The Killing 2 (44 page)

Then, so quiet only she could hear, ‘Not now.’

He was there and she knew it. Knew too that if she had the strength she’d turn and stare him in the face.

Another sound, one too familiar. The slide of a semi-automatic pistol racking the first shell into the chamber.

One last sentence in her head.

Let me see you.

But she lacked the strength and the means to say it.

Only her eyes could move at that moment. So she kept them open and looked ahead. At the black Copenhagen night, and the bright-red neon Bosch sign of the restaurant on the corner.

Waiting.

The office in Slotsholmen, the evening news on TV, the little rubber ball bouncing against the wall, back and forth.

The only story was Monberg’s death. Plough was pacing the floor, tie undone looking distraught. Karina moped around as if she took some responsibility for what had happened.

Buch threw the ball again, misjudged the way it would come back, watched it fly off behind the sofa.

He’d disabuse her of that notion soon enough. He’d badgered Monberg. No one else. And now the TV news knew too. They were reporting that shortly before he killed himself Monberg had
been visited by his successor, and a confrontation had taken place.

Karina, shirtsleeves rolled up, perspiration on her brow, came over and turned the TV to mute.

‘The Prime Minister’s called a meeting with Krabbe and Rossing. You’re not invited.’

Buch went to his desk, pulled out another rubber ball, bounced it against the wall. Monberg’s photo was on the TV. Back when he was minister. A good-looking, confident politician. Nothing
like the man who succeeded him. Frode Monberg liked to tell everyone how he dined in all the finest places, Noma across the harbour, and Søren K in the Black Diamond Library that sat by the
water in Slotsholmen. Thomas Buch wanted nothing more than to sit a short distance away from Søren K, in the garden near the Jewish Museum, close to the statue of Kierkegaard, the Danish
philosopher who gave the Black Diamond restaurant its name. No fancy food. A sandwich. A hot dog. He was happy like that, would have been content to stay a foot soldier in politics until his early
retirement.

But then Grue Eriksen called, just the previous Monday. And everything changed.

‘Thomas!’ Karina said in that matronly, scolding voice. ‘Will you please stop behaving like this? If you hadn’t pressured Monberg he’d never have admitted
anything.’

‘If I hadn’t pressured him he’d still be alive.’

‘You don’t know that. He’d already tried to kill himself once. Flemming Rossing was in there before you. How do you know he didn’t say something?’

Buch didn’t answer.

‘How hard did you lean on him?’ Plough asked.

‘He did what was necessary,’ Karina retorted.

‘You don’t know that,’ Plough said. ‘What happened? Exactly?’

The ball went to the wall, came back. The fat man with the walrus beard said nothing.

‘This mess is Monberg’s fault,’ Karina insisted.

Plough dragged his tie away from his neck and threw it on the desk. In a man like him it seemed an act of rebellion.

‘You don’t understand the politics of this. The way things connect.’

‘I understand we’ve got to focus on the meeting with Grue Eriksen!’

Buch kept throwing the ball. He hated this stupid habit as much as they did now. But it was hard to stop.

Plough’s phone rang. He answered it.

Karina came over and stood next to Buch.

‘From what I gather Krabbe and the Defence Minister will take over responsibility for the anti-terror package. They’re going to sideline us completely. So we’ll never get to
the bottom of this. You’ll be paralysed. Or fired. Dammit, Thomas! Will you at least say something?’

Marie, his wife, had been phoning his mobile. He hadn’t the heart to answer.

‘The meeting’s started,’ Plough said, coming off the phone. ‘We should wait and hear what they have to say.’

Karina glared at him.

‘We’ve got to stop this! The Prime Minister hasn’t a clue about the games Rossing’s been playing.’

The TV was murmuring in the corner. A familiar voice. Buch abandoned the ball and turned up the volume. Rossing was there, smart suit, black tie, being interviewed outside the Defence Ministry
before going to meet Grue Eriksen.

‘I’m shocked by the loss of a good colleague,’ he said to the camera with a stony face. ‘Frode was a great political personality. A man who made an enormous personal
contribution to Denmark. Above all, a very dear friend.’

Buch turned up the volume to make sure the row between Karina and Plough didn’t catch fire again.

‘It’s a great loss,’ Rossing went on. ‘Especially at a time like this, when our country faces serious problems.’

