The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  Alone but not alone, she found the tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘What a piece of shit I am,’ Louise Raben whispered.

  Then stood up. Touched his still fingers. They were warm. Life there. Hope there. Love still. He’d never lost that. Never would and now she knew.

  Took them away. Wondered. Looked at the man in the bed, eyes closed, shallow breathing. Hurt and damaged by so many things. And now she was among them.

  Then she touched his fingers again and knew she wasn’t mistaken. There was the faintest of responses. A flicker of movement as she took his hand in hers.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jens,’ she murmured, her voice breaking, then leaned over him, kissed his rough cheek, placed her head next to his on the soft hospital pillow.

  There was only one place to be and it wasn’t with Christian Søgaard. This difficult, damaged man was all she wanted, with his faults, his troubles, his pain.

  Her cheek brushed his rough beard. Her fingers tightened on his. Somewhere outside a siren sounded. Through the glass door she could see the tall cops in their blue uniforms.

  Here, at least, he was safe.

  Carsten Plough and Karina Jørgensen were back in the Ministry of Justice, desperately trying to track down Buch. His mobile was turned off. He’d gone walkabout after leaving the Christianborg Palace. Even the hot-dog stand hadn’t seen him.

  The phones kept ringing constantly, media mainly, screeching for a statement.

  ‘We’ve no comment,’ Karina told the latest, the political editor of one of the dailies. ‘There’s nothing to say. Nothing at all . . .’

  She put down the phone, looked at Plough.

  ‘The driver’s not seen him. He’s been gone for an hour now. How can he do this to us?’

  She tried his mobile again.

  ‘It’s still on voicemail. I called his wife. She’s not heard from him either.’

  ‘The rumours are flying!’ Plough said anxiously.

  ‘Forget the rumours. Let’s hear it from Buch directly, shall we? Maybe he tracked down Connie Vemmer and had a word with her.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,’ Plough grumbled. He phoned security. ‘Hello? Plough here. Our minister’s missing. I want you to find him.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Is there a committee meeting or something?’ Karina asked. ‘Does he have any invitations?’

  Plough raised a finger. They walked to Buch’s desk, found the diary.

  It was scribbled in there for the evening. The address of the South Korean Embassy. And a single word, seemingly written with enthusiasm.

  Kimchi!

  She called, talked to someone there.

  ‘Oh crap,’ Karina muttered as she came off the phone.

  Kimchi.

  There was lots of it. And skewers of beef. And things he didn’t recognize. Beer too. Rice wine. Whisky. Thomas Buch had his jacket off, his tie halfway down his neck. Sat on the floor like a fat Buddha, sweating heavily, only half-listening to a woman in traditional costume play some kind of oriental harp.

  He’d no idea whether the semicircle of people in front of him understood a word of what he was saying. A Chinese woman. A kindly but puzzled-looking young black man who wore some kind of African dress. A Korean in a grey suit and some others who didn’t seem happy at all.

  ‘I was so . . . so very angry,’ he went on in a slow, slurred tone. ‘Because I thought there was an extra hand in the coffin. And it was proof. But . . .’ Buch’s voice rose, as if volume might bring sense to what he was saying. ‘But it wasn’t an extra hand, you see. Oh, no. There was another medical report.’ His fingers gestured through the air, then the right one found his strong beer. A swig of it. ‘And it was the hand of the suicide bomber.’

  He raised his glass.

  ‘What happened was . . .’ He puffed up his cheeks. Said very loudly, ‘Boosh!’

  Buch nodded.

  ‘Boosh. And there it was.’

  He stopped. There was movement at the back of the room. Someone there, a very serious-looking individual who had the appearance of security, had been eyeing him for a while. A blonde woman marched in. Karina. Then the tall figure of Carsten Plough.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ Buch called. ‘Come, come! Have beer. Try kimchi!’

  The two approached.

  ‘I was telling my new friends about the hand.’ His fat, bearded cheeks puffed up again. ‘Boosh!’

  He waved at the semicircle of silent people on chairs in front of him.

