The Killing 2 (6 page)

‘Anne Dragsholm was afraid of her murderer,’ Lund said. ‘Had been for a while. Her husband had a motive. He was manipulative, but we’ve no record of violence. She never
complained to us about him. I think . . .’

She paused. Hedeby’s bright and hungry eyes were on her.

‘I think he wanted to make a statement by placing her body where he did. On the stake in Mindelunden. It’s too significant to ignore. Too . . . horrible to be an impulse, something
that occurred to a man in the middle of a drunken fight.’

Ruth Hedeby folded her arms.

‘He was trying to say something?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then he failed, didn’t he? Otherwise we wouldn’t be here trying to work out what?’

‘True.’ Lund pushed back the file. ‘Unless the real murderer’s waiting for his moment.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know. What did the woman do before she married?’

‘Quite a bit.’ Brix opened a second file. ‘Anne Dragsholm was thirty-nine. College education finished in the US. Worked for charities and NGOs in Africa and Asia. Did some
legal duties for Amnesty and the Danish Army. Never anywhere for long.’

‘What was her role in the military?’ Lund asked.

‘Legal adviser. Sent to the Balkans, Iraq, Cyprus and last of all to Afghanistan.’

‘Does she still have army contacts?’

Brix went through the papers.

‘Doesn’t look like it. She makes a monthly contribution to a veterans’ club. A thousand kroner. That’s generous.’

A knock on the door. Brix went to get it leaving Lund alone with Hedeby. The deputy commissioner was tapping the table with her finely manicured fingertips.

‘I’m just guessing,’ Lund said.

‘You always were from what I hear.’

Lund didn’t like that.

‘If I’m right there’s something you haven’t found. You need to go back. To the house. To the park. To the places Dragsholm went. You need to look properly . .
.’

Hedeby was staring straight at her.

‘You think so?’

‘I said I’m guessing.’

‘And you think it would have been different if you were still here?’

‘I’ve no idea. I came because Brix asked. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you somehow . . .’

Brix walked back in, hands in pockets.

‘The husband just confessed. To murder and the disposal of the body.’

‘Did he say why he took her to Mindelunden?’ Lund asked.

‘He confessed,’ Hedeby yelled and slammed her fist on the table. ‘God knows we’ve been trying to get that out of him for long enough.’

‘Congratulations.’

Lund got her bag.

Hedeby was on her feet talking about lawyers and charges and court appearances.

‘You had me worried for a moment there,’ she said with a sharp glance at Lund then left the room.

Brix sat down at the table.

‘Thanks for coming all this way. I’ll arrange a day’s payment like I said.’

‘Don’t bother. It was just a few hours. I did nothing. I’ve got to see my mother anyway. It’s why I came. I’ll get a taxi. Don’t worry about it.’

He didn’t move.

‘Congratulations,’ she said again.

‘Svendsen got it out of him. You never liked him much.’

‘He didn’t listen. He didn’t do what I told him. Oh, yes. He’s a thug too.’

Lennart Brix got up, shook her hand, then went and opened the door.

‘Thanks anyway,’ he told her.

Raben met Myg Poulsen in the same visiting room. The sofa bed had changed position. Another prisoner had received a visitor. The place smelled of sweat and quick sex.

Poulsen was a little man with a miserable pinched face. Recovered from his wounds mostly though he walked with a limp. Back in army camouflage fatigues. He threw his arms round Raben, embraced
him, laughed.

‘I’m sorry I don’t come more often.’ He didn’t look Raben in the eye when he said that. ‘Lots of work with the veterans’ club. And things . .
.’

His weedy voice trailed off into silence.

‘Louise said you could help me get a job.’

‘I can try.’ Poulsen pulled a note out of his pocket. ‘I don’t know if it’s any help. They’re looking for a carpenter. The boss was in the regiment. Maybe
he’ll bend the rules a little for one of his own.’

He handed over a name and a phone number.

‘Retired sergeant. God, did I have to listen to some war stories to get that. There’ll be some work in a couple of months.’

‘Does he know where I am?’

‘He knows. He’s helped us before. Get Louise to call and he’ll send the paperwork.’ A pause, as if he was scared to say something. ‘You’re ready now, Jens?
You’re better.’

Raben pocketed the note.

‘I’m better.’

