by David Hewson
Raben pulled on a heavy sweater, wondered about the other smell. Candles. That was it. They seemed to be everywhere, little flames flickering in the chilly airy interior.
‘Do you see any of the old team?’
‘No. Why would I?’
Raben said nothing.
‘I heard about Myg. I don’t know what you’re up to.’
‘Some things never change,’ Raben said and smiled.
Torpe stared at him.
‘They told me you went crazy. Threatened some poor man off the street. Didn’t know what you were doing . . .’
Raben nodded.
‘They were right.’
Torpe came and stood in front of him. His face was an odd mix. He’d seen action. Fought fist fights with his own soldiers from time to time. Liked a drink too. But there was always a distanced, dreamy quality to him. Something spiritual he called it.
‘Do you know what you’re doing now?’
‘I know what I’m not doing. Sitting in a cell while all hell breaks loose.’
‘Be careful, Jens. Think of your wife and son.’
‘I do. All the time.’
He picked up the clothes Torpe had given him.
‘There’s someone I need to talk to.’
Torpe was silent. Scared maybe. Which wasn’t such a bad thing.
Raben came close, looked him in the eye.
‘I don’t know who else to ask. Or trust.’
He glanced at the empty dark nave.
‘This is sanctuary, isn’t it?’
Torpe stood rigid, unmoved.
‘Isn’t it, Priest?’
‘Raben—’
‘I never needed you much in Helmand. I need you now.’
Wednesday 16th November
8.45 a.m. Lund picked up Strange from his apartment. Sharp winter day. Frost on the cobbled street and the cars parked outside the sterile red-brick building close to the water.
He’d been on the phone already. No sign of Raben anywhere in Copenhagen. Search warrants were being issued for more people associated with Kodmani. The three in custody were still being held.
They sat in the car, Lund waiting. When he said nothing she asked, ‘What about Ægir?’
He looked pale, tired. His hair was still wet from the shower. She could smell aftershave. Too much of it.
‘I do get time off. I was a bit late last night.’
‘Out on a date?’
He’d bought a cup of coffee from the bread shop opposite the block. Asked her to hold it, looked at her.
‘It’s called life,’ Strange said, rifling through the pockets of his winter coat. ‘You should try it some time.’
‘Team Ægir—’
‘Ægir was two years ago. There’s a new name for each tour. The soldiers who were on Ægir are all over the place. Some have left the army. We know Raben was there. Myg Poulsen. Dragsholm obviously had contact with them. That’s as much as I know right now.’
He groaned.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got paracetamol or something?’
‘Do I look like a chemist? It’s not my fault you’re hung-over and . . . whatever.’
‘Forget the whatever, will you? She’s just an old friend. No need to get jealous.’
She snorted. Said nothing.
‘What did you get on Raben then?’
He’d found a pack of pills somewhere deep in a pocket. Took back the coffee and popped a couple.
‘He’s thirty-seven,’ Lund began.
‘I knew that.’
‘Been in the army most of his adult life. Rank staff sergeant. Trained at the school in Sønderborg. Tried to join the Jægerkorpset. Did some time with them but never made the grade.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s a pushover.’
‘I never thought that,’ she said. ‘I’m just giving you the facts. He was mainly stationed with the armoured infantry. Decorated several times. Two years ago when he was out there with Ægir he was badly wounded and sent home.’
Strange gulped at the coffee and let out a gentle, self-pitying moan.
‘Got discharged for some reason. They thought he was getting better but something snapped. He took a stranger hostage. The court sent him to Herstedvester.’
‘Most of that I knew.’
‘Don’t take out your hangover on me. He’s got a wife, Louise. A son, Jonas.’
‘So?’ Strange asked.
‘Her father’s Jarnvig. The camp colonel. Raben’s his son-in-law.’
Suddenly he looked interested.
‘What is it?’
He stroked his crew cut, massaged his brow as if that could get rid of the pain.
