The Killing 2

by David Hewson

  ‘How far’s the village where Raben’s team got attacked?’

  Strange slapped his forehead.

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘We’re not tourists on a day trip!’

  ‘I know that,’ she said and looked at the driver. ‘Can you take us there? How long?’

  The soldier shook his head.

  ‘You don’t have authorization.’

  ‘What do you mean we don’t have authorization?’ Lund yelled at him. ‘Do you think they sent us all the way from Copenhagen to get ordered around by a driver? We’ve got arrest warrants and visas. We can go—’

  ‘You can’t leave the military zone,’ the man said. ‘That’s that.’

  A step closer, hands on hips.

  ‘We’ve got full authority from the Ministry of Justice. Here . . .’ She pulled out the satellite phone. Brix was right. It did seem to work everywhere. ‘I’m going to call Copenhagen. I’m going to get through to the minister himself right now and tell him some adolescent squaddie won’t let us go where we need to—’

  ‘Lund!’ Strange cried.

  She stared him down. Started hitting the buttons.

  ‘What’s your name again?’ She read the tag on his combat jacket. ‘Siegler. OK.’

  The soldier went back to the Land Rover, started looking through his documents. Lund didn’t place the call.

  ‘Does it say we can’t go to the village?’ she asked.

  No answer.

  ‘Well, does it?’

  The man was scanning the hills again, looking for movement.

  ‘I’ve still got to get you back to Bastion on time.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Lund told him. ‘And call in the local chief of police. He was in the judge advocate’s report. I want to talk to him too.’

  The police had found Raben a lawyer. A young, doleful woman who looked as if she’d drawn the short straw from that day’s prisoners.

  ‘You’re going to be charged with burglary, vehicle theft, possession of a firearm, unlawful imprisonment, violent and threatening behaviour.’

  She sat at the interview room desk, flicking through the papers.

  ‘That’s for starters. How will you plead?’

  His arm was still in a sling though the pain was so muted he could move it with some ease.

  ‘Guilty on all counts?’ the lawyer asked.

  ‘Has my wife been in touch?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What about the police officers who went to Helmand?’

  ‘Don’t expect any miracles there. That story about the officer is doing you no favours.’

  ‘But it’s true.’

  She gestured at the papers in front of her.

  ‘Things look bad enough as it is. There’s no need to make them worse by provoking people.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I’m provoking them?’

  ‘You are. This looks like a long sentence. If they decide you’re too unbalanced to be allowed out in public it could be indefinite.’ She waited for that to sink in. ‘You understand what I’m saying? The judge may say you should never be released.’

  ‘Do you know if Louise has tried to visit me?’

  ‘She hasn’t.’ The lawyer brushed the papers into her briefcase. ‘Someone else has. The police allowed it. He’s waiting. I don’t think they had any choice . . .’

  She got up, went to the door, rapped on it to be let out.

  ‘Help me, Raben. Give me something to work with.’

  Then she was gone, and a short, active figure was there instead. Blue uniform. Badges and ribbons. Ginger hair, bright, alert eyes, a smile so insincere it ought to hurt.

  ‘No need to salute,’ Arild said as he took a seat. ‘It’s not as if you’re in the army any more, is it?’

  Raben was at the window, leaning on the sill, looking enviously at the grey world outside.

  ‘Funny, you know. I’ve heard so much about you. I looked at your records. Quite a story. You don’t mind this little visit, do you?’

  Arild held out his hand.

  ‘General Arild from Operational Command. This is official business.’

  Raben didn’t move.

  ‘Ah well,’ Arild murmured, giving up. He took the lawyer’s chair, made himself comfortable. ‘Make things awkward if you want. I understand you feel we’ve let you down. I can assure you I’m very sorry you feel that way.’

  ‘Really?’

  Arild took out some papers.

  ‘You were a good soldier. Loyal, talented.’ A glance. ‘Ingenious. If you stick to this nonsense you’ll be hurting yourself and the military. I can’t believe you want that.’

