by David Hewson
‘Why?’
The man in the long white robe didn’t look so confident any more.
‘Because I don’t think you’ll be seeing them for a while.’
Tuesday 15th November
7.43 a.m. The sound of morning traffic. Stale city air. It took a moment to realize where she was. Then Sarah Lund walked into her mother’s tiny bathroom and got ready for the day.
Mark was gone, along with every shred of wrapping paper. He was a teenager who tidied up now. How things had changed.
Vibeke was still in bed. Strange called as Lund got some coffee and toast.
‘His name’s Abdel Hussein Kodmani. A widower. Moroccan.’
She went into the spare room. There were still some clothes from two years before. Shirts, jeans and the Faroese sweaters she’d grown to like. They hadn’t followed her to Gedser. Looking at them now she couldn’t remember why.
Strange was going through tedious details.
‘Kodmani’s lived in Copenhagen for sixteen years. He was running the website that hosted the video.’
I guessed that, she almost said.
The sweaters once meant something. Promised a life she’d never have, out in the rural wilds of Sweden with Bengt Rosling, pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
Lund picked up the heavy, thick-knit jumper. It didn’t feel quite right yet. Too many associated memories. So she got a plain red one instead and climbed into a pair of clean jeans. They still fitted. Gedser hadn’t changed her really.
‘The police say Kodmani has been working under several aliases.’
‘Does he have a record?’
‘Not a thing. The school says he’s a good father. Very picky about the details of his kids’ education. Most of the Muslims there think he’s a bit nuts.’
Lund didn’t say anything.
‘What are you thinking?’ Strange asked.
‘Who says I’m thinking anything?’
‘I can tell.’
‘I was just thinking . . . if you’re running a terrorist cell, do you pick someone to front it who’s nuts?’
‘Yeah, well,’ Strange said a little testily. ‘That was all the good news. Here’s the bad. PET want a meeting. They’re pissed off with us. They’d had their sights on Kodmani for a while. We picked him up while they were waiting for some big fish to arrive.’
‘How the hell were we supposed to know that?’
‘Ask them. We’ve got to be there at nine.’
Then he was gone.
Vibeke came in. She didn’t look as welcoming as the day before.
‘You’re not going to stay in a hotel tonight, are you?’
‘I don’t want to disturb you. I don’t know what kind of hours . . .’
‘You won’t bother me.’
It was a bright, pale day. Vibeke’s street was by the railway line running to the Ryvangen Barracks, then Mindelunden across the tracks. In a way this case felt local.
‘You can have the key. I’m at Bjørn’s place most of the time anyway. We can talk about Saturday later.’
Lund packed her bag, got her jacket.
‘What about Saturday?’
Vibeke folded her arms.
‘I’m getting married, remember?’
‘Of course I remember!’ Lund lied. ‘I meant . . . what about Saturday, here?’
‘Bjørn’s relatives will be staying over. We’ve more than thirty people. Let me get you a spare key.’
She went to the table and found one on a short ribbon.
‘You will have time for dinner with us, won’t you? I want you to get to know Bjørn. He’s lovely. So kind and funny.’
Lund took out a plain elastic band, pulled her hair roughly into place behind her neck, didn’t bother looking for a mirror.
‘I’d like to get to know him. Maybe not now. I’m going to be busy. I want to see Mark too.’
‘You surely have time to eat!’ Vibeke took a deep breath. ‘Bjørn has a very pleasant friend. Much younger than him. It would be nice if you could meet him.’
Lund’s fingers fumbled with the elastic band. She kept quiet.
‘Well,’ Vibeke said. ‘I suppose it doesn’t have to be right now.’
There was a sound outside. Lund looked. Strange’s black police car was up on the pavement by the bench seats near the trees. He was out by the driver’s door, honking the horn. A touch of Meyer there, she thought. About time.
‘I’ve got to dash,’ she said. ‘I’d love to have dinner with Bjørn and you. Sometime.’
