The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  Strange placed something on the table.

  ‘We found this in the office in your church. Anne Dragsholm’s business card. What was it doing there?’

  ‘Raben must have dropped it.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  The priest twisted on the chair then said, ‘Raben asked me that too. I never met her. I never saw that card before. Can I go now? I’ve got a committee meeting.’

  Brix took a deep breath, stared at the lean officer seated in front of Torpe. Waited.

  ‘OK,’ Strange said. ‘We’ll probably need to get back to you later.’

  ‘PET have located Raben,’ Brix said when Torpe had left. ‘They’ve got him under surveillance.’

  Strange scratched his cropped hair.

  ‘Surveillance? We need him brought in.’

  ‘We do as we’re told.’ Brix passed him the names and photos König had given Ruth Hedeby. ‘I want every last one of them checked out. Bring in any that are marked. Some are outside the city. You’ve got some driving ahead of you.’

  ‘Lund thought we need to check out the chaplain. So do you—’

  ‘Lund’s not here any more.’ Brix tapped the papers.

  Strange frowned.

  ‘So what are we supposed to say if someone calls up and wants to speak to her?’

  ‘Tell them the truth. She’s gone to a wedding,’ Brix said.

  Men and vehicles. Loading orders and schedules. Torsten Jarnvig felt he’d been watching these rituals all his adult life. Dispatching men to uncertain fates in Bosnia, the Middle East and now the bleak and distant provinces of Afghanistan.

  Most came back.

  Most unharmed.

  Not all.

  Christian Søgaard had been round to see Møller’s mother. An initiative of his own. Jarnvig hadn’t asked for it.

  ‘She’s livid,’ he said. ‘Who wouldn’t be? She says she’s going to sue the police for trespass. For pain and suffering.’

  The two men were walking from the main headquarters building towards the car park. A security barrier rose as they approached. Men in combat fatigues saluted.

  ‘I spoke to Gunnar Torpe,’ Søgaard added. ‘He’s very upset.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘The police were on your back. I didn’t think you needed to be bothered. It was welfare. I usually look after that on my own.’

  Jarnvig raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Welfare? This is welfare?’

  ‘What’s Raben going to do next?’ Søgaard asked, avoiding the question. ‘He seems desperate. I’ve told everyone to keep their eyes and ears open when they leave the barracks.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘That means everyone,’ Søgaard repeated. ‘How much does Louise know?’

  ‘Enough,’ Jarnvig answered, watching a line of trucks roll past. ‘Until this happened I thought he was one of the best soldiers I ever had. Brave. Intelligent. Resourceful.’

  Torsten Jarnvig thrust his fists deep into the pockets of his fatigues.

  ‘Didn’t like him much. But when everybody else gave up Raben just kept going.’

  ‘A pity he couldn’t take the pressure,’ Søgaard said. ‘I always thought there was something brittle about him. Ready to snap.’

  Jarnvig stopped and looked at him.

  ‘How very observant, after the fact. Did we get to the bottom of that story of his?’

  ‘Damned right we did,’ Søgaard replied straight away.

  ‘You were certain?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. It was bullshit. He was covering up for his own mistakes. Why?’

  Jarnvig didn’t answer.

  ‘It’s not easy when these things turn personal,’ the younger officer added. ‘The past few days have been tough. I could relieve you. Maybe you and Louise and Jonas could—’

  ‘Could what? Go on holiday? That won’t be necessary.’ Jarnvig cast his eyes around the red-brick buildings of the barracks. ‘This place is good enough for me. Louise grew up with the army. It’s good enough for her too.’

  ‘What I meant was—’

  ‘No,’ Jarnvig said and left it at that.

  The artificial beach of Amager Strandpark in November. Stained concrete shiny with winter rain. A few children wrapped in thick anoraks, struggling against the wind, their faces hidden inside tightly drawn hoods.

  Louise Raben watched her son zigzagging on his little scooter across the dun slabs by the grey sea, beneath the grey sky, no smile on his face, no expression there at all.

