The Killing - 01 - The Killing (27 page)

‘Rama picked me up at half past eight. We drove out there.’

‘Let me get this straight . . .’

A lot bigger, Lund realized.

‘You and your husband spent the weekend at your allotment?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. I thought you might know something about the party at school.’

‘Nothing, sorry.’

Lund walked towards the window. Felt her shoe stub against something. A roll of carpet. What looked like some blinds.

A black circle of plastic was curled on the floor. She bent down, picked it up. Thought of Nanna in the back of her car. Ankles tied. Wrists tied. By something like this.

Meyer said they used them in gardens. To secure building material too. For lots of things.

Lund took out an evidence bag, dropped in the tie.

‘Do you want to talk to him again?’ the woman asked.

‘Not at the moment,’ Meyer said, packing his notebook.

Lund came back and asked, ‘Can I use the toilet?’

‘Through there. I’ll show you—’

‘No need. I’ll find it.’

‘Your first child?’ Meyer asked.

‘Yes.’

Lund walked on. Still heard them.

‘It’s a girl.’

Meyer’s voice brightened.

‘A girl! Really! That’s great. And you know too. Did you want to? Me, I like surprises . . .’

Plastic sheeting everywhere. A set of coat hooks. A painting.

‘I could give you some good tips if you’re interested.’ Meyer’s voice sounded cheery. ‘The first few months . . . You need to make him work.’

Lund heard her laugh.

‘You don’t know my husband. He’ll work. I won’t need to ask.’

Very quietly Lund walked into the bedroom. Clothes. Photos. Rama younger, bare-chested, smiling in what looked like a swimming team. Army insignia behind. A military pool perhaps. Good-looking man. Fit and muscular. A calendar. A school timetable.

Lund looked in the en suite bathroom. New sink, new toilet. Bare walls. There was another room. The sign on the door said ‘Nursery’.

It was dark. Just enough light from the street to see. Junk in the corner. Men’s toys. A sports kite. A speedboat.

By the window a pair of men’s hiking boots. She picked them up, looked at the sole, felt the mud there, rubbed it between her fingers.

Thought of the canal and the woods. And Dragør close by.

There was a bottle on an upturned box. White label, brown glass. Lund picked it up, made a note.

A cross voice behind said, ‘You walked past the toilet.’

The bottle went back. The bag with the tie she slid into her pocket.

‘Thanks,’ Lund said and went straight back to the hall. Then took Meyer outside.

Rektor Koch was in Hartmann’s office, Rie Skovgaard and Morten Weber listening.

‘They suspect one of our teachers,’ she said. ‘You need to tell me what to do.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hartmann asked.

‘They called me just now. Asking questions. They seem to know—’

‘Know what? We’ve an agreement with the police. They’ll talk to us first.’

‘They seem to know something.’ She squirmed on the seat. ‘I don’t want any damage. We’ve had enough bad publicity as it is. Should I suspend him?’

‘Have they taken anyone in for questioning?’

‘They’re going to. A particular teacher. There was an old incident.’

‘What incident?’ Skovgaard cut in. ‘I checked the files. There was nothing there.’

‘It was . . . unproven,’ Koch insisted. ‘But it was on the files. I wrote it myself. Nonsense on the part of a stupid girl. The teacher was innocent I’m sure. The police only started to look at him because he was Nanna’s form tutor.’

Hartmann asked, ‘So that’s why they’re interested?’

‘What other reason could there be?’

No answer.

Koch looked at the two of them.

‘I’ve explained the situation to you. I’ve done my duty. It’s your responsibility if the police or the newspapers come looking—’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Hartmann said with a wave of his hand. ‘Give me his name. I’ll talk to the police. I’m sure this is nothing.’

He got a pen.

‘His name is Rama. We call him that. His full name is Rahman Al Kemal.’

She spelled it out. Hartmann started writing. Stopped.

‘And he’s a teacher at Frederiksholm?’

‘I just told you.’

‘And they’re asking about him?’

An impatient sigh.

‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’

He looked at Skovgaard. She frowned, shook her head.

‘Is something wrong?’ Koch asked.

‘No. I just wanted to be sure. Will you . . .?’ He looked at her. ‘Please step outside. Help yourself to a coffee. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

He closed the door. Skovgaard got up.

‘What’s going on here?’ Morten Weber asked.

‘I just shook hands with a role model called Rama,’ Hartmann said. ‘At the youth club.’

‘What?’

Weber glared at Skovgaard.

‘He met a teacher from that school? And you didn’t know?’

‘I didn’t see a teacher’s name on the list. I went through every file myself. Troels wouldn’t have been in the same room if I thought there was something wrong.’

‘But there is something wrong!’ Weber cried.

‘Every single file, Morten!’

Hartmann watched them, torn, not wanting to take sides.

‘Who gave you the files?’ Weber asked.

Skovgaard swore under her breath.

‘One of the civil servants in administration.’

Weber threw up his hands in exasperation.

‘I told you!’

‘They gave me the files. I looked at them. What else was I supposed to do? What . . .?’

Weber was on his feet, red-faced, screaming.

‘You could come to me, Rie. You could ask a question once in a while. Instead of marching off and doing whatever comes into your vapid little head—’

‘Morten,’ Hartmann intervened. ‘Calm down.’

