The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  She coughed, shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t sleep all the way back. Jet lag. I don’t know.’

  He watched a uniformed officer take in some equipment, dodging beneath the Don’t Cross tape.

  ‘It’s like the whole world’s guilty until you prove it innocent.’ He caught her eye. ‘You. No one else.’

  That wasn’t such a bad observation, Lund thought. Or a bad idea.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Strange went on, ‘I get the feeling you like a few things about me.’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘You’ve a damned funny way of showing it.’

  ‘True.’

  She waited for him to say more. There was nothing.

  ‘So,’ Lund said and clapped her cold hands. ‘Now we’ve cleared the air—’

  ‘Jesus!’ Strange cried, so furiously one of the cops guarding the building turned and stared.

  ‘I’m sorry. OK?’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ He nodded. ‘That’s all there is to say?’

  Lund frowned.

  ‘What more do you want? I’m sorry. I was wrong. My head’s somewhere else. I’m trying to get it straight.’

  Nothing.

  ‘OK?’ she asked.

  Still nothing.

  ‘OK? Or do I go and see Brix and ask for a bus fare back to Gedser?’

  ‘As if,’ he said with a low laugh she couldn’t interpret. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? We need to find Bilal.’

  As she spoke Lund was looking round the neighbourhood, trying to picture a soldier coming here. Even out of uniform.

  ‘We need to talk to Søgaard about the radio messages too.’

  She crossed the street, looked at the posters in the immigrant bookshop opposite.

  ‘Bilal must hate the extremists,’ Strange said, following her. ‘He sent the video just at the end of Ramadan.’

  ‘Is that significant?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s kind of an extremist in reverse.’

  Lund pointed at the walls. Posters for a rabble-rousing preacher, in Danish and Arabic.

  ‘If it was Bilal he didn’t have far to look for inspiration.’

  There was an old book in the window. Muslimsk Liga. Muslim League.

  ‘Hello!’ Brix cried. He was coming out of the building with Madsen and some of the others. ‘Bilal took a military G-Wagen from Ryvangen. He’s been seen heading west. Let’s go, shall we?’

  She couldn’t stop staring at the shop window.

  ‘Lund!’ the chief yelled. ‘That means you too. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does,’ she said and followed Strange to the car.

  The army let Torsten Jarnvig out of custody at midday. He went straight back to Ryvangen. The place was crawling with police. No one was complaining any more.

  ‘Any idea where your daughter is?’ a young detective asked when Jarnvig got to his office. Søgaard had begun rearranging things already. Filing cabinets. The computer.

  ‘No. She was looking round for things. She believed Raben from the start. Maybe I should have . . .’

  Her picture was on the desk. Søgaard must have made the decision to leave it there.

  Jarnvig was in plain army fatigues. No signs of rank any more. Maybe they were gone for ever. It didn’t feel such a loss at that moment.

  ‘We need to go through all the places Bilal kept things.’

  ‘To hell with that!’ Jarnvig shouted. ‘My daughter’s missing. What are you doing to find her?’

  The cop didn’t seem interested in answering.

  ‘Do you think Bilal was hiding more than we know?’

  ‘Ask Operational Command,’ Jarnvig barked. ‘Ask Arild. Bilal was the general’s pet.’

  The detective frowned.

  ‘Yelling at me won’t help. Do you have any idea where he might go?’

  Jarnvig glared at him, furious.

  ‘Do you specialize in stupid questions? Of course I don’t. If I did, I’d be there.’

  The faintest of raps at the door. Jonas was there in his winter coat and scarf. He looked forlorn.

  ‘Are we done here?’ Jarnvig asked the detective.

  ‘Were you aware that Bilal hates Islamists?’

  Jarnvig rolled his eyes.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. He’s done three tours fighting the Taliban. He knows what these people can do. What do you think?’

  ‘I was asking you.’

  ‘I think . . .’ It was a good question, not that Jarnvig wanted to acknowledge that. ‘I think he always seemed the perfect soldier. Conscientious. Loyal. Obedient.’ A pause. ‘Obedient to a fault sometimes. He’d never get any higher than he was. He wasn’t great at thinking for himself.’

