Trophy (12 page)

Lene knitted her brow.

‘I still don’t understand, Louise. And I don’t follow the timing. As far as I know, Kim came back from Afghanistan in November 2008, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Dr Knudsen started him on antidepressants in June 2011, and Kim also started taking sleeping pills around June 2011? Why?’

‘He could only sleep if he took a pill. He said he took them so he wouldn’t dream. He didn’t want to dream, he said.’

Lene nodded. ‘It’s just that I had expected his problems to stem from his discharge from the army. I presume he was a combat soldier? He wasn’t in logistics or catering, for example?’

Louise Andersen smiled miserably.

‘Kim? He would rather break both arms than do paperwork. It didn’t interest him. And he couldn’t boil an egg. He wasn’t very good at reading or writing. He never read a book for pleasure. He read manuals. All he cared about was being in the field with his mates. Kim is one of the most highly decorated privates in Denmark. He was a skilled soldier and very experienced. He had been to Iraq, Bosnia and Kosovo; the Division was his family.’

‘Did he have any brothers or sisters?’

‘He has an older half-brother, whom he rarely saw. He lives in Jylland. They liked each other all right, but there was ten years between them and they didn’t have very much in common. Kim’s parents divorced when he was nine and he barely saw his father after that. They never really got on. His father moved to Thailand and married a local girl, and his mother also remarried. She lives on Bornholm.’

‘So how was he after Afghanistan?’

Louise Andersen sipped some water and stared into space.

‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? They’re still pumping with adrenaline … bouncing off the walls when they get home. It’s like they’ve got ADHD. They’re either up or they’re down, but it usually wears off. And so it did for him. After Afghanistan, I mean. He got a job and it looked as if he was getting his act together. He always got his act together.’

‘Was he seen by the Institute for Military Psychology?’

‘They all were. They screen them for stress, both before and after missions, to see if they can handle it and if they need treatment when they get back. He didn’t have therapy or anything like that, if that’s what you’re asking.’

The widow paused.

‘People like him are worth their weight in gold,’ she said.

‘Why?’

Her face and eyes had become more animated. Kim Andersen had been a lucky man, Lene thought. Relatively lucky.

‘There is no substitute for experience,’ Louise Andersen said. ‘People like Kim help young and inexperienced soldiers by showing them the ropes. He was in the First Armoured Infantry Company. They’re the most experienced, I think, and the ones they deploy when the going gets tough.’

‘Okay,’ Lene said. ‘So it was all right to begin with. What happened in the spring of 2011?’

‘I honestly don’t know. He liked going hunting. He was a member of the local hunting syndicate and he and a couple of ex-army mates had game rights at a country house on south Sjælland. Pederslund it’s called. He went there often. Otherwise it was mostly deer hunting with rifles. Sometimes he would travel to Poland or Sweden to hunt wild boar or elk. He was in Sweden in March or April 2011, where he injured his leg. He got a limp as a result, but said that nothing could be done about it. He had been to Casualty in Sweden. But I don’t think that was it. In May he was told that two of his best friends, who were still in Afghanistan, had been killed by a roadside bomb. Kenneth and Robert. The Taliban had filled a pressure cooker with plastic explosives, ball bearings, nuts, nails, broken glass and pebbles, and they sat on some hilltop nearby and triggered it with a mobile phone. There were five of them on patrol. Kim’s best friend was at the front and was killed instantly, and his mate, who was three metres behind him, died later from massive shrapnel injuries to his neck. He took it badly.’

‘Christ.’

Louise Andersen looked up.

‘Yes. Christ indeed,’ she whispered. ‘I think he felt he could have prevented it if he had been there. That somehow it was his fault. It was madness. He said it was a punishment for something they had done. Something they had all done. Kenneth and Robert were due to come back the following week.’

‘A punishment? What for?’

Louise Andersen gave her a pale smile.

‘I’ve no idea. He refused to say any more about it. A punishment. That was what he called it. I made him go to the doctor. And that was when he got the pills.’

Lene nodded and wrote a couple of words on her notepad.

‘Okay. Incidentally, we found a rifle and a shotgun in the gun cabinet,’ Lene said. ‘They didn’t look as if they had been fired for a while.’

‘He hasn’t been hunting since that time in Sweden,’ the widow said. ‘And it was after that trip he started feeling bad.’

‘Who was with him?’

‘Some of his friends from the country house, I believe. He hardly ever spoke about it, and he hated being interrogated. He would just close down. He was very stubborn.’

‘How did he injure himself?’

‘He told me he had tripped over a tree that had been knocked down by the wind and a branch had gone through his thigh.’

‘And he was never injured in Kosovo, Iraq or in Helmand?’

‘Never. He used to say he was invulnerable because he loved me so much. He was incredibly lucky.’

