The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  ‘Possible?’ Lund asked straight away.

  ‘The code wasn’t allocated to any one individual,’ Jarnvig said testily. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that.’

  Lund shook her head.

  ‘Don’t you cancel a code when someone dies? Isn’t that the most basic . . .’

  Jarnvig didn’t like the question.

  ‘I told you. It was a generic code, part of the system. No one imagined anything like this could happen.’

  ‘Security’s about dealing with the unimaginable.’ Strange’s eyes didn’t leave the colonel’s face. ‘You’re sloppy here. When I picked up the judge advocate’s report I didn’t see a single guard in this area.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were an expert on army security.’

  Strange stood his ground.

  ‘I did my time. I know sloppy when I see it.’

  Bilal retreated, watching his superior with interested, keen eyes.

  ‘We’re preparing for a mission,’ Jarnvig said, fighting to stay calm. ‘The depot’s locked electronically. Only seven people know the customary access codes.’

  ‘One of them being a dead man. And whoever killed him,’ Lund chipped in. ‘Except maybe he didn’t know that code at all. Great. What time was the break-in?’

  Bilal checked his clipboard.

  ‘According to the log files the outside lock was disengaged at 0:39. Just after midnight. Then again at 1.04 on the way out.’

  Jarnvig led them into the main depot room. A vast hangar-like structure full of uniformed men working silently on crates and boxes and pallets. Gun barrels lay stacked like drain pipes waiting to be laid. A Mercedes all-terrain vehicle stood on jacks in the corner.

  There was a cage at the end. It was open now and suited forensic officers were working inside.

  The colonel led them through. A heavy padlock sat on the cement floor ringed with black ink.

  ‘Poulsen dealt with ammunition and explosives,’ he said as they entered the cage, Bilal last, hands tucked dutifully behind his back. ‘The key was for here.’

  ‘You couldn’t just find this place with a key and a lock code,’ Lund pointed out. ‘He must have—’

  ‘We’ve put together a list of civilians who know their way around the barracks,’ Jarnvig broke in. ‘It runs to several hundred. Contractors. Other visitors.’

  Lund walked around, staring at the green metal boxes and the impenetrable stamps they carried.

  The code still bothered her.

  ‘If it was generic,’ she said, ‘a civilian technician might have known the code. Right? Or someone from another barracks? Army headquarters?’

  ‘We don’t know where the code originated,’ Jarnvig said grimly. ‘I can’t keep repeating this. Lisbeth Thomsen was a good soldier. How did she die?’

  ‘Someone set booby-traps for her. One of them worked.’ She watched him. ‘They got a chemical stamp in forensic overnight. She was killed by your explosives. From this depot.’

  He didn’t like that.

  ‘We’re giving you all the cooperation we can . . .’

  ‘Maybe you never noticed anything because he’s one of you,’ Strange said.

  ‘There’s a hole in the fence! Why would one of our own need to do that?’

  Strange peered round the cage.

  ‘Could be a diversion. Whoever got in here knew this place. Knew what he was looking for.’

  Jarnvig struggled for an answer.

  Lund said, ‘I want the names of every officer, every soldier in the barracks with general access.’

  ‘That’s three platoon commanders. Two officers. Poulsen—’

  ‘Poulsen’s dead! What about you?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got access. I’m the camp commander. Why are you wasting our time—’

  ‘Wasting your time?’

  Brix said to keep it cool. Brix wasn’t here. If he was he’d be as annoyed by this arrogant, dismissive man as much as she was.

  ‘I think we need to continue this conversation in the Politigården, Colonel,’ Lund said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where we take people for questioning.’

  Jarnvig looked around at his men, his equipment. This was his castle, Lund thought. His kingdom. That was why she wanted to see this man without the protection he felt he was owed in this place.

  ‘I’m too busy.’

  Strange walked up and stood next to him.

  ‘You can come willingly. Or we can arrest you.’

  ‘This is an army barracks—’

  ‘This is Denmark,’ Lund interrupted. ‘Will you kindly get in the car?’