The ruse didn’t work. Plough was taking aim at Karina again.

‘Don’t defend Monberg!’ she yelled at him. ‘He doesn’t deserve it.’

‘I want to know what happened,’ Plough barked back. ‘You should know. All things taken into consideration—’

‘What happened?’ She slammed her fist on the table. ‘What happened is the damned coward killed himself because he couldn’t face the consequences of his own actions.
Impeachment. Shame. Don’t blame me. Don’t dare blame Buch. Blame the man himself.’

She pointed at the TV.

‘Blame Rossing. His fingerprints are all over this. For Christ’s sake, Plough. I’m sorry I offended your puritanical sensibilities by sleeping with the man. Doubly so now. But
don’t make that more than it was. Nothing to me. Nothing to him either. It just happened. The way it does between normal human beings, not robots like you.’

The pale civil servant looked dumbstruck. No words. No answer at all.

Buch threw the ball away, turned off the TV and said to both of them, ‘I want you to call in the press. Straight away.’

‘The press?’ Plough gasped. ‘Please tell me this is a joke.’

‘Just do it,’ Buch ordered.

The curtains were closed to keep out the black night. The Prime Minister, Flemming Rossing and Erling Krabbe alone. No civil servant to keep minutes. No pens, no notepads on
the table.

‘Here’s the truth,’ Krabbe began. ‘You’ve got much better candidates than Buch. You should never have appointed him in the first place.’

‘He’s an honest man,’ Grue Eriksen noted. ‘Intelligent and hardworking. Lacking in experience. But . . .’ He smiled at the thin, dour man across the table.
‘We all are until it happens to us.’

‘He’s unfit for the job,’ Krabbe insisted. ‘Now there’s all this publicity about Monberg, too. What the hell is going on?’

‘Leave Monberg out of it,’ Grue Eriksen replied. ‘Buch’s my minister. Get off his back.’

Krabbe bridled.

‘If you want my support you’re going to have to listen to me.’

‘We are,’ Rossing broke in. ‘I told you already. We can alter the anti-terror package to accommodate the People’s Party. We’ll proscribe the organizations you
want—’

‘Buch must go,’ Krabbe insisted.

‘Will you listen for once?’ Grue Eriksen barked. ‘I decide the ministers in this government. Not you. Buch got the sharp end of the stick. There were irregularities on
Monberg’s part he never knew about and neither did the rest of us.’

‘What irregularities?’ Krabbe demanded.

‘You don’t need to know. Now he’s dead . . .’

Flemming Rossing coughed, glanced at Grue Eriksen, and said, ‘Frode wasn’t quite master of the situation. Let’s leave it at that.’

Krabbe threw up his skinny arms in despair.

‘Every day there’s a new surprise. When’s it going to stop? Rumours about this. One of your ministers killing himself. Buch flapping around like the fat idiot he is . .
.’

A man in a grey suit walked in, whispered in Grue Eriksen’s ear.

‘And now!’ Krabbe’s whiny voice was approaching falsetto. ‘There’s talk about some old army case. What the hell’s that about? Did the Islamists do this or
not?’

Grue Eriksen got up and turned on the TV.

‘Let’s do the deal on the anti-terror package,’ Rossing went on. ‘Get that out of the way. It’ll bring you closer to government. You can learn from us. Things will
settle down. I guarantee it.’

The news came on, a caption:
Live from the Folketinget
. Buch on the screen, blue shirt open at the neck, looking tired but determined. A line of microphones pushed into his face.

‘These are very critical questions which must be faced,’ he was saying. ‘I will demand a report from the Defence Minister concerning a military case which may be connected to
the recent murders.’

‘Fuck,’ Flemming Rossing murmured.

‘It seems,’ Buch went on, ‘the Defence Minister has withheld important information from the police in order to cover up his own negligence. My predecessor Frode Monberg
confirmed my suspicions before he died. That’s all I can say at present.’

A fusillade of questions shot from the unseen faces in front of him.

Grue Eriksen watched the impromptu press conference end in chaos.

‘Is that what you mean by settling down?’ Erling Krabbe piped up.

Madsen was in the first car to get to the meat-packing district. He briefed Brix as they walked through the nightclub full of sullen, puzzled people, then out to the roof.

‘Lund chased him through the warehouses, then the club, then out here,’ he explained. ‘She didn’t even have a gun. Crazy cow.’

