by David Hewson
Sleepy men who thought being tough was all you needed.
There was a huddle of detectives by the photos. The lawyer, a smart, quick woman, he thought, one who never missed an opportunity, told him to wait a moment and went to talk to them.
Raben looked at the cops and smiled. Then held his arm, the one in a sling, and winced.
‘Getting shot’s no fun. Twice in two years. I must be unlucky.’
‘Must be something,’ the one who pushed him muttered.
Raben just smiled again. The lawyer came back. She seemed happy too.
‘We won’t be having a hearing tomorrow.’ She glanced at the men around him. ‘I’m going to ask for him to be kept in a secure room in the hospital. Until we can get to court—’
‘What’s the delay?’ he asked.
‘They think they’ve got their man. Major Søgaard’s in custody, about to be charged. They found incriminating evidence in his locker.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Raben yelled. ‘Søgaard? Are you serious?’
She didn’t like his response.
‘You’re a hard man to please. You’ve been telling all the world someone in the army was involved.’
‘It wasn’t Søgaard. He wasn’t Perk. He couldn’t be . . .’
The big cop said, ‘Can we go now?’
Then pushed Raben towards the exit.
They took the long way out. Down the black marble corridors, to the tall staircase leading to the front entrance.
‘I can’t come with you to the hospital,’ the lawyer said, looking at the cops. ‘You’re not allowed to question him without me present. Is that clear?’
No answer.
He was limping again, taking the steps one by one.
‘Søgaard might cover something up but he’s not a murderer,’ Raben went on.
‘Why don’t you just shut up and walk?’ the first detective barked. ‘You’re boring me.’
‘He’s an injured man,’ the lawyer shrieked at him.
‘He’s a piece of shit who’s been giving us the runaround—’
‘Søgaard’s not your man!’
‘Really?’ The cop folded his arms, stopped on the stairs. ‘We found the other half of the dog tags in his locker. How do you explain that, smart arse? Now move, will you?’
The gentlest of pushes and Raben almost stumbled, would have done if the cop’s arm wasn’t through his.
Bottom of one flight of steps. Another ahead.
‘My wife and son are at the barracks,’ Raben yelled at him. ‘This matters—’
‘You’re really getting to me now . . .’
Raben was screaming. The second cop came in, told him to relax, jabbed him in the back.
The lawyer was shouting again. They watched Raben in his blue prison suit stumble forward on weak legs, one arm flapping, the other trapped in a sling. Over the second flight of steps then down them, tumbling all the way to the bottom.
‘Shit,’ the big cop said when he got there. He held Raben’s head, felt his pulse. ‘He needs the hospital now.’
Night in the barracks. Quiet and deserted with the latest troop dispatch headed for Helmand. Louise Raben had spent most of the evening trying to track down her father. Now Søgaard was missing. The place seemed rudderless.
She walked round the empty offices looking for someone to talk to, to nag. Finally found Said Bilal in the weapons store cleaning a service rifle.
He didn’t look up as she walked in. Never smiled. Never responded.
‘Bilal,’ she said. ‘What the hell’s going on here? The military police still won’t tell me when they’re going to release my father.’
He cradled the weapon in his arms, stroked the oiled barrel. Glowered at her, said nothing.
‘What the hell were the police doing here anyway?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug. ‘The last one’s gone. They took Søgaard.’
She crouched down next to him, tried to see into his blank and surly face.
‘My father found out someone had concealed the radio messages during Jens’s mission. Kept them from the judge advocate.’
He went back to the rifle, took out the magazine, checked it in the dim light of the store.
‘Who would have done that?’ she asked. ‘It’s got to be a soldier here. Someone who was serving with the unit.’
He stood up, ran his eye down the sight.
