The Killing 2 (7 page)

‘Jens is Jonas’s father and I love him. If that’s a problem for you I can move out right away.’

He took a bite of his sandwich then flicked through some papers on the table.

A knock on the door. Said Bilal. One of the younger officers. The new breed. Danish-born Muslim, son of immigrant parents. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, no friends she knew of. If he smiled she
never saw it.

He stood helmet in hand, full combat fatigues, stiff and upright.

‘Major Søgaard said you wanted an update on the loading schedule. ’

‘Later,’ Jarnvig said and didn’t look up.

‘There’s a lance corporal I need to talk about . . .’

‘Later. Thank you.’

‘He’s not a happy soldier,’ Louise said when Bilal left.

‘So what? Soon he’ll be in Helmand. They do it because they have to. We shouldn’t expect a song and dance.’

She went back into the spare room and joined Jonas and Christian Søgaard on the floor.

‘I want to show Dad my new toy,’ Jonas said. ‘When can we see him?’

She kissed his soft fair hair.

‘Soon.’

Søgaard’s attention was more on her than Jonas, and in a way she didn’t mind. He was a good-looking, attentive man. For two years she’d lived like a widow or a virgin.
It felt fine to have someone around who gave her an admiring glance from time to time.

‘How soon?’ Jonas asked.

‘Very,’ Louise Raben replied without the least hesitation, returning Christian Søgaard’s smile.

Carsten Plough loathed change deeply, which meant that he also hated the arrival of a new minister. It was like marrying a stranger. A civil servant never knew what he was
letting himself in for.

‘Where is he now?’ Plough whined to Buch’s secretary.

‘I don’t know.’

‘He needs to start behaving like a Minister of the Queen.’

‘Well Buch’s new to it all.’ The strange email they kept getting had come in again. ‘He’s only been here since this morning.’

‘It’s amazing how much damage you can do in one day. He’s lost Birgitte Agger completely. Now Krabbe thinks he can walk all over us.’

She tried the link again. ‘What in God’s name is this?’

Plough came and stood behind her.

‘An email from the Finance Ministry. It’s their turn to organize this Friday’s drinks. Probably someone’s idea of a joke.’

She tugged on a strand of blonde hair and chewed on it. ‘I’m sure they sent the invite for the drinks earlier. And that address isn’t in the directory.’

Footsteps at the door. Buch marched in. Blue sweater, clashing purple shirt, no tie.

‘Krabbe’s here already,’ Plough said. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Out. It was supposed to be seven. I hate it when people are early. Come . . .’

Seated at the conference table, Erling Krabbe looked triumphant.

He got up, shook Buch’s hand, almost warmly. Smiled at Plough and Karina.

‘I was a bit forward earlier. I’m sorry. Long day. Headache. Forgive me. Now. To business . . .’

‘The situation’s very simple,’ Buch interrupted cheerily. ‘Neither now nor in the future will we compromise our constitution’s protection of basic democratic
values.’

The lean politician looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘No threat, no scare campaign, from you or from the terrorists, will change that position. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Very,’ Krabbe said with a curt nod. ‘So the government thinks it will be best served without us?’

‘Not at all. Though that’s your decision. I would have to explain the basis of our position if you do quit, of course.’

Buch placed his briefcase on the table and retrieved a set of documents.

‘I’m no historian or lawyer. But I have consulted both on your suggestions. As far as I’m aware a Danish government has only once before prohibited a legal association for no
other reason than its views. Here . . .’

He passed Krabbe the papers. Plough shuffled over, looked, groaned. Photographs from the Second World War. Nazi soldiers on the streets, rifles extended, bayonets raised, fearful crowds watching
them.

‘It was in 1941. When we outlawed the Communist Party. The Wehrmacht forced our hand on that occasion. I don’t need to tell you where that led. Your grandfather doubtless mentioned
it.’

Krabbe threw the pictures onto the table.

‘There’s no comparison.’

‘I’ve experts on constitutional law who’ll swear otherwise. You’ll find their statements in there if you’re interested. Feel free to share all this with your
colleagues . . .’

‘Don’t insult me.’

Buch’s big right arm cut the air between them.

