by David Hewson
‘I don’t really need—’
‘It’s hard for them when you break up. But best in the long run, for everyone I think. I like football and opera, up to a point. When I was at school I loved camping and birdwatching and orienteering. All that outdoor stuff. But now . . . the time . . . the time . . .’
‘Sarah,’ Lund said and shook his hand very quickly. ‘Take the next left turn. Poulsen was decorated.’
‘How about you?’
‘I was never decorated.’
‘I meant—’
‘I know what you meant. There’s nothing to tell.’
He looked at her, frowned.
‘Everyone’s got something to tell.’
‘You’ve been to Gedser. You’ve heard the office gossip.’
‘I don’t listen to that shit.’
‘And I don’t talk about it either.’
He went quiet.
‘We can chat about everything else,’ Lund suggested. ‘Football. Opera. Camping.’ She laughed. ‘Birdwatching.’
‘Now you’re taking the piss.’
‘No I’m not. Anything else. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘So long as it’s about the case.’
He went quiet for a moment. She’d offended him and wasn’t sure how.
‘Next left?’
A sign appeared: Ryvangen Barracks. Lots of soldiers at the gate. They had rifles.
‘I’ll go with that,’ Lund said.
Ryvangen had been in the hands of the military for more than a century, a mixed collection of buildings, barracks, officers’ training grounds. It took ten minutes to get through security. Lund used the time to think about Mindelunden, less than a kilometre away.
A busy railway line separated the barracks from the memorial ground, but it wasn’t impassable. Not to a soldier. A childhood memory told her the two were once linked, which was why the Nazis who occupied these buildings used the former practice ranges to execute their prisoners.
Coincidence. Probably.
Once inside she felt she’d entered a different, foreign world. Groups of armed troops ran in formation through the rain. Camouflaged lorries and all-terrain military Mercedes G-Wagens flitted everywhere. The buildings were mostly a bastardized version of Brick Gothic, dun-red, four-square, angular, imposing.
She was unsure of their jurisdiction here. The army had their own police force. To add to the confusion Lund didn’t know precisely where the Politigården’s writ ended and PET’s began. But two murders had been committed, both in the city, not behind these high wires.
Homicide was her territory again. Anyone who trespassed on it had best beware.
They met in the office of Colonel Jarnvig, camp commander from what she could gather, early fifties, a tall, ascetic man, not happy they were there. With him was Major Christian Søgaard, a cocky-looking blond officer with a grizzled hunter’s beard. Both wore camouflage uniforms, a few medals, epaulettes. They shook hands but it was Strange they looked at mainly. This was a man’s world.
They sat opposite Jarnvig at his desk while Søgaard stood stiff behind as if to attention.
‘I know what this is about,’ the colonel said. ‘Myg Poulsen. I got a call.’
‘Who from?’ Lund asked straight out.
‘Aalborg,’ he said, as if that answered everything.
‘Who in Aalborg?’ she persisted.
‘Aalborg’s army headquarters,’ Strange explained. ‘Brix was going to tell them. Procedure . . .’
‘Procedure,’ Jarnvig repeated.
‘What was Poulsen’s connection to the barracks?’ Strange asked.
‘Lance Corporal Poulsen did service here for many years,’ Jarnvig replied. ‘He was a good man. A brave and dependable soldier. We’re deeply distressed by this news.’
‘How long was he in?’
‘He came in as a conscript then signed up,’ Søgaard said. ‘Saw service abroad. The usual places.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Yesterday morning at roll call. He joined up again a month ago. He was due to go out to Helmand with the new team in a week.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’ Lund asked. ‘To leave the army then come back?’
‘Not really,’ Søgaard answered with a shrug. ‘Some of them moan like hell when they’re in. Then when they’re out they realize it wasn’t so bad after all.’
‘How was he killed?’ Jarnvig asked.
Strange was about to speak when Lund said, ‘We can’t go into the details.’
‘Would I be right to assume his death is connected to the terrorism alert? Is he one of the two victims they’re talking about?’
Jarnvig wasn’t going to let this go.
‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Did anyone threaten him? Is that why he signed up again?’
‘He signed up because he wanted to come back,’ Søgaard said with a bored sigh. ‘He didn’t mention any problems.’
‘Have you received any general threats?’ Strange asked.
A grim laugh from Jarnvig.
‘We get it all the time. Kids. Lunatics. Troublemakers. Phone calls and emails every day. But nothing from the Muslim League.’
Lund kept quiet. So did Strange.
‘It was on the TV news,’ the colonel added. ‘I heard the name there.’
‘We’ll need a printout of all the threats you’ve received,’ Strange said.
‘And Allan Myg Poulsen’s personnel file,’ Lund added. ‘Anything that relates to his period of service.’
Jarnvig thought about this.
‘Søgaard will give you what we’re able to release.’
‘I want it all,’ Lund said, and tapped her finger lightly on the desk.
Jarnvig shook his head.
‘He was a soldier. Anything that doesn’t touch on national security you can have. That’s as far as I can go . . .’
‘This is a murder inquiry. We’re police.’
