The Killing - 01 - The Killing (47 page)

Pernille was pretty. But she was the beautiful one. Everyone said that. No one knew why it was Pernille who got married, even to a rough and inarticulate man like Theis, not her.

Her sister was rocking to and fro. She looked terrible. There was a small storeroom next to the cloakroom. They went there, sat on beer crates. Lotte listened.

‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ Pernille said.

‘Then why . . . I mean. It doesn’t matter. The boys are round with Mum. They’re OK.’

‘I know. I asked.’

‘I have to work, Pernille.’

‘I know that too.’

‘Have you heard from Theis? When he’s coming home?’

‘No. The lawyer’s doing her best.’

She hugged herself in the stained raincoat even though the little room was stifling.

‘Did Nanna say anything to you about . . .’

The words died.

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. You were so close. Like sisters.’ There was something accusing in her eyes. ‘Closer than I got.’

‘You were her mum.’

Pernille was starting to cry.

‘She told you everything! She told me nothing.’

The door was open. One of the security men was watching them.

‘She didn’t . . .’

‘Nanna had a life I didn’t know about! I’m sure of it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Pernille.’

‘What did she say? Were there problems at home? With me? With Theis?’

‘No . . .’

‘Sometimes we argued. She never stopped. Always coming and going. Taking things. Wearing my clothes.’

‘She wore my clothes too,’ Lotte said. ‘Never asked.’

‘Did she . . .?’ The tears again, closed eyes. An agony Lotte Holst didn’t want to see. ‘Did she hate us?’

Lotte put a hand on her sister’s arm.

‘Of course not. She loved you. Both of you. And the boys. She never said anything.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘So it’s just me?’

The security man was making signs. She wasn’t supposed to take breaks from work. Not more than five minutes an hour.

‘Something happened last summer,’ Pernille said. ‘Between her and Theis.’

She nodded, as if trying to recall a specific incident.

‘When I look back I can see it. She was always Daddy’s girl. She could wind Theis round her little finger. Then they suddenly stopped doing things together. She didn’t tell me.’

‘Theis thought it was too early for her to move out. She was a bit upset.’ Lotte shrugged. ‘That’s all. She was nineteen. She wasn’t a kid. It was nothing.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘You have to stop thinking about it so much. Theis was a good father. He still is. Even if he did something stupid.’

The barman was at the door, beckoning her.

‘I’ve got to go. I don’t want to get fired. Listen.’

She squeezed her hands.

‘I’ll come round tomorrow and do what I can. Come on. You can get through this.’

She got Pernille to her feet, embraced her, took her to the exit.

Went back, made drinks for rich businessmen, smiled when they leered.

Then waited an hour till the break came again, walked into the toilet, took out the coke, snorted a long, expensive line, trying not to cry.

Tuesday, 11th November

Eight in the morning. Lund was watching the security tapes from the garage. Again. The family, the kids with the balloons getting into the silver Volvo. The black Ford pulling away.

Meyer came in with news. There was no sign of any connection between Nanna Birk Larsen and City Hall. She never worked there as staff or volunteer. Didn’t even seem to have visited on a school trip.

‘I’ve been through her things again,’ he added. ‘That key ring we found.’

He showed her an evidence bag.

‘What about it?’

‘They’re not hers. Not for home.’

Lund had pushed those to the back of her mind.

She took the bag off him. They were Ruko keys. Used everywhere.

‘They don’t look like anything they use at City Hall,’ he said. ‘They have all these old fancy locks. I don’t know . . .’

‘Later,’ she said. ‘Can we enhance the picture? Zoom in on the driver and see what he looks like?’

‘In theory.’

‘Then let’s do it.’

Meyer hesitated.

‘Buchard says this has all been checked.’

She pointed at the reports.

‘I can’t see anything about it in here.’

‘You heard him. I don’t want any part in this.’

He came and sat down next to her. Looked almost humble.

‘I really don’t want to spell this out. But this . . .’ He looked round the office. ‘This is my last chance. Things didn’t go too well in a couple of other places.’

‘A couple?’

‘I use that in a broad sense. I’ve got to keep this job. I have to.’

‘Is that why he didn’t kick us off the case?’ she wondered. ‘Because he’s got us where he wants?’

Meyer stared at her with his big, sad eyes.

‘If I was Buchard I would have fired us by now,’ Lund added.

‘The next time you’re going to say something like that will you please warn me. So I can put my hands over my ears.’

‘They’re big ears. It won’t work.’

‘Thank you. If Buchard says it’s been looked at—’

‘No one’s looked at this. You don’t believe that either.’

He had his hands over his ears.

Quickly he took them away and said, ‘He’s coming.’

The chief marched in.

‘You wanted to talk to me?’

Lund smiled.

‘I wanted to say sorry about yesterday. We were both tired.’

Meyer nodded.

‘Tired,’ he agreed.

‘No problem,’ Buchard said. ‘So long as we’re making progress.’

‘Progress.’ She nodded. ‘We are.’

‘Good.’

He was ready to go.

‘Who checked the contacts and the list of calls on Nanna’s mobile?’ Lund asked.

Buchard froze in the door.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Something might point to one of the guards. Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Look into it.’

Another smile.

‘I will,’ she said.

They watched him go.

‘What would you have been?’ Lund asked. ‘If you weren’t a cop?’

‘A DJ,’ Meyer said. ‘Did it when I was a student. I was very good. Except the face.’