‘Truly, Krabbe, nothing could be further from my mind. The question is very simple. Does the People’s Party wish to be part of a broad agreement and introduce the kind of legislation
the security services are asking for? Or do you want to stand alone with an opinion that hasn’t been voiced since the Nazis ran Copenhagen and treated us like slaves and puppets?’

‘Minister . . .’ Plough began.

‘No.’ Buch smiled at both of them. ‘He can answer for himself.’

‘This is pitiful,’ Krabbe said, heading for the door, leaving the documents on the table. ‘You’re out of your depth, Buch. My mistake was failing to realize quite how
much.’

‘I can’t stay here all night,’ Strange grumbled. ‘Get to the point. Why would he film it?’

They were back in the Dragsholm house walking round the living room. All the lights on. Grey shadows of trees at the end of the garden. From somewhere the rattle of a train.

It was seven fifteen. She should have phoned her mother to say she’d be late. But Vibeke looked so happy with Bjørn she probably never noticed.

‘You said the bloodstains show the woman was stabbed first then forced into that chair.’ Lund looked at the leather executive seat still turned sideways on the floor, tipped over the
way it was found. ‘What if you’re wrong? What if she was in the chair first and stabbed there?’

Strange frowned.

‘You’re losing me. If it was a crime of passion . . .’

‘You make the theory fit the facts, not the other way round.’

He looked chastened. She picked up the file, scanned through the autopsy report, the photos of the cuts all over Anne Dragsholm’s neck and torso.

‘There was one deep stab wound to the heart,’ Lund said. ‘They think that was a knife. The other wounds were different. More shallow. Rough-edged.’

‘We don’t have any weapons.’

‘You mean you haven’t found any.’

‘Yes,’ he said mock patiently. ‘That’s what I mean.’

‘What did Svendsen squeeze out of the husband? Did he say how he killed her?’

‘A knife. He threw it away somewhere.’

She stared at him.

‘Somewhere?’

‘I wasn’t in the interview.’

‘But it wasn’t just a knife, was it? Why didn’t Dragsholm defend herself? Why are there no wounds to her arms?’

Thinking. Looking. Imagining.

The old habits were coming back. She could dream her way into a crime scene sometimes. Almost be there as it happened.

Lund looked at the leather chair. It had strong shiny metal arms and a firm base. The red stain at the edge of the left arm had taken on the sheen of the metal as it dried.

She set it upright, did the same with the footstool. Then grabbed the tall metal studio lamp and placed it in front of both, aimed the lamp straight at the chair back, found a socket, plugged it
in, turned it on.

The lamp was very bright. The beam fell straight on the chair back. It looked like a scene from an interrogation room. The kind of set-up a thuggish cop like Svendsen would have loved if he was
allowed one.

‘You’re making this up,’ Strange said, sounding a little in awe of her.

‘Correct.’

She pulled back the foot stand, set it by the lamp.

‘He sat here. Shone the light in her eyes. Tortured her first of all to get her talking. When he’d got what he wanted he took out a knife and stabbed her straight through the
heart.’

Strange shook his head.

‘She was in the middle of a divorce. Why would someone hold a kind of mock interrogation . . . ?’

‘Nothing mock about it. He came in here with a purpose. This was what he wanted. Intended all along.’

The light caught a set of bookshelves against the back wall, behind the chair.

She went along the rows slowly, methodically. Titles on law. On history. Travel and the military.

‘They checked everything in the room, Lund. They wouldn’t have missed anything.’

‘That’s right. They never do.’

A small statue stood tucked between a set of heavyweight legal volumes. Half their size. Nothing special.

The classical figure of justice, a blindfolded woman holding the scales.

Something odd about it.

The statue was bronze. The blindfold silver, like a chain. It was loose. Separate. She took the thing in her gloved hands, turned it round. Something was hidden away behind the back, chinking
against the stand.

Strange came and joined her.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

Hanging on the chain was a piece of shiny metal, hidden behind the statue. It looked like an oblong crudely cut in half. The severed edge was sharp and stained with blood and tissue. A line of
crosses were stamped into it. Near the edge a single word, ‘Danmark’.

‘A military ID,’ Strange said. ‘A dog tag.’

‘This is what he used to cut her. It’s broken in half.’

He didn’t answer.

