by David Hewson
‘Tell me it went well,’ the colonel ordered.
‘Five men want out of the team. They’re upset about what happened to Grüner and Myg Poulsen.’
‘That happened here. Not Helmand.’
‘They say they want to be near their families. Leave it with me. Everyone’s got till nine tomorrow morning to think it over. I’ll work on them. If they won’t go I’ll find five others.’
Jarnvig was running idly round the computer. He’d looked at a report from headquarters the previous day and needed it again. So he went to the recent documents list.
The first file there had Lisbeth Thomsen’s name on it.
He’d never looked for that.
‘Did you come in here last night?’
Bilal frowned.
‘What?’
‘Did you come in here and access Lisbeth Thomsen’s file?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if Søgaard did?’
‘I can ask the security officers to look into it if you like.’
‘Don’t bother. Forget I asked.’
Bilal didn’t move.
‘I said forget it,’ Jarnvig repeated.
He left. Jarnvig opened the file. Thomsen’s full personnel record. Relatives. Service details. Training. Contact addresses.
Footsteps. Bilal marched back in without knocking on the door.
‘I just talked to the security officer.’
Jarnvig’s temper was rising.
‘I told you there was no need.’
‘There is now,’ Bilal said.
The basement of the colonel’s house was big. A living room, two bedrooms off, a bathroom. Perfect in most ways, Louise Raben thought. Only stubbornness had kept her out of here before. Jonas would have a room of his own finally. Something he deserved.
Christian Søgaard turned up unasked. Blue sweatshirt, army trousers. Blond hair in place, a strong man, always smiling. For her.
‘You don’t have much furniture,’ he said, looking at the chairs and tables waiting to be moved into place.
‘Give me time.’
They lugged an old sofa into the main room. The house was on a slope so there were windows on one side of the basement, looking out onto the trees behind the parade ground, the railway beyond, and in the distance the green space of Mindelunden.
She walked into the smallest room.
‘Jonas is staying with a friend,’ she said. ‘I’m going to paint this. It ’s his.’
Red. He’d picked the colour. One wall done already.
‘I told you I like painting,’ Søgaard said.
Louise laughed.
‘You don’t really.’
‘I do.’ He grinned. ‘Besides I need a break from barking orders at sweaty men.’
He had a reputation around the barracks. Good in bed some of the women whispered after drinks. But lately he’d been more circumspect. Christian Søgaard was on the promotion ladder and determined nothing would hinder that.
He walked around, adjusted some of the plastic sheets, looked at the paint pot, stirred it with the stick she had.
‘Good work. You just need a man’s touch.’
He walked over, came up to her, peered into her face. Then took a very clean and freshly ironed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed delicately at her right cheek.
She almost retreated. But he must have had a reason. And she liked the feel of a man so close.
‘There,’ he said and showed her the white fabric. A red stain. She’d got some paint on her face.
‘Thanks, Christian.’
No one had touched her gently in two years. Jens hated the hard sofa in the prison marital quarters. On the rare occasion he did want her it was quick, almost brutal. One more duty.
Still she took the handkerchief from him and tried to clean up the rest herself.
‘There’s a bit left,’ he said after she’d rubbed around her cheek for a while. ‘You can’t do everything on your own, can you?’
No answer.
‘I can’t anyway,’ Søgaard added.
In civilian clothes he looked different. There was no badge, no uniform to proclaim his rank. He was just a nice man trying to summon up some courage.
‘I’m very grateful,’ Louise said. ‘For your . . .’
She didn’t have the words either.
‘Just say when you need me.’ Søgaard was trying to cover up her embarrassment. ‘I’m happy to come and give you a hand. You know if—’
Quick footsteps on the stairs. Torsten Jarnvig marched in, long face furious.
‘When did you see him?’ he barked at his daughter. ‘Was he here? At the barracks?’
She looked at Søgaard.
‘I’d better be off,’ the major said.
‘Stay here,’ Jarnvig ordered. ‘This concerns you too. Louise, I want the truth.’
She didn’t retreat, didn’t look away.
‘Jens wanted to know where Lisbeth Thomsen was living. He’s worried for her safety.’
She looked at the half-painted walls, the mess on the floor. It wasn’t a home. Not yet.
‘So I got it from your computer. He said it was important.’
‘When did you let him into the barracks?’ Jarnvig demanded.
‘I didn’t, Dad. He’s never been here.’
He didn’t believe her. She could see that. Louise took one step towards her father.
‘I told him to give himself up. I told him . . .’ Her eyes stole towards Søgaard and she wished they hadn’t. ‘I said if he couldn’t do that we were finished.’
She glared at her father.
‘There. That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Are you happy now?’
‘Where is he?’
‘I . . . don’t . . . know.’
Jarnvig turned to the man beside him.
‘There’s been a break-in. At the munitions depot.’
Christian Søgaard changed, became a soldier once again.
‘What?’
‘Someone who knows our security procedures got in. They made off with five kilos of plastic explosive.’
Jarnvig looked at her. So did Søgaard.
‘Jens wasn’t here. I’m telling you. Dad . . .’
