The Killing 2 (66 page)

‘How could the Prime Minister know you were going to do this?’ the second officer asked.

‘Because someone warned him! Isn’t it obvious? You’ve detained me all night for no reason.’

‘National security’s no reason?’ the young one asked.

‘I’ve done nothing to jeopardize national security. Quite the contrary. I’ve been defending it.’

There was a folder on a desk by the window. Both of them went to it, took out some papers.

‘Let’s see,’ said the old cop. ‘A confidential PET memo gets leaked from your office.’

‘Not by me,’ Buch insisted.

‘You met with a suspended police officer, Sarah Lund. What for?’

‘I was Minister of Justice. Lund was suspended only briefly. I believe she’s back in service now. What’s the problem?’

They didn’t want to push that one.

‘You visited your predecessor, Monberg, who took his own life.’

‘Tell me how I acted illegally, please.’

‘Your secretary accessed data without authority.’

‘My secretary! Not me!’

‘You obstructed PET’s investigation. You defended Islamist organizations and their rights. You’ve been in contact with a journalist who provided you with confidential
information she obtained while working for the Ministry of Defence . . .’

Buch felt like putting his head on his hands and going to sleep.

‘Oh for pity’s sake. Am I being subjected to an all-night interrogation because you and your new boss, whoever it is, doesn’t like the cut of my jib?’

‘We’re at war!’ the young one said and finally took a seat. ‘There’s a word for undermining our government and our democracy. It’s called treason.’ He
waved his hand. ‘Doesn’t matter whether some Afghans got killed here or there. Treason. The betrayal of your own country.’

Buch groaned, closed his eyes, covered up a yawn with a tired, grubby hand.

‘Are you going to persist with your accusations against the Prime Minister?’

‘No.’ A long, serious nod. ‘Is that what you want to hear?’

‘It’s a start,’ the young cop said, smiling at his colleague.

‘Good,’ Buch added. ‘I intend to go even further. Grue Eriksen’s the traitor. If you weren’t the spineless, gutless creatures you are, you’d have him in here,
shining a light in his eyes. Keeping him awake all night. Hoping to break him. He’s the traitor, and you nothing but his quislings . . .’

A knock on the door. Someone outside announced a lawyer had arrived. A tall, grey man came in and spoke quietly with both the PET officers out of Buch’s earshot.

‘Hello! What’s going on here?’ Another slam of his fists on the table. ‘Am I invisible suddenly?’

The quisling crack was a touch too far, Buch thought. He might apologize for that one.

But then the older officer turned to him and said, ‘There’s someone outside for you.’

‘Someone I’m allowed to see?’

‘Sure. You can go.’

Karina and Carsten Plough were waiting in the circular vestibule by the Politigården stairs.

‘I must say,’ Plough declared archly as Buch came out, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever had to spring a minister from jail.’

‘First time for everything,’ Buch declared. ‘Besides, I’m not a minister any more.’

‘Nor me a Permanent Secretary,’ Plough added miserably.

‘Well, you’re free,’ Karina said. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Buch agreed. ‘But why?’

‘Lund found something in Afghanistan.’ She had a folder full of photographs. ‘Take a look.’

A small skull with a bullet hole. A dog tag stained with smoke.

‘That’s what she was looking for when she went off limits,’ Plough said. ‘The police are chasing a Danish soldier now. He committed the recent murders to prevent the case
being reopened.’

‘And the officer who killed these people in Helmand?’

‘The army say they’re taking care of that,’ Karina said with little enthusiasm. ‘Though since they never found the bodies in the first place . . .’ She looked at
him. ‘You can’t win every battle, Thomas.’

This pair had stuck with him throughout. Damaged, perhaps ruined their own careers through nothing except an innate sense of justice.

‘Thank you,’ Buch said very earnestly. ‘Is it too much to ask you to call a meeting of the parliamentary party? Without Grue Eriksen.’

‘We can try,’ Plough responded.

That note of caution never really left Carsten Plough’s voice.

‘Say what you mean, will you?’

‘You’ve got nothing on Grue Eriksen,’ Plough insisted. ‘I told you before. It’s Rossing you should aim for. We know he was lying. We can prove it.’

Buch laughed.

‘Ah. That old story . . .’

‘It was the Prime Minister who got you out of here,’ Plough added.

‘Since he threw me in here in the first place that seems appropriate, don’t you think? Can you arrange that meeting?’

