The Killing 2 (39 page)

‘You were good to work with,’ she said.

‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

She just smiled as she got up to go.

‘Give your mother my best wishes for the wedding.’

‘I will,’ she said and kept walking.

‘Lund!’

He strode to the door, opened it, always polite, she thought. Nothing like Jan Meyer.

‘What?’

‘If it means anything I think you’re right. Not about the coffin. That was really stupid. But there’s something . . .’ He glanced down the corridor, towards Brix quiet on
the phone. ‘Something stinks around here.’

‘No need to call,’ Lund said and briefly smiled. ‘I’ll be back in Gedser on Monday.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ Strange told her, with that look again, the one that made her feel awkward.

She ducked under his arm and walked down the corridor, past Brix without a word, out to the spiral staircase, and then the rainy night.

Saturday 19th November

9.03 a.m.
  Erik König looked more and more like a man under unbearable pressure. A man, Brix thought, with secrets too.

‘Raben abandoned the chaplain’s car two kilometres from Hareskoven. He stole an old Volvo nearby. We picked him up around two in the morning. Kept watch.’

‘Kept watch?’ Brix asked.

‘We were lucky to get sight of him. He’s tired. Desperate. Got his guard down. A good Jægerkorpset soldier would never—’

‘He wasn’t Jægerkorpset though, was he?’ Brix asked gently and enjoyed the PET man’s discomfort. König had kept them in the dark from the start. Brix wanted to
let him know this was over.

‘Close enough. He slept for three hours in a lay-by. Now he’s near Ryvangen Barracks, in a side street on a housing estate.’

‘Bring him here when you pick him up.’

Ruth Hedeby stared at the plain grey desk and said nothing.

‘Raben’s the last one in the squad,’ König replied. ‘We know where he is. We know we can stop him doing any further harm.’

‘Bring him in!’ Brix demanded.

‘No.’ König took off his wire-rimmed glasses. ‘If the Islamists have been tracking the squad he’s the next potential victim. Raben stays free, under
surveillance.’

‘As bait?’ Brix asked.

The PET man leaned back in his chair and frowned.

‘There’s a limit to how many religious lunatics we can arrest. Sooner or later one of them is going to put his head above the parapet.’

‘We can help with surveillance,’ Hedeby suggested.

König had the coldest and most insincere of smiles.

‘We’re better equipped for this kind of work. Besides, after that farce with Lund—’

‘That’s dealt with,’ Hedeby said briskly.

‘I’m sure the Ministry will be pleased to hear that. They’re looking for scapegoats. I’d like you to look at these . . .’

He pulled a sheaf of photos and identity documents from his briefcase and threw them on the table.

‘They’re refugees from Helmand, living in Denmark for the last couple of years. They might be after revenge.’

Hedeby passed the pile to Brix.

‘I want them watched,’ König added. ‘A few questioned.’ A dry laugh. ‘No one need be exhumed.’

Brix didn’t look at the photos.

‘How did a refugee from Helmand break into Ryvangen Barracks and steal explosives with a current security code?’ he asked. ‘How’s it possible they’ve access to
military records—?’

‘Lennart.’

There was a hard, scolding note to her voice, one that silenced him.

‘I’ll leave that to you to find out,’ König said. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting at the Ministry.’

Then he was gone. Hedeby looked at Brix across the table.

‘I can’t protect you from yourself,’ she said quietly. ‘Someone’s going to pay. One way or another.’

‘König’s thrashing around in the dark trying to save his own skin.’

‘You dug up a dead soldier for no good reason. I’m struggling to make sure no one but Lund picks up the blame. Try and help me, will you?’

In the adjoining office Strange was interviewing Gunnar Torpe. Brix leaned on a filing cabinet and listened. Lund had never said Strange was a poor cop. It wasn’t
necessary. Brix could read the occasional impatience in her eyes.

‘Why did Raben take you to the woods at gunpoint?’ Strange asked.

Torpe sat pale and tired in a chair.

‘How am I supposed to answer that? Maybe because he’s sick. Here . . .’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Crazy. Delusional.’

‘He must have had a reason.’

‘Crazy people don’t need them. I tried to reason with him. To get him to think about his wife and son.’

‘What did he say?’

