby cried. ‘They’re all dead! Apart from Raben, and Herstedvester’s a damned good alibi.’
‘The explosives were stolen from the barracks,’ Strange cut in. ‘The detonators were the same as the army use. Could a bunch of Muslim lunatics do that?’
König was staring at his feet.
‘We don’t even know if there was an incident in Helmand,’ Hedeby said. ‘Or whether Dragsholm was going to get it reopened.’
‘But we do,’ König said quietly. ‘There was talk of a fresh investigation. I only found out last night from the Ministry. This is a political issue now. I’d suggest we all tread carefully.’
Lund struggled to keep hold of her temper.
‘It’s about four murders!’
‘There’s nothing to link what happened in Helmand to the killings,’ König insisted.
Brix shook his head, amazed.
‘Really? It would explain a lot.’
‘The army doesn’t slaughter its own!’ the PET chief cried. ‘I’m telling you.’ A glance at Hedeby. ‘I’m telling all of you. We need to look at the Muslim League. Pick up Kodmani’s associates.’
‘We’ve got them all,’ Lund retorted. ‘It didn’t help Lisbeth Thomsen.’
‘The army doesn’t—’
‘We’re talking one man,’ she cut in. ‘Maybe one soldier, with a motive. He’s got a name. Thomsen told me. Perk—’
‘I don’t have time for this nonsense.’ König picked up his briefcase, glared at Brix. ‘I expect to be briefed when you’ve restructured your team. I want—’
‘You can hear it now,’ Brix said casually. ‘Lund and Strange continue to work on the case.’
Hedeby and the PET man stopped on the way to the door.
‘Excuse me?’ she asked.
‘I’m the head of homicide. I decide who works for me. These two officers know more about the case than anyone. It would be rash to remove them from it and ask a new team to start from scratch.’ He smiled, briefly, almost warmly. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Hedeby looked ready to argue for a moment. Then she said, ‘On your head be it.’ And they walked out.
Lund got her jacket.
‘Ryvangen,’ she said.
‘Don’t give them any reason to complain,’ Brix told her.
‘We need to find Perk.’
A couple of uniform men were bringing someone into the interview room opposite. It was Louise Raben.
‘What’s the wife doing here?’
‘She met up with her husband yesterday,’ Brix said. ‘Who’s Perk?’
‘How’s that possible? Aren’t PET supposed to be watching her?’
‘I don’t know. She’s admitted she told him about Thomsen’s place in Sweden. Perk—’
‘Perk’s a ghost,’ Strange cut in. ‘Raben invented him.’ He hesitated, looked at Lund. ‘He’s crazy, isn’t he? Maybe Raben’s Perk. Have you thought of that?’
‘I have actually,’ she conceded. ‘Get your coat.’
It took three hours in the dim moonlight to navigate the kayak across the narrow strait from Skogö to the mainland. Another hour to find his way to Priest’s car hidden in the forest near the ferry harbour. Daybreak saw Raben driving back towards the long slender arm of the Øresund bridge, eyes drooping from exhaustion as he watched the crucifix swinging from side to side from the driver’s mirror.
By ten he was in Vesterbro, in the aisle of Torpe’s empty church. The priest wore a blue work shirt, jeans and a foul temper.
‘You can’t stay. The police have been here twice. Louise called. They know you spoke to her. They’ve taken her in for questioning.’
There was a copy of the morning paper on the pew. A photo of Lisbeth Thomsen, younger, prettier, happier. A headline: Fourth Danish victim dies to the terror campaign.
‘I’m out of money. Can you lend me some?’
‘For what?’
‘Just a couple of thousand.’
Torpe nodded at the door.
‘Get out of here and rob a gas station or something. That’s what you do now, isn’t it?’
Torpe was muscular, strong. But he’d never been a real soldier.
Raben walked up to him and he looked scared.
‘This has got to stop, Jens. You’re the last one. Give yourself up. At least you’ll stay alive.’
‘Will I?’
‘Yes. Talk to the police . . .’
He was exhausted, bored with these arguments. Torpe was a priest. He was supposed to help.
‘Are you going to give me some money or not?’
‘Turn yourself in, man.’
Raben sighed, looked at him.
‘You don’t get it. Thomsen said the lawyer woman wanted to reopen the case.’
‘What case? What are you talking about? You’re sick. You don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.’
‘I lost three men in Helmand! Don’t tell me I dreamed that.’
Torpe said nothing.