The more Lisbeth Thomsen wanted to leave the little police house on Strogö, the more Lund was determined to keep her close. They’d spent almost two hours going over the same questions again and again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lund said when the woman started demanding the Swedish cop let her go. ‘I think you’re keeping something from us.’
‘I want to go home.’
The door opened. Strange walked in, nodded to Lund for a private word.
They went outside.
‘I’ve been trawling round this place for ages,’ he said. ‘I can’t find anything that suggests Anne Dragsholm was here. If she was no one saw her.’
‘What about Raben?’
He shook his head.
The Swedish cop came outside, chewing on his pipe, eavesdropping.
‘We haven’t seen anyone suspicious,’ he announced. ‘And we would. We have very good eyes, you know.’
‘You wouldn’t see this one,’ Lund said with a sigh.
‘Good . . . eyes,’ he repeated, pointing to his own. ‘I think we should drive Lisbeth home. I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. Would you like to buy some fish to take back to Copenhagen? Swedish fish is so much better than Danish . . .’
Lund marched back into the office. The two men followed. Hands on hips, she looked at Lisbeth Thomsen, a tall, strong woman in tough country clothes.
‘No. She’s coming with us.’
‘I’m not going to Copenhagen!’ Thomsen cried. ‘This isn’t a police state . . .’
‘You have papers?’ the old cop asked.
‘We’ll get you some papers.’ She nodded at Thomsen. ‘You can pick up some things first.’
‘Call Brix,’ she told Strange. ‘Tell him we’re bringing her in.’
‘W
hat the hell is this?’ Thomsen yelled then spat out a flurry of curses.
The cop didn’t look impressed by that.
‘Maybe they’re right, Lisbeth,’ he said. ‘You seem jumpy to me. There’s a ferry in forty-five minutes. I think it’s best you go with them.’
‘No.’
He put down his pipe. Folded his arms, looked at her, not blinking, not moving.
More curses and then she went to the car outside.
Through the dead woods, Lund driving the black Ford from the Politigården, Strange in the back next to Thomsen.
Lund’s phone rang.
‘Someone tried to call,’ Brix said.
‘We’re bringing Thomsen in for her own safety. Two hours. Three at the most.’
‘We talked to her tenant here. A week ago he got a call from the tax office. They were threatening action for unpaid bills. Demanding he call them the next time Thomsen turned up. They wanted to talk to her.’
‘And?’ Lund asked.
‘We talked to the tax people. No one’s made any enquiries about Thomsen. Someone’s on her trail. Maybe you’re not on your own out there.’
Then he was gone.
Timber country. The track wound deeper into the tall fir forest, the winter foliage blocking out the light. Lund turned a corner, hit the brakes.
The way ahead was blocked by a pile of felled tree trunks. They’d been stacked by the side of the road. The ropes that held them had been broken or cut, spilling timber onto the muddy lane.
They couldn’t go on.
‘Does this happen a lot?’ Strange asked.
‘No.’ Thomsen seemed worried. Scared too. ‘Let’s turn back. I don’t need any things. Let’s just get on the ferry.’
Strange took off his seat belt, opened the door.
‘I’ll check it out.’
‘No,’ Lund told him. ‘Get back in. We’ll go.’
‘One minute. I want a look around. If there’s someone here . . .’
He looked at the spilled trunks, walked behind the main pile, stepped into the forest.
Then wheeled round, gun in hand, as if he’d heard something and ran into the trees.
‘What was that?’ Lund asked.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Thomsen sounded anxious. ‘Let’s just go, can we?’
‘I can’t leave him here. Stay where you are. I don’t want to come looking for you twice.’
‘No!’
Thomsen’s strong hand was on her shoulder.
‘Something happened in that village. I heard rumours. It’s all about that.’
‘About what?’
‘I wasn’t there. It was gossip.’
‘Like what? Tell me.’
Her eyes were wild with fear.
‘And end up dead? Like my buddies? Get me out of here!’
‘Did they tell you civilians were killed?’
‘Raben’s men didn’t do it.’
Nothing more.
‘Lisbeth. I’m trying to help.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s the army,’ Thomsen said in a low, tense voice. ‘Sometimes you get men who drift in and out. You never speak to them. You never know who they are. They’re like ghosts. They do things the rest of us can’t.’
‘Who killed those civilians?’
‘Some fucked-up Danish officer who went crazy. He was there. He called them in.’
‘No,’ Lund insisted. ‘I read the judge advocate’s report. There was no officer.’
She laughed in Lund’s face.
‘I said you wouldn’t understand. He was there. We all knew there were guys like that around.’
‘Doing what?’
Thomsen’s eyes stayed on her.
‘Whatever they wanted. We have rules. They don’t. They can go anywhere. Kill or bomb or bribe or . . . It’s war. It’s not us against them. It’s dirtier than that.’
‘This man—’
‘They called him Perk. I don’t know if that was his real name or not. I never saw him.’
‘Perk?’
‘Myg Poulsen and Grüner told the judge. Raben couldn’t. He didn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Nobody believed them. It was just a whitewash. We all knew it.’
