by David Hewson
‘We’ve got something in the basement. You need to come now.’
Two floors down beneath the officers’ hall. Central heating pipes, low lights, dusty and cold. Brix and Madsen put on latex gloves, walked to the team of men huddled by the door at the end of the corridor.
A locker room. Rows and rows of wooden doors, all of them open now. A woman forensic officer was shining a torch into the space of one in the middle. The man with her reached inside.
A phone with a flashing green light.
‘It’s the number,’ the officer said. ‘The same SIM used to trigger the call that killed Grüner.’
There was a long red metal box on the shelf below the phone. A small brass padlock keeping it secure.
Brix pointed at it.
‘Let’s have a look.’
The woman got a pair of bolt cutters and removed the padlock. Brix walked in front of them, bent down, opened the lid with his gloved hands. Someone shone a torch.
He picked up the first thing he found. A glittering piece of metal. Dog tags on a single chain, severed in half, one of them covered in dried blood.
Brix stood up, closed the door. Looked at the name on the locker.
Søgaard.
Called Ruth Hedeby.
‘Just listen for once, will you?’ he said as she began to squawk.
It was barely a village at all. Just a collection of wrecked buildings inside a low perimeter wall breached by force and weather. A few houses made of mud and brick, every one reduced to broken shells. A boy of ten or so was feeding a small flock of goats outside what was once a gate. He fled the moment the Land Rover appeared.
Lund got out with Strange. The driver picked up his assault rifle and joined them. The place lay in a long valley surrounded by barren fields. A burnt-out pickup stood by the nearest house. The marks on it, black and ugly, could have been a bomb blast.
Beyond stood a white truck with a blue lamp on the roof. A stocky man in a blue police uniform leaned on the side smoking a cigarette. Two others in long robes, turbans round their heads, sat in the back, rifles slung round their shoulders.
‘Salam Alaikum,’ the soldier said as he approached them.
The policeman threw his cigarette to the ground, stamped it out, looked into their eyes and shook their hands, Lund last.
He didn’t say a word, just grabbed his rifle out of the back then led them inside the compound, with the two men making up the rear.
Strange had the file. It was hard to connect what it contained with the wrecked house the cop showed them. Black smoke stained the front from the suicide attack. The windows were broken and open to the bitter winter blasts. Most of the furniture was gone. Just a few broken chairs and a tiny table in the living room.
Strange led the way upstairs.
‘According to the investigation Raben’s people got the family up here.’
Three rooms, only one of any size. More trashed furniture. A grubby cooking pot. On the floor broken glass and bullet casings. She picked one up. Strange came and looked at it.
‘That’s a 5.56,’ he said. ‘Danish army M-95. This is the place.’
She went into the small room next door. Kicked open an old chest. Tried to rifle through the broken doors and cabinets. The place looked as if a deadly hurricane had hit it.
Back downstairs. A big fireplace, sooty and damp. A rickety kitchen table.
‘The soldiers slept in shifts in here,’ Strange said, going through the notes.
A single mattress. She picked it up, looked. No sign of blood.
Next to it the entrance hall, behind a door off its hinges.
‘This is where the family were killed?’ Lund asked.
‘According to Raben,’ Strange agreed. ‘He said the corpses were moved one room along.’
He took out a torch, opened another rickety door. One more empty space.
‘So they didn’t dare go outside?’
Raben shook his head.
‘Not if there were Taliban out there. How could they?’
‘But there’s nothing here! Just some casings. No blood. No sign of rations. You wouldn’t . . .’ It felt so wrong. ‘You wouldn’t think anyone lived here.’ She opened the ragged, grubby curtain and looked at the bleak parched countryside. ‘Died here either.’
The driver was getting worried.
‘Are we done yet?’ he asked.
‘We’ve plenty of time,’ Lund said. ‘I want to talk to the policeman. Can you translate?’
They went back into the big room. The cop was seated on a chair, the two men he came with stood over him like guards. They were all smoking. The man in the blue uniform looked bored and surly.
