The Killing 2 (17 page)

A car pulled in. Long black Volvo estate. Raben angled himself so he could see better. A man about his own age got out with two boys, filled up, went into the kiosk.

Time to get to the Volvo, close enough to see the keys were in the dash. He was about to get in when he heard the kids’ voices.

They were heading back, laughing at the sweets they’d got out of their father.

Raben went straight to the bucket, picked out the squeegee, started sponging down the windscreen, taking off every speck of dirt, every leaf.

The driver came up, gave him a filthy look. The kids got in the back doing the same.

‘Here,’ the man said and gave him a twenty-kroner coin.

Raben took the money. If it weren’t for the kids he’d have seized the keys so easily.

‘I really need a lift into the city,’ he pleaded.

‘I’m not going there.’

‘Can I drive with you anyway? If I can get to a station—’

‘No.’

The man’s head was down, his eyes on the ground. Raben knew this look. It was the one he got from employers after the army kicked him out and he was forced to go round begging for work. It
said:
I know you exist but I wish I didn’t. This is not my business and never will be.

Another car had pulled in, quickly refuelled. The woman driver was walking back towards it. Raben strode over, asked for a lift.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll behave. I just want to . . .’

Not a word. She was scared. Running behind the wheel, starting the engine, pulling out.

Raben looked back to the kiosk. He was out in the open, had taken down his hood without thinking. They could see his face. Two cameras on him at that moment, maybe more. The attendant was on the
phone.

It wouldn’t take the cops long. The training seemed lost to him. It was all so distant it seemed unreal.

He walked inside, took the mobile from the hands of the kid behind the till, put it in his pocket.

‘Give me all the cash you’ve got,’ Raben ordered. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Jonas might look this way one day.

‘Please, kid. Don’t screw around. Just give me the money.’

‘We don’t have much. People pay by card.’

He pushed the till open. Raben snatched the few notes there.

‘And your car keys.’

‘I don’t have a—’

‘You’re in the middle of the woods! You don’t walk.’

‘My dad brings me,’ he said in a low, petulant voice.

Raben wanted to hate himself but didn’t have the time.

‘I need to get out of here.’

The kid reached down behind the counter. Raben was too slow to stop him.

Came up with a leather fob and a single key on it.

‘The manager keeps an old wreck out the back for emergencies. Here . . .’

Couldn’t move for a moment for the shame.

‘You’d better go, mister,’ the kid said.

‘Sorry,’ Raben said, then walked out, found a beat-up old Ford out back, got it to start on third go, saw the fuel gauge go up to half, then turned out and slowly, carefully drove
towards Copenhagen.

He’d got a phone and a few hundred kroner. A car he could drive for thirty minutes in safety, no more.

Back in training, charged with getting across country and committing a fake hit somewhere he didn’t even know, this would have counted as cheating.

Right now it felt that way too.

Buch stood in Grue Eriksen’s office watching the TV. The lead story was the probable collapse of the anti-terror package. And him.

‘Newly appointed Minister of Justice Thomas Buch failed in his attempt to win a broad agreement on the bill which the Prime Minister says is vital for national security.’

‘Ha!’ Buch pushed out his big chest and laughed.

‘The Opposition accuses the government of withholding key evidence about the two murders, believed to be acts of terrorism.’

Birgitte Agger came on, expression set to outrage.

‘In a memo, PET specifically warned the Ministry of Justice there were terrorist links. The government did nothing,’ she insisted.

‘I knew nothing of that memo,’ Buch grumbled. ‘I told her . . .’

There was frost on the circle, frost on the grand grey buildings all around the island of Slotsholmen. Karina had walked Buch through the maze of corridors once more. But he was learning the
private way from his office opposite the Børsen, through the Folketinget, across the second-floor pedestrian bridge into the Christianborg Palace. Next time maybe . . .

‘Why didn’t you see this memo?’ the Prime Minister asked.

He seemed more puzzled than disappointed.

‘Monberg removed it from the file, and some other material too it seems. Birgitte Agger’s fully aware I never saw it.’

Grue Eriksen took his leather chair, beckoned Buch to the seat opposite. Creaseless blue shirt, maroon tie, every silver hair in place . . . Buch knew he could never be a politician like
this.

