The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  ‘Jens has been shot, Louise.’ Her father cast a glance at the tall figure in her room. She couldn’t read it. ‘They need you there now.’

  Thomas Buch felt hungry. He needed a drink. There was a late-night reception at the South Korean Embassy that evening. Music, art and food. He loved kimchi even if it did smell foul.

  There was just the meeting with the Prime Minister to get out of the way first.

  Grue Eriksen was at his desk going through some papers. He didn’t look up as Buch marched in and apologized for being late.

  ‘There are developments. The soldier we were searching for has been shot.’

  ‘I know.’ Grue Eriksen smiled at him. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m anxious to find Rossing so we can talk things over.’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘I realize I was a bit rash in what I said. I’m new to government . . . I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. I’ll offer him my apologies.’

  Grue Eriksen smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I hope we can continue our working relationship,’ Buch added. ‘And Krabbe too. The anti-terror package has put us under pressure. But I’m determined . . .’ He rapped the desk with his knuckles. ‘Absolutely determined to put this right.’

  ‘Very noble.’

  ‘If I can just have a talk with Rossing. I’m sure—’

  ‘Thomas. You’ve been a minister for six days. God created the world in just one more. And you’ve destroyed everything.’

  Buch nodded, listened.

  ‘I was never made for the spotlight, Prime Minister. Never sought it.’

  ‘All these accusations have left you damaged,’ Grue Eriksen continued. ‘I listened to you. I tried to believe a little of the fantasies you were spinning. But honestly. They’re incredible. You’ve picked up a tiny thread of rumour and woven it into the most ridiculous of fairy tales.’

  Grue Eriksen pushed a piece of paper across the desk.

  ‘You have to resign. There’s no alternative.’

  ‘But I’m not ready to resign,’ Buch said as if the idea were ridiculous. ‘There are far too many loose ends for one thing. I defy anyone else to pick them up. How did Rossing know I’d mention that fax?’

  ‘The fax?’

  Buch laughed. Started to get mad.

  ‘The fax I briefed you on! About the medical report and the surplus hand.’

  ‘Don’t shout.’

  ‘Don’t shout?’ Buch roared. ‘How else do you get someone to listen to you in this damned place? It was so convenient Rossing knew, wasn’t it? And I didn’t tell him. So who did?’

  The Prime Minister seemed more amused by his anger than offended.

  ‘You want me to call Rossing over here? Would that make you happy? If I indulge you one last time?’

  Buch hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he murmured.

  He looked at the sheet of paper in front of him. Times for meetings. Everything set out.

  ‘This is your final agenda,’ Grue Eriksen said. ‘Tomorrow we pass the anti-terror package. With Krabbe’s amendments. Then you call a press conference to announce your resignation. Tell them . . .’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Say you want to spend more time with your family. No need to be original.’

  Buch glared at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Thomas. We’ve short memories around here. In a few years you can come back. Not to justice, of course. I’m not sure you have the temperament—’

  ‘Did you pick me because you thought I’d be useless?’ Buch asked straight out. ‘Amenable. Pliable. Someone like Monberg who’d do as he’s told?’

  The Prime Minister laughed.

  ‘I picked you because I liked you. I still do. Give it time. You’ll see.’ He pointed to the door. ‘But right now your career’s over. Go home and think of what you’ll say.’

  Grue Eriksen saw him out.

  Home.

  That was in Jutland, which seemed a million miles away. The invitation to the embassy was in Buch’s pocket. Music. Art. Beer and rice wine.

  And kimchi.

  Plough and Karina were waiting on a bench seat downstairs. Something on their long faces told him they knew his fate already.

  ‘Thomas . . .’ Karina began.

  ‘I need some time to myself,’ Buch said quickly.

  Then left the Christianborg Palace, walked out into the chill, open space of Slotsholmen, thinking of the places he used to linger back before he became a minister. When he was free.

  Lund waited as close to the operating theatre as the hospital staff would allow. Strange went back to the Politigården to interview the badly beaten Torben Skåning. Brix stayed to talk to the medical staff.

  After an hour Strange called.

