The Killing 2 (42 page)

‘I won’t disturb you any longer,’ Buch announced, and headed for the door. ‘This is a matter for Plough and the legal team now . . .’

‘Buch!’

He stopped.

‘For God’s sake will you listen to me?’ Monberg pleaded.

Buch came back and looked at the skinny, stricken man by the side of the bed. He wanted to feel a sense of guilt for punishing him like this. But it was hard.

‘What do you plan to do?’ Monberg asked.

‘That depends on you. I don’t want to punish anyone. I just want the truth.’

‘Rossing was adamant Raben shouldn’t be released. All the reports from the hospital said he was fine. But Rossing regarded him as a security issue. He said it was against the
national interest to release him. He had to stay in Herstedvester.’

Buch almost laughed.

‘The national interest? What does that mean? We don’t lock up our enemies unless they give us reason. Why should we do it to our own soldiers when they’ve fought for us, for
their country?’

‘Rossing didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.’

Buch raised a finger, pointed it at the frail man in front of him.

‘Jens Peter Raben was aware something had gone terribly wrong in Afghanistan. Rossing wanted him locked up because he feared the political fallout if that were made public. That’s
not the national interest.’

‘I don’t know about any of this! Rossing asked for my help. He told me what to do.’

‘And then Anne Dragsholm wanted to reopen the case.’

Monberg scowled, went to the bed, started to tidy the sheets, turned his back on the big man throwing questions at him.

‘What did Dragsholm say? What had she discovered?’

‘I can’t go into these details . . .’ Monberg muttered and began to reshape his pillows.

Buch lost it.

‘Dammit!’ he roared. ‘Do you think you can hide in this place for ever?’

His arm shot to the door.

‘People are dying out there! And you . . .’ His finger stabbed at Monberg’s haggard features. ‘You’re the one they’ll set up to take the blame. Not Rossing.
They’ll condemn you as a sick lunatic the way they condemned Jens Peter Raben. Can’t you see that?’

Frode Monberg gripped the end of the bed, fighting for breath. Fighting for some courage too.

‘I only came into politics to do something. To serve.’

‘So tell me,’ Buch begged.

The thin man hesitated, took a deep breath.

‘She said she’d found proof the soldiers were telling the truth. There was a massacre. A Danish officer was responsible. It was an injustice Raben had been locked away like
that.’

‘How did she know?’ Buch asked.

Monberg closed his eyes, looked like a man on the edge.

‘Because she’d found him.’

‘Found who?’ Buch demanded.

‘The one who did it. She knew who he was. She wouldn’t say. She was too frightened. I was in the government, wasn’t I? I don’t think she really trusted me.’

Buch didn’t say the obvious: Dragsholm was right.

‘That’s all I know,’ Monberg added.

He turned from Buch, looked out of the window.

‘What the hell am I going to do? It just gets worse and worse.’

‘You tell the truth, Frode. That’s all.’ He put a hand on Monberg’s shoulder, was shocked that he felt little there but wasted muscle and bone. ‘Tell the truth and
everything will be all right. I promise. The Prime Minister’s behind me all the way. He asked me to get to the bottom of this. We’ll back you, I promise.’

Frode Monberg turned and glared at Buch, said nothing.

A rap at the door. Karina.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Excuse me. But I have to talk to you. It’s important.’

‘Two minutes,’ he told Monberg. ‘Then we’ll work out what to do.’

The lean man glared at him.

‘You’re an infant, Buch. Rossing won’t say a word.’

Karina was still bleating.

‘Two minutes,’ Buch repeated.

‘You can’t make him,’ Monberg said and there was fear in his eyes. ‘You don’t know. He’s not like me. Not like any of us.’

Out in the corridor, Karina dragging him away from Monberg’s room, Buch was finally beginning to feel he’d made a breakthrough.

‘Thomas . . .’

‘I got him to talk. He confirmed what we guessed. We need to get PET over here right away.’

‘Will you listen to me?’ She dragged him into an alcove. ‘Monberg’s not your problem now. It’s Krabbe.’

Buch took a deep breath.

‘What’s the Boy Scout up to now?’

‘He’s demanding your resignation.’

‘Oh come on.’

She looked miserable and that wasn’t like her.

