The Killing - 01 - The Killing (30 page)

Midday and she was in a bulging white nightdress and black cardigan.

Didn’t take long to get her talking about the accusation from the girl a few years back.

‘It’s a stupid old story,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Rektor Koch wrote a report.’

‘The kid made it up. She admitted it.’

‘We spoke to a man from the allotments at Dragør. The plumber.’

Kemal’s wife grimaced.

‘He saw your husband go out about half past nine on Friday night.’

‘He hates us. Doesn’t mind borrowing our hedge trimmer. I always have to ask for it back.’

Meyer asked himself: what would Lund do?

‘Did your husband go out?’

‘Yes. He drove to the petrol station.’

‘When did he get back?’

‘About fifteen minutes later, I suppose. I went to bed while he was out. I was very tired.’

‘I can imagine. When did you see him again?’

‘About three. I woke up. He was lying next to me.’

Meyer thought about Lund’s long pauses. That relentless, glittering stare.

He took off his anorak. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the gun on his hip.

‘So you didn’t see him between half past nine and three the next morning?’

‘No. But I’m sure he was there. He likes to read or watch TV.’

She smiled at him.

‘Do you have a wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know when she’s in the house? Can’t you feel . . . ?’

Meyer didn’t answer. Instead he said, ‘Were you there all weekend? While the floors were being sanded?’

‘That’s right. The workmen were being difficult.’

He got up, started walking round the room, checking out the building material.

Looking.

‘In what way?’

‘They didn’t turn up. Rama had to sand the floors himself. On Sunday he spent all day putting up new tiles in the bathroom.’

‘So he was gone all day Saturday and Sunday? Did he leave first thing?’

She hugged herself inside the cardigan.

‘I think you should go now.’

‘Was he gone from six in the morning until eight in the evening?’

The woman got up, got angry.

‘Why are you asking me these questions when you don’t believe a word I tell you? Please. Leave.’

Meyer got his jacket. Said, ‘OK.’

Forgive us our trespasses.

Pernille barely heard the Lord’s prayer, the one she’d listened to, recited since she was a girl.

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

All she saw was the shiny white wood. The flowers, the notes. The coffin that hid the truth. Inside . . .

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

Anton nudged her, asked in a clear, young voice, ‘Why doesn’t Dad have his hands together?’

Forever and ever.

‘Shush,’ she said, putting a finger to her lips.

‘Why don’t you?’ asked Emil, staring at her hands.

The boys were in their best clothes, fingertips pressed together.

Her eyes filled with tears. Her mind with such memories.

Amen.

The sound came first. The low gentle fluting of the organ. Then shapes slowly rose around her, one by one. Flowers in hand. Faces blank and numb. Relatives. People she half knew. Strangers . . .

Roses placed on the casket by pale, trembling fingers.

‘We’ve got something,’ Anton said. ‘Mum. We’ve got something too.’

He was the first of the family to stand. Theis the last, brought to his feet by Anton’s gentle touch. Together the four walked towards her.

Towards it.

White wood and roses. A fragrance to hide a stench.

When they got there the two boys linked hands, placed a small map on the coffin. The city. Its rivers and streets.

‘What’s that nonsense?’ Theis asked in a low furious voice. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s for Nanna,’ Emil said. ‘So when she flies past she can see where we live.’

By the casket, four of them, both bound and separated by emotions they could not name.

Anton crying, asked, ‘Are you cross, Dad?’

Are you cross?

Not an angry man. Not of late. Not since the children came along and made their lives whole.

She knew that. As did he.

And the boys, mostly.

‘No,’ Birk Larsen said, bending down to kiss both on their heads, taking their shoulders into his wide arms, holding them to him.

Pernille barely noticed. All she saw was the coffin. Her tears running down, salt stains on white wood.

His hand, rough callused fingers, reached out, entwined themselves in hers.

‘Theis . . . ?’ she whispered.

Pernille bent her head, puzzled how the single word her mind was forming could contain so much meaning, so much life and hurt and grief.

Looked into his coarse and grizzled face and said, ‘Now?’

A squeeze of the fingers, a nod of the head.

They walked down the aisle, past the lines of mourners. Past pupils and teachers, past neighbours and friends. Past the inquisitive policewoman who watched them at the door with glittering sad eyes.

Out into the wan daylight, leaving Nanna behind.

Hartmann was listening to the hourly newscasts now. Couldn’t stop himself. The police had put out another statement, as meaningless as most of the others. They had every available resource working on the case. Buchard, the pugnacious chief inspector, came on, sounding gruff and tetchy.

‘We’re following a lead but that’s all we can say.’

And then the weather.

Rie Skovgaard came in, said edgily, ‘My dad needs to see you.’

The debate with Bremer was an hour away. He pulled a tie out of the drawer, got up, tried it on in a mirror.

‘Busy?’ Kim Skovgaard asked taking a seat.

‘Never too busy for you.’

‘So you’re going to the debate? You’re going to talk about integration? Foreigners? Role models?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Rie’s worried about you, Troels.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘She’s a very smart woman. I’m not just saying that because she’s my daughter.’ He got up, came and put his hand on Hartmann’s arm. ‘You should listen to her more. But right now you should listen to me. Don’t talk about role models. Not tonight.’