  ‘This doesn’t work. Skåning’s got an alibi. He had a nervous breakdown in Afghanistan. He flew home with Raben and the wounded soldiers. He says Raben recognized him from the flight but didn’t remember it.’

  ‘Check that out. I’m coming in.’

  She was about to leave when the double doors opened and Louise Raben walked through, pale-faced and anxious.

  ‘What happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘He just came out of surgery. You need to talk to the doctors.’

  ‘I asked what happened!’

  ‘He took a soldier hostage. Your husband had a gun. He tried to escape. Then . . .’

  Lund didn’t want this conversation. She tried to get past the woman. It wasn’t possible.

  ‘Why the hell did you have to shoot him?’

  She tried to recall what had happened, to get it clear in her own head. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘He had a gun. It was dark. He looked crazy. I’m sorry—’

  ‘Jens isn’t like that.’

  ‘You weren’t there. He put the gun to his chin. We thought he was going to take his own life. Then he changed his mind . . .’ She shrugged. ‘For some reason. He wouldn’t put down the weapon. We didn’t know . . .’

  ‘That isn’t Jens . . .’

  ‘But it was,’ Lund insisted. She pulled out a plastic evidence bag. ‘He had these with him. We don’t need them.’

  A pair of gloves. A toy soldier, sword raised. The woman took them, stared at the little figure.

  Brix was at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lund said and went to see him.

  ‘Any news from Strange?’ he asked.

  ‘They questioned Skåning.’

  ‘I know. Skåning’s alibi checks out.’

  ‘It’s got to be him. We’ve been through all the other officers on Ægir. The rest of them are clean.’

  ‘If he was from Ægir . . .’

  ‘If he wasn’t God knows where we start. What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Raben’s stable. We can interview him tomorrow.’

  Brix took a deep breath, looked around, made sure they were on their own.

  ‘We’ve got a problem. Raben was talking before he went under. He claimed the policeman who shot him was Perk. Strange.’

  Lund kept quiet.

  ‘The surgeon said he was delirious,’ Brix went on. ‘But we can’t ignore that. It’s got to go on file. There’ll be an inquiry into the shooting. You know what they’re like, don’t you?’

  Oh yes, she thought.

  ‘I need to hear this from you, Lund. Is your report accurate?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He watched her, interested. Brix didn’t like swift and easy answers.

  ‘What exactly did the surgeon say?’ she asked.

  Brix waited. He knew.

  ‘OK. Something wasn’t right,’ she admitted. ‘When Raben saw Strange he called him out as Perk. I heard that. I thought—’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘He’s crazy, isn’t he? A couple of minutes before he’d been beating the life out of Skåning thinking he was Perk. Then he had a gun to his own throat. You can’t believe—’

  ‘It has to go on the
record. It has to be in the report.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I know. Raben was in a state. He didn’t know what he was doing. I need to get back to the Politigården.’

  His hand caught her arm as she tried to leave.

  ‘Listen for once, will you? When we took on Strange a year ago I read his CV. He was in the army for a long time.’

  ‘Yes! I know. He told me. At Vordingborg. He had back trouble. He was a squaddie. Hardly a suspect.’

  Brix scowled.

  ‘He wasn’t a squaddie at Vordingborg. He was Jægerkorpset. An officer. He came over to us on a transfer programme. He’s got weapons training. Lots of . . . skills we probably don’t know about.’

  ‘No . . .’

  A figure striding down the corridor towards them.

  Strange came and stood next to Brix, looked at both of them.

  ‘I thought I’d come and fetch you,’ he said. Hands in pockets, mild face miserable and tense. ‘I never shot anyone before. How is he?’

  ‘He’ll live,’ Brix said. ‘We need to talk.’

  Back in the Politigården. Strange in a chair on his own. Lund, arms folded, next to Brix in his office.

  ‘How long did you serve with the special forces people?’ Brix asked.

  Strange took a deep breath, looked at both of them.

  ‘Is this serious? Come on . . .’

  Brix stared at him.

