The Killing 2 (3 page)

She ought to see her mother sometime. For reasons Lund didn’t understand the war between them, once so heated and constant, had abated since the Politigården fired her. Perhaps
Vibeke had found a strand of sympathy, of pity even, that her daughter had never noticed before. Or they were both just getting older, and lacked the energy to maintain the perennial bickering that
had divided them for as long as Lund could remember.

A look at the calendar. Three clear days off work. Nothing to fill the time.

Lund picked up her laptop, looked at the news sites. Read what they had to say about the murder in Mindelunden. It wasn’t a lot. Lennart Brix seemed better at gagging the media now than he
was two years before, when half the politicians in the Copenhagen Rådhus were trying to avoid the fallout from the Birk Larsen case.

Brix.

He wasn’t a bad man. Just an ambitious one. He hadn’t fired her straight out. He’d offered a way to stay inside the police, if only she’d been willing to swallow her
pride, say lies were truth, bury things that deserved to be left out in the harsh, unforgiving light of day.

She wasn’t going to do this for Brix. Certainly not for his charming messenger boy, Ulrik Strange. For Mark maybe. Even for her mother.

But if she was going to do this, she’d do it for herself. Because she wanted to.

A reminder was blinking on the phone. The message: Mark’s birthday was today.

‘Shit,’ she said, racing for the cheap sweatshirt, realizing the only wrapping paper in the house had reindeer on it.

While she bundled paper and tape round the gift she called home. Vibeke was out. Usually was for some reason these days.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Lund said. ‘I’m coming back for Mark’s birthday like I promised. Just till tomorrow. One day. See you soon.’

Then she got a battered shoulder bag, stuffed in the first clothes that came to hand and headed for the bus.

This was once the King’s office, or so the secretary who welcomed him said. Palatial chairs and a large desk, signature Danish lamps. There was a view out to the riding
ground where a solitary coach with two of the Queen’s horses trudged round and round in the mud. The state of Denmark was mostly run from the buildings on the tiny island of Slotsholmen, once
a fortress that was Copenhagen in its entirety. The Christiansborg Palace, the Folketinget, the offices of the various ministries . . . all these were crammed into a series of loosely linked
buildings that sat upon the remains of the castle of the warrior-bishop Absalon, the roads and lanes that joined them open to the public, a reminder of the liberal nature of the modern state.

Buch liked it here mostly, though he wished Marie and the girls would visit more often.

He had his rubber ball in his pocket and briefly wondered what it would be like to bounce it off the panelled walls of the office built for the King of Denmark. But then Gert Grue Eriksen walked
in and something on his face said this was not the moment. A government minister was gravely ill in hospital. The anti-terror bill stood beached in the Folketinget, caught up in the labyrinthine
complexities of coalition politics. Grue Eriksen was the captain of the ship of state, charged with navigating a vessel that had many hands on the wheel. A short, energetic man of fifty-eight,
silver-haired with a dignified, amicable face. He had been at the highest level of Danish politics for as long as Buch could remember, so much so that the man from Jutland remained a little in awe
of him, like a child in front of the headmaster.

Nor was he one for small talk.

Brief greetings, the usual question about family, a shake of the hand.

‘You heard about Monberg?’ Grue Eriksen asked.

‘Any news?’

‘He’ll live they say.’

The Prime Minister waved Buch to the chair in front of his desk then took the grand winged leather seat opposite.

‘He won’t be coming back to office. Not now. Not later.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Buch said with some genuine sympathy.

Grue Eriksen sighed.

‘This is bad timing. We need this anti-terror package. And now we’re trapped between right and left. Krabbe’s so-called patriots in the People’s Party. Birgitte
Agger’s bleeding hearts among the Progressives. Without some leeway from both the bill will fall. Monberg was supposed to deal with this.’

Grue Eriksen gazed at him expectantly.

‘So, Thomas. What should we do?’

Buch laughed.

‘I’m flattered you should ask me. But . . .’

He was not a slow man. Thomas Buch’s mind had been turning all the way up the long staircase to Grue Eriksen’s office.

‘But why?’ he asked.

