The Killing - 01 - The Killing (91 page)

Hanne Meyer started to dab at her eyes with a screwed-up tissue. Lund thought about putting an arm round her shoulders. But didn’t.

A surgeon came through the door. Green cotton, mob cap, mask down.

Meyer’s wife was up in an instant.

The doctor was giving orders to a nurse.

He had an X-ray. Put it on a light screen by the door.

They came and looked.

‘The operation went well but he lost a lot of blood. Look here . . .’

Bones and tissue, tears and dark lines.

‘The first bullet went right through him. The second was going for his heart. But he’s got this cigarette lighter . . .?’

Metal. Shiny. Lund hated that Zippo.

‘The bullet hit that. Changed direction. Penetrated his left lung. There’s other damage . . .’

The wife pointed at the film. Bones and flesh and tears.

‘Is he going to live?’

He looked at the X-ray. Lund closed her eyes.

‘He should live. He’s not regained consciousness yet. We’ll have to look at what else has gone on there. It’s not over . . .’

Hanne Meyer was hugging him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Lund watched, felt awkward. Like an intruder.

The surgeon pulled something out of his pocket. The silver lighter. Dented. Mangled.

‘This is for you. Tell him if he starts smoking after all the trouble we’ve been to he’ll have me to deal with next time.’

Crying, laughing at the same time, she took it.

‘You can see him now.’

Hanne Meyer half-ran into the room.

Lund followed the surgeon down the corridor.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘I told you. He’s been unconscious ever since he came in.’

‘When can I talk to him?’

‘When he wakes up.’

She folded her arms.

There was a look in his face she recognized, but rarely saw in hospitals.

Evasion.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lund asked.

‘He’s suffered some serious injuries. We still don’t know how bad. I want to hope. We all do.’

‘When?’

‘Come back tonight. Then we’ll see.’

The car felt odd without him. The office too.

Brix was briefing a meeting next door. She sat alone for a minute then walked in and listened.

‘We’re lucky Meyer’s still alive,’ Brix said. ‘I want Leon Frevert. Assume he’s armed and dangerous. We don’t let this one go. We’ve got our own reasons now. Any questions?’

None.

‘Good. Let’s get to it.’

He watched them leave.

‘Whoever was in that building knew about Mette’s things,’ Lund said when they were alone. ‘He read about us dragging the canals.’

Dark, open-necked shirt. She couldn’t quite picture him in evening dress any more. Brix was sending out a message. In charge, wanting results.

‘I’ve put a new team leader on the case.’

‘Why?’

‘Go home. Stay there. We’ll need to interview you.’

‘Brix. I know more—’

‘You can’t possibly lead this investigation now.’

‘Why not?’

He shook his head.

‘Are you serious? You went in that building on your own. Meyer was shot with your weapon.’

‘I didn’t have the gun with me, for God’s sake. Meyer must have taken it out of the car.’

He winced.

‘Do I have to hear this? You can tell that to the investigations board.’

‘We have to find Leon Frevert!’

Silence. That hard, merciless stare again.

‘We’ll leave that to the Germans now. Frevert’s car was found near the ferry port. We think he sailed to Hamburg last night.’

‘Why?’ she asked straight off.

Brix walked out of the room. Lund followed.

‘He didn’t go to Germany. He doesn’t have his passport. We found it in his flat. He doesn’t have any money. Frevert had changed just about everything he had into Vietnamese currency. If he was going to flee anywhere—’

‘Well that’s what he’s done.’

‘Whoever shot Meyer isn’t stupid!’

‘He got the money before he saw the newspaper. Isn’t it obvious?’

He made for his office. She stood in the door, blocking the way.

‘No. It’s not.’

Brix folded his arms.

‘Give me two hours,’ she begged. ‘I just want to make some calls. If I’ve got nothing I’ll do whatever you tell me.’

‘That would be a first.’

Svendsen was marching down the corridor. He had a sheet of paper in his hand.

‘Leon Frevert was seen at Høje Taastrup Station two hours ago. We’ve got CCTV. It’s him. A uniform guy went after him but he ran off.’

A suburb on the western edge of the city. Easy access to motorways. Frevert could get anywhere from there.

‘Do we have any patrol cars in the area?’ Lund asked.

‘I’ll check.’

‘Lund—’ Brix began.

‘He’s on foot,’ she said to Svendsen. ‘He’ll need a vehicle. Contact the banks. He doesn’t have any money. Watch the brother.’

‘Lund!’ Brix shouted.

She looked at him. Svendsen looked at him.

‘Keep me posted,’ he said.

Vagn Skærbæk arrived at the garage just after eight. His red overalls were in a bag. The black fisherman’s hat he kept.

Got out of the removals van, gave Theis Birk Larsen the key to it.

‘The keys to the garage, the gate and the flat are in the bag.’

He looked miserable and weary.

Birk Larsen nodded. Old jeans. Black sweatshirt. Silver chain. Black windcheater.

‘Right,’ he said.

Skærbæk went back to the van, took out another bag. Bright yellow. The name of the toy store on the side.

‘This is for the boys,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Do whatever you want with it.’

‘Vagn,’ Birk Larsen said as he walked off towards the gate. ‘Vagn!’

Skærbæk stopped, hands in pockets. Stopped and looked.

‘Let’s go upstairs and sort this out, can we?’

‘What’s there to sort?’

‘Lots.’ He took Skærbæk’s arm. ‘Come on.’

In the kitchen, light streaming through the plants at the window. They’d picked up since Pernille watered them. The place looked almost normal.

