by David Hewson
‘The ramblings of a traumatized soldier do not merit this nonsense,’ Arild barked, close to losing his temper. ‘And how is it Jens Peter Raben could elude PET so easily? Tell me that. I thought you people had him under surveillance . . . You’ve no idea what you’re getting into, woman. Any more questions before I leave?’
She wanted to ask if he dyed his hair but didn’t. Instead she folded her arms, gave him a jaded look and said, ‘If you stand in my way I’ll go public. You’ll have every hack and TV crew in Denmark banging on your door demanding answers. Your choice.’
He didn’t like that.
Brix came back. Arild marched with him to the black marble corridor outside.
‘What information we can provide,’ Arild said very deliberately to Brix alone, ‘I will send you. You’ll hear from my office this afternoon.’
Then he left.
‘What changed his mind?’ Brix asked.
‘Female charm.’
‘How are you feeling?’
The wound didn’t hurt any more. The bruise was just a red weal.
‘Fine,’ Lund said.
‘Raben’s conscious. He wants to talk. Doesn’t mind whether a lawyer’s present or not.’
Lund got her keys.
‘Take Madsen with you,’ he called as she left.
But Madsen was on the phone. Lund walked on without him.
Buch had brushed his teeth four times already that morning. But he could still taste stale kimchi in his mouth. He’d called together the most senior staff in the Ministry, stood in front of them in the reception area outside his office.
No energy for a tie. Just a clean suit, a blue sweater and a white shirt that was in need of an iron.
Plough and Karina stood behind him looking mutinous.
‘I’m sorry my ineptitude embarrassed you all,’ Buch said. ‘The newspapers are telling everyone I’m just a simple farmer from Jutland.’
Karina muttered something.
‘It seems,’ Buch went on, ‘they were right. Which is a shame because I enjoyed working with you greatly. You deserved better. I trust my successor, whoever he or she turns out to be, will bring you that.’
Plough led the applause. Karina took it up. Soon they were all clapping him, which made Buch feel rather odd. As if he’d touched these people, not that he understood how.
He went back into his office. Plough and Karina marched in behind, closing the door.
‘Today’s schedule,’ she began, placing a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘The Prime Minister’s office will vet your leaving statement and arrange a suitable exchange of letters.’
Buch put a couple of headache pills in a glass, topped them up with water, swilled them around.
‘About Raben,’ she began.
‘Oh, forget it, Karina,’ Buch cut in. He looked at her, at Plough. ‘Please. I’m really sorry for last night. It was inexcusable. Can you draft a letter of apology to the poor Koreans?’
They said nothing.
‘You’ve both been so kind. So supportive, from the beginning. And all I did was foul things up.’
‘Thomas . . .’ she began.
‘No. Let me finish. This is the best solution for the government and the Ministry.’ He thought of the difficult, strained conversation he’d had with Marie that morning. All she knew was what she’d read. It was hard to explain over the phone. ‘For me too. I want to go home. I need to. Here . . .’
He reached beneath the desk and pulled out the bottle of expensive Armagnac he’d picked up for Plough.
‘I wish you all the best, Carsten. And for you . . .’
He handed Karina a box of chocolates.
Plough’s phone rang. He excused himself and walked away to take it.
‘Was it the wrong Armagnac?’ Buch asked, watching him go.
‘It’s fine.’ She looked at Carsten Plough, talking in low tones in the corner of the room. ‘He’s got worries of his own.’
‘What worries?’
She took a deep breath.
‘He’s been called to a meeting in the Prime Minister’s office. There seems to be some kind of reorganization on the cards.’
Buch gulped at the headache pills and the water. He’d offered his own head. It was never part of the deal that Grue Eriksen would take others too.
‘They want to appoint Plough to an EU consultant’s post in Skopje.’ She shrugged. ‘If they’re going to pick on Plough then I’m gone too. But that’s fine by me.’
‘This is wrong . . .’
