The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  ‘Jens. We’re little people—’

  ‘You’re not little to me. You’re the most important thing in the world. You and Jonas.’

  Her bright eyes flared.

  ‘Then why—?’

  ‘Because I want to be home. With both of you. If I just sit back and wait . . .’

  He’d got her attention, finally.

  ‘You’ll stay in jail,’ she said. ‘I get the message.’

  ‘No.’ He held her. ‘I’ll be like Myg and Grüner. Dead.’

  She looked round the church, then at him.

  ‘There’s only two of us left,’ he said. ‘Lisbeth Thomsen’s the last. She’s left Copenhagen. There’ll be a personnel file in the barracks database.’

  ‘Jens—’

  ‘I’ve got to warn her. Take this.’ He gave her Torpe’s spare phone. ‘I’ll get another from somewhere. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.’

  He put a hand to her forehead. It was cold, like her.

  ‘I’ve got to go, love. They’ll be looking for me here.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘There’s a city out there,’ he said, nodding at the door. ‘A million places.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered, stretching out of his grip as he tried to hold her.

  ‘I’m Jens. I’m who I always was.’

  She stared at him and didn’t say a word.

  ‘Kiss Jonas for me.’

  At that she let him come close and briefly plant his lips on her cheek.

  This, he thought, was all the intimacy they had left. Everything else had been stripped from them.

  Jens Peter Raben walked her to the church door, watched his wife leave. There’d be a doorway to sleep in somewhere. A place to hide in the dark.

  Karina had been through more of the diary.

  ‘I can’t see any way Monberg and Dragsholm knew each other personally. PET don’t believe it either.’

  ‘König kept this whole case to himself for no good reason,’ Buch muttered. ‘Am I supposed to take his word on it?’

  ‘PET monitor ministers. You do know that?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ve got photos of me eating a hot dog. Listen. We know the two met at a hotel the weekend before she was killed. Why?’

  She checked the diary. Monberg was speaking at a seminar on human rights. It was arranged by Amnesty. Dragsholm was on the organizing committee.

  ‘Did they spend the night together?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How would I know? I was there in the afternoon. I never saw her. I’m sure they weren’t having an affair. I think I’d have noticed.’

  Plough came in looking glum. He had a fresh folder. More photos sent direct from the murder scene in Islands Brygge.

  ‘Who is it this time?’ Buch asked.

  ‘A former soldier from Ryvangen. He was an invalid who served with Myg Poulsen.’

  The photographs were so disgusting Karina couldn’t look. A crippled man incinerated in his own wheelchair. Buch could just about make that out.

  ‘The Prime Minister wants a meeting with you and the Minister of Defence,’ Plough said.

  Buch was barely listening.

  ‘We need to know what connects Monberg to Anne Dragsholm. We’ve got to find out if Monberg withheld information for personal reasons.’

  Plough stared through the rainy windows. He seemed embarrassed.

  ‘There’s something you should know. I wouldn’t ordinarily intrude into the private lives of ministers.’

  Silence.

  ‘Out with it,’ Buch ordered.

  ‘For the last few months Monberg acted strangely at times. He cancelled meetings where his presence was needed. It wasn’t like him. He always had a plausible excuse if I asked—’

  ‘Get to the point,’ Buch ordered.

  Plough took off his glasses.

  ‘I’m afraid he wasn’t always where he said. He lied . . .’ The civil servant looked visibly hurt. ‘To me. I wondered if he was seeing someone.’

  He coughed.

  ‘Without his family’s knowledge as it were.’

  ‘You mean he had a bit on the side?’ Buch demanded.

  ‘If you wish to put it that way—’

  ‘And it was Dragsholm?’

  ‘I don’t know who it was. Sometimes he stayed at a hotel in Klampenborg. She didn’t live far away. He could get back into the city easily too I imagine.’

  ‘PET never reported any of this,’ Karina said. ‘Monberg was a responsible man. If any of this related to a case he was handling he would have mentioned it.’

