Authors: David Hewson
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Plough interrupted. ‘We’re discussing these matters in ignorance. Let’s give the police a chance and meet again in the evening. Then,
hopefully, we’ll know more.’
‘Play for time all you like,’ Krabbe said then shuffled his papers and tucked them into a briefcase. ‘The facts speak for themselves.’
Birgitte Agger waved at him with her fingers as Krabbe left.
‘That silly little man thinks he’s got you on the ropes, Buch. The trouble is he’s right.’
‘We should be above politics on this. Why . . .’
She was laughing, at him.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing’s ever above politics.’ She finished her coffee, got up from the table. ‘If you alter one word of the present agreement you can count us out.’
‘That won’t happen,’ Buch insisted. ‘I’ll call you later to confirm.’
‘One word . . .’
And then she left.
Silence for a while and then Plough said wearily, ‘You’re going to have to rewrite the package and give Krabbe what he wants.’
Buch blinked.
‘What?’
‘He’s under pressure from his own party to win something. Agger’s got no reason to give you a break. So she’ll dump you. Even if it’s over a comma. She’s
planning it already . . .’
Buch bristled.
‘You know that, do you? For a fact?’
‘No,’ Plough said patiently. ‘But I’m right. You’ll see.’
Lund looked at the Moroccan man across the table. He now wore a blue cotton prison suit. His beard was freshly combed. He seemed calm, earnest. Resigned even. A man in the
hands of enemies, in his own eyes anyway. He had someone from one of the left-wing legal practices by his side.
‘My client will cooperate,’ the lawyer said.
‘He can tell us what he knows about the Muslim League then,’ Strange began.
‘I only heard about it yesterday,’ Kodmani answered. ‘When all you people started shouting at me.’
‘Their video was on your website,’ Lund pointed out.
The lawyer broke in, reading a statement on Kodmani’s behalf.
‘My client sells and publishes books to spread the word of the Koran. Under the law he enjoys both freedom of religion and speech—’
‘Won’t get that back home, will you?’ Strange cut in.
Behind the one-way glass Brix and König were watching. Lund wondered how they’d take that.
‘My client offers the website as a literary platform and an international forum. He’s not responsible, legally or in any practical way, for everything that’s uploaded there. He
knew nothing of the video and has never incited anyone to commit a terrorist act.’
Kodmani’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be praying.
‘Nice try,’ Strange said. ‘We’ve been all through that little office you hid downstairs. We know what you were up to. The videos. The leaflets.
Incitement—’
‘There’s nothing there that’s illegal,’ the Moroccan insisted.
‘We found your leaflets at the second murder. Your website was used for a video of a woman about to be killed in cold blood.’
‘I didn’t know . . .’
‘That’s not good enough,’ Strange said, voice rising. ‘You’ve got an alibi. We don’t think you murdered anyone. But you’re involved. Either you talk now
or . . .’
‘It looks bad,’ Lund added, staring straight at him across the table. ‘You can see that. It looks very bad.’
The man was kneading his hands. The lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear.
‘We’ll have to foster your kids if you go to jail,’ she went on. ‘They’ll try to find a Muslim family. No guarantees. Maybe—’
‘I didn’t know!’ Kodmani screamed. ‘OK?’
Lund folded her arms, kept watching.
‘He got to me through the website. He emailed me.’
‘Who did?’
The man in the blue suit looked ashamed to be talking to them.
‘He called himself Faith Fellow. He seemed . . . a good man. Someone who liked what I was doing.’
‘A fan?’ Strange asked.
‘Maybe. He said he had a religious video he was making. He wanted to upload it somewhere everyone would see it. I told him OK. Gave him a password. Suddenly . . . it turned up there last
night. I didn’t know what it was.’
‘We need the emails he sent you,’ Lund said.
Kodmani laughed.
‘I don’t keep emails. They all get deleted. Properly. For good. Do you think I’m stupid?’
Strange pushed his notepad to one side.
‘Tell me this isn’t a fairy story. Who do you think this Faith Fellow is?’
‘I don’t know! If criminals get hold of my leaflets . . . that’s not my fault. You can pick them up at public libraries. Like I told you. They’re legal.’
The lawyer was looking smug.
