The Killing - 01 - The Killing (37 page)

‘Fine, Knud. Could we get to the point, please?’

‘You’re the point.’

Morten Weber’s prediction was accurate as usual. It was Henrik Bigum who spoke. A lean, unsmiling economics lecturer at the university, bald with the severe, ascetic face of a judgemental priest. Bigum had put himself forward for election to the city council and the Parliament on several occasions. Never got past the short list. An intelligent, committed man, but caustic in private and addicted to scheming.

‘Henrik. How nice to hear from you.’

The room was silent, tense.

Hartmann put down his pen, sat back in his chair.

‘OK. Let’s hear it.’

‘We’re all very fond of you,’ Bigum went on, as if pronouncing a death sentence. ‘Appreciative of the work you’ve done.’

‘I hear a but, Henrik.’

‘But lately your judgement and your honesty have been called into question.’

‘Bullshit. By whom? You?’

‘By events. The evidence suggests the teacher’s guilty. By not suspending him you give the impression you’re protecting the innocent when in fact you’re protecting yourself.’

Morten Weber asked, ‘Where’s this on the agenda?’

‘We’re beyond agendas. Secondly, Kemal’s file wasn’t handed over to the police at the outset.’

Bigum looked round the table, addressing the meeting now, not Troels Hartmann.

‘Why not? Does Troels have something to hide? Thirdly, confidential information has been leaked from this office. Very private information. Handed to people who can do us harm. We’re losing votes. We’re losing credibility. Our support in Parliament is fragmented and waning. Does it look as if you have the situation in hand, Troels? Not to me. Not to anyone.’

Hartmann stared at him across the gleaming table, laughed and asked, ‘Is that it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t expect you to possess the assassin’s skills of Poul Bremer, Henrik. But really . . . You abandoned your students for this?’

‘Isn’t it true? Everything, about the file, the police, the leaks from this place?’

‘No. Everything you say has been taken out of context. These problems are dealt with. You don’t need to worry—’

‘If Troels doesn’t withdraw his candidacy of his own accord,’ Bigum interrupted, ‘I propose a meeting be called for a vote of confidence.’

‘Are you serious?’ Hartmann.

‘I am.’

‘And who would stand in my place?’ Hartmann gazed at him, waiting for an answer. ‘Do you have any suggestions? I wonder—’

‘That we deal with when the need arises. You’re destroying what we’ve worked for—’

‘This is not your decision, Henrik!’ a lone female voice cried. ‘It’s not up to you.’

Elisabet Hedegaard, a nursery school teacher from Østebro.

Bigum took a moment to answer. This was an opportunistic stab in the back. Based on hope and the moment.

‘It’s in the constitution,’ he said. ‘Knud?’

‘According to the regulations,’ Padde said, pulling a copy out of his pocket, ‘a majority of votes allows it.’

‘What about the constituency?’ Hedegaard asked. ‘They chose Troels in the first place. They have a say.’

An old man Hartmann barely recognized snarled at her, ‘We’re looking for a solution to the problem, here. Some of us have been working for the party for decades. Not since yesterday . . .’

Hartmann sat back, stayed silent.

‘The constituency has a voice,’ the woman went on. ‘What you suggest will only make matters worse.’

‘They can be worse?’ Bigum asked. ‘We’ve got a candidate for Lord Mayor who’s embroiled in a murder investigation. With leaks from his office. Numerous highly questionable decisions—’

‘The constituency—’ Hedegaard went on.

‘The constituency decides whether Troels is fit to stand as a councillor,’ Padde broke in. ‘It’s up to us to say who leads the campaign.’

‘I propose . . .’ Henrik Bigum began.

Theis and Pernille Birk Larsen turned up at headquarters just after two. Lund pulled out photos of some of the items from the lock-up. Meyer stood behind her, watching closely.

‘I need you to tell me if you recognize any of these things,’ she said.

A khaki rucksack.

Nothing.

A red notebook with a distinctive leaf pattern on the cover and a felt-tip pen.

‘No,’ the mother said.

The mattress with the teddy bear and the blue sleeping bag.

Theis Birk Larsen stared at the items.

Lund looked at him, looked at the photograph. Next to the mattress was a cup half full with orange juice. An uneaten biscuit on a plate. A bowl with the remains of what looked like curry. An ashtray with several stubbed-out cigarettes.

‘Nanna didn’t smoke,’ he said. ‘She always nagged me about it.’

Lund passed over a close-up of the teddy bear and a key ring. Two keys, and a plastic design of clover leaves and flowers.

‘You’ve already got her keys, haven’t you?’ Pernille said.

‘We thought there might be a second set.’

‘I’ve never seen any of this.’

Then the yellow top with the bloodstain and a brand logo.

Pernille Birk Larsen’s eyes opened wide, never left the photo.

‘I think she’s got one like that,’ she said, still staring at the yellow fabric and the bloodstain on the left side, close to the zip at the waist.

‘You’re sure?’ Lund asked quickly. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘Like it,’ Pernille said, nodding.

‘Thanks.’

Lund took the photos away.

‘Where’s he now?’ Birk Larsen asked. ‘The teacher?’

‘He’s in custody,’ Lund said. ‘He’s under arrest until we’ve finished our investigation.’

He got up. Black jacket, red boiler suit.

‘What do you know?’ Pernille persisted.

‘We can’t go into details—’ Meyer began.

‘I’m her mother,’ the woman cried. ‘I have the right—’

‘We can’t go into—’

Lund interrupted.

‘Apparently she went to his flat after the party. Maybe they had a relationship. We’re not sure. She was taken somewhere. Perhaps this place. Then driven out to the woods.’

