The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  Buch took a deep breath and said, ‘She’s taken an inflexible position I agree—’

  ‘Inflexible?’ Rossing cried. ‘That woman will do anything to score a point. It doesn’t matter how low the blow. We have to come to an agreement with Krabbe and the People’s Party immediately. If that means banning these obscure little pests they hate so much then . . .’ He sighed and opened his hands. ‘What choice do we have? Let’s cut the deal and have done with it.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  Both men stared at Thomas Buch.

  ‘Sadly . . .’ he added, ‘we picked up these extremists because PET were watching them. But there’s no direct evidence they were involved. We can’t place a single individual we’ve arrested anywhere near one of the crimes.’

  ‘Thomas . . .’ Rossing began.

  ‘We’ve got just about every known militant in Denmark in custody. And still there’s another murder. To ban them because of this case alone would be ineffective and wrong.’

  ‘Caution and patience are fine and dandy for peacetime,’ Rossing observed, with a caustic note in his voice. ‘If that were the case now I’d agree with you.’

  ‘So could I,’ Grue Eriksen added. ‘We have to show firmness.’

  ‘We have to demonstrate justice,’ Buch objected. ‘If we ban these people and then find ourselves forced to admit they’re entirely innocent—’

  ‘They’re not entirely innocent, are they?’ Rossing noted. ‘PET wouldn’t be watching them if they were.’

  ‘Other matters are clouding the picture and they may have nothing to do with this Kodmani creature and his sorry followers.’

  Grue Eriksen put a thoughtful fist to his chin. Then Rossing did the same. Buch felt once more like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s study, this time with the head prefect listening too.

  ‘It seems Monberg knew the first victim, Anne Dragsholm, personally,’ he said, watching their faces, seeing no reaction at all. ‘He kept it a secret.’

  ‘How did he know her?’ Rossing asked. ‘What do PET have to say?’

  ‘PET knew nothing—’

  ‘Monberg’s a friend of mine,’ Rossing cried. ‘One of the most decent men I know. I don’t have to listen to office gossip—’

  ‘This isn’t gossip, I’m afraid. We found his diary. We know they met. We know they had discussions about . . .’

  Rossing threw up his hands in despair.

  ‘If this was of no interest to PET then it’s of no interest to us.’

  ‘Thomas,’ Grue Eriksen cut in. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’

  The carriage outside was wheeling off the ring. The rain was coming down at forty-five degrees. Too much even for one of the Queen’s riders.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know at the moment.’

  ‘Good,’ the Prime Minister replied. ‘Let’s leave PET to get on with their work while we focus on ours. We need this package through the Folketinget. Perhaps it’s rash to accuse this particular organization. But we’ve all read the kind of filth they propagate.’

  ‘It may be vile. It’s not illegal.’

  ‘These people are reprehensible and hostile to everything we stand for,’ Grue Eriksen interrupted. ‘If Birgitte Agger wishes to complain when we take action against them let her do it. I don’t think the man on the street will give her the time of day.’

  ‘The law—’

  ‘The law’s what we make it!’ The Prime Minister didn’t look quite so avuncular at that moment. ‘I want you to agree to Krabbe’s demands. Put some more names on the banned list. He’s got us by the balls and he knows it. Seal an agreement with the People’s Party so we can announce it as soon as possible.’

  Buch was quiet.

  ‘Can you do that?’ Flemming Rossing asked.

  ‘A broad agreement would be better.’

  ‘A broad agreement’s impossible!’ Grue Eriksen cried. ‘Surely you can see this by now. I know you’re new to government. But . . .’

  He waited for a response, knowing none would come.

  ‘That’s that then,’ the Prime Minister declared, bringing the silence to an end.

  After the news from the Politigården Colonel Jarnvig called Søgaard and Bilal together for a briefing. The three men sat in his office looking at the transport schedules and the plans for troop movements.

  ‘This next dispatch has enough problems as it is,’ Jarnvig grumbled. ‘We don’t need more. What’s the mood?’

