The Killing 2 (18 page)

A precise, meticulous man, he pulled out the white cuffs of his shirt so they showed from the coat.

‘I won’t interfere with your investigation. Yet. But she was thrown out of here for a reason.’

He patted Brix lightly on the arm.

‘You’re taking quite a risk. I hope you think she’s worth it.’

Lund stayed in the shadows, listening to the two men talk in low voices around the corner. Brix knew she’d be eavesdropping. That was why he’d taken the man from
PET where he did. The Politigården was built for conspiracy. She’d fallen victim to it once before. Never really learned to play that game.

So she went back into the interview room where Strange sat silent, going over his notes, avoiding her.

Brix returned.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lund said. ‘I didn’t mean to break it up like that. I just think—’

‘I want a word with Lund on her own,’ Brix said.

Strange got up from the table, took his pad and pen.

Stopped, looked at the tall man in the suit.

‘I just want to say I’m with Lund here,’ Strange told him. ‘I don’t see how the dog tags could have been planted on Kodmani. But . . .’

Brix did not want to hear this. Strange knew and didn’t care.

‘If it hadn’t been for Lund we’d never have got this far. If she feels this strongly about Raben then maybe we should be checking him out.’

Then he left.

Silence between them. That was rarely good.

‘I said I’m sorry.’

‘I heard.’

‘If you want me to go back to Gedser—’

‘I’ll tell you when that happens, Lund. Just try and keep a handle on your temper in future, will you?’ He hesitated, as if thinking about whether to say what was on his mind.
‘Especially when we’ve got PET watching.’

Back at the desk she shared with Strange she started going through the files they’d got from the barracks and PET again. He was trying to track down more information on
Jens Peter Raben.

‘He robbed a petrol station near the Herstedvester,’ he said coming off the phone. ‘Stole a car. Could be anywhere by now.’

‘If he’s a
jæger
won’t he be good at this?’

‘I said he trained with them. He wasn’t one of them. If he was . . .’

Strange stamped his finger on the list for the Team Ægir tour.

‘His name wouldn’t be on here. Jarnvig wouldn’t feel he owned him.’

‘Any friends?’

‘Myg Poulsen and a lawyer they just fired. We need one of your bright ideas.’

‘Somebody from Ægir can tell us about him. And the victims.’

He looked at the papers strewn between them.

‘Five hundred names or more. We could start at the barracks tomorrow.’

He passed over the sheets.

‘I’ll follow up on Raben,’ Lund said. ‘You see if you can get something out of the army.’

‘Sure.’

He got up, took his windcheater and scarf off the rack.

‘And thanks,’ Lund said. ‘For . . .’

Thanks were never easy.

‘For what?’

‘Sticking up for me.’

He looked surprised.

‘We’re partners. We watch out for each other, don’t we?’

‘True.’

That quick, bright smile.

‘Besides, you weren’t going to stop, were you?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘No.’ He looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘I wish we hadn’t met like this.’

It seemed an odd observation.

‘How else . . . ?’ Lund asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’ A finger in the air. ‘Birdwatching. That’s it.’

She found herself laughing.

One of the uniform officers came in and called him over.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting someone. See you tomorrow. Phone if something important turns up.’

Lund didn’t watch him go. She concentrated on the papers, the work. Not Ulrik Strange, a passably talented police officer with a curious, warm side to him.

It was just an accident that, as she got up for her jacket, she turned to look at the corridor outside. Saw him there with a blonde woman, back to the glass, Strange’s arm round her
shoulders.

He gave his companion the briefest kiss on the cheek then they left.

One of the young officers came in with some photographs. Raben at the petrol station, begging desperately for a lift.

‘They said he was trying to get back to the city,’ the detective told her. ‘We’ve got the car. It was abandoned in Enghaven park.’

The name of the place gave her a jolt. Nanna Birk Larsen had been held captive just a couple of streets away.

‘So he’s here,’ Lund said.

‘Somewhere,’ the young cop agreed.

Fancy restaurants and sex shops. Run-down alleys and the grimy, twenty-four-hour bustle of the meat-packing district. Vesterbro was a bustling inner-city suburb of neon-lit
streets, family enclaves, small immigrant communities. A useful warren in which to hide.

