The Killing 2 (60 page)

‘What did he buy?’ Brix asked.

‘So far,’ the man said, reading from a list, ‘we’ve got a video camera, a laptop, and a copy of the Anarchist’s Cookbook. A bomb-making manual. They all got sent to
a PO box at the same place Faith Fellow used when he set up that box for Kodmani.’

Brix took the sheet.

‘Did he use Møller’s name to rent accommodation? Storage space somewhere?’

‘Not that we can find. But there may be something.’ More notes on his pad. ‘The mobile we think was used to set the bomb that killed Grüner was stolen. The SIM’s
active again.’

Madsen came and stood next to him.

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere near Ryvangen.’

‘Inside the barracks?’ Brix demanded.

‘Don’t know, boss,’ the detective replied. ‘The signal was weak.’

Brix found himself wishing Lund was back already.

‘This doesn’t add up. Why would he use the phone again? He knows we’re looking for it.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes, don’t they?’ Madsen suggested.

Brix thought for a moment then ordered up a team for immediate dispatch. Decided in an instant he wouldn’t tell Ruth Hedeby.

‘They’re having the funeral service there today,’ Madsen pointed out. ‘For those dead soldiers. The army won’t like it.’

Brix snatched a look at his watch. Wondered what time it was in Helmand. Lund had hours to spare.

‘I can live with that,’ he said.

The Land Rover was back in the rough mountainous hills between the field hospital and Camp Viking. The driver had orders to take them straight to the Camp Bastion airfield for
the plane to Istanbul.

‘Maybe we could stop by Viking and ask some questions about Søgaard,’ Strange suggested as they got bounced around in the back of the vehicle. ‘We’ve got
time.’

She wasn’t much interested in that idea. The army said what it wanted to say. It seemed unlikely their guard would drop in a war zone.

‘Tell me what happens when you’re on a mission,’ Lund said. ‘Special forces.’ She looked at him. ‘The kind of thing you ended up doing.’

‘Such as what?’ Strange replied. She’d half expected him to turn cagey.

‘How do you operate? How do you communicate?’

He looked at her.

‘I didn’t do a lot. Honest.’

‘Just tell me!’

‘It was always a group of five men. We’d go places sane people didn’t. Mostly intelligence. Not fighting. That was too risky.’

‘Did you stay in contact with other forces? Ours? The British? The Americans?’

He laughed.

‘There aren’t any Americans around here. And the answer’s no. We were undercover. If it turned hot we shot at anything that moved and hoped we’d get out in one
piece.’ He pointed at the bleak terrain. ‘This is no man’s land. You don’t stop for a conversation. But we always moved five at a time. A team. Besides . . . didn’t
Arild say there were no special forces in the area?’

The helmet wasn’t too uncomfortable. The vest still annoyed her. Lund tapped on the driver’s shoulder.

‘Can you stop the car, please?’

‘Can’t you hang on till we get to the airfield?’ he said and kept driving.

‘No.’

He swore, pulled in by the side of the rough track.

Lund got out and looked around. After a while Strange joined her.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

The driver got out too, scanning the rocky hills anxiously.

‘How far’s the village where Raben’s team got attacked?’

Strange slapped his forehead.

‘You must be joking.’

‘I want to see it.’

‘We’re not tourists on a day trip!’

‘I know that,’ she said and looked at the driver. ‘Can you take us there? How long?’

The soldier shook his head.

‘You don’t have authorization.’

‘What do you mean we don’t have authorization?’ Lund yelled at him. ‘Do you think they sent us all the way from Copenhagen to get ordered around by a driver? We’ve
got arrest warrants and visas. We can go—’

‘You can’t leave the military zone,’ the man said. ‘That’s that.’

A step closer, hands on hips.

‘We’ve got full authority from the Ministry of Justice. Here . . .’ She pulled out the satellite phone. Brix was right. It did seem to work everywhere. ‘I’m going
to call Copenhagen. I’m going to get through to the minister himself right now and tell him some adolescent squaddie won’t let us go where we need to—’

‘Lund!’ Strange cried.

She stared him down. Started hitting the buttons.

‘What’s your name again?’ She read the tag on his combat jacket. ‘Siegler. OK.’