‘If I was a colonel I wouldn’t enjoy a sweaty sergeant marrying my daughter. I’d want her to do better than that.’
Another swig of coffee. He was recovering, she thought. Very quickly.
‘Jarnvig was battalion commander with Ægir,’ Strange said. ‘Small world, huh?’
Lund shook her head.
‘That can’t be right. Jarnvig denied knowing Anne Dragsholm. She was there as a military lawyer. He must have met her.’
‘Maybe . . .’ he said swinging his hand from side to side.
‘Jarnvig was with Ægir? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that earlier?’
He smiled. It was a declaration: better now. Amusing too, not that she was letting on.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘you were too busy being jealous. Are we going somewhere? Or do we just sit in this car park all day long?’
Ryvangen Barracks were little more than five minutes away across the railway tracks. They found Jarnvig in the main office building. Shirt and combat trousers, both khaki, a dark look on his face that didn’t bode well.
‘You told me you never met Anne Dragsholm?’ Lund said, following as he walked from one floor to the next.
‘I didn’t,’ Jarnvig replied without even looking at her.
Strange tagged on behind.
‘How that’s possible?’ she asked. ‘Dragsholm’s on a photo in your office. She was there during the Ægir tour. You were the battalion commander.’
He stopped, folded his arms.
‘That photo was taken at Oksbøl before deployment. Not Helmand. I’d like it back by the way. You should consider yourself lucky I don’t lodge a complaint. I don’t like people stealing from my office.’
‘She’s been murdered . . .’
Jarnvig set off downstairs. The two of them followed into a bright lobby with pale-blue walls and classical statues of Greek and Roman heroes.
‘Maybe Dragsholm was there to lecture on law and war,’ Jarnvig said. ‘We want to keep within the conventions. I never saw her. I can assure you she was not with Ægir.’
Jarnvig stopped in the middle of the central atrium, by a towering full-length figure of Hercules with his club.
‘Check with Army Operational Command if you won’t take my word for it. I know my advisers. She was never one of them. I trust that’s all . . .’
He started to walk off. Lund was on him straight away.
‘I’d like to hear about your son-in-law, Jens Peter Raben.’
Jarnvig stopped outside the door to the gym.
‘Why?’
‘He was invalided home. Everyone thought he’d be fine. What happened?’
The army man walked back to face her.
‘What have our private lives to do with you?’
‘There are some coincidences . . .’ Strange began.
‘I don’t give a damn about your coincidences. One of my men’s been murdered. We’ve got a terrorist threat to deal with. And you’re asking me about Raben?’
He was getting mad. Enjoying it. Lund wondered if this was part of the training. Just blank out the doubts with a sudden, all-consuming fury. Maybe that made life easier.
‘You do your job and we’ll do ours,’ Jarnvig barked, pointing a finger in her face. ‘I don’t want you wasting our time here any more.’
With that he walke
d straight into the gym.
Outside Strange called Operational Command, spent five minutes getting through to someone who could talk. They said Dragsholm was only at Oksbøl for a legal seminar.
‘Jarnvig could cause you a lot of problems for stealing that photo, you know,’ Strange added.
‘I’ll try not to let that keep me awake at night.’
‘Jesus!’ He was the one getting mad now. ‘Don’t you get it? Brix stuck his neck out for you. Hedeby could chop it off. So could that bastard König given half a chance.’
They got back to the car. Strange put a hand on the roof, wiped his brow again.
‘Feeling better?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so pleased.’
‘Can we go and pick on Kodmani now? You know, the one who had the dog tags? The one who hates us?’
Lund wasn’t listening. Louise Raben had walked out of the infirmary opposite. White nurse’s uniform, pale-grey sweater. Talking to one of the soldiers.
‘You do it,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a cab and catch up with you later.’
‘Lund? Where are you going?’
Louise Raben had gone back inside. Lund worked her way through the army vehicles, past the red and white Danish flags, and followed.
Erik König came to the Justice Ministry first thing.
