by David Hewson
‘Why didn’t you see this memo?’ the Prime Minister asked.
He seemed more puzzled than disappointed.
‘Monberg removed it from the file, and some other material too it seems. Birgitte Agger’s fully aware I never saw it.’
Grue Eriksen took his leather chair, beckoned Buch to the seat opposite. Creaseless blue shirt, maroon tie, every silver hair in place . . . Buch knew he could never be a politician like this.
‘Why on earth would Monberg tamper with the records?’
‘It was just before he fell ill. We don’t know.’
The Prime Minister looked baffled.
‘This is quite extraordinary. And improper . . .’
‘He never said anything?’
‘Monberg never spoke of the case in my presence. Why do you think he would?’
Buch struggled for an answer. Krabbe was right: he was out of his depth in some ways.
‘I assumed . . .’
‘You should never assume anything,’ Grue Eriksen said with a laugh. ‘I know everyone thinks I’m the boss here. But really I’m the face on the packaging. The details I have to leave to ministers like you. If I’d known there was a hint of terrorism I’d have convened a formal meeting with the Opposition parties and briefed them instantly. That’s their right. And our duty. We may have to give them that now . . .’
‘Of course,’ Buch agreed.
Grue Eriksen scowled.
‘I don’t believe this is about national security for one minute,’ he said. ‘It’s politics. Agger wants to smear us any way she can.’
Grue Eriksen got up and put on his jacket.
‘You need to limit the damage, Thomas. Put a lid on the whole matter. Bring Krabbe round. We can deal with Agger.’
‘Of course.’ Buch had no idea how he could achieve either. ‘It’s a shame Monberg hasn’t regained consciousness. If we knew his side of things it would be easier.’
Grue Eriksen shook his grey head.
‘Don’t bring Monberg into this. He’s still in a coma. Do a deal with Krabbe. Close the murder investigation. Then no one will listen to Birgitte Agger’s bleating for a second.’
Grue Eriksen looked at the clock.
‘I’ve got to go.’ He rose from the chair, came over and shook Buch’s hand very warmly. ‘I’m sorry for this baptism of fire. I’m sure you’d no idea what you were letting yourself in for. I certainly didn’t.’
Outside, in the chilly corridor, waiting for Karina to turn up and take him back to his own office, the phone rang.
Buch looked at the number and felt his heart leap.
Home.
‘Are the girls asleep?’ Buch asked.
A stream of complaints rushed out of Marie. About the security around the house. The way he didn’t call when he’d promised.
‘I’m sorry I never said goodnight to them. Something came up . . . Slotsholmen. Politics. Work.’
The one question he didn’t want.
‘I don’t know when I’ll be home, love. There are problems here. Maybe a crisis. I don’t know . . .’
To his surprise she offered to come and stay in Copenhagen for a while. He thought about this, but not for long. He wouldn’t have time to see her. Things would only feel worse.
‘Let’s talk about this later,’ he said and felt an immediate stab of guilt.
That was a politician’s answer, not a husband’s. And it seemed to come so very easily.
Brix was striding down the corridor towards the homicide detectives’ office, a box file under his arm, Lund telling him what she knew. Not that he showed much interest.
‘Raben denied he’d met Anne Dragsholm.’ She showed him the photo lifted from Jarnvig’s office. ‘But we found this.’
The chief was in a casual shirt beneath his customary charcoal suit. As if something had disturbed his ordered life.
‘Raben was in a team called Ægir. They went out two years ago on a six-month tour.’ She pointed at the picture. ‘That’s Raben, Myg Poulsen and the Dragsholm woman in the same shot.’
‘So what?’ Brix asked. ‘Where’s the connection to the Muslim League?’
‘Someone got into the barracks database using Myg Poulsen’s password. They took a list of Team Ægir’s members.’
Brix walked into a side office. Strange was waiting there.
‘We need to find Raben,’ Lund insisted. ‘He knows what this is all about.’
Silence.
‘Am I wasting my breath here?’ Lund asked, hand on hips.
He looked at her, pulled a sheet of paper from his file, passed it over to Strange.
‘PET have arrested three more suspects connected to Kodmani,’ Brix said.
‘Raben—’ Lund repeated.
‘Forget about Raben for a moment. When PET were searching Kodmani’s home they found a key to a post office box in Vesterbro. It’s registered in Kodmani’s name.’
He took an evidence bag out of the box file: a silver dog tag, no name, just crosses where the numbers should be.
‘The contents speak for themselves. I don’t think we need worry about escaped soldiers.’
A noise at the door. Erik König in a blue suit, raincoat over his arm. He shook Brix’s hand, called him “Lennart”. Smiled for a second or so.
‘You two are going to throw this at Kodmani,’ Brix said. ‘We’ll watch.’
He stayed in the observation room with Erik König, following the interrogation through the one-way glass.
Kodmani in a prison suit, trim beard, face impassive. Lund and Strange across the table.
‘You sympathize with the Taliban,’ Strange said, pointing a pen at him.
