The Killing - 01 - The Killing (43 page)

‘It’s a garage,’ he said. ‘What do you expect? They hand in the keys once they’ve parked. They pick them up when they leave.’

There was a board behind him. Full of key rings. A driver came and asked for a car. The man got up, stretched out the half-moon glasses with his left hand so he could read the numbers. A long way. To the end of his sharp nose.

‘You need to see an optician,’ she said trying to be friendly.

He handed the driver a set, glared at her, sat down, said nothing.

‘So the key to the stolen car should have been hanging there?’

‘If it hadn’t been stolen.’

‘Who’s responsible for filling up the cars?’

‘Whoever’s driving them, I guess. I don’t deal with that side of things.’

‘And is that always entered in the log?’

He didn’t like that question.

‘I can’t speak for the electoral candidates. Talk to them.’

Lund hesitated, looked at him. Stood where she was.

‘I’m talking to you.’

Then she walked into his office, placed the vehicle log in front of him.

‘This is the log we took from here. Explain it to me. Does it mean no one filled the car?’

‘You’re supposed to stay outside the glass.’

‘You’re a city employee. You’re supposed to help the police. Tell me about the log.’

‘Doesn’t mean a thing,’ the man said. ‘Drivers don’t fill them in straight away. They wait till they’ve got time. Sometimes they don’t fill them in at all.’

He peered at the entries.

‘This driver never came back here. So he never filled in the log. Where’s the surprise? Can I go back to my work now?’

He messed with his glasses again, peered at her.

‘Unless you have some more questions?’

She walked out of the office, went to the door. Looked outside at the monochrome winter day.

No one helped the police much. They were an enemy of a kind. Even in the bowels of City Hall.

Lund went back and stood outside the glass as she was supposed to. He was still fidgeting with his spectacles, nervously it seemed to her.

‘How do the drivers pay for petrol?’

He pressed the button for his mike.

‘What?’

‘How do the drivers pay for petrol?’

He thought about this.

‘There’s a charge card in the car. Look. This isn’t anything to do with us—’

‘We didn’t find any charge card. What kind is it?’

‘I don’t know. We’re security. We don’t handle money. Now if you’ll excuse—’

‘I understand that. But you can look it up. See which petrol stations they usually use.’

‘You want me to look it up?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘And then I’ll let you get back to work.’

He sat on his little seat, miserable pale face, fingers playing with his glasses.

‘I promise,’ she said.

The details were in a book in front of him. He scribbled on a piece of paper and passed them under the glass.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘Not right now, thanks.’

Meyer and his men were at the school wearing hard hats, looking at the building site that was to become the new wing.

‘Talk to all the workers,’ he ordered. ‘Find out what time they arrived. When they left. Anything they saw. When you’ve done that talk to the cleaners. After that—’

His phone rang.

Lund.

‘Are you coming to the school or what? We’ve got plenty to do here.’

‘There was a charge card for the car. I don’t have the card but I’ve got the number.’

A pause. The sound of traffic. He could see her juggling the phone, some papers, trying to drive, all at the same time.

‘That Friday it was used at seven twenty-one in the evening. Petrol station on Nyropsgade.’

‘Where?’

‘Two minutes from City Hall.’

Meyer said nothing.

‘We’ll get hold of the surveillance tapes,’ Lund said.

‘We should do what Buchard tells us.’

She didn’t answer.

‘Can’t you do this on your own?’ he asked, and felt bad the moment he’d said it.

‘Sure,’ she replied in that lilting sing-song tone she could turn on and off at will. ‘If you like.’

Then she was gone.

The men were looking at him.

Meyer threw the nearest his hard hat.

‘You know what you need to do,’ he said.

‘Going somewhere?’ the man asked.

‘I’ll be back at headquarters if you need me.’

The days were shortening. It was dark just after four.

Pernille Birk Larsen found herself alone in the office, fending off phone calls from irate customers, the media, strangers with odd offers of help.

The bank manager had been on the phone asking for financial information. So she’d been forced to find the key to Theis’s private files to look for some missing bank statements. There was a picture in there: Theis and Nanna. Probably taken just a few weeks before, she guessed. He wore his black woollen hat and the guileless smile she loved. Nanna was beautiful, arm round her father’s shoulders as if protecting him. Not the other way round. The way it was supposed to be.

She turned it over. A scribble on the back in Nanna’s handwriting:
Love you!

Pernille had never seen this photo. One more secret of Nanna’s. And her father’s. Nanna was always messing around in places she wasn’t allowed. She took Pernille’s clothes sometimes without asking. Hunted in other people’s drawers for things she might want. It caused an argument from time to time. Never a serious one. They didn’t have those. In some ways she wondered if they ever really connected with Nanna at all. Perhaps that was the inevitable distance brought about by her death. Perhaps . . .

Nanna was a curious kid, always looking for something new. Maybe she looked down here at Theis’s private things too.

He wouldn’t like that, Pernille thought. There was a side to him he wanted to keep to himself. She’d seen it the previous night. A huge, savage figure holding a sledgehammer over a bleeding figure on the floor of that distant warehouse. A man she loved, one she scarcely recognized at that moment.

A noise in the darkness of the garage made her jump. Vagn Skærbæk came out of the shadows. He looked guilty, furtive. There was a cut on his face and some bruising.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She put the photo away, looked up at him. Could think of nothing to say.