Raben knew it well from his youth, though now he had no friends, no family there. This was good. The police would know too so they’d have no idea where to look for him.

The church was sturdy Brick Gothic with a tower by the side. The industrial buildings of the meat-packing district were just two streets away. At night some of them gave over their upper floors
to discotheques and clubs. Or so he’d read in the papers. This was all new to him, beyond the tastes and the pocket of a soldier with a family.

Head down, hood around his features, he found his way to the side door, let himself in.

The familiar old smell. Polish and damp. The same chill air.

A figure was at the altar, arranging some flowers. Raben pulled down his hood, stopped on the threshold.

He recognized that burly shape.

‘We’re closed,’ Gunnar Torpe announced in that strong, musical voice Raben had heard every Sunday, almost without fail.

Priest.
That was the one name they used for him. Raben was never sure they needed men of God on the battlefield. But at least this one could fight when needed.

‘Come back tomorrow,’ Torpe said as he glanced up at the crucifix above him.

The building seemed bigger inside than out, with white walls, a few paintings, silver candelabra and lamps. A long way from the dusty tents in Helmand where Torpe used to preach his sermons.

Raben closed the door.

The man in a priest’s robe turned and looked at him sharply.

‘I said tomorrow!’

The scruffy figure walked forward into the dim light above the nave.

Torpe stood frozen beneath the painted statue of Christ, gazing at him as if a corpse had risen from the grave. Stocky as ever, with the muscular build and aggressive stance of a soldier. Grey
hair perhaps a little longer. Face pugnacious, judgemental, unforgiving. An Old Testament pastor.

‘Long time no see,’ Raben said in a steady, confident voice.

The churchman stayed on the steps to his altar, hands on his waist, saying nothing.

‘I need your help, Priest. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

Torpe had a room at the back of the church. A shower. Some food. A fresh set of clothes. Good clean ones this time.

‘I’ve got some communion wine if you want it, Jens. It’s not bad.’

‘No thanks.’

The priest had left the interior door open for some reason. Raben nodded back towards the body of the church.

‘You like it here?’

‘It’s a nice little parish. People don’t have much money. They’ve got a lot of faith though. Suits me.’

Raben pulled on a heavy sweater, wondered about the other smell. Candles. That was it. They seemed to be everywhere, little flames flickering in the chilly airy interior.

‘Do you see any of the old team?’

‘No. Why would I?’

Raben said nothing.

‘I heard about Myg. I don’t know what you’re up to.’

‘Some things never change,’ Raben said and smiled.

Torpe stared at him.

‘They told me you went crazy. Threatened some poor man off the street. Didn’t know what you were doing . . .’

Raben nodded.

‘They were right.’

Torpe came and stood in front of him. His face was an odd mix. He’d seen action. Fought fist fights with his own soldiers from time to time. Liked a drink too. But there was always a
distanced, dreamy quality to him. Something spiritual he called it.

‘Do you know what you’re doing now?’

‘I know what I’m not doing. Sitting in a cell while all hell breaks loose.’

‘Be careful, Jens. Think of your wife and son.’

‘I do. All the time.’

He picked up the clothes Torpe had given him.

‘There’s someone I need to talk to.’

Torpe was silent. Scared maybe. Which wasn’t such a bad thing.

Raben came close, looked him in the eye.

‘I don’t know who else to ask. Or trust.’

He glanced at the empty dark nave.

‘This is sanctuary, isn’t it?’

Torpe stood rigid, unmoved.

‘Isn’t it, Priest?’

‘Raben—’

‘I never needed you much in Helmand. I need you now.’

Wednesday 16th November

8.45 a.m.
  Lund picked up Strange from his apartment. Sharp winter day. Frost on the cobbled street and the cars parked outside the sterile
red-brick building close to the water.

He’d been on the phone already. No sign of Raben anywhere in Copenhagen. Search warrants were being issued for more people associated with Kodmani. The three in custody were still being
held.

They sat in the car, Lund waiting. When he said nothing she asked, ‘What about Ægir?’

He looked pale, tired. His hair was still wet from the shower. She could smell aftershave. Too much of it.