‘She knew something, Priest. She’d found out . . . I don’t know.’ Raben jabbed a finger at his own forehead. ‘Whatever’s stuck in here.’
‘Give yourself up.’
‘Do that and they’re all dead for nothing. Me too probably. Don’t you get it?’ He picked up the newspaper, showed it to the stocky man in blue. ‘The lawyer didn’t talk to me about terrorists. Just what happened.’
Torpe looked nervous, shifty.
‘She came to you too. Didn’t she?’ Raben said.
‘I never met her. You’re crazy. You need help. I heard all those rumours. There was no officer. They checked—’
‘They covered it up.’
‘You’ve got a wife and son. Think of them.’
‘I just saw Lisbeth Thomsen blown to pieces. Don’t tell me to turn the other cheek. It’s too late for that. I want some money, dammit . . .’
The older man was walking for the door. Raben moved quickly, grabbed him by the waist. Torpe’s arms went up, a gesture of surrender.
There was a wallet in his back pocket. A thousand, barely more.
‘I need the PIN for your cash card.’
Torpe glowered at him.
‘Can you hear yourself? I don’t use a cash card. I’m a man of God. I live on the charity of the congregation.’
Raben walked over, grabbed the copper donation jug.
‘I’ll take it from your boss then,’ he said and seized the few notes and coins inside.
Thomas Buch sat in the back of his ministerial car listening to Plough read out an editorial from one of the morning papers. It was damning. Buch was castigated for his unpredictable behaviour at the press conference.
‘Erling Krabbe is telling people he’s washed his hands of you,’ Plough added. ‘A few of your parliamentary colleagues are saying the same.’
‘What’s Grue Eriksen saying in public?’
‘That he expects an explanation.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Buch murmured, watching the suburb of Valby roll past the window. He’d asked for a meeting with Karina at her home. Plough didn’t like this idea. She was now a file for the personnel department. No longer an aide to a minister.
‘I talked to the Ministry of Defence,’ Plough added. ‘They say there’s nothing to connect Monberg to the Helmand case.’
There was a tone to the civil servant’s voice that Buch was beginning to recognize. It indicated he had more to say.
‘Well?’
‘I’ve been wrong about Monberg before. He wasn’t always entirely frank with me, as you know. This business with Karina . . .’
‘I need to see her. Don’t start.’
‘Please don’t say anything that will complicate the process.’ They were stopping outside a modern block of apartments in a quiet street. ‘You’d best go in by yourself. It wouldn’t do for me to be . . .’
‘Involved?’ Buch asked.
‘We shouldn’t be discussing this.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Plough. All she did was go to bed with the boss.’
‘A Minister of the Crown!’
‘A Minister of the Crown,’ Buch repeated in a sarcastic sing-song voice. ‘What does it matter?’
‘How do you know there’s not more to it?’
‘You just don’t want to hear about Monberg’s sex life.’
Plough nodded vigorously.
‘On balance I’d rather not.’
The block seemed to stretch for ever. He looked up the number. Found the place, a ground-floor flat. Karina appeared, smiled, let Buch in then led him into a bright, sunny room. There was a double bass parked against the wall, a laptop on the table. Newspapers everywhere, a few toys, piles of folders and a half-eaten apple on the floor.
A nice place, Buch thought. It carried the feel and smell of family and he missed that.
She left him for a moment. He plucked a string on the bass and listened to the pleasant sound it made. Then looked at the papers on the table. A double-page spread, his miserable face taking up most of it. The headline: Paralysis in the Folketinget.
Karina came back with a child in her arms. A beautiful girl of three or so. She placed her daughter on the sofa and asked her to read a book.
‘The nanny’s helping move a few things,’ Karina said as a dark-haired young woman appeared carrying some boxes. ‘Lotte! Just a minute . . .’
They both disappeared to the back of the flat.
Buch stood in front of the little girl, bowed and said, very seriously, ‘My name is Thomas Buch. Good morning, Madam.’
She giggled, bowed too.
‘My name’s Merle Jørgensen.’
‘Merle. One of my favourite names.’
‘Mummy said you were funny.’
‘Merle!’ Karina cried as she marched back in.
‘No, no,’ Buch insisted. ‘I am funny. I like funny things. The world needs them.’
Lotte the nanny came and took Merle by the hand. It was time for kindergarten.
