Authors: David Hewson
‘Sometimes that meant I had to compromise. On policy. On principles. That’s politics.’
‘I would have said that was compromise.’
‘One week in office and you’re lecturing me?’ It was said more with sorrow than anger, Buch thought, and that surprised him. ‘It’s never easy. Never simple. When we
heard these stories about civilians being killed . . .’
Rossing looked out of the window.
‘There was a lot going on. We needed more money. More soldiers.’ He looked weary, jaded. ‘One decision always impacts on another. You tip over a domino here. Another falls
somewhere else, and then a line with it. The Prime Minister and I agreed to put off the investigation of the hand. I’d no idea where it could lead.’
Rossing leaned forward, looked into Buch’s eyes.
‘If I’d known for one moment . . . Poor Monberg. All these murders . . .’
Buch sat down next to him and waited.
‘Maybe some alarm bells should have been ringing,’ Rossing murmured. ‘I’m not proud—’
‘What bells?’
‘The doctors who looked at the hand saw some inconsistencies. We felt it was inconclusive. Military intelligence told us none of the victims were civilians.’
‘Rossing. You’re the Minister of Defence. You of all people can find out the truth . . .’
The aquiline head went back and Flemming Rossing let loose a long, hearty laugh.
‘Oh God. You’re such a child sometimes. Do you think I know everything? Do you imagine for one moment they tell me every last detail? Or that I want to hear it? This is war. This is
government—’
‘What inconsistencies?’
Rossing’s face was back at the window, distant, as if he didn’t want anyone or anything to witness this. He reached into his jacket and took out some papers, read from them.
‘There was a henna tattoo,’ he said then passed over the sheet.
Buch looked. A photo of a severed hand. The palm marked by a brown circular tattoo.
‘We consulted some experts,’ Rossing went on. ‘They said it was typical of the Hazara people. They hate the Taliban. Fear them too, with good reason. There’s this . .
.’ He pointed to the second finger. A band of pale metal there. ‘It’s a gold ring. The Taliban don’t wear gold. This is a woman’s hand. It can’t possibly be that
of a suicide bomber.’
There were no words in Thomas Buch’s head for a while. Then he dared to ask the question.
‘Did the Prime Minister know about this?’
Flemming Rossing closed his eyes.
‘It’s not on the record.’
‘But did he know?’
A brief laugh.
‘Haven’t you worked that out yet? Gert knows things he’s never been told. Gets favours he’s never asked for. That’s why he’s Prime Minister. The man in
charge. The one to whom we’re all beholden.’ Rossing eyed him carefully. ‘Even you if you knew it.’
Then he got to his feet.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Buch asked.
‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘But why? Why now?’
‘Poor Buch,’ Rossing said with a shake of his head. ‘You can’t feel the earthquake coming, can you?’ He tapped the papers. ‘I’m going now. Those are for
you. Do with them as you see fit.’
Buch thought about it for the best part of five minutes after Rossing was gone. Then he called in Plough and Karina, asked them to sit in front of his desk, keep out the moving people for a
while.
‘What is it?’ Plough asked warily.
‘A change of strategy,’ Buch said, passing them the papers about the hand.
‘I didn’t like the look on Flemming Rossing’s face,’ the civil servant grumbled. ‘Are you telling me it’s you two against Grue Eriksen now?’
‘Read what he gave me,’ Buch demanded and waited till they’d both looked at the photo with the tattoo and the report attached to it.
‘How can you trust him?’ Karina asked. ‘After all the lies. All the tricks he’s pulled? Why would he get an attack of conscience now?’
‘This has nothing to do with conscience,’ Buch replied. ‘He’s scared. He’s using me to warn off Grue Eriksen. I’m going to talk to Krabbe. Get me something
from Lund. Let’s find out what we can from PET. The police . . .’
Plough wriggled on his seat.
‘Well?’ Buch asked.
‘Erik König’s been summarily dismissed. On the order of the Prime Minister’s office.’
‘I’m still the Minister of Justice! He’s mine to fire!’
‘And Grue Eriksen’s the Prime Minister. It’s done. König’s gone.’ Plough wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. ‘I asked him why and he wouldn’t tell me.
A replacement will be announced tomorrow. I find this somewhat disturbing . . .’