  ‘Serious? What do you think? You shot a man. He identified you as Perk. Every firearms incident gets an inquiry. In circumstances like these . . . We have to know where we stand.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ Strange complained. ‘I was in the army. They asked me if I wanted to serve with Jægerkorpset for a while.’

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Because we’re not supposed to say! Look. I served. I got sick of it. I wasn’t tough enough for that shit frankly. So I quit and applied for the Police Academy.’

  ‘But you went back?’ Brix said.

  ‘Yeah. After 9/11 they came and said they needed people. I had a boring job in the drugs squad. They seemed desperate. So I gave it another go.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Great idea. Cost me my marriage. I finally quit eighteen months ago and came here.’

  He looked around the place.

  ‘I think this suits me better. Maybe you two don’t agree . . .’

  Lund asked, ‘Were you in Afghanistan?’

  It took a while for him to answer.

  ‘These things are supposed to be classified,’ Strange said. ‘But yes. Three times. Not with Jægerkorpset. And I wasn’t with Ægir either. I was demobilized six months before they left.’

  He leaned forward, stared at both of them.

  ‘You’re clear on that? I wasn’t there when any of this happened. I never met Jens Peter Raben till tonight. I mean . . .’ He tried to laugh. ‘Don’t you think I’d have told you?’

  ‘You could have said something,’ she threw at him.

  ‘What? I hated those last few years. It destroyed things . . . things that mattered to me. I just want to forget about the whole damn business.’

  ‘You could have said.’

  It was Brix this time.

  Strange threw back his head and looked ready to howl.

  ‘My life came apart while I was pissing around playing boy soldiers out there. My marriage. My kids. I lost them all. It’s taken me a long time to get back on my feet. I like it here.’

  ‘Very good,’ Brix said and picked up his notebook. ‘According to Skåning, Raben seemed interested in a tattoo. A logo with a message. Ingenio et Armis. With wisdom and weapons.’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Strange sighed. ‘Let’s talk to Skåning some more. He’s got a tale to tell—’

  ‘He’s not the only one,’ Brix cut in. ‘We sent him home. He’s got an alibi remember?’

  ‘Then there’s something we’re missing. Something we’ve overlooked.’

  Brix pointed.

  ‘Take off your shirt. Let’s get it over with.’

  Strange shook his head. Removed his black sweater. Pulled up the arm of the T-shirt beneath.

  The tattoo was there. A red-handled sword stabbing through a crest. The motto Ingenio et Armis in blue lettering.

  Lund stared at him. Brix made a note.

  ‘Before you cuff me,’ Strange said, ‘you ought to check how many officers have got that tattoo. Skåning has it. I’d place a good bet you’ll find it on Søgaard too. We all did. It was part of the induction, part of—’

  ‘I need your gun,’ Brix ordered, holding out his hand. ‘And your ID. We’re going to hand you over to the inquiry team. After that you’ll go home and stay there until this is cleared up.’

  Ten minutes later the inquiry team had Strange in a room. Brix was looking through the glass, Lund and Madsen by his side.

  ‘This is where we are,’ he told the young detective. ‘I’m suspending Strange until we get to the bottom of this. You’re taking over his assignment. You report to Lund and me.’

  ‘We need to talk to the army,’ Lund said. ‘Get a list of officers who worked for special forces in Afghanistan two years ago.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Madsen said. ‘My cousin was with the spooky people for a while. They won’t tell us a thing. Those guys barely talk to each other.’

  Madsen nodded at the glass.

  ‘If Strange was one of them he won’t give you the time of day. Not that you can trust anyway. It’s part of the code.’

  ‘Ask for it,’ Brix ordered. ‘If they object let me know.’

  ‘If it was Strange I’d have known,’ Lund said, watching him, arms folded, waiting patiently.

  Brix shook his head.

  ‘The case is connected to the army. He should have told us. You know that.’

  That was too easy, she thought.

  ‘We didn’t know that to begin with, did we? It was all about terrorists.’

  ‘When he shot Raben . . . was there really no alternative?’

  ‘It was dark. Raben was behaving unpredictably. He had a weapon.’

  Brix stared at her.

  ‘Were you with him when those people died?’

  ‘Yes. I mean . . .’