The soldier went back to the Land Rover, started looking through his documents. Lund didn’t place the call.

‘Does it say we can’t go to the village?’ she asked.

No answer.

‘Well, does it?’

The man was scanning the hills again, looking for movement.

‘I’ve still got to get you back to Bastion on time.’

‘Agreed,’ Lund told him. ‘And call in the local chief of police. He was in the judge advocate’s report. I want to talk to him too.’

The police had found Raben a lawyer. A young, doleful woman who looked as if she’d drawn the short straw from that day’s prisoners.

‘You’re going to be charged with burglary, vehicle theft, possession of a firearm, unlawful imprisonment, violent and threatening behaviour.’

She sat at the interview room desk, flicking through the papers.

‘That’s for starters. How will you plead?’

His arm was still in a sling though the pain was so muted he could move it with some ease.

‘Guilty on all counts?’ the lawyer asked.

‘Has my wife been in touch?’

She shook her head.

‘What about the police officers who went to Helmand?’

‘Don’t expect any miracles there. That story about the officer is doing you no favours.’

‘But it’s true.’

She gestured at the papers in front of her.

‘Things look bad enough as it is. There’s no need to make them worse by provoking people.’

He laughed.

‘I’m provoking them?’

‘You are. This looks like a long sentence. If they decide you’re too unbalanced to be allowed out in public it could be indefinite.’ She waited for that to sink in. ‘You
understand what I’m saying? The judge may say you should never be released.’

‘Do you know if Louise has tried to visit me?’

‘She hasn’t.’ The lawyer brushed the papers into her briefcase. ‘Someone else has. The police allowed it. He’s waiting. I don’t think they had any choice . .
.’

She got up, went to the door, rapped on it to be let out.

‘Help me, Raben. Give me something to work with.’

Then she was gone, and a short, active figure was there instead. Blue uniform. Badges and ribbons. Ginger hair, bright, alert eyes, a smile so insincere it ought to hurt.

‘No need to salute,’ Arild said as he took a seat. ‘It’s not as if you’re in the army any more, is it?’

Raben was at the window, leaning on the sill, looking enviously at the grey world outside.

‘Funny, you know. I’ve heard so much about you. I looked at your records. Quite a story. You don’t mind this little visit, do you?’

Arild held out his hand.

‘General Arild from Operational Command. This is official business.’

Raben didn’t move.

‘Ah well,’ Arild murmured, giving up. He took the lawyer’s chair, made himself comfortable. ‘Make things awkward if you want. I understand you feel we’ve let you
down. I can assure you I’m very sorry you feel that way.’

‘Really?’

Arild took out some papers.

‘You were a good soldier. Loyal, talented.’ A glance. ‘Ingenious. If you stick to this nonsense you’ll be hurting yourself and the military. I can’t believe you
want that.’

A pen, a sheet with what looked like a space for a signature.

‘The solution to this problem lies with you. Sit, for God’s sake!’

Raben did as he was told, couldn’t stop himself. There was something in the man’s tone.

‘Let’s help one another,’ Arild suggested. ‘Instead of this pointless fighting—’

‘If you want me to withdraw my statement, forget it.’

Arild had a distant, penetrating stare. He tapped the papers on the table to straighten them.

‘On behalf of the military I’d like to offer you compensation. We have the option to adjust the insurance policy you took out with your service contract. At our own
discretion—’

‘Just fuck off out of here.’

Arild stared at the ceiling for a moment, then at the man.

‘This isn’t for you. It’s for your wife and son. If you’d been killed in action she’d have been entitled to a pension. With a little good will on both sides we can
change the conditions of the policy.’ He lifted the papers, waved them. ‘So it also applies to long-term illness.’ The bleak, cold smile again. ‘That would make life a lot
easier for Louise and Jonas. I’m sure you appreciate that.’

Arild brandished his fountain pen.

‘All I ask in return is . . .’ The man in the uniform shrugged. ‘You know perfectly well. It’s up to you.’

He picked up the papers, held them out.

‘Your decision entirely. Louise is a fetching young woman. I’m sure she could find herself a new husband. An officer, perhaps. Without any form of income . . .’

Arild peered around the room.

‘Who could blame her?’

Louise Raben had placed one call to the Politigården to check on her husband’s condition. And five to the army custodial facility at headquarters, trying to talk to
her father.