‘Don’t you care, Bilal? Don’t you see how important this is? It shows Jens was right. Someone fitted him up—’
‘It’s war!’ Bilal roared and his dark eyes were full of such fury she felt frightened for a moment. ‘You’ve never been there. You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Louise Raben said quietly. ‘I’ve seen what it does. Someone set up my husband—’
‘There were no messages. No one concealed anything. Raben was a rogue soldier. Just a shame he took others with him.’ A fierce glance into her face. ‘Not himself.’
She stood her ground.
‘That’s not what my father thinks, is it? He’s got evidence. Maybe the same man put those things in Søgaard’s locker—’
Bilal swore. It was the first time she’d ever heard that. Put the rifle back on the table, got up, walked to the boxes of weapons.
‘If they found those things Søgaard must have put them there,’ he said. ‘Who else? He’s an idiot. I told everyone to keep out of the place. The ceiling’s not safe—’
‘Who was running the radio two years ago, Bilal?’
Another rifle was in his hands. He held it the way they all did. As if the weapon was a part of him.
‘You’re a nurse. Stick to what you’re paid for.’
‘I’m Raben’s wife! Your colonel’s daughter. The two men who matter to me most are in shit because of this—’
‘There’s a computer log!’ he yelled at her. ‘It’s just a list of traffic. That’s all.’
She wasn’t going to leave this.
‘Let’s say someone worked out how they could delete messages. I guess Søgaard could have done that. He was in command. Who else?’
He took out the rifle magazine, looked inside, ran a finger across the breach, slammed it back into the body.
‘I can’t talk about this any more,’ Bilal said. ‘It’s army business. Not yours.’
‘Call that bastard Arild! Find out who ratted on my father about the cadets’ ball.’
He stared at her.
‘What?’
‘God you’re slow. As soon as my father started digging someone got him arrested. Why? Because he was digging. If we find out who . . .’
He came and stood in front of her, young, foreign face devoid of expression.
‘Make the call,’ she insisted. ‘Tell the police too. They need to know.’ She shook her head. ‘If you won’t do it, I will . . .’
Slowly Bilal pulled his phone out of his pocket. She watched as his fingers ran across the keys.
He wasn’t dialling.
‘I’m waiting . . .’ she began.
He looked round the empty store, put the phone back into his pocket.
Stretched out his hand, gripped her round the throat, squeezed hard.
The driver watched Lund breaking up the shattered tables in the outside bakery. He was getting jumpier all the time.
‘I’ve talked to the base,’ he said. ‘They want us out of here right now.’
She’d got splinters in her fingers. Cut herself a couple of times. Found nothing at all.
Strange leaned against the doorway, arms folded, silent.
‘I want to see this oven,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’
The Afghan cop called through from the adjoining room. He’d found another fireplace, full of soot and burned logs.
Lund looked.
‘That’s not an oven,’ she said. Stared at the man, said, ‘Oven!’
‘That’s helping,’ Strange muttered. A trilling sound. The satphone in his pocke
t.
The Afghan threw up his hands in despair. Said something she didn’t understand but couldn’t miss the tone.
Lund marched back into the first room. A pile of timber had been set up at the end. She began to tear at it as one of the Afghans behind her turned his torch beam on the wood.
Finally she saw a stack of broken bricks and boulders. They looked as if they’d been pushed in place to hide something.
The Afghan and the soldier were behind her.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘We have to remove all the debris and see what’s behind here.’
The two of them started talking in Pashto. The Afghan put a hand to his head, made a gesture.
‘He thinks you’re crazy,’ the soldier said. ‘I’m with him on that.’
‘What happened here led to murder!’ she yelled at them. ‘An entire family.’
‘We don’t know that, Lund,’ Strange said, coming off the phone.
‘But we do!’ she cried. Finger pointed in the face of the Afghan. He didn’t like that. ‘If you know something about this tell me now. A family, for God’s sake! Mother and father. Three children.’
The soldier was translating again. The cop looked bored.
‘I need to know what happened to them!’ Lund yelled.
To her amazement the burly bearded cop looked at her and started laughing. He said something to the soldier.
