The Killing 2 (11 page)

They weren’t all wild
, he thought.
Just things they didn’t want to hear.

‘There’s . . . nothing . . . wrong . . . with . . . me.’

‘You took a stranger hostage. Here, in Copenhagen. Almost killed him.’

That episode was still a blur.

‘It was a mistake. I’ve paid for it.’

‘Not until I say so.’

‘Please . . .’

‘The police want to question you about Allan Myg Poulsen. I think they should wait. You’re not fit.’

He let his head fall back on the hard prison bed. Gave up. That’s what they wanted.

‘Why would they want to talk to me about Myg?’

‘Our number’s on his mobile phone apparently. He came to visit you this afternoon, didn’t he?’

‘So what?’

She watched him very closely.

‘Poulsen was found murdered this evening. I’m sorry.’

Raben’s mind began to race. The way it did when he got angry. Really angry. The red roar.

‘What happened?’ he asked as calmly as he could.

‘I’ll tell them to come tomorrow. That’s all I know.’

‘What . . . ?’

‘Tomorrow. You’re not fit now.’

She checked her watch, frowned at the time.

Sorry to keep you, he wanted to say.

Lund sat in the front of Strange’s unmarked car chewing on a piece of gum. She didn’t miss cigarettes any more. That craving was gone anyway. He drove patiently,
carefully, taking a call on his earphone, talking quietly to the other end.

The Politigården had translated the leaflets they found next to Poulsen’s body. They said, ‘Fight for God’s cause. Kill those who place others next to God.’

‘What does that mean?’ Lund asked.

‘Something from the Koran apparently.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They’re trying to trace where they were printed.’

She was going through the papers Brix had given her on Dragsholm’s military background.

‘OK,’ Strange said. ‘Since we seem to be colleagues now it’s time for a proper introduction. My name’s Ulrik.’

He took his hand off the wheel, held it out. Long fingers, delicate almost. As if he played the piano, though that seemed unlikely.

‘I’ve worked in the Politigården for just over a year,’ Strange said with the kind of smile he might have saved for a job interview. ‘I got divorced not long before
that, which is OK, all friendly. I’ve got two great kids and they’re cool with it. As cool as you can expect anyway.’

‘I don’t really need—’

‘It’s hard for them when you break up. But best in the long run, for everyone I think. I like football and opera, up to a point. When I was at school I loved camping and birdwatching
and orienteering. All that outdoor stuff. But now . . . the time . . . the time . . .’

‘Sarah,’ Lund said and shook his hand very quickly. ‘Take the next left turn. Poulsen was decorated.’

‘How about you?’

‘I was never decorated.’

‘I meant—’

‘I know what you meant. There’s nothing to tell.’

He looked at her, frowned.

‘Everyone’s got something to tell.’

‘You’ve been to Gedser. You’ve heard the office gossip.’

‘I don’t listen to that shit.’

‘And I don’t talk about it either.’

He went quiet.

‘We can chat about everything else,’ Lund suggested. ‘Football. Opera. Camping.’ She laughed. ‘Birdwatching.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

‘No I’m not. Anything else. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘So long as it’s about the case.’

He went quiet for a moment. She’d offended him and wasn’t sure how.

‘Next left?’

A sign appeared: Ryvangen Barracks. Lots of soldiers at the gate. They had rifles.

‘I’ll go with that,’ Lund said.

Ryvangen had been in the hands of the military for more than a century, a mixed collection of buildings, barracks, officers’ training grounds. It took ten minutes to get
through security. Lund used the time to think about Mindelunden, less than a kilometre away.

A busy railway line separated the barracks from the memorial ground, but it wasn’t impassable. Not to a soldier. A childhood memory told her the two were once linked, which was why the
Nazis who occupied these buildings used the former practice ranges to execute their prisoners.

Coincidence. Probably.

Once inside she felt she’d entered a different, foreign world. Groups of armed troops ran in formation through the rain. Camouflaged lorries and all-terrain military Mercedes G-Wagens
flitted everywhere. The buildings were mostly a bastardized version of Brick Gothic, dun-red, four-square, angular, imposing.

