The Killing - 01 - The Killing (33 page)

Instead he walked to the water. Stared at the waves.

‘I’m sorry . . .’

They never lost the accent completely. Never shrugged off who they were.

‘My wife’s waiting for me.’

Words. Where were the words?

‘She’s pregnant. I don’t want her to worry. Maybe I should call and tell her . . .’

Another cigarette in Birk Larsen’s fist. Barely touched. But now he raised it to his lips, dragged the harsh smoke into his lungs. Wished it would spread from there, fill his big body. Make him nothing. Invisible. Gone.

Words.

They should be about her. About no one else. Always.

‘Nanna was a stargazer. Did you know that?’

The teacher shook his head.

‘That’s what they call it when you look up when you’re born. See your mother’s eyes. See something else. The sky.’

So many memories. A jumble of images and sounds. A child is a child. Its life flows like a river, never stopping, never fixed.

‘We said she’d be an astronaut. Parents say . . .’ He pulled on the cigarette again. ‘We say such stupid things. Make stupid promises we’re never going to keep.’

The teacher nodded. As if he knew.

Birk Larsen threw the cigarette into the water. Shrugged. Looked back at the van.

‘She liked going to school, didn’t she?’

‘Very much so.’

Stamped his feet in the damp cold.

‘I wasn’t any good at school. Got into trouble. But Nanna was . . .’

Memories.

‘Nanna was different. Better than me.’

There was a look on the teacher’s dark face. The one they show parents.

‘She was a very able student.’

‘Able?’

‘Hard working.’

‘And she was fond of you, wasn’t she?’

Memories. They burned like acid.

The man was silent.

‘She told us about your lessons.’

Birk Larsen took a step towards him.

‘People are talking about you, teacher.’

He was sweating. It wasn’t rain.

‘No matter what you’ve heard . . .’ He shook his head. Didn’t move. ‘I can assure you. Nanna was my student. I would never . . .’

Birk Larsen waited.

‘Never what, teacher?’

‘I would never hurt her.’

Closer. His breath was sweet. Not mints. Something exotic.

‘So why are people talking?’

Quickly, ‘I don’t know.’

Birk Larsen nodded.

Waited.

A long time. Then the teacher said, a touch angry, ‘I didn’t touch her. I never would. This is all a misunderstanding.’

‘Misunder—’

‘I’m going to be a father!’

Two men by the Øresund’s cold expanse.

One walked to the van. Turned on the engine. Looked back at the tall hunched figure caught in the headlights by the water’s edge.

Meyer hung on the phone, getting nowhere. Skærbæk was turning ugly in the corner. Pernille Birk Larsen had had enough.

‘Do you get a kick out of this?’ the woman stormed at them. ‘You come to my daughter’s funeral. I don’t know what you think but . . .’

Keen, smart eyes turned on Lund.

‘Theis hasn’t done anything.’

Skærbæk leaned back against the office door, lit a cigarette.

‘I believe he has,’ Lund said.

Meyer came off the phone.

‘There’s no one at the harbour. They’ve looked everywhere.’

‘Try the other warehouses.’

‘Done what?’ Pernille Birk Larsen demanded. ‘You people—’

There was a sound. Lund looked, wondered about Meyer’s weapon. He always had it.

The sliding door was moving upwards. Meyer was still on the phone.

Theis Birk Larsen walked in. Sharp black suit. Ironed white shirt. Black tie.

Looked at them. Cops first. Skærbæk. Then Pernille.

‘Are the kids asleep?’ he asked.

Lund couldn’t stop staring.

‘Where’s Kemal?’

Birk Larsen’s massive head lolled from side to side. There was something in his narrow, sly eyes she couldn’t interpret, hard as she tried.

‘I think he took a taxi.’

Lund glanced at Meyer. Pointed to his phone.

Birk Larsen walked for the stairs. His wife stopped him, asked, ‘Where’ve you been, Theis? Two hours . . .?’

‘It’s not so late.’ He nodded at the apartment. ‘I’d like to read them a story.’

‘Wait. Wait!’ Lund called.

He walked off, out of view.

Meyer got off the line.

‘Kemal just called his wife. He’s on his way home.’

Pernille Birk Larsen glared at them both, shook her head, swore, stomped off. There was just Skærbæk then. Silver chain at the neck. Giving them the fuck-you punk look of a teenager.

‘Call off the search,’ Meyer barked down the phone. ‘Bring Kemal down to the station as soon as you can.’

He pocketed his mobile. Followed her outside.

‘Well,’ Meyer said. ‘What the hell was that about?’

Lund called Sweden.

‘This is Bengt Rosling. I can’t take your call right now. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.’

Best voice, trying not to sound apologetic because she wasn’t. Not really.

‘Hi, it’s me. You must be busy welcoming the guests.’

All this she said while she was taking off her jacket, throwing it onto a chair in the corner of the office, scanning the documents on the desk.

Her desk?

Meyer’s?

Didn’t know. Didn’t care. The documents mattered. Nothing else.

‘I wish I could be there, Bengt.’

There hadn’t been much new since the afternoon.

‘The thing is . . . something came up in the case.’

Meyer walked in.

‘I’m really, really sorry. Give everyone my best . . .’

She took a seat at the desk. It still felt hers. Rifled for her pens, her papers. Her place here.

‘Tell them . . .’

He’d moved things. Her things. She felt a flicker of annoyance.

‘It’s a shame. But well . . .’

