by David Hewson
‘I asked for backup.’
‘They’re on their way. From the mainland. A couple of hours maybe. I’ve asked my brother-in-law too.’
‘He’s police?’
‘No,’ he said as if puzzled by the question. ‘He’s a fisherman. How many policemen do you think we need on Skogö? If you’d told us you were going to let Lisbeth go we’d be better prepared—’
‘She ran,’ Lund pointed out. ‘Raben’s here. Someone else maybe . . .’
Strange came out from the cottage, frowned when he saw her.
‘I don’t want anyone inside until bomb disposal turn up,’ he said.
‘If there’s a bomb why would we go inside?’ one of the men asked.
‘I’m going to go mad in a minute,’ Lund muttered just low enough so only Strange could hear. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Someone’s been having fun. The doors are flimsy. The windows were open—’
‘We don’t usually lock our doors in Skogö,’ the old cop butted in. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point,’ Strange said, ‘is someone booby-trapped the place.’
‘No one from Skogö,’ the man replied. ‘I’m sure of that. This Raben character of yours, perhaps?’
‘He was in jail when the first two were murdered,’ Lund muttered.
Strange was looking at her.
‘What is it?’
‘Raben could rig up something like that. It’s crude but—’
‘You’re wrong.’
She started to walk round the cleared patch of ground beyond the cars. Strange followed, hands in pockets.
‘If Thomsen had gone for her rifle she’d have been blown to bits, Lund. There’s about a kilo of explosive stuck in there.’ He sighed. ‘Brix is going to be so pissed off about this.’
‘Never mind Brix. I’m pissed off. Worry about that.’
‘What are you looking for?’
It wasn’t that he was slow. Strange was . . . not tuned right somehow.
‘He leaves a sign,’ she said. ‘Remember?’
They got to the end of the clearing. Lund got out her torch, shone it around. Eventually it fell on an outside tap near the vegetable patch. Something was dangling from the top.
Strange came and looked. Shining in the beam was a severed dog tag on a silver chain.
‘Maybe Raben made the roadblock,’ she said. ‘He didn’t booby-trap the cottage.’
‘Why . . . ?’
‘He’s their squad leader. He feels responsible. He wants to save the last one left. And himself. Where the hell are these Swedish hicks for God’s sake?’
She stomped round in the dark. Found nothing more. Then they heard the roar of an engine. Something stormed down the track, four bright lights on the grille, the same on the roof. A huge all-terrain truck, open-backed for the forest.
‘This is my brother-in-law and his mates,’ the old cop said proudly. ‘Now we have the big Datsun we can go anywhere.’
‘Ja,’ the driver said, grinning as he hung out of the door. ‘We found Lisbeth’s little toy stuck in the mud. They must be on foot. So . . .’
He clapped his hands.
‘Anyone here want a ride?’
Lund climbed into the open back, Strange beside her, clung on to the rail, and they lurched into the dark forest.
Thomsen knew these woods, understood how few tracks crossed them, how easy they would be to find. So when they abandoned the Land Rover the two of them ran through the stark upright trees, crossing the rough forest floor as best they could in the weak moonlight and steady rain.
She had a boat. It was the last option open.
They passed the spilled, felled trunks, passed the forest watch-tower. Thomsen screamed, went down hard on the ground.
‘Come on!’ Raben roared, and it was just like the old days. Them against the world.
When she didn’t move he came back. She was whimpering, clutching her ankle in pain.
Soldier down. The response was automatic.
He crouched next to her, lifted the leg of her khaki trousers. Brambles had torn the skin. A livid bruise was emerging.
Raben ripped the fabric with his knife, cut a strip, bandaged the wound.
‘How far to the boat?’
‘A few minutes. That’s all.’
‘Who was in your cottage, Lisbeth?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen anybody.’
She looked at him.
‘It wasn’t there when the police took me in. It can’t have been.’
