The Killing 2 (47 page)

Sunday 20th November

8.10 a.m.
  Brix let Strange brief the team the next morning, Lund listening near the door. After more pills her head didn’t hurt so much.
The wound over her eye was swollen but behaving. She stood at the back of the room, casting her eyes across the latest intelligence reports on the board, listening but not much.

They’d barely talked. Strange went out and got coffee and warm pastries from the bakery across the road then, in silence, drove her to the Politigården.

‘Lund never saw the man’s face,’ he told the group of detectives assembled before him. ‘We’re working on the idea he was one of Team Ægir’s officers.
There were twenty-eight in all. I want every one considered a suspect. Get them in for questioning. I don’t care where they are or what they’re doing. If the army kick up a stink let me
know.’

Lund marched into the middle of them, stirring her cup of coffee back to life.

‘They never found Møller’s dog tag either,’ she said. ‘We’ve reason to believe someone used his identity. There’s a list of bills . . .’

She went to the table, picked up the papers she’d got from Møller’s mother.

‘These are all items ordered in his name. After he was dead. I want them checked. Anne Dragsholm found out who the officer was. The one who called himself Perk. That’s why she was
killed.’

Lund looked at the line of detectives in front of her.

‘If a woman lawyer can find him so can we.’

They went off. Brix waved to her. He had something in his hand.

‘This is PET’s report on what happened outside the cadets’ ball last night. They saw Raben go in. Never saw him come out. He abandoned the car he stole.’

She scanned the document.

‘You look better than I expected,’ he said.

‘It says Raben’s wife and Torsten Jarnvig were there. He must have talked to one of them.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Then why did he go? How did he give PET the slip?’

Brix didn’t like being contradicted. It showed on his craggy face.

‘What about this row between the ministers?’ she asked. ‘Which one do I talk to first?’

‘Who said anything about getting involved in Slotsholmen?’

‘It’s all the same thing,’ Lund said, baffled that he couldn’t see this. ‘We have to . . .’

The door opened. Christian Søgaard was marched in by two uniformed men. He stared at Lund, gave her a furious, bitter nod as he was walked off to an interview room.

‘Do we know anything about this man?’ Brix asked.

‘Born soldier,’ Strange said. ‘Tough guy or so he thinks. If there’s a fight somewhere he’s up for it.’

‘That narrows it down,’ Lund said, still going through the papers.

Søgaard was moaning even before they started.

‘This is outrageous.’ He sat slumped in his combat fatigues. ‘We’re sending a new team to war. And here you are screwing around—’

‘You do want to know who killed your men, don’t you?’ Strange interrupted.

No answer.

‘You turned up late for the cadets’ ball,’ Lund said. ‘Why was that? Where were you between five and nine?’

Søgaard blinked.

‘You’re watching us now? Do you really have nothing better to do? While these terrorists—’

‘Forget about that,’ Strange told him. ‘We were being led up a blind alley. Where were you?’

‘One of my officers asked for a talk. He was uncertain whether he wanted to go.’ A sour smile. ‘Worried about leaving his family behind.’

‘You talked him round, I bet?’ Strange asked him.

‘That’s my job.’

Lund passed over her notepad.

‘I want his name and address.’

Søgaard scribbled something on the page.

‘You’d better get a move on. He’s off to Helmand for six months.’

‘We will,’ Strange said. ‘Don’t worry. According to the phone records you called Torpe, the priest, not long before he died. Why was that?’

‘I had nothing to do with what happened to Torpe.’

‘Frightened he was going to tell tales?’ Strange went on. ‘He knew everything, didn’t he?’

‘There’s nothing to know. Raben had attacked him. Torpe was scared he’d come back. I told him not to worry. That you people had the case in hand.’

He stretched out his feet, banged his big boots on the floor.

‘More fool me.’

Lund took back her notepad.

‘Anne Dragsholm had been in touch with Torpe, about what happened in Helmand. Raben’s accusations. The ones the military tribunal rejected.’

‘Really?’ Søgaard shrugged.

‘That case bothered you,’ Strange said. ‘You called Raben unpatriotic and cowardly for saying those things. It’s on the record.’

’What if I did? His fairy tales damaged us. He should have taken responsibility for his own failings. Not tried to blame some imaginary officer called Perk.’

