The Killing 2 (45 page)

‘Later,’ Brix ordered and followed her.

‘Ruth,’ he said when they got to her office.

She turned on him, finger jabbing in his face.

‘What the hell was Lund doing in that church? If I find you’ve gone behind my back—’

‘I didn’t know she was there. She told Strange. Wanted him to look. He was in Helsingør—’

‘The woman’s a liability.’

She walked off to her desk. Brix took her shoulder.

‘Lund’s the only one who’s seen this right from the start. It’s nothing to do with terrorism. We’ve got to get König in here and find out what he really
knows.’

She sat down. Brix took the seat opposite.

‘We need to start afresh—’

‘König’s got problems of his own,’ she broke in. ‘The Minister of Justice called a press conference this evening. He’s making accusations against the Defence
Ministry and demanding PET look into them. Meanwhile Raben’s parked outside a hall in Østerbro where the Ryvangen cadets are having their ball. Do you feel a spectator in all
this?’

‘Ruth—’

‘PET will decide what to do. We just sit back, listen and take orders.’ Her acute, dark eyes fixed on him. ‘That means you. That means me. That means Lund too.’

He got up, closed the door.

‘We can’t go on like this.’

That irked her.

‘There’s a dividing line, Lennart. Work and pleasure. We agreed that from the start. Don’t pretend otherwise.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘What is it then?’

‘If you don’t trust me any more.’ He hesitated, made sure she understood. ‘After all we’ve done together.’

Ruth Hedeby’s mouth dropped. She looked younger. Looked vulnerable, and a part of Brix said he shouldn’t pull a trick like this.

‘Then really,’ he added, ‘what’s the point?’

‘How can you use that against me?’

‘I’m not.’ He put his feet on her desk, leaned back, stifled a yawn. ‘I can work round König. We don’t have to sit here like junior partners waiting on their
lead.’

‘Listen—’

‘König’s had us running all over Denmark chasing immigrants who don’t know the first thing about these murders. Was that out of incompetence? Or did he have a reason?
I’m not asking you to step out of line. I’m demanding you do your duty.
We
do it.’

She was wavering. Torn.

‘I want Lund back and I want a free hand,’ he said.

‘You’re a bastard.’

He smiled.

‘Sometimes. But not now. They’re jerking us around. I know you hate that as much as I do. So . . .’

‘Let me think about it,’ she said.

‘Ruth . . .’

‘Enough. You’ve got work to do, haven’t you?’

The cadets’ ball was in a whitewashed army hall close to the Kastellet fortification near the waterfront. Lights in every window, a string quartet, young men in fine
uniforms, girlfriends on their arms.

Torsten Jarnvig had an unexpected guest: Jan Arild. Once a fellow lieutenant in the Jægerkorpset in Aalborg, now a general at army headquarters. A short, stocky, sly-looking man a couple
of years older than Jarnvig. With his fine ginger hair, ruddy complexion and sharp features he’d earned the nickname ‘Fox’ back then. Appropriately, Jarnvig thought. They’d
served together, in hard times on occasion. Arild was a survivor. An important man now, in dress uniform covered with ribbons of service. He held divisional responsibilities over Ryvangen. It was
important to cultivate him. And never call him Fox again.

So Torsten Jarnvig smiled and laughed at his bad jokes. Didn’t complain when he smoked at the table even though it was frowned upon. Didn’t mention his poor manners, or the coarse
way he’d whistle at anything, his own crass remarks or a woman walking past.

Instead Jarnvig looked at his daughter and raised an eyebrow. He wanted her to know this offended him too. Wanted her to understand it was one of the burdens of being Colonel of Ryvangen.

‘I could tell you stories about me and your old man,’ Arild said and nudged Louise’s elbow. He didn’t notice when she shrank from him. ‘Places we were never
supposed to be. Doing things they’d never want to hear about in Geneva . . .’

‘Jan,’ Jarnvig began.

‘See! I’m still Jan.’ He leaned forward. ‘Not so good here, you know.’

‘General . . .’ Jarnvig said with a sigh.

‘Things we never talk about,’ Arild repeated. ‘That’s the way of the army.’

Arild admired the couples on the floor. Let loose a low wolf whistle at a woman in a low-cut red gown.

‘I gather the only surviving member of this renegade squad of yours is your own son-in-law,’ he said, still eyeing the dancer. Arild stubbed his cigarette into the smoked salmon on
his plate, glanced at Louise. ‘Never works when men and officers meet outside duty. They know their place. We know ours. What do the police say he’s up to?’