Her mother waited till they were gone then said, ‘If it’s about my resignation . . . I’ll do whatever the Ministry wants. I won’t cause trouble. Will I have to talk to the police?’
‘I didn’t know you had a daughter.’
She saw the newspapers on the table and closed the pages.
‘I never told them at the interview. I’m sorry. I have to go to the post office.’
She walked around the room, picking up bills and letters.
Buch went over to the bass and plucked the string again.
‘So her father’s a musician?’
‘No. That’s mine. Please don’t mess with it. Do you want a coffee?’
‘You don’t have to make coffee for me any more.’
‘I never had to in the first place. Merle’s father’s a lawyer. He decided he preferred earning lots of money in Dubai to being here with us.’
‘I don’t want you to resign, Karina,’ Buch said straight out. ‘There’s no good reason. I would like you back in the office, please.’
She seemed surprised.
‘I’m saying this for entirely selfish reasons,’ he added. ‘You’re good at your job. I’m not.’
‘Did you talk to Plough? I misled you. And him.’
‘Plough doesn’t think you’ve done anything wrong.’
He knew the look he got then. It said, ‘Oh please . . .’
‘Carsten could do with a roll in the hay too,’ Buch added.
She didn’t laugh.
‘I’m pleading, Karina. I need your help.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve got to find out how Monberg’s involved in all this. Do you have any idea why he wanted to hide his discussions with Anne Dragsholm?’
‘I would have told you!’
‘Why all this secrecy?’
She shook her head. Lifted up the bills and letters. Time to go.
‘Why did he try to kill himself?’
That stopped her.
‘What?’
‘I only found out last night. That was another secret he wanted to keep. It wasn’t a heart attack. He took an overdose. Maybe he had a bad conscience about something.’
She sat down, looked shocked.
‘I don’t know what to say. Monberg tried to kill himself? Why?’
He’d upset her now and Buch regretted that.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘Please change your mind . . .’
‘There are some things in the office. I’ll need to pick them up.’
‘Say hello when you do.’
His phone rang. It was Plough, sounding even more anxious than usual.
‘The Minister of Defence has called a meeting.’
‘What about?’
‘They didn’t say. This afternoon.’
‘Tell Rossing I don’t have time for mysteries,’ Buch said and ended the call.
‘There’s
only one soldier left now, isn’t there?’ Karina asked as he walked to the door.
‘Yes. And we’ve no idea where he is. Or . . .’ This last seemed most puzzling of all. ‘. . . why he’s running.’
‘You’ll find out, Thomas. Whatever other people think.’ Her eyes strayed to the paper. ‘You’ll get there.’
‘Call me when you come in,’ Buch repeated then went outside and waited for the car.
It was parked at the far end of the street. Carsten Plough, he guessed, had no intention of seeing his former colleague eye to eye. Not if he could help it.
The munitions depot in Ryvangen. Wooden crates with army stamps on the side. Racks of plastic boxes. Paperwork on noticeboards. Colonel Jarnvig and Said Bilal met them at the door, both dressed in green camouflage fatigues.
Bilal had his passport with him, and a list of vaccinations.
‘Are you looking forward to it?’ Lund asked trying her best at small talk. He was a surly young man maybe a year short of thirty, cheerless, forever on duty, she thought.
‘I’m a soldier. It’s what I do. I don’t go out for another month anyway. Admin work to do here.’
Lund thought of her own son, Mark. He’d been talking of joining the army one day. It would pay for his college education. He spoke of the decision as if being a soldier was just one more job, like that of an accountant, a lawyer, a doctor . . .
Torsten Jarnvig was every inch the army professional. She couldn’t imagine him as anything else. But Bilal seemed so young, so unformed and lacking in personality, he might have been anything.
The world had changed. War once seemed something extraordinary, antiquated. A relic of a past that would never return. A memory for your parents and grandparents, of Nazis in jackboots stomping around the streets of Copenhagen in front of mutinous crowds of Danes.
Now it was ubiquitous, never-ending, a stream of constant bloody pictures on twenty-four-hour TV. A kid coming out of school would flick through a careers brochure full of weaponry and planes and battleships without a second thought. Conflict was part of the everyday world in a way that would have been unthinkable two decades before. Bilal’s attitude was natural. It was her own discomfort that was out of sorts with the times.
‘Myg Poulsen worked here,’ Jarnvig said as they walked down a long corridor towards a cavernous room at the end. ‘He had a key. It’s possible he had access to some kind of master code. They were both used to get in.’