Authors: David Hewson
Phones ringing, he paced the floor. Another time he’d have got out the little rubber ball, bounced it around, trying to think.
But that was in the past. He could judge the way that little toy returned to him from the wall. Mostly anyway. The world of government had no such certainties. It was more grey, shifting and
slippery than he’d ever guessed.
‘Krabbe’s getting impatient,’ Plough said, holding out the phone. ‘He’s every right to expect a briefing beforehand.’
Buch waved away the phone.
‘Not now.’
‘What am I supposed to tell him?’
‘Say I’m on the phone to PET.’
Karina walked in, a large white padded envelope in her hand.
‘What does König say?’ Buch asked.
‘I haven’t spoken to him.’
‘I asked! Give me his number.’
She was in a sober black business suit, long blonde hair carefully combed, no make-up, no smile on her face. Something was wrong.
‘Out with it,’ he said.
‘Dragsholm wasn’t having an affair with Monberg,’ Karina said.
A glance at Plough, something apologetic in her eyes.
‘I was.’
Carsten Plough groaned. Buch was lost for words.
She played nervously with her hair, took a seat at the desk.
‘The night he met Dragsholm I was in the same hotel. Monberg was giving a talk in the afternoon. He asked me to come to discuss some work.’
‘Karina,’ Plough intervened. ‘Before you go on. You have to understand this is now a disciplinary issue. You have rights—’
‘Oh don’t be so damned stuffy, Carsten! You want the truth, don’t you? We had a fling and then I finished with him. He asked me there. I thought he was trying to change my
mind. It wasn’t that. We met in the bar, after he’d seen Dragsholm. He seemed very downcast. He was drinking too much. I was worried about him.’
Karina placed the white envelope on Buch’s desk.
‘He had this with him. I didn’t see what was in it. Then he left.’
‘Did you see Dragsholm?’ Buch asked.
‘No. He never mentioned her. I’d no idea he knew her.’
She hesitated, trying to find the right words.
‘Something was wrong. I thought at first he was miserable because I’d finished with him. It wasn’t that. He never came near me again, not until the night before his heart
attack.’
Her pale finger tapped the envelope.
‘He wanted me to post this. So I did. That was the last time I saw him. Now it’s been returned. He sent it to a dead address. He must have known that would happen.’
Buch picked open the envelope and took out a blue folder.
‘He got that at the meeting with Dragsholm,’ she added. ‘I’m sure of it.’
Plough came to look over Buch’s shoulder.
‘It’s the judge advocate’s report into an incident in Afghanistan,’ Karina said. ‘Dragsholm must have given him a copy. There’s a list of the soldiers in the
squad that was under investigation.’
‘Poulsen, Grüner . . . These are the men who were murdered,’ Plough said.
She got up and stood behind him, pulled out a single sheet.
‘If you look in the margin of the covering letter Monberg’s scribbled something. A request for the case to be reopened.’
Karina folded her arms.
‘You don’t need to go through the motions of a disciplinary inquiry. I’ll resign. I don’t want to make a fuss. Carsten . . . I’m really sorry I let you down.’
She tried to smile. ‘Things just happen sometimes. Slotsholmen’s like that for some of us. Not you, I know. But when you get so close to people all day, all night. It becomes . . .
unreal.’
She murmured a second apology, turned and walked out of the office.
Plough’s phone was ringing again.
‘It’s Krabbe. The journalists are turning up. What should we do?’
Buch was scanning through the report.
‘Monberg left us this for a reason. We need to know what it is.’
‘The press conference! Monberg’s report can come later. You have to deal with this now.’
‘How?’ Buch asked, staring at the neatly typed sheets of the judge advocate’s report, and Monberg’s scrawl in the margin. ‘Without knowing . . .’
Bilal arrived in Jarnvig’s office to report back on the meeting with soldiers and relatives, stood rigid in front of the colonel’s desk as Jarnvig browsed through
the messages on his computer.
‘Tell me it went well,’ the colonel ordered.
‘Five men want out of the team. They’re upset about what happened to Grüner and Myg Poulsen.’
‘That happened here. Not Helmand.’
‘They say they want to be near their families. Leave it with me. Everyone’s got till nine tomorrow morning to think it over. I’ll work on them. If they won’t go
I’ll find five others.’