  ‘Not good,’ Søgaard admitted. ‘We’ve introduced some new briefings on security measures, here and abroad. Some of them will still try to opt out.’

  ‘They’ll have to explain that to me first,’ Bilal said.

  ‘Me too,’ Søgaard added. ‘But they’ve got the right to refuse combat service and some of them will. Not many maybe but . . .’

  Jarnvig frowned.

  ‘If a man’s too scared to fight I don’t want him there. What else can we do?’

  ‘We’ve invited the soldiers and their relatives to a meeting,’ Søgaard said. ‘Bilal will talk to them tomorrow.’

  ‘They’re going to ask about Grüner now,’ Bilal said. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

  ‘Tell them the truth,’ Jarnvig replied. ‘This is a temporary and untypical situation. It won’t last. We’ll get things sorted out.’

  He looked at them in turn.

  ‘We’re soldiers. We serve. We manage the hand we’re dealt and we don’t ask questions. That’s our duty. They know that. Don’t they?’

  ‘They know it,’ Bilal said with some force before Søgaard could answer.

  ‘Good.’

  The dark-haired officer didn’t move.

  ‘Grüner was in the same team as Myg Poulsen. The woman who got killed, the legal adviser, was something to do with them too.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Jarnvig asked.

  ‘People are going to talk.’

  ‘Let them,’ Søgaard cut in. ‘That can’t be helped. We’re hiding nothing here. The police—’

  ‘We’ll give them all the help they need,’ Jarnvig said. ‘If they ask for a file they get it. Just make sure you tell me first.’

  Bilal stood up, arms obediently behind his back. He didn’t look satisfied.

  ‘What about Raben?’ he asked. ‘He was squad leader. He broke out of Herstedvester—’

  ‘Why in God’s name are you bringing up Raben now?’ Søgaard barked at him.

  ‘He’s going to come looking for his old comrades,’ Bilal replied. ‘He’ll be fishing round here before long.’

  Søgaard laughed.

  ‘If he’s stupid enough for that I’ll throw him in a cell myself.’

  Bilal didn’t speak.

  ‘Well?’ Jarnvig asked.

  ‘I saw Raben in the field. He’s good. If he doesn’t want to be caught we won’t even see him. He’s got friends inside here—’

  ‘If you’re worried about my daughter’s loyalty, Bilal,’ Jarnvig interrupted, ‘then say it.’

  The young officer stayed silent.

  ‘Good.’ The colonel nodded at the door. ‘That’s all.’

  Louise walked in before they could leave.

  ‘Do you have a moment, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘Not now. I’ll see to it that the furniture’s cleared out of the basement tomorrow. You can start working on it then.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I heard about Grüner. He was in Jens’s squad too. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jarnvig couldn’t stop himself from looking at her. ‘The police told me Jens was there just before Grüner was killed tonight. They’re looking for him.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! You don’t think—?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. The police are going to be keeping an eye on you and Jonas.’

  ‘They’ve been doing that already. I’m not a criminal.’

  He put on his beret, picked up his papers.

 
‘But your husband is, Louise. That’s not your fault. If Jens contacts you it’s important you let me know.’

  Bilal and Søgaard stood at the back of the office, silent, staring at their feet. Listening to every word.

  ‘Louise?’ Jarnvig asked again. ‘Did you hear me? Will you agree to that?’

  Then she looked up into his face, nodded, said, ‘Yes. Sir.’

  It was the voice she used when she was a rebellious teenager. And it meant nothing then either.

  ‘Good. We’ve got to go. There’s a couple of dirty shirts in the drawer from the gym. Can you wash them for me?’

  She saluted him. Then them.

  Torsten Jarnvig muttered something and left with his officers.

  The shirts were where he always left them. In a basket by the side of the desk. She looked at the computer there. He never remembered to log out and it was ten minutes before the system did that automatically.

  Louise Raben sat down. Hesitated for only a moment then started to type.

  He was camp commander. Had access to files she’d never see in the infirmary. Lisbeth Thomsen was in there somewhere. All she had to do was find her then get out without leaving a trace.