‘And this is an army barracks. I’ve eight hundred men about to go to Afghanistan and risk their lives for their country. Nothing leaves this place if it puts them in jeopardy for a single second. What I can give you Søgaard will provide. Now . . .’
He got up from the desk, held out his hand. Strange stood up straight away, took it.
Another former soldier, Lund guessed. Denmark had conscription. It was hardly surprising. That deference to your superiors never really disappeared.
‘If you don’t mind I’d like to inform my staff personally,’ Jarnvig said.
Lund took out a picture of Dragsholm, smiling, recent.
‘Do you know this woman?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Jarnvig said without the least hesitation.
‘Her name’s Anne Dragsholm. A military legal adviser. Perhaps she did some work inside Ryvangen.’
He passed the photo to Søgaard who looked at it and shook his head.
‘We’d like to talk to someone who knew Myg Poulsen well,’ Strange said.
Jarnvig nodded.
‘I understand. His company commander can show you around.’
He passed over a card, told Søgaard to do the same.
‘It’s important the police understand our position. This case poses uncertainty and worry. It’s the last thing my men need before a tour of duty. All communication on this matter must go through me or Major Søgaard. I want that clear now.’
‘Sure,’ Strange agreed straight off.
Lund picked up the photo of Anne Dragsholm and said nothing.
Poulsen’s company commander was Lieutenant Said Bilal, a young, gloomy-looking officer, Danish-raised from his accent, but with immigrant parents judging by his looks.
Bilal took them to the barracks room Poulsen shared with seven other men when he was on duty. Bunk beds, a few personal belongings. It was almost as bare and characterless as the veterans’ club where he died.
‘Most of the men are at home now,’ Bilal said as he led them in.
He pointed out
a single top bed near the window.
‘This was his bunk.’
Then a tall metal locker.
‘This was his locker.’
Lund opened the door. Clothes, shoes. Underwear. Photographs of women in bikinis.
‘Did you know him well?’ Strange asked.
‘Not very.’ Bilal stood by the bed, erect, moody. He had very dark hair and the face of a bored teenager. ‘Nobody did. He didn’t mix much.’
‘Kept the veterans’ club going, didn’t he?’ Lund asked.
Bilal nodded.
‘He liked to do things for people who’d left, I guess.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Strange went on.
She went back to the cupboard, sorting through the things there.
‘Roll call yesterday morning.’
‘Later?’
‘No. They had the rest of the day off.’
Strange kept throwing questions at him.
‘When did he volunteer to go back to Helmand?’
Bilal thought for a moment then said, ‘Last week. Not long after he signed up again.’
‘Was it a sudden decision?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Strange’s phone rang. Lund went through a sheet of appointments: training, medical, briefings.
A name had been scribbled in for that afternoon.
‘Who’s Raben?’ she asked.
Bilal looked round the room, out of the window, didn’t meet her eyes when he said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s not someone in the camp?’
‘I said. I don’t know.’
Strange finished the call.
‘They’ve found the printers. The leaflets were delivered to a bookshop in Nørrebro. We’ve got a name. Aisha Oman.’
‘Anything else?’ Bilal asked.
‘No,’ Strange said.
Lund closed the locker door.
‘Brix says we should take a look,’ Strange told her.
‘Fine,’ she said, then stood in front of Said Bilal, smiled at him, said very politely, ‘Thanks for everything.’
It was just past ten in Buch’s office. Karina had sent out for some Japanese food. Two dirty plates and a couple of sets of discarded chopsticks littered the table alongside the rising piles of documents. Buch had called home, confirmed a security detail had been placed around his family. Not that his wife liked that at all.
And the anti-terror package – the very measure he wanted dealt with – was back in limbo. Buch’s first hope was that the news of the attacks would bring Krabbe and Agger back in line with the government’s position. He was beginning to realize how naive some of his firmly held backbench opinions about national unity seemed once they were viewed from the perspective of government.
‘They’re both saying they back the general position . . .’ Karina began after coming off the second of two long phone calls.
‘To hell with the general position. Will they vote for the package?’
‘They want to be informed about the case, Minister.’
‘Oh for pity’s sake, call me “Thomas”.’
‘I can’t,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s not right. And you shouldn’t call Plough “Carsten” either. It makes him uncomfortable.’
Buch finished the last piece of sushi.
‘Do you want me to order some more?’
‘No. That would be greedy. Why is everyone around here so uptight?’
That brought a mischievous glint of amusement to her eyes.
‘This is the civil service. It’s the way things are.’
‘Call me Thomas when no one can hear.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Ridiculous. So they won’t make a statement of agreement tonight?’
‘Not until they’ve heard from you.’
He balled up his napkin, threw it very carefully at the bin in the corner, was pleased to hit it dead centre first time.
‘Plough was right,’ Buch said. ‘They’re just waiting for an excuse to play politics. Krabbe will demand something new. Agger too, or else she’ll try to damn us somehow. I’ll try again. See if I can dredge up a sense of decency in them.’
That made her laugh, which pleased him. She seemed too young to be working such long hours.