‘Who lived here?’ Lund asked.
Waited for the translation.
‘A family of five. Some people thought the father was a drug lord who gave money to the Taliban,’ the soldier said eventually.
‘Does he think they were killed by Danish soldiers?’
The cop yawned, got up, brushed the dirt from his cap, picked up his rifle. Said something slowly.
‘No,’ the soldier translated. ‘He said there was no sign of the family.’
Lund kept her eyes on the man.
‘So they just disappeared?’
‘People do,’ the soldier said. ‘Don’t push it.’
There was something on the floor. It looked like a big wooden paddle with a handle. Lund picked it up.
‘What’s this?’
The cop made an eating gesture, said something.
‘It’s for bread,’ the soldier said. ‘The family ran a bakery.’
‘As well as selling dope for the Taliban?’ Lund asked.
‘It happens.’
‘Where’s the oven?’
A long stream of Pashto.
‘He says everything was destroyed.’
‘In that case show me where the oven was.’
‘Lund,’ Strange whispered.
‘What?’
‘We’re not welcome here. We need to get back.’
There was a back yard. Some low buildings in it.
‘I’m not done yet,’ she said.
Buch sat at his desk, watching the boxes move out of the office, listening to Plough whining about the confrontation in the Ryvangen chapel.
‘Thomas . . .’ Plough began. It was always first-name terms now. ‘What could you possibly hope to gain?’
‘Rossing’s no fool,’ Buch said. ‘He knows Grue Eriksen may come gunning for him next. I gave him a chance. He didn’t take it. I’ve called in some private lawyers to discuss our options. I want you to sit in with them—’
‘We’ve got bigger things to worry about!’ Plough cried.
‘Such as?’
‘Lund’s investigation in Afghanistan.’
‘So what?’ Buch replied, shaking his head. ‘If she’s going to go all that way—’
‘She’s left the military zone without authorization.’
‘Then send her some.’
‘You’ve no idea how these things work. Afghanistan’s a NATO operation. There are international rules. We’ve broken them. Operational Command are furious. The British are pissed off—’
‘When aren’t they?’
Karina rapped on the door. She was dressing down these days, as if her time was numbered too. Red shirt, tight jeans.
‘I’ve got the Minister of Defence outside,’ she said, looking more than a little surprised. ‘He wants to see you in private. Shall I . . . ?’
Buch clapped his hands, was out of his seat in a moment. Rossing walked in, waited for Karina and Plough to leave.
‘If you’ve come about some trivial clearance issue for the police in Helmand, forget it,’ Buch said.
‘No,’ Rossing said with a wry smile. ‘I’ve given up trying to guess what you’ll do next there.’
‘Then what can I do for you?’
Rossing took a seat by the window. He looked different. Defeated maybe.
‘I’ve alw
ays been loyal to Grue Eriksen. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Congratulations.’
Rossing’s hooded eyes looked him up and down.
‘Sometimes that meant I had to compromise. On policy. On principles. That’s politics.’
‘I would have said that was compromise.’
‘One week in office and you’re lecturing me?’ It was said more with sorrow than anger, Buch thought, and that surprised him. ‘It’s never easy. Never simple. When we heard these stories about civilians being killed . . .’
Rossing looked out of the window.
‘There was a lot going on. We needed more money. More soldiers.’ He looked weary, jaded. ‘One decision always impacts on another. You tip over a domino here. Another falls somewhere else, and then a line with it. The Prime Minister and I agreed to put off the investigation of the hand. I’d no idea where it could lead.’
Rossing leaned forward, looked into Buch’s eyes.
‘If I’d known for one moment . . . Poor Monberg. All these murders . . .’
Buch sat down next to him and waited.
‘Maybe some alarm bells should have been ringing,’ Rossing murmured. ‘I’m not proud—’
‘What bells?’
‘The doctors who looked at the hand saw some inconsistencies. We felt it was inconclusive. Military intelligence told us none of the victims were civilians.’