  Lund hadn’t let Strange into the bakers on the way back from Islands Brygge. She just knew he’d have an opinion about which was the best cake to buy. Would probably be right too. Cakes weren’t her thing. So she picked something chocolate. Everyone liked that.

  After she’d changed into fresh clothes her mother set about dissecting it with a large sharp knife.

  Work intruded always. Lund soon found herself standing in the living room of Vibeke’s flat in Østerbro taking a call from forensic who were being evasive about reports.

  ‘I want them by the morning,’ Lund said. ‘That’s that.’

  She wasn’t much interested in a lecture on the laws of physics. Or eating really.

  Bjørn and her mother sat on the sofa with a pot of coffee picking at the cake and looking at paperwork for the wedding on Saturday.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lund said and ended the call. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. All yours now.’

  ‘Take a look at this,’ Vibeke said.

  It was a printout for a table setting. More than thirty people, all named, all placed.

  ‘We’ve decided to have a traditional horseshoe setting.’

  Bjørn nodded.

  ‘That’s the nicest,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Lund agreed, wondering what they were talking about.

  ‘There’s nothing else traditional about our wedding!’ Vibeke declared happily.

  She’d never seen her mother this content, not for years anyway. Back when Lund was a quiet, solitary child with two parents who seemed to love one another.

  Bjørn was a touch on the podgy side and quite bald. More like a grandfather than a stepfather, she thought. A few years older than her mother. It was hard to judge. Lund found it natural to peer at strangers and try to understand them, to see behind their facade. But those close to her were always more opaque somehow.

  ‘This cake’s very good,’ Bjørn said, helping himself to a third slice.

  ‘You see where you’re seated?’ Vibeke asked, pointing to the sheet.

  ‘Can’t I be next to Mark?’

  ‘We’d like you here, please.’ That motherly voice had resumed its natural, hectoring tone. ‘Bjørn’s cousin’s in town on his own because his wife’s ill.’

  ‘He’s a country boy,’ Bjørn said, then started coughing. ‘Someone has to look after him. Excuse . . .’

  His hand was over his mouth. Crumbs of chocolate cake flew into the air.

  ‘You’re welcome to bring someone,’ Vibeke added. ‘If you must.’

  Lund shook her head.

  ‘Don’t you have a boyfriend?’ Bjørn asked. ‘Pretty young thing like you. If old folk like us can manage it—’

  ‘Sarah’s taking a break,’ Vibeke broke in, then patted his knee as the coughing fit resumed.

  Bjørn’s face was going red. Lund could see the label for the cake. It was on her side of the table. The ingredients . . . She reached over and slyly dislodged the paper from the wrapping, crumpled it and slid the screwed-up label into her pocket.

  ‘I was taking a break too,’ he said, his voice hoarse all of a sudden. ‘But then your mother came along and made me think better of it. Did she tell you how we met?’

  Lund’s phone trilled. Vibeke scowled. It was Strange. He said he was passing on his way home. He was outside and had something.

  ‘How?’ she asked, coming off the phone.

  ‘Yesterday . . .’ he crooned to the tune of the old song then kissed Vibeke on the cheek.

  ‘It’s a second-hand shop,’ her mother said. ‘Very good quality. Not charity rubbish or anything . . .’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lund agreed.

  ‘I was looking for a coat.’ He paused and punched his chest with his fist. ‘A good brand. Then—’

  The doorbell rang. Lund excused herself and got up to answer it, trying to ignore the sound of coughing growing louder from behind.

  Strange stood by the door dripping rain onto the floor. Two folders in a plastic bag.

  ‘I found the judge advocate’s report like you asked. And a file on Lisbeth Thomsen.’

  She took them.

  ‘Any clue where she is now?’

  He shook his head. Strange looked tired for once.

  ‘She sublet her flat a year ago. Every three months she comes back for mail and to collect the rent. That’s all I know.’

  Lund flicked through the judge’s report.