‘Why?’

Skovgaard’s voice changed, became stern and impatient.

‘It’s enough that one of your cars is involved in the Birk Larsen case. Anything the papers have about you and immigrants will be dug out of the archives and thrown in your face. Save your love for dark faces till later. When it wins some votes, not loses them.’

‘And tonight?’

He straightened Hartmann’s tie.

‘Tonight you’ll focus on housing. On the environment.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

Skovgaard wasn’t smiling any more, and that was rare.

‘But it is. You don’t seem to understand. I’m telling you to do this. Not asking. There are people watching you. In this place. In Parliament. You will do what I say.’

Hartmann stayed silent.

‘It’s in your best interests. Everyone’s—’

‘But . . .’

‘I’m only trying to help my future son-in-law.’

He patted Hartmann’s arm. It was a condescending gesture. Meant that way.

‘You’ll get your reward, Troels. And it won’t be in heaven either.’

Hartmann and Rie Skovgaard were walking to the TV studio. What started as a discussion was boiling up into an argument.

‘You knew he was coming,’ he said. ‘You fixed that.’

She stared at him as if he were crazy.

‘No. Who do you think I am? Machiavelli? Dad was in the Rådhus. He turned up in front of my desk. What was I supposed to do?’

Hartmann wondered whether he believed her.

‘But you agree with him?’

‘Of course I do. It’s obvious. To everyone except you. When you see an iceberg you steer away from it. You don’t—’

‘I’m not your little puppet,’ Hartmann broke in. ‘Or your father’s.’

She stopped, threw up her hands in despair.

‘Do you want to get elected or not? There are no prizes for losers. All your fine ideals mean nothing if Poul Bremer marches back into office.’

‘That’s not the only issue.’

‘What is then?’

The producer was walking towards them.

Skovgaard beamed at him, turned soft and charming in an instant.

‘Not now, Troels,’ she hissed.

Lund found Meyer in the Memorial Yard, an open space on the ground floor of the Politigården. Quiet and solitary. A statue, the Snake Killer, good fighting evil. On one wall the names of a hundred and fifty-seven Danish police officers killed by the Nazis. On another a shorter list: those killed on duty more recently.

He was eyeing that wall, smoking anxiously.

‘What was he like?’ Lund asked.

Meyer jumped, surprised by her presence.

‘Who?’

‘Schultz.’

Hurt in his eyes. An accusation too.

‘You’ve been checking up on me?’

‘I looked through the press archive for Hartmann. I just thought . . .’

Four years before. She dimly remembered the case. An undercover narcotics cop in Aarhus was murdered by one of the gangs. Meyer was his partner. Sick on the day he was killed. His career had been shaky ever since.

‘He was an idiot,’ Meyer said. ‘Went off on his own. If he’d waited a day I’d have been back on duty.’

She nodded at the wall.

‘Then maybe there’d be two names there instead.’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘What is?’

‘We were a team. We did things together. Looked out for each other. That was part of the deal. He broke it.’

She said nothing.

‘Like me forgetting to buy you a hot dog. For which I apologize.’

‘Not quite the same.’

‘Yes, it is.’

He pulled a half-eaten banana from his pocket, bit at it between pulls on the cigarette.

‘Buchard wants to see us,’ she said.

Back in their office. An empty packet of crisps sat on the desk. Along with a sceptical Buchard.

‘Kemal leaves his wife to go and meet the girl. They have an argument in the flat,’ Meyer said.

Lund was on the phone.

‘He ties her up and drugs her. And drives home.’

Buchard propped his chin on his fist, stared at Meyer with his round, beady eyes. Said nothing.

‘On Saturday morning he claims the workman has cancelled. But really Kemal has cancelled him.’

Buchard made to say something.

‘The workman confirmed that,’ Meyer said quickly. ‘I tracked him down.’

Lund’s voice rose from the other side of the office.

‘There’s time, Mum. Stop panicking. I said I’d be there. Why won’t you believe me? OK?’

The call ended. She pulled a pack of Nicotinell out of her packet, eyed the cigarettes on the desk.

‘So,’ Meyer went on. ‘He returns to the flat and the girl. He waits for it to get dark. Then he picks up the car at the school, drives back, carries the girl to the car and goes off to the woods.’

Lund came over, sat down, listened.

Meyer was warming to his idea.

‘On Sunday he removes any traces, sands the floor and puts up tiles.’

‘I’m going,’ Lund said to Buchard. ‘Talk to you soon.’

Meyer waved a hand in the air.

‘Wait, wait,’ he cried. ‘What’s wrong with it? Share the secret with dumb little Jan. Please.’

The two of them watched him.

‘Please,’ he repeated.

‘How could he have driven Hartmann’s car?’ Lund asked.

Meyer struggled.

‘He probably found the keys at the school on Friday night.’

Meyer watched Lund, waiting. So did Buchard.

‘I don’t think he’s that stupid,’ she said. ‘In fact I think he’s very clever.’

‘Exactly,’ Meyer agreed.

‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t drag him in until you get some hard evidence.’

She smiled.

‘But it’s your case.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thanks for everything. It’s been really . . .’

The word seemed to elude her.

‘Really educational.’

He took her hand, shook it vigorously.

‘You can say that again.’