He ran his hand over his bristle and cheeks.

‘I don’t know if I’ve got the looks.’

She laughed.

‘And you?’

‘Nothing,’ Lund said. ‘I’d have been nothing.’

‘I did consider running a hot dog cart once,’ Meyer added. ‘You’re your own boss there. Maybe one day soon. The way we’re going. Lund?’

She was somewhere else.

‘Nothing at all,’ Lund said.

There was nothing to look at in the phone records. But twenty minutes later a detective stuck his head through the door with news. A taxi driver had appeared in the office after one more run by the night team pushing out pictures of Nanna. He said he thought he might have picked her up the night she died.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Meyer said.

‘Believe what?’

‘This is the first time anyone’s volunteered a damned thing about that poor kid. Didn’t you notice, Lund? Everyone else expects us to be mind-readers.’

He rubbed his stubbly chin.

‘They do want us to find this bastard, don’t they?’

The taxi driver was called Leon Frevert, a tall, skinny man in his mid-forties. He had a long grey face that matched his cheap suit and smelled of cigarettes and sweat. Straight from a night driving a cab round the city.

‘I’m not positive it’s her,’ Frevert said, looking at the photos they’d given her.

‘Forget whether it was her or not,’ Meyer ordered. ‘Tell us what happened.’

He worked weekends driving a cab for one of the city firms.

‘I picked her up on Friday. If it was her. We talked a bit. She wanted to go into town. I dropped her off on Grønningen, near the junction with Store Kongensgade.’

Long straight street at the edge of the city. Next to the Kastellet fortress. Nowhere near any of the addresses they’d looked at.

‘You’ve got a receipt?’

‘Sure. You’re in trouble if you haven’t.’

Frevert pulled a bunch of papers out of the pocket of his threadbare suit.

‘I think it was this one. I picked her up near Ryparken. See.’ He pointed to the receipt. ‘The ride started at ten twenty-seven p.m. Finished at ten forty-five.’

Lund asked, ‘What happened when you got to Grønningen?’

‘She got out. I found a new customer straight away. Didn’t even have to drive off. Plenty of work on Fridays.’

He scratched his thinning fair hair.

‘The thing is we didn’t go direct. We stopped. You don’t get that so much with kids. They don’t have the money.’

‘Stopped where?’

‘On Vester Voldgade. At the back of City Hall.’

Meyer closed his eyes and groaned.

‘What happened there?’ Lund asked.

‘She got out and asked me to wait. I wouldn’t do that normally. They just run off. But she seemed a nice girl. She wasn’t drunk or anything.’

‘What did she want at City Hall?’

‘She didn’t say. She went inside for a couple of minutes.’

‘Did you see anyone with her?’

‘No. She came out. And then we went to Grønningen. I don’t want to waste your time. I can’t promise it was her.’ He glanced at the photos again. ‘Maybe, but . . .’

‘Thanks.’

She shook his hand, waved at Svendsen who was wandering down the corridor outside, asked him to take a statement.

Then the two of them sat in the office alone.

‘There are lots of hotels around there,’ Lund said.

‘We’ve been round the hotels.’

‘Then go round again. Ask them if they’ve seen a politician. If anyone from City Hall lives nearby. Are you working on the guards?’

He was getting tense and angry. Wouldn’t look at her.

‘Yes. I certainly am.’

‘The taxi took her from Kemal’s house to City Hall,’ Lund went on.

‘He said he wasn’t sure if it was her.’

She didn’t want an argument. Meyer was scared for his job. Torn, she guessed. Between what he thought was right and what he thought was smart. For himself.

‘I’ve an appointment,’ she said getting up, grabbing her jacket. ‘Call me when you hear something.’

Rie Skovgaard had been putting out feelers to Parliament overnight. Hartmann’s relations with the Interior Minister remained good.

‘The problem’s the Prime Minister. He thinks you’re ambitious. You steal the limelight. He thinks you’ll come for him if you unseat Bremer.’

Hartmann listened, shook his head.

‘I’m not coming for him. Not for four years anyway.’

Morten Weber was reading the morning papers.

‘At least the polls are staying with us. No one believed that nonsense about the girl.’

‘If we’ve got the Interior Minister on board that’s enough.’

‘Only if the Prime Minister allows it,’ Skovgaard said. ‘He could still sink you.’

‘This is ridiculous. We’re in the same party. And they’re backing Bremer?’

She was smiling at him.

‘Out with it,’ he said.

‘There’s one possibility. The Prime Minister’s not doing well at the moment. He could use some of your limelight.’

Hartmann felt out of his depth for a moment. Skovgaard and Weber swam so easily in these muddy waters.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘He’s never caught on to the integration issue properly. If we said his office helped put together our programme. Helped with role models. Some of the school projects . . .’

Hartmann laughed.

‘Not a chance. We came up with that. They hated the idea.’

‘Forget the past, Troels. If we give them credit—’

‘For what?’

‘For anything. So long as we get their backing.’

‘It’s a lie!’

Weber’s head went from side to side.

‘Lie’s a very strong word. This is politics. What’s true . . . what’s untrue. After a while it doesn’t matter so much.’

‘Then what does matter?’

‘What works,’ Weber said, looking at him as if he were a simpleton.

‘No. It’s out of the question.’

‘OK,’ Skovgaard said and stared at the sheets in front of her.