Meyer stood with his hands on the back of the opposite chair. Staring at her, open-mouthed.

‘I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’

Phone down, more sifting through the papers.

‘Is he ready for questioning?’ Lund asked.

‘Look, look.’ He seemed more amazed than angry. ‘You can’t do this. I don’t know what you think—’

‘I think you’re right, Meyer.’

‘I am?’ he brightened. ‘Oh great.’

‘It isn’t working. So I’ve decided to stay until the case is solved.’

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t make sense going back and forth between here and Sweden. It’s a mess. The Swedish police say—’

‘Stop this, Lund.’

With his sticky-out ears and bright, hurt eyes Meyer suddenly looked very young.

‘This is my case now. You’re not staying here. End of story. We’re done. The girl visited him on Friday night. Once he’s admitted that I’m charging him.’

Lund took one last look at the files, picked up a couple, stood up.

‘Let’s hope he confesses then. Shall we go?’

‘Oh no.’

Meyer stood in the way.

‘I’m doing the questioning.’

‘Don’t make me talk to Buchard, Meyer.’

He bristled.

‘I’m being nice here. You can sit in if you like.’

Kemal was at the table, black tie pulled down. Exhausted. Nervous.

Meyer sat on his left. Lund opposite.

‘Want a coffee or a tea?’ Meyer asked, throwing his files on the table.

He did all the policeman voices. Threatening. Sympathetic. Neutral now and calm.

The teacher poured himself a glass of water. Lund leaned over, shook his hand, said, ‘Hi.’

‘You’re not under arrest,’ Meyer recited from memory, ‘but you have the same rights as someone who has been accused. You have the right to a lawyer.’

‘I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll answer your questions.’

The teacher looked at Lund.

‘There’s something you should know.’

They watched him. Sweating. Trying to find the courage to say something. This didn’t happen often, Lund thought.

‘Last Friday I was supervising the Halloween party at school. My shift ended at eight thirty. I drove home to pick up my wife.’

She wondered what had happened in the van with Birk Larsen. What difference that might have made.

‘We went to our house on the allotment. About nine thirty I realized we had forgotten to bring coffee. So I drove to the petrol station.’

Making it up, she thought. You are making this up.

‘On the way back I remembered the workman was coming on Saturday. I drove back to the flat to clear things out of the way.’

Meyer shuffled forward on the table.

‘Just after ten the doorbell rang. It was Nanna.’

They waited.

‘She wanted to return some books I’d lent her. She was only there for two minutes.’

Meyer leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head.

‘That’s it,’ Kemal said and finished the glass of water.

‘She came round to return some books?’ Meyer asked.

‘School books?’ Lund wondered.

‘No, my own books. Karen Blixen. She seemed to want to give them back to me right then. I don’t know why. I was surprised.’ He shrugged. ‘I just took them.’

‘On a Friday night?’ Meyer asked. ‘At ten o’clock?’

‘She was always looking for something to read.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I know I should have told you this before.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Lund demanded.

He looked at his hands, not at them.

‘There was an incident with another student. A few years ago. A false accusation. I was scared you’d think—’

‘Think what?’ Lund asked.

‘Think I’d had some kind of relationship with Nanna.’

Dark eyes met hers.

‘I didn’t,’ he said.

‘That’s it?’ Lund asked.

‘That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say.’

Hartmann’s car roamed the bars for a while, him in the back, phone off, radio off.

‘It’s got to be around here somewhere,’ he told the driver.

A sign he remembered. A name.

‘There! There!’

It was an old pub. Noisy. Busy. Full of men who’d taken on too much beer. Bottles on the table. Clouds of cigarette smoke in the air.

Hartmann strolled through the dark bar. Found Morten Weber finally, head back on his shoulders, curly hair grubby, all over the place.

There were six men around the table. Working steadily at their drinks. Saying nothing.

Hartmann stood in front of them, held up the plastic bag. Weber groaned, got up, came over.

The insulin was delivered to the campaign office. The place where Weber seemed to live.

‘I saw you on TV,’ he said, taking it.

The glass in his hand was whisky. Hartmann could smell it. The last in a long line he thought.

‘You don’t have time to play doctor, Troels.’

‘Rie thinks you’re sick. She doesn’t know you so well. Yet.’

Bleary-eyed, Morten Weber tried to smile.

‘I’m allowed one drunk day a month. It’s in my contract, isn’t it?’

‘Why this one?’

‘Because you yelled at me.’

‘You asked for it.’

‘Because I needed some time out of that marble prison. To think without you or her or some damned minion getting in my face. Besides . . .’

There was an expression he didn’t recognize on Weber’s sad, lined face. Bitterness, Hartmann realized.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t listen to me any more. Does she know you’re here? Your new consort?’

He knocked back the drink. Went to sit at an empty table cuddling his glass. Hartmann took the bench opposite.

‘You haven’t even suspended the teacher yet, have you?’ Weber said. ‘From what I’ve heard you’re right. But what does Kirsten Eller think?’

Hartmann said nothing.

‘Has she dumped you yet, Troels? Or is she waiting till tomorrow? What’s Rie’s advice there? Go running to her? Go begging? Give her what she wants? That teacher’s head on a plate?’

‘I need you two to work together.’

‘Oh do you? Just because you brought me some insulin it doesn’t . . .’ His speech was slurred. His thoughts seemed clear. ‘It doesn’t make everything all right.’

Hartmann pulled his coat around him, ready to leave.