Jarnvig was running idly round the computer. He’d looked at a report from headquarters the previous day and needed it again. So he went to the recent documents list.
The first file there had Lisbeth Thomsen’s name on it.
He’d never looked for that.
‘Did you come in here last night?’
Bilal frowned.
‘What?’
‘Did you come in here and access Lisbeth Thomsen’s file?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if Søgaard did?’
‘I can ask the security officers to look into it if you like.’
‘Don’t bother. Forget I asked.’
Bilal didn’t move.
‘I said forget it,’ Jarnvig repeated.
He left. Jarnvig opened the file. Thomsen’s full personnel record. Relatives. Service details. Training. Contact addresses.
Footsteps. Bilal marched back in without knocking on the door.
‘I just talked to the security officer.’
Jarnvig’s temper was rising.
‘I told you there was no need.’
‘There is now,’ Bilal said.
The basement of the colonel’s house was big. A living room, two bedrooms off, a bathroom. Perfect in most ways, Louise Raben thought. Only stubbornness had kept her out
of here before. Jonas would have a room of his own finally. Something he deserved.
Christian Søgaard turned up unasked. Blue sweatshirt, army trousers. Blond hair in place, a strong man, always smiling. For her.
‘You don’t have much furniture,’ he said, looking at the chairs and tables waiting to be moved into place.
‘Give me time.’
They lugged an old sofa into the main room. The house was on a slope so there were windows on one side of the basement, looking out onto the trees behind the parade ground, the railway beyond,
and in the distance the green space of Mindelunden.
She walked into the smallest room.
‘Jonas is staying with a friend,’ she said. ‘I’m going to paint this. It ’s his.’
Red. He’d picked the colour. One wall done already.
‘I told you I like painting,’ Søgaard said.
Louise laughed.
‘You don’t really.’
‘I do.’ He grinned. ‘Besides I need a break from barking orders at sweaty men.’
He had a reputation around the barracks. Good in bed some of the women whispered after drinks. But lately he’d been more circumspect. Christian Søgaard was on the promotion ladder
and determined nothing would hinder that.
He walked around, adjusted some of the plastic sheets, looked at the paint pot, stirred it with the stick she had.
‘Good work. You just need a man’s touch.’
He walked over, came up to her, peered into her face. Then took a very clean and freshly ironed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed delicately at her right cheek.
She almost retreated. But he must have had a reason. And she liked the feel of a man so close.
‘There,’ he said and showed her the white fabric. A red stain. She’d got some paint on her face.
‘Thanks, Christian.’
No one had touched her gently in two years. Jens hated the hard sofa in the prison marital quarters. On the rare occasion he did want her it was quick, almost brutal. One more duty.
Still she took the handkerchief from him and tried to clean up the rest herself.
‘There’s a bit left,’ he said after she’d rubbed around her cheek for a while. ‘You can’t do everything on your own, can you?’
No answer.
‘I can’t anyway,’ Søgaard added.
In civilian clothes he looked different. There was no badge, no uniform to proclaim his rank. He was just a nice man trying to summon up some courage.
‘I’m very grateful,’ Louise said. ‘For your . . .’
She didn’t have the words either.
‘Just say when you need me.’ Søgaard was trying to cover up her embarrassment. ‘I’m happy to come and give you a hand. You know if—’
Quick footsteps on the stairs. Torsten Jarnvig marched in, long face furious.
‘When did you see him?’ he barked at his daughter. ‘Was he here? At the barracks?’
She looked at Søgaard.
‘I’d better be off,’ the major said.
‘Stay here,’ Jarnvig ordered. ‘This concerns you too. Louise, I want the truth.’
She didn’t retreat, didn’t look away.
‘Jens wanted to know where Lisbeth Thomsen was living. He’s worried for her safety.’
She looked at the half-painted walls, the mess on the floor. It wasn’t a home. Not yet.
‘So I got it from your computer. He said it was important.’
‘When did you let him into the barracks?’ Jarnvig demanded.
‘I didn’t, Dad. He’s never been here.’
He didn’t believe her. She could see that. Louise took one step towards her father.
‘I told him to give himself up. I told him . . .’ Her eyes stole towards Søgaard and she wished they hadn’t. ‘I said if he couldn’t do that we were
finished.’
She glared at her father.