‘It’s the way things happen. Connie Vemmer called. She wants to explain . . .’
‘Oh no . . .’
‘She says she needs to speak to you personally. Only you. I really think . . .’
Buch tried to smile, took another sip of the water.
‘We lost, Karina. It’s done with. I’ll talk to Grue Eriksen about your careers. It’s quite unacceptable that you should pay for my incompetence and stupidity.’
‘Don’t say that!’ she shouted. ‘It’s not true.’
‘I’ll put this right. If I can.’
Lund sat next to Raben’s bed in the private ward, amidst the racket of the medical machinery, listening to his firm and insistent voice.
She left the recorder running, took no notes. Raben claimed he was starting to remember more of what happened in Helmand. There was a decision to be made here: who to believe?
‘We were in the Green Zone. We got a message at nine thirty in the morning,’ Raben said. ‘It was on an emergency frequency. It said a Danish unit was under fire.’
His shoulder had a fresh dressing. The doctor said some of the lines from the night before had been removed. Raben was a hard man. He recovered quickly.
‘We crossed the river to help. Did Thomsen tell you what happened?’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘The bridge was mined. I left her to sort it out. We made it into the village.’
He looked at her from the pillow.
‘There was no Danish unit. Just one officer who’d got himself trapped in there with the family and didn’t dare come out.’
‘What made you think he was called Perk?’
‘He told me. I saw his dog tag.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No. He hadn’t been through Camp Viking. I’m sure of that. But the special forces guys came from all over. Kabul. Direct sometimes. He said he got cut off from his squad.’
‘You didn’t believe him?’
Raben clutched his injured arm.
‘I didn’t know what to think. He said he’d been on a mission and the Taliban had caught wind of it. They were hounding him. He was waiting for backup.’
She folded her arms and waited.
‘We weren’t supposed to ask men like that what they were doing,’ Raben said eventually. ‘It wasn’t our business.’
‘Do you have any idea?’
‘No. But he was scared. We all were. Just five of us left. Myg, HC, David, Sebastian and me. And Perk. Dolmer got hit by sniper fire on the way in. Dead. Grüner’s leg was shot to bits. He needed help. There were Taliban in the village. Too scared to come for us but that wasn’t going to last. We’d left the radio with Thomsen.’
‘What about Perk’s radio?’
‘He said it got hit by fire after he called for us. I didn’t see it. I didn’t . . .’ His head went from side to side on the pillow. ‘I don’t remember too clearly. Perk was an officer. It was like he was in command straight off. He said we had to wait. Not try to fight our way out. There were too many of them.’
Raben swore, closed his eyes for a moment.
‘We should have just gone for it. The family were getting really jumpy. We couldn’t let them leave.’
He stared at her.
‘Grüner was screaming. The place stank of shit and blood and . . .’ A moment of pain and bewilderment. ‘I kept thinking they’d come for us but they didn’t. Perk was getting madder and madder. Then he decided we had t
o get out, whatever.’
Raben went quiet.
‘And?’ Lund asked.
‘It’s in here!’ Raben shrieked, tapping his forehead.
‘Tell me what you can.’
‘He said . . .’ Raben spoke very slowly, as if unsure of himself. ‘He told me he wanted the father to help him get hold of a radio. If we got that we could call in a helicopter and backup. But the father was just a villager. He didn’t have one. He didn’t have anything.’
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hospital gown.
‘Perk didn’t believe him. So he grabbed one of the kids. A little girl.’ He shuffled on the bed, dead eyes, face full of pain. ‘Put his gun to her head. He said the father had to decide. Was he with the Taliban? Or with us?’
Head thrust back into the pillow.
‘Then he shot her right in front of us. Seven years old. Eight maybe. Just gone like that.’
‘You remember this? You’re sure?’
‘I remember!’ Raben shrieked, eyes open, full of shame and fear. ‘I watched him grab hold of the mother and he shot her too. He was crazy. The man held his son. He was crying, screaming. Begging Perk to spare them. But he just blew them away, there in the room. In front of us.’