‘I don’t expect you to like me,’ the Moroccan said. ‘We’re on different sides. But . . .’
The wagging finger came out and it pointed at her.
‘I didn’t break your laws. You’ve no cause to keep me here.’
The lawyer looked at his watch and started to pack his things.
‘We’re counting,’ he said. ‘Hold my client one second more than you’re entitled and we’re in court.’
Lennart Brix wasn’t interested in the Moroccan’s faceless email correspondent Faith Fellow.
He passed Strange a list of Kodmani’s religious contacts and customers for his books along with the addresses of those who’d registered with the website.
‘I want them all questioned. We found blood on some barbed wire on the way out of the veterans’ club. No match with anything on the DNA records so far.’
‘What was he looking for in the club?’ Lund asked. ‘Why did he go back?’
‘I don’t think that’s much of a priority. Is it?’
‘But why—?’
‘Not a priority,’ Brix repeated and walked off.
She got her bag.
‘I’ll be gone for an hour or so,’ she told Strange.
‘Why?’
‘Myg Poulsen visited an army buddy yesterday. He’s called Raben. He’s in Herstedvester. I put in a request for an interview but the medical staff wouldn’t allow
it.’
Strange watched her sifting busily through the papers on her desk.
‘Brix told us to focus on Kodmani.’
‘Why would he upload a video like that onto his own website? He’s a fanatic. Not an idiot.’
‘So you want to talk to Poulsen’s army buddy?’
‘Just a thought.’ She smiled. That seemed to work on Strange. ‘I’ve got something to do on the way. It might be more than an hour. More like two. Or . . .’
The pen she liked had strayed onto Strange’s half of the desk. She reached out, caught the edge of a cold cup of coffee, sent it tumbling, spilling brown liquid all over his papers.
Ulrik Strange blinked, said nothing.
‘I’ll call,’ Lund said, then grabbed the pen and hurried out.
Meyer still lived in the same place on the edge of Nørrebro. Lund parked the car in the road, looked up the drive. Saw the garage. Doors open. No motorbike there any
more. But the DJ turntables were visible at the back, now gathering dust.
The rain was holding off for the moment. He was in the yard playing with two of his three girls. Beautiful kids with blonde hair, taller than she remembered, running round and round
Meyer’s shiny powered wheelchair.
There was a baseball net on the wall. Full size. Not like the little one he had in the office they’d shared.
He was grabbing the ball from them, bouncing it on the hard, uneven ground, popping it up towards the net. His arms looked more muscular than before. She didn’t want to think about that
too much.
Lund stayed behind the wheel and watched.
He hit the net twice, shaking with laughter. Then let the girls get the better of him, prodded, cajoled, persuaded them until, finally, they got three scores.
Her heart felt as if it might tear in two as she watched him hunch over, bury his pop-eared head in his arms and pretend to sob, shoulders heaving, a faint, pathetic cry reaching her ears.
She’d seen this for real, in hospital when she tried to drag him back into the Birk Larsen case one last time, and brought from Meyer an animal howl that haunted her even now. Lund
couldn’t believe she’d acted like that. Meyer had screamed something about how she couldn’t connect with anything, anyone close.
Mark, the young Mark, not the fast-growing, calm, intelligent teenager who now lived with his father, had said it too.
Mum, you’re only interested in dead people. Not me.
That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. It was just . . .
Meyer had stopped playing with his girls. He was looking out from the yard, down the drive. Towards the road. He’d been a good cop, better than he knew. She’d taught him how to
look.
And now there was a solitary car parked outside his house in this quiet corner of Nørrebro. Of course he’d see.
See her.
She thought of what Brix said.
Priorities.
Wondered what she’d say to Jan Meyer after all this time. The things she should have told him in hospital. The words that had run through her head during so many sleepless nights in her
lonely bed in Gedser.
I’m sorry I failed you. I wish to God I could make you walk again. Help you be whole. The good, funny, intelligent man you were.
One other refrain that kept going round and round.
For God’s sake, Meyer, if I could take your place I would
. . .
She looked up the drive, wondered if he realized who she was.
The kids were getting restless. One of them stole the ball from him, yelled something, started playing again. In an instant Jan Meyer was back where he wanted to be, inside their game, their
world.
