The Killing - 01 - The Killing (24 page)

A dull dry day. He had his scooter with him, started pushing it away the moment they were in the street.

‘Mark! You haven’t had breakfast.’

He slowed down, got off the thing.

‘Not hungry.’

‘I’m sorry about this week. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

He got back on the scooter. She struggled to keep up.

‘Gran said you had a girlfriend.’

Mark stopped, didn’t look her in the eye.

Lund smiled.

‘That’s nice.’

She tried not to let the earring get to her. He’d got his ear pierced without even asking, by some stupid kid at school.

‘What’s her name?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘You can invite her to Sweden.’

‘I’m going to be late for school.’

‘Mark? I’m interested in what goes on in your life.’

‘She just broke up with me.’

Twelve years old and such pain on his young face.

‘And you don’t give a shit. You’re only interested in dead people.’

Lund stood on the pavement. Seeing the boy he was at four or five. At eight. Ten. Struggling to separate that child from the surly, sad kid who stared at her now looking . . .

What?

Disappointed.

That was the word.

Mark turned his back on her, pushed himself down the street.

Hartmann came in at nine. Lund took him into her room.

‘You told me we were off the hook?’

‘I didn’t say that . . .’

‘You never mentioned a teacher.’

‘It’s one line of inquiry.’

‘Into what exactly?’

Meyer stuck his head through the door, said, ‘Are we going?’

Hartmann didn’t move.

‘What have you come up with now?’

Lund shook her head.

‘I can’t say.’

‘These are my schools and my teachers. You will tell me.’

‘When I can—’

‘No. No!’

He was getting mad. She’d seen this temper before. On TV when he flew at the reporter. Now she had it in her face.

‘I need to know who it is! Christ! I have to take precautions.’

‘It’s not possible—’

‘You’ve made a fool of me once, Lund. It’s not happening again.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t put your election above a murder inquiry. It wouldn’t be right . . .’

He looked livid.

‘Don’t you understand the damage you’ll do? To teachers? To the pupils? To the parents? You spread suspicion like a farmer spreads shit. And you don’t give a damn—’

‘Don’t you dare say that!’ she yelled back at him.

Hartmann fell quiet, surprised by the sudden volume.

‘Don’t ever say that,’ Lund repeated more quietly. ‘I’m not a politician, Hartmann. I’m a police officer. I don’t have time to think about all the consequences. I just have to . . . to . . .’

‘What?’ he demanded when she never finished the sentence.

‘Keep looking.’ She dragged her bag onto her shoulder. ‘We’ll be discreet. We won’t start any rumours. We’ve no interest or desire to damage any innocent party. We just want to find out who killed that girl. OK?’

His sudden rage had fled. These outbursts, she thought, were sharp and unexpected, as much unwanted by Troels Hartmann as they were to those who heard them.

‘Fine,’ he said, nodding. He looked at her. ‘Will you let me help?’

She said nothing.

‘I want to, Lund. I’ll ask the office to get copies of the personnel files. For the teachers. All the staff.’

‘Send them to my office. I’ll have someone look through them.’

‘I want to help. Believe me.’

His phone went. The mask of the politician, unemotional, distanced, impassive, came upon him again in an instant. Lund left him to his call.

There was a smiling woman in the winding corridor of black marble, fair-haired, carrying a supermarket bag.

She asked Lund, ‘Is Jan Meyer here?’

‘In a moment.’

Lund went back to checking through the messages on her phone.

‘I’m Hanne Meyer,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve got something for him.’

A wife. Lund remembered the call the other night.
Now you’ve woken the whole house.
A baby crying. Meyer had a life beyond the police station. The idea astonished her.

‘Sarah Lund,’ she said, and shook her hand. ‘I work with him.’

‘So this is what you look like!’

She was very pretty, with a scarf round her neck and a peasant dress beneath her brown wool coat.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Ah.’ She gave Lund a knowing look. ‘He means well. It doesn’t always comes across.’ A pause. ‘And he thinks you’re . . . amazing.’

Lund blinked.

‘Amazing?’

‘He’s to take two of these every hour,’ Hanne Meyer said, giving her a bottle of pills. ‘If that doesn’t help you have to try the bananas.’

She pulled a couple out of her bag, passed them to the wide-eyed Lund.

‘Whatever he tells you, Jan must
not
have coffee, cheese or crisps.’ She tut-tutted. ‘They upset his stomach.’

The woman clapped her hands: all done.

‘New jobs are always difficult. Let’s hope it works out this time.’

Meyer came round the corner. Old green anorak, sailor’s jumper, embarrassed expression on his face.

‘What the . . .?’

‘Hi, darling!’ Hanne Meyer called cheerily.

Beaming, oblivious to all else, Meyer walked up, kissed her on the lips.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

She indicated the bananas and the pills in Lund’s hands.

‘You left them in the car.’

‘Ah. . .’

Meyer shrugged.

She stroked his stubble, said, ‘Take care. Have a good day, you two.’

He watched her every inch of the way, smiling, entranced.

When she was out of his sight his face dropped, turned dead serious.

Meyer took the fruit and the pills from Lund and tucked a banana in each pocket like a gun. Retrieved one, aimed it down the corridor, went, ‘Kapow.’

‘Amazing,’ Lund said.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Let’s go.’