He tied the makeshift bandage too tight. She put her hand on his, made him loosen it a little.
‘That woman came to see me, Jens. The lawyer. She asked me to testify again. She wanted to reopen the case.’
‘Why? What did she say?’
Thomsen got up, tested her leg.
‘She said she’d uncovered some new information. She wouldn’t say what.’ Thomsen held his arm and he didn’t know whether it was to steady herself or not. ‘What happened in that village, Jens?’
‘I don’t really know. What else?’
‘Nothing. Did you do something wrong?’
His voice rose.
‘I can’t remember, dammit!’
‘Who was Perk?’ Lisbeth Thomsen asked in a quiet, scared voice he’d never heard before. ‘Was he real . . . or . . . ?’
‘Perk! Perk! I don’t know.’
He let go of her, squeezed his eyes tight shut.
‘I remember the screams. The stink of something burning. The kids trying to . . .’
He stopped.
‘To what, Jens?’
His mind had strayed somewhere it hadn’t been in a long time. A dark place, full of mysteries.
‘It was Perk. That was what he called himself. He murdered them. I remember that.’
She looked round the forest. No lights. No sound. Raben should have been doing that. But just then . . .
‘Did any of them survive? Is someone here, looking for revenge?’
Lights in the distance. A big vehicle, fast-moving.
He seized her arm.
‘They’ve found the Land Rover. They won’t be long. Come on.’
She tested the leg. Put weight on it. Didn’t wince at the pain.
‘Can you run?’ he asked.
‘I can try,’ Lisbeth Thomsen answered.
Louise Raben sat on the chair in her father’s office, Jarnvig and Christian Søgaard opposite, and wished she could find the will to laugh at their stiff pomposity. It was ridiculous. She was a nurse, not a soldier. They’d no right to interrogate her like this.
But she went along with it because she had, in truth, little choice. It was close to nine in the evening. The barracks were on a high security alert. Jonas was at his friend’s house for the night. Jens was God knew where.
And besides . . . she liked to watch Søgaard, wriggling by her father’s side, too scared to show any support, too interested to abandon her.
‘Why did he need these explosives, Louise?’
‘I told you. Jens never asked about explosives. He never came here—’
‘You used my computer. You got Thomsen’s file.’
‘Yes! I did!’
‘You took the codes to the ammunition depot.’
‘No, no, no.’ She shook her head. Wondered why she didn’t have the energy to cry. He could make her weep. He did it to her mother from time to time. ‘I never took any codes. I wouldn’t know what they looked like.’
‘He told you—’
‘He didn’t! Jens was never here. I looked at the computer after you left. I got Thomsen’s file and printed it out. I don’t know anything about your explosives. Jens doesn’t either.’
She leaned forward, looked at him, wished he would believe her.
‘He was worried about Thomsen. He wanted to find her. There’s something funny going on. Don’t you know that?’
‘So you did meet him. Where?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters! He’s an escaped criminal and you’re an accessory.’
She grabbed his phone from the desk, held it up for him.
‘Go on then. Call the police. It’s your duty, isn’t it? That’s always more important than family.’
The hurt on his face was immediate and real.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘It was in the car park near the Oslo ferries. The police followed me there. If they’d had half a brain . . .’
‘So he called you beforehand and you agreed to meet? Even though you’d promised to tell me—’
‘He’s my husband! I’ve got duties too.’
‘Do you have any idea where he is?’ Søgaard asked gently.
‘No.’
‘Louise . . .’ His voice was close to wheedling, his face full of sympathy. ‘We need to deal with this.’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeated slowly.
There was a knock on the door. Said Bilal entered, looked at Louise, kept quiet.
‘You can talk, Bilal,’ Jarnvig told him.
‘The police forensic people are all over the munitions depot. They say it wasn’t the colonel’s code used to gain access. It was a different one. It’s not on our list.’
‘How can it not be on our list?’ Jarnvig roared.