Vibeke was at the window.
‘Who’s that man?’
‘The key, Mum.’
‘Oh.’
She handed it over.
‘Sarah. I heard the news. I know I can’t ask you . . .’
‘You can’t.’
‘I said! I know!’
Lund was bad at these moments. She hadn’t appreciated quite how awkward they were for her mother too.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said and briefly touched Vibeke’s arm.
Brix sat silent throughout the meeting with Erik König in an interview room at the Politigården. The grey man from the security agency was clearly determined to make them feel as small and as guilty as possible.
‘You’ve jeopardized an investigation we’ve had running for months,’ the PET man declared, tapping the table with his trimmed fingernails.
‘We were faced with a situation. We dealt with it,’ Strange replied.
‘This has done us incalculable damage.’
‘If you’d been watching him for months why didn’t you know something was about to happen?’ Lund asked.
No answer.
‘Or did you?’ she persisted.
‘You know I’m not going to discuss matters of national security. You stick to your job. Let us do ours. And don’t get in our way.’
Strange was getting mad.
‘Don’t try and pin the blame on us. We’ve got two corpses in the morgue. What are we supposed to do? Twiddle our thumbs until you decide to say something?’
‘This is an unfortunate outcome,’ Brix intervened. ‘Let’s accept that and work out where we go from here. At least we’ve got our man.’
König snorted.
‘No you haven’t. Kodmani’s got an alibi, and since we’ve been watching him we know it’s watertight. Even if he didn’t . . . he’s a troublemaker. He doesn’t have the guts to kill someone. They’re pulling his strings. He’s just an idiot they used . . .’
‘He must know something,’ Lund said. ‘Do you have other leads?’
König took off his rimless glasses, played with them.
‘We’ve inquiries to make. I want you to focus on Kodmani and any followers he might have.’ Glasses back in place. Cold grey eyes on Brix. ‘Is that agreed?’
Beyond the window, shapes moving. Guards from the adjoining prison, walking Kodmani to a room in the Politigården.
‘Good,’ König said without waiting for an answer. ‘Let’s see how he interviews.’ He cast a glance at Strange then Lund. ‘And you.’
Breakfast in Thomas Buch’s office. Birgitte Agger and Erling Krabbe around the table with coffee and pastries. Buch pacing the room, going through the morning coverage. Plough making notes.
‘What’s happened with the man they arrested?’ Agger asked.
‘It takes time,’ Buch replied. ‘They’ll interview him this morning. Let’s leave the police and the security services to do their work, which I will follow. And concentrate on ours.’
He sat down, showed them a front page: Anne Dragsholm’s bloody face from the video.
‘We need to announce a united front about the anti-terror package. The public expects a response. So do the vicious bastards behind this. The answer for both is the same. We’re resolute. We shall not be moved. Denmark is an open, democratic nation. We’ll guard our borders, redouble our security. But we will not change who we are.’
Agger scowled.
‘Save your speeches f
or the press. Why were we taken by surprise in the first place?’
‘The police believed the Dragsholm woman was murdered by her husband,’ Carsten Plough broke in. ‘We had no way of knowing there was a connection to terrorism.’
She was unconvinced.
‘You have PET. That’s why they’re here. Anything else you need to tell us?’
‘No,’ Buch said. ‘We need to stick together. If we let them divide us—’
‘I said this would happen!’ Krabbe cried. ‘You’ve allowed these people to come here, to behave as they wish. To poison our way of life . . .’
Buch took a deep breath.
‘We’re here to discuss a piece of legislation. Not a criminal case under investigation.’
‘Two people are dead, Buch. A fundamentalist is in custody. Save your breath. We won’t vote for this package as it stands. It’s cowardly and insufficient. These people are murdering innocent Danes.’
Buch fought to keep his temper.
‘I’m the Minister of Justice and I don’t know who these people, as you call them, are. Why are you so sure?’