  ‘These are my colleagues. Plough and Karina. Kimchi!’

  Plough smiled and gestured with his hand, fingers waving towards himself.

  ‘What?’ Buch asked.

  ‘Come, Thomas,’ Karina said. ‘Time to go home.’

  Buch struggled to his feet, smiled, brushed himself down.

  ‘One more beer and a bit of kimchi,’ he said and struggled to the buffet.

  The two of them came over.

  ‘We need to go back to Connie Vemmer,’ she said.

  ‘Kimchi,’ Buch replied, forcing a small plate of fermented cabbage on her.

  ‘I don’t want kimchi!’ she said very loudly. ‘Rossing set you up, remember?’

  ‘Oh Karina,’ he moaned. ‘I’m not cut out for all this intrigue. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘This isn’t finished,’ Plough said.

  ‘But it is. And so am I,’ Buch whined.

  ‘Thomas!’ Karina’s voice was hectoring and insistent. ‘They’ve got Raben in custody. He’s been shot but he’ll live. We can look into this—’

  ‘No!’ Buch cried. ‘I’m resigning tomorrow. For God’s sake let me go quietly, will you?’

  Carsten Plough made him sit, then took the chair next to him. Tidied Buch’s tie. Stared into his sweating face.

  ‘Give up? Give up?’ he said in a low and caustic voice. ‘How can you possibly say that after all we’ve done?’

  ‘Something’s amiss,’ Karina added. ‘You know it.’

  Plough picked Buch’s jacket off the floor and returned with it.

  ‘We’re in this together, Thomas. We have to keep calm. Behave responsibly . . .’

  Buch shook his big head, got to his feet, angry all of a sudden.

  ‘Stop it. The truth is we weren’t up to it. We were out of our depth—’

  ‘No,’ Plough interrupted. ‘That’s not justified at all. Let’s go back to the office and discuss this.’

  ‘Fuck the office!’ Buch roared. ‘Fuck Slotsholmen. Twice over.’

  The room fell into silence.

  ‘The truth is you’d no idea what Monberg was up to! He was a loose cannon. And you . . .’

  His finger jabbed at her.

  ‘You even slept with the man. Bloody hell!’

  Buch blinked, wondered why he’d said such a stupid thing.

  ‘Oh don’t leave,’ Buch cried. ‘I apologize. Come here, won’t you? Please . . .’

  He fell back into the chair, grabbed for the glass. Wondered if he could manage more kimchi.

  The one who looked like a security guard came up. He had a coat in his hand. Buch realized it was his.

  It was cold outside and Buch wasn’t exactly sure where he was.

  Then remembered something. Erling Krabbe. He lived nearby.

  In a nearby cafe he drank two large cups of espresso. Close to midnight he went to Krabbe’s house and let his finger rest on the doorbell.

  It took a while but eventually he heard a familiar voice cry, ‘All right! I’m coming, dammit!’

  ‘Hello?’ Buch yelled, peering through the spyglass.

  Eventually he saw an eye on the other side.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘We’ve got to talk, Krabbe. Honestly. It’s important.’

  Buch paused.

  ‘Also . . . I need to use the toilet.’

  Krabbe let him in, showed him the bathroom, then took him into a smart modern kitchen, gave him a glass of milk, put out some food. Cheese a
nd biscuits.

  ‘Dig in!’ he said. ‘You look as if you need it.’

  Buch was too drunk to be sure but a part of him thought Erling Krabbe was mildly amused by his condition, and not in a cruel way either.

  There were photos on the fridge. An attractive Asian woman with a couple of kids. Thai maybe.

  Glass of milk in hand, Buch stared at them.

  ‘We talked about that too. Me and my wife.’

  ‘Talked about what?’ Krabbe asked, neatly dividing up some coffee cake.

  ‘Getting an au pair.’

  ‘That’s my wife,’ Krabbe told him.

  Buch gulped at the milk. Wondered when he’d be able to open his mouth without saying something deeply stupid.

  He sat down.

