bored sigh. ‘He didn’t mention any problems.’
‘Have you received any general threats?’ Strange asked.
A grim laugh from Jarnvig.
‘We get it all the time. Kids. Lunatics. Troublemakers. Phone calls and emails every day. But nothing from the Muslim League.’
Lund kept quiet. So did Strange.
‘It was on the TV news,’ the colonel added. ‘I heard the name there.’
‘We’ll need a printout of all the threats you’ve received,’ Strange said.
‘And Allan Myg Poulsen’s personnel file,’ Lund added. ‘Anything that relates to his period of service.’
Jarnvig thought about this.
‘Søgaard will give you what we’re able to release.’
‘I want it all,’ Lund said, and tapped her finger lightly on the desk.
Jarnvig shook his head.
‘He was a soldier. Anything that doesn’t touch on national security you can have. That’s as far as I can go . . .’
‘This is a murder inquiry. We’re police.’
‘And this is an army barracks. I’ve eight hundred men about to go to Afghanistan and risk their lives for their country. Nothing leaves this place if it puts them in jeopardy for a
single second. What I can give you Søgaard will provide. Now . . .’
He got up from the desk, held out his hand. Strange stood up straight away, took it.
Another former soldier, Lund guessed. Denmark had conscription. It was hardly surprising. That deference to your superiors never really disappeared.
‘If you don’t mind I’d like to inform my staff personally,’ Jarnvig said.
Lund took out a picture of Dragsholm, smiling, recent.
‘Do you know this woman?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Jarnvig said without the least hesitation.
‘Her name’s Anne Dragsholm. A military legal adviser. Perhaps she did some work inside Ryvangen.’
He passed the photo to Søgaard who looked at it and shook his head.
‘We’d like to talk to someone who knew Myg Poulsen well,’ Strange said.
Jarnvig nodded.
‘I understand. His company commander can show you around.’
He passed over a card, told Søgaard to do the same.
‘It’s important the police understand our position. This case poses uncertainty and worry. It’s the last thing my men need before a tour of duty. All communication on this
matter must go through me or Major Søgaard. I want that clear now.’
‘Sure,’ Strange agreed straight off.
Lund picked up the photo of Anne Dragsholm and said nothing.
Poulsen’s company commander was Lieutenant Said Bilal, a young, gloomy-looking officer, Danish-raised from his accent, but with immigrant parents judging by his
looks.
Bilal took them to the barracks room Poulsen shared with seven other men when he was on duty. Bunk beds, a few personal belongings. It was almost as bare and characterless as the veterans’
club where he died.
‘Most of the men are at home now,’ Bilal said as he led them in.
He pointed out a single top bed near the window.
‘This was his bunk.’
Then a tall metal locker.
‘This was his locker.’
Lund opened the door. Clothes, shoes. Underwear. Photographs of women in bikinis.
‘Did you know him well?’ Strange asked.
‘Not very.’ Bilal stood by the bed, erect, moody. He had very dark hair and the face of a bored teenager. ‘Nobody did. He didn’t mix much.’
‘Kept the veterans’ club going, didn’t he?’ Lund asked.
Bilal nodded.
‘He liked to do things for people who’d left, I guess.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Strange went on.
She went back to the cupboard, sorting through the things there.
‘Roll call yesterday morning.’
‘Later?’
‘No. They had the rest of the day off.’
Strange kept throwing questions at him.
‘When did he volunteer to go back to Helmand?’
Bilal thought for a moment then said, ‘Last week. Not long after he signed up again.’
‘Was it a sudden decision?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Strange’s phone rang. Lund went through a sheet of appointments: training, medical, briefings.
A name had been
‘Have you received any general threats?’ Strange asked.
A grim laugh from Jarnvig.
‘We get it all the time. Kids. Lunatics. Troublemakers. Phone calls and emails every day. But nothing from the Muslim League.’
Lund kept quiet. So did Strange.
‘It was on the TV news,’ the colonel added. ‘I heard the name there.’
‘We’ll need a printout of all the threats you’ve received,’ Strange said.
‘And Allan Myg Poulsen’s personnel file,’ Lund added. ‘Anything that relates to his period of service.’
Jarnvig thought about this.
‘Søgaard will give you what we’re able to release.’
‘I want it all,’ Lund said, and tapped her finger lightly on the desk.
Jarnvig shook his head.
‘He was a soldier. Anything that doesn’t touch on national security you can have. That’s as far as I can go . . .’
‘This is a murder inquiry. We’re police.’
‘And this is an army barracks. I’ve eight hundred men about to go to Afghanistan and risk their lives for their country. Nothing leaves this place if it puts them in jeopardy for a
single second. What I can give you Søgaard will provide. Now . . .’
He got up from the desk, held out his hand. Strange stood up straight away, took it.
Another former soldier, Lund guessed. Denmark had conscription. It was hardly surprising. That deference to your superiors never really disappeared.
‘If you don’t mind I’d like to inform my staff personally,’ Jarnvig said.
Lund took out a picture of Dragsholm, smiling, recent.
‘Do you know this woman?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Jarnvig said without the least hesitation.
‘Her name’s Anne Dragsholm. A military legal adviser. Perhaps she did some work inside Ryvangen.’
He passed the photo to Søgaard who looked at it and shook his head.
‘We’d like to talk to someone who knew Myg Poulsen well,’ Strange said.
Jarnvig nodded.
‘I understand. His company commander can show you around.’
He passed over a card, told Søgaard to do the same.
‘It’s important the police understand our position. This case poses uncertainty and worry. It’s the last thing my men need before a tour of duty. All communication on this
matter must go through me or Major Søgaard. I want that clear now.’
‘Sure,’ Strange agreed straight off.
Lund picked up the photo of Anne Dragsholm and said nothing.
Poulsen’s company commander was Lieutenant Said Bilal, a young, gloomy-looking officer, Danish-raised from his accent, but with immigrant parents judging by his
looks.
Bilal took them to the barracks room Poulsen shared with seven other men when he was on duty. Bunk beds, a few personal belongings. It was almost as bare and characterless as the veterans’
club where he died.
‘Most of the men are at home now,’ Bilal said as he led them in.
He pointed out a single top bed near the window.
‘This was his bunk.’
Then a tall metal locker.
‘This was his locker.’
Lund opened the door. Clothes, shoes. Underwear. Photographs of women in bikinis.
‘Did you know him well?’ Strange asked.
‘Not very.’ Bilal stood by the bed, erect, moody. He had very dark hair and the face of a bored teenager. ‘Nobody did. He didn’t mix much.’
‘Kept the veterans’ club going, didn’t he?’ Lund asked.
Bilal nodded.
‘He liked to do things for people who’d left, I guess.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Strange went on.
She went back to the cupboard, sorting through the things there.
‘Roll call yesterday morning.’
‘Later?’
‘No. They had the rest of the day off.’
Strange kept throwing questions at him.
‘When did he volunteer to go back to Helmand?’
Bilal thought for a moment then said, ‘Last week. Not long after he signed up again.’
‘Was it a sudden decision?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Strange’s phone rang. Lund went through a sheet of appointments: training, medical, briefings.
A name had been
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