She waited till he took hold of himself.
‘There was one kid left. A little girl. Four maybe. I held her. I didn’t think he’d shoot. Perk just snatched her from my arms and blew her head off.’
‘And the others?’
‘They were shouting. Sebastian was crying.’
She checked her notes.
‘That’s Sebastian Holst?’
‘Yeah. The youngest. He was more interested in his camera than his gun. Wanted to be a press photographer when he came out. I put my arms round him. Made him calm down. It got dark. Suddenly we heard the sound of a motorbike outside. Some guy drove into the courtyard and blew himself up. They said Søgaard had almost found us by then. He came into the village, got us out of there. I don’t recall.’
‘And Perk?’ she asked. ‘Where was he?’
He shrugged.
‘I don’t really know what happened after that. Perk was a clever guy. I think he maybe found a way out before Søgaard came in. Either that or . . .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or someone helped him. We were just ordinary soldiers. He was higher up the food chain.’
Another look at her notes.
‘Søgaard filed a report. He said there was no sign of any civilians. No bodies.’
‘Yeah. Well . . .’ A sour expression on Raben’s bearded face. ‘Maybe Perk got rid of them. Or someone didn’t look too hard.’
He stretched up, gazed into her eyes.
‘They were there. I’m telling the truth. Ask Perk yourself. He’s one of yours.’
‘Raben . . .’
‘He’s the one who shot me.’
She put the notebook to one side.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I remember!’
‘You said you don’t remember well. You said Skåning was Perk. That man you kidnapped two years ago. He was a librarian—’
‘I remember now!’
Lund frowned.
‘Clearly?’ she asked. ‘Everything?’
Raben closed his eyes, looked desperate.
‘Not everything. No. But I know he’s Perk. He killed those people. I saw that. He’s got a tattoo on his shoulder. He’s—’
‘Skåning’s got the tattoo. So have lots of officers.’
She pulled out a set of photographs. Black and white mugshots from the files. Men she didn’t know.
The moment Ulrik Strange’s face appeared Raben picked the photo and thrust it in her face.
‘Him,’ he said. ‘That’s Perk.’
Brix and Hedeby were talking when Lund got back from the hospital. They listened to what she had to say. But Hedeby wasn’t interested in Raben at that moment. She wanted to know about Strange.
‘So now you’re telling me one of our own officers killed these people?’ Hedeby asked. ‘Seriously?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lund admitted. ‘Raben’s got good reason to tell a tale like that. He’s facing criminal charges. I guess he might get off more lightly if he can throw the blame on us.’
Hedeby muttered a quiet curse.
‘We need Strange cleared by name,’ she said emphatically.
‘We won’t get it,’ Lund said taking a seat.
‘Raben’s mentally unstable,’ Brix added. ‘We’ve got proof of that. He could easily have confused Strange with someone else. He’s done it before. Besides . . . Strange has been an active member of the team here. He didn’t have time to invent nonsense like the Muslim League.’
Lund sighed.
‘There are gaps in his movements,’ she said. ‘He says he was at home on his own before we found Myg Poulsen. Grüner was killed by a bomb detonated by a mobile phone placed in advance. Same thing. No alibi.’
‘Lund—’ Brix began.
‘He left me in Sweden while I was talking to Lisbeth Thomsen. He was gone for two hours looking for Raben. We were in his car, not mine. He was at the barracks the night the explosives were stolen.’
‘And when you found the priest Strange was in Helsingør,’ Brix added.
‘He was there,’ Lund said. ‘No one knows what time he left.’
She got her coat.
‘I’m going to see Sebastian Holst’s father. Raben said he used his camera all the time. It was never found.’
‘And Strange?’ Hedeby said. ‘What do you propose we do with him?’
‘Same as we’d do for anyone else,’ Lund told her. ‘Put him in an interview room and throw some questions his way.’
When she was gone Hedeby turned on him as he knew she would.