Meyer was grumbling wordlessly behind her.

‘Thanks,’ Birk Larsen said.

‘Thanks,’ the woman echoed.

There was nothing more. They left. Meyer sat in the corner of the office, smoking.

After a while he said, ‘Lund?’

She was looking at the photos again. They had a potential ID of an item of clothing. It was the hardest piece of information they possessed.

‘Lund?’

She met his gaze. Two days’ stubble, big ears, glassy round eyes.

‘That,’ Meyer said, shaking his miserable head, ‘was wrong.’

Buchard listened to Lund’s report and shook his head.

‘The mother identified the shirt,’ Lund said.

‘It’s a kid’s top,’ Buchard complained. ‘Millions like it. Forensics found nothing to suggest it was Nanna’s.’

‘The blood—’

‘We haven’t got the results yet.’

‘There’s enough evidence.’

Meyer watched in silence.

‘Like what?’ Buchard asked.

‘Like a witness who saw Kemal carry something to his car.’

‘No,’ Buchard said. ‘The only evidence you have is an inconclusive phone call.’

‘And the fact that he lied!’

‘If we charged everyone who lied to us half of Denmark would be in jail. Any judge with half a spine’s going to tear us to pieces with this shit. Find Mustafa Akkad. Clear this up one way or the other. Or I’ll get someone who can.’

Theis Birk Larsen went out to cost a job for the week ahead. Pernille hung round in the arcades outside police headquarters then, when he’d driven off, talked her way back inside.

She confronted Lund in her office.

‘Why haven’t you arrested him?’

‘We don’t have enough evidence.’

‘How much do you need?’ she yelled. ‘You said she was at his flat. At the party. In the garage.’

‘We’re still looking.’

‘And if you don’t find more? After everything—’

‘I told you,’ Lund said. ‘We’re still working on the case. We’re making progress. I understand—’

‘Don’t tell me you understand.’ She stood there rigid, determined, right hand raised, finger wagging, like a teacher, like a mother. ‘Don’t do that. Do not tell me you understand.’

Back home. Back at the sink, manically washing dishes that didn’t need washing, wiping surfaces that were already clean.

He’d returned, sat at the table, saying nothing. In their small quarter of Vesterbro he was a king of a kind. The man the neighbours asked for help when there were problems with tearaways. Even the immigrants would knock on the door sometimes and beg Theis Birk Larsen for advice. When Nanna was tiny, five or six or seven, she’d seized an Indian kid and made the bright-eyed little waif her first boyfriend.

Amir.

Pernille remembered the two of them together, hand in hand, giggling as she rode them down the street in the box of the Christiania trike. Remembered the way Theis dealt with a couple of local thugs who picked on Amir too. Not gently. It wasn’t his way. But it worked.

Amir he defended. The boy was still in a picture on the table, in the scarlet box of the Christiania trike.

Nanna . . .

‘They’ll get him,’ he said finally. ‘In the end.’

‘You know about these things?’

She glared at him as she stacked the plates.

‘They never found enough evidence for you, did they? Not for everything . . .’

His face fell, became fierce.

Birk Larsen got up from the table, confronted her.

‘Did I fail you? Am I a poor husband?’ His eyes were sly again, but full of pain. ‘A bad father?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you of all people know the police don’t find everything they ought to. Don’t ask me to believe in them.’

He put his hands on her waist. She wriggled from him.

Birk Larsen cursed, got his leather jacket, put it on.

‘I’m going over to the house.’

‘Do that.’

She started washing the boys’ dishes again.

‘Go back to your stupid house and hide.’

‘What?’

‘It’s what you do when things get difficult. Isn’t it? Run away.’

She put down the dishes, pulled off her gloves, faced him, discovered a savage thrill in her own courage, found words she’d never dared speak before.

‘That’s what you did with Nanna.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘When she wanted to talk. You never had time. Then you’d go. Down into the garage. Down to talk to Vagn. Isn’t that right?’

‘No.’ He took a step towards her. ‘It isn’t.’

Pernille picked up the plates from the table, tidied them away. The boys were out with Lotte. She was glad of that.

‘Why did she have so many secrets? Why didn’t we know about her life?’

‘Because she was nineteen years old! Did you want your parents knowing what you did then? Besides . . . You two stuck together like glue . . .’

‘Because you weren’t around.’

A roar like a lion, fury and pain.

‘I was working. Paying for her school. Paying for all this. You were the one who let her do what she wanted. Go out at night, come back God knows when, never say who with or why.’

‘Not me, not me.’

‘Yes you. It didn’t bother you at all.’

Tears in her eyes. Anger in her face.

‘How can you say that? How
dare
you say that? I couldn’t sleep until she was home.’

‘That helped.’

‘At least I didn’t take it out on her.’

‘And look where we are now.’

He waved a hand around the empty kitchen.

‘Look at this,’ Theis Birk Larsen said. ‘This . . .’

But she was gone, back into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

He ate his sandwiches at his desk. Didn’t want to leave the garage. Didn’t want to work.

Vagn Skærbæk came in. Black cap, scarlet overalls, usual jaunty walk, silver chain round his neck.

‘Rudi and I are going to the house. Are you coming?’

Birk Larsen huddled over the desk and the uneaten food, a cigarette in his fist. He shook his head. ‘Is there something I can do, Theis?’

Birk Larsen stubbed out his cigarette in the bread. Skærbæk pulled up a chair, put his elbows on the table.

‘You know how much she meant to me, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You and Pernille. The boys. Nanna. You’ve been my family. I hate seeing all this.’

Birk Larsen watched him.

‘It isn’t fair, Theis.’