  Another cop came in from Bilal’s quarters, said, ‘Look at this. I broke open his locker. Interesting stuff.’

  Clippings from the papers. All five victims, with photos, glued to card. Dozens of them.

  ‘Perfect soldier,’ the first cop said and laughed. He waved the clippings at Jarnvig. ‘Make sure you let us know if you hear anything. The same goes for Raben. He’s got plenty to answer for too.’

  Jarnvig watched them go. When they’d left Jonas marched across the polished floor, hands swinging. Just like a soldier.

  ‘You’ve got your jacket on,’ Jarnvig said, bending down and doing up the top buttons. ‘Have you been playing outside on your own?’

  No answer. The usual blank look.

  ‘Joakim and his parents are coming to take you to the cinema. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’

  Jarnvig smiled. It always seemed necessary when you lied to a child.

  ‘I bet she’ll be here by the time you get back.’

  Another false grin and he realized for the first time it didn’t work at all.

  ‘That’s what Daddy says,’ Jonas told him in a low, hurt voice.

  The boy leaned into Jarnvig’s face, whispered in his ear, glancing all the time at the two cops down the corridor.

  ‘It’s a secret, Grandpa. He’s waiting for you by the fence at the back. Where the tower is.’

  Two young, accusing eyes.

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  Jarnvig tugged the boy’s jacket.

  ‘I won’t tell, Jonas. That’s a promise.’

  He was waiting in some bushes by a fire exit close to a little-used guard tower. Jarnvig unlocked the gate, walked through, had Raben in his face straight away.

  ‘Do the police have any idea where he took her?’

  ‘They don’t know a damned thing.’

  He was in a grubby blue jacket that looked as if it might have been pulled out of a rubbish bin. He held one arm awkwardly.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, Jens. You’re sick.’

  ‘I’m not helping in a hospital, am I? Where could he have gone?’

  ‘We’ve checked all the army bases we can think of.’ A pause. ‘You’re normally full of ideas. Where do you think he is?’

  Raben shook his head.

  Jarnvig put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘People get hurt when you’re around. I don’t want that to happen to Louise. Stay clear of this.’

  ‘We’re equal now. We’ve got to help each other.’

  ‘This is all your fault!’ Then, more quietly, ‘Louise kept trying to help you. Asking questions. Doing things she shouldn’t.’

  ‘I told you the truth all along. Why didn’t you believe me?’

  Jarnvig closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘Because I didn’t want to. There. Are you happy now? Can we put this to one side and think about Louise?’

  Raben looked happy with that admission.

  ‘Bilal used to go camping on an old military site near Hillerød. We can start there . . .’

  ‘You have to stay away.’

  ‘And leave it to you and those idiots in the police?’

  Jarnvig gave up, walked back to the gate and his green Mercedes G-Wagen. The
phone rang. He answered so quickly he almost dropped the thing.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  A soft voice, faintly accented, distant and detached.

  ‘We must stick together against the enemy.’

  Jarnvig tried to picture the location. No traffic noise. Just the faintest sound of birdsong.

  ‘We’re not the enemy!’ Said Bilal said, his flat, monotonous voice rising. ‘We never were . . .’

  ‘Where are you?’ Jarnvig demanded. ‘I want an answer.’

  ‘You’re not my colonel any more. They took that away from you, didn’t they?’

  There was a strange mix of fear and fascination in his voice.

  ‘Where are you?’ Jarnvig asked again, aware Raben was next to him now, eyes shining, face full of curiosity.

  ‘I did my duty. That was all. I did what I was told. Like a soldier should.’

  ‘Where’s Louise? She’s nothing to do with this.’

  The shortest of laughs.

  ‘I won’t take the blame. Never . . .’

  The line went quiet.

  ‘Bilal! Come back.’

  ‘You turned against me. After all I did. All the work, all the loyalty. I still wasn’t good enough. Just because of what I was—’

  ‘No one turned against you! The police found evidence—’

  ‘I didn’t put it there. Someone’s trying to frame me. Can’t you see?’