‘We help each other, right? That’s what it’s about. The club can help you find somewhere to live. I’ll get Louise some details before I go.’

He was looking askance again, fidgeting the way he did when they were getting ready for a mission.

‘Go where?’ Raben asked in his sergeant’s voice, the one that couldn’t be ignored.

Poulsen wriggled on the seat.

‘Back to Afghanistan. I’m with the team that leaves next week. Six months. Looking forward to it. What’s there to do for the likes of me here?’

‘Where?’

‘Helmand. Camp Viking to start with. I’m just a squaddie. How should I know? I only asked a couple of days ago. It’s fine. No problem.’

Raben got up, stood in the way of the door.

‘Last time we met you said you were out of all that.’

‘I have to go.’

Poulsen started to walk past him. Raben took hold of his arm. The little man snatched it away, didn’t look so friendly any more.

‘What is it, Myg? What did you do? Maybe I can help . . .’

‘You’re a nutcase,’ Poulsen snarled. ‘How can you help me?’

‘I don’t remember what happened. I know it was bad . . .’

‘You know jack shit! Keep it that way.’

Poulsen’s pale face was going red with fury and fear.

‘All that crap’s done with, Raben. Buried. If people come asking questions . . .’

‘What questions?’

‘Best you didn’t know.’ His shrill voice rose. ‘Guard!’

‘Myg . . .’

‘Guard! Get me out of here!’

Raben took hold of him again. The little man wriggled out of his strong grip.

‘I can get you a job,’ Poulsen yelled at him. ‘That’s it. But you start opening your mouth and the whole deal’s off. You don’t drag me down with you again.
Not going to happen . . .’

The door was open. The guard was there, swinging his stick. Raben let go, watched Myg Poulsen hurry out of the room.

He knew something. So did Raben once. The truth was still there. He understood that. It rumbled round the back of his head like an angry dumb monster lost in the dark.

Her mother’s flat in Østerbro was full of memories, few of them pleasant. Not now. Mark was there, tall and handsome, happier than he’d ever been with her.
She’d not been a bad mother. Just failed to be an actively good one. So he’d settled with her ex-husband, got more money spent on him than she could ever have afforded on her present
salary. And he’d hate Gedser, with good reason.

Fourteen candles on the cake. Vibeke, her mother, happy too, with what looked like a new boyfriend in tow. Lots of relatives with names she struggled to remember. They sang Happy Birthday,
watched as Mark bent down to blow out the candles on his cake.

He was kind enough to wear the blue Netto sweatshirt she’d bought him, put it on the moment it was out of the terrible wrapping. A nasty, cheap thing and one size too small.

The boyfriend was called Bjørn. He was a rotund, balding cheerful figure, mid-sixties she guessed, happily recording every second of the party on a video camera. When the candles were out
Vibeke clapped her hands and they all fell silent on command.

‘Since you’re here,’ she declared in a ringing, happy tone, ‘Bjørn and I have an announcement.’

Her mother was blushing. Lund wondered when she’d witnessed this before.

‘This darling man has been foolish enough to propose to me,’ Vibeke said, beaming like a schoolgirl. ‘What could I say?’

‘Only yes,’ Bjørn answered with a grin.

‘So I did. I won’t wear white. There’s going to be no fuss. There. That’s it.’

She hesitated, then added, ‘On Saturday.
This
Saturday. You’ll all get invitations. Who said old people couldn’t be impulsive?’

There was an astonished silence then a ragged burst of applause. Lund found herself giggling, hand over her mouth.

Mark came over.

She stroked his chest, laughed at the ridiculously tight sweatshirt.

‘I’m sorry. You grow so quickly.’

‘Don’t worry.’ His voice was deep and calm. She could scarcely believe he was the same troubled kid who’d lived with her here for a while during the Birk Larsen case.
‘It’s nice you’re back. When do you have to leave?’

‘In a minute.’

‘Gran said you were here for a job interview. You might come and live in Copenhagen again.’

‘No. How are things?’

‘Fine.’

There was disappointment on his face. She was back with the twelve-year-old Mark for a moment. Once again she’d failed him.

He took her by the arms, kissed her once on the cheek, said something sweet and terribly grown-up and understanding.

Vibeke was crying out fresh orders to eat more cake.

Lund’s eyes strayed to the floor. There was something there. A scrap of cellophane next to the wrapping paper ripped off the gifts.