‘Why on earth would Monberg tamper with the records?’

‘It was just before he fell ill. We don’t know.’

The Prime Minister looked baffled.

‘This is quite extraordinary. And improper . . .’

‘He never said anything?’

‘Monberg never spoke of the case in my presence. Why do you think he would?’

Buch struggled for an answer. Krabbe was right: he was out of his depth in some ways.

‘I assumed . . .’

‘You should never assume anything,’ Grue Eriksen said with a laugh. ‘I know everyone thinks I’m the boss here. But really I’m the face on the packaging. The details
I have to leave to ministers like you. If I’d known there was a hint of terrorism I’d have convened a formal meeting with the Opposition parties and briefed them instantly. That’s
their right. And our duty. We may have to give them that now . . .’

‘Of course,’ Buch agreed.

Grue Eriksen scowled.

‘I don’t believe this is about national security for one minute,’ he said. ‘It’s politics. Agger wants to smear us any way she can.’

Grue Eriksen got up and put on his jacket.

‘You need to limit the damage, Thomas. Put a lid on the whole matter. Bring Krabbe round. We can deal with Agger.’

‘Of course.’ Buch had no idea how he could achieve either. ‘It’s a shame Monberg hasn’t regained consciousness. If we knew his side of things it would be
easier.’

Grue Eriksen shook his grey head.

‘Don’t bring Monberg into this. He’s still in a coma. Do a deal with Krabbe. Close the murder investigation. Then no one will listen to Birgitte Agger’s bleating for a
second.’

Grue Eriksen looked at the clock.

‘I’ve got to go.’ He rose from the chair, came over and shook Buch’s hand very warmly. ‘I’m sorry for this baptism of fire. I’m sure you’d no idea
what you were letting yourself in for. I certainly didn’t.’

Outside, in the chilly corridor, waiting for Karina to turn up and take him back to his own office, the phone rang.

Buch looked at the number and felt his heart leap.

Home.

‘Are the girls asleep?’ Buch asked.

A stream of complaints rushed out of Marie. About the security around the house. The way he didn’t call when he’d promised.

‘I’m sorry I never said goodnight to them. Something came up . . . Slotsholmen. Politics. Work.’

The one question he didn’t want.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be home, love. There are problems here. Maybe a crisis. I don’t know . . .’

To his surprise she offered to come and stay in Copenhagen for a while. He thought about this, but not for long. He wouldn’t have time to see her. Things would only feel worse.

‘Let’s talk about this later,’ he said and felt an immediate stab of guilt.

That was a politician’s answer, not a husband’s. And it seemed to come so very easily.

Brix was striding down the corridor towards the homicide detectives’ office, a box file under his arm, Lund telling him what she knew. Not that he showed much
interest.

‘Raben denied he’d met Anne Dragsholm.’ She showed him the photo lifted from Jarnvig’s office. ‘But we found this.’

The chief was in a casual shirt beneath his customary charcoal suit. As if something had disturbed his ordered life.

‘Raben was in a team called Ægir. They went out two years ago on a six-month tour.’ She pointed at the picture. ‘That’s Raben, Myg Poulsen and the Dragsholm woman
in the same shot.’

‘So what?’ Brix asked. ‘Where’s the connection to the Muslim League?’

‘Someone got into the barracks database using Myg Poulsen’s password. They took a list of Team Ægir’s members.’

Brix walked into a side office. Strange was waiting there.

‘We need to find Raben,’ Lund insisted. ‘He knows what this is all about.’

Silence.

‘Am I wasting my breath here?’ Lund asked, hand on hips.

He looked at her, pulled a sheet of paper from his file, passed it over to Strange.

‘PET have arrested three more suspects connected to Kodmani,’ Brix said.

‘Raben—’ Lund repeated.

‘Forget about Raben for a moment. When PET were searching Kodmani’s home they found a key to a post office box in Vesterbro. It’s registered in Kodmani’s name.’

He took an evidence bag out of the box file: a silver dog tag, no name, just crosses where the numbers should be.

‘The contents speak for themselves. I don’t think we need worry about escaped soldiers.’

A noise at the door. Erik König in a blue suit, raincoat over his arm. He shook Brix’s hand, called him “Lennart”. Smiled for a second or so.