‘Rossing. You’re the Minister of Defence. You of all people can find out the truth . . .’
The aquiline head went back and Flemming Rossing let loose a long, hearty laugh.
‘Oh God. You’re such a child sometimes. Do you think I know everything? Do you imagine for one moment they tell me every last detail? Or that I want to hear it? This is war. This is government—’
‘What inconsistencies?’
Rossing’s face was back at the window, distant, as if he didn’t want anyone or anything to witness this. He reached into his jacket and took out some papers, read from them.
‘There was a henna tattoo,’ he said then passed over the sheet.
Buch looked. A photo of a severed hand. The palm marked by a brown circular tattoo.
‘We consulted some experts,’ Rossing went on. ‘They said it was typical of the Hazara people. They hate the Taliban. Fear them too, with good reason. There’s this . . .’ He pointed to the second finger. A band of pale metal there. ‘It’s a gold ring. The Taliban don’t wear gold. This is a woman’s hand. It can’t possibly be that of a suicide bomber.’
There were no words in Thomas Buch’s head for a while. Then he dared to ask the question.
‘Did the Prime Minister know about this?’
Flemming Rossing closed his eyes.
‘It’s not on the record.’
‘But did he know?’
A brief laugh.
‘Haven’t you worked that out yet? Gert knows things he’s never been told. Gets favours he’s never asked for. That’s why he’s Prime Minister. The man in charge. The one to whom we’re all beholden.’ Rossing eyed him carefully. ‘Even you if you knew it.’
Then he got to his feet.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Buch asked.
‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘But why? Why now?’
‘Poor Buch,’ Rossing said with a shake of his head. ‘You can’t feel the earthquake coming, can you?’ He tapped the papers. ‘I’m going now. Those are for you. Do with them as you see fit.’
Buch thought about it for the best part of five minutes after Rossing was gone. Then he called in Plough and Karina, asked them to sit in front of his desk, keep out the moving people for a while.
‘What is it?’ Plough asked warily.
‘A change of strategy,’ Buch said, passing them the papers about the hand.
‘I didn’t like the look on Flemming Rossing’s face,’ the civil servant grumbled. ‘Are you telling me it’s you two against Grue Eriksen now?’
‘Read what he gave me,’ Buch demanded and waited till they’d both looked at the photo with the tattoo and the report attached to it.
‘How can you trust him?’ Karina asked. ‘After all the lies. All the tricks he’s pulled? Why would he get an attack of conscience now?’
‘This has nothing to do with conscience,’ Buch replied. ‘He’s scared. He’s using me to warn off Grue Eriksen. I’m going to talk to Krabbe. Get me something from Lund. Let’s find out what we can from PET. The police . . .’
Plough wriggled on his seat.
‘Well?’ Buch asked.
‘Erik König’s been summarily dismissed. On the order of the Prime Minister’s office.’
‘I’m still the Minister of Justice! He’s mine to fire!’
‘And Grue Eriksen’s the Prime Minister. It’s done. König’s gone.’ Plough wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. ‘I asked him why and he wouldn’t tell me. A replacement will be announced tomorrow. I find this somewhat disturbing . . .’
Brix put Søgaard in an interview room with Madsen. No major’s jacket any more. Just a plain military shirt, beret on the table. He didn’t look cowed in the slightest.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Søgaard complained. ‘I told you a million times. I haven’t used that locker in months. It’s just coincidence it’s still got my name on it.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Here’s another one.’ Madsen was standing by the window, looking down at the man at the table. ‘The phone we found there was used to murder Grüner.’
Søgaard shrugged.
‘If you say so. It’s not mine.’
Brix was getting bored with this game. He opened the folder that had just turned up from forensic. Photos of the severed dog tags found in Søgaard’s locker.
‘Take a look at these and tell me they’re a coincidence. The lab’s gone through and examined all the halves.’
Søgaard glanced at the pictures and said nothing.