‘It was just . . .’ Torpe shrugged. ‘Crazy stuff. War does strange things to people. They don’t know the difference between right and wrong sometimes. Between
what’s real and what’s not.’

Strange placed something on the table.

‘We found this in the office in your church. Anne Dragsholm’s business card. What was it doing there?’

‘Raben must have dropped it.’

‘Did you know her?’

The priest twisted on the chair then said, ‘Raben asked me that too. I never met her. I never saw that card before. Can I go now? I’ve got a committee meeting.’

Brix took a deep breath, stared at the lean officer seated in front of Torpe. Waited.

‘OK,’ Strange said. ‘We’ll probably need to get back to you later.’

‘PET have located Raben,’ Brix said when Torpe had left. ‘They’ve got him under surveillance.’

Strange scratched his cropped hair.

‘Surveillance? We need him brought in.’

‘We do as we’re told.’ Brix passed him the names and photos König had given Ruth Hedeby. ‘I want every last one of them checked out. Bring in any that are marked.
Some are outside the city. You’ve got some driving ahead of you.’

‘Lund thought we need to check out the chaplain. So do you—’

‘Lund’s not here any more.’ Brix tapped the papers.

Strange frowned.

‘So what are we supposed to say if someone calls up and wants to speak to her?’

‘Tell them the truth. She’s gone to a wedding,’ Brix said.

Men and vehicles. Loading orders and schedules. Torsten Jarnvig felt he’d been watching these rituals all his adult life. Dispatching men to uncertain fates in Bosnia,
the Middle East and now the bleak and distant provinces of Afghanistan.

Most came back.

Most unharmed.

Not all.

Christian Søgaard had been round to see Møller’s mother. An initiative of his own. Jarnvig hadn’t asked for it.

‘She’s livid,’ he said. ‘Who wouldn’t be? She says she’s going to sue the police for trespass. For pain and suffering.’

The two men were walking from the main headquarters building towards the car park. A security barrier rose as they approached. Men in combat fatigues saluted.

‘I spoke to Gunnar Torpe,’ Søgaard added. ‘He’s very upset.’

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘The police were on your back. I didn’t think you needed to be bothered. It was welfare. I usually look after that on my own.’

Jarnvig raised an eyebrow.

‘Welfare? This is welfare?’

‘What’s Raben going to do next?’ Søgaard asked, avoiding the question. ‘He seems desperate. I’ve told everyone to keep their eyes and ears open when they
leave the barracks.’

He hesitated.

‘That means everyone,’ Søgaard repeated. ‘How much does Louise know?’

‘Enough,’ Jarnvig answered, watching a line of trucks roll past. ‘Until this happened I thought he was one of the best soldiers I ever had. Brave. Intelligent.
Resourceful.’

Torsten Jarnvig thrust his fists deep into the pockets of his fatigues.

‘Didn’t like him much. But when everybody else gave up Raben just kept going.’

‘A pity he couldn’t take the pressure,’ Søgaard said. ‘I always thought there was something brittle about him. Ready to snap.’

Jarnvig stopped and looked at him.

‘How very observant, after the fact. Did we get to the bottom of that story of his?’

‘Damned right we did,’ Søgaard replied straight away.

‘You were certain?’

‘One hundred per cent. It was bullshit. He was covering up for his own mistakes. Why?’

Jarnvig didn’t answer.

‘It’s not easy when these things turn personal,’ the younger officer added. ‘The past few days have been tough. I could relieve you. Maybe you and Louise and Jonas
could—’

‘Could what? Go on holiday? That won’t be necessary.’ Jarnvig cast his eyes around the red-brick buildings of the barracks. ‘This place is good enough for me. Louise grew
up with the army. It’s good enough for her too.’

‘What I meant was—’

‘No,’ Jarnvig said and left it at that.

The artificial beach of Amager Strandpark in November. Stained concrete shiny with winter rain. A few children wrapped in thick anoraks, struggling against the wind, their
faces hidden inside tightly drawn hoods.

Louise Raben watched her son zigzagging on his little scooter across the dun slabs by the grey sea, beneath the grey sky, no smile on his face, no expression there at all.

Slowly he scooted back to her. They stared at the empty beach.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

He didn’t eat enough. He didn’t do anything much except play with his toy soldiers, slaughtering fantasy enemies in his head.