‘Kodmani is behind a network called Ahl Al-Kahf,’ the PET man said. ‘It means the seven sleepers. It’s based on an old legend, about seven men oppressed by pagans who are sent to sleep in a cave, waiting for the moment to wake and take vengeance on their enemies.’
Buch toyed with his coffee and pastry. He felt tired, grumpy, out of sorts. He missed home, his wife, the girls. The sky and fresh air. All his life now seemed bound up in the winding corridors of Slotsholmen. And Grue Eriksen had been proved right. Later that day he was to be dragged in front of the Joint Council and asked to explain why a warning about a terrorist threat appeared to have escaped him.
‘We have three suspects in custody. There are more to come.’
König seemed more a civil servant than a police officer. Quiet, calm, determined. Worried. Much like Carsten Plough who sat opposite him at the desk in Buch’s office. Buch was glad Karina was around. She brought colour, life and a touch of rebellion to this dry, humourless place.
‘So you think the case is pretty much solved?’ Buch said.
‘Yes,’ König insisted. ‘The evidence is incriminating.’
‘And the threat?’ Plough asked.
König shrugged.
‘The threat’s always there. We’ll never lose it entirely. But with this we remove an entire level of their structure. It’ll take them years to rebuild. Give us a little more time, Minister, and you can announce this.’ König paused, smiled. ‘I’m sure that will be helpful.’
Plough stared at him.
‘How did Birgitte Agger get hold of a confidential memo you wrote?’
The PET man bridled.
‘Not from us, that’s for sure. Have you looked for a leak here?’
‘For pity’s sake, man,’ Buch said with a long, deep sigh. ‘Why so touchy? I need to understand the course of events. What did my predecessor know? What action was taken? And why?’
König was sweating.
‘The woman was in the army. The possibility of terrorism was apparent. So we sent Monberg a memo.’
Buch nodded.
‘And you didn’t think it sufficiently important to make sure I knew about it when I arrived here?’
‘It was in the file, wasn’t it?’ König said instantly. ‘I hardly think it’s our job to decide your reading list.’
‘Dammit,’ Buch roared. ‘I’m facing a Joint Council later. They’ll want to know why I was in the dark about a possible terrorist threat that you were aware of for nearly two weeks. I would like some clarification. What did Monberg tell you?’
‘He was very concerned, naturally.’
‘So why didn’t PET inform the police?’
König bridled.
‘We were investigating terrorist activity. Domestic security is our responsibility. Not theirs.’
‘But murder is! Why keep them in the dark?’
König hesitated, glanced at Plough.
‘That was Monberg’s decision. He thought it was too . . . risky. He felt certain information might compromise national security.’
Buch’s walrus features creased in disbelief.
‘Here we go again.’ His fat forefinger jabbed across the desk. ‘If I find you’re lying to me, you will earn the privilege of being the first man I fire. What information?’
König suddenly looked terrified.
‘It wasn’t my decision—’
‘What information?’ Buch demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ König said. ‘Monberg said he’d get back to me with an explanation. The next thing I know he’s in hospital. These are unusual circumstances I’ll admit . . .’
Buch tapped his pen on the desk, exasperated.
König looked around the office.
‘I’d suggest, Minister, you’re more likely to find the answer here. Not with us. And I do not lie. To you or anyone.’
‘I’m glad about that,’ Buch said. ‘I had to fire fifty people in one day back home. It wasn’t pleasant.’ He put the cap back on his pen. ‘Though here . . . in Slotsholmen . . .’
He gazed at the dry, humourless man in front of him.
‘Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard after all.’
Twenty minutes later Plough had people dredging the email archives. Karina was going through the paper files.
Buch waited, bouncing his little rubber ball off the wall.
‘Monberg had a lot of the files shredded,’ Karina said. ‘I can only see two left.’
‘Birgitte Agger’s got a point,’ Buch said, and launched the ball at the wall again. ‘Monberg didn’t take the threat of terrorism seriously. Or at least if he did he never told anyone. Just as no one told me.’