‘Families round here die every day in case you didn’t notice,’ he translated. ‘Since when did you people care?’
The Afghan glared at her, lit a cigarette.
Lund shook her head, astonished, furious.
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Hey. Hey!’
Strode over, grabbed his arm. Bad idea. He didn’t like a woman doing that, had his hand on his rifle. Not that she cared.
‘Hey! Mister!’ she bawled. ‘When people get killed it matters, even here. What in God’s name’s wrong with you? Don’t you give a fuck or what?’
Lund glared at the soldier.
‘Translate that, damn it.’
He was saying something. She wasn’t sure it was right.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Lund said, patting his blue chest. ‘Or is that uniform just a big fat joke like you? What happened to the bodies? You’re the law around here. You must have seen something, heard something.’
He was very still, peering straight into her eyes. Not a pleasant look.
‘Did someone bury them? Cremate them? Take them somewhere else?’
Something the soldier didn’t translate.
‘You don’t care, do you?’ Lund yelled. ‘Don’t give a shit. No wonder they’re dead . . .’
He was in her face then. Pushing her back with his fat belly. That made her even madder.
Strange was the first to get between them. Hand out, keeping back the man in blue. He said something in Pashto to the cop, then to her in Danish, ‘Easy now, Lund. It’s their country. Not ours.’
‘We came here, Strange! If we killed this family we’re responsible—’
‘We’ve been through everything. There’s no oven. No bodies. No sign of any anything.’
‘It happened—’
Strange held out the phone.
‘It’s Brix. He wants to talk to you. He thinks he’s got his man.’
Lund took the mobile, went outside, heard them making consoling noises to the fat Afghan cop.
‘I want you on a plane now,’ Brix said. ‘I’ve got the Ministry of Defence and the army all over us.’
‘What’s up?’
‘It looks like it’s Said Bilal.’
She stared at the wrecked courtyard, the house reduced to rubble in front of her. A family died here. She knew that somehow. She could still hear their cries.
‘Bilal knew Dragsholm was opening the case,’ Brix continued. ‘We found the other halves of the dog tags at the barracks. He tried to fit up Søgaard.’
‘At the barracks? Why would Bilal hide things there? He’s not Perk—’
‘Bilal’s gone missing. Louise Raben could be with him. Just get on the damned plane, will you?’
The line went dead. Lund tried to picture the young soldier. He seemed so subservient. A follower. Not a leader.
The driver seized her arm.
‘Now we really are going,’ he said.
Buch had called the Prime Minister’s office demanding another meeting. To his surprise he got it. Gert Grue Eriksen sat in the centre of the table, Kahn on his left. Buch took the seat opposite. Rossing came and sat next to him.
The Prime Minister watched as his Minister of Defence took that seat. A long, hard stare.
‘Plenty to talk about,’ Buch began without being asked. He’d found his best suit, a clean blue shirt, a dark tie. His hair was tidy, his beard trimmed. Karina had insisted on all these. ‘As you may know, little new has so far come to light in the investigation in Afghanistan. That changes nothing. We have a scandal on our hands. A stain on the history of this party, and our government.’
‘Same old, same old,’ Kahn cut in. ‘That’s it? The police have come up with nothing?’
‘Not yet. But if I may continue—’
‘You’ve launched a personal attack on the Prime Minister’s integrity,’ Kahn interrupted. ‘I’m not listening to more of your rants.’
‘Then why are we here?’ Buch laughed. ‘If it’s not to consider the facts?’
Grue Eriksen shook his head and said, ‘For better reasons, Thomas. Please listen carefully. This isn’t easy for me. I’ve received information . . .’
He handed a brown leather folder to Kahn who knew straight away what to do. A set of papers was distributed round the table.
‘It’s clear the Minister of Defence has deceived us,’ Grue Eriksen went on.
Rossing stared at the shiny table as if expecting every word.
‘He withheld a certain expert’s testimony.’
