The Killing - 01 - The Killing (23 page)

‘How did you get in?’ Lund asked.

Lisa placed the flowers on the shrine.

‘They were getting old. People forget.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘The gym door’s open. The lock doesn’t work. Everyone knows that.’

She brushed back her long blonde hair, looked at the photos and the flowers.

‘When did you get to know Nanna?’

‘At primary school. In our last year. Nanna picked Frederiksholm so I did too.’ She moved the roses around. ‘I didn’t think I’d get in. Nanna’s clever. Her dad had to find the money. My dad’s got the money. But me . . . I’m stupid.’

‘When did you fall out?’

Lisa didn’t look at her.

‘We didn’t fall out.’

‘We’ve got Nanna’s phone. You never called her, texted her lately.’

Nothing.

‘Nanna called you.’

‘It wasn’t an argument. Not really.’

‘About Oliver?’

Straight away, ‘I don’t remember.’

‘I think it was about Oliver. Nanna didn’t care for him. You’re in love with him, right?’

Lisa laughed.

‘You ask some weird questions.’

‘So you went to the boiler room.’

‘Can I go now?’

Lund pulled out the earring.

‘You forgot something.’

The girl stared at the evidence bag, swore, turned to go.

‘We could waste a lot of time looking for the dress,’ Lund said to her back. ‘Or you could just tell me.’

Lisa Rasmussen stopped, hugged herself in her skimpy red coat.

‘This is important,’ Lund said. ‘Was Nanna in the room? Or were you and the boys alone?’

Caught between being a kid and an adult.

‘I was angry with her! OK?’

Lund folded her arms, waited.

‘Nanna made all the decisions. She treated me like I was a child. I was drunk. Then that creep Jeppe came in and started filming us. Oliver got mad. I tried to stop Jeppe. I tripped over some bottles.’

She rolled up her sleeve. Plasters and scratch marks. Long wounds, maybe stitches.

‘Cut myself.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oliver took me to the hospital. We were there all night.’

She sat on a windowsill, plain young face lit by the street lamps.

‘He was still mad about Nanna. I thought maybe I could . . .’

She rolled down her sleeve, hugged herself again.

‘Stupid. Nanna was right.’

‘Where was Nanna?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Lisa . . .’

‘I don’t know!’ she yelled. ‘Maybe half past nine . . . she came to the hall, put her hat on me. Gave me a hug. And said goodbye.’

She looked Lund in the face.

‘That was it. She left.’

Lund nodded.

‘Does my dad have to know? He’ll kill me.’

Hartmann and Rie Skovgaard listened to the radio on the way to the reception. The news was calling the election already. The alliance had altered the game. A change to the long-established political system wasn’t far off.

The Birk Larsen case seemed behind them. Ahead lay the hard work of the campaign. Meetings and press conferences. Shaking hands, winning votes.

And private conclaves of the inner circle of Danish politics, in the glittering rooms where right and left and centre gathered to spar gently with smiles and deft promises, trade polite insults, deliver discreet warnings disguised as advice.

Late that evening, exhausted, wishing for nothing more than to take Rie Skovgaard home to bed, Hartmann found himself faced with her father. A long-standing parliamentarian for the Liberal Party. Kim Skovgaard was a burly, genial man with clout. Not unlike Poul Bremer, who chatted amiably with his foes across the room.

The Lord Mayor’s raucous laughter boomed over the gathering.

‘I didn’t realize Bremer was on your party list,’ Hartmann said.

‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ Kim Skovgaard answered with a knowing grin. ‘In the end we’re all fighting for the same thing. A better life. We just disagree about the means.’

Hartmann smiled.

‘Are you still implicated in the case?’ Skovgaard asked.

‘You mean the girl’s murder?’

‘Are there others?’

‘We were never implicated. It was a coincidence. You’ll hear no more of that.’

Skovgaard raised his glass.

‘Good. It would have been hard to back you with those kind of headlines.’

‘Dad . . .’ his daughter intervened. ‘Not now.’

He carried on.

‘The Prime Minister . . . and a few others are wondering if you’re on top of everything.’

‘The campaign’s under control. We’ll win.’ A smile. Lost amidst a sea of others. ‘Excuse me . . .’

He walked through to the next room, took Poul Bremer’s arm, asked for a word. The two of them strode to an empty space near the fireplace.

‘So you won Madam Eller in the end, Troels,’ Bremer said. ‘Congratulations. I hope the price wasn’t too high.’

‘I know what you’re up to.’

Bremer blinked behind his owlish glasses, shook his head.

‘If I catch you playing any more games . . .’ Hartmann came close, spoke in a gruff, determined whisper. ‘I will take you to court. Do you understand?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ Bremer replied. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘Fine,’ Hartmann said, made to go. ‘You heard.’

‘Troels! Come back here.’

Bremer strolled to his side, peering into his face.

‘I’ve always liked you. Ever since you were a novice here, struggling to make your first speech. Today . . .’

Hartmann tried to judge him, to sift sincerity from the histrionics, and failed.

‘Today you defeated me. That doesn’t happen often. When it does . . . I don’t like it. Nor do I like it when in a fit of paranoia you accuse me of things of which I’m ignorant.’

Hartmann stood there, trying not to feel like a scolded schoolboy.

Bremer’s big hand came up, thumb and forefinger rubbing together.

‘If I’d wanted to crush you, don’t you think I would have done it long ago?’

He patted Hartmann’s shoulder.

‘Think about that.’ His smile turned to a scowl. ‘You’ve ruined my mood, Troels. I’m going now. I hope you feel guilty. ’

Bremer looked at him.