Brix put Søgaard in an interview room with Madsen. No major’s jacket any more. Just a plain military shirt, beret on the table. He didn’t look cowed in the
slightest.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Søgaard complained. ‘I told you a million times. I haven’t used that locker in months. It’s just coincidence it’s still got my
name on it.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Here’s another one.’ Madsen was standing by the window, looking down at the man at the table. ‘The phone we found there was used to murder Grüner.’
Søgaard shrugged.
‘If you say so. It’s not mine.’
Brix was getting bored with this game. He opened the folder that had just turned up from forensic. Photos of the severed dog tags found in Søgaard’s locker.
‘Take a look at these and tell me they’re a coincidence. The lab’s gone through and examined all the halves.’
Søgaard glanced at the pictures and said nothing.
‘Every one matches a half found with the victims,’ Brix said, spreading out the five photos: bloody metal and chains. ‘This places you in the crime, Søgaard. Start
coming out with some answers.’
‘Like what?’ He barely looked at the pictures. ‘I haven’t seen these things before. I’ve no idea how they got there.’
Brix threw a plastic evidence bag onto the table and asked, ‘What’s that?’
Søgaard loosened his black tie. Picked up the envelope, threw it on the table.
‘A key. New to me. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘I’m charging you with all five murders,’ Brix told him.
‘Then you’re making a big mistake.’
‘You said you’d never met Anne Dragsholm. That’s a lie. You knew she was reopening the old case.’
‘God this is tedious . . .’
‘You’re going to be charged,’ Brix repeated. ‘You’ll be put in solitary pending the investigation. We’ll let the army see you when we feel like it.’ He
scooped up the photos, turned to Madsen. ‘Get him out of here.’
‘Wait.’
Søgaard didn’t look so cocky any more.
‘So I did meet the Dragsholm woman. She phoned me at Ryvangen pushing for a meeting. Mouthy cow who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I told her Raben’s story was a pack of lies.
She didn’t believe me so I said she could go to hell.’ He picked up his beret. ‘End of story.’
‘You lied,’ Madsen repeated.
‘I didn’t want to get involved. Why would I kill my own men?’
Brix shuffled the photos, listened.
‘And if I did,’ Søgaard went on, ‘do you really think I’d be dumb enough to leave an incriminating phone, switched on, in a locker with my name on the
door?’
‘Let’s see what the judge thinks, shall we?’ Brix said.
‘No!’ Søgaard was getting scared. ‘This is all wrong. We didn’t care about Dragsholm. Raben’s story was just bullshit.’
‘We?’ Brix asked. ‘You mean you and Jarnvig?’
‘No. The colonel’s too damned nosy for his own good sometimes. I wasn’t going to push this in front of him.’
‘Then who?’
‘Said Bilal. He was my number two when Jarnvig was in Kabul. He handled all the radio traffic reports when the investigation happened.’ Søgaard tapped the table. ‘He can
confirm everything I say.’
Brix took out a pen and a pad, scribbled a few things.
‘How did Bilal react when Dragsholm starting flinging the mud around?’
‘Mad as hell. You’d think it was personal. Bilal’s a Muslim but he’s a Dane first. He hates those fanatics more than anyone. A good man. Operational Command like him.
Arild especially. He was the one who saw Raben with Jarnvig and told Arild about it. I guess . . .’ Søgaard broke into a sarcastic smile. ‘A dark face looks good on the
recruiting posters these days.’
‘Does Said Bilal have access to those lockers in the basement?’
‘Knock it off. He can barely think for himself.’
‘Does he have access?’
A memory from somewhere. Søgaard scratched his head.
‘He said something a week or so ago about how we weren’t supposed to use the place. The ceiling was unsafe or something. Maybe it could collapse.’
‘No one mentioned that when we went down there,’ Madsen said.
Søgaard was gripping his major’s beret, pummelling it nervously.
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said. ‘You’re wasting your time if you try to pin this on me.’
The lawyer was back. She’d spoken to Arild. That much was clear.
‘So,’ she said as they walked through police headquarters, towards the car back to the hospital, ‘this is all agreed? You’ll withdraw your statement about the officer and
civilian casualties?’
Three cops with them. Burly men. One jabbed Raben in the chest when he wouldn’t walk quickly enough.
He made a low, pained noise. Arm still in a sling. He was limping too.
The lawyer was getting irate.