‘Because when you leave this room you will go to see the Queen. She must meet her new Minister of Justice.’ Grue Eriksen smiled again. ‘We’ll find you a shirt and tie.
And don’t play with that bloody ball in her presence. Then you’ll find some way to get our anti-terror package passed. We need a vote next week and right now this place is like a zoo.
Krabbe keeps demanding more concessions. The Progressives will use any excuse . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ Buch interrupted. ‘But there’s something I must say.’

Grue Eriksen went quiet.

‘I’m honoured to be asked. Truly. But I’m a businessman, a farmer. I came here . . .’

He looked out of the window, back towards the Parliament building.

‘I came here for the wrong reasons. It was Jeppe you wanted. Not me.’

‘True,’ Grue Eriksen agreed.

‘I can’t possibly . . .’

‘You’re the one we got. Not Jeppe. I’ve watched you over the years. Noted your quiet honesty. Your dedication. Your occasional . . .’ He pointed at the black polo neck.
‘. . . difficulty with protocol.’

‘I’m not a lawyer.’

‘I’m not a Prime Minister. It’s a job life gave me and I try to do it as best I can. You’ll have the most skilled civil servants in the country. And my full support. If
there’s . . .’

‘I have to decline,’ Buch insisted.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not ready. I don’t know enough. Perhaps in a few years, when I’ve been here longer. I’m not my brother.’

‘No. You’re not. Which is why I’m making this offer. Jeppe was a bright star. Too much so. He was rash and impetuous. I’d never have offered him this
opportunity.’

Buch took a deep breath and looked out of the window at the two horses going round and round on the muddy riding ground, the coach behind them, the man with the whip in his hand. Held gently.
Unused. But a whip all the same.

‘I’ve staked my reputation, my premiership on this anti-terror package,’ Grue Eriksen continued. ‘You more than anyone know why it’s needed. Knock heads together in
those corridors across the square. Make them see sense.’

‘I . . .’

‘This is war, Thomas! We don’t have time for faint hearts and modesty. They’ll listen to you, in a way they never listened to Monberg. He was a journeyman political hack. He
carried no moral weight.’

Grue Eriksen nodded at him.

‘You do. I can think of no one better.’

‘Sir . . .’

‘You have the ability. I don’t doubt that. Do you really lack the will? The sense of duty?’

Duty.

It was a hard word to sidestep.

The Prime Minister got up and stood by the long window. Buch joined him. The two stared out at the rainy day, the horses and the trap ploughing through the mud in the square beyond.

‘I could appoint someone else from within the group,’ Grue Eriksen said. ‘But then the whole bill might be in jeopardy. Do you think that would be in Denmark’s
interest?’

‘No,’ Buch said. ‘Of course not. The package we have is justified and necessary . . .’

‘Then see it through for me. I will ask one more time only. Will you be our new Minister of Justice?’

Buch didn’t answer.

‘White shirt, conservative tie,’ Grue Eriksen declared, calling for his secretary. ‘We’ll find you something for now. Best send out for more, Minister Buch. The days of
polo shirts are over.’

Half jail, half psychiatric institution, Herstedvester lay twenty kilometres west of Copenhagen, a long boring journey, one Louise Raben had come to loathe.

She knew the routine. Bag through scanner. Body check. Permission slips.

Then she was through security, walking into the visiting quarters, wondering where he was, what he’d been doing.

Two years inside, every request for parole turned down. Jens Peter Raben was a soldier, a father, a husband. A man who’d served the Danish state for almost half of his thirty-seven
years.

Now he’d become nothing more than a prisoner in a penal psychiatric institution, locked up as a danger to himself and the society he once thought he served.

Two years. No sign of the agony ending. If he’d been convicted of a simple crime – a robbery, a mugging – he’d be home now. Back in the army perhaps – and this was
her secret wish, not that she’d voiced it to her father – finding a job in the civilian world. But Raben’s mental state after he was invalided back from Afghanistan precluded the
promise of freedom allowed to ordinary criminals. The idea of redemption was denied those deemed unsound of mind.

A terrible thought lurked at the back of her head more and more. What if they never let him out? What if her husband, Jonas’s father, stayed in Herstedvester for ever?

Their son had just turned four. He needed a man around. They both did. She was young. She missed his friendship, his physical presence too, the warmth, the intimacy between them. The idea he
might never return sparked thoughts in her head she’d never wanted to countenance.

