Authors: David Hewson
Lund stopped. Hanne Møller had come back so quietly neither had noticed in the midst of the storm between them.
She looked older. Angrier.
‘I want you to leave,’ she said in a cold, hard voice. ‘I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘There’s something wrong here,’ Lund said.
‘Leave!’ Hanne Møller yelled at them.
Gunnar Torpe was in his priest’s robe, the black surplice, the white ruffed collar. The last parishioner had gone. He had accounts to complete, people to visit. One final
turn around the church. He walked through the darkness, locked the main doors. Came back and nearly tripped over the figure crouched in the dim recess at the end of the pews.
The priest almost jumped out of his skin when he saw who it was.
‘Jens?’
Raben stayed in the faint illumination of a security light. He felt dirty, worn out and angry.
‘I never really believed in God,’ he said in a low, hard voice. ‘I had to listen to all that shit you used to throw at us. We didn’t have any choice, did we? But it all
just seemed so . . . unreal.’
The heavy Bible was in Torpe’s hands. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to stay or run.
‘So where is he?’ Raben asked. ‘What does he do when he watches us going through all this crap? Laugh himself stupid?’
He got up and stared at the altar, the figure on the cross.
‘Maybe they should invent a pill. A shot that gives you faith. I’d take it. Would you like that? Would it make you happy?’
The stocky, middle-aged man said nothing. Raben walked past the old stone font, confronted him. The gun he’d stolen was in his right hand.
‘Tell me the truth, Priest. Did you talk to Louise?’
‘I went to Ryvangen. I pleaded with her. We want to help you, Jens. She needs you more than ever.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s your wife and she loves you.’
‘Really?’ Raben said and loathed the harsh tone in his voice.
‘She does, though God knows you’re testing her. And I don’t know how long she’ll wait.’
Raben wasn’t sure why he was putting himself and Torpe through this. The decision was already made. It wasn’t easy. He’d seized the gun thinking there was something he could do
with it. But what?
He put the weapon on the wooden cover of the font.
‘You’d better take this. I don’t want it.’
Torpe moved quickly and grabbed the pistol.
‘I need to change,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’
Raben followed into a side room, watched him go through another door, talking all the time. Of God and family and faith. Of truth and honesty and a dim and elusive thing Jens Peter Raben
didn’t understand at all. Something called justice.
It was a tiny office. A desk. A computer. A diary. Some religious books. A noticeboard on the wall.
As Torpe found some civilian clothes Raben looked around. Cards for plumbers and roofers on the noticeboard. Flyers for supermarket offers and concerts in Vesterbro’s little square.
A name caught his eye. A business card more sober than the others.
Holding his breath he unpicked the drawing pin that held it to the crumbling cork.
Anne Dragsholm, Lawyer
. A work number. A mobile. An office address in Kongens Nytorv.
Truth, Raben thought. It was what you made of it. One man’s lie was another’s creed. It depended where you stood.
‘Priest!’ he said clutching the card, trying not to sound angry, sure it wasn’t working. ‘Dammit, Priest! She was here. Dragsholm. What the hell . . .?’
He opened the side door, walked through. Gunnar Torpe was out of his priest’s robe. He wore a khaki jacket that could have been from the army. His face was set, his eyes determined. In his
right hand, fully extended, sat the black military Neuhausen.
‘Do what I say or I swear I’ll fucking shoot you,’ Gunnar Torpe spat at him. ‘Do it, Raben! Hands behind your head!’
‘You were never that good—’
‘It only takes one bullet and I do the world a favour.’
The barrel came closer, grazed the skin of Jens Peter Raben’s temple.
And then he did as he was told.
A grey slab in the cemetery, clean and recent. The name Per Kristian Møller. Two dates separated by twenty-seven years. A simple inscription:
Hvil I fred.
Rest in peace.
It was just after eight. Lund was guiding the forensic team she’d brought in. Her mother was on the phone.
‘You promised you’d give me a hand, Sarah. The wedding—’
‘Something came up. There’s still time.’
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ Vibeke cried.
‘Of course I didn’t forget. How could I? I’ll come in the morning.’
‘Tomorrow’s the wedding!’
‘Mum, I can’t talk now. I’ll call you. Bye.’
They had digging equipment and lights by the grave.