  ‘Maybe she wants to be on her own,’ he suggested. ‘She trained with special forces too, alongside Raben. If she wants to hide—’

  ‘Why should she do that?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘You went all the way to Gedser, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s not the same . . .’

  A sound behind. Vibeke was helping Bjørn towards the door. He looked awful, breathless and sweaty. For one dreadful moment Lund thought he might throw up on the spot. She stepped aside and let them through.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ Vibeke said. ‘Bjørn’s feeling unwell.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  His eyes were puffy. A nice man, he seemed more embarrassed than troubled.

  ‘Are you sure there were no nuts in that cake?’ her mother demanded.

  ‘I . . . well . . . I asked.’

  Strange coughed into his fist and looked at the floor.

  ‘Gluten does it to me too,’ Bjørn said quickly. ‘It’s nothing at all. I’m used to it. Goodnight . . .’

  Hand on the railing, he went down the staircase very carefully.

  Vibeke stayed.

  ‘And you are . . . ?’ she asked suspiciously, eyeing Strange from head to toe.

  He held out his hand and smiled. She took it and a conversation ensued so genial and easy Lund felt an intruder to be witnessing it. In a few short sentences Strange covered the weather, best wishes for the impending wedding, and an assurance that the fated cake was indeed entirely free of nuts, or so the bakers had said.

  Vibeke would have stayed longer if Bjørn hadn’t started bleating between coughs from downstairs.

  She gave Ulrik Strange a look Lund hadn’t seen since her teenage years, when a boy called, one Lund hated. It said: what a nice young man.

  ‘I can hardly believe you’re a police officer,’ Vibeke said, bidding them goodbye. ‘You should see some of them. They’re animals . . .’

  Strange saluted. When her mother was out of earshot Lund said, ‘I think I’m going to be sick now.’

  ‘It’s not the cake, is it?’

  ‘You’ve no idea whether it’s got nuts or not.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I was backing you up. That’s what partners do, remember?’

  She waved the reports at him, ready to go back inside.

  ‘I’ve asked Colonel Jarnvig to come in and
talk about it tomorrow,’ Strange added.

  ‘And there’s still no news about Raben?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. See you in the morning.’

  Strange didn’t move. He was no longer quite so confident.

  ‘I like cake,’ he said. ‘With nuts. Without nuts. I’m . . .’

  He stamped his feet.

  ‘My car’s way down the street. I had to plough through the rain to get here. I’m cold.’ He peered round, into the empty flat. ‘You’ve got coffee too?’

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Cake and coffee will be fine for now, thanks.’

  There was a glint of hope in Strange’s eyes. It made him look young and rather innocent.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said and closed the door.

  Thursday 17th November

  9.03 a.m. Louise Raben took her father’s car to the kindergarten. Close to Østerport Station the phone rang.

  ‘Go out towards Dampfærgevej. The ferries. Use the big car park.’

  It was just a few minutes away.

  ‘You’ve got transport?’ she asked.

  A pause.

  ‘Priest lent me his car. Did you find anything?’

  ‘I’ve got some documents. There was a file on Thomsen. Just her Copenhagen address.’

  ‘She comes from Hirtshals.’

  ‘There was nothing about that.’

  ‘She had an uncle in Sweden. He lived on an island.’

  Louise took the printouts out of her bag and spread them on the passenger seat, scanned them when the traffic came to a halt.

  ‘Thomsen used to go there on leave,’ Raben said.

  So many papers. Everything in army language, curt, concise, blunt. On the third page she saw a few lines.

  ‘There’s a note here. The uncle’s dead now. She got leave for the funeral. A place called Skogö.’

  ‘That’s it. She used to stay in his shack.’

  The car park was half empty. She drove slowly up and down the lanes.

  Towards the docks there was a grey Renault. A large silver crucifix dangled from the rear-view mirror. A man in a baseball cap was huddled behind the wheel, barely visible.

  ‘Pull into the next bay on your left,’ Raben said. ‘They’re watching you. Black Saab, fifty metres behind. Two men, one with a beard.’