‘Who else could it be? And when he’s found guilty—’
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Plough interrupted. ‘We’re discussing these matters in ignorance. Let’s give the police a chance and meet again in the evening. Then, hopefully, we’ll know more.’
‘Play for time all you like,’ Krabbe said then shuffled his papers and tucked them into a briefcase. ‘The facts speak for themselves.’
Birgitte Agger waved at him with her fingers as Krabbe left.
‘That silly little man thinks he’s got you on the ropes, Buch. The trouble is he’s right.’
‘We should be above politics on this. Why . . .’
She was laughing, at him.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing’s ever above politics.’ She finished her coffee, got up from the table. ‘If you alter one word of the present agreement you can count us out.’
‘That won’t happen,’ Buch insisted. ‘I’ll call you later to confirm.’
‘One word . . .’
And then she left.
Silence for a while and then Plough said wearily, ‘You’re going to have to rewrite the package and give Krabbe what he wants.’
Buch blinked.
‘What?’
‘He’s under pressure from his own party to win something. Agger’s got no reason to give you a break. So she’ll dump you. Even if it’s over a comma. She’s planning it already . . .’
Buch bristled.
‘You know that, do you? For a fact?’
‘No,’ Plough said patiently. ‘But I’m right. You’ll see.’
Lund looked at the Moroccan man across the table. He now wore a blue cotton prison suit. His beard was freshly combed. He seemed calm, earnest. Resigned even. A man in the hands of enemies, in his own eyes anyway. He had someone from one of the left-wing legal practices by his side.
‘My client will cooperate,’ the lawyer said.
‘He can tell us what he knows about the Muslim League then,’ Strange began.
‘I only heard about it yesterday,’ Kodmani answered. ‘When all you people started shouting at me.’
‘Their video was on your website,’ Lund pointed out.
The lawyer broke in, reading a statement on Kodmani’s behalf.
‘My client sells and publishes books to spread the word of the Koran. Under the law he enjoys both freedom of religion and speech—’
‘Won’t get that back home, will you?’ Strange cut in.
Behind the one-way glass Brix and König were watching. Lund wondered how they’d take that.
‘My client offers the website as a literary platform and an international forum. He’s not responsible, legally or in any practical way, for everything that’s uploaded there. He knew nothing of the video and has never incited anyone to commit a terrorist act.’
Kodmani’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be praying.
‘Nice try,’ Strange said. ‘We’ve been all through that little office you hid downstairs. We know what you were up to. The videos. The leaflets. Incitement—’
‘There’s nothing there that’s illegal,’ the Moroccan insisted.
‘We found your leaflets at the second murder. Your website was used for a video of a woman about to be killed in cold blood.’
‘I didn’t know . . .’
‘That’s not good enough,’ Strange said, voice rising. ‘You’ve got an alibi. We don’t think you murdered anyone. But you’re involved. Either you talk now or . . .’
‘It looks bad,’ Lund added, staring straight at him across the table. ‘You can see that. It looks very bad.’
The man was kneading his hands. The lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear.
‘We’ll have to foster your kids if you go to jail,’ she went on. ‘They’ll try to find a Muslim family. No guarantees. Maybe—’
‘I didn’t know!’ Kodmani screamed. ‘OK?’
Lund folded her arms, kept watching.
‘He got to me through the website. He emailed me.’
‘Who did?’
The man in the blue suit looked ashamed to be talking to them.
‘He called himself Faith Fellow. He seemed . . . a good man. Someone who liked what I was doing.’
‘A fan?’ Strange asked.
‘Maybe. He said he had a religious video he was making. He wanted to upload it somewhere everyone would see it. I told him OK. Gave him a password. Suddenly . . . it turned up there last night. I didn’t know what it was.’
‘We need the emails he sent you,’ Lund said.
Kodmani laughed.
‘I don’t keep emails. They all get deleted. Properly. For good. Do you think I’m stupid?’
Strange pushed his notepad to one side.