‘The people upstairs are asking why you took him on in the first place.’
Brix tried to control his temper.
‘I didn’t appoint him, Ruth. He came with the police reforms. When the Ministry of Defence dumped all those people on us they didn’t want on the payroll any more.’
‘Someone let him in here.’
He pointed at the ceiling.
‘They did,’ Brix said. ‘And they can wash their hands of him if they like.’
The anti-terror bill was in front of the Folketinget. Three readings and then it was through. TV teams stood outside the Parliament building, reporters delivering live to camera. Someone, from Grue Eriksen’s office Buch assumed, had briefed the media already. They were expecting his resignation once the measure was through.
He walked out for some fresh air during a break in the debate, looked round the lobby.
Grue Eriksen and Flemming Rossing were in a huddle by one of the pillars. Buch hadn’t bothered with a tie. His career as a minister was over. No need for protocol any more.
He walked over, interrupted the two of them, asked Grue Eriksen for a moment of his time.
A public place. The Prime Minister was all charm.
Rossing stayed there, listening in his smart grey suit, checking his phone for messages from time to time.
‘It’s about Plough,’ Buch said. ‘I gather he’s being moved sideways. It must be a mistake—’
‘It’s no mistake. That department was unfit for purpose when Monberg was there. We all know it now. It’s time to signal a new beginning.’
‘He’s a good man!’ Buch said, voice rising. ‘A decent, hard-working civil servant. You shouldn’t punish him for a politician’s errors. Mine and Monberg’s . . .’
Rossing pushed his way into the conversation. That big beak nose looked triumphant.
‘The Prime Minister tells me you’ve apologized, Buch. I’m glad to hear it. No hard feelings.’
‘Yes, yes. About Plough . . .’
The two of them stared at him. A team, Buch thought. Maybe they had been all along.
‘Did you see our draft for your speech at the press conference?’ Grue Eriksen added. ‘Put in
a little personal touch if you want. But don’t change anything substantive. I mean that. Now . . .’
Buch was flapping, losing him.
‘I’ve got to talk to someone,’ Grue Eriksen said, dashing off. And Rossing was gone just as quickly too.
Buch’s phone rang. Plough.
‘Everything’s ready for the press conference,’ he said. ‘We can do it whenever the package is done with.’
‘Fine . . .’
‘Also your wife’s turned up at the Ministry. Karina’s looking after her.’
‘What?’ Buch exploded. ‘Marie? Who’s looking after the kids? Her mother goes to yoga on Mondays. I mean really . . .’
A long silence on the phone.
‘I said you’d meet her outside,’ Plough responded in an arch, distanced voice. ‘Perhaps you’d better ask her.’
Buch marched out of the Parliament building, through the quiet centre of Slotsholmen, past the statue of Kierkegaard, out into the narrow street in front of the Ministry. It was a fine bright day for the moment. The weak winter sun made the twisting dragons opposite look sad and comical.
Karina stood by a black official car near the steps. She wore a black coat and looked dressed for a funeral.
Buch stumbled across the steps.
‘Where is she?’ he asked, panting as he turned up. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
He walked up to the big estate. Connie Vemmer was hanging out of the passenger door, long blonde hair blowing in the stiff winter wind, cigarette in hand, coughing smoke out of the window.
‘Oh no,’ Buch groaned, turning on Karina. But she smiled at him, shrugged, walked off.
‘Don’t be an arse,’ Vemmer barked at him from the car. ‘Just listen to me, will you? Get in and let’s go for a drive. We need to talk about those medical reports.’
‘You cost me my job. What in God’s name . . . ?’
He turned and started to walk back towards the door.
‘Buch! Buch!’ She moved more quickly than he expected, was by his side, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Do you think I was running errands for that bastard Rossing? He’s the man who fired me.’
Still he kept walking. She hung on his arm like an importunate beggar.
‘If Rossing knew about that fax in advance someone must have tipped him off.’