He called Krabbe.
‘You wanted to be informed.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘At the moment I wouldn’t like to say. It’s important we show a united front . . .’
The trill of another phone. He looked up. Karina was holding her mobile.
‘A moment,’ Buch said and put Krabbe on hold.
‘The police have found out who set up the website for the video,’ she said.
He nodded, went back to Krabbe.
‘Let’s meet tomorrow morning and I’ll brief you as much as I can.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Because I’m busy. Wouldn’t you expect me to be?’
‘We’re not going to get on, are we?’
That offended Thomas Buch.
‘I hope so. For everyone’s sake. How about eight? I’d like Agger to be there.’
‘Eight,’ Krabbe said and the line went dead.
A terraced building across the Lakes, close to the Dronning Louises bridge. The usual pizza and kebab shop on the ground floor. Flats above and behind, probably fifteen or more in the whole block. They worked their way door by door up to the second floor.
‘Where’s the bookshop?’ Lund grumbled.
A woman came up the stairs. She was young, Middle Eastern-looking with a purple hijab.
‘Hi,’ Lund said, taking out her ID. ‘We’re looking for Aisha Oman.’
A young man behind her was carrying a baby. Husband, Lund guessed.
‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ he said. ‘We live here.’
‘She owns a bookshop.’
The man thought for a moment, then said, ‘Try the ground floor. Behind the pizza place. Someone keeps books there I think.’
‘Who?’ Strange demanded.
‘Kodmani. I haven’t seen him today.’
‘What about his wife?’ Lund asked.
‘She died a couple of years ago.’
Lund looked at Strange.
‘I thought you tried that door.’
‘I did. No one answered.’
She walked downstairs, found the bell push, pressed it once, waited for a couple of seconds, then kept her thumb on it, listening to the weedy trilling from behind the door.
Nothing.
They stood back. Lights on inside. Music coming from somewhere.
Lund looked at Strange. Raised a dark eyebrow. Waited.
Watched him kick down the door, go in yelling, handgun raised.
This, at least, he seemed good at.
The place was brightly lit, the walls covered in exotic tapestries, repeating oriental patterns, beaded curtains dividing off the space between dining room and a small tidy kitchen.
Footsteps. The gun twitched. A tall, heavily built man with a thick black beard came out from behind the beads, started yelling at them, a foreign tongue first, then Danish.
‘My children are asleep. What is this? What do you want?’
A young boy, no more than eight or nine, stood behind him, clinging to his father’s white robe. A girl, a year or two older, was further back, glaring at them, her pretty face full of hate.
Strange told the man to hold out his arms, patted him down.
‘Are you Kodmani?’
‘What do you want?’
He was still playing with a prayer bead as the handgun dodged around him.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Lund said to the two kids. ‘Go back to bed. There’s nothing to worry about.’
She looked at the man.
‘Kodmani? Help us here. We’ve no business with your children.’
He calmed down a little at that, told them to go back to their rooms.
These big old houses, she thought, looking around. They seemed to r
un on and on for ever.
‘Three months ago you ordered some leaflets in your wife’s name,’ Lund said once the kids were out of earshot. ‘Why did you do that?’
He puffed out his chest. Like the men in Ryvangen, Kodmani didn’t think women should be asking questions either.
‘Do you have a search warrant? I know my rights—’
‘Where were you earlier today?’
‘I want to see a lawyer.’
‘Why?’ Strange asked. ‘What did you do wrong?’
‘I know my rights.’ He was wagging his right finger at them, the way men did in the suicide videos she’d seen. ‘I know you can’t just break in here . . .’
Lund looked at the oriental carpet and the way the wiring ran around it. Some of the cabling was amateurish, tacked along the skirting board.
Then it went down. Somewhere close to where Kodmani had quite deliberately stood.
‘Move away,’ she ordered.
He didn’t shift.
‘Move!’ Strange yelled.
Kodmani got off the carpet. Lund dragged it aside.
A full-length trapdoor replaced the flooring all the way into a disused chimney breast. She took hold of the handle, lifted it.
‘That’s my storeroom!’ Kodmani shouted, getting angry, scared. ‘You can’t go down there. I want to see a search warrant.’
Lund found a light switch, walked down a set of modern metal stairs.
It was warm and fusty and smelled of damp. One big bare room with pipes and discarded tools. But there was a faint light coming from behind another set of beaded curtains.
She walked through.
A desk. A fish tank. An angled lamp. Boxes and boxes of freshly printed leaflets and posters. Piles and piles of a book with the title Al Jihad in English.
Rack upon rack of computer equipment, boxes, wires, what looked like a discarded satellite dish, and one large monitor.
She sat down in front of it, found she could place the image of the screensaver. Mecca during the Haj. Thousands and thousands of pilgrims milling around the black and gold cube of the Kaaba.
Lund edged the mouse on the desk, brought the screen to life.
A single window, a browser. Anne Dragsholm on the screen, reading out the last words she’d ever utter.
Back upstairs, she nodded at Strange.
‘Do you have any relatives who can look after your kids?’ Lund asked Kodmani.