‘Tell me this isn’t a fairy story. Who do you think this Faith Fellow is?’
‘I don’t know! If criminals get hold of my leaflets . . . that’s not my fault. You can pick them up at public libraries. Like I told you. They’re legal.’
The lawyer was looking smug.
‘I don’t expect you to like me,’ the Moroccan said. ‘We’re on different sides. But . . .’
The wagging finger came out and it pointed at her.
‘I didn’t break your laws. You’ve no cause to keep me here.’
The lawyer looked at his watch and started to pack his things.
‘We’re counting,’ he said. ‘Hold my client one second more than you’re entitled and we’re in court.’
Lennart Brix wasn’t interested in the Moroccan’s faceless email correspondent Faith Fellow.
He passed Strange a list of Kodmani’s religious contacts and customers for his books along with the addresses of those who’d registered with the website.
‘I want them all questioned. We found blood on some barbed wire on the way out of the veterans’ club. No match with anything on the DNA records so far.’
‘What was he looking for in the club?’ Lund asked. ‘Why did he go back?’
‘I don’t think that’s much of a priority. Is it?’
‘But why—?’
‘Not a priority,’ Brix repeated and walked off.
She got her bag.
‘I’ll be gone for an hour or so,’ she told Strange.
‘Why?’
‘Myg Poulsen visited an army buddy yesterday. He’s called Raben. He’s in Herstedvester. I put in a request for an interview but the medical staff wouldn’t allow it.’
Strange watched her sifting busily through the papers on her desk.
‘Brix told us to focus on Kodmani.’
‘Why would he upload a video like that onto his own website? He’s a fanatic. Not an idiot.’
‘So you want to talk to Poulsen’s army buddy?’
‘Just a thought.’ She smiled. That seemed to work on Strange. ‘I’ve got something to do on the way. It might be more than an hour. More like two.
Or . . .’
The pen she liked had strayed onto Strange’s half of the desk. She reached out, caught the edge of a cold cup of coffee, sent it tumbling, spilling brown liquid all over his papers.
Ulrik Strange blinked, said nothing.
‘I’ll call,’ Lund said, then grabbed the pen and hurried out.
Meyer still lived in the same place on the edge of Nørrebro. Lund parked the car in the road, looked up the drive. Saw the garage. Doors open. No motorbike there any more. But the DJ turntables were visible at the back, now gathering dust.
The rain was holding off for the moment. He was in the yard playing with two of his three girls. Beautiful kids with blonde hair, taller than she remembered, running round and round Meyer’s shiny powered wheelchair.
There was a baseball net on the wall. Full size. Not like the little one he had in the office they’d shared.
He was grabbing the ball from them, bouncing it on the hard, uneven ground, popping it up towards the net. His arms looked more muscular than before. She didn’t want to think about that too much.
Lund stayed behind the wheel and watched.
He hit the net twice, shaking with laughter. Then let the girls get the better of him, prodded, cajoled, persuaded them until, finally, they got three scores.
Her heart felt as if it might tear in two as she watched him hunch over, bury his pop-eared head in his arms and pretend to sob, shoulders heaving, a faint, pathetic cry reaching her ears.
She’d seen this for real, in hospital when she tried to drag him back into the Birk Larsen case one last time, and brought from Meyer an animal howl that haunted her even now. Lund couldn’t believe she’d acted like that. Meyer had screamed something about how she couldn’t connect with anything, anyone close.
Mark, the young Mark, not the fast-growing, calm, intelligent teenager who now lived with his father, had said it too.
Mum, you’re only interested in dead people. Not me.
That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. It was just . . .
Meyer had stopped playing with his girls. He was looking out from the yard, down the drive. Towards the road. He’d been a good cop, better than he knew. She’d taught him how to look.
And now there was a solitary car parked outside his house in this quiet corner of Nørrebro. Of course he’d see.
See her.
She thought of what Brix said. Priorities.