  ‘May I ask,’ Krabbe said, ‘what exactly you’re doing here?’

  Buch looked at him and ate some cheese.

  ‘I’m sorry if I left you confused,’ Krabbe added.

  He was in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms and wore a heavy pair of glasses. Must use contacts during the day, Buch guessed. He was different like this. Less robotic, more human. Krabbe munched on a piece of cucumber and got himself some carrot juice.

  Buch stared at the glass of orange liquid as if it were poison.

  ‘I wondered why you came to see me,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Didn’t look like nothing.’

  ‘Buch. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of this personally—’

  ‘Oh no! Listen, Krabbe. I had the Prime Minister’s confidence. Then you march in there.’ He raised a fat forefinger. ‘I demand to know what you talked about. I demand it. I’m still a government minister, you know. Maybe not for much longer . . .’

  Krabbe sipped at his carrot juice.

  ‘After that stunt of yours at the press conference I was furious. All the work with Monberg on the anti-terror package was in ruins.’

  Buch kept picking at the food, listening.

  ‘Because of you . . .’ Krabbe shook his head as if this were somehow hard to believe. ‘I had to call a meeting of the executive committee.’

  ‘Big deal.’

  ‘It might have been. But on the way there I got a call from Grue Eriksen’s office. They said the whole thing had been investigated and Rossing was in the clear. That was it. You were going to be hung out to dry and the package was up for the vote tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Buch was struggling to work this out. ‘You’re saying they told you that before I’d even gone in front of the Security Committee?’

  ‘Exactly. I couldn’t understand that either. But I think I get the picture now.’

  ‘Going to share this revelation with me?’

  Krabbe rolled his eyes.

  ‘What does it matter if Grue Eriksen had prior knowledge? They knew your accusations were false. They were just calling me in advance to make sure I didn’t stir things up. They’d lost confidence in you.’

  Buch raised his glass of milk in a silent toast.

  ‘So Rossing made a fool of you. It doesn’t mean Grue Eriksen was a party to the whole thing, does it? Surely he’s above this kind of back-stabbing.’

  ‘Krabbe,’ Buch said, aware his mind was starting to clear. ‘This isn’t about a political row in Slotsholmen. It’s to do with murder. Conspiracy. Maybe an army atrocity—’

  ‘I spoke to the Prime Minister this evening. I’m fine on this. We vote tomorrow and put it all behind us. I’m sorry, Buch, but I’m glad he gave you the push. You’re not up to the job.’

  He pointed to the clock on the wall. Half past midnight.

  ‘Shall I call you a taxi?’

  ‘Are you happy now?’ Buch asked.

  ‘I’ve got what I wanted.’

  Buch got up, looked at the photos on the fridge. The pretty Asian woman. The kids.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘We’re different people when we step outside that place. When you throw all those fixed positions to one side and talk about things without all that . . . crap around.’

  ‘A taxi,’ Krabbe repeated.

  ‘Are you happy?’ Thomas Buch asked again. ‘Truly? Honestly?’

  Lund got home at close to one in the morning, a pizza going cold in her hands. Her head was hurting again. The wound above her eyebrow itched. Walking up the stairs on the way into Vibeke’s apartment her phone rang. Madsen with the latest on Strange.

  ‘We need to know exactly when he came out of the army,’ she said, listening to his excuses. ‘He claims it was six months before Raben’s squad got hit.’

  ‘They won’t give us that information, Lund. Once it’s about someone who’s been in special forces—’

  ‘Tell them we’ve got to have it! This is a murder inquiry.’

  ‘They’re sending some top brass guy to see us tomorrow morning. General Arild.’

  ‘They can send who they like. We still want that information. And Strange’s CV. All the personnel information we got when he transferred to the police. Send me that too, will you?’

  She put the pizza on the step and hunted for the door keys in her bag.

  ‘Lund,’ a low, miserable voice said out of the darkness near the lift.

  She jumped as Strange walked out of the gloom.

  ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  ‘I waited till someone turned up and said I wanted to see your mother. I’m not breaking in, for God’s sake. This is for you . . .’