  A pen, a sheet with what looked like a space for a signature.

  ‘The solution to this problem lies with you. Sit, for God’s sake!’

  Raben did as he was told, couldn’t stop himself. There was something in the man’s tone.

  ‘Let’s help one another,’ Arild suggested. ‘Instead of this pointless fighting—’

  ‘If you want me to withdraw my statement, forget it.’

  Arild had a distant, penetrating stare. He tapped the papers on the table to straighten them.

  ‘On behalf of the military I’d like to offer you compensation. We have the option to adjust the insurance policy you took out with your service contract. At our own discretion—’

  ‘Just fuck off out of here.’

  Arild stared at the ceiling for a moment, then at the man.

  ‘This isn’t for you. It’s for your wife and son. If you’d been killed in action she’d have been entitled to a pension. With a little good will on both sides we can change the conditions of the policy.’ He lifted the papers, waved them. ‘So it also applies to long-term illness.’ The bleak, cold smile again. ‘That would make life a lot easier for Louise and Jonas. I’m sure you appreciate that.’

  Arild brandished his fountain pen.

  ‘All I ask in return is . . .’ The man in the uniform shrugged. ‘You know perfectly well. It’s up to you.’

  He picked up the papers, held them out.

  ‘Your decision entirely. Louise is a fetching young woman. I’m sure she could find herself a new husband. An officer, perhaps. Without any form of income . . .’

  Arild peered around the room.

  ‘Who could blame her?’

  Louise Raben had placed one call to the Politigården to check on her husband’s condition. And five to the army custodial facility at headquarters, trying to talk to her father.

  At nine thirty she made another effort to get through to the military police, walking out of the infirmary, standing in the road, coat on, scarf round her neck, dealing with the switchboard, pleading with an officer to talk to.

  Finally she got through to the same man she’d spoken to twice that morning.

  ‘You again?’ he said cheerily.

  ‘Look. My father’s been with you since yesterday. I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘He’s being questioned.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! If he was a common criminal I’d be able to talk to him.’

  ‘From what I gather you’re in a good position to know that,’ the man said, laughing. ‘I’ll take your word—’

  ‘He’s my father. A good officer. Won’t you—?’

  ‘Can’t talk individual cases. Not over the phone. When he’s allowed visitors we’ll let you know.’ A pause. ‘Didn’t I tell you that earlier? Oh, right. I did. And here you are wasting my time again.’

  She wanted to scream. Thought of her husband, furious and making things worse.

  ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s difficult here. We’ve got the memorial service today.’

  He didn’t say anything. She could see him mouthing at the phone: really?

  ‘Just do me one small favour,’ Louise begged. ‘Pass him a message. Tell him—’

  ‘No messages. I told you that already.’

  ‘Well, fine! Thanks for nothin
g. You . . .’

  The line went dead. She was mouthing one long, loud curse when a police car screamed through the red-brick barracks entrance arch, blue light flashing on the roof. Three more followed, lights too. And a white van that came to a halt and started to disgorge men.

  Søgaard was in dress uniform. Immaculate, ready for the service. He marched over to the tall, taciturn cop from the Politigården as he climbed out of the first car and started barking orders to the men assembling around them.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Søgaard shouted. ‘I didn’t get advance notice—’

  ‘We don’t give advance notice of raids.’ He pulled out an ID, flashed it at Søgaard. ‘Lennart Brix. Head of homicide. Remember me?’

  ‘There’s a memorial service today.’

  ‘We’ll try not to get in your way,’ Brix said, pulling a sheet of paper from his heavy blue winter coat. He brandished it at Søgaard. ‘This is a search warrant. We’ve reason to believe there’s crucial evidence hidden here.’

  ‘If you told me what you were looking for . . .’

  The cop was smiling at him.

  ‘I gather you’re in charge now, Søgaard. That was a rapid promotion, wasn’t it?’

  No answer.

  ‘Unless you want an equally rapid demotion don’t get in our way,’ Brix added. ‘I want someone with all the keys. No one’s to leave. Not until I say so.’