Same size as the unidentified, half-torn piece they’d found in Anne Dragsholm’s house.

Ruth Hedeby had hated it when Lund told her they all had to look harder. But really that was what the job amounted to. Looking. Never turning away, however hard that might be.

Lund bent down and retrieved the cellophane from the floor. On the table above was a plastic case by Bjørn’s busy video camera. A new cassette waiting for its turn.

She put the wrapper in her pocket, walked out into the corridor, got out her phone.

It took two calls.

‘Strange here.’

‘It’s Lund. I can’t get hold of Brix.’

‘Is this important? I’m busy.’

He was in the street somewhere. She could hear the traffic.

‘It’s about the Dragsholm murder. That piece of cellophane . . .’

‘I thought you were done with this.’

‘He filmed the whole thing. Unless you think the husband’s capable of that you’ve got the wrong man.’

Strange didn’t answer.

‘I want to visit the house again,’ Lund said. ‘OK?’

A long, miserable sigh.

‘Give me an hour.’

‘What’s wrong with now? Strange?’

‘An hour,’ he repeated and then the line went dead.

Behind her the guests were singing again. She had a horrible feeling she was expected to join in.

The Ryvangen Barracks stood in a triangle of land where the railway lines in Østerbro forked north out of the city. Louise Raben and her son Jonas had lived there with
her father, Colonel Torsten Jarnvig, for almost a year since the money ran out for the flat that was meant to be a family home. Raben had never lived in it. He’d been confined to
Herstedvester on psychiatric grounds not long after his return. There’d been a violent incident no one fully understood, a court case, an indefinite sentence.

So she and Jonas moved to Ryvangen, temporarily, or so it was supposed. She still wanted a home of her own. A life outside the close-knit community that was the army. But that wasn’t
possible. His release date got put back constantly. She didn’t have enough money to pay for a place herself. So she and Jonas took the one spare room in her father’s quarters. It was
modest, but not as rudimentary as the accommodation she’d once shared with her husband in a sergeant’s flat.

Jarnvig was a solitary man, dedicated to the army. His wife, Louise’s mother, had long since fled, hating military life. Now he was barracks colonel, officer in charge.

Louise loved her father though she saw too much of him. In his own way he was trying to take Raben’s place, nagging her to find a local school for Jonas, to convert the basement, make two
rooms so they had more space. Late that afternoon, seated at the dining table, picking at a sandwich, he was back with the same song.

‘You have to enrol early to get the best school. It’s important . . .’

Jonas was sitting on the spare room floor. He had the latest toy that Christian Søgaard had given him. Søgaard was a major, a handsome, confident, strutting man, her father’s
number two. He hung around the house a lot, smiled at Louise, patted the boy on the head. Gave him toy soldiers, with guns and uniforms. Jonas loved them, liked to sit next to Søgaard who
laughed as he shouted, ‘Bang, bang.’

That afternoon Jonas had got into a fight at kindergarten. Another kid had teased him about his father. Søgaard had gone to pick him up, intervened, taken him home.

Louise knew what Søgaard really wanted. So, she suspected, did her father. Army marriages fell apart in all the usual predictable ways. Absence either sealed or broke them. Raben’s
disappearance into the maw of the Danish psychiatric penal system was worse, even, than his six-month postings to Iraq and then Afghanistan. At least with them she knew when he was supposed to come
home. Unless it was on a hospital stretcher or in a coffin.

‘The school depends on where we’re living, Dad. Jens should be released soon. He can get a job. Myg says there’s work on building sites. Carpentry . . .’

‘And you’ll leave us? The infirmary loves you. We need you here.’

She was a nurse in the barracks hospital. A good job. Lousy pay. But she felt wanted, appreciated, and that mattered.

Jarnvig picked up his mug of coffee.

‘You really think they’ll let him out?’

‘Why not? He’s better. There’s no reason to keep him in that place. You’d know if you met him.’

‘And if he isn’t? You’ve been waiting two years.’

‘I know how long I’ve been waiting. I’ve counted every day.’

‘You keep putting things off. It affects you. It affects Jonas . . .’

She always thought her father a handsome man. Tall, straight-backed, confident, honest and decent. She was fifteen when her mother walked out, took a plane to Spain to find a new life on her
own. The pain of her loss was still there, for both of them.