‘I really don’t know much about it,’ Jarnvig replied. ‘We’ve more important things to focus on. How was . . . how was the hunting season?’

Arild scowled.

‘I don’t have time for that. If Raben attacked the army chaplain he must be quite mad, don’t you think? A lunatic.’

Louise stared at him.

‘What?’ Arild asked. ‘Did I say something out of place?’

She was about to speak when Søgaard turned up at the table. A bright smile broke on Arild’s face. He got to his feet, shook the newcomer’s hand briskly.

‘Major Christian Søgaard,’ Arild cried. ‘Behold the future.’

‘I believe,’ Louise broke in, ‘Major Søgaard was about to ask me to dance.’

She got up, took Søgaard’s arm and pushed, half-dragged Søgaard to the floor.

Arild scowled at Jarnvig.

‘Spirited young woman. Do you think she’d feel the same if she knew about our little games together all those years ago?’

‘I did what I was told and so did you.’

‘A man should know his duty,’ Arild agreed and lit another cigarette. ‘Even better if he doesn’t need to be told. PET’s about to pick up that renegade of yours.
They’ve been following him for a while.’ He tapped his sharp nose. ‘That’s confidential. Keep it to yourself.’

‘Why are they waiting?’

‘Because they hope to pick up the killers, of course. If he’s stupid enough for PET to track him down I can’t see a bunch of Muslim fanatics having much problem, can
you?’

Jarnvig’s phone rang. The music was too loud. He walked out, went down the hall, found an empty room. White walls, a glittering Murano chandelier.

The call was from Bilal, on security duty outside the ball. Gunnar Torpe was dead. A policewoman had been attacked.

Jarnvig leaned against a wall and closed his eyes.

‘What are the police telling you?’

‘Not much,’ the young officer said.

‘Leave it with me.’

He pocketed the phone, wondered what to do. Looked up and saw Jens Peter Raben by the long curtains. He was as filthy as a tramp and had a pistol in his left hand, the barrel pointed at the
floor.

‘Do as I say, tell the truth,’ Raben ordered. ‘That’s all I ask. Then you can go back to the ball and push Søgaard at my wife again.’

‘How the hell did you get in here?’

‘The way I was taught. Your security stinks.’

‘I just got a call to say Gunnar Torpe’s dead. They found him murdered in his church this evening. And someone attacked that policewoman, Lund.’

Jarnvig watched him. He was used to judging soldiers. He knew when they were scared and lying. He knew when they were just scared.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Raben said.

‘Maybe not. I know you didn’t start this but by God you’re not helping yourself or Louise any more.’

‘I’m staying alive,’ Raben barked back. ‘I’m the only one who managed that. I need to see the personnel files.’

‘It’s the cadets’ ball,’ Jarnvig said, spreading his arms wide. ‘They keep old records at Holmen now, in the personnel office.’

‘I need—’

‘PET know where you are. They’ve been following you all along.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s true,’ Jarnvig insisted. ‘They let you stay loose because they hoped you’d bring these terrorists out into the open.’

‘What terrorists? You don’t believe—’

‘Do everyone a favour and give yourself up.’

‘I need those files.’

‘Are you listening to me? PET are here tonight. They know you’re inside. If you got this far it’s only because they let you. Be smart for once.’

Raben checked the gun, the magazine.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Jarnvig cried. ‘Don’t make it worse. I’ll come with you. I can speak up for you—’

‘Speak up for me?’ Raben yelled and the gun came up a fraction.

‘If you give me a chance.’

‘The same chance I had before?’

The scruffy man with the unkempt beard, grubby clothes and scruffy hair seemed so far from the immaculate soldier who’d taken Louise down the aisle. Torsten Jarnvig had been proud that
day, even if he had his misgivings.

‘I was coming home,’ Raben said in a low, bitter tone. ‘I had two weeks to go. Then I was back with Louise and little Jonas. Out of the army. A new life. A new home. And now .
. .’

The gun shook in his fingers.

‘It’s been two years of hell and it’s never going to end, is it? You could have given me a chance back then. You could have investigated Perk—’

‘There was no Perk, Jens. You ruined everything. For yourself. For Louise and Jonas.’

‘I told the truth! Priest knew it too. Why would he lie? Or the others? I tried to stop him.’

‘Who?’

‘Perk! He had the officers’ academy badge tattooed on his shoulder.’ Raben tapped his temple with his free hand. ‘I can see him now.’

