Authors: David Hewson
‘Oh come on,’ Strange snarled. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
Kodmani glowered at him.
‘She asked me the questions. Not you.’ He looked at Lund again. ‘Faith Fellow’s a soldier. I’m convinced of that. Or maybe—’
‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe he used to be.’
Just like last time Brix and König watched through the glass. They met with Lund and Strange after the interview was over.
The PET boss looked more miserable than ever.
‘I’m not putting Kodmani in the clear yet,’ König said. ‘This whole story about Faith Fellow sounds like a fabrication to me. What does he have to back it
up?’
‘He says Faith Fellow’s the one behind the Muslim League,’ Lund pointed out. ‘The video, the army connections, the dog tags. We’ve got nothing that points towards
Kodmani’s own people.’
‘Nothing,’ Brix agreed. ‘We need to focus on Ryvangen and find a motive.’
‘What motive?’ Strange asked. ‘Kodmani’s got one. If one of his people didn’t do it . . .’
Lund turned on König.
‘Tell us what you know about Raben’s squad.’
The PET man didn’t like being pushed.
‘They were a solid team. Raben had been their leader for two years. They served in Iraq. Good record. Same in Afghanistan.’
‘What did they do?’ Lund asked.
‘They were soldiers,’ König replied, as if that said everything. ‘Front line. Plenty of combat experience. On the last mission the squad got hit in a suicide
attack.’
‘Where are the rest of them now?’
Strange checked his notes.
‘Poulsen and Grüner are dead. A third soldier was killed in a car crash last year. That leaves Raben and a woman. Lisbeth Thomsen. She left the army after she came back. No one knows
where she’s gone.’
‘Wait,’ Lund cut in. ‘Dragsholm wasn’t part of the squad. She was just connected to it. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ König agreed. ‘Anne Dragsholm represented all five surviving soldiers at the inquiry.’
‘Inquiry into what?’
‘Their last mission. Why it went wrong.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘What happened.’
Brix stared at him.
‘What did happen?’
König was wriggling.
‘Some local civilians said Raben and his team murdered an Afghan family in their home. That was why they were attacked. It wasn’t the Taliban who tried to kill them. It was the
villagers themselves.’
‘And?’ Lund asked when no one else did.
‘The judge advocate cleared them completely.’
‘Wait, wait, wait.’ She wasn’t going to let this go. ‘I talked to Dragsholm’s husband. There was an argument. She felt the army as good as fired her.’
König shook his head.
‘Maybe she told him that but the fact is she resigned. We’ve got her letter in the files.’
There was a knock on the door. Ruth Hedeby asked to see König outside.
‘I still can’t see this,’ the PET man said before he left. ‘Kodmani told us he thought Faith Fellow was from the military. Let’s say that’s true. It’s
someone who came back from Afghanistan. Why would he want to take revenge on his own comrades? No . . . It doesn’t work.’
He left it at that and walked out.
‘What’s a judge advocate’s report?’ Lund asked when König was gone.
‘It’s an inquiry to see if a military crime’s been committed,’ Strange explained. ‘Raben and his team could have been prosecuted if it went against them.’
Lund looked at Brix.
‘I want a copy sent to my address as soon as you can get it.’ She picked up her bag. ‘We need to find Lisbeth Thomsen. And . . .’
‘Lund,’ Strange said.
There was something else she couldn’t remember.
‘The cake,’ he said patiently. ‘You need to deliver that cake you bought.’
Brix went next door, summoned by a phone call from Ruth Hedeby. She’d been talking to Erik König, smiled at him as he went out.
Then she walked round the table, kneading her hands. Brix buttoned up his jacket.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I see you decided to keep Lund after all.’
Brix thought of all the answers he could give. How König had asked for her. How she’d been two steps ahead of everyone else.
Instead he said, ‘Is that a problem?’
‘No, Lennart. Not if you don’t care about what happens to your career.’
He walked to the window, looked out at the movement in the offices across the way.
‘You’re discussing my future with Erik König? I find that faintly insulting. From what I hear in the Ministry he’s got a sight more to worry about than—’
‘I talk to the Ministry!’ Hedeby cried, looking up at his craggy, unsmiling face. ‘Not you.’
Brix said nothing.
‘Oh I know, Lennart. You’ve been hanging around all the corridors that matter for years. You’re not just chief of homicide, are you? There are friends everywhere.’