Lund checked her notes again.

‘You like his wife,’ she said. ‘What’s your relationship with her exactly?’

‘What’s that got to do—?’

‘You took her home last night. You danced with her at the ball. She looked as if she was with you. So—’

‘So?’

‘How long have you known her?’ she asked. ‘What’s the deal? Did Jonas just get a new daddy? Has Colonel Jarnvig finally got an officer for a son-in-law, not a scruffy
lowlife from the ranks?’

Søgaard waved away the question and stared at the wall.

Strange had more papers.

‘According to army records five years ago you had three cadets tied to a tree on a training ground in Jutland. You left them there overnight. Middle of winter. Freezing cold.’

‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’ Søgaard sneered.

‘You said they’d been disloyal. Is that an approved punishment, Søgaard? Did you make a habit of it?’

‘I train them for battle,’ the army man yelled at him. ‘When we’re out there anyone can take a shot at us, put an IED by the side of the road. We have to trust one
another or we’re dead. If I have to strap a mouthy cadet to a tree to teach him that lesson I’ll do it. He’ll thank me one day.’

‘Not all of them,’ Lund said. ‘Raben’s got as much field experience as you have. Was that the problem with him and his squad? They didn’t toe the line. They let you
down by accusing an officer of killing civilians when really they should have kept their mouths shut?’

Strange pulled his chair closer to the man in the combat fatigues.

‘Which if you think about it gives you and your fellow officers quite a motive to shut them all up. Especially when a civil rights lawyer comes knocking and says she knows who impersonated
Perk. Who killed those people.’

‘Bullshit,’ Søgaard replied. ‘You’re dancing in the dark. I’m not talking to you clowns any more. Not without an army lawyer here.’

Strange laughed.

‘We could have got you Anne Dragsholm if she wasn’t dead. I’ll put you on the request list. We’ve got twenty or thirty of your mates coming in here soon. Maybe
we’ll stick you in the same hole and let you swap war stories.’

Christian Søgaard closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair and yawned.

‘For an innocent man you don’t have much to say,’ Lund noted. ‘Do you?’

He smiled at her, a sour, confident face, and kept quiet.

Ryvangen Barracks was in the semi-organized chaos that came with any new troop deployment. Trucks moving everywhere, teams of men handling pallets, weaponry and vehicles.
Raben’s wife was in a white nurse’s uniform with a pink sweater against the bright, cold day, helping with the medical supplies, sick of the young cop called Madsen who kept badgering
her.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said, following her as she walked from the infirmary to a green army truck, her arms full of medication boxes. ‘You left the ball with
Søgaard? You were with him afterwards?’

‘He gave me a lift home. That was all.’

‘Did he seem different?’

She gazed at him, puzzled.

‘No.’ She handed the boxes to a woman soldier. ‘This is for the armoured vehicles. Bandages, painkillers, morphine. The usual . . .’

‘And the day Grüner was killed?’

‘Why do you keep asking me the same questions? I already told you. Søgaard gave us a lift back here.’

‘And after that?’

She ordered the woman soldier to get more supplies.

‘After that I’ve no idea. Maybe he drove to Sweden to deliver some explosives. Or went down the mosque to say his prayers.’

Madsen didn’t appreciate the joke.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I told you all this. He helped us with some decorating and after that he talked to my father. I don’t know what you think he did but really . .
.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘This is pretty ridiculous if I’m honest.’

‘And you didn’t see your husband last night? At the ball?’

‘Oh God.’ She wanted to scream. ‘Of course I didn’t. How could Jens possibly be there?’

‘He was,’ Madsen said, and left it at that. Then he shook her hand the way the police always did. ‘If anything comes up I’ll let you know.’

She didn’t like being left in the air. A car drew up. She saw who was getting out and bristled at his presence. Her father was wandering across to the warehouse with a clipboard. Louise
walked over and said, ‘I need the keys to the storeroom. I want to get some of Jonas’s things out for him.’

‘I’m busy right now.’

‘It’s a key, Dad.’

He frowned.

‘I said—’

‘Never mind. You’ve got a visitor. That idiot from last night.’

Jarnvig peered at the long black army limo and the wiry figure climbing out of the back. General’s uniform, flat cap, long raincoat with gold epaulettes.