‘Krabbe’s given the Prime Minister an ultimatum. Either you go or he withdraws his support for the administration. He wants your head or he could bring down the
government.’

‘No, no, no.’ He couldn’t get the conversation he’d just had out of his head. ‘Listen to me. Monberg has confirmed he spoke to Rossing. That he kept a Danish
soldier in Herstedvester at Rossing’s request. This is what matters now.’

She folded her arms and gazed at him.

‘Let’s get to the truth and then everything will work out,’ Buch insisted. ‘It usually does. Come . . .’

He led her back down the corridor.

‘You can hear it for yourself.’

‘This is serious,’ she replied, following him.

‘Everything’s serious. It’s just a matter of degree.’

He marched back into Monberg’s room. A nurse was changing the sheets. The bed was empty.

Buch looked at the nurse.

‘He said he wanted a bit of exercise,’ she said with a shrug.

‘And you let him go?’

She bridled.

‘This is a hospital. Not a prison.’

Buch swore, went back into the corridor. Monberg had to have turned left. If he’d gone the other way they’d have seen him.

‘Thomas . . .’ Karina bleated.

‘Not now.’

He wasn’t a nervous man. Anxiety wasn’t in his nature.

‘Thomas! You need to call the Prime Minister.’

‘No!’ He was shouting at her and he regretted that. ‘We’ve got to find Monberg. Don’t you get it?’

‘Tell me,’ she said and folded her arms.

‘I pushed him, Karina,’ Buch said quietly, almost to himself. ‘I pushed him very hard.’

She watched, listened, then walked in front of him, scanning the rooms left and right.

‘Frode?’ she cried, and got no answer.

Jarnvig’s house in Ryvangen Barracks. The basement was almost finished. Painted by Christian Søgaard, bright wallpaper in Jonas’s new room. A cot bed, a
small yellow chair, a standard lamp, a little desk. It was the first time he’d ever had any space of his own. Louise watched her son standing by her father as Jarnvig placed a poster of
fantasy warriors on the space above the bed.

‘Is it level, Jonas?’ he asked when the picture was in place.

‘Yes, Grandpa. Like that.’

Jarnvig turned and grinned at him, took some drawing pins out of his pocket and stuck the poster to the wall.

‘Right then,’ he said, patting the boy on the head. ‘It looks smashing, doesn’t it? All yours now.’

‘You have to knock before you come in,’ Jonas told him.

‘Sir!’ Jarnvig said with a salute and a click of his heels.

Jonas did the same. The two of them laughed. Louise Raben saw this and felt both happy and sad.

Then she walked back to the kitchen and started to clear up.

Her father followed.

‘I’ll leave you to it now,’ he said. ‘It looks nice down there. This was always a bachelor place before. Now . . .’ A foolish grin. ‘It feels like I’ve
got a family again.’

‘Thanks for helping, Dad.’

‘What else can I do? I said some stupid things yesterday. I’m sorry. It gets to me too. I hate . . . I hate seeing you like this.’

She took off her rubber gloves, came and touched his cheek.

‘It’s all right. I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? I always thought for ever meant for ever. That’s stuff for kids, isn’t it?’

‘Sometimes,’ he agreed. ‘Come to the cadets’ ball. I’d like that. You could be my guest.’

She remembered them from when she was a teenager. All the young soldiers aching to dance with an officer’s daughter.

‘I’m too old and fat for that.’

‘Nonsense. You’re neither. It would do you good.’

‘I should be with Jonas.’

‘Jonas is OK. I can get someone in to babysit. It’s you I’m worried about. Come on . . .’

She ran a cloth across the sink. The gold band of her wedding ring was by her watch next to the tap. She always took it off to wash up.

For ever.

Pipe dreams for children. She’d stuck by Jens through more than most women would bear. And got what in return? A coward who ran away to fight in the Middle East the moment she had a child.
A criminal fleeing from everyone.

‘Just a couple of hours,’ he pleaded. ‘We can leave when you like.’

She couldn’t take her eyes off the wedding ring. Once it had seemed so important. A symbol of something they shared. Now it was a relic, a bitter reminder of everything she’d
lost.

‘Of course,’ Jarnvig said. ‘I understand. It’s up to you.’

He laughed.

‘But I always loved to watch you dance. You thought you were no good at it. You’d no idea . . .’