‘You two are going to throw this at Kodmani,’ Brix said. ‘We’ll watch.’

He stayed in the observation room with Erik König, following the interrogation through the one-way glass.

Kodmani in a prison suit, trim beard, face impassive. Lund and Strange across the table.

‘You sympathize with the Taliban,’ Strange said, pointing a pen at him.

‘The Afghan people have the right to defend themselves against foreign aggressors. You would, wouldn’t you?’ Kodmani smiled. ‘Unless it was the Nazis. Took a while then,
didn’t it?’

Brix watched for his officers’ reactions, knew König was doing the same. Strange took a deep breath, looked ready to get mad. Lund sat still, arms folded, not saying a word.

‘Is it OK to kill Danish soldiers?’ Strange asked.

‘What do you expect? You’re at war. You kill us too. Kill women and children . . .’

Strange opened Brix’s file. Took out the evidence bag.

‘Is that why you collect dog tags?’

‘What?’

‘You heard. These were in your post office box in Vesterbro.’

Kodmani glanced at the tags and shook his head.

König came close to Brix.

‘He looks a good man,’ the PET chief said. ‘The other one seems to have lost her tongue.’

‘Give it time,’ Brix suggested.

Strange persisted.

‘You registered the box a month ago.’

Strange picked up the bag.

‘These tags are identical to ones that were left at the murder scenes.’

The man in the blue prison suit looked scared then.

‘I’ve never seen these things before.’

‘Then why were they there?’ Strange asked.

‘I don’t know—’

‘What was the post office box for?’ Lund asked. ‘You kept those flyers at home. You work with email . . .’

No answer.

Strange scattered some photos across the table.

‘Take a look at what you did. Don’t deny it. I want to know who you ordered to kill these people—’

‘I didn’t order anyone to do anything!’

‘Look at this, damn you.’

Crime scene shots. Anne Dragsholm’s body tethered to a stake in Mindelunden. Myg Poulsen upside down bleeding onto the floor of the veterans’ club.

Kodmani was swallowing, didn’t like this.

‘Faith Fellow told me he needed a post office box,’ he said. ‘I never used it. He did—’

‘Bullshit!’ Strange barked at him. ‘You were the recruiting sergeant. You picked the men. I want to know who.’

Lund leaned forward. She looked as if she was getting cross, and not with Kodmani.

‘Why would anyone need a post office box?’ she asked.

Strange was on a roll.

‘You take what you can from living here and preach to us about injustice. Then let these other mugs do your dirty work for you—’

‘What language did Faith Fellow write in?’ Lund asked.

‘Come clean, damn you!’ Strange shouted.

Kodmani sat back, confused, scared. Two sets of conflicting questions.

‘You run an interesting line in interrogation, Lennart,’ Erik König said quietly. ‘We’re under the spotlight here. If there’s a screw-up someone’s going
to pay and it won’t be me.’

Lund persisted.

‘Did he write in Danish? In English? In Arabic?’

Strange was still ranting.

‘Shut up for a moment, will you?’ Lund barked at him. ‘What did Faith Fellow write, Kodmani? What about Raben?’

Brix was watching König when that name came up. Noted the PET man’s visible reaction.

‘Did he mention someone in Team Ægir called Jens Peter Raben?’ Lund asked. ‘This is important. If we’re to believe you . . .’

Kodmani’s arms wound more tightly round his prison suit.

‘I’m not answering any more questions.’

‘You haven’t answered any in the first place,’ Lund said. ‘Who’s Faith Fellow? What do you know . . . ?’

König tapped Brix’s arm.

‘Perhaps it would make more sense if we handled the questioning from now on . . .’

Brix walked out, opened the door to the room, waited for her to fall silent, then nodded. The interview was at an end.

He went with König to a quiet place, a circular vestibule in the warren of black marble corridors that ran through the Politigården.

‘We’ll keep Kodmani and the three men you found for now.’

‘I meant that about the interrogation. We can’t . . .’

‘This is a murder investigation. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’

König put on his raincoat, glanced at him.

‘Remember what I said. Cases like these make and break careers. Be careful who you choose to keep around you.’

‘Lund’s temporary. She used to work here—’

‘Thank you,’ König said curtly. ‘I know who Lund is. Her reputation precedes her.’