‘I can’t believe you used to be friends with a moron like that,’ she added.

‘Dammit,’ Jarnvig snapped, reached into his pocket and gave her the key. ‘Best leave us.’

Arild wanted a meeting in Jarnvig’s office. When they were alone he looked around, scowled at the meagre, bare room.

‘If you’d listened to me years ago you’d be doing better than this, Torsten. You’re too wedded to your men. You could have made general if you’d wanted.’

‘I’m happy here. I like it.’

‘Do you like having the police poking round the place day and night? I got a call from PET. The Politigården say they’re now focusing on Team Ægir. It’s nothing to
do with terrorism apparently. This is all down to us.’

‘So I gathered,’ Jarnvig replied.

‘They’ve put this damned woman back on the case. What’s she called?’

‘Lund.’

‘What’s so special about her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jarnvig admitted. ‘She seems . . . determined. She asks good questions too. A few I’d like answers to if I’m honest.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s pointing the finger at some of our best officers. They’re not murderers or terrorists.’

Jarnvig wondered why Arild had come. It wasn’t just for this casual conversation.

‘I’ve told everyone here,’ he said. ‘We’ll do all we can to cooperate with the police. It’s in our interests this is cleared up as quickly as possible. Just
as much as theirs.’

Arild laughed.

‘Is it just the police you’re helping, Torsten?’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘PET tracked Raben to the ball last night. He was in the building.’ Arild’s vulpine features narrowed and his acute eyes focused on the man opposite him. ‘But you knew
that already, didn’t you?’

‘No. Why should I? What was he looking for?’

‘Raben seems interested in the officers too. I find this all rather . . . disconcerting. An escaped prisoner gets into the ball. Then somehow manages to evade PET on the way out.
It’s as if he was warned.’

‘Really?’

‘And then, early this morning, there’s a break-in at the personnel office in Holmen. We’ve got CCTV. It’s Raben. He didn’t steal anything of value. Just all the
files on the officers attached to Ægir. Every last one’s missing.’

Jarnvig sat in silence.

‘The thing is,’ Arild went on, ‘we only moved personnel records from Ryvangen to Holmen three months ago.’

He looked into Jarnvig’s face and smiled.

‘I have to ask myself. Since he’s spent the last two years locked up in Herstedvester . . . how the hell did he know where to look?’

‘Jens Peter Raben’s a resourceful man,’ Jarnvig said. ‘He always was.’

‘But he’s only human. Isn’t he?’

Another ripped-off car, this time an old yellow VW Polo that felt ready to give up the ghost at any moment. Raben had briefly fled the city, parked in wasteland by the water in
Amager Øst. He reached beneath the dashboard, pulled the wires to kill the engine. There was half a tank of fuel. He didn’t want to risk buying any more with the scant cash he had.

The documents from Holmen were on the floor of the passenger seat. He scanned the bleak flat land around him, felt confident he’d thrown off PET. Reached down and pulled out the files:
identical brown envelopes, each with a mugshot attached.

Familiar faces, part of the jumble of confused memories from that last fateful tour.

One photo was missing. It was from a file on a captain, Torben Skåning. Raben rifled the envelope. There was a typed report inside.

But for the rank it could have been talking about him.

Skåning was sent home from Helmand around the same time. Withdrawn from active service for uncontrollable fits of violent rage and mental instability. Someone reading the report had
underlined the most damning parts. There were scribbles, rings and exclamation marks, in different-coloured pens.

Raben closed his eyes, listened to the traffic wheeling into the nearby oil depot.

Skåning.

He’d never heard the name. There was no face to put to it. Yet somewhere in his own head lay the key, buried deep beneath the pain of that last day in Helmand when the bomber hit and the
explosion almost killed him.

If he saw the man he’d know him. Raben had told Torsten Jarnvig that and it was true.

He reached down, found the wires, brought the ancient Polo back to life.

Torben Skåning.

A man much like himself. Consumed with rage and fury and violence.

Raben turned the rusty VW back to the main road and trundled on towards the city.

Plough had assembled what information he could glean from the Ministry of Defence. Karina was at her desk making calls. The Security Committee was less than an hour away. Buch
had nothing new to tell it.