The Killing - 01 - The Killing (95 page)

‘No. And I’ve saved Brix’s arse twice already.’

She leaned over the table, looked at Bülow and the assistant.

‘I need to know what he removed from Mette Hauge’s belongings. If we find that—’

‘If someone was there,’ Bülow cut in. ‘Apart from you and Jan Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘Follow me,’ he ordered.

Three rooms along. A forensic officer she half-recognized. A com puter with speakers.

Bülow stood behind him. Lund sat when he told her to.

He held up an evidence bag with Meyer’s phone in it.

‘When you were inside the warehouse Meyer pressed a shortcut he used for taping interrogations with suspects. Listen.’

The technician hit the keyboard. Meyer’s voice came out of the speakers.

‘Lund? Can you hear me? Hello?’

‘Lund!’

‘Shit!’

‘Lund!’

‘Meyer. He’s got the lift and he’s coming down. I’m on the stairs. The lift!’

‘I’m by the lift.’

A long pause. A mechanical sound.

‘The lift’s empty. I’m coming up for you.’

‘I don’t think he’s here.’

‘He’s gone down. He’s with you—’

‘I’m coming . . .’

Her head jerked back in shock with the first explosion. Her mind went blank with the second. She could hear Meyer’s shrieks and groans.

Bülow’s face had changed. She thought he was trying to look sympathetic.

‘You haven’t slept for three days. It’s dark. You hear a sound and you think it’s the man you want, somewhere in the building. You draw your gun. The gun you brought with you into the building. You run down the stairs.’

‘Oh please—’ Lund whispered.

‘You throw open the door and shoot. What else could you do? What else would anyone have done in the circumstances? Someone’s there. He reaches for your gun. You fire. He grabs again. You fire again.’

Lund’s clear, acute eyes turned on him.

‘Then you realize you shot Meyer. You’re distraught. You call an ambulance. In the sixteen minutes before it arrives you fake the breakin. Then you place your pistol at Meyer’s side and wait.’

He paused.

‘What do you think, Lund?’

‘I think that’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘There’s no trace of anyone but you and Meyer in the building.’

‘You’re a failed cop looking for somewhere new to fail again.’

‘We didn’t find anything!’

Still her eyes didn’t leave him.

‘That’s because you don’t know how to look.’

The other one came in.

‘We questioned Meyer’s wife, Lund. He came to just before they took him back into surgery.’

He passed over a statement.

‘The one thing he said to her was your name. Sarah. He said it over and over again.’

‘He thought it was important,’ Bülow added. ‘I guess it could be a declaration of love. But that doesn’t seem likely from what I gather about your relationship.’

He passed over a charge sheet.

‘There’ll be a preliminary hearing tomorrow. You know the procedure. You’ve the right to one phone call.’

Bülow gave her back her mobile then the two of them left the room.

Lund followed.

‘This doesn’t make sense.’

They kept walking. A uniformed man on the door stopped her, pushed her back inside.

Lund looked at the phone on the table. Called.

‘It’s me,’ Lund said. ‘I need your help.’

Bülow walked round the circling corridors, found Brix in his office in homicide.

‘I want her flat searched,’ he said. ‘Take her clothes and shoes to forensics. I need her records. You’ve got twenty minutes.’

Brix laughed at him.

‘You’ll get it. In good time.’

‘Twenty minutes, Brix. It’s not just her I’m looking at.’

‘According to the record Lund’s never fired her gun. She never wore it on duty. Never took it with her. They all know that.’

‘You took her badge from her a few days ago then gave it back. Why was that?’

‘Because she was right and I was wrong. She saw things . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Things I didn’t get. No one else did either. She’s not the easiest of people but—’

‘You knew she was unbalanced. Why else would you have done it?’

‘I did it because she pissed me off. She’s good at that and she doesn’t care. But she cares about the case. More about that than anything else, I think. Her family. Herself. I don’t know why—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the short man moaned. ‘Bore me with all that another time. Twenty minutes . . .’

There were four cells for women. The other three were full of screaming drunks. Lund sat on the solitary chair and looked around. It seemed different on the inside. Smaller. A single mattress. Sheets and a pillow. A sink and a Bible.

She wore a blue prison tracksuit. There was a bowl beneath the bed.

Lund looked at the officer on duty.

Tried to remember his name.

He gave her some soap and a towel. Walked out. Closed the door. Looked through the hatch.

‘Any chance of some food?’

‘It’s not food time,’ he said and closed the shutter.

Hartmann and Skovgaard were back at the Rådhus, alone in his office. Outside the city was starting to sleep. Bremer was in hospital, in a stable condition. There’d been talk of the effect on the election. Nothing about Nanna Birk Larsen on the news. Just the king of Copenhagen looking mortal for the first time in his long life.

‘You lied to me, Troels,’ she said, sitting in front of his desk like a junior come to an interview. ‘To me. You and Morten . . .’

‘What?’

‘How can you share a secret with him? But not me?’

‘We’ve been there,’ he said and thought to himself: this ended days ago. It died and no one noticed.

‘I was mad at you!’

He waited.

‘That night when everyone thought you were finished I ran into Phillip Bressau. We went to a hotel and sat in the bar. He said you were a lost cause. I should switch sides. There was a job going.’