  She’d been trying to think this through.

  Myg Poulsen and Grüner were dead when they turned up. She didn’t know what Strange was doing in the hours before they were murdered. And Helsingør . . . He could have got to Torpe’s church in Vesterbro before she did, with the traffic and her indecision along the way.

  Brix turned to Madsen and said, ‘Look into it. Until I see something that says otherwise he’s a suspect. Lund?’

  She was lost somewhere, trying to fit together the pieces of an impossible jigsaw.

  ‘Lund!’

  He took her arm.

  ‘Either Raben’s crazy or Strange’s lying. I’d rather believe the former. But until we know, we do this by the book.’

  Louise Raben sat in the hospital corridor watching the doctors and nurses come and go. There were two uniformed cops outside her husband’s room. They didn’t want to talk which was fine by her.

  An awkward, hurtful memory stuck in her head like grit under an eyelid. Christian Søgaard grunting and panting beneath her. She didn’t feel ashamed. Didn’t even feel guilty. Just stupid. Boredom and an infantile curiosity had tempted her to take him to her bed. Not even a mindless desire.

  It was Jens she wanted really. Had all along. The idiotic adventure with Søgaard was her way of punishing him. Ridiculous. Pointless.

  No one had spoken to her for the best part of an hour. She was beginning to doze off when a young woman doctor came up, stethoscope round her neck, green surgical gown beneath a white coat, and tapped her shoulder.

  ‘How is he?’ Louise asked, getting up.

  ‘Drowsy. He’ll probably sleep until tomorrow.’ She hesitated. ‘But we’re pretty sure he’s going to be all right. He’s healthy. He’s young.’ She smiled. ‘He’s lucky.’ />
  ‘No he isn’t. Not at all.’

  ‘He was lucky tonight. You can go and see him if you want.’

  It felt wrong. After Søgaard . . .

  ‘I can come back tomorrow. Will someone look after his things?’

  ‘He might wake up,’ the woman said in a hard, cold voice. ‘It’s important he feels there’s someone there. Someone who cares for him.’

  She had very large, keen eyes. Like the policewoman, Lund.

  ‘I can show you the way,’ the doctor said and it wasn’t an offer to be refused.

  Five minutes later she was alone with him in the private room. Machines on stands. Monitors. Louise Raben was a nurse. She could read these things, understand the clipboard at the foot of the bed. He was fortunate really. It was much worse two years before when he came back from Helmand.

  He lay half beneath the sheets in white hospital pyjamas, chest open, shaved in places for the sensors. Lines and drains and monitors. Cannulas in his arms and hands and neck.

  Unconscious on the single hospital bed, crooked at a slight angle, he looked at peace for once. They’d cleaned him up. Maybe even trimmed his beard. Like this he was the man she remembered. The one she’d fallen for so deeply.

  She looked at him and said, in a low, certain voice, ‘The doctor told me I should talk to you.’ Her hands fidgeted. She felt nervous and, finally, guilty. ‘And I don’t know what to say.’

  The image of Søgaard refused to leave her head. It shouldn’t, she thought. That vile picture was there to remind her. To guide her towards a place she needed to find.

  ‘I saw an old video this evening,’ she said, watching the lines on the monitor, listening to the machines click and whirr. ‘You and me at the beach, just before Jonas was born. Remember?’

  Why ask a sleeping man? She’d no idea. The video was molten plastic and burned tape in an old dustbin in the garden, alongside the ashes of their letters. Gone for ever. Except in her head . . .

  ‘I was fat and ugly and we couldn’t think of a name for him. You remember that?’ She laughed, couldn’t help it. ‘We wrote such a long list and they all seemed wrong.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘In the end you wanted to go for a swim.’

  This memory wasn’t on the video. It went deeper than that. Was still real.

  ‘But I didn’t because I thought I looked like a whale.’ She closed her eyes, felt the tears start. ‘And you took me in your arms. You carried me, big fat me, all the way to the sea. You kissed me.’ Another quiet moment of laughter. ‘Then you said you knew what his name should be. Jonas. Because Jonas was inside the whale. And then set free . . .’