‘It’s some kind of master security code. I don’t know any more than that.’
Louise sat back, looked at her father, raised an eyebrow.
‘The police want to speak to you, sir,’ Bilal added. ‘They’ve found explosives identical to ours on an island in Sweden. In a house belonging to Lisbeth Thomsen.’
Her father dismissed Bilal, waited till the young officer was gone.
‘Where did he say he was going?’ Jarnvig asked.
‘He didn’t.’
‘But he was asking about Thomsen’s house in Sweden?’
She didn’t answer. Jarnvig muttered something foul under his breath and left. After a while she got up to go.
‘Louise.’ Søgaard was next to her, strong hand on her arm. ‘Jens is sick. He needs help. More than we gave him. I’m sorry. If they’ve found the explosives at least he can’t cause more trouble.’
‘That wasn’t him. How many times do I have to say it?’
‘You’re going to need to convince the police of that.’
‘Fine. Maybe they’ll lock me up too.’
He shook his head.
‘I’ll have a word with your father. They don’t need to know everything. It won’t be as bad as . . .’ He grimaced. ‘As this.’
‘Really?’
‘If it’s any consolation he’s kicked my backside much harder than that. Many, many times.’ Søgaard looked into her face. ‘He’s the colonel. He’s here to look after us. I guess he feels that responsibility twice over when it comes to you. He means well.’
‘He means to keep me here for ever.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘I’ve got a husband . . .’
‘He ran away from you. I don’t know . . .’ He was so good at this, she thought. ‘I don’t know how any man could do that. But he did.’
His hand was on her arm. Fond and protective. Søgaard was predictable, safe, strong, and happy to show it. So unlike Jens who kept his emotions and his thoughts close and tight inside.
‘Goodnight,’ she said and walked straight back to the house, down to the basement, to sit on the sofa and stare at the bare walls.
After a while she got up and sorted through the rubbish bags out the back. The phone he gave her was there, underneath a discarded pizza box.
She called the number she had, listened to the message.
Unavailable.
He could be in Sweden, she thought. Jens was chasing Lisbeth Thomsen, determined to find her. He would too. But he didn’t have those explosives. She felt sure of that.
The old cop was good in the forest. He was hunting Lisbeth Thomsen and Raben the way he tracked deer.
Deep in the woods he found a scrap of khaki fabric stained with blood.
‘Someone fell here and cut themselves. Not long ago. They can’t be far away.’
‘There’s a path over there,’ said one of the locals.
‘Going where?’ Lund asked.
‘East,’ the cop said. ‘Towards the harbour. If they go there we’ll have them.’
‘And they know it.’ She was getting sick of this. ‘What about the other direction?’
‘That’s a caravan park,’ said the local. ‘But it’s closed for the winter. No one comes to Skogö when it’s cold. Though the fishing’s—’
‘Is there a harbour there too?’ Strange asked.
‘Just a landing stage.’
Lund looked at Strange.
‘There was an outboard engine in front of Thomsen’s house. In pieces. Some buoys and a rod,’ she said.
‘Everyone goes fishing in Skogö,’ the cop said. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ He took off his cap and scratched his grey hair. ‘Lisbeth has a boat, of course.’
Lund was striding back to the truck already. The cop was on the phone to the coastguard.
‘If they put to sea . . .’ she began.
‘Then,’ the cop said, catching up with her, ‘we’re in trouble.’
A thin low mist was starting to roll through the trees. Raben was in front, Thomsen limping behind on her bad leg. There was a hut in the woods then, fifty metres away, a jetty, little more than a line of planks running out over the still, black water. A white dinghy at the end, the engine hooded, prop out of the water.
She stopped him by the hut. Arm on his.
‘Everyone knows I’ve got a boat here. They’ll bring in the coastguard.’
He nodded at the sea. The mist was getting thicker all the time.
‘Come on,’ he said in his old military voice. ‘We can run rings round these people.’