  He tucked the warrant down the front of Søgaard’s jacket, walked off and started to direct his men towards the stores complex.

  Louise Raben edged closer, interested by the sudden flash of fear on Søgaard’s face. She hadn’t seen that before.

  Said Bilal had joined him. Just as smart, black beret, ribbons. Never a smile.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Get hold of General Arild,’ Søgaard ordered.

  Bilal was watching the police.

  ‘What do they want now?’

  ‘Just do as I say!’ Søgaard bellowed. ‘For fuck’s sake . . .’

  She walked closer, watched him, noted his anger, didn’t smile.

  ‘Deal with it, Bilal, will you?’ he said more quietly and didn’t meet her eye.

  Stalemate on Slotsholmen. Karina was working the phones. Buch was desperately waiting for news from Afghanistan.

  ‘Krabbe’s getting a hard time from his own party,’ she said coming off a call. ‘They don’t like kicking up a stink.’

  Buch was walking round the office cleaning his teeth with a brush she’d found for him. The moving people were in, ready for his departure. Boxes stacked everywhere.

  ‘I’ll talk to him. Krabbe wants to get to the bottom of this just as much as I do.’

  She winced.

  ‘What is it?’ Buch asked.

  ‘One way or another he’s going to want some political gain, Thomas. Where is it?’

  ‘Never mind that.’ He finished brushing, got a glass of water, gargled with it then spat everything back into the glass. ‘Are the police really coming home without any evidence?’

  ‘Plough knows more about that than I do.’

  ‘Then where the hell is he? Why does he always disappear just when I want him?’

  She was barely listening. One of the transport people wanted instructions. He went off with two boxes of folders.

  ‘The press have given up on you. Three members of Parliament have accused you of treason.’

  ‘What?’ Buch’s face lit up with rage. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Treason? What century are these morons living in?’

  Plough came through the door. Grey suit, tie. Always the civil servant.

  ‘We need evidence the Prime Minister shelved that first medical report,’ Buch said. ‘And where in God’s name have you been?’

  Plough came and stood in front of him, hands in pockets. The surest sign of rebellion he had. He gestured at Buch’s face. Toothpaste on the beard. Karina passed him a napkin and told him to wipe it away.

  ‘All the evidence we’ve seen,’ Plough went on, ‘suggests the doctor was happy with the revised report. No one’s suggesting Grue Eriksen’s murdered civilians. These accusations of yours . . .’

  Buch’s mind was wandering.

  ‘Thomas!’ Plough pleaded. ‘At least fight battles you’ve a hope of winning! We should focus on Rossing. We know he was involved. We know he hid things.’

  ‘Rossing would never do all this on his own. He doesn’t have the balls. Where is he now?’

  Karina checked the government diary on the nearest computer.

  ‘At the memorial service in Ryvangen. For the dead soldiers.’

  Buch went for his jacket, a tie. And, almost as an afterthought, stripped off his shirt from the night before and found a clean one.

  ‘Get me a car.’

  Flowers and four coffins draped in the Danish flag set in a line next to the black stone font. A lone trumpet echoing through Ryvangen’s tiny chapel. The place was cold. Flemming Rossing shivered next to the biers, staring at the bouquets and the regimental caps by their side.

  The service was postponed. The police were searching the barracks. Army personnel had been confined to quarters during the investigation. Only a lone undertaker, black jacket, black tie, white shirt, joined Rossing and the trumpeter in the chapel. The relatives were in the mess hall. If the search continued no soldiers or officers would be able to take part.

  The door opened. A large, heavy figure marched through. Rossing turned, saw, took a deep, pained breath.

  Buch sat down in the pew behind him.

  ‘More fairy stories to throw at me? What are you doing here? Were you invited?’

  Buch’s voice was low and croaky.

  ‘I know you don’t trust me. But we’ve more in common than you think.’

  Rossing kept his eyes on the coffins and the red and white flags.