He did smile at that.
‘I’m a social animal. You of all people ought to appreciate that.’
‘If anyone’s under pressure in the Ministry it’s Buch himself. Have you seen him on TV? Fat ball of blubber—’
‘What’s going on? I’ve a right to know. If you or König know something . . .’
Ruth Hedeby reached up and adjusted his silk tie.
‘You’re an arrogant bastard.’
‘I think you may have mentioned that once or twice.’
Her hand ran across his perfectly ironed white shirt.
‘I’ve got some free time this evening. Shall we meet up later?’
She watched him anxiously.
‘Best be your place, Lennart. We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?’
Still he kept quiet.
‘I’ll take that as yes,’ Hedeby said. ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll bring the wine.’
‘No.’ Brix looked startled. ‘My wine please.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s better,’ he said.
Buch was getting to grips with the inner maze of Slotsholmen so he made this journey on his own. The bright-red hot dog smothered in fried onions, sliced gherkins and remoulade
sauce had long disappeared by the time he finally found the footbridge over to the Christianborg Palace. Buch was wiping his greasy fingers on his suit trousers as he walked into the Prime
Minister’s office.
They were watching the TV news. The third murder. The media even had a name, David Grüner, and the fact that he’d served at Ryvangen.
Grue Eriksen and Flemming Rossing were deep in conversation when Buch turned up. Rossing was a dapper man, always perfectly dressed, with a striking craggy face dominated by a Roman nose and
hair reminiscent of an eagle’s smooth, trim feathers. He raised an eyebrow as he caught Buch surreptitiously rubbing his hands on Grue Eriksen’s curtains.
‘Dining out again?’ he asked.
‘Just time for snacks at the moment.’
He’d never much liked this man. On the few occasions he’d needed to ask questions of the Minister of Defence Rossing had seemed dismissive, as some of the old guard of the party did.
They saw him as an upstart, riding on the shoulders of his dead brother. Nothing Buch could do would change that.
‘Like the two previous victims,’ the TV continued, ‘Grüner was the victim of ruthless violence.’
‘Where do they get all this stuff?’ Grue Eriksen complained. He looked deeply, personally hurt. ‘What about the poor man’s wife?’
Buch took the seat opposite them by the window. In the ring outside, beneath the dim street lights, a solitary horse was trotting round in the rain tugging a coach on which a uniformed man sat
buttoned up against the weather.
‘She was informed very quickly,’ Buch replied. ‘I made sure of that. This was a major incident in a public place. We can’t keep it quiet.’
The Prime Minister looked dissatisfied with that answer. An aide came and gave him a phone. He walked to the window and started to speak in a low, inaudible voice.
Rossing got up, shook Buch’s hand.
‘I wish these were more pleasant circumstances.’
‘Am I late for something?’
‘Just catching up on events.’ He smiled, a practised gesture, friendly without much warmth. ‘So many since you took office. Holding up?’
‘I can cope,’ Buch answered.
‘That’s the spirit.’ Rossing slapped him hard on the arm. A male gesture he might have learned from the military. ‘You’re doing fine. Monberg . . .’
The mention of an old friend made Rossing’s face seem more human.
‘I think he would have been pleased to know you’ve taken over from him. Besides . . . If the pressure made him sick before, what would it have done to him now?’
‘Let’s get started,’ Grue Eriksen announced, coming off the phone.
Coffee and very fancy pastries from a woman aide and then they were left alone with their papers.
‘Police and PET are onto it,’ Buch said after he briefed them on the state of the investigation.
‘This is going to take some time?’ Grue Eriksen asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘We don’t have time,’ Rossing grumbled. ‘These bastards know we’re struggling to reach an agreement on the anti-terror package. We can’t wait for Agger to see
reason. She’s sniffing votes here.’
Buch took a deep breath and said, ‘She’s taken an inflexible position I agree—’
‘Inflexible?’ Rossing cried. ‘That woman will do anything to score a point. It doesn’t matter how low the blow. We have to come to an agreement with Krabbe and the
People’s Party immediately. If that means banning these obscure little pests they hate so much then . . .’ He sighed and opened his hands. ‘What choice do we have? Let’s cut
the deal and have done with it.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
Both men stared at Thomas Buch.