‘I left my best outboard at the cottage. I don’t know if the thing on this works. Jens . . .’
He looked into her bloodless, strong face, and thought to himself: we could be on exercise now. In Canada or Jutland. Part of the never-ending game.
‘They’re not here yet,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go.’
There was a tarpaulin by the jetty. She turned from him and dragged it away. Beneath was a scarlet kayak, a paddle in the bows.
‘Row north with this. I’ll go the other way. The coastguard will follow me. They’ll hear the engine.’
‘We stay together.’
‘Listen to me for once!’ Her voice was too high. He looked back into the woods. ‘You’re an escaped criminal. I’m not. The police will let me go. They’ll throw you back in jail.’
‘They need to catch me for that,’ he said, trying to grab her shoulders.
‘We’re not in Helmand any more. This is your one chance. I can talk to them. You can’t.’
Raben nodded.
‘Nice try,’ he said, pushing her towards the boat. ‘We’re going together.’
‘OK!’ Too loud again. ‘But we need some fuel. There’s a jerrycan in the shed. You get it. I’ll prep the engine.’
Breathless, exhausted, he hesitated.
‘Just do it, will you, Jens? I’ll be on the boat. I can’t exactly run away, can I?’
He watched her walk to the end of the jetty then he went back into the woods. The door was at the back of the timber hut. The chain was off, padlock on the ground.
Raben pulled gingerly on the handle, looked round as the gap opened, took out his torch, ran the beam around the interior.
On the floor was a canvas bag with Danish army markings. Wires from the flap to an unseen detonator that had to be hooked to the wooden door he was now opening.
His fingers let go. His feet took him swiftly backwards, hand shaking, the torch beam quivering in the night.
From the jetty he heard a sound. Something moving in the water. An oar maybe.
Rabe
n ran.
The dinghy was edging slowly away on the black water.
She was a couple of metres off already, oar in hand, trying to get away without his hearing.
‘Lisbeth!’ he yelled, running, still some way short of the planking.
She heard, looked up.
‘Take the kayak, Jens,’ she shouted. ‘Like I said. It’s best . . .’
‘He’s here! Don’t . . .’
She was in the back, starter rope in hand. Jerked it once.
‘Don’t start the . . .’
Jerked it twice and then the world lit up in a ball of fire, its breath warm and rank, chemical and wet.
The force of the blast blew him off his feet and, for a long moment, took away his consciousness. When he came to amidst the clearing mist and smoke, panting, mind racing, he was face down in the shallows by the jetty, water against his cheek.
He crawled to his knees, wiped at his face. Could taste something. The torch in his hand moved, ran across shattered timber and wreckage. Found his own reflection in the water.
A familiar face, tired, unshaven, lost. Scarlet with blood like a murderer.
Raben bent down, washed himself, checked again.
It was worse.
Looked again.
She was floating no more than an arm’s length away. Or her torso was. Khaki jacket shredded, naked flesh torn beneath, savagely cut off at the waist where . . .
He didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Panic was for others. Never him.
Raben crossed to the far side of the jetty, washed his hands and face in the cleaner water there. Climbed into the red kayak, pushed it out onto cold and gentle waves, got in and began to pull on the paddle.
After a minute the mist swallowed him. But through it there was faint light ahead, the moon. Soon, if he kept a straight track, there would be land.
Noises behind and lights. A siren. Shouted voices.
Raben stabbed the paddle into the water and fell into a rhythm, first one side then the other.
He was the last one alive now. A final target in the sights of a ghost who’d emerged from the nightmare of Helmand two years before. A phantom with a name.
Perk.
The press conference was assembled in the room beyond Buch’s office. Fifteen minutes after it was supposed to start Buch was still behind his desk, trying to track down Gert Grue Eriksen. Ruth Hedeby had called with the first reports of the incident in Sweden. The last thing Buch wanted at that moment was to face the press.