  ‘I seriously hope that isn’t so. I hear your little adventure in Afghanistan proved fruitless. There’s a surprise. No wonder you’re stressed.’

  A low, muttered curse close to Rossing’s ear.

  ‘Don’t play the pompous ass with me,’ Buch hissed. ‘You think you served a higher purpose.’

  ‘I have.’

  Buch’s heavy arm came up by Rossing’s face and pointed ahead.

  ‘Do you think they’d agree?’

  ‘They’re the reason. Every coffin reminds me we’ve got to continue until no death’s in vain.’

  ‘That’s politician’s claptrap and you know it. This wasn’t about war, about victory. Not for Grue Eriksen. It was about power and money and votes.’

  Rossing turned and stared at him, said nothing.

  Buch got up, came and stood in front of him.

  ‘I know you didn’t do this on your own, Rossing. You got your orders and you obeyed them. These men . . .’ His voice was louder than ever, his bearded face contorted with anger. ‘They died because of what happened.’

  ‘You don’t know that—’

  ‘Deny it then!’ Buch roared. ‘You’ve got a responsibility, for fuck’s sake. At least Monberg had a conscience.’

  ‘And it killed him . . .’

  Buch threw up his hands in fury.

  ‘And who killed them?’

  The undertaker strode towards him.

  ‘You have to leave now. I demand it. This behaviour’s quite inappropriate.’

  ‘Inappropriate?’ Buch stared at Rossing, shook his head. ‘That’s a good word, isn’t it?’

  ‘You must leave or I will order the guards!’ the undertaker said more firmly.

  ‘He’ll load the blame on you,’ Buch yelled, going for the door. ‘Just like he did with Monberg. And me.’

  Rossing sat, eyes closed, face stony and grey.

  ‘We need each other,’ Buch added. ‘If you can find yourself a spine you know where I am.’

  Forty minutes into the search, Brix and Madsen were walking through the main officers’ quarters, watching the teams go through desks and lockers and fil
ing cabinets.

  They hadn’t found a single thing.

  ‘Try calling the phone again,’ Brix ordered.

  ‘Done that,’ Madsen replied. ‘Maybe the battery’s dead.’

  ‘Have you looked in the basements? The cellars? The . . .’

  They went into the entrance hall.

  ‘Big place,’ Madsen said, admiring the elegant ceiling and the curved staircase. ‘With the men we’ve got this is going to take a couple of days.’

  ‘I want every inch searched. I don’t care how long it takes. There’s something here. There has to be . . .’

  He stopped. A man was walking down the stairs, blue uniform, ginger hair, sharp, intelligent face hard with anger. General Arild had a phone to his ear and was speaking in a whisper.

  ‘Stop!’ Arild said in a voice so full of authority he barely needed to raise it.

  He’d put the call on hold, not finished it.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Brix told him. ‘Don’t waste your breath. This is an official police investigation. We’re here for the duration. Live with it.’

  Arild’s bleak eyes fixed on him. He held out the phone.

  ‘For you.’

  Brix snatched the mobile from his hand. He knew who’d be on the other end.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Hedeby shrieked down the line.

  ‘This isn’t a good time.’

  ‘Pack your things and get out of there. That’s an order. How dare you . . .?’

  Søgaard had come to join Arild. The two soldiers stood next to one another, arms folded, faces calm and confident.

  ‘I’m in charge here,’ Brix said. ‘I take full responsibility for the situation. Once the search is finished I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Not this time. I’ve talked to the commissioner. You’ve no authority any more. Get out of there.’

  He took the phone away from his ear. Heard her ask quietly, ‘Lennart . . . ?’

  Arild reached out and removed it from his fingers.

  ‘If you’re not gone in five minutes,’ he said, ‘God help you.’

  The coldest of smiles then Arild turned on his heel and left, with Søgaard walking obediently behind.

  Brix stood in the chilly hall, unable to think for a moment. He’d suspended officers himself in the past. It was never easy.

  His own phone rang.

  ‘Yes?’