Authors: David Hewson
He put on a pair of latex forensic gloves then handed a pair to her. It was like pulling on an old uniform.
‘They were getting divorced,’ Strange said. ‘He’d had an affair with his secretary. The wife threw him out a month ago. She wouldn’t talk to him. Hung up if he
called.’
She followed him down the hall. There was a photograph on the wall. A wedding portrait. A pretty woman with long fair hair. She held the arm of a beaming man in a smart suit. They had
lawyers’ smiles, all well aimed at the camera. Then a later shot, with a young child.
‘Where was the kid?’
‘Daughter. At her grandparents’.’
Into the narrow kitchen. The walls by the room were covered with childish paintings. A dirty frying pan on the cooker. A dirty plate, a pen circle round it.
‘At 7.41 p.m. she used her laptop to go on the Internet in here,’ Strange went on. ‘Opened a bottle of wine, looked at some estate agency sites, and took a bath.’
Lund kept following the details through the autopsy report.
‘Was that her usual routine? Coming home late, taking a bath? Eating alone?’
‘How would we know?’
‘You’d ask the husband.’
‘The husband isn’t saying much. She was attacked before she got round to eating. In here. Then he took her into the dining room.’
They went through. Floor-length windows gave onto low trees just visible from some far-off street lights. A leather office chair was tipped on its side on the bloody carpet. A matching footstool
close to it, a tall studio lamp by its side.
‘She was stabbed twenty-one times,’ he said, tapping the report. ‘Once in the heart, which was fatal. We don’t know what the weapon was.’
‘A knife?’ Lund asked.
She wasn’t sure he appreciated that.
‘More like some kind of sharp tool.’
He walked to a standard lamp near the window, kicked the on switch at the base. The detail came to life. A painting on the wall was crooked. Glass from some broken ornaments lay strewn across
the timber floor.
Strange walked round the furniture to stand by the window.
‘She was forced into the chair. The amount of blood indicates that.’
Lund was looking at the photos. There was a small cellophane wrapper near the body.
‘Did he smoke? Did you find ash?’
‘It’s the wrong size for cigarettes. We don’t know what it is.’
‘Chewing gum?’
‘We don’t know what it is,’ he repeated. ‘The husband says he called round after midnight. He wanted to talk about selling the house. He told us he’d had a few
drinks. More than a few from the blood test.’
‘He was drunk?’
‘Stinking.’
‘Where was he beforehand?’
‘With his girlfriend. He still had time.’
‘What does he say happened?’
‘She didn’t answer the door. He saw the basement window was open. Got worried. Climbed in that way.’
‘Didn’t he have a key?’
‘She’d changed the locks a few weeks before. And put in a new alarm.’
Lund went to the window, turned on the outside light. The garden led down to scrubby woodland. There was the sound of a train. One of the lines running out through Østerbro. Maybe the
same one by Mindelunden where she was found.
A rap on the door behind them. Brix was there.
‘Dragsholm must have been really scared of him,’ he said. ‘She’d fired her old security company, hired a very expensive one in its place. They’d ordered new sensors
for the garden.’
Lund nodded.
‘She was scared of something.’
‘It’s good to see you,’ Brix added. ‘I’m sorry. There was never time in the Politigården to say that.’
He took a deep breath, like a man facing a difficult decision.
‘If there’s nothing more here shall we look at the place we found her?’
They had no idea how the killer had brought Anne Dragsholm to Mindelunden. The place was locked up at night, but scarcely secure. Open ground close to the centre of the city.
Anyone could get in, from any number of directions, if they tried.
Strange turned on his heavy police torch and they walked across the spongy long grass of the old firing range towards the three bronzed stumps rising from the soil against the ramp behind.
Brix seemed oddly silent.
‘Anne Dragsholm was entitled to half her husband’s money and half the firm they owned,’ Strange said.
‘What’s her connection to this place?’ Lund asked.
Brix broke his silence.
‘We can’t see one. It’s pretty clear he broke open a wooden door on the gardeners’ entrance and dragged her through there. Why . . .’
Lund opened the forensic file again, got Strange to shine his beam on it.
A woman of forty or so, in a bloody blue dressing gown, slumped dead on the ground, strapped to the centre stake. In a sacred place like this it was a kind of blasphemy.