She was unsure of their jurisdiction here. The army had their own police force. To add to the confusion Lund didn’t know precisely where the Politigården’s writ ended and
PET’s began. But two murders had been committed, both in the city, not behind these high wires.

Homicide was her territory again. Anyone who trespassed on it had best beware.

They met in the office of Colonel Jarnvig, camp commander from what she could gather, early fifties, a tall, ascetic man, not happy they were there. With him was Major Christian Søgaard,
a cocky-looking blond officer with a grizzled hunter’s beard. Both wore camouflage uniforms, a few medals, epaulettes. They shook hands but it was Strange they looked at mainly. This was a
man’s world.

They sat opposite Jarnvig at his desk while Søgaard stood stiff behind as if to attention.

‘I know what this is about,’ the colonel said. ‘Myg Poulsen. I got a call.’

‘Who from?’ Lund asked straight out.

‘Aalborg,’ he said, as if that answered everything.

‘Who in Aalborg?’ she persisted.

‘Aalborg’s army headquarters,’ Strange explained. ‘Brix was going to tell them. Procedure . . .’

‘Procedure,’ Jarnvig repeated.

‘What was Poulsen’s connection to the barracks?’ Strange asked.

‘Lance Corporal Poulsen did service here for many years,’ Jarnvig replied. ‘He was a good man. A brave and dependable soldier. We’re deeply distressed by this
news.’

‘How long was he in?’

‘He came in as a conscript then signed up,’ Søgaard said. ‘Saw service abroad. The usual places.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday morning at roll call. He joined up again a month ago. He was due to go out to Helmand with the new team in a week.’

‘Isn’t that unusual?’ Lund asked. ‘To leave the army then come back?’

‘Not really,’ Søgaard answered with a shrug. ‘Some of them moan like hell when they’re in. Then when they’re out they realize it wasn’t so bad after
all.’

‘How was he killed?’ Jarnvig asked.

Strange was about to speak when Lund said, ‘We can’t go into the details.’

‘Would I be right to assume his death is connected to the terrorism alert? Is he one of the two victims they’re talking about?’

Jarnvig wasn’t going to let this go.

‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Did anyone threaten him? Is that why he signed up again?’

‘He signed up because he wanted to come back,’ Søgaard said with a bored sigh. ‘He didn’t mention any problems.’

‘Have you received any general threats?’ Strange asked.

A grim laugh from Jarnvig.

‘We get it all the time. Kids. Lunatics. Troublemakers. Phone calls and emails every day. But nothing from the Muslim League.’

Lund kept quiet. So did Strange.

‘It was on the TV news,’ the colonel added. ‘I heard the name there.’

‘We’ll need a printout of all the threats you’ve received,’ Strange said.

‘And Allan Myg Poulsen’s personnel file,’ Lund added. ‘Anything that relates to his period of service.’

Jarnvig thought about this.

‘Søgaard will give you what we’re able to release.’

‘I want it all,’ Lund said, and tapped her finger lightly on the desk.

Jarnvig shook his head.

‘He was a soldier. Anything that doesn’t touch on national security you can have. That’s as far as I can go . . .’

‘This is a murder inquiry. We’re police.’

‘And this is an army barracks. I’ve eight hundred men about to go to Afghanistan and risk their lives for their country. Nothing leaves this place if it puts them in jeopardy for a
single second. What I can give you Søgaard will provide. Now . . .’

He got up from the desk, held out his hand. Strange stood up straight away, took it.

Another former soldier, Lund guessed. Denmark had conscription. It was hardly surprising. That deference to your superiors never really disappeared.

‘If you don’t mind I’d like to inform my staff personally,’ Jarnvig said.

Lund took out a picture of Dragsholm, smiling, recent.

‘Do you know this woman?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Jarnvig said without the least hesitation.

‘Her name’s Anne Dragsholm. A military legal adviser. Perhaps she did some work inside Ryvangen.’

He passed the photo to Søgaard who looked at it and shook his head.

‘We’d like to talk to someone who knew Myg Poulsen well,’ Strange said.

Jarnvig nodded.

‘I understand. His company commander can show you around.’

He passed over a card, told Søgaard to do the same.