  Buch took a bar of chocolate out of his pocket and broke it over the photos from the crime scene. Karina declined his offer of a chunk.

  ‘Monberg was the Minister of Justice,’ he said. ‘If anyone knew how to avoid PET who better—?’

  ‘I think it’s best you don’t mention any of this when you meet the Prime Minister,’ Plough suggested. ‘Monberg has lots of friends in government. The Prime Minister. Flemming Rossing, the Defence Minister, has been close to him for years as well. It’s a sensitive matter. We can’t just blurt this out.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of blurting,’ Buch objected. The two of them were silent. ‘Am I?’ he asked.

  Lund questioned Kodmani in the same interview room, taking control from the outset. Strange grabbed a chair in silence, pulled out a notebook and a pen.

  Kodmani stared at him.

  ‘I said just the woman.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Lund told him. ‘My colleague’s just going to . . .’

  Strange bent over the notebook, pretended to lick the tip of the pencil.

  ‘Take notes,’ she added. Then to the man in blue, ‘You want to tell me something.’

  Kodmani held his hands together, stroked his long black beard.

  ‘I want to tell you all I know about Faith Fellow. This is the truth.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘It is the truth. Those people . . . those friends of mine you arrested. They’ve got nothing to do with this. You should let them go.’

  Strange grunted. Lund kicked him under the table.

  ‘We don’t cut deals. We arrest who we suspect. If they’re innocent they’ll walk free.’

  He seemed to accept that.

  ‘I know I made a mistake, lady. I know I’m going to pay for it. But it should just be me. No one else.’

  ‘What mistake?’

  He leaned back, folded his arms in front of his chest.

  ‘Faith Fellow came to me through the website. I thought he was genuine but now . . .’ He sighed. ‘He played me like a fiddle. Told me what I wanted to hear. I was a fool. He seemed to understand me. My faith, my politics, my hatred for—’

  ‘I’m not writing this bastard’s life story,’ Strange said and put down the pencil.

  Lund picked it up and placed it back in his hand then put a finger to her lips. Kodmani watched. He seemed to like this.

  ‘I thought I could trust him,’ the Moroccan went on. ‘He seemed so . . . convincing. He asked me to set up a post office box for his donations. Then he wanted to know how he could upload a video to my site.’

  ‘Did he ask you to kill a few people too?’ Strange said without taking his head up from the pad.

  Lund glowered at him.

  ‘He never asked me to do anything that looked bad,’ Kodmani replied. ‘There was nothing like that. I’m not a warrior . . .’

  He leaned forward, gazed at Lund.

  ‘My only crime is it made me feel good. At first. When I saw your people were dying too. It was like you were being punished for once. I felt vindicated . . .’

  ‘And then?’ she asked.

  ‘You showed me those photos. I knew we were going to pay for this.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I thought you were smarter than them. But you just see what you want to see. These murderers aren’
t my people. They’re someone else. Someone who hates us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re the police, aren’t you?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Go find out. I didn’t kill anyone. None of the people I know would. But this Faith Fellow . . .’

  ‘What language did he write in?’

  ‘English mostly. Arabic sometimes.’

  A sudden look of disgust.

  ‘That was to impress me. He wasn’t good at it. I think he knew that. I asked him one time where he came from.’ Kodmani shrugged. ‘He never answered.’

  ‘Did he write about an army squad? About Anne Dragsholm?’

  ‘No.’

  He was drying up.

  ‘There must be more, Kodmani . . .’

  ‘He was a man who sent me emails. Got me worked up. He knew what he was doing. The words Faith Fellow used . . .’ Kodmani glanced at Strange. ‘They were very precise and brief. Like a man in authority.’

  He leaned forward again, anxious suddenly.

  ‘He sounded like a soldier. Yes. He was a soldier.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ Strange snarled. ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  Kodmani glowered at him.

  ‘She asked me the questions. Not you.’ He looked at Lund again. ‘Faith Fellow’s a soldier. I’m convinced of that. Or maybe—’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘Maybe he used to be.’