  He had a plastic wallet in his hands.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. What’s that?’

  ‘Reports on the soldiers who died on Raben’s mission. I left them in the car. You should have them now you’re taking over.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and took them.

  He’d been home and changed. Nice brown coat, clean shirt, scarf. He didn’t look worried at all. Just pissed off.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t be here . . .’

  ‘I don’t care what Brix thinks.’

  ‘Jesus, Strange. We can’t talk about any of this. You’re suspended. There’s an inquiry—’

  ‘What do you think? That’s all I want to know. What do you believe?’

  She looked at him, wished she didn’t have to face this.

  ‘You should have told me. I had the right to know.’

  He nodded, as if he took the point.

  ‘Why? Did you tell me about every last thing in your life? About the Swede you were going to live with? About the cop who got shot?’

  ‘It’s not the same . . .’

  She tried to push past. He took hold of her. Wouldn’t let go.

  ‘The guys in the Politigården said you went nuts and that’s why Jan Meyer wound up in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘I told them to shut up. I stood by you, all the time, and you didn’t say a damned word. Offer me a thing either.’

  The communal light was on a timer. It flicked off at that moment. Just as Ulrik Strange’s face came close to hers.

  Lund punched the switch and got the light back on.

  He waited for an answer. When he didn’t get one he swore in a whisper and set off down the stairs. Turned after a couple of steps.

  ‘I told my kids about you,’ Strange said. ‘They were asking why I looked so happy. I said . . .’

  She wanted to yell and scream at him but didn’t.

  ‘I told them I’d met someone at work. And maybe they’d meet her too one day.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Lund whispered.

  So quietly he didn’t hear.

  ‘Maybe,’ Strange said and then was gone.

  Nine

  Monday 21st November

  9.15 a.m. General Arild was a cocky, ginger-haired man who looked Brix and Lund and Madsen in the eye the moment they called him into an interview room. Early fifties, Lund thought. Short but muscular, confident as he stood by the window, laughing at the conversation. She could imagine him as a soldier in the field, looking for the neare
st fight.

  ‘Cooperation?’ Arild asked when Lund questioned the responses she’d been getting from the military. ‘You think we haven’t helped you already? You’ve been all over Ryvangen. Interrogating our officers while they prepare for the next tour. Goodness . . .’

  He wore an immaculate blue uniform covered with ribbons and medals.

  ‘Did you have special forces operatives in the area in question, two years ago?’ Lund asked.

  Brix stood by the filing cabinets, listening.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally answer a question like this,’ Arild said. ‘But since you seem to think it so important, yes, we had officers there.’

  ‘While Team Ægir was in place?’

  ‘Didn’t I just answer that?’

  ‘And Ulrik Strange was demobilized six months before this incident in Helmand?’

  ‘Too far,’ Arild replied. ‘You know I can’t discuss names.’

  ‘I want a list of who was there!’ Lund insisted.

  He laughed at her.

  ‘You don’t want much, do you? Do you understand the kind of people we’re talking about? The work they do?’

  ‘Not really,’ Lund replied.

  Arild’s confident, smiling face fell.

  ‘We’re fighting animals who’ll decapitate their own daughters for wearing the wrong clothes. Hang a man in the street for listening to the radio. Geneva’s a long way from Helmand. They know it. We do too.’

  He didn’t like women, Lund thought. Except in their place.

  ‘I want that information, General.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose anything about individual officers. What I will say is this. No one from Jægerkorpset or any other special forces unit was involved in that particular incident. It happened without our involvement and our knowledge.’

  A knock on the door. Someone asking for Brix. He left the room.

  Arild came a step closer.

  ‘I’m trying to help you,’ he said. ‘We don’t go around murdering innocent civilians. Here or in Afghanistan. Now . . .’ He picked up his cap. ‘You must excuse me.’

  ‘These officers were deployed too,’ she said, passing him the latest list of soldiers attached to Ægir from other regiments. ‘I want what you have on them. They’re not special forces. You’ve no reason to object—’