‘Strange . . .’

‘They do that when a soldier dies. When they send his body back from battle. They break the dog tag. It’s kind of a . . .’

‘An army ritual,’ she cut in. ‘Have you got an address for this veterans’ club Dragsholm used to give money to?’

‘We need to call Brix. He’ll want forensic back here.’

She waved the bloodied metal fragment in his face.

‘You mean the people who missed this?’

‘Yes but . . .’

‘I want to see this veterans’ club she gave money to.’

‘Lund! I’ve got things to do . . .’

‘Do them later,’ she said, then placed the dog tag in a plastic evidence bag and put it in her pocket.

Another night in Herstedvester. Raben pacing the corridors, not talking much to anyone, wondering why they wouldn’t allow him a phone call home.

Louise was slipping from him. There seemed precious little he could do.

So he pestered the guard again, asking for a permission slip for an extra call.

‘Tomorrow,’ the man said. ‘The warden can look at it then.’

‘Tomorrow’s too late.’

The guard was hefty, foreign.

‘You’re out of calls, Raben. You shouldn’t have made so many.’

‘It’s important.’

Director Toft was a couple of doors along talking to one of the prisoners. Raben walked up, interrupted, asked her if the warden would see his call request.

The icy, beautiful smile.

‘Raben!’ the warden called down the corridor. ‘Time to get in your cell.’

‘I got a visit from an army buddy,’ he said, not moving. ‘I’m worried about him.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘He’s not well. I think he might harm himself. I need to talk to him. And my wife. She can help.’

‘I’ll tell the warden you say it’s urgent.’

‘It
is
urgent.’

‘I’ll tell him that.’

Footsteps behind. The burly guard was coming for him.

‘There’s something else we need to talk about, Raben.’

‘Can’t I call first?’

‘No. The Probation Service rejected your application. Usually they take a week or so to consider our recommendation. But . . .’ She shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘They just
turned you down flat. I don’t know on what grounds . . .’

He was short of breath, struggling to think.

‘When I do know I’ll tell you. I’m sorry.’

‘What?’ He could hear the guard getting closer. ‘What is this?’

She was walking away. Six months more in this prison and she broke the news in a moment.

‘Toft! I completed the treatment. I did everything you asked—’

‘I don’t know why.’ She barely turned as she pulled out the keys for her flashy sports car. ‘When I do—’

‘I’ve got a young son. A family.’

‘In another six months you can apply again. Keep up with the treatment—’

‘For fuck’s sake, woman, what do I have to do?’

The guard was by his side, fists bunched, smiling, looking for a fight.

‘Step away from the clinical director,’ he ordered.

‘I didn’t touch her.’

The big man took his arm. Raben was fit again now the wounds were healed. Strong and well trained. He turned, pushed the guard hard in the chest, sent him scuttling down the corridor, falling on
his backside.

Toft looked as if she was enjoying this. Arms folded, blank pale face focused on his.

‘You need to remain calm,’ she said.

‘I am calm. I just don’t understand.’

Noises behind. The guards had a routine. Never pursue a fight on your own. Some of the men in here were big and trouble. Get backup. Wait for the moment.

‘I’m not a psycho. Not a paedophile or a criminal.’

The guard was back, stick in hand, beating it into his palm.

‘Get away from her, Raben.’

‘I didn’t touch her! I won’t . . .’

‘We can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,’ Toft said calmly.

‘The shit you bastards feed me . . .’

Then came the fury, the same red roar he’d felt in Iraq, in Afghanistan. The bellow of rage and violent fury they wanted, trained and encouraged in him.

He’d picked up a table and barely knew it. Was swinging it in front of him, walking towards the foreign guard.

Dark skin the colour of the Helmand mud. He saw it everywhere when he was out on patrol, not knowing whether they were meeting friend or foe.

One quick dash and he launched the table in front of him, aiming for the man, screaming.

Hands came from nowhere, knees jabbed, feet kicked, fists flew.

Jens Peter Raben was on the floor getting smothered and beaten by their flailing arms.

Someone took his legs. Another turned his screaming face hard into the tiles.

Toft’s words, spoken in that flat, refined tone he’d come to hate, hovered somewhere above him. He looked up, saw her, blue eyes focused.