Lund had the courage to walk that short distance up the drive. She didn’t doubt that. But she didn’t have the right.
A young girl’s happy squeal. Meyer’s rough, joking voice came to her through the window.
Another time, she thought and drove away.
The red and white Danish flag was at half-mast over the main barracks building in Ryvangen. Louise Raben placed two white lilies alongside the bouquets at the foot of the pole
and wondered what to do, who to call.
That morning she’d made an effort. Tidied her hair the way she used to when she was first married. Put on a smart navy wool coat over her white nurse’s uniform. It was important not
to let go. Even if there was no one there to see.
When she walked away from the flagpole she found Christian Søgaard staring at her from the other side of the road. Khaki uniform, blond hair, beard carefully trimmed. A handsome man. If
he’d turned up at Ryvangen earlier her father would have pushed her in Søgaard’s direction. She didn’t doubt that. Didn’t mind the idea too much either. It was too
late, but . . .
He was tall and strong and persistent. An officer born and bred, from an upper-class family with a long military tradition. Not a working-class boy like Jens from a grim Copenhagen suburb.
She walked over. He smiled.
‘Did the police find anything?’
‘Not that we know of,’ Søgaard said. ‘Were you and Myg friends?’
‘He served with Jens. They were.’
She shrugged.
‘I’m just an army wife. I don’t get to share in those relationships.’
‘It’s best sometimes.’
‘Because we’re not up to it?’
‘No. Because you’re not there when . . . things happen. It’s hard to explain.’
‘Jens can’t even remember what happened. Even harder for him.’
Søgaard nodded. A wry smile. A man, not an officer. Or that was what she was supposed to think.
‘They come back sick sometimes. Delusional even. Sometimes you see things and . . . I don’t know.’ He took off his black beret, ran his fingers through his perfect hair.
‘Maybe it’s best you tell yourself they’re not real.’
Major Christian Søgaard rarely had this problem she suspected. He looked like a man in control.
‘Everyone’s in shock,’ he added. ‘I hope the police can sort it out quickly. We really don’t need this. I’m sorry to hear they turned down your husband
again.’
She stared at the cold ground.
‘Yes. Well . . .’
‘Your father says you’re redecorating the basement. You’re going to stay on for a while.’
‘For a while. I left a list of vaccinations in the infirmary. If you could . . .’
‘Sure, sure, sure.’ He looked as if he was one step ahead of her already. Usually did. ‘If you want some help with the decorating. It’s kind of . . .’ He hesitated.
‘A hobby. Yes. A hobby.’
Christian Søgaard was stumbling for once. She liked that.
‘What’s a hobby?’
‘Painting. Fixing things up.’
Louise Raben put her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s been a while,’ Søgaard added. ‘But if you tell me what you want. I’ve got some . . .’
He gestured with his arms.
‘Some brushes?’ she suggested.
‘Brushes. That’s it.’
It was a stupid joke and it made her laugh. Not much else had recently.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said and took out her car keys.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘To see Jens. If they’ll let me.’
But Director Toft wouldn’t countenance it.
‘I can’t,’ she said sitting primly in her antiseptic office in the medical wing at Herstedvester. ‘He was very difficult last night. The rage. The delusions . .
.’
When he came back from Afghanistan he was raving about nightmares, about monsters, things he thought real that couldn’t be. Now, Toft said, that had changed into an obsession that he was
being kept in jail for reasons no one would tell him.
‘It’s very simple,’ she explained. ‘If he does what we ask. Takes his medicine. Learns to control his temper and his fantasies, then . . .’
‘He’s been fine for months. You said so yourself. You told us he was ready for release . . .’
‘The Prison Service makes the final decision. Not us.’
‘Why’s this happened? When he was making such good progress?’
Another time she might have cried at a conversation like this. Not now. There was a distance between the two of them, one that had grown slyly, like a tumour, over two years. Louise could look
at Jens the way she looked at one of her own patients in the Ryvangen infirmary: dispassionately. And this she hated.
‘I don’t know,’ Toft said. ‘Let’s hope it’s not a total relapse. He has to learn to cooperate. I felt he was improving . . .’