‘The Afghan people have the right to defend themselves against foreign aggressors. You would, wouldn’t you?’ Kodmani smiled. ‘Unless it was the Nazis. Took a while then, didn’t it?’
Brix watched for his officers’ reactions, knew König was doing the same. Strange took a deep breath, looked ready to get mad. Lund sat still, arms folded, not saying a word.
‘Is it OK to kill Danish soldiers?’ Strange asked.
‘What do you expect? You’re at war. You kill us too. Kill women and children . . .’
Strange opened Brix’s file. Took out the evidence bag.
‘Is that why you collect dog tags?’
‘What?’
‘You heard. These were in your post office box in Vesterbro.’
Kodmani glanced at the tags and shook his head.
König came close to Brix.
‘He looks a good man,’ the PET chief said. ‘The other one seems to have lost her tongue.’
‘Give it time,’ Brix suggested.
Strange persisted.
‘You registered the box a month ago.’
Strange picked up the bag.
‘These tags are identical to ones that were left at the murder scenes.’
The man in the blue prison suit looked scared then.
‘I’ve never seen these things before.’
‘Then why were they there?’ Strange asked.
‘I don’t know—’
‘What was the post office box for?’ Lund asked. ‘You kept those flyers at home. You work with email . . .’
No answer.
Strange scattered some photos across the table.
‘Take a look at what you did. Don’t deny it. I want to know who you ordered to kill these people—’
‘I didn’t order anyone to do anything!’
‘Look at this, damn you.’
Crime scene shots. Anne Dragsholm’s body tethered to a stake in Mindelunden. Myg Poulsen upside down bleeding onto the floor of the veterans’ club.
Kodmani was swallowing, didn’t like this.
‘Faith Fellow told me he needed a post office box,’ he said. ‘I never used it. He did—’
‘Bullshit!’ Strange barked at him. ‘You were the recruiting sergeant. You picked the men. I want to know who.’
Lund leaned forward. She looked as
if she was getting cross, and not with Kodmani.
‘Why would anyone need a post office box?’ she asked.
Strange was on a roll.
‘You take what you can from living here and preach to us about injustice. Then let these other mugs do your dirty work for you—’
‘What language did Faith Fellow write in?’ Lund asked.
‘Come clean, damn you!’ Strange shouted.
Kodmani sat back, confused, scared. Two sets of conflicting questions.
‘You run an interesting line in interrogation, Lennart,’ Erik König said quietly. ‘We’re under the spotlight here. If there’s a screw-up someone’s going to pay and it won’t be me.’
Lund persisted.
‘Did he write in Danish? In English? In Arabic?’
Strange was still ranting.
‘Shut up for a moment, will you?’ Lund barked at him. ‘What did Faith Fellow write, Kodmani? What about Raben?’
Brix was watching König when that name came up. Noted the PET man’s visible reaction.
‘Did he mention someone in Team Ægir called Jens Peter Raben?’ Lund asked. ‘This is important. If we’re to believe you . . .’
Kodmani’s arms wound more tightly round his prison suit.
‘I’m not answering any more questions.’
‘You haven’t answered any in the first place,’ Lund said. ‘Who’s Faith Fellow? What do you know . . . ?’
König tapped Brix’s arm.
‘Perhaps it would make more sense if we handled the questioning from now on . . .’
Brix walked out, opened the door to the room, waited for her to fall silent, then nodded. The interview was at an end.
He went with König to a quiet place, a circular vestibule in the warren of black marble corridors that ran through the Politigården.
‘We’ll keep Kodmani and the three men you found for now.’
‘I meant that about the interrogation. We can’t . . .’
‘This is a murder investigation. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
König put on his raincoat, glanced at him.
‘Remember what I said. Cases like these make and break careers. Be careful who you choose to keep around you.’
‘Lund’s temporary. She used to work here—’
‘Thank you,’ König said curtly. ‘I know who Lund is. Her reputation precedes her.’
A precise, meticulous man, he pulled out the white cuffs of his shirt so they showed from the coat.
‘I won’t interfere with your investigation. Yet. But she was thrown out of here for a reason.’
He patted Brix lightly on the arm.
‘You’re taking quite a risk. I hope you think she’s worth it.’
Lund stayed in the shadows, listening to the two men talk in low voices around the corner. Brix knew she’d be eavesdropping. That was why he’d taken the man from PET where he did. The Politigården was built for conspiracy. She’d fallen victim to it once before. Never really learned to play that game.
So she went back into the interview room where Strange sat silent, going over his notes, avoiding her.
Brix returned.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lund said. ‘I didn’t mean to break it up like that. I just think—’
‘I want a word with Lund on her own,’ Brix said.
Strange got up from the table, took his pad and pen.
Stopped, looked at the tall man in the suit.
‘I just want to say I’m with Lund here,’ Strange told him. ‘I don’t see how the dog tags could have been planted on Kodmani. But . . .’
Brix did not want to hear this. Strange knew and didn’t care.
‘If it hadn’t been for Lund we’d never have got this far. If she feels this strongly about Raben then maybe we should be checking him out.’
Then he left.
Silence between them. That was rarely good.
‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘I heard.’
‘If you want me to go back to Gedser—’
‘I’ll tell you when that happens, Lund. Just try and keep a handle on your temper in future, will you?’ He hesitated, as if thinking about whether to say what was on his mind. ‘Especially when we’ve got PET watching.’
Back at the desk she shared with Strange she started going through the files they’d got from the barracks and PET again. He was trying to track down more information on Jens Peter Raben.
‘He robbed a petrol station near the Herstedvester,’ he said coming off the phone. ‘Stole a car. Could be anywhere by now.’
‘If he’s a jæger won’t he be good at this?’
‘I said he trained with them. He wasn’t one of them. If he was . . .’
Strange stamped his finger on the list for the Team Ægir tour.
‘His name wouldn’t be on here. Jarnvig wouldn’t feel he owned him.’
‘Any friends?’
‘Myg Poulsen and a lawyer they just fired. We need one of your bright ideas.’
‘Somebody from Ægir can tell us about him. And the victims.’
He looked at the papers strewn between them.
‘Five hundred names or more. We could start at the barracks tomorrow.’
He passed over the sheets.
‘I’ll follow up on Raben,’ Lund said. ‘You see if you can get something out of the army.’
‘Sure.’
He got up, took his windcheater and scarf off the rack.
‘And thanks,’ Lund said. ‘For . . .’
Thanks were never easy.
‘For what?’
‘Sticking up for me.’
He looked surprised.
‘We’re partners. We watch out for each other, don’t we?’
‘True.’
That quick, bright smile.
‘Besides, you weren’t going to stop, were you?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’ He looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘I wish we hadn’t met like this.’
It seemed an odd observation.
‘How else . . . ?’ Lund asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’ A finger in the air. ‘Birdwatching. That’s it.’
She found herself laughing.
One of the uniform officers came in and called him over.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting someone. See you tomorrow. Phone if something important turns up.’
Lund didn’t watch him go. She concentrated on the papers, the work. Not Ulrik Strange, a passably talented police officer with a curious, warm side to him.
It was just an accident that, as she got up for her jacket, she turned to look at the corridor outside. Saw him there with a blonde woman, back to the glass, Strange’s arm round her shoulders.
He gave his companion the briefest kiss on the cheek then they left.
One of the young officers came in with some photographs. Raben at the petrol station, begging desperately for a lift.
‘They said he was trying to get back to the city,’ the detective told her. ‘We’ve got the car. It was abandoned in Enghaven park.’
The name of the place gave her a jolt. Nanna Birk Larsen had been held captive just a couple of streets away.
‘So he’s here,’ Lund said.
‘Somewhere,’ the young cop agreed.
Fancy restaurants and sex shops. Run-down alleys and the grimy, twenty-four-hour bustle of the meat-packing district. Vesterbro was a bustling inner-city suburb of neon-lit streets, family enclaves, small immigrant communities. A useful warren in which to hide.
Raben knew it well from his youth, though now he had no friends, no family there. This was good. The police would know too so they’d have no idea where to look for him.
The church was sturdy Brick Gothic with a tower by the side. The industrial buildings of the meat-packing district were just two streets away. At night some of them gave over their upper floors to discotheques and clubs. Or so he’d read in the papers. This was all new to him, bey
ond the tastes and the pocket of a soldier with a family.
Head down, hood around his features, he found his way to the side door, let himself in.
The familiar old smell. Polish and damp. The same chill air.
A figure was at the altar, arranging some flowers. Raben pulled down his hood, stopped on the threshold.
He recognized that burly shape.
‘We’re closed,’ Gunnar Torpe announced in that strong, musical voice Raben had heard every Sunday, almost without fail.
Priest. That was the one name they used for him. Raben was never sure they needed men of God on the battlefield. But at least this one could fight when needed.
‘Come back tomorrow,’ Torpe said as he glanced up at the crucifix above him.
The building seemed bigger inside than out, with white walls, a few paintings, silver candelabra and lamps. A long way from the dusty tents in Helmand where Torpe used to preach his sermons.
Raben closed the door.
The man in a priest’s robe turned and looked at him sharply.
‘I said tomorrow!’
The scruffy figure walked forward into the dim light above the nave.
Torpe stood frozen beneath the painted statue of Christ, gazing at him as if a corpse had risen from the grave. Stocky as ever, with the muscular build and aggressive stance of a soldier. Grey hair perhaps a little longer. Face pugnacious, judgemental, unforgiving. An Old Testament pastor.
‘Long time no see,’ Raben said in a steady, confident voice.
The churchman stayed on the steps to his altar, hands on his waist, saying nothing.
‘I need your help, Priest. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
Torpe had a room at the back of the church. A shower. Some food. A fresh set of clothes. Good clean ones this time.
‘I’ve got some communion wine if you want it, Jens. It’s not bad.’
‘No thanks.’
The priest had left the interior door open for some reason. Raben nodded back towards the body of the church.
‘You like it here?’
‘It’s a nice little parish. People don’t have much money. They’ve got a lot of faith though. Suits me.’