  Just like last time Brix and König watched through the glass. They met with Lund and Strange after the interview was over.

  The PET boss looked more miserable than ever.

  ‘I’m not putting Kodmani in the clear yet,’ König said. ‘This whole story about Faith Fellow sounds like a fabrication to me. What does he have to back it up?’

  ‘He says Faith Fellow’s the one behind the Muslim League,’ Lund pointed out. ‘The video, the army connections, the dog tags. We’ve got nothing that points towards Kodmani’s own people.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Brix agreed. ‘We need to focus on Ryvangen and find a motive.’

  ‘What motive?’ Strange asked. ‘Kodmani’s got one. If one of his people didn’t do it . . .’

  Lund turned on König.

  ‘Tell us what you know about Raben’s squad.’

  The PET man didn’t like being pushed.

  ‘They were a solid team. Raben had been their leader for two years. They served in Iraq. Good record. Same in Afghanistan.’

  ‘What did they do?’ Lund asked.

  ‘They were soldiers,’ König replied, as if that said everything. ‘Front line. Plenty of combat experience. On the last mission the squad got hit in a suicide attack.’

  ‘Where are the rest of them now?’

  Strange checked his notes.

  ‘Poulsen and Grüner are dead. A third soldier was killed in a car crash last year. That leaves Raben and a woman. Lisbeth Thomsen. She left the army after she came back. No one knows where she’s gone.’

  ‘Wait,’ Lund cut in. ‘Dragsholm wasn’t part of the squad. She was just connected to it. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ König agreed. ‘Anne Dragsholm represented all five surviving soldiers at the inquiry.’

  ‘Inquiry into what?’

  ‘Their last mission. Why it went wrong.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘What happened.’

  Brix stared at him.

  ‘What did happen?’

  König was wriggling.

  ‘Some local civilians said Raben and his team murdered an Afghan family in their home. That was why they were attacked. It wasn’t the Taliban who tried to kill them. It was the villagers themselves.’

  ‘And?’ Lund asked when no one else did.

  ‘The judge advocate cleared them completely.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ She wasn’t going to let this go. ‘I talked to Dragsholm’s husband. There was an argument. She felt the army as good as fired her.’

  König shook his head.

  ‘Maybe she told him that but the fact is she resigned. We’ve got her letter in the files.’

  There was a knock on the door. Ruth Hedeby asked to see König outside.

  ‘I still can’t see this,’ the PET man said before he left. ‘Kodmani told us he thought Faith Fellow was from the military. Let’s say that’s true. It’s someone who came back from Afghanistan. Why would he want to take revenge on his own comrades? No . . . It doesn’t work.’

  He left it at that and walked out.

  ‘What’s a judge advocate’s report?’ Lund asked when König was gone.

  ‘It’s an inquiry to see if a military crime’s been committed,’ Strange explained. ‘Raben and his team could have been prosecuted if it went against them.’

  Lund looked at Brix.

  ‘I want a copy sent to my address as soon as you can get it.’ She picked up her bag. ‘We need to find Lisbeth Thomsen. And . . .’

  ‘Lund,’ Strange said.

  There was something else she couldn’t remember.

  ‘The cake,’ he said patiently. ‘You need to deliver that cake you bought.’

  Brix went next door, summoned by a phone call from Ruth Hedeby. She’d been talking to Erik König, smiled at him as he went out.

  Then she walked round the table, kneading her hands. Brix buttoned up his jacket.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I see you decided to keep Lund after all.’

  Brix thought of all the answers he could give. How König had asked for her. How she’d been two steps ahead of everyone else.

  Instead he said, ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, Lennart. Not if you don’t care about what happens to your career.’

  He walked to the window, looked out at the movement in the offices across the way.

  ‘You’re discussing my future with Erik König? I find that faintly insulting. From what I hear in the Ministry he’s got a sight more to worry about than—’

  ‘I talk to the Ministry!’ Hedeby cried, looking up at his craggy, unsmiling face. ‘Not you.’