And if I do fall, Hartmann thought, she’d be there. Alongside Bremer in an instant.

‘I knew something was going on. His phone kept ringing.’

She looked him in the face.

‘He asked me if I wanted a nightcap. In his room.’

Hartmann nodded.

‘Very generous of him.’

‘I could hear he was talking about Stokke. About our apartment. Bressau had had a couple of drinks. He wasn’t . . .’ She frowned. ‘He wasn’t so discreet. That’s how I knew Stokke was involved.’

‘What happened?’

‘You mean did I go to bed with him?’

Hartmann didn’t answer.

‘Does it matter? At least I know Bressau. I didn’t go on dating sites. I didn’t screw strangers.’

Nothing.

‘What’s it to you anyway?’ she said. ‘I listened. I had a drink. Then I went home.’

He got up, walked around the room.

‘That Friday night. You went looking for me?’

‘Did I?’

‘You went to the flat. You knew something happened there.’

‘No. I didn’t. The next morning I went to the conference centre without you. And lied for you there. What is this? What do you want? Some kind of pure virginal honesty when you feel like it? Then we turn as nasty and as crooked as everyone else if it’s needed—’

‘I never asked for that.’

She laughed.

‘You don’t have to, do you? You just need it to happen but never want to know. Bremer’s the same. Maybe it goes with the job.’

‘I expect certain—’

‘I can’t help what you expect. I didn’t go near the flat. I didn’t touch the stupid surveillance tape. I’d do a lot for you. But I wouldn’t cover up for murder.’

She got up, turned on the smile. Came to him, touched his shoulder, his shirt.

‘Come on. You know that. People have been screwing round with this office for weeks. Olav got into the system . . .’

He removed her hand from his jacket.

‘Olav’s dead. Would you have taken the job? With Bremer?’

‘I’ve got a job, haven’t I? I gave up a partnership in the ad agency to come here. Took half the pay—’

‘I thought it was commitment.’

‘It
is
commitment.’

‘Would you have taken the job?’

She closed her eyes. Looked near to breaking. He liked that.

‘I haven’t given it any thought. We’ve got work to do here.’

‘I can do that myself, thanks.’

‘Troels—’

‘I want you to go home. I want you to stay there.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

He looked at her. She met his eyes. She always could.

‘I’m not a piece of meat you can buy and sell. Tell your father, will you?’

‘I never thought you were!’

‘Just go,’ he said.

Thursday, 20th November

Lund’s lawyer and Bengt Rosling began the meeting in Brix’s office at nine fifteen. She was still in her cell, still in the prison suit.

‘My client moves for her release,’ the lawyer said. ‘She’s willing to cooperate within reason. You have no proof against her. She denies the charges. Since the question of guilt’s undecided she shouldn’t be here.’

‘Tell that to the judge,’ Bülow said.

‘All the people you can interview have been interviewed,’ the lawyer retorted. ‘Lund is the last person to commit new crimes. She has a son—’

‘The son lives with her ex-husband.’

‘She’s been under great mental stress lately. She was a hostage and has been in two shooting incidents. Her record in the police is impeccable.’

Bülow laughed.

‘If you think you can get her out on the grounds that she’s crazy, forget it. She shot her partner. She’s going to court.’

He got up.

‘Release her,’ the lawyer added quickly, ‘and she’s willing to let you see her psychiatric file.’

Bengt Rosling, still in a sling from the accident, placed a folder on the desk.

‘What file?’ Brix asked. ‘She wasn’t getting any treatment from us.’

‘It wasn’t a police psychiatrist,’ Rosling replied. ‘There’s reason to believe she’s suffering from paranoia and anxiety attacks. She may be suicidal.’

Bülow grabbed the papers, read them, laughed.

‘Did you write this shit?’

‘She went on my advice,’ Rosling said. ‘The psychiatrist confirmed that she’s predisposed to depression and shouldn’t be left alone in a cell.’

‘Thanks,’ Bülow cut in, waving the papers. ‘I’ll use this in court. So why’s Lund telling us she’s crazy?’

‘Because she wants help!’ the lawyer said. ‘Is this your attitude towards the health of your officers? I’ll use that in court too. Let us take care of her. Then you’ve got some time to reconsider these ridiculous accusations which frankly I will tear to shreds if you’re ever stupid enough to proceed with them. Before launching a civil suit for punitive damages.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ Bülow grunted.

‘Try me.’

Thirty minutes later Lund picked up her things. Put the white and black jumper back on, her jeans, her boots.

She signed the release paper, watched by Brix.

‘You’re suspended,’ he said. ‘Your statement’s being investigated. You need to surrender your passport. Your flat’s being searched.’

She went through the contents of her handbag. Found the Nicotinell, popped a piece in her mouth.

‘I had some cigarettes in here.’

‘No one’s touched your cigarettes. Report here immediately if we ask you.’

She tied up her uncombed hair, put on the elastic band.

‘I need to see the storage box.’

Brix stared at her.

‘Goodbye, Lund,’ he said and made for the door.

‘Give me a list of the contents, Brix. Give me something. You’re not dumb. You know I didn’t shoot Meyer. You know Leon Frevert didn’t kill Nanna.’

He stopped.

‘I know your case doesn’t look good.’