‘Guilty. Yes. That’s the word.’

They released Schandorff and Hald. Lund got Lisa Rasmussen to sign a statement, made sure she’d be taken safely home in a car.

On the way out she asked her again, ‘You really don’t know who she was going to meet?’

The girl looked exhausted. Relieved too. This secret had weighed upon her.

‘Nanna was happy. I saw that. As if she was looking forward to something. Something special.’

When she was gone Meyer marched in brandishing papers.

‘I’m charging them with perjury. Wasting police time.’

‘Is that worth it?’

‘Why didn’t you call and tell me, Lund? Why haven’t you said a word to me? I feel like a fool.’

She held up her phone.

‘Basement. No signal. I tried.’

‘No you didn’t.’

He sounded like one of the petulant kids.

‘You’re in your own little world. Lundland. Nothing else in it.’

‘OK. I’m sorry about that.’

‘And I mustn’t smoke. Or eat or yell at suspects.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon.’

The pack of cigarettes came out. He brandished one, lit it, blew the smoke at her.

She sighed.

‘We don’t have a damned thing,’ Meyer grumbled.

‘Not true.’

‘Are you serious?’

She found her voice rising. Must have been the cigarette. She wanted one so badly.

‘We have plenty. If only you’d listen.’

He folded his arms, said, ‘I’m listening now.’

Five minutes later with Buchard, pug-faced and serious.

She went through the papers, the photos she’d assembled, patiently, one by one.

‘We know things about whoever did this. We know he drugged her with ether. He held her captive somewhere and abused her for fifteen to twenty hours. Afterwards . . .’

More shots of the body. Arms, hands, feet, thighs.

‘He bathed her. Cut her fingernails. Then drove her to the woods where he knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.’

Pictures of the track through the Pentecost Forest. Hair on the dead trees.

‘There he played a game. He toyed with her. He let her run away and then caught her. Maybe . . .’ She’d been thinking about this for a while. ‘Maybe more than once.’

‘Hide and seek,’ Meyer said, and drew on his cigarette.

‘We found designer boots in Nanna’s closet,’ Lund went on. ‘Her parents didn’t know about them.’

She passed round the photograph: brown leather and glittering metal.

‘Nanna couldn’t have bought them. Too expensive. The necklace . . .’

The black heart on a cheap gilt chain.

‘We still don’t know who this came from. Maybe a gift from whoever gave her the boots. Except it’s cheap. And old.’

Lund placed in front of them the photo of Nanna and Lisa at the Halloween party, Lisa looking drunk, a teenager. Nanna elegant and smiling, wearing the black witch’s hat as if it was an unwanted joke.

‘This is the most important thing. Nanna had a secret rendezvous. She changed out of her clothes and left her costume at school. She was going to meet someone. Even her best friend had no idea who.’

Buchard groaned.

‘You’re not going to tell me it was a teacher, are you?’

Lund looked at him, said nothing.

‘Right,’ Meyer said. ‘Tomorrow we start all over again.’

‘Listen to me!’ Buchard ordered. ‘The schools fall under the remit of Troels Hartmann. He has to know what we’re doing.’

‘Fine.’ Lund nodded. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow.’

‘And I need you to stay on a little longer,’ Buchard added.

Meyer closed his eyes, blew some smoke at the ceiling.

‘I’m here till Saturday. Mark starts school on Monday. I’ve done all I—’

‘With all respect,’ Meyer cut in. ‘I don’t think she should stay. I know the ropes. And . . .’ He frowned. ‘Let’s be honest. There hasn’t exactly been much teamwork between the two of us. I think Lund should stick to her plan.’

Then he got up and left.

She was looking at the photos. Nanna in the witch’s hat. Apart from the kids around her.

Buchard peered at her.

‘Meyer’s had nothing to eat,’ she said. ‘It makes him tetchy. No . . .’ She waved a finger, corrected herself. ‘Tetchier.’

‘The school . . .’

‘We have to look. We have to look very hard.’

Friday, 7th November

Lund was pulling on her black and white sweater, juggling a piece of toast when her mother said, ‘I thought we were leaving tonight?’

‘No. We’ll go tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon? That’s when the guests are arriving.’

‘It’ll be fine.’

‘I can’t stay in Sweden long. There are things to do.’ She looked at the dress. ‘There’s a wedding on the way.’

‘There’s always a wedding on the way. We were hoping you’d be with us for a week. Meet Bengt’s family.’

A grim laugh.

‘You mean take your son to school while you go to work?’

‘Never mind.’ Lund gulped at her mug, pulled a face. ‘It was just an idea. Do we have any hot coffee?’

She went to the percolator. No.

‘Is this the kind of mother I’ve brought you up to be?’ Vibeke asked, shaking her head. ‘You haven’t even talked to Mark while you’ve been here. Do you have any idea—?’

‘It’s been a busy week. I thought you might have noticed.’

Quickly, without a mirror, thinking about Nanna and the school all the time, she took an elastic band from her jeans and tied her long brown hair into a rough ponytail.

‘He’s twelve years old—’

‘I know how old he is.’

‘You know nothing about him! Or his life.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Do you even know he’s got a girlfriend?’

Lund stopped. Struggled for a moment.

‘Mark’s like me,’ she said. ‘Very independent. We’re not in each other’s faces all the time. And yes . . . I do know about his girlfriend. Thank you.’

‘I’m off,’ said a voice behind that made her jump.

Mark, in a blue jacket, ready for school.

She followed him down the stairs.