  Brix said nothing.

  ‘Oh I know, Lennart. You’ve been hanging around all the corridors that matter for years. You’re not just chief of homicide, are you? There are friends everywhere.’

  He did smile at that.

  ‘I’m a social animal. You of all people ought to appreciate that.’

  ‘If anyone’s under pressure in the Ministry it’s Buch himself. Have you seen him on TV? Fat ball of blubber—’

  ‘What’s going on? I’ve a right to know. If you or König know something . . .’

  Ruth Hedeby reached up and adjusted his silk tie.

  ‘You’re an arrogant bastard.’

  ‘I think you may have mentioned that once or twice.’

  Her hand ran across his perfectly ironed white shirt.

  ‘I’ve got some free time this evening. Shall we meet up later?’

  She watched him anxiously.

  ‘Best be your place, Lennart. We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?’

  Still he kept quiet.

  ‘I’ll take that as yes,’ Hedeby said. ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll bring the wine.’

  ‘No.’ Brix looked startled. ‘My wine please.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s better,’ he said.

  Buch was getting to grips with the inner maze of Slotsholmen so he made this journey on his own. The bright-red hot dog smothered in fried onions, sliced gherkins and remoulade sauce had long disappeared by the time he finally found the footbridge over to the Christianborg Palace. Buch was wiping his greasy fingers on his suit trousers as he walked into the Prime Minister’s office.

  They were watching the TV news. The third murder. The media even had a name, David Grüner, and the fact that he’d served at Ryvangen.

  Grue Eriksen and Flemming Rossing were deep in conversation when Buch turned up. Rossing was a dapper man, always perfectly dressed, with a striking craggy face dominated by a Roman nose and hair reminiscent of an eagle’s smooth, trim f
eathers. He raised an eyebrow as he caught Buch surreptitiously rubbing his hands on Grue Eriksen’s curtains.

  ‘Dining out again?’ he asked.

  ‘Just time for snacks at the moment.’

  He’d never much liked this man. On the few occasions he’d needed to ask questions of the Minister of Defence Rossing had seemed dismissive, as some of the old guard of the party did. They saw him as an upstart, riding on the shoulders of his dead brother. Nothing Buch could do would change that.

  ‘Like the two previous victims,’ the TV continued, ‘Grüner was the victim of ruthless violence.’

  ‘Where do they get all this stuff?’ Grue Eriksen complained. He looked deeply, personally hurt. ‘What about the poor man’s wife?’

  Buch took the seat opposite them by the window. In the ring outside, beneath the dim street lights, a solitary horse was trotting round in the rain tugging a coach on which a uniformed man sat buttoned up against the weather.

  ‘She was informed very quickly,’ Buch replied. ‘I made sure of that. This was a major incident in a public place. We can’t keep it quiet.’

  The Prime Minister looked dissatisfied with that answer. An aide came and gave him a phone. He walked to the window and started to speak in a low, inaudible voice.

  Rossing got up, shook Buch’s hand.

  ‘I wish these were more pleasant circumstances.’

  ‘Am I late for something?’

  ‘Just catching up on events.’ He smiled, a practised gesture, friendly without much warmth. ‘So many since you took office. Holding up?’

  ‘I can cope,’ Buch answered.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Rossing slapped him hard on the arm. A male gesture he might have learned from the military. ‘You’re doing fine. Monberg . . .’

  The mention of an old friend made Rossing’s face seem more human.

  ‘I think he would have been pleased to know you’ve taken over from him. Besides . . . If the pressure made him sick before, what would it have done to him now?’

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Grue Eriksen announced, coming off the phone.

  Coffee and very fancy pastries from a woman aide and then they were left alone with their papers.

  ‘Police and PET are onto it,’ Buch said after he briefed them on the state of the investigation.

  ‘This is going to take some time?’ Grue Eriksen asked.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ Rossing grumbled. ‘These bastards know we’re struggling to reach an agreement on the anti-terror package. We can’t wait for Agger to see reason. She’s sniffing votes here.’