‘The husband’s no idiot,’ Strange said, pointing at the body in the photos. ‘We think this is a diversion. He’s making it look like the work of a lunatic. What else
. . . ?’
Lund walked off, not listening, threaded her way through the stakes, backwards and forwards. Brix followed, gloved finger to his cheek.
‘What are you thinking?’ Brix asked.
She peered at him, wondered at the odd look in his eye.
‘I think this is a mistake. I’m wasting your time. You know what you’re doing. Why ask me?’
‘Because I thought you might have an opinion.’
‘No,’ she said, handing him the file. ‘I don’t.’
‘Sleep on it. Let’s talk tomorrow.’
‘I don’t have any ideas.’
‘Maybe they’ll come.’
‘They won’t.’
‘Call me if they do. If not, that’s fine too. As things stand I’ve got to release the husband tomorrow. We don’t have enough to charge him.’
‘Right.’
Lund checked her watch.
‘I need to see my mother,’ she said. ‘Can one of you drop me in Østerbro? It’s not far.’
Brix nodded.
‘All right. But I want you to meet someone first.’
From the moment he saw Erling Krabbe and Birgitte Agger sit down around the conference table, Thomas Buch knew his first meeting as Minister of Justice would not be easy.
The dragons across the street, on the spire of the Børsen, were like this. Entwined with one another, yet in constant conflict, teeth bared.
Krabbe was a tall, skinny ascetic man who looked as if he spent too much time in the gym. His grandfather had been a famous partisan during the Second World War and was lucky to survive, not
make his mark on the wall at Mindelunden. Krabbe now headed the nationalists of the People’s Party, compared on occasion by the left to the Nazis themselves. Unfairly, Buch felt. They were
against immigration, suspicious of foreign culture. Inflexible, often caustic in their language. But because of this they never prospered greatly. What little power they possessed came from the
necessities of coalition politics. Government in the Folketinget was never entirely in the hands of one party. Concessions were needed for any difficult legislation.
Birgitte Agger was no minority party leader seeking crumbs from the table. Fifty-two years old, a career politician who’d clawed her way to the leadership of the Progressives, she was the
soft left’s principal hope, an elegant, carefully manicured chameleon who could flick from policy to policy in tune with the popular sentiment. The polls had her neck and neck with Grue
Eriksen. She saw herself as Prime Minister in waiting. Any negotiations over the anti-terror bill were, Buch knew full well, only to be carried out in the context of her greater ambitions.
He thought again of the writhing dragons beyond the window.
The government was trapped between Krabbe and Agger that moment, one accusing Grue Eriksen of weakness, the other of an attack on long-established civil rights. The details of the bill –
tighter border controls, more money for the security services, longer detention without charge for terrorist suspects – were the battleground for these two, each seeking victory through a
surrender on the part of others.
‘Scarcely a minute goes by without another Islamist extremist group making its presence known . . .’
Krabbe was midway through a rant against what he saw as the infiltration of Danish society by foreign influences. ‘They want to overthrow our democracy and replace it with the brutality of
the sharia . . .’
‘We already have laws to deal with anyone who incites violence,’ Buch noted patiently.
‘They’re not enough.’ Krabbe was immaculate in blue shirt and blue tie, short hair neatly trimmed. He looked like a grown-up Boy Scout seeking the next challenge. ‘These
people want to take us back to the Middle Ages.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Agger got her case, ready to go. ‘If the People’s Party wants to start locking up people for their thoughts that’s their problem. We all know
why we’re here. It’s the stupid war. If it weren’t for that . . .’
‘It is a stupid war,’ Buch told her. ‘I agree. I’ve good reason to.’
The two of them went quiet.
Jeppe
, Buch thought, and reminded himself this was not a trick to try too often.
‘But it’s the war we have. The place we start from, like it or not. We all know we need tighter border security. More resources for the police and the intelligence
services.’
‘A ban on these damned Islamists,’ Krabbe broke in.
‘See?’ She got up, patted Buch on the back. ‘Good luck. The old man didn’t do you any favours, did he? Monberg looked ready to crack the last time I saw him. You’re
being asked to square a circle here and it can’t be done. Tell Grue Eriksen to go back to NATO and tell them to get the hell out of there.’