She sat next to Birk Larsen, served coffee and bread and cheese.

Skærbæk smoked, didn’t eat.

‘Leon told us some things about you,’ Pernille said. ‘They sounded strange.’

He sucked on the cigarette.

‘We should have talked to you first, I know. But . . .’

Her eyes were glistening again.

‘We’ve all been crazy.’

‘You can say that again.’

She looked at him.

‘But they still sound strange. To me . . .’

No answer.

Birk Larsen said, ‘Leon told us you cancelled a big customer that Saturday.’

Skærbæk laughed.

‘Oh yeah. That guy. He wanted to pay cash. I only do that when you ask for it, Theis. Not on my own . . .’

They watched him.

‘So I said we could either put it through the books or he does it himself. Maybe I was wrong . . .’

‘The police said you lied about your mother,’ Pernille told him.

‘Yeah. They said that to me too. My uncle always told me she drank herself to death. Then last year he told me the truth. God knows why he made that one up. But what . . .’

The cigarette got stubbed out in the saucer.

‘What’s this got to do with anybody?’

Amidst the smoke, the anxiety, the embarrassment, she said, ‘Nothing.’

‘Those bastards have had us jumping through hoops from the beginning.’ Birk Larsen shook his grizzled head. ‘You just bore the brunt of it this time round.’

He looked across the table.

‘We’re really sorry, Vagn.’

‘We are,’ Pernille added softly.

Skærbæk sat unsmiling, playing with the packet of cigarettes.

‘What did you tell the boys?’

‘Nothing,’ Birk Larsen said.

‘Jesus.’ He took off the black woollen hat, began kneading it in his fingers. ‘What a fuck-up this is. I’m the one who should apologize. I brought that bastard Leon in here. The agency . . .’

Birk Larsen coughed, looked at his hands.

‘Did they tell you where he is?’ Skærbæk asked.

‘No. I don’t want to think about it. We’re going to finish the house. Get out of this flat. Right?’

Pernille said, ‘We’re going over there today with the boys. Anton doesn’t like the idea of moving. So we want to make it as easy as possible.’

The phone rang. She went to answer it. The bag with Skærbæk’s red overalls sat in the middle of the table.

He put a hand on it.

‘Aren’t we supposed to be on a job in fifteen minutes?’ Vagn Skærbæk asked.

‘Yeah,’ Birk Larsen said with the slightest of smiles.

Pernille came back.

‘It’s the lawyer. The police want to come round and check the flat. They want to see if Leon’s been in here.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Birk Larsen’s huge fist thumped the table, the photos, the faces there. ‘I’m sick of having these people on our backs. Don’t let them in. Vagn!’

Skærbæk gulped at his coffee, picked up the bag. Followed him down the stairs.

Frevert was on the move, tracking back into the city. They had a report of him trying to use a cash machine in Toftegaards Plads in Valby.

‘We were there two minutes later,’ Svendsen told the team in the briefing room. ‘Gone . . .’

‘Keep an eye on the parks,’ Lund ordered. ‘Look out for hostels. Look out for—’

The phone on the desk rang. She picked it up. Switchboard with someone asking for her by name.

‘Is that Lund?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Leon Frevert.’

Lund stopped, looked round at the officers in the room, silently gestured with her hand, mouthed the word, ‘Trace.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Never mind that. I just heard all this bullshit on the radio.’

Svendsen ran to the closest laptop, started hammering at the keys, grabbing for a headset.

‘I didn’t kill that girl. Are you serious?’

‘We need to talk to you, Leon.’

‘You’re talking to me now. I didn’t kill her. Understand?’

‘OK. Let’s meet somewhere.’

‘I didn’t shoot anyone either.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘First time for everything they say.’ He was mad. ‘I told you I let her out of the cab that night. I told you about the station.’

‘You didn’t tell us you knew her, Leon.’

Svendsen was getting somewhere. Signalling with his hands.

‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’

‘No. So tell me. Where are you? I’ll come and get you. Just me. We can talk. All we want’s the truth.’

Silence. Then a click.

‘Leon? Hello?’

Svendsen hit the keys again, tore off the headset.

‘He’s on Roskildevej. Couple of kilometres out of the city. Don’t ask for any more. He just turned off the phone.’

Lund sat down.

‘Why did he talk for so long?’ she asked.

‘He doesn’t know we were tracking him,’ Svendsen said.

‘Then why did he turn off his phone?’

Svendsen scowled at her.

‘What is it now?’

‘Roskildevej . . .’ Svendsen began.

‘Roskildevej’s three kilometres long, we don’t have a clue where he is or what kind of car he’s driving. Get me the brother.’

‘OK! OK!’

Svendsen stormed out of the room, shaking his head.

Lund stayed at the desk. Looked at the photos on the walls. Nanna and Mette Hauge.

Leon Frevert. A thin grey solitary man.

The scarlet van was full of the boys’ things. Model aeroplanes, plastic dinosaurs. Mobiles and posters for the walls. The job before ran late. The road was blocked by a broken-down car into Humleby. Vagn Skærbæk was yelling at the driver in front to clear the road when Birk Larsen’s phone went.

Looked at the number. Pernille.

‘Where’s that dinosaur shop?’ he said straight away. ‘We haven’t got enough stuff for Anton’s room. We wanted to put a few surprises in there.’

‘You can’t take the boys to the house, Theis.’

‘Why not?’

‘The police are searching it.’

‘What?’

‘They’re looking everywhere Leon’s been working.’

‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘That’s our house.’