The Killing 2 by David Hewson

Or was this part of the cure? He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Just wanted to be out of this hell. To be home with his wife and son.
    ‘I told her what happened. I made sure the boy didn’t hear.’
    Raben kept his head upright until it hurt. The pain seemed right. Something he was owed.
    ‘Are you ready to go back to your cell?’
    ‘Jonas came?’
    ‘He did. He’s a lovely little boy.’
    ‘I need to talk to Louise.’
    ‘One thing at a time.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    His voice was too loud and he knew it.
    ‘It means you have to earn things. You have to learn there are consequences to your actions.’ She paused. ‘You have to go back on your medication.’
    ‘I don’t want you doping me up.’
    ‘If you don’t do what I ask I can never get you out of here.’
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with me!’
    That long pause again.
    ‘Do you remember what happened in Afghanistan? What you did when you came back? All the wild stories . . . ?’
    They weren’t all wild
, he thought.
Just things they didn’t want to hear.
    ‘There’s . . . nothing . . . wrong . . . with . . . me.’
    ‘You took a stranger hostage. Here, in Copenhagen. Almost killed him.’
    That episode was still a blur.
    ‘It was a mistake. I’ve paid for it.’
    ‘Not until I say so.’
    ‘Please . . .’
    ‘The police want to question you about Allan Myg Poulsen. I think they should wait. You’re not fit.’
    He let his head fall back on the hard prison bed. Gave up. That’s what they wanted.
    ‘Why would they want to talk to me about Myg?’
    ‘Our number’s on his mobile phone apparently. He came to visit you this afternoon, didn’t he?’
    ‘So what?’
    She watched him very closely.
    ‘Poulsen was found murdered this evening. I’m sorry.’
    Raben’s mind began to race. The way it did when he got angry. Really angry. The red roar.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked as calmly as he could.
    ‘I’ll tell them to come tomorrow. That’s all I know.’
    ‘What . . . ?’
    ‘Tomorrow. You’re not fit now.’
    She checked her watch, frowned at the time.
    Sorry to keep you, he wanted to say.
    Lund sat in the front of Strange’s unmarked car chewing on a piece of gum. She didn’t miss cigarettes any more. That craving was gone anyway. He drove patiently,
carefully, taking a call on his earphone, talking quietly to the other end.
    The Politigården had translated the leaflets they found next to Poulsen’s body. They said, ‘Fight for God’s cause. Kill those who place others next to God.’
    ‘What does that mean?’ Lund asked.
    ‘Something from the Koran apparently.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘They’re trying to trace where they were printed.’
    She was going through the papers Brix had given her on Dragsholm’s military background.
    ‘OK,’ Strange said. ‘Since we seem to be colleagues now it’s time for a proper introduction. My name’s Ulrik.’
    He took his hand off the wheel, held it out. Long fingers, delicate almost. As if he played the piano, though that seemed unlikely.
    ‘I’ve worked in the Politigården for just over a year,’ Strange said with the kind of smile he might have saved for a job interview. ‘I got divorced not long before
that, which is OK, all friendly. I’ve got two great kids and they’re cool with it. As cool as you can expect anyway.’
    ‘I don’t really need—’
    ‘It’s hard for them when you break up. But best in the long run, for everyone I think. I like football and opera, up to a point. When I was at school I loved camping and birdwatching
and orienteering. All that outdoor stuff. But now . . . the time . . . the time . . .’
    ‘Sarah,’ Lund said and shook his hand very quickly. ‘Take the next left turn. Poulsen was decorated.’
    ‘How about you?’
    ‘I was never decorated.’
    ‘I meant—’
    ‘I know what you meant. There’s nothing to tell.’
    He looked at her, frowned.
    ‘Everyone’s got something to tell.’
    ‘You’ve been to Gedser.