At nine thirty she made another effort to get through to the military police, walking out of the infirmary, standing in the road, coat on, scarf round her neck, dealing with the switchboard,
pleading with an officer to talk to.

Finally she got through to the same man she’d spoken to twice that morning.

‘You again?’ he said cheerily.

‘Look. My father’s been with you since yesterday. I’d like to talk to him.’

‘He’s being questioned.’

‘Jesus Christ! If he was a common criminal I’d be able to talk to him.’

‘From what I gather you’re in a good position to know that,’ the man said, laughing. ‘I’ll take your word—’

‘He’s my father. A good officer. Won’t you—?’

‘Can’t talk individual cases. Not over the phone. When he’s allowed visitors we’ll let you know.’ A pause. ‘Didn’t I tell you that earlier? Oh, right. I
did. And here you are wasting my time again.’

She wanted to scream. Thought of her husband, furious and making things worse.

‘I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s difficult here. We’ve got the memorial service today.’

He didn’t say anything. She could see him mouthing at the phone: really?

‘Just do me one small favour,’ Louise begged. ‘Pass him a message. Tell him—’

‘No messages. I told you that already.’

‘Well, fine! Thanks for nothing. You . . .’

The line went dead. She was mouthing one long, loud curse when a police car screamed through the red-brick barracks entrance arch, blue light flashing on the roof. Three more followed, lights
too. And a white van that came to a halt and started to disgorge men.

Søgaard was in dress uniform. Immaculate, ready for the service. He marched over to the tall, taciturn cop from the Politigården as he climbed out of the first car and started
barking orders to the men assembling around them.

‘What the hell is this?’ Søgaard shouted. ‘I didn’t get advance notice—’

‘We don’t give advance notice of raids.’ He pulled out an ID, flashed it at Søgaard. ‘Lennart Brix. Head of homicide. Remember me?’

‘There’s a memorial service today.’

‘We’ll try not to get in your way,’ Brix said, pulling a sheet of paper from his heavy blue winter coat. He brandished it at Søgaard. ‘This is a search warrant.
We’ve reason to believe there’s crucial evidence hidden here.’

‘If you told me what you were looking for . . .’

The cop was smiling at him.

‘I gather you’re in charge now, Søgaard. That was a rapid promotion, wasn’t it?’

No answer.

‘Unless you want an equally rapid demotion don’t get in our way,’ Brix added. ‘I want someone with all the keys. No one’s to leave. Not until I say so.’

He tucked the warrant down the front of Søgaard’s jacket, walked off and started to direct his men towards the stores complex.

Louise Raben edged closer, interested by the sudden flash of fear on Søgaard’s face. She hadn’t seen that before.

Said Bilal had joined him. Just as smart, black beret, ribbons. Never a smile.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Get hold of General Arild,’ Søgaard ordered.

Bilal was watching the police.

‘What do they want now?’

‘Just do as I say!’ Søgaard bellowed. ‘For fuck’s sake . . .’

She walked closer, watched him, noted his anger, didn’t smile.

‘Deal with it, Bilal, will you?’ he said more quietly and didn’t meet her eye.

Stalemate on Slotsholmen. Karina was working the phones. Buch was desperately waiting for news from Afghanistan.

‘Krabbe’s getting a hard time from his own party,’ she said coming off a call. ‘They don’t like kicking up a stink.’

Buch was walking round the office cleaning his teeth with a brush she’d found for him. The moving people were in, ready for his departure. Boxes stacked everywhere.

‘I’ll talk to him. Krabbe wants to get to the bottom of this just as much as I do.’

She winced.

‘What is it?’ Buch asked.

‘One way or another he’s going to want some political gain, Thomas. Where is it?’

‘Never mind that.’ He finished brushing, got a glass of water, gargled with it then spat everything back into the glass. ‘Are the police really coming home without any
evidence?’

‘Plough knows more about that than I do.’

‘Then where the hell is he? Why does he always disappear just when I want him?’

She was barely listening. One of the transport people wanted instructions. He went off with two boxes of folders.

‘The press have given up on you. Three members of Parliament have accused you of treason.’

‘What?’ Buch’s face lit up with rage. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Treason? What century are these morons living in?’