‘When we can,’ Buch answered, ‘we will. But not now. If you were sitting in his office, you’d be making the same decisions.’
She laughed.
‘We’ll see. Goodbye, Krabbe. Back to your fantasies of a little Denmark that never existed.’
Then Agger was gone.
Erling Krabbe poured himself some more coffee.
‘I’m sorry if I was too frank for you. But it had to be said. We’ve got to protect ourselves. Think of New York. Think of London and Madrid.’
‘Think of Oslo and Utøya,’ Buch replied. ‘Everyone was rushing to blame the Muslims then, weren’t they? Instead it turned out to be a lunatic called Anders Behring
Breivik. Norwegian born and bred. One of . . .’
He stopped himself.
One of yours.
Which was deeply unfair. Krabbe had some ludicrous ideas and a few deep-rooted prejudices. But he was a parliamentarian through and through.
‘One of what?’ Krabbe demanded.
‘One of ours.’
Buch got up from the table, made one last effort. He’d gone through the briefings from Politiets Efterretningstjeneste, PET, the police security and intelligence service, charged with
protecting domestic security.
‘If PET wanted the measures you suggest they’d be asking for them. And I’d place them on the table. But they’re the experts and they don’t. I can ask them to tell
you why if you want.’
Krabbe waved him away.
‘I know why already. We’re all too frightened of these people. Afraid that if we stand up to them they’ll scream prejudice. My grandfather fought the Nazis for this country,
risked his life . . .’
‘A scare campaign doesn’t do you any harm when the polls look bad either. Does it?’
Buch had to say it. Krabbe’s pomposity was too much.
Krabbe got up, put on his expensive jacket, smoothed down the sleeves.
‘Agger’s not backing you under any circumstances. That means the only way you can get a majority is through me. Count the numbers. I have.’
‘Erling . . .’
‘I want an answer by seven o’clock this evening. Talk to the PM. He understands the situation.’ Krabbe raised his empty cup in a toast. ‘Even if you
don’t.’
He gazed round the office, smiled at the portraits on the wall, looked Thomas Buch up and down in a way that made him feel more than a little out of place.
‘Nice coffee, Buch. Good day.’
Back in the Politigården Lund was getting the stares again. From the ones who knew her. And the ones who’d only heard. Svendsen, the surly detective she’d
once threatened with a gun, marched past, folders in hand, giving her the coldest look she’d seen in months.
Lund smiled at him, nodded, said, ‘Hi!’
Then Brix whisked her into an interview room. A short, elegant woman in a business jacket and skirt sat at the table, talking on the phone. About Lund’s age, but with the air of
management: expensive clothes, a fetching, smiling face, dark hair carefully cut into the nape of her neck. Perfectly ironed white shirt.
And perfume.
In her winter jacket, jeans and red sweater Lund felt uncomfortable.
‘This is Deputy Commissioner Ruth Hedeby,’ Brix said, guiding her to a chair. ‘She wants to listen.’
Hedeby shook her hand.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Mindelunden’s a national monument. I want this cleared up. It’s been ten days and we still don’t have it nailed.’
‘Charge the husband then.’
‘We don’t have enough.’ Hedeby folded her arms. ‘Any ideas?’
‘I can’t find fault with the investigation. The forensic evidence seems clear . . .’
‘Yes. But what do you
think
?’
Lund glanced at Brix. He was waiting too.
‘I don’t think he killed her.’
Hedeby closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. Not the answer she wanted.
‘I could be wrong,’ Lund added. ‘I doubt it.’
Hedeby toyed with her wedding ring then asked, ‘Because?’
She flicked through the files on the desk.
‘It says it’s a crime of passion. But the body was dragged from the house, taken to Mindelunden—’
‘To divert the investigation,’ Hedeby said. ‘To make us think it was the work of a lunatic. Forensics said his clothes were covered in her blood. How . . .’
‘Let’s hear what she’s got to say,’ Brix suggested. Hedeby glared at him. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Lund looked at them and wondered: who was really the boss? In terms of rank it was Hedeby. But Brix came with friends, influence. Had done from the outset of the Birk Larsen case. Still kept
those links she guessed.