  Slowly he scooted back to her. They stared at the empty beach.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

  He didn’t eat enough. He didn’t do anything much except play with his toy soldiers, slaughtering fantasy enemies in his head.

  Jonas took a sandwich then she watched as he pushed the little scooter towards a group of kids who had ignored him before and doubtless would now.

  Children had their own rules, their own sensibilities. They suspected anyone who stood out. And Jonas, in his loneliness and misery, always did.

  While he was wheeling down the sea wall she walked slowly in his wake. A figure emerged from a metal shelter, gestured.

  Green jacket, pale-grey hood. Beard and watchful eyes.

  Her heart fell. She wanted to flee and would have if she didn’t know he could always outrun her.

  ‘We’ve only got a couple of minutes,’ Raben said, dragging her back into the dark of the shelter.

  ‘Jens—’

  ‘Listen to me!’

  His voice sounded fragile and broken. His eyes were as wild as she’d ever seen. She wondered whether to feel afraid. For herself, for Jonas.

  ‘You’ve got to leave the barracks,’ he said, clutching at her cold fingers.

  ‘You followed me here?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Why did you treat Gunnar Torpe like that?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to him!’ High, fractured, his voice echoed round the darkness of the shelter. ‘They’re lying to you.’

  ‘You hit him. My father said—’

  ‘He’s lying too.’

  She took one step back. The hood came all the way down. He looked so hurt and vulnerable.

  ‘No,’ Louise said. ‘He told me about what happened in Helmand. How you feel guilty.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘They’re covering up for something an officer did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember it all. Maybe Søgaard . . . Maybe others.’ His eyes wouldn’t leave her, and they had the expression she’d learned to hate. That of a soldier hunting his prey. ‘Maybe your father.’

  ‘My father’s a good man. He tried to help you.’

  A sound outside. A kid going past kicking a can. Raben recoiled from her, fell against the wall, hand going to his belt. She saw the gun there, the fear and tension in his eyes. Found she had no feeling for him at that moment but contempt.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Two years I’ve waited. Two years I’ve looked after our son. And look at you. Cowering like a thief . . .’

  The kid with the can was still outside, making a din kicking it against the wall.

  ‘Get hold of that woman from the police,’ he ordered. ‘Sarah Lund. I called the Politigården. She’s at her mother’s wedding. You’ve got to go there. Tell her to check—’

  ‘Is it true you volunteered for active service? Abroad? When Jonas was born?’

  His face could change so rapidly. From the hard, unfeeling coldness of a warrior, to the boyish gentleness she’d once loved, all in an instant.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  She took a step towards him, looked up into his pained, pale face. Knew she wouldn’t leave this place without an answer.

  ‘Is it true?’

  A moment of hesitation. His eyes pleaded
with her.

  ‘Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? They want to separate us. They want to lock you inside the barracks for ever.’

  She turned her back on him, watched the kid with the can wander away.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Raben said, placing his arms around her shoulders.

  There was no colour in this world, she thought. Not for her. Not for Jonas. They deserved better. There was a limit to the sacrifices you could make.

  ‘I’ve been a soldier since I was eighteen,’ he went on, still clinging to her shoulders. ‘It’s all I’ve ever known. The things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done . . .’

  ‘My father’s a soldier. A good man. Ordinary like the rest of them . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t like him. There are things you shouldn’t know.’ He tapped his lank, greasy hair. ‘Things here. I didn’t deserve Jonas. I didn’t deserve you. He was so pure. I wasn’t. I thought if I stayed I’d poison you both . . .’

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said as his grip tightened on her jacket.

  ‘I’ve changed.’ His fingers still held her. ‘All I want is to come home and be with you. To learn to be a good father. A good husband.’

  Her blood began to boil. He no longer held her in an embrace. It was as if she belonged to him. As if he’d captured her.

  ‘I’ve heard that shit too often, Jens. And where are we now? How many years in jail? How many visits am I supposed to make a week and I still can’t even drag you into bed in that stinking little room? Fuck it—’

  ‘Louise . . .’