The campaign team was in place for the morning briefing. Eight workers, Rie Skovgaard running things. Hartmann left the Birk Larsen case till last.

‘The press might get hold of something,’ he finished. ‘But it’ll only be guesswork. We’re sending the personnel files to Lund. Let’s not get distracted. We’ve got more important work to do.’

‘Wait, wait, wait.’ Skovgaard waved at them to stay seated. ‘You’re saying they think it’s a teacher.’

Hartmann packed his papers into his briefcase.

‘That’s one theory.’

‘You know what that means, Troels? We’re back in the story again. The press will involve you anyway.’

‘It’s a police matter . . .’

‘You’re Mayor of Education. If it’s a teacher they’ll hold you accountable.’

She never gave up. Never would.

He sat down again, looked at her and asked, ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That we act first! Let’s read those files before Lund gets them. Check we didn’t screw up.’

‘How could we have screwed up?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t want any surprises. Besides . . . Imagine if we passed on some information that helped them find the man. We’d pick up some credit instead of the blame.’

Hartmann gazed at her.

‘Troels,’ she added, ‘if it’s a choice between losing votes and winning them it’s not much of a choice at all.’

‘Fine. Do it.’

When the team left she gave Hartmann his schedule for the day, went through it line by line, minute by minute. The last event was a photo opportunity about social integration. Bringing foreign groups into the community. About role models, the immigrants Hartmann’s team had picked to front the initiative.

‘Shall we have dinner afterwards?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ Hartmann said without a thought.

‘You can make time for me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Troels!’

‘Oh.’

There was so little time for anything. Hartmann took her in his arms, liked the way her face brightened then. He was about to kiss her when there was a knock on the door. One of the City Hall employees. A young man. He looked embarrassed at walking in on them.

‘You asked about some files? The schools?’

‘I’ll leave this to you,’ Hartmann said and left.

Skovgaard sat the civil servant in front of her, listed the ones she wanted. Staff records for Frederiksholm High. Contracts. Assessments. Any complaints.

He listened, said nothing.

‘Is this a problem?’

‘The city records are for your use as an official? Not for . . . politics? I’m sorry. I have to ask.’

‘No,’ Skovgaard said. ‘You don’t.’

‘But . . .’

‘Hartmann wants this done. Hartmann’s the Mayor of Education. So . . .’

He still didn’t budge.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Olav Christensen.’

‘Is this a problem, Olav? If it is say so. You’ve seen the polls, haven’t you? You know Troels Hartmann’s the next Lord Mayor?’

A thin, sarcastic smile.

‘It’s not my job to dabble in politics.’

‘No. It’s your job to do what you’re asked. So get on with it before I find someone else.’

In a small storeroom off the library, surrounded by books about English, about physics, about art, Lund and Meyer began talking to teachers one by one. About Nanna, about Lisa Rasmussen, Oliver Schandorff and Jeppe Hald. But mostly about themselves. What they did the previous weekend, a question Meyer asked while Lund watched, thinking, listening. Hunting for a flaw.

He ate a banana. Drank two bottles of water, smoked constantly. Consumed two packs of cheese crisps, against her orders. Looked at her between the endless procession of teachers. Said little. Didn’t need to.

There was nothing in these ordinary, decent, dedicated people. They were teachers. Nothing more. Or so it seemed.

Pernille Birk Larsen sat in the chilly kitchen, hands on the table they both made. Stared at Nanna’s bedroom door, the marks there, the arrows.

Knew now this had to be done.

Heard him downstairs, talking to the men. Low gruff voice. The boss.

Walked into her room. So much gone. Nanna’s books and diaries. The photos and notes had disappeared from the corkboard on the wall. The place stank from their chemicals, so strongly it overcame the waning fragrance of flowers. Their pens and brushes and markers stained the walls.

She fought to remember
before
.

Her daughter here, so full of life and energy.

Pernille sat on the bed, thinking.

This had to be done.
This had to be done.

She went to the small wardrobe, looked in.

The smell of Nanna lingered. A perfume, gentle and exotic. More sophisticated than Pernille recalled.

That lingering thought afflicted her again . . .
You never really knew her.

‘But I did,’ she said out loud. ‘I do.’

That morning the medical examiner’s office called. The body was to be released. A service was needed. A funeral. The last scene in the bleak extended ceremony of a violent and premature death.

In the bedroom, deep in the fragrances of the wardrobe, Pernille fought to remember the last time she chose Nanna’s clothes. Even as a child at primary school, seven or eight, she made that decision for herself. So bright, so pretty, so self-confident . . .

Later she’d walk round the house choosing her own. Take things from Pernille’s drawers. From Lotte’s when she stayed there.

Nothing constrained Nanna. She was her own person. Had been from the moment she could speak.

And now a mother had to choose the last thing her child would wear. A robe for a coffin. A gown for fire and ashes.

Her fingers reached out and fluttered through the flimsy fabrics. Through flowery prints and shirts, through shifts and jeans. They fell upon a long white dress, seersucker, Indian, brown buttons down the front. Cheap in a late summer sale since no one would want it for the cold winter.

No one except Nanna, who would wear these bright things rain or shine. Who never felt the cold. Never cried much. Never complained.

Nanna . . .

Pernille clutched the soft material to her face.

Looked at the floral smock next to it. Wished she could face anything in the world but this.