‘Calm down? Calm down?’ He pointed to the door. ‘I’ve spent twenty years working these corridors. She comes from selling soap powder, spends ten minutes here and thinks she knows it all—’

‘Morten!’ Hartmann’s voice silenced him. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Yeah, Troels. It’s enough.’ Weber got hold of his bag. Stuffed in his papers with a shaking hand. ‘Let’s face it. If this election’s going to be run from between your bedsheets there’s not much room for me—’

Hartmann was on him, furious, fist in his face.

‘I don’t care how long I’ve known you. I won’t take that. Get out of here. Go home.’

Weber did that. No more speeches. No more hurled insults. Picked up his bag and left.

Rie Skovgaard watched.

Then when Weber had left said thanks.

‘I should have listened to him though,’ Hartmann said. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘I guess,’ she agreed.

The car back from Østerbro.

‘We need to check his past,’ Lund said. ‘He hasn’t always been a teacher. Check his allotment and his alibi.’

She pulled out the plastic evidence bag.

‘This goes to the lab. He’s got a bottle of ether. I wrote down the brand name. Find out if it’s the same kind that was found on the girl.’

Meyer wasn’t happy. For a change.

‘With all that evidence why didn’t we wait until he got home? Now he can get rid of everything.’

Her phone was ringing. Hartmann was in the contacts list by now. She could see it was him.

Lund passed the mobile to Meyer.

‘It’s Poster Boy. You talk to him. He probably wants to complain.’

‘Not the only one, Lund. What time’s your plane tomorrow? Do you need a lift to Kastrup?’

Bedtime stories. Pernille reading. The boys in their pyjamas, chests against the soft duvets, elbows on the bed, waggling their feet.

‘Is Nanna in the coffin?’ Anton asked when she closed the book.

Pernille nodded, tried to smile.

‘Is she going to be an angel?’

A long wait.

‘Yes. She is.’

Bright baffled faces gazed at her.

‘Tomorrow we say goodbye to Nanna. Then—’

‘Some of the children at school are saying things.’

Anton’s feet moved a little faster.

‘What sort of things?’

‘Someone killed her.’

Emil added, ‘And there was a man who did something bad.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Some children in the class.’

She took their hands, gently squeezed their small fingers, looked into their sparkling eyes. Could think of nothing to say.

Five minutes later they were tucked up and quiet. She heard Theis moving, went downstairs. The garage was filled with furniture. Rented tables and chairs. He stacked and moved some, picked up more in one hand than most men could with two.

‘The boys wanted to say goodnight.’

He heaved a table across the room.

‘I had to get on with this.’

‘They hear things at school.’

Nothing.

Pernille’s hand went to her neck.

‘I said it was the bogeyman.’

A trellis table. More chairs.

‘Theis. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to take them to the funeral. I mean . . .’

He didn’t listen, didn’t turn to look at her.

‘They should say goodbye, I know. But there’ll be so many people.’

A box of plastic plates and cutlery. He wiped his brow.

‘I don’t know how you and I will . . .’

The table he’d moved from right to left he now moved back where it came from.

‘Would you please stop doing that?’

He put it down, looked at her in silence.

In the pocket of the blue checked shirt his phone trilled.

Birk Larsen listened.

‘I’ll find out more from Jannik tomorrow,’ Vagn Skærbæk said. ‘The woman hasn’t heard anything new. I’ll try.’

‘OK.’

‘So you need any help tonight?’

‘No. See you tomorrow.’

When he came off the phone the garage was empty. He watched Pernille walk up the stairs. Then went back to moving tables, stacking chairs.

Mark seemed animated. As if he saw an opportunity.

‘So if we’re not going—’

‘We are going,’ Lund insisted. ‘Bengt is having a house-warming party.’

Her mother was ironing. She was packing clothes, throwing them into an empty suitcase, squashing them down with her palms and elbows, ready to sit on the thing if need be.

‘What if—?’

‘Mark! There’s no what if. We leave tomorrow. Gran’s coming with us for a few days. That’s it—’

Her phone rang. Bengt. Sounding anxious.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Lund told him. ‘Under control. We’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ve almost finished packing . . .’

She covered the mouthpiece, mouthed at Mark, ‘Pack!’

Then listened, heard a sound at the door. Vibeke answered. Lund looked. Troels Hartmann was standing there in a black winter coat looking every inch the politician.

Bengt said something she didn’t quite hear.

‘Of course I’m listening,’ Lund said.

She took the call into the other room, watched as Vibeke got Hartmann folding a long tablecloth for the new house.

In Sweden.

The new life.

‘Bengt,’ Lund said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

When she came back into the room Vibeke was asking him, ‘So are you the coroner?’

‘No,’ Hartmann said, holding the long white piece of cotton.

‘You’ve never folded a good tablecloth before,’ Vibeke told him, shaking her head. ‘I can see that. Look—’

‘Mum. I don’t think Troels Hartmann has time for that.’

Vibeke’s mouth fell open.

‘Hartmann?’ She looked him up and down. ‘You’re different on the posters.’

In the kitchen, the two of them alone, he shook his head, like a man disappointed.

‘You promised you’d keep me informed.’

‘I didn’t promise anything.’

She got a slice of bread, plastered on some butter and cheese, bit into it while he rambled angrily.

‘You’re looking at one of my teachers now. I had to hear about that from the school.’

Mouth half full, she asked him, ‘Why did you tell your people not to give us Kemal’s file? Where’s the cooperation there?’

He shook his head, said nothing.

‘We asked for all the files. On all the teachers, Hartmann. Why didn’t we get his?’