  The men stiffened to attention as Jarnvig walked out of the Ryvangen munitions depot and marched in silent fury to the black Ford.

  A report from PET was waiting when Buch and Plough arrived back at the Ministry of Justice.

  ‘König says they’re still extending their investigations into the Islamic groups,’ Plough explained, scanning it as they walked to Buch’s office. ‘It’s his belief the murders are in revenge for an atrocity the fundamentalists say occurred in Helmand two years ago.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know that. But is there actual evidence to support any of this?’

  He passed Buch the skimpiest of files.

  ‘You should ask him. They’ve nothing connecting Monberg and Anne Dragsholm.’

  The civil servant coughed into his fist. Always a sign he was about to say something awkward.

  ‘König’s complaining about a lack of cooperation with the police,’ he said.

  They got to the top of the stairs, two doors from the minister’s quarters.

  ‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? PET told the police nothing for nearly two weeks.’

  ‘Let me look into it. I’ve posted the vacancy for your new personal secretary. I know of two possible candidates—’

  ‘I don’t want a new secretary,’ Buch said, trying hard not to sound petulant. ‘I want Karina . . .’

  He stopped. Flemming Rossing was standing outside his office looking nervous in a long raincoat.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’ the Defence Minister asked. ‘I came over specially.’

  ‘You caught me at a bad time, Rossing. Let’s talk later, shall we? I’ll get my secretary . . .’

  Rossing smiled. That beak-like nose, those keen, avaricious eyes. He looked, Buch thought, like a raptor considering its prey.

  ‘You don’t have a secretary. Word gets around . . .’

  ‘Two minutes. That’s all.’

  But by then Flemming Rossing was already walking into the office, past the long window and the writhing dragons.

  ‘The Prime Minister briefed me,’ Rossing said. ‘We need a chat.’

  Buch sat down. Rossing stayed by the window, walking to and fro. Carsten Plough had once again vanished.

  ‘I know Monberg’s a friend of yours,’ Buch declared. ‘You may not like what’s coming out. I’m sorry but we’ve got to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘I remember when I was first appointed,’ Rossing said, smiling at the portraits behind the desk. ‘You’re nervous. You want everyone to like you. Especially the Prime Minister. It’s like going back to school and being made a prefect all over again.’

  ‘No one ever made me a prefect. More to the point I’m really very busy . . .’

  Rossing pulled up a seat.

  ‘There’s no connection between Monberg and the military case. I know.’

  ‘Well, if you know—’

  ‘There’s something you have to understand. Frode had been under terrible pressure for a long time. The negotiations over the anti-terror package. Problems at home. May I?’

  Rossing poured himself a glass of water without waiting for the answer.

  ‘He always had an eye for the women.’ Rossing nodded at the office outside. ‘You’ve got an empty desk to prove it. Then he was approached by Anne Dragsholm. They knew each other from years ago.’

  Buch glanced at the
dossier he’d got from Plough.

  ‘There’s no mention of that in PET’s report.’

  ‘Frode was Dragsholm’s lecturer at university. They had an affair. He was already married. There were children. So he dumped her.’

  He sipped the water. Hesitated as if wondering how far to go.

  ‘I don’t think Frode was in touch with her since. He’d talk about his . . . dalliances with me from time to time.’ Rossing’s aquiline face hardened. ‘I hated all that. He tried to make it sound like a confession but it was nothing more than boasting. Then Dragsholm turned up again wanting some help. So he met her . . .’ He raised the glass in a bitter toast. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  Buch asked, ‘Is there a point to all this?’

  Rossing’s light-blue eyes lit up with fury.

  ‘Monberg didn’t give a shit about this case. He wanted Dragsholm back in bed. That was all there was to it. When she was murdered he went frantic. I never saw him so bad. A few days later he cracked up and . . .’

  Buch thrust his hands into his pockets and waited.