‘Sadly . . .’ he added, ‘we picked up these extremists because PET were watching them. But there’s no direct evidence they were involved. We can’t place a single
individual we’ve arrested anywhere near one of the crimes.’
‘Thomas . . .’ Rossing began.
‘We’ve got just about every known militant in Denmark in custody. And still there’s another murder. To ban them because of this case alone would be ineffective and
wrong.’
‘Caution and patience are fine and dandy for peacetime,’ Rossing observed, with a caustic note in his voice. ‘If that were the case now I’d agree with you.’
‘So could I,’ Grue Eriksen added. ‘We have to show firmness.’
‘We have to demonstrate justice,’ Buch objected. ‘If we ban these people and then find ourselves forced to admit they’re entirely innocent—’
‘They’re not
entirely
innocent, are they?’ Rossing noted. ‘PET wouldn’t be watching them if they were.’
‘Other matters are clouding the picture and they may have nothing to do with this Kodmani creature and his sorry followers.’
Grue Eriksen put a thoughtful fist to his chin. Then Rossing did the same. Buch felt once more like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s study, this time with the head prefect listening
too.
‘It seems Monberg knew the first victim, Anne Dragsholm, personally,’ he said, watching their faces, seeing no reaction at all. ‘He kept it a secret.’
‘How did he know her?’ Rossing asked. ‘What do PET have to say?’
‘PET knew nothing—’
‘Monberg’s a friend of mine,’ Rossing cried. ‘One of the most decent men I know. I don’t have to listen to office gossip—’
‘This isn’t gossip, I’m afraid. We found his diary. We know they met. We know they had discussions about . . .’
Rossing threw up his hands in despair.
‘If this was of no interest to PET then it’s of no interest to us.’
‘Thomas,’ Grue Eriksen cut in. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’
The carriage outside was wheeling off the ring. The rain was coming down at forty-five degrees. Too much even for one of the Queen’s riders.
‘I’ve told you everything I know at the moment.’
‘Good,’ the Prime Minister replied. ‘Let’s leave PET to get on with their work while we focus on ours. We need this package through the Folketinget. Perhaps it’s
rash to accuse this particular organization. But we’ve all read the kind of filth they propagate.’
‘It may be vile. It’s not illegal.’
‘These people are reprehensible and hostile to everything we stand for,’ Grue Eriksen interrupted. ‘If Birgitte Agger wishes to complain when we take action against them let
her do it. I don’t think the man on the street will give her the time of day.’
‘The law—’
‘The law’s what we make it!’ The Prime Minister didn’t look quite so avuncular at that moment. ‘I want you to agree to Krabbe’s demands. Put some more names
on the banned list. He’s got us by the balls and he knows it. Seal an agreement with the People’s Party so we can announce it as soon as possible.’
Buch was quiet.
‘Can you do that?’ Flemming Rossing asked.
‘A broad agreement would be better.’
‘A broad agreement’s impossible!’ Grue Eriksen cried. ‘Surely you can see this by now. I know you’re new to government. But . . .’
He waited for a response, knowing none would come.
‘That’s that then,’ the Prime Minister declared, bringing the silence to an end.
After the news from the Politigården Colonel Jarnvig called Søgaard and Bilal together for a briefing. The three men sat in his office looking at the transport
schedules and the plans for troop movements.
‘This next dispatch has enough problems as it is,’ Jarnvig grumbled. ‘We don’t need more. What’s the mood?’
‘Not good,’ Søgaard admitted. ‘We’ve introduced some new briefings on security measures, here and abroad. Some of them will still try to opt out.’
‘They’ll have to explain that to me first,’ Bilal said.
‘Me too,’ Søgaard added. ‘But they’ve got the right to refuse combat service and some of them will. Not many maybe but . . .’
Jarnvig frowned.
‘If a man’s too scared to fight I don’t want him there. What else can we do?’
‘We’ve invited the soldiers and their relatives to a meeting,’ Søgaard said. ‘Bilal will talk to them tomorrow.’
‘They’re going to ask about Grüner now,’ Bilal said. ‘What am I supposed to say?’
‘Tell them the truth,’ Jarnvig replied. ‘This is a temporary and untypical situation. It won’t last. We’ll get things sorted out.’
He looked at them in turn.
‘We’re soldiers. We serve. We manage the hand we’re dealt and we don’t ask questions. That’s our duty. They know that. Don’t they?’