‘I do get time off. I was a bit late last night.’

‘Out on a date?’

He’d bought a cup of coffee from the bread shop opposite the block. Asked her to hold it, looked at her.

‘It’s called life,’ Strange said, rifling through the pockets of his winter coat. ‘You should try it some time.’

‘Team Ægir—’

‘Ægir was two years ago. There’s a new name for each tour. The soldiers who were on Ægir are all over the place. Some have left the army. We know Raben was there. Myg
Poulsen. Dragsholm obviously had contact with them. That’s as much as I know right now.’

He groaned.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got paracetamol or something?’

‘Do I look like a chemist? It’s not my fault you’re hung-over and . . . whatever.’

‘Forget the whatever, will you? She’s just an old friend. No need to get jealous.’

She snorted. Said nothing.

‘What did you get on Raben then?’

He’d found a pack of pills somewhere deep in a pocket. Took back the coffee and popped a couple.

‘He’s thirty-seven,’ Lund began.

‘I knew that.’

‘Been in the army most of his adult life. Rank staff sergeant. Trained at the school in Sønderborg. Tried to join the Jægerkorpset. Did some time with them but never made the
grade.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s a pushover.’

‘I never thought that,’ she said. ‘I’m just giving you the facts. He was mainly stationed with the armoured infantry. Decorated several times. Two years ago when he was
out there with Ægir he was badly wounded and sent home.’

Strange gulped at the coffee and let out a gentle, self-pitying moan.

‘Got discharged for some reason. They thought he was getting better but something snapped. He took a stranger hostage. The court sent him to Herstedvester.’

‘Most of that I knew.’

‘Don’t take out your hangover on me. He’s got a wife, Louise. A son, Jonas.’

‘So?’ Strange asked.

‘Her father’s Jarnvig. The camp colonel. Raben’s his son-in-law.’

Suddenly he looked interested.

‘What is it?’

He stroked his crew cut, massaged his brow as if that could get rid of the pain.

‘If I was a colonel I wouldn’t enjoy a sweaty sergeant marrying my daughter. I’d want her to do better than that.’

Another swig of coffee. He was recovering, she thought. Very quickly.

‘Jarnvig was battalion commander with Ægir,’ Strange said. ‘Small world, huh?’

Lund shook her head.

‘That can’t be right. Jarnvig denied knowing Anne Dragsholm. She was there as a military lawyer. He must have met her.’

‘Maybe . . .’ he said swinging his hand from side to side.

‘Jarnvig was with Ægir? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that earlier?’

He smiled. It was a declaration: better now. Amusing too, not that she was letting on.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘you were too busy being jealous. Are we going somewhere? Or do we just sit in this car park all day long?’

Ryvangen Barracks were little more than five minutes away across the railway tracks. They found Jarnvig in the main office building. Shirt and combat trousers, both khaki, a
dark look on his face that didn’t bode well.

‘You told me you never met Anne Dragsholm?’ Lund said, following as he walked from one floor to the next.

‘I didn’t,’ Jarnvig replied without even looking at her.

Strange tagged on behind.

‘How that’s possible?’ she asked. ‘Dragsholm’s on a photo in your office. She was there during the Ægir tour. You were the battalion commander.’

He stopped, folded his arms.

‘That photo was taken at Oksbøl before deployment. Not Helmand. I’d like it back by the way. You should consider yourself lucky I don’t lodge a complaint. I don’t
like people stealing from my office.’

‘She’s been murdered . . .’

Jarnvig set off downstairs. The two of them followed into a bright lobby with pale-blue walls and classical statues of Greek and Roman heroes.

‘Maybe Dragsholm was there to lecture on law and war,’ Jarnvig said. ‘We want to keep within the conventions. I never saw her. I can assure you she was not with
Ægir.’

Jarnvig stopped in the middle of the central atrium, by a towering full-length figure of Hercules with his club.

‘Check with Army Operational Command if you won’t take my word for it. I know my advisers. She was never one of them. I trust that’s all . . .’

He started to walk off. Lund was on him straight away.

‘I’d like to hear about your son-in-law, Jens Peter Raben.’

Jarnvig stopped outside the door to the gym.