  A brisk wind was whipping up around this forgotten corner of Ryvangen. The sun was disappearing. Rain was on the way.

  ‘You’ve got my daughter. Let her go. We can talk about this. I can make sure—’

  ‘You can’t do anything,’ Bilal broke in. ‘You’re finished too. Tell General Arild. Say he’s got to get me out of this. If it wasn’t for—’

  ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ Jarnvig cried.

  A sudden movement. Raben’s good hand snatched the phone from Jarnvig’s hand.

  ‘Let me speak to Louise,’ he said in a low, calm, determined voice.

  ‘I’m talking to Jarnvig. Not you!’

  ‘Nothing happens until we hear from Louise, Bilal. Nothing . . .’

  Said Bilal walked to his stolen Land Rover, opened the back door.

  She was where he’d left her the previous night. Duct tape over her mouth. A military sock wrapped round her eyes as a blindfold.

  Bilal ripped off the tape, didn’t mind when she yelled at the pain.

  The colonel’s daughter. She looked down on him just as much as the rest of them.

  He put the phone to her ear, underneath the blindfold.

  ‘Louise?’ Raben said.

  Straight away, ‘We drove for an hour and a half. A place underground—’

  Bilal snatched away the phone, punched her hard in the mouth. Then again for sure.

  He watched her hurting, listened to her screams. When they died down he put the phone back to his ear.

  ‘Don’t touch my wife,’ Raben muttered in a low, hard tone.

  ‘Too late.’ Bilal looked around. This was a place he knew. They couldn’t find it, not from what she’d said. ‘I’ll call again this evening. Get Arild. Talk to the police and I’ll kill her.’

  He opened the back of the phone. Took out the battery, threw it on the ground.

  Louise Raben’s nose had started bleeding. One red line down into her mouth.

  She said in a cracked, pleading voice, ‘Bilal. Let me go. What’s wrong? I never hurt you.’

  The young officer slammed the door on her, looked around, saw nothing but flat, bare grassland in all directions. Walked to the front of the vehicle, got in and started to drive.

  Buch had been kept in an interview room in the Politigården all night, interviewed by a succession of surly PET officers who barely listened to a word he said. Around six in the morning they let him call home to Marie. That went almost as badly as the interrogations.

  Now it was the middle of the day and a new shift, one young officer, one middle-aged, had turned up. They wore dark suits and blank, uncaring expressions. Neither of them sat down much. Buch had the impression they were biding their time. Wasting his. He wasn’t a lawyer but he didn’t believe for one moment he’d done anything that could lead to a prosecution.

  ‘Tell us again,’ the nearest PET man said.

  Buch wiped his sweaty forehead with his right hand.

  ‘This is a political issue, not a criminal one. Not yet. The Prime Minister was aware I had evidence of misdeeds on his part. The Defence Minister was ready to confirm this. Somehow Grue Eriksen knew. So the Prime Minister tried to shift the blame to us.’ Buch smiled at each of them in turn. ‘Through you. How does it feel to be used?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ the younger PET man said, ‘Rossing won’t confirm your story. He’s been released without charge.’

  ‘That’s because Grue Eriksen’s got to him. Offered him a deal I suppose. It doesn’t change the facts—’

  ‘How could the Prime Minister know you were going to do this?’ the second officer asked.

  ‘Because someone warned him! Isn’t it obvious? You’ve detained me all night for no reason.’

  ‘National security’s no reason?’ the young one asked.

  ‘I’ve done nothing to jeopardize national security. Quite the contrary. I’ve been defending it.’

  There was a folder on a desk by the window. Both of them went to it, took out some papers.

  ‘Let’s see,’ said the old cop. ‘A confidential PET memo gets leaked from your office.’

  ‘Not by me,’ Buch insisted.

  ‘You met with a suspended police officer, Sarah Lund. What for?’

  ‘I was Minister of Justice. Lund was suspended only briefly. I believe she’s back in service now. What’s the problem?’

  They didn’t want to push that one.