  Half an order, half a plea. His arms wound round her more tightly.

  Through the door a tiny figure flew, screeching curses too old for a child to know. Jonas was on them, little arms beating at Raben’s legs, little feet kicking at him.

  ‘Let Mummy go! Let Mummy go!’

  Raben retreated, fell back against the grille and the leaden light outside.

  Crouched down, looked at the child, young face full of fury, tears in his eyes.

  ‘You’ve grown, Jonas,’ Raben said. ‘It’s me. Daddy.’

  He smiled. Jonas didn’t.

  Raben’s hand went out to the toy soldier sticking out of the boy’s jacket pocket. Retrieved the figure. A warrior with a shield and a raised sword.

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Mummy,’ Jonas said, wheeling his scooter to her side, ‘I want to go.’

  She took the boy’s hand and led him to the door. Stopped there. Looked around. In summer this place was full of happy voices, kids playing with their parents, running, laughing, feeling alive. Jonas had never known that. Nor had she. Raben had fled from them through some inner fear he’d never been able to share. And now she hated him for that too.

  ‘Don’t ever try to see us again,’ she said, aware of the spiteful fury in her voice. ‘I mean it . . .’

  ‘Louise?’

  He could turn on the charm when he wanted, like a naughty child caught stealing. But she’d been tested, so many times.

  ‘Never again,’ she said and walked out into the first few drops of winter sleet starting to fall from the heavy sky.

  Jonas tugged on her hand. He was pointing at the man hiding in the doorway. In Raben’s hand was the toy soldier, shield raised, sword at the ready.

  ‘I’ll buy you a new one,’ she told her son and dragged him to the car.

  It took a lot of arguing to get permission to visit Monberg in a private room in the Rigshospitalet. But Karina won through in the end and accompanied Buch in the car from the Ministry.

  They stopped in the corridor outside.

  ‘You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,’ he said. ‘If it’s embarrassing.’

  The remark seemed to puzzle her.

  ‘Why would I be embarrassed?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Buch struggled for an answer.

  ‘Let’s go in, shall we?’ she said and led the way.

  Frode Monberg was in a bed by the window. Unshaven. Looking tired and pale. As a backbench MP Buch had never mixed much with ministers. Now he could see Monberg was a handsome man, with a narrow, smiling, genial face, a mop of unruly brown hair and lively, roaming eyes.

  Buch stepped forward and placed a box of expensive chocolates on the bed.

  ‘Karina,’ Monberg said warily. ‘My successor. Congratulations, Thomas. I hope you’re having fun.’

  ‘It’s good to see you. How are you doing?’

  No tubes, no wires. The monitors by the bed were switched off. This was a man in recovery. Barely sick at all. And yet behind the bright facade there seemed something gloomy and desperate about Frode Monberg. The politician’s smile vanished much too quickly.

  ‘I’m OK.’ His melancholy brown eyes roved over Buch’s huge frame. ‘It seems quite a storm’s been brewing while I’ve been in here.’

  He looked at Karina.

  ‘And how are you?’

  She nodded, said nothing.

  ‘It was good of you to take the job,’ Monberg added, turning back to Buch. ‘You must have wondered what the Prime Minister was thinking. But now . . .’ He patted his chest. ‘I can take better care of this old heart.’

  He moved to put the chocolates on the bedside table.

  ‘I doubt I’ll be allowed things like this for a while. The doctors . . .’

  Karina folded her arms. Buch said nothing. Monberg’s face turned sour again.

  ‘So. It gets around.’

  ‘I took over your job,’ Buch said. ‘I had to be told. It’s not general knowledge. It won’t be. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t worry?’ His voice became fragile and old. ‘That’s easy for you to say. I was sick for ages. No one noticed. No one cared. You’re stuck in that damned office, day in, day out. Nights too. It all . . .’

  His eyes turned briefly to the smartly dressed blonde woman by his bed.