‘I was Monberg’s Permanent Secretary from the moment he came here,’ Plough complained, looking at another stack of Karina’s papers. ‘He was a very careful man.’
‘He kept a terrorist threat to himself,’ Buch cried. His attention dropped. The ball flew off to one side, bounced off a portrait of a predecessor from the nineteenth century then disappeared beneath the chairs.
‘Will you please stop doing that!’ Plough cried. ‘You’re damaging the walls. This is a historic building. It’s got protection.’
‘It’s a bloody ball,’ Buch muttered.
A lost ball now and he couldn’t be bothered to get on his hands and knees to find it.
‘Monberg must have had his reasons,’ Plough suggested.
‘Then tell me what they are . . .’
Karina had gone quiet as she read through something from the files. Both men stopped bickering, realizing this.
‘Perhaps I can,’ she said quietly.
Buch came over and looked at the papers in her hand.
‘This was listed for shredding too but the office hadn’t got round to it.’ Karina showed him. ‘Monberg requisitioned some records on Anne Dragsholm. From the Ministry of Defence. He asked for personnel reports. Anything she’d written for them.’
Plough was fiddling with his glasses, fussily furious.
‘He couldn’t do that without my knowledge. All such requests must go through me. This is quite unheard of.’
‘Well he did,’ Buch pointed out. ‘Can you get me those reports? Could I kindly see what he saw?’
‘I’ll call someone in Defence. Karina? Get the minister ready for the Joint Council. Run through the possible questions.’
‘I can deal with questions any time,’ Buch snapped. ‘It’s answers I’m short of.’
Plough hurried through the door.
Karina stared at Thomas Buch.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hate being in the dark. Was I a bit harsh with him?’
‘Plough�
��s quite a sensitive soul in some ways, I think.’
‘I’ll buy him a hot dog,’ Buch promised.
‘You need to practise these questions. If you don’t Birgitte Agger will rip you to pieces.’
The ball was under the sofa. Buch couldn’t take his eyes off it. She saw this too.
‘Not now,’ Karina said, getting up and kicking it out of sight.
A bearded man in a wheelchair pushed himself slowly up the aisle of Gunnar Torpe’s church. The morning sun streaming through the stained-glass windows was unforgiving. His face was pasty, sick and sad. His green parka worn and dirty, his hair badly cut, not recently washed. But his face still seemed young, optimistic even. Naive.
He moved slowly through the gap between the pews, towards the figure in the Lutheran robes and ruff at the end.
‘Grüner,’ Torpe said. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘That organ needs playing.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the choir?’
‘The choir isn’t coming.’
‘Why not?’ David Grüner picked up the folder on his skinny, useless legs. ‘I brought my music.’
‘Someone’s here to see you.’
Torpe walked to the church doors and locked them. Raben emerged from behind the pulpit.
Grüner’s arms gripped the wheels of his chair, turned them slowly. Raben smiled, held out his hand, waited.
‘Stranger,’ the crippled man said.
‘We’re never strangers, David. We couldn’t be.’
Grüner laughed. So did Raben, though more easily. In the pale winter light under the dome their hands met.
A few minutes of small talk and silence. Raben sat on a pew. Grüner fidgeted in his wheelchair. His legs were so skinny. But there was life, a little laughter in his face.
‘The work’s boring,’ he said. ‘But it’s the best I can get. With these . . .’
He slapped his legs.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Or I’d be a real beggar. And that’s not on . . .’ His eyes went to the mosaics above the altar: a gold Christ with his disciples. ‘I’m a bit choosy. Priest lets me play the organ here. So he should. I’m good at it.’
‘How’s your wife?’
‘She’s fine with it now. Got a job in a supermarket. Between the two of us we’re doing all right.’
‘And the baby?’
Grüner laughed.
‘The baby? He’s two and a half. Not a baby any more.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Nothing stays the same. Except me.’