Louise folded her arms.

‘So what time are you going?’

Jarnvig clapped his hands, his face wreathed in the kind of delight she hadn’t seen much in recent years.

‘As soon as you’ve picked the right dress. So God knows . . .’

One hour later, outside the wire fence of the barracks. Raben was in the second car he’d ripped off that day, slumped in the driver’s seat, hood round his face.
Door open, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.

A good place. A clear view of Jarnvig’s house. Lights on. Toys just visible in a downstairs window. The sight made his heart ache. For what he’d lost. For what he had to recover.

The door opened. Torsten Jarnvig walked out in full dress uniform. Black jacket and gold epaulettes. White shirt with bow tie. A long Mercedes limousine was waiting.

Raben knew this routine. It was the ball for the new intake of cadet officers, in a hired hall near Kastellet. Men like him were never allowed near. They just had to imagine the music, the
cackle of laughter, the odd drunken jape. To grit their teeth and hope these raw, green youngsters didn’t get in the way of fighting, of staying alive, once the unit hit the hard terrain of
Helmand.

Officers had their place. But it was men, ordinary soldiers, enlisted squaddies, little in the way of education and social background, who decided whether the battle was won or lost. Their
blood, more than any other, that was spilled on dry, foreign soil.

He watched Jarnvig get to the car, throw a cigarette in the gutter, look around, wondering what he thought of this man. The commanding officer. Louise’s father too. Raben never really
understood if he was family or just one more soldier waiting for his orders. Perhaps Jarnvig struggled with the same conflict too.

The door to the house opened again and Raben’s thoughts froze, the breath caught in his mouth. Louise was walking out. Fur stole, scarlet silk dress. Hair perfect. Face pale with make-up.
Ready for the cadets’ ball, the officer’s daughter all the junior men would dream of.

And yet she’d ignored every one of them and picked him instead.

She walked slowly down the steps. Reluctantly, Raben thought. As if a decision had been made.

Jarnvig held open the limousine door. A uniformed soldier sat erect at the wheel. Louise got in, looking ahead all the time. She’d slipped back into their world now. And he wasn’t,
never would be.

Raben watched the car move slowly to the guardhouse, the men salute as Jarnvig and his daughter were driven out of Ryvangen.

Then slowly, carefully, he took his stolen Peugeot into the road behind them, following from a safe distance, wondering what to do when they were there.

In the back of a cab, on the way into the city from Mrs Møller’s house, Lund called Strange.

‘You don’t sound like you’re at a wedding,’ he said.

‘I need you to check something.’

‘You’re off the case.’

‘I need you to check something,’ she said again, impatiently.

‘I’m in Helsingør.’

Forty minutes north of Copenhagen by car.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘PET want us to drag in every last Afghan in Denmark. I’m with an interpreter at a refugee centre. Waste of time. Let me step outside . . .’

She waited. The car was getting stuck in night traffic. Her mother’s flat might be half an hour away like this.

‘So what’s up?’ Strange asked after a while.

‘Someone used Per K. Møller’s identity. His dog tag is missing.’

‘They’re fighting a war, Lund. Things get lost.’

‘It’s not just that. Someone’s been buying things using his name. In the last few months. The letters have been coming back to his mother.’

‘Oh.’

‘You need to talk to the priest again. And Søgaard. Run Møller’s name through the credit agency system and see if anything else turns up.’

‘I’m in Helsingør, remember? Talking to people who hate me.’

‘Fine. Get in the car and come back. You can do it in thirty minutes if you put your foot down.’

‘I’ve got work to do! It’s going to be a couple of hours.’

He went quiet for a moment.

‘Have you told Brix about this?’

‘Not yet,’ she admitted. ‘I will. Honest.’

That long pause again.

‘Please tell me you’re not going to do something stupid.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like . . . I don’t know. Going off on your own again. That never works out well, does it?’

What do you care? she thought. You’re just another cop they gave me. One who’s not so good at the job. Too nice for it in many ways.

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ Lund said, and realized she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘But thanks anyway.’

That was it. Rain now. Cars in slow-moving lines ahead of them.

‘I want to go somewhere different,’ she said to the driver. ‘Vesterbro. How long?’

He laughed. Shrugged.

‘You tell me,’ the man said with a chuckle. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’