Plough didn’t move.

‘I don’t want you to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, as they say. Think carefully . . .’

‘I will,’ Buch promised. ‘Now can we get out of this grim hole, please?’

By the time Buch got to the Folketinget the word was out with the media. A full pack of reporters and TV crews blocked the entrance.

‘Are you back in the government?’

‘Do you support the Prime Minister?’

‘Are you being charged?’

‘Do you maintain your accusations?’

He knew now to do nothing but smile and push his way through. The experience had changed him. Perhaps made him a politician at last.

Kahn was waiting for him in his old office, still unoccupied ahead of the coming reshuffle.

‘Where is everyone?’ Buch asked.

‘They asked me to come alone,’ the Interior Minister said. ‘Best not to make too much fuss.’

Buch realized he’d been so preoccupied he’d forgotten to brush his teeth. So he went to the desk, took out the brush he kept there and the little tube of toothpaste, poured himself a
glass of water. Plough and Karina watched in silence from the bookcase near the door.

‘I apologize for the mess,’ he said, seating himself on his desk. ‘I left in rather a hurry as you may know.’

Then he started brushing his teeth.

‘We were hasty yesterday,’ Kahn said. ‘We didn’t know the full facts. We had to protect the party.’

‘At all costs? At the expense of the truth?’

‘Fine, fine. Bawl me out. You’ve got to admit. It was a pretty tall tale. We’re all sorry. OK?’

‘Accepted,’ Buch said. ‘Now we must act quickly. There are only two options.’

Kahn glanced at Plough and Karina.

‘Either Grue Eriksen resigns,’ Buch said, ‘or we force him to do so. Let’s have a private conversation first and see if he’ll do the decent thing and fall on his
own sword.’

‘There’d be a general election. One we’d lose,’ Kahn said wearily.

‘That’s a reason for not doing the right thing?’ Buch asked.

‘Listen to me, Thomas,’ Kahn pleaded. ‘The Prime Minister wants to see you. He’s appointing new ministers. You’re looking at promotion.’

Buch turned to the window and the twisting dragons, walked to the door, pointed at it with his toothbrush and said, ‘Get out.’

‘You like being a minister!’ Kahn cried.

‘Out!’

Kahn walked through the door, sour-faced again.

‘Krabbe and the Prime Minister are of one mind on this. Rossing won’t help you. It’s time to grow up.’

‘Wait till I put Krabbe right on a few things. Thank you! Thank you! Goodbye! Chop, chop!’

Buch slammed the door behind him. Karina and Plough watched, wide-eyed and speechless.

‘Well?’ Buch asked. ‘What else could I do? Krabbe!’ He raised a fleshy finger. ‘Let’s find him.’

Carsten Plough put his hand to his eyes, shook his head, then wandered slowly outside.

Søgaard was still in the Politigården. Brix’s personal decision. He didn’t like the man and was in no rush to let him go.

The major now wore the blue suit of a prisoner and faced being charged as an accessory. Lund and Strange sat in the interview room watching him walk nervously up and down by the window. He was
finally starting to look scared.

‘Tell us about Bilal’s contacts,’ Lund began. ‘Friends? Family?’ Søgaard dragged a seat to the table, sat down, glared at her.

‘I was his commanding officer. Nothing more. Why in God’s name am I still here?’

She tapped the pile of evidence in front of him.

‘There’s clear proof in the radio logs that some messages were deleted. You investigated.’ Søgaard picked up the sheet and looked at it. ‘Why didn’t you find
any of that?’

He didn’t answer. Lund nodded.

‘You didn’t look into this yourself, did you? Too menial. So you delegated it. Let me guess—’

‘Of course I asked Bilal to check them! He was the officer responsible for that area.’

Strange threw up his hands and laughed.

‘So you asked him to investigate himself? Give me strength . . .’

She showed Søgaard the new photos from forensic. The skulls and bones she’d brought back from Helmand.

‘We know for a fact these civilians were killed. No point in denying it now. An officer was there. Raben told the truth.’

‘Raben was talking like a madman—’

‘He told the truth! Bilal concealed those messages. Your men were witnesses to an atrocity. I don’t believe for one minute you’d no idea something bad went on.’

‘No.’ He kept looking at the radio logs. ‘I was assured nothing happened. I never knew about the messages. We never found anything at the house.’

‘That’s because you didn’t look,’ Lund threw at him. ‘This isn’t going to go down well with the next promotions board—’

A knock on the door. Strange went to deal with it.