Jonas took a sandwich then she watched as he pushed the little scooter towards a group of kids who had ignored him before and doubtless would now.

Children had their own rules, their own sensibilities. They suspected anyone who stood out. And Jonas, in his loneliness and misery, always did.

While he was wheeling down the sea wall she walked slowly in his wake. A figure emerged from a metal shelter, gestured.

Green jacket, pale-grey hood. Beard and watchful eyes.

Her heart fell. She wanted to flee and would have if she didn’t know he could always outrun her.

‘We’ve only got a couple of minutes,’ Raben said, dragging her back into the dark of the shelter.

‘Jens—’

‘Listen to me!’

His voice sounded fragile and broken. His eyes were as wild as she’d ever seen. She wondered whether to feel afraid. For herself, for Jonas.

‘You’ve got to leave the barracks,’ he said, clutching at her cold fingers.

‘You followed me here?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What’s wrong with you? Why did you treat Gunnar Torpe like that?’

‘I didn’t do anything to him!’ High, fractured, his voice echoed round the darkness of the shelter. ‘They’re lying to you.’

‘You hit him. My father said—’

‘He’s lying too.’

She took one step back. The hood came all the way down. He looked so hurt and vulnerable.

‘No,’ Louise said. ‘He told me about what happened in Helmand. How you feel guilty.’

He shook his head.

‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it then?’

‘They’re covering up for something an officer did.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember it all. Maybe Søgaard . . . Maybe others.’ His eyes wouldn’t leave her, and they had the expression she’d learned to
hate. That of a soldier hunting his prey. ‘Maybe your father.’

‘My father’s a good man. He tried to help you.’

A sound outside. A kid going past kicking a can. Raben recoiled from her, fell against the wall, hand going to his belt. She saw the gun there, the fear and tension in his eyes. Found she had no
feeling for him at that moment but contempt.

‘I don’t believe this,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Two years I’ve waited. Two years I’ve looked after our son. And look at you. Cowering like a thief . .
.’

The kid with the can was still outside, making a din kicking it against the wall.

‘Get hold of that woman from the police,’ he ordered. ‘Sarah Lund. I called the Politigården. She’s at her mother’s wedding. You’ve got to go there.
Tell her to check—’

‘Is it true you volunteered for active service? Abroad? When Jonas was born?’

His face could change so rapidly. From the hard, unfeeling coldness of a warrior, to the boyish gentleness she’d once loved, all in an instant.

‘Who told you that?’

She took a step towards him, looked up into his pained, pale face. Knew she wouldn’t leave this place without an answer.

‘Is it true?’

A moment of hesitation. His eyes pleaded with her.

‘Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? They want to separate us. They want to lock you inside the barracks for ever.’

She turned her back on him, watched the kid with the can wander away.

‘It’s not what you think,’ Raben said, placing his arms around her shoulders.

There was no colour in this world, she thought. Not for her. Not for Jonas. They deserved better. There was a limit to the sacrifices you could make.

‘I’ve been a soldier since I was eighteen,’ he went on, still clinging to her shoulders. ‘It’s all I’ve ever known. The things I’ve seen. The things
I’ve done . . .’

‘My father’s a soldier. A good man. Ordinary like the rest of them . . .’

‘I wasn’t like him. There are things you shouldn’t know.’ He tapped his lank, greasy hair. ‘Things here. I didn’t deserve Jonas. I didn’t deserve you.
He was so pure. I wasn’t. I thought if I stayed I’d poison you both . . .’

‘Let go of me,’ she said as his grip tightened on her jacket.

‘I’ve changed.’ His fingers still held her. ‘All I want is to come home and be with you. To learn to be a good father. A good husband.’

Her blood began to boil. He no longer held her in an embrace. It was as if she belonged to him. As if he’d captured her.

‘I’ve heard that shit too often, Jens. And where are we now? How many years in jail? How many visits am I supposed to make a week and I still can’t even drag you into bed in
that stinking little room? Fuck it—’

‘Louise . . .’

Half an order, half a plea. His arms wound round her more tightly.

Through the door a tiny figure flew, screeching curses too old for a child to know. Jonas was on them, little arms beating at Raben’s legs, little feet kicking at him.

‘Let Mummy go! Let Mummy go!’

Raben retreated, fell back against the grille and the leaden light outside.