Lene leaned back. This was less than she had expected – and much, much more. All sorts of doors began to open. Perhaps she ought to write it all down, but she knew that the thin thread between her and the widow might snap if their intimacy was replaced by official procedures. Louise Andersen might dissolve in grief again or sink back into mute defiance. Right now they were on a safe, little island.

She mustered up her friendliest smile.

‘A note, Louise?’

The widow looked at her.

‘Did he leave a note?’

The young woman took a deep breath and, for a moment, Lene thought that she had lost her, but then she lifted her handbag up on her lap, found an envelope and handed it to her across the desk.

A single sheet, blue squares. Torn off a cheap spiral pad.

Lene turned over the note. There was nothing on the back, nor was there anything on the envelope.

Louise Andersen stared at Lene’s hands. Her eyes welled up.

‘It’s my letter. You can’t keep it.’

Lene gave it back to her.

‘Of course not.’

The widow folded the note and returned it to the envelope. She kept her handbag on her lap and rested her hands on top of it.

Lene scrutinized her.

‘Your story, Louise. I might be able to understand why you acted the way you did. Cuffing him, I mean. But your husband
did
kill himself. He took a rope from his boat, climbed a garden chair, tied the rope to a branch, put the noose around his neck and kicked away the chair. I don’t mean to be brutal, but that was what happened. Suicide or attempted suicide falls outside the penal code. And though it’s difficult, impossible perhaps, for the rest of us to understand what can drive someone to that point, it is and will remain a private matter. I just don’t see how the police can help you. With your new and improved explanation, the case is pretty much closed.’

Louise Andersen nodded. She sat for a while without saying anything. Then she stuck her hand into her bag and placed her clenched fist in the middle of the desk.

‘So how about these?’

She uncurled her fingers. Two 9-mm cartridges were lying on her small palm.

The cartridges rolled across the desk until they came to a standstill. Lene didn’t touch them.

‘Where did you find them?’ she asked.

‘One was on Lucas’s pillow, the other on Hanna’s.’

‘Do you think Kim saw them?’

‘The door was open.’

‘And you threw the pillows on the floor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who put bullets in their beds, Louise?’

‘I don’t know. Some psycho.’

‘Do you know any psychos?’

‘None that I’m aware of.’

The widow was calm. Her voice was assured, low, but clear.

‘The same person who took your computer?’

‘Who else?’

‘But why?’ Lene asked.

‘That’s why I put the sodding handcuffs on him, do you get it now?’

Lene nodded, fetched the photograph of the five soldiers
in the desert from her shoulder bag and placed it on the desk. She turned it so the young widow could see it.

‘I helped myself to this photograph from your house. I recognize Kim from his tattoos. Who are the others?’

‘Robert Olsen and Kenneth Enderlein are standing on Kim’s left. They were the ones who were killed. Kim’s best friends.’

‘When was the picture taken?’

‘The summer of 2006, somewhere outside Camp Bastion, or Camp Viking as the Danish part of the camp is known. Sometimes there would be Brits, Americans and Canadians there as well. And the Danish special forces unit, the Jægerkorps. There are almost 11,000 men in that camp. It’s hard to know everyone.’

Lene pointed to the soldier with the open uniform shirt. Unlike the others, he didn’t look like someone who could feature in a tattoo magazine.

‘Who is standing next to Kim?’

‘Allan. He’s a sergeant in the Royal Life Guards. I think he’s still in the army. Allan Lundkvist. Kim said he was a good soldier. He keeps bees.’

‘Bees?’

‘Sometimes he would give Kim honey when he had done some carpentry work for him. It tastes great. He lives on an old farm near the barracks.’

Lene smiled.

‘What does it mean to be a good soldier, Louise?’

‘That people can trust you and that you don’t do things that endanger the lives of others. They had to be both, right?’

‘Please explain?’

‘I mean they have to be level-headed – other people need to know that they’ll think before they act – but they also have to be ready to fight and make split-second decisions under pressure. It’s not easy. They must be able to do crazy stuff, while at the same time looking out for each other. That’s the only thing that really matters: looking out for your mates.’

‘What about civilian losses?’ the superintendent asked.

‘It happens. They might request aerial or artillery support if they were in danger, and this would sometimes hit the target, other times not, or civilians might be killed by a grenade. The problem is you can’t tell the enemy and the civilians apart. They wear the same clothes, speak the same language and go to the same places. Kim said that was the hardest thing about being out there. It was easier in Kosovo, in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Iraq. You knew who the enemy was.’

‘Right. And the fifth man? The one standing apart with the scorpion tattoo on his neck.’

Louise Andersen picked up the photograph.

‘Tom,’ she said, putting it back on the desk.

‘Tom?’

‘I think he was just someone who happened to be there that day.’

‘Did you ask Kim about him?’

‘He never talked about him. I don’t think he knew him very well. I don’t even know if he’s Danish. He could be Canadian, British or American.’

‘So he never mentioned him … Tom?’

‘Never.’

Lene watched her closely. The widow sounded completely sincere. She wasn’t lying.