  ‘It all becomes unreal after a while. You find yourself doing things you’d never dream of. I don’t want my family to suffer any more. You hear that?’

  ‘Of course,’ Buch said. ‘I guarantee it. We just want to talk about that old military case. The one you were looking into. Before . . .’ He nodded at the bed. ‘You know. The Dragsholm woman.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Monberg said too quickly. ‘Anne came to me with this odd story. She wanted me to look into it. A favour for an old friend.’

  ‘And?’ Buch asked.

  ‘We had a meeting. Talked about the past. She was going through a divorce. I think she was getting a bit . . . obsessive. She gave me a folder when I was leaving. The case seemed to mean a lot to her. God knows why. I never got to look at it, of course.’

  Buch took a deep breath, folded his arms, said nothing.

  ‘Why do you ask these questions, Thomas?’

  ‘You already knew about the case before she came to you. You sent that envelope to a dead address for a reason. Please. Try to be clear on these things. The Defence Minister called a meeting about a soldier.’

  Karina extracted the papers from her bag. Buch showed them to the man in the bed.

  ‘A certain Jens Peter Raben.’

  Monberg took the documents, did no more than glance at them.

  ‘I’m still a bit hazy about some things.’

  ‘Let’s dispense with this nonsense,’ Buch said, aware his voice was rising. ‘Just tell me what you and Rossing spoke about at that meeting. It’s important.’

  Monberg shrugged, got a pair of reading glasses from the table, scanned the papers.

  ‘This was ages ago.’

  ‘You withheld information about a serious military investigation! You kept it hidden from the police, from PET, from your own civil servants.’ He pulled up a chair, got close to the bed. ‘Why? What are you and Rossing hiding?’

  Monberg turned to Karina, pleaded for her help. She kept quiet.

  ‘Why did you have a meeting about Raben?’ Buch persisted. ‘What did Rossing say to you? Why were no minutes kept?
’

  ‘What is this, Buch? What are you going on about?’

  ‘You met with Rossing. Later Dragsholm raises the case with you. But you never let on. Never told the police or PET, even when she was murdered. I need to know—’

  ‘If you’ve come to blame me for your screw-ups you can get out of here now,’ Monberg barked.

  ‘What did Rossing say at that meeting?’

  A noise at the door. A woman in a dark-blue suit. A doctor by her side. Monberg’s wife. Buch recognized her.

  ‘Visitors again, Frode?’ she said, rushing to his side, kissing his head as Monberg scowled like a child. ‘That won’t do.’ She stared at Buch. ‘I appreciate your concern. But the doctor needs to examine my husband.’

  Monberg held up the papers. Karina took them then went to the window and began to sift through the get-well cards.

  ‘This kind of pressure isn’t good for him,’ the wife added.

  ‘I’m supposed to rest,’ Monberg agreed.

  Karina nudged Buch. One of the cards was from Flemming Rossing. A bunch of roses on the front. A standard handwritten greeting inside, then a scribbled addition – It was so good to see you better, Frode. We are brothers always.

  Buch read it and nodded.

  ‘I believe the minister’s about to leave,’ Monberg noted.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Get well soon, Frode.’ He threw Rossing’s card on the sheets by Monberg’s knees. ‘All of your friends want to see that.’

  Outside in the corridor, breathing in the hospital smells, listening to the beeps and whirrs of the machines in the wards around them, Buch waited for Karina to catch up with his furious pace.

  ‘Rossing got there before us, didn’t he?’ he snapped when she reached his side.

  ‘He knew what you were going to ask. And what he was going to say.’

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘What’s Monberg like? Really?’

  ‘Witty. Funny. Charming.’ She thought about it. ‘Weak.’

  ‘We need more options,’ Buch said, and tried to imagine what they might be.

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ Karina said as they sat in the back of the ministerial car, trapped in traffic on the way back to the Ministry. ‘Why not issue an apology for the exhumation of the soldier?’

  Buch grunted something wordless and looked at the crowds of shoppers beyond the window. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. He envied them.