‘Have you done this before?’ she asked Jansen.
A good man. He’d stuck his neck out to help her during the Birk Larsen case and escaped the fallout somehow. Now the ginger-haired forensic officer squinted at the headstone and the ground
in front. They’d moved a fresh bunch of flowers. The grave was framed by a low bush hedge.
‘Couple of times.’
‘How deep is he?’
‘Two metres or so.’
‘Is the coffin still intact?’
Jansen folded his arms, stared at her. He was rebellious, mischievous at times, and didn’t suffer stupid questions gladly.
‘We left the X-ray vision goggles back in the Politigården. Ask me . . . Hey!’
One of the men was digging up the low hedge.
‘Leave that,’ Jansen ordered. ‘It’s someone’s boy. Let’s have some respect, please.’
Strange had been on the phone for the best part of fifteen minutes. Finally he came off the call. He looked tired and miserable.
‘We’ve got a big problem here,’ he said, taking Lund to one side. ‘We can’t get a warrant right now. The judge wants to know more.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.
I
want to know more. That’s why we’re doing this.’
‘We need better reasons,’ Strange said patiently. ‘Let’s talk to Søgaard and the chaplain again. The priest knew them all. Raben, the squad.’
His voice fell.
‘The mother just turned up too.’
‘Talk to her,’ Lund ordered.
‘No.’ He didn’t look happy saying this. ‘You’re dead smart, Lund. I’m with you most of the way. But not this. We’ve no right to do this. The
mother’s cut to pieces. We can’t—’
‘Where is she?’
‘There,’ he said, nodding at the grey church at the end of the cemetery.
Hanne Møller was yelling at the priest when Lund walked in.
‘I want those people out of there,’ she screeched. ‘I won’t have anybody digging up my son.’
Lund walked straight up.
‘Can we speak, please?’
‘No! I won’t change my mind. That’s my son’s grave.’
The priest quickly made himself scarce.
‘There may have been a mistake,’ Lund said calmly.
‘You’ve no right to do this.’
‘We have to be certain it’s really him in the coffin. I need your permission.’
Hanne Møller gazed at her in anger and despair.
‘I promise we’ll do this with all due respect and care.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be in the coffin? What do you mean?’
‘We think he was seen three months after he was reported dead. Some soldiers witnessed an incident in Afghanistan. The officer there was called Perk.’
‘You mean he’s alive?’
Her voice was strident and full of pain.
‘I don’t know,’ Lund admitted. ‘It’s possible he was involved in a crime. The killing of civilians—’
‘Per would never do such a thing!’
‘With your permission we can start immediately. Otherwise I’ll be forced to go to court, which will only prolong matters. Please. If you—’
‘What kind of monster are you?’ the Møller woman screamed. ‘Do you have no feelings at all?’
Lund fought to keep her temper at that accusation. It brought back memories, of Jan Meyer, furious in his wheelchair, saying much the same. She had feelings. She did care. That was why she put
herself and others through these ordeals on occasion. To find the truth, to end the pain.
‘I know how this must seem . . .’ she began, trying to stay calm.
‘Lund?’
One of the uniform men was at the door.
‘I’m talking,’ she said.
‘Brix is here. He wants to see you.’
Hanne Møller glared at her in silence. Lund went outside to the cemetery. No one was working any more.
Brix stood by the grave, stony-faced in his heavy winter coat.
‘We didn’t talk about exhumations,’ he said when she turned up.
‘The family never saw the body. Søgaard stopped them. So did the priest.’
‘That’s not a good reason to dig up a grave.’
He looked angry. Maybe Ruth Hedeby had been on his case again.
‘The army’s the key here. Not Kodmani’s fanatics.’
‘You can’t exhume a coffin without a relative’s consent or a court order. Do you have either?’
Her hands went to her hips. She stood in front of him, not moving, shining eyes fixed on his face.
‘That coffin went into the ground without a single relative seeing inside. I don’t even think there is a body—’
‘Why would they bury an empty coffin?’
‘To get Perk off the hook! He was there in Helmand, three months after he was supposed to be dead and buried here.’
He nodded at the team.
‘Send these people home,’ Brix ordered then walked off towards the gate back to the road.
Lund raced after him.