The papers arrived in front of them. The severed hand with the Hazara tattoo. Rossing stared at it, looked at Buch.
‘This testimony suggests the hand found in Afghanistan and shipped here did not belong to a Taliban suicide bomber. This information was suppressed to avoid the suspicion of civilian casualties.’
‘That’s not true . . .’ Rossing began.
‘If only I could believe that,’ Grue Eriksen replied. He paused, stared at Rossing across the table. ‘But I don’t. You’re dismissed as Minister of Defence with immediate effect. Your actions will be investigated by PET to see if criminal charges are appropriate—’
‘Say it, Rossing!’ Buch cried. ‘Tell Kahn. He ordered you to hide those papers.’ A finger pointing across the table. ‘This bloody, scandalous trail leads directly to him—’
‘With regard to the Minister of Justice,’ Grue Eriksen went on, ‘the situation is equally grave.’
‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ Buch grumbled.
A shake of the silver head. A politician’s look, more sorrow than anger.
‘You could have used your talents to benefit your country, Thomas. Instead you abused your office to pursue a misguided and unwarranted personal campaign against me.’
Buch tried to catch Kahn’s eye.
‘Listen, will you? The Prime Minister instructed Rossing to do these things. For his own reasons—’
‘In this prolonged smear campaign,’ Grue Eriksen continued, ‘the Minister of Justice has been scandalously careless in his handling of confidential and privileged information. He has distributed classified documents to people who should never have seen them. There’s an apparent breach of the Official Secrets Act which the new director of PET will be investigating alongside Rossing’s actions—’
‘Ha! So you squeezed him out to get in your own man! Now I understand. Wouldn’t even König do your bidding? Is this the Middle Ages again, Gert? Are you a medieval king who’ll march me out into the parade ground for a beheading?’
At a signal from the Prime Minister the clerk got up and opened the door. Poli
ce in uniform. Plain-clothes men too. Rossing stood up and buttoned his jacket, as if ready for this. Buch kept yelling abuse at the short, composed figure opposite.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ he barked as someone brusquely took his arm.
‘Both of you will leave the building immediately and be taken into custody. You can’t take anything with you. I think it’s evident you’ve stepped down now.’
Two of the uniformed cops had hold of Buch’s big frame. He was screaming, fighting them.
‘Go with dignity, Thomas!’ Grue Eriksen cried, raising his voice for the first time.
Buch was a big man. With his two fat arms he threw them off, sent the cops scuttling to the back of the room.
Then he went to the door.
‘I can walk on my own,’ he yelled and did until they caught up with him, shoved him out into the public area and the media scrum.
He should have guessed they’d be tipped off. Everyone was there. TV, radio, newspapers.
Rossing walked on, head high, silent. Buch followed, sweating, panting, dishevelled again, struggling through the mob.
A microphone in the face. A single stupid question.
‘Are you guilty? Buch? Rossing? Are you guilty?’
Marie would see this on the news in Jutland. Their last conversation had not been good.
So Thomas Buch managed to wriggle free from the police officers who’d seized his arms one last time.
Then he got to the nearest camera and said a single word.
‘No.’
It was dark by the time the Land Rover got back on the road. Lund was dog-tired, her head full of questions. The body armour felt heavy and unnecessary. But Strange was onto her the moment she tried surreptitiously to loosen it.
There was a bright moon. With the snow on the hills the place almost looked enchanting.
‘Why did this happen?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer.
‘Why? If there were no civilian casualties there was nothing for Dragsholm to investigate. Why kill all those people?’
‘Jesus, Sarah. You can’t know everything. We’ll be back in Copenhagen tomorrow. Let’s ask Brix then.’
He sighed.
‘You shouldn’t have talked to the Afghan like that. They don’t appreciate it.’
‘He didn’t give a shit.’
‘Maybe he’s got more on his plate than you know. This is Helmand. Not Vesterbro.’