‘You said the man you attacked first of all was Perk—’

‘I know what happened! I know what I saw.’ He glared at Jarnvig. ‘You were my commanding officer. You should believe me first. Not PET. Or whoever’s spinning these tales.
To hell with it . . .’

He went for the door.

‘Stop.’

Raben had his fingers on the handle.

‘They’re looking for you, Jens. I told you. Go that way.’ He pointed to a side exit. ‘There’s a corridor. It leads out into the garden. Keep your head
down.’

The man in the grimy clothes stared at him.

‘Just do it will you?’ Jarnvig pleaded.

Raben shambled off. With trembling fingers Torsten Jarnvig lit a cigarette, looked at himself in the mirror as he smoked it.

Halfway through a man marched in. Dark suit. Earpiece. PET. Had to be. Said Bilal was behind him.

‘The toilets are at the end of the hallway,’ Jarnvig told him. ‘Show him, Bilal.’

The man looked the colonel up and down, checked the room, the curtains, everywhere, then left.

Torsten Jarnvig finished his cigarette and went back to the ball.

Jan Arild sat on his own, furious, his vulpine face flushed with booze and anger.

‘That was a long call,’ he said. ‘Any news?’

‘No,’ Jarnvig said. ‘Just personal.’

Arild folded his arms, watched Louise still on the dance floor in the arms of Christian Søgaard.

‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is a couple.’

Thomas Buch was starting to know too well the labyrinth of corridors from his office opposite the twisting dragons to Grue Eriksen’s quarters. So when he was summoned he
broke recent habit, got a coat, walked outside, behind his own ministry past the little square where he used to eat sandwiches by the statue of Søren Kierkegaard, ambled to the Christianborg
Palace through the cold damp night.

Along the way he called home. He and Marie had married when they were nineteen and Buch was still working on the farm, learning the business. They seemed to have been together for ever but that
night, in the chilly Copenhagen drizzle, she felt distant from him. She hated the city, the noise, the commotion. He no longer noticed. There were other, more pressing matters. The conversation was
difficult and trite, which was less than she deserved. He’d abandoned her in a way, and the pressing questions Monberg had left hidden in his papers meant Thomas Buch barely had time to feel
regret.

The call ended outside the imposing facade of the palace. Buch walked in, went upstairs. The Prime Minister didn’t look too mad. But he was.

‘I had no choice,’ Buch said, taking a seat opposite the silver-haired man behind the vast shiny desk from which he ran the nation. ‘I wanted to prevent—’

‘Be silent, Thomas, and listen to me for a moment.’ Grue Eriksen leaned back in his chair, put his hands together. ‘I didn’t hesitate when I appointed you. Nothing in
your past suggested you’d be rash enough to stab your own government in the back.’

‘You didn’t hear me out . . .’ Buch began.

‘You called a press conference without my knowledge. Accused one of your own colleagues of criminal behaviour. These accusations cannot be retracted . . .’

Buch shook his head.

‘I’ve no wish to retract them. The facts—’

‘I’ve worked with Rossing since he first entered politics. I know him. I trust him.’

‘Then let me ask him some questions, in front of the Security Committee. That’s all I want.’

‘You’ve backed me into a corner, haven’t you?’

‘It’s important we get to the bottom of this!’

The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair and muttered a quiet curse.

‘And there I was thinking I was raising a simple farm boy to Minister of State. You learn more quickly than I thought. And a few tricks I’d rather you’d missed. Do you realize
what you’ve started?’

‘Tell me,’ Buch answered miserably.

‘A witch-hunt, one I’m now forced to play out in public. If there’s something amiss it’s got to come out. In the open. For all to see, whatever the damage.’

‘Transparency is all I ask.’

‘But if this is nothing but gossip and speculation,’ Grue Eriksen added in a cold and vicious tone, his finger raised, his eyes blazing, ‘I will send you back to Jutland to
sweep up cow shit for the rest of your life.’

The Prime Minister glanced at his watch.

‘You can go now,’ he said.

Back in the office Plough and Karina were dissecting the latest news from the Politigården.

‘They found the priest badly injured in his own church in Vesterbro,’ Plough said. The tie was gone, the jacket too. He was changing, Buch thought. Maybe they all were. ‘Gunnar
Torpe. He died in the ambulance. A former field chaplain attached to troops from Ryvangen. He was in Helmand at the same time as Raben. That’s five dead. Six if we count Monberg.’