‘Wait! Brix! Hear me out!’
She grabbed his arm. Wondered at her own sudden anger. A long day. So many things happening. And her mother getting married . . .
Brix stared at her hands until she let go. They were alone, out of earshot of the others.
‘You asked me here for a reason, didn’t you?’
‘I thought so.’
‘You wanted me because you didn’t think Strange was up to it. Or any of the others. You knew—’
‘Don’t tell me what I think.’
‘You knew all along this wasn’t what it seemed.’
He folded his arms, said nothing.
‘Why drag me back from Gedser if you don’t trust me? There’s something going on here . . .’
Footsteps. Brix put a finger to his lips. It was Strange.
‘I got through to Søgaard in the end. He says he’s too busy to answer any more questions.’
‘Is he?’ Lund said, not taking her eyes off the man in front of her. ‘Have him brought into headquarters. Arrest him if you have to.’
‘And the priest?’ Brix asked.
Strange looked at his notepad.
‘Torpe’s not in the church. Not at home. We’re looking.’
Brix was thinking.
‘We waited and Grüner died,’ Lund said. ‘We waited and Lisbeth Thomsen got blown to pieces, almost in front of our eyes.’
‘The mother could sue us,’ Brix said.
‘Not if we’re right. And if we’re wrong blame me.’
‘I don’t like this . . .’ Ulrik Strange began. ‘That woman’s in a bad way.’
‘Get Søgaard in,’ Brix ordered. ‘Find this army chaplain.’
A glance back at the lines of grey gravestones.
‘I’ll talk to the mother,’ he said.
Two plain-clothes detectives picked up Louise Raben as she walked into Gunnar Torpe’s church in Vesterbro. She had Jonas with her. No babysitters around that night. The
talkative cop was young and friendly. He let Jonas sit on a pew playing with his toy soldiers then took her to one side to talk.
‘You knew he was here?’ the cop asked.
‘I didn’t know anything. Jens has been hanging round Vesterbro. It was a guess.’
He didn’t believe her.
‘You talked to Torpe?’
‘Yes! He came to the barracks. He’d met Jens. He said he was sick and needed help. Can we go now?’
‘Would he be mad at the chaplain for trying to bring him in?’
She folded her arms, bored with these stupid questions.
‘They’re friends. They served together.’
The cop’s face said: unimpressed.
‘Would your husband harm him?’
‘Not so loud!’ she hissed, indicating the boy playing.
‘The priest left in a hurry,’ the cop told her. ‘He missed a parish council meeting. He left this place unlocked. He was seen with someone who looked like your husband.
We’re concerned for his safety.’
‘Jens wouldn’t harm him.’
‘Any idea where they might go?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
He didn’t seem so friendly any more.
‘You were in contact when he was on the run. I could bring you in and charge you for that.’
She looked at Jonas. Wondered what would happen to him.
‘Jens would never dream of harming Gunnar Torpe. Hurting any of the men he served with.’ A bitter thought. ‘He was closer to them than his own family.’
The man was running out of questions.
‘If he contacts you again and you don’t tell us we will arrest you.’ He glanced at Jonas. ‘That wouldn’t be good for the kid.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve got our best interests at heart.’
The cop scowled.
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.’
‘Four people my husband knew are dead. Jens is the only one in his squad still alive.’
The man looked at his colleague by the door. He was ready to leave.
‘What do you think?’ Louise Raben threw at him before he could go.
A moonlit night. Hareskoven, the Forest of Hares, north-west of the city. Nature trails and bike tracks, a fast road by the edge.
Raben behind the wheel. Gunnar Torpe in the passenger seat, the gun held low and as steady as the ride allowed.
‘Where are we going, Priest?’
‘To Heaven or Hell. I told you that often enough. Just drive, will you?’
The woodland was ahead. No traffic to speak of.
‘Your sermons were always a pile of shit. What did Dragsholm say? Why did she contact you?’
The silver crucifix was still hanging from the driver’s mirror, swinging with the motion of Torpe’s car. It had taunted him all the way back from Sweden after Lisbeth Thomsen
died.
‘She was going to reopen the case,’ Raben said. ‘She knew we got stitched up . . .’
The gun rose above the dashboard. Torpe indicated a side road.
‘Turn left there.’