‘You shot this man yesterday,’ she yelled at the cop. ‘Don’t push him around too.’
‘We’re with him all the way to hospital,’ the detective said. ‘Once they tell us he’s fine to be released he goes to jail.’
They were passing through the main investigation room. Photos on the wall. Bloodied corpses. Weapons. Dog tags.
Raben stared at them, glanced at the three cops.
Sleepy men who thought being tough was all you needed.
There was a huddle of detectives by the photos. The lawyer, a smart, quick woman, he thought, one who never missed an opportunity, told him to wait a moment and went to talk to them.
Raben looked at the cops and smiled. Then held his arm, the one in a sling, and winced.
‘Getting shot’s no fun. Twice in two years. I must be unlucky.’
‘Must be something,’ the one who pushed him muttered.
Raben just smiled again. The lawyer came back. She seemed happy too.
‘We won’t be having a hearing tomorrow.’ She glanced at the men around him. ‘I’m going to ask for him to be kept in a secure room in the hospital. Until we can get
to court—’
‘What’s the delay?’ he asked.
‘They think they’ve got their man. Major Søgaard’s in custody, about to be charged. They found incriminating evidence in his locker.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Raben yelled. ‘Søgaard? Are you serious?’
She didn’t like his response.
‘You’re a hard man to please. You’ve been telling all the world someone in the army was involved.’
‘It wasn’t Søgaard. He wasn’t Perk. He couldn’t be . . .’
The big cop said, ‘Can we go now?’
Then pushed Raben towards the exit.
They took the long way out. Down the black marble corridors, to the tall staircase leading to the front entrance.
‘I can’t come with you to the hospital,’ the lawyer said, looking at the cops. ‘You’re not allowed to question him without me present. Is that clear?’
No answer.
He was limping again, taking the steps one by one.
‘Søgaard might cover something up but he’s not a murderer,’ Raben went on.
‘Why don’t you just shut up and walk?’ the first detective barked. ‘You’re boring me.’
‘He’s an injured man,’ the lawyer shrieked at him.
‘He’s a piece of shit who’s been giving us the runaround—’
‘Søgaard’s not your man!’
‘Really?’ The cop folded his arms, stopped on the stairs. ‘We found the other half of the dog tags in his locker. How do you explain that, smart arse? Now move, will
you?’
The gentlest of pushes and Raben almost stumbled, would have done if the cop’s arm wasn’t through his.
Bottom of one flight of steps. Another ahead.
‘My wife and son are at the barracks,’ Raben yelled at him. ‘This matters—’
‘You’re really getting to me now . . .’
Raben was screaming. The second cop came in, told him to relax, jabbed him in the back.
The lawyer was shouting again. They watched Raben in his blue prison suit stumble forward on weak legs, one arm flapping, the other trapped in a sling. Over the second flight of steps then down
them, tumbling all the way to the bottom.
‘Shit,’ the big cop said when he got there. He held Raben’s head, felt his pulse. ‘He needs the hospital now.’
Night in the barracks. Quiet and deserted with the latest troop dispatch headed for Helmand. Louise Raben had spent most of the evening trying to track down her father. Now
Søgaard was missing. The place seemed rudderless.
She walked round the empty offices looking for someone to talk to, to nag. Finally found Said Bilal in the weapons store cleaning a service rifle.
He didn’t look up as she walked in. Never smiled. Never responded.
‘Bilal,’ she said. ‘What the hell’s going on here? The military police still won’t tell me when they’re going to release my father.’
He cradled the weapon in his arms, stroked the oiled barrel. Glowered at her, said nothing.
‘What the hell were the police doing here anyway?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug. ‘The last one’s gone. They took Søgaard.’
She crouched down next to him, tried to see into his blank and surly face.
‘My father found out someone had concealed the radio messages during Jens’s mission. Kept them from the judge advocate.’
He went back to the rifle, took out the magazine, checked it in the dim light of the store.
‘Who would have done that?’ she asked. ‘It’s got to be a soldier here. Someone who was serving with the unit.’
He stood up, ran his eye down the sight.
‘Don’t you care, Bilal? Don’t you see how important this is? It shows Jens was right. Someone fitted him up—’
‘It’s war!’ Bilal roared and his dark eyes were full of such fury she felt frightened for a moment. ‘You’ve never been there. You don’t know what it’s
like.’