  ‘I had lunch with him a couple of days before. All he could talk about was how his life was one long series of mistakes. All his achievements . . .’ His free hand swept the office. ‘Here. They didn’t mean a thing. I was busy. I didn’t want to hear about one more grubby little affair, thank you. And then—’

  ‘So it’s just a squalid little sex scandal? Best we forget about the whole thing?’

  The blue eyes were fixed on him.

  ‘I wasn’t saying that. I know everything’s got to come out into the open. I just don’t think we need it now. You’ll damage him. The government. Give that bitch Birgitte Agger all the ammunition she needs.’

  ‘Four people are dead and you’re asking—’

  ‘I’m not asking anything. You’re the minister. It’s your decision. Monberg’s nothing to do with that case. Drag him in and all we’ll get is pointless dirt. Think before you act, Thomas. Please.’

  He finished the water, put the glass on the table. Picked up the PET report, flicked through the pages, then put it back.

  ‘It would have helped if you’d told me this before,’ Buch said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I would have been prepared.’

  ‘I doubt that. I mean no offence. We’re ministers. We’re not here to know everything. We exist in order to make decisions. Good ones, hopefully. Though few remember those.’

  He got up, patted Buch on the shoulder.

  ‘Only the bad,’ he said then left.

  Jarnvig looked smaller once he was sat at a table in a Politigården interview room. Lund, leaning on the radiator by the window, could scent something on him. An uneasiness that wasn’t there behind the barrack walls.

  ‘Yesterday you said no civilians were wounded in that village.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he agreed.

  ‘I talked to Thomsen before she fled with Raben. She told me a different story.’

  ‘No. We heard that fairy tale. The judge advocate looked into it. All those rumours were proved to be false.’

  Strange sat relaxed on the black bench seat, watching Jarnvig perched at the desk, rigid as ever.

  ‘You lost three men from that squad,’ he said. ‘Maybe you weren’t as focused on the truth as you might have been.’

  ‘It was the judge who cleared them. Not me.’

  ‘Give us the process.’ Lund put her hands flat on the table, looked at him with her big bright eyes. ‘I’m curious. I’m a civilian remember. A woman. I don’t understand your world.’

  ‘Ask me a question and I’ll answer,’ Jarnvig replied dryly. ‘If I can.’

  ‘When the squad was flown back to the camp what did they tell you?’

  ‘You know this! They claimed they’d received a call from a patrol under fire outside our control zone. It was an area where the Taliban held some control.’

  ‘Some?’

  ‘Some,’ he repeated. ‘It’s Afghanistan. There are no borders, no front lines. They said the call came from a village. When they got there they found one officer, Perk. He’d been under fire and wanted help.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They said Perk had taken refuge in a house. They were under siege for forty hours without radio contact. We’d no idea where they were. The helicopter that picked up Thomsen looked but it was impossible.’

  Jarnvig sipped at the coffee Lund had given him.

  ‘A few of the local tribesmen claimed later something happened to the family in the house. They were looking for money.’

  Lund asked, ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said the Danish officer killed the family. Father, mother, two, three children, I don’t remember. No one was quite sure. It was ridiculous.’

  ‘You went to the village and asked?’

  ‘It’s Afghanistan! We did what we could. We got to the house for a while. There’d been an explosion. We could see that. No one knew anything about a message from a missing squad.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Except Raben . . . There was no record of any troops in the area. No bodies . . .’

  ‘Thomsen had heard of someone called Perk,’ Lund pointed out.

  Jarnvig leaned forward and slammed his fist on the table.

  ‘There was no officer called Perk. Do you think I didn’t look? Raben’s my son-in-law. I never liked the man but for my daughter’s sake I wanted to see justice done.’

  Strange shook his head.

  ‘Why would Raben lie? Why would the others? They told you the same story.’

  ‘That adventure cost three lives. Raben was always headstrong. Never took orders easily. He was trying to be a hero maybe. Perhaps he wanted to shift the blame.’

  ‘What about the family?’ Lund asked. ‘Someone lived in the house, didn’t they? Did you find them? What did they say?’

  ‘No. We were told they’d fled.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  Lund flicked through the papers.