‘The lawyer?’ Lund asked.
‘She believed them from the start. She came to see me a month ago, asking if I’d testify and help reopen the case. For God’s sake—’
A sound. A man’s voice. Angry, scared, she wasn’t sure which.
Strange was shouting warnings. Somewhere not far away in the wood.
‘Stay here,’ Lund told her and got out of the car.
The first shot sounded when she reached the trees.
It was dark beneath their cover. She remembered a night in Copenhagen. A warehouse. Jan Meyer bleeding, unconscious on the floor.
She’d left him too.
Another shot.
Lund ran.
After a minute there was a clearing. She didn’t take out her own gun. Never thought of that.
There was a canvas structure on stilts ahead. A watchtower.
A figure at the top of the ladder, moving down, hand over hand on the rungs so quickly.
‘Strange! Strange! For God’s sake!’
He got to the ground just as she turned up.
Someone had been there. Wrappers on the forest floor: muesli bars, an empty water bottle, some lingonberry branches.
‘Raben was here,’ he said. ‘Jægerkorpset. They can live off nothing and you never get to see them.’
‘Ulrik?’
He looked at her, puzzled.
‘What happened to “Strange”?’
‘Don’t you ever run off like that again.’
He grinned.
‘Sorry, Mummy,’ he said and gave her a little salute. ‘But I heard something. Where’s Thomsen?’
‘Don’t you ever . . .’ she repeated.
A car door slammed hard behind them.
Before she could say a word Ulrik Strange was running back to the blocked road, faster than Lund ever could.
Thomsen flew into the forest the minute Lund was out of sight. Ran the half kilometre to her bungalow in the woods.
She had the red Land Rover in the drive. A boat. Could get to the mainland easily if she needed. Stay out of sight until the storm – whatever it was – had blown over.
All her outdoor gear – food, a compass, more knives, a rifle – stayed in a cabinet by the sink. Thomsen raced to it, got the door half open.
Stopped.
Wires inside. They were never there before. A pack of stick explosives taped to the stock of the rifle.
Clumsy, she thought. Even the Taliban could do better than this.
A sound at the door. A tall figure. She shrieked, looked for a weapon and then he was on her, hand over her mouth.
Thomsen stared into his cold eyes.
Raben, hood down, breathless.
‘You scared the living crap out of me,’ she whispered. ‘Why in God’s name . . . ?’
‘I saw you running,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘What are you doing here? There are police from Copenhagen. They want to take me back. They say . . .’
He was staring at the half-open cupboard.
‘Have you been in here?’ Thomsen asked.
‘No.’
She gestured at the door. He knew about these things. Raben bent down, opened it very carefully.
The wire was a simple trigger, mechanical not electrical. It ran back to the explosives and ended in a physical detonator.
‘That’s a blind,’ he said. ‘Too easy. There’s got to be something else.’
He shoved a chair against the cupboard door to stop it moving, glanced around, took her arm.
‘Car keys?’
She nodded at the table. Raben took them.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
They edged out of the cottage. Raben got down on his hands and knees,
checked underneath the Land Rover, then opened the bonnet gingerly and looked there.
Nothing.
An engine was gunning somewhere. Fast and urgent.
‘Where . . . ?’ Thomsen asked.
He put a finger to his mouth, guided her into the shelter of the low conifers.
They watched. The black car with a Copenhagen plate slewed to a halt in the mud outside the bungalow door. The old Swedish cop climbed out, looked round. Two figures, Lund and the man she came with, emerged from the other side and went straight through the door.
‘We’ve got to warn them,’ she whispered.
‘They can look after themselves,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘We need to get out of here.’
‘You don’t know—’
Finger to lips again. She went quiet. He was the boss in Helmand. The boss now.
The Swedish cop strolled leisurely inside too. He’d never see a bomb, not if it jumped up in the street and said hello.
‘I don’t like this . . .’
Raben ran, got into the battered red Land Rover, hit the ignition, beckoned.
Decisions.
Back in the army they were easy. You did what you were told.
Lisbeth Thomsen dashed out from the trees, leapt through the passenger door he’d kicked open. Was struggling to hold on to the cold metal dashboard as Raben floored the accelerator. They slid and swerved across the mud, headed back into the forest, over the roughest track he could find.
Twenty minutes later Skogö’s two police Volvos stood outside Thomsen’s cottage. Strange had retrieved the black squad car from the mud where it had stuck when they tried to give chase. It was just before seven in the evening and Lund was furious.
‘Where could they go?’ she asked the Swedish cop again.
‘You keep asking me this. I’m telling you the same thing. This is a small island. Just forest and a few houses. And then the sea. They won’t get onto the ferry, I promise you that. In the morning, when it’s light—’
‘The morning could be too late,’ she said.
‘We’ve got twenty thousand hectares of forest and Lisbeth Thomsen probably knows every tree. She’s been coming here since she was a little girl. A good kid. In the morning—’
‘You told us Raben wasn’t here.’
‘And I was wrong,’ he said very patiently. ‘We’ve got Bertil and Ralle looking for them too.’
Lund wanted to scream.