He stood hunched in his scarlet overalls, black woollen hat. The little brother. They’d known each other before she met Theis. Before she took the risk, felt the thrill of being with a man like him. The silver chain glittered at Skærbæk’s neck.

‘It was my idea,’ Skærbæk said. ‘Blame me. Not him.’

Pernille closed her eyes briefly, went back to the papers.

‘Is he still inside?’

There was a pile of invoices. Some statements in red. She opened a drawer and brushed them inside with her hand.

‘I can manage this, Pernille. Let me help you with the business. With the boys. I’ll do whatever I can. I just . . .’

More papers. More bills. They seemed to be growing in front of her.

‘I just want to help.’

Pernille strode up and slapped him on his cut, bruised face. As hard as she could.

He didn’t flinch. Just put a hand up to his cheek. The wound had reopened with the blow. He wiped the blood away.

‘How could you do that?’ she asked. ‘How could you?’

He swept away more blood with his hand, looked at her oddly.

‘Theis thought he was doing it for you.’

‘For me?’

‘If it had been him, Pernille. If it was the teacher. What would he be now? Your hero? Or an idiot?’

She drew back her hand again. He didn’t move.

‘I shouldn’t have told him,’ Skærbæk said. ‘I did my best to stop it. When I saw. Kemal would have been dead if I hadn’t.’

‘No. No more.’

He nodded. Went to the desk. Looked at the jobs for the following day.

She had to ask.

‘Vagn. Back then. Twenty years ago. Before I knew him.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What was he like?’

He thought about this.

‘Unfinished. Waiting. A kid. The way we all were.’

‘The police showed me some pictures.’

‘What pictures?’

‘Someone murdered. A man. A drug dealer.’

‘Oh.’

‘What happened? Tell me the truth.’

‘We all get stupid sometimes. Your parents thought that when you took up with Theis. Didn’t they?’

‘The police—’

‘The police are trying to trick you.’

He came and peered at her. These two were close before she knew him. Thick as thieves.

‘Theis didn’t do anything, Pernille. Not a thing. OK?’

Kirsten Eller stuck out a flabby, sweaty hand.

‘I’m so glad everything turned out well for you. All this unpleasantness was quite unwelcome.’

‘Yes. Sit down.’

She planted her full frame on the sofa in his office.

‘And you’ve sorted out your group. This is good.’

Hartmann took the chair opposite.

‘I didn’t have any choice, Kirsten. I had to do something.’

She had an image of a kind. Long coat to cover the weighty body. Permasmile. Owlish spectacles pushed back on a head of dyed brown hair as if she’d just come from a busy board meeting. Eller had been around City Hall for as long as he had. In a way she’d achieved more. By means he was beginning to appreciate.

‘At least it’s all over now,’ she said. ‘The polls are looking good. The media are starting to see which horse to back. So now we reap the benefits.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

She took a folder out of her briefcase and opened it.

‘We have some suggestions for winning any floating voters out there. It’s the undecided who’ll put us in, Troels. Let’s not forget it.’

He grinned at her, shook his head. Genuinely amused.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘You’re a wonderful actor. Quite a talent.’

The smile stayed. No response.

‘Bigum would never have tried a trick like that without talking to you first. He went to Bremer. He came to you. And you gave him the nod.’

The smile went.

‘Troels—’

‘No. Please. Don’t insult my intelligence by trying to deny it.’

‘This is—’

‘The truth,’ he cut in. ‘I know my people, Kirsten. I know Bigum. He’s not big enough or brave enough to do this on his own. Maybe you went to him. I don’t care.’

This was clear in his head now. He wondered why it had taken so long to see it.

‘They were acting out of fear. Not strength. Not courage. Fear. I guess you could smell it.’

She held up her hands.

‘Troels. Before you say another word . . . understand this.’

‘I’m giving you two choices.’

Kirsten Eller fell quiet.

‘Either I inform the press and they paint you for the untrustworthy, disloyal, conniving bitch you are.’

He waited, head to one side, listening.

‘And the alternative?’

‘You step down. Let your deputy take over.’

Kirsten Eller turned to look at Rie Skovgaard happily making notes.

‘You need me, Troels. You all need me. Think of—’

‘No, Kirsten. I don’t need you at all.’

She waited. Not another word. Then Eller angrily gathered up her things, stormed to the door. There she turned and looked at him.

‘This was about winning. Not you. Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised.

She bustled into Morten Weber on the way out. He watched her go.

‘What happened there?’ Weber asked. ‘I thought we were having a meeting.’

Hartmann got to his feet.

‘Rie!’ Hartmann called. ‘Line up some press interviews for me. Pick friends.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Weber cried.

‘I was going to tell you. There wasn’t time. Kirsten’s resigning.’

‘Jesus, Troels! We’ve fought for this alliance—’

‘She put Bigum up to it. She wanted me out all along.’

‘You can’t keep rocking the boat like this.’

‘Morten.’ Hartmann took him by his frail shoulders. ‘Bremer’s been one step ahead of us every inch of this campaign. It’s time we set the agenda. It’s time we moved more boldly than him.’

‘By firing everyone in sight?’

Hartmann’s temper broke.

‘She went behind my back. She tried to cut deals with Bremer. Then with Bigum. You need to change your thinking. We can knock Bremer off his perch without those mealy-mouthed sons of bitches in the Centre Party.’