‘I can’t answer for Bilal.’ Søgaard leaned back, looked weary. ‘Ask him.’

‘You knew about the message five days before. The one that told you special forces were heading for the village. Who were they?’

A hand to his head.

‘I never saw that message!’

She got up from the table, stood by the window, hands on hips, staring at the rain running down the pane.

‘You really weren’t much in command at all, were you?’ Lund asked, looking at the grimy glass.

‘You don’t know what it’s like . . .’

‘Listen to me, Søgaard. What future you’ve got in the army depends on the answers you give me now. The man who murdered these people used Per K. Møller’s
identity. Did Bilal know Møller?’

It took him a while to answer.

‘No reason why he should.’

‘Was Bilal there when the real Møller died?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was anyone from special forces . . . Jægerkorpset . . . any of these people around when that happened?’

‘No. He was on his own when there was an explosion. He went straight to the nearest field hospital in Lashkar Gah.’

Lund turned and looked at him.

‘Was he wearing his ID?’

‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

She picked up the photos, showed him the charred dog tag she’d picked up in Helmand. All in one piece.

‘Explain that.’

‘I’m not going to try.’

Lund didn’t take her eyes off him.

‘If you had a special forces officer come to you and say he needed a new ID for a covert mission—’

‘Never happened, Lund! Don’t go there.’

‘
If.
You could just look through the recent deaths. Pick a name. Get a new dog tag made.’ Her hand went to her head, ran through her long dark hair. ‘Maybe
Møller’s did get lost. Or someone took it. If this is a covert mission they’ll give him a new one anyway. Like a fake passport.’

Søgaard was rigid in the seat opposite her.

‘But an order like that’s above your pay grade, isn’t it? Above Jarnvig’s too I guess. It would need someone back here.’

‘I never did anything like that in my life. I was never asked.’

‘If you were?’

No answer. A knock on the door. Strange there.

‘They’ve found Bilal’s G-Wagen outside Hillerød. No sign of him or the woman. He must have stolen a new vehicle.’

She got up to leave.

‘What about me?’ Christian Søgaard shouted as she walked for the door.

‘You can wait,’ Lund said.

Outside the office was buzzing as Brix gathered a team. They’d placed a tap on Jarnvig’s phone and captured the conversation with Bilal.

‘What did he say?’ Lund asked. ‘This still doesn’t—’

‘He claims he’s been set up. He wants Arild to get him out of this.’

Lund sat down next to an officer at a computer.

‘Bilal’s never been anything but a soldier. He’s going to want somewhere military to hide. The place he left the G-Wagen—’

‘There’s nowhere military in that area,’ Brix said. ‘We checked.’

‘Nowhere now,’ Strange said. ‘During the Cold War we had lots of places up there. We thought the Russians were going to walk straight in, remember?’

Lund ran her finger over the screen, not minding how much this annoyed the woman detective perched in front of it.

‘What kind of facilities?’

‘All sorts,’ Strange said. ‘Underground barracks.’ His mild face hardened. ‘We were supposed to hide there and wait. Just sixteen Danish soldiers died when the
Nazis invaded. The Russians weren’t going to get off that lightly.’

‘I imagine not,’ Lund murmured, thinking. ‘Have we checked for abandoned facilities?’

She got up, went to the wall, looked at the evidence photos. A blackened skull from Afghanistan now alongside the bloody photos of Anne Dragsholm and the four members of Ægir.

‘I want someone to get hold of Frederik Holst,’ she said to the nearest detective. ‘He’s an army surgeon in Lashkar Gah.’

There was a photo of the smoky piece of metal she’d dragged out of the oven the Afghan cop had uncovered at the back of that sad little house.

‘Get through and ask him what happened to Per K. Møller’s dog tag.’

A buzz of excitement ran round the office.

‘Lund!’ Strange yelled from the exit. ‘We’ve got somewhere. Grab your coat. We’re going.’

‘Ask him if there were any special forces officers in the hospital at the time,’ she added. ‘Get me names. Is that clear?’

‘Sure,’ the young officer said. ‘Will do.’

She got her donkey jacket from the locker. Looked at the gun in the locker, took it. Strange was right. She knew there’d been body armour sitting on the second shelf. It had been there
ever since they took her back. No one mentioned it. No one ever told her how to use the thing. Not that she minded. She knew now.