‘Every one matches a half found with the victims,’ Brix said, spreading out the five photos: bloody metal and chains. ‘This places you in the crime, Søgaard. Start coming out with some answers.’
‘Like what?’ He barely looked at the pictures. ‘I haven’t seen these things before. I’ve no idea how they got there.’
Brix threw a plastic evidence bag onto the table and asked, ‘What’s that?’
Søgaard loosened his black tie. Picked up the envelope, threw it on the table.
‘A key. New to me. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘I’m charging you with all five murders,’ Brix told him.
‘Then you’re making a big mistake.’
‘You said you’d never met Anne Dragsholm. That’s a lie. You knew she was reopening the old case.’
‘God this is tedious . . .’
‘You’re going to be charged,’ Brix repeated. ‘You’ll be put in solitary pending the investigation. We’ll let the army see you when we feel like it.’ He scooped up the photos, turned to Madsen. ‘Get him out of here.’
‘Wait.’
Søgaard didn’t look so cocky any more.
‘So I did meet the Dragsholm woman. She phoned me at Ryvangen pushing for a meeting. Mouthy cow who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I told her Raben’s story was a pack of lies. She didn’t believe me so I said she could go to hell.’ He picked up his beret. ‘End of story.’
‘You lied,’ Madsen repeated.
‘I didn’t want to get involved. Why would I kill my own men?’
Brix shuffled the photos, listened.
‘And if I did,’ Søgaard went on, ‘do you really think I’d be dumb enough to leave an incriminating phone, switched on, in a locker with my name on the door?’
‘Let’s see what the judge thinks, shall we?’ Brix said.
‘No!’ Søgaard was getting scared. ‘This is all wrong. We didn’t care about Dragsholm. Raben’s story was just bullshit.’
‘We?’ Brix asked. ‘You mean you and Jarnvig?’
‘No. The colonel’s too damned nosy for his own good sometimes. I wasn’t going to push this in front of him.’
‘Then who?’
‘Said Bilal. He was my number two when Jarnvig was in Kabul. He handled all the radio traffic reports when the investigation happened.’ Søgaard tapped the table. ‘He can confirm everything I say.’
Brix took out a pen and a pad, scribbled a few things.
‘How did Bilal react when Dragsholm starting flinging the mud around?’
‘Mad as hell. You’d think it was personal. Bilal’s a Muslim but he’s a Dane first. He hates those fanatics more than anyone. A good man. Operational Command like him. Arild especially. He was the one who saw Raben with Jarnvig and told Arild about it. I guess . . .’ Søgaard broke into a sarcastic smile. ‘A dark face looks good on the recruiting posters these days.’
‘Does Said Bilal have access to those lockers in the basement?’
‘Knock it off. He can barely think for himself.’
‘Does he have access?’
A memory from somewhere. Søgaard scratched his head.
‘He said something a week or so ago about how we weren’t supposed to use the place. The ceiling was unsafe or something. Maybe it could collapse.’
‘No one mentioned that when we went down there,’ Madsen said.
Søgaard was gripping his major’s beret, pummelling it nervously.
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said. ‘You’re wasting your time if you try to pin this on me.’
The lawyer was back. She’d spoken to Arild. That much was clear.
‘So,’ she said as they walked through police headquarters, towards the car back to the hospital, ‘this is all agreed? You’ll withdraw your statement about the officer and civilian casualties?’
Three cops with them. Burly men. One jabbed Raben in the chest when he wouldn’t walk quickly enough.
He made a low, pained noise. Arm still in a sling. He was limping too.
The lawyer was getting irate.
‘You shot this man yesterday,’ she yelled at the cop. ‘Don’t push him around too.’
‘We’re with him all the way to hospital,’ the detective said. ‘Once they tell us he’s fine to be released he goes to jail.’
They were passing through the main investigation room. Photos on the wall. Bloodied corpses. Weapons. Dog tags.
Raben stared at them, glanced at the three cops.