‘There. That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Are you happy now?’
‘Where is he?’
‘I . . . don’t . . . know.’
Jarnvig turned to the man beside him.
‘There’s been a break-in. At the munitions depot.’
Christian Søgaard changed, became a soldier once again.
‘What?’
‘Someone who knows our security procedures got in. They made off with five kilos of plastic explosive.’
Jarnvig looked at her. So did Søgaard.
‘Jens wasn’t here. I’m telling you. Dad . . .’
The more Lisbeth Thomsen wanted to leave the little police house on Strogö, the more Lund was determined to keep her close. They’d spent almost two hours going over
the same questions again and again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lund said when the woman started demanding the Swedish cop let her go. ‘I think you’re keeping something from us.’
‘I want to go home.’
The door opened. Strange walked in, nodded to Lund for a private word.
They went outside.
‘I’ve been trawling round this place for ages,’ he said. ‘I can’t find anything that suggests Anne Dragsholm was here. If she was no one saw her.’
‘What about Raben?’
He shook his head.
The Swedish cop came outside, chewing on his pipe, eavesdropping.
‘We haven’t seen anyone suspicious,’ he announced. ‘And we would. We have very good eyes, you know.’
‘You wouldn’t see this one,’ Lund said with a sigh.
‘Good . . . eyes,’ he repeated, pointing to his own. ‘I think we should drive Lisbeth home. I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. Would you like to buy some fish to take
back to Copenhagen? Swedish fish is so much better than Danish . . .’
Lund marched back into the office. The two men followed. Hands on hips, she looked at Lisbeth Thomsen, a tall, strong woman in tough country clothes.
‘No. She’s coming with us.’
‘I’m not going to Copenhagen!’ Thomsen cried. ‘This isn’t a police state . . .’
‘You have papers?’ the old cop asked.
‘We’ll get you some papers.’ She nodded at Thomsen. ‘You can pick up some things first.’
‘Call Brix,’ she told Strange. ‘Tell him we’re bringing her in.’
‘What the hell is this?’ Thomsen yelled then spat out a flurry of curses.
The cop didn’t look impressed by that.
‘Maybe they’re right, Lisbeth,’ he said. ‘You seem jumpy to me. There’s a ferry in forty-five minutes. I think it’s best you go with them.’
‘No.’
He put down his pipe. Folded his arms, looked at her, not blinking, not moving.
More curses and then she went to the car outside.
Through the dead woods, Lund driving the black Ford from the Politigården, Strange in the back next to Thomsen.
Lund’s phone rang.
‘Someone tried to call,’ Brix said.
‘We’re bringing Thomsen in for her own safety. Two hours. Three at the most.’
‘We talked to her tenant here. A week ago he got a call from the tax office. They were threatening action for unpaid bills. Demanding he call them the next time Thomsen turned up. They
wanted to talk to her.’
‘And?’ Lund asked.
‘We talked to the tax people. No one’s made any enquiries about Thomsen. Someone’s on her trail. Maybe you’re not on your own out there.’
Then he was gone.
Timber country. The track wound deeper into the tall fir forest, the winter foliage blocking out the light. Lund turned a corner, hit the brakes.
The way ahead was blocked by a pile of felled tree trunks. They’d been stacked by the side of the road. The ropes that held them had been broken or cut, spilling timber onto the muddy
lane.
They couldn’t go on.
‘Does this happen a lot?’ Strange asked.
‘No.’ Thomsen seemed worried. Scared too. ‘Let’s turn back. I don’t need any things. Let’s just get on the ferry.’
Strange took off his seat belt, opened the door.
‘I’ll check it out.’
‘No,’ Lund told him. ‘Get back in. We’ll go.’
‘One minute. I want a look around. If there’s someone here . . .’
He looked at the spilled trunks, walked behind the main pile, stepped into the forest.
Then wheeled round, gun in hand, as if he’d heard something and ran into the trees.
‘What was that?’ Lund asked.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Thomsen sounded anxious. ‘Let’s just go, can we?’
‘I can’t leave him here. Stay where you are. I don’t want to come looking for you twice.’
‘No!’
Thomsen’s strong hand was on her shoulder.
‘Something happened in that village. I heard rumours. It’s all about that.’
‘About what?’
‘I wasn’t there. It was gossip.’