Trophy by Steffan Jacobsen

Author:Steffan Jacobsen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcade
Published: 2017-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

Lene tried concentrating on her book, but discovered she had read the same page at least three times without the words making it past her eyes.

The telephone rang.

“Lene.”

“Allan Lundkvist. You’ve called. And called.”

The man’s voice sounded faint and distant, as if he were on another continent.

“Allan? Thank you. Sorry … are you here? In Denmark, I mean?”

She put her book aside and sat up in bed. Her ankle was itchy so she stuck her leg out from under the duvet and scratched it.

Nervously.

“Is it too late? Did I wake you? I’ve just come back from Jylland,” he said. “I thought I had better ring straight away.”

“It’s not too late. I’m glad you called. Very much so. I’m sorry if I’ve been a pest.”

He didn’t say anything.

“It’s about Kim Andersen,” she said.

“Kim Andersen?”

“Private. The Royal Life Guards. Holbæk. Camp Viking. Helmand.”

“Kim, yes, I just needed … Yeah, sure … What about him?”

“He hanged himself the day after his wedding.”

“Hanged himself?” A long, airy pause followed. “Louise. He married Louise, didn’t he?”

“That’s correct. It sounds as if you didn’t go to the wedding?”

“No, Jesus Christ … The day after, you say? That makes no sense.”

“No.”

Allan Lundkvist sounded genuinely shocked, baffled, and a little tired. He searched for the words in just the right fumbling manner.

“Why the hell would he do that?” he then said. “He was crazy about her. And the kids. He was always talking about those kids.”

“I don’t know. But I’m in possession of a photograph from Afghanistan, Allan. There are five men in the picture. Robert Olsen is dead, Kenneth Enderlein is dead, Kim Andersen also, as I’ve just explained, and then there’s you and a fifth man, whose name is … what, exactly? It would seem to be very bad for your health to belong to that group, Allan.”

His breathing sounded steady, but shallow. She was scared that he might hang up.

“Musa Qala,” he then said. “The picture is taken outside Musa Qala.”

“Which is?”

“A kind of town. More dead inhabitants than live ones. The only reason anyone still lives there is because the Taliban have moved back in. We’ve taken it from them five times, but every time they come back. They killed Amir, the district governor, and Abdul Quddus, the district chief, in March 2006. Then the Brits moved in and threw out the Taliban, then the guys from Bornholm—we call them the Boy Scouts—arrived to bail out the Brits and so it went on. The Americans droned Mullah Gafoor just outside the town recently. It just drags on.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s been like that since Alexander the Great. Afghanistan isn’t a country; it’s a piece of fossilized, medieval shit.”

“So why go there?”

“Because it’s fun!” He laughed. “I’m going back again for six months come January, and I can’t wait.”

“Who is the fifth man, Allan, the one with the scorpion on his neck?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Loads of people came and went. I guess he was just someone who was there that day. I can’t remember. Can we meet tomorrow? I’m knackered.

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