If he didn’t come back what price loyalty? Fidelity?

Louise Raben came from an army family, had grown up in barracks houses as her father worked his way up through the officer ranks. There were women who waited, and women who seized the
opportunity to control their own lives. She didn’t want to make that choice.

The guard walked her into the visitors’ block. Outside she could see the prison wing and the hospital, a separate building, beyond it. High walls everywhere. Barbed wire. Men with
walkie-talkies and guns. Then they let her into the private room, the one reserved for marital visits. Cheap wallpaper, a plain table, a sofa bed by the wall. And a man who was beginning to seem
distant, however hard she tried.

‘Jonas?’ he asked.

She walked to him, hugged him. He kept wearing the same fusty clothes, a black sweater, threadbare cotton trousers. His beard was starting to go grey, his face was thinner. There was a strength
to him that always surprised her. He didn’t seem a muscular man. But it was there, inside him, visible in the blue-grey eyes that never seemed to rest.

Jens Peter Raben was a sergeant in her father’s battalion. Someone his men trusted and on occasion feared. There was a fierceness and an anger to him that never waned, not that she felt
it, ever.

‘They had a party in day care,’ she said, putting a hand to his cheek, feeling the bristles there. ‘The other kids pestered him . . .’

‘It’s OK. I understand.’

‘Have you heard from Myg?’

Raben shook his head. Looked a little worried at the mention of the name. Allan Myg Poulsen was one of his team from Afghanistan. Active in the veterans’ club looking after ex-soldiers.
That morning she’d called Poulsen, asked him to find a job for her husband.

‘Myg says he could get you some work. Building. Carpentry. Find us a home somewhere.’

He smiled then.

‘Maybe if you’ve got the offer of a job . . .’

‘Maybe.’

He always seemed so peaceful when she saw him. It was hard to understand why every application he made for parole got turned down on the grounds he was too dangerous for release.

She’d brought some of Jonas’s drawings, spread them out on the table. Fairy tales and dragons. Castles in the sky.

‘Dad bought him a shield and a sword. He asked for them.’

Raben nodded, said nothing. Just looked at her with his lost eyes.

She couldn’t return whatever it was he wanted at that moment. So Louise stared at the wall beyond the window and said, ‘There’s not much going on really. If it wasn’t for
day care. Living in barracks. It’s not right . . .’

It was always her job to ask. She got up, pointed at the sofa bed.

‘Shall we . . . ?’

‘Let’s wait for a while.’

He always said that of late.

Louise stayed on her feet, was determined not to cry.

‘When do you hear about parole?’

‘Very soon. The lawyer thinks my chances are good. The clinical director says I’ve made good progress.’

She looked at the wall again.

‘This time they can’t turn me down. They won’t.’

The rain had started again. Other prisoners jogged past, hooded heads down, faces in the chill wind, bored, like him. Trying to fill the day.

‘They won’t, Louise. What’s wrong?’

She sat down, took his hand, tried to see into his eyes. There was always something there she could never quite reach.

‘Jonas isn’t so keen to come here any more.’

The expression in his face hardened.

‘I know you love to see him. I tried. He’s four years old. You were abroad when he was born. You’ve been here half his life. He knows you’re his father. But . .
.’

These thoughts kept haunting her and they were so very precise.

‘It’s just a word. Not a feeling. Not . . .’ She reached out and touched his heart. ‘Not here. Not yet. I need you home. We both do.’

The sudden anger was gone, and in its place, she thought, came a little shame.

‘Don’t pressure him,’ he said.

‘I don’t.’ The tears were starting. She was an army wife, not that she’d ever wanted to be. This was wrong. ‘I don’t, Jens! But he’s not a baby any
more. He won’t even talk about you. Some of the kids at day care have been teasing him. They heard something.’

The look on his face, torn between grief and an impotent fury, only made her want to weep more.

‘I’m sorry.’ She reached out and briefly touched his stubbled cheeks. ‘I’ll make it work. Don’t you worry.’

‘
We’ll
make it work.’

She couldn’t look him easily in the eye just then. He knew this so he took her hands, waited till she’d face him.