‘It’s important the police understand our position. This case poses uncertainty and worry. It’s the last thing my men need before a tour of duty. All communication on this
matter must go through me or Major Søgaard. I want that clear now.’

‘Sure,’ Strange agreed straight off.

Lund picked up the photo of Anne Dragsholm and said nothing.

Poulsen’s company commander was Lieutenant Said Bilal, a young, gloomy-looking officer, Danish-raised from his accent, but with immigrant parents judging by his
looks.

Bilal took them to the barracks room Poulsen shared with seven other men when he was on duty. Bunk beds, a few personal belongings. It was almost as bare and characterless as the veterans’
club where he died.

‘Most of the men are at home now,’ Bilal said as he led them in.

He pointed out a single top bed near the window.

‘This was his bunk.’

Then a tall metal locker.

‘This was his locker.’

Lund opened the door. Clothes, shoes. Underwear. Photographs of women in bikinis.

‘Did you know him well?’ Strange asked.

‘Not very.’ Bilal stood by the bed, erect, moody. He had very dark hair and the face of a bored teenager. ‘Nobody did. He didn’t mix much.’

‘Kept the veterans’ club going, didn’t he?’ Lund asked.

Bilal nodded.

‘He liked to do things for people who’d left, I guess.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Strange went on.

She went back to the cupboard, sorting through the things there.

‘Roll call yesterday morning.’

‘Later?’

‘No. They had the rest of the day off.’

Strange kept throwing questions at him.

‘When did he volunteer to go back to Helmand?’

Bilal thought for a moment then said, ‘Last week. Not long after he signed up again.’

‘Was it a sudden decision?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Strange’s phone rang. Lund went through a sheet of appointments: training, medical, briefings.

A name had been scribbled in for that afternoon.

‘Who’s Raben?’ she asked.

Bilal looked round the room, out of the window, didn’t meet her eyes when he said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not someone in the camp?’

‘I said. I don’t know.’

Strange finished the call.

‘They’ve found the printers. The leaflets were delivered to a bookshop in Nørrebro. We’ve got a name. Aisha Oman.’

‘Anything else?’ Bilal asked.

‘No,’ Strange said.

Lund closed the locker door.

‘Brix says we should take a look,’ Strange told her.

‘Fine,’ she said, then stood in front of Said Bilal, smiled at him, said very politely, ‘Thanks for everything.’

It was just past ten in Buch’s office. Karina had sent out for some Japanese food. Two dirty plates and a couple of sets of discarded chopsticks littered the table
alongside the rising piles of documents. Buch had called home, confirmed a security detail had been placed around his family. Not that his wife liked that at all.

And the anti-terror package – the very measure he wanted dealt with – was back in limbo. Buch’s first hope was that the news of the attacks would bring Krabbe and Agger back in
line with the government’s position. He was beginning to realize how naive some of his firmly held backbench opinions about national unity seemed once they were viewed from the perspective of
government.

‘They’re both saying they back the general position . . .’ Karina began after coming off the second of two long phone calls.

‘To hell with the general position. Will they vote for the package?’

‘They want to be informed about the case, Minister.’

‘Oh for pity’s sake, call me “Thomas”.’

‘I can’t,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s not right. And you shouldn’t call Plough “Carsten” either. It makes him uncomfortable.’

Buch finished the last piece of sushi.

‘Do you want me to order some more?’

‘No. That would be greedy. Why is everyone around here so uptight?’

That brought a mischievous glint of amusement to her eyes.

‘This is the civil service. It’s the way things are.’

‘Call me Thomas when no one can hear.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Ridiculous. So they won’t make a statement of agreement tonight?’

‘Not until they’ve heard from you.’

He balled up his napkin, threw it very carefully at the bin in the corner, was pleased to hit it dead centre first time.

‘Plough was right,’ Buch said. ‘They’re just waiting for an excuse to play politics. Krabbe will demand something new. Agger too, or else she’ll try to damn us
somehow. I’ll try again. See if I can dredge up a sense of decency in them.’

That made her laugh, which pleased him. She seemed too young to be working such long hours.

He called Krabbe.

‘You wanted to be informed.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘At the moment I wouldn’t like to say. It’s important we show a united front . . .’

The trill of another phone. He looked up. Karina was holding her mobile.