They stopped by a line of metal steps leading to a level below the roof.

‘As far as we can work out he hid behind the door and slugged her when she came out.’

Brix stared at the drop.

‘Did Gunnar Torpe say anything?’ he asked.

‘He was unconscious by the time we got there. Really badly cut, like the others. With a dog tag by the looks of it.’

Madsen looked at the crowds of clubbers getting ushered from the building.

‘He died in the ambulance. Never recovered consciousness.’

Forensic officers were working the steps, brushing for evidence, taking photographs.

‘What did Lund say?’

‘She didn’t see his face. She wants us to look for the dog tag belonging to the soldier she exhumed. It’s missing.’ Madsen shrugged. ‘Seems crazy to me.’

‘Usually does. How is she?’

‘Stubborn.’

The older man glared at him.

‘Tough as old boots. She wanted to walk to the ambulance. I think a stretcher was . . . beneath her.’ Madsen scratched his head. ‘She had some crazy idea that the guy was about
to shoot her then changed his mind.’

Brix looked interested.

‘I don’t think so,’ Madsen went on. ‘There were people coming out of the club by then. They knew something was happening. He just legged it.’

‘And Møller’s missing dog tag?’

Madsen stared at him.

‘What about it? We’ve got another murder. We’ve got an officer almost killed.’

‘Just look into it, will you?’ Brix ordered.

A black car flew into the loading space below, blue light flashing. Strange was out of the driver’s door straight away.

‘Where’s Lund?’ he shouted.

‘On her way back to the Politigården from hospital,’ Brix called down to him.

‘Is she OK?’

‘Yes,’ Brix answered. ‘Shaken but . . .’

Strange didn’t stop to listen. He got behind the wheel, slewed the car across the wet concrete, disappeared the way he came.

Brix watched him go, nodded to Madsen to get on with it.

Then called Ruth Hedeby.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

Half an hour in Casualty then back to an interview room in headquarters. A wound above her right eyebrow. Bruises. A thick head. And questions. Lots of questions, none of them
the ones the young detective who was with her thought of asking.

‘Are you sure you didn’t see his face?’

She sighed.

‘If I saw his face I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?’

‘There must have been something special about him. The way he dressed—’

‘Black anorak. Hood up. Is this the best line of questioning you’ve got?’

‘I learned from you, Lund!’ he cried, a little hurt.

She looked at him. A cadet she’d mentored a few years before.

‘You always said to keep asking.’

‘I did,’ she answered. ‘And you should. But sometimes there’s nothing to say.’

‘You told me,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger, ‘I was supposed to be part of a team.’

She nodded.

‘You are.’

‘But not you?’

Before she could answer the door opened and Strange strode in. He looked pale and worried.

‘Are you all right?’

Lund got up. Her hand went to the wound above her eye.

‘Fine.’

Strange nodded at the officer. He left straight away. She went back to the seat, quietly cursing the bruises and the pain.

‘OK,’ Ulrik Strange declared. ‘You should not be here. I’m driving you home. Is there anyone I should call?’

She sipped some of the lukewarm coffee they’d brought her.

‘No. I’m not going home.’

‘For God’s sake. Will you stop being the hero?’

‘I’m not! My mother’s getting married. Some wedding guests are staying over. I don’t want to see them like this.’

She put her head on the table, closed her eyes.

‘I can sleep in one of the night rooms here. Get me a bed. Find me a cell if you like. Won’t be the first time.’

‘You’re a complete pain in the arse.’ He got up. Put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on. We’re going now.’

Head on the table, eyes barely open, she glowered at him.

‘I used to pick up my kids and sling them over my shoulder when they did this shit to me,’ Strange said. ‘Don’t try it. You won’t win.’

‘Sleepy,’ she whispered.

‘You’re leaving this damned place. Even if I have to carry you.’

Lund didn’t budge.

He bent down, whispered in her ear. His breath was warm and smelled of liquorice.

‘Even if I have to carry you,’ Strange repeated.

Madsen had contacted Møller’s mother by the time Brix got back to the Politigården. There was a message for him with one of the uniform men on the desk:
someone had misused her son’s identity.

‘Also . . .’ Madsen went on.

Ruth Hedeby was wandering down the corridor ahead, looking to avoid him.