  ‘You visited your predecessor, Monberg, who took his own life.’

  ‘Tell me how I acted illegally, please.’

  ‘Your secretary accessed data without authority.’

  ‘My secretary! Not me!’

  ‘You obstructed PET’s investigation. You defended Islamist organizations and their rights. You’ve been in contact with a journalist who provided you with confidential information she obtained while working for the Ministry of Defence . . .’

  Buch felt like putting his head on his hands and going to sleep.

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake. Am I being subjected to an all-night interrogation because you and your new boss, whoever it is, doesn’t like the cut of my jib?’

  ‘We’re at war!’ the young one said and finally took a seat. ‘There’s a word for undermining our government and our democracy. It’s called treason.’ He waved his hand. ‘Doesn’t matter whether some Afghans got killed here or there. Treason. The betrayal of your own country.’

  Buch groaned, closed his eyes, covered up a yawn with a tired, grubby hand.

  ‘Are you going to persist with your accusations against the Prime Minister?’

  ‘No.’ A long, serious nod. ‘Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘It’s a start,’ the young cop said, smiling at his colleague.

  ‘Good,’ Buch added. ‘I intend to go even further. Grue Eriksen’s the traitor. If you weren’t the spineless, gutless creatures you are, you’d have him in here, shining a light in his eyes. Keeping him awake all night. Hoping to break him. He’s the traitor, and you nothing but his quislings . . .’

  A knock on the door. Someone outside announced a lawyer had arrived. A tall, grey man came in and spoke quietly with both the PET officers out of Buch’s earshot.

  ‘Hello! What’s going on here?’ Another slam of his fists on the table. ‘Am I invisible suddenly?’

  The quisling crack was a touch too far, Buch thought. He might apologize for that one.

  But then the older officer turned to him and said, ‘There’s someone outside for you.’

  ‘Someone I’m allowed to see?’

  ‘Sure. You can go.�
�

  Karina and Carsten Plough were waiting in the circular vestibule by the Politigården stairs.

  ‘I must say,’ Plough declared archly as Buch came out, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever had to spring a minister from jail.’

  ‘First time for everything,’ Buch declared. ‘Besides, I’m not a minister any more.’

  ‘Nor me a Permanent Secretary,’ Plough added miserably.

  ‘Well, you’re free,’ Karina said. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Buch agreed. ‘But why?’

  ‘Lund found something in Afghanistan.’ She had a folder full of photographs. ‘Take a look.’

  A small skull with a bullet hole. A dog tag stained with smoke.

  ‘That’s what she was looking for when she went off limits,’ Plough said. ‘The police are chasing a Danish soldier now. He committed the recent murders to prevent the case being reopened.’

  ‘And the officer who killed these people in Helmand?’

  ‘The army say they’re taking care of that,’ Karina said with little enthusiasm. ‘Though since they never found the bodies in the first place . . .’ She looked at him. ‘You can’t win every battle, Thomas.’

  This pair had stuck with him throughout. Damaged, perhaps ruined their own careers through nothing except an innate sense of justice.

  ‘Thank you,’ Buch said very earnestly. ‘Is it too much to ask you to call a meeting of the parliamentary party? Without Grue Eriksen.’

  ‘We can try,’ Plough responded.

  That note of caution never really left Carsten Plough’s voice.

  ‘Say what you mean, will you?’

  ‘You’ve got nothing on Grue Eriksen,’ Plough insisted. ‘I told you before. It’s Rossing you should aim for. We know he was lying. We can prove it.’

  Buch laughed.

  ‘Ah. That old story . . .’

  ‘It was the Prime Minister who got you out of here,’ Plough added.

  ‘Since he threw me in here in the first place that seems appropriate, don’t you think? Can you arrange that meeting?’

  Plough didn’t move.

  ‘I don’t want you to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, as they say. Think carefully . . .’

  ‘I will,’ Buch promised. ‘Now can we get out of this grim hole, please?’

  By the time Buch got to the Folketinget the word was out with the media. A full pack of reporters and TV crews blocked the entrance.