  ‘You were officer in command. Did you check this all yourself?’

  ‘Not personally,’ Jarnvig replied, as if this were somehow beneath him. ‘I wasn’t in camp when it happened. But I was briefed fully on my return. It was clear—’

  ‘Stop!’ Strange ordered. ‘You weren’t in camp?’

  ‘No. I was at a security council meeting in Kabul. My second-in-command kept me posted.’

  Lund asked, ‘Names?’

  ‘Captain Søgaard. He’s a major now, of course. I came back two days after they got Raben and his men out of there. Søgaard gave me a full report and I—’

  ‘That’s all for now,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s all.’ Lund beckoned to the door. ‘You can go.’

  Brix was hovering in the corridor as Jarnvig left. Lund watched the two of them pass each other. Not a word spoken, plenty of eye contact.

  ‘Jarnvig’s going to be stirring it,’ Strange said. ‘We weren’t supposed to rock the boat.’

  That stray thought she’d first recalled the day before returned as she watched the man in uniform walk out of the building. The Politigården wasn’t always a stranger to the military. During the German occupation the Nazis had occupied the place, running the Danish police officers who remained in post. Some of the Danes had crossed the line, brought in partisans for questioning. She knew the rumours. The stories of a ghost in the basement, close to the rooms where the Germans and their local allies beat and tortured suspects then shipped them off to Mindelunden to die tied to a stake on the shooting range.

  And some of those turncoats died themselves, assassinated by the partisan gangs.

  Stikke.

  Mown down outside their homes, shot on the bus as they went to work.

  War wasn’t always a foreigner. For some it was a familiar, everyday thing, part of the landscape, like bad weather or disease. A shape in the shadows she’d simply been lucky to avoid until now.

  ‘Where
’s Søgaard?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve left four messages. He never gets back.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lund said.

  Buch got Carsten Plough to check out Monberg’s past the moment Rossing was gone. Then he put on his heavy winter jacket and abandoned Slotsholmen for the pleasures of the hot dog wagon in the square across the bridge. Copenhagen looked normal here. People going about their lives, unaware of the feverish activity in the grey buildings of government behind them. Denmark had been run from this small island for centuries, ever since a warrior bishop called Absalon built his castle there. In an idle moment as a new MP Buch had visited the remains of the fortress deep beneath the Christianborg Palace. Slotsholmen had been a magnet for power for more than a millennium, and with that he guessed came rumour, scandal and scheming.

  When he got back he found there was a little progress.

  ‘I think he’s right,’ Plough said. ‘Monberg was a visiting professor when Dragsholm was at university. They could have had an affair. Afterwards she did some work overseas then applied for a job in the army.’

  ‘Do we know they had an affair?’

  The civil servant shrugged.

  ‘We don’t bug bedrooms. Do we? Well, not a minister’s. I hope you weren’t too rude to Flemming Rossing. He’s not a man to cross.’

  Karina was walking into the office carrying her daughter in her arms. The little girl was wrapped up for the cold in an all-white wool coat and pretty hat.

  Buch bowed and said very grandly, ‘Merle Jørgensen. Thomas Buch and his dragons welcome you.’

  She chuckled and said, ‘What dragons?’

  Buch gestured to the window and the spire of the Børsen.

  ‘They’re not real,’ the girl announced in that sparky kid’s voice that denoted a playful argument.

  ‘Who knows what’s real and what’s not?’ Buch asked.

  ‘Grown-ups do . . .’

  ‘If only . . . I have to phone someone.’ He looked at Karina. ‘Can we talk afterwards?’

  He called Rossing.

  ‘If this is another argument,’ the Defence Minister said when Buch got through.

  ‘No arguments. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’m new to this kind of responsibility. You should forgive my naivety at times.’

  Rossing said nothing.

  ‘I lost perspective,’ Buch continued. ‘You’re right. We need to think of the bigger picture. I’ll tell the Prime Minister we must let sleeping dogs lie. The murder investigation will continue its course. But Monberg need be no part of it.’