‘Who took the picture, Louise?’

‘I don’t know. Kim never said. I presume they put the camera on a rock and used the self-timer.’

‘Okay. So how about this?’

Lene held up the plastic bag with the CD. The disc was covered with red spots from the CSOs’ fingerprint powder.

‘We found it next to the Alfa Romeo,’ she said. ‘Kim’s fingerprints were the only ones we could find a match for.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘Queen’s “We Will Rock You”. On a loop.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Louise.’

The widow’s face drained of all colours except ash grey.

‘It was their song … in the company, I mean. They sang it when they got drunk. They sang it on their return to camp when things had gone well.’

‘Gone well?’

‘They were there to kill the Taliban, Lene.’

It was the first time she had addressed her by name.

‘Of course. So it was a kind of battle hymn?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Did he listen to it at home?’

‘Never. He wouldn’t dream of it. Some things are off-limits. They’re deeply superstitious. I think it’s common for soldiers, sailors and others in dangerous professions. Are police officers superstitious?’

‘Not especially. By the way, congratulations on the Alfa,’ Lene said. ‘Nice car.’

‘I hate it,’ the widow said and burst into tears again.

Lene leaned across the desk and handed her a paper tissue.

‘Why? It’s a fantastic car.’

‘But that’s just it! We can’t afford a bloody car. It’s madness. We haven’t even paid for the wedding. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking. And I’ve no idea where the money came from. He just said that he had been lucky.’

‘What money?’

‘I pay the bills. I manage our finances online and a couple of months ago 1.3 million kroner suddenly appear in our account. Out of nowhere. It turned out to be the krone equivalent of 200,000 Swiss francs from a bank in Zürich.’

Lene leaned forwards.

‘What was the name of the bank and was there any message with the transfer?’

‘Credit Suisse. And no, there was nothing. There was an account number, but no link that I could click on. Kim called it compensation. He wanted a big wedding, to give me a day to remember.’

‘Compensation for what?’

The woman squirmed.

‘Please can I go now? I want to be with my kids.’

‘Compensation for what, Louise?’

‘I don’t know! God dammit, can I go now?! Compensation for his leg, his depression, the nights in the forest. I don’t know! And there was more, there was much more where it came from, he said. We could travel. We could move to Argentina or New Zealand. Start a new life. A wonderful, new life!’

‘Did that ever happen before this time, Louise?’

‘Never.’

‘Never?’

‘No. We never had very much money. Or, at least, not more than our friends.’

Lene looked at her.

‘Was this before or after you proposed to him?’

‘I don’t know. Hang on … I think it was right after. Oh, God, do you think that …? Did I …?’

Louise suffered with her.

‘I don’t think so, Louise. It would have happened sooner or later, I’m sure of it,’ she said, placing her hand on the other woman’s forearm.

Louise Andersen took a deep breath and put two items on the desk: a gilded box with the word
ROLEX
in silver on the lid and a blue velvet box from Hertz Jewellers.

‘He went to Copenhagen three weeks ago,’ she said. ‘And
he came back with these. A Rolex and a diamond ring. Do you want them?’

Lene looked at the boxes and considered the offer. It was probably the closest she would ever come to owning a Rolex. She massaged her temples.

‘Go home, Louise. And keep your presents or sell them on eBay and give the money to the Red Cross.’

The widow was halfway across the room before Lene’s last sentence had ended. She turned and looked at Lene.

‘Will there be anything else? Will you need to talk to me again …?’

Lene mustered up a kind of smile.

‘Go home to your kids.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, Louise.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked him, should I?’ The widow spoke out into the air. ‘I shouldn’t have proposed. I know I shouldn’t.’

‘Drive safely,’ Lene said.

*

She sat there for a little while, then got up, stretched out and walked over to the window. She watched Louise Andersen cross the car park. The widow walked quickly with her shoulders hunched and didn’t look right or left. Lene turned back and examined the bullets on the desk: one for the boy and one for the girl. The bullets … the song … trained reflexes. Kim Andersen had hanged himself because someone
had activated his trained response. Someone had remote-controlled him.

Tom … Danish, Canadian, American, British? Shit!

She put the bullets in her pocket. If there had been any fingerprints on them, they would have been wiped off long ago. But Lene knew that the bullets had been clean.

Now she needed court orders. She would turn Kim and Louise Andersen’s personal finances inside out and she would find that account in Zurich, even if it meant going there in person and putting a gun to the head of some oily, obstructive Swiss banker. Or perhaps she should follow procedure and ask a case officer in the Rigspolitiet’s COM Centre in Glostrup to handle the matter. The case officer would ask the Danish public prosecutor to submit an official request to a Swiss judge for an order, which the COM Centre and Europol could bring before a court in Switzerland.

But Lene would be dead and buried long before the Danish public prosecutor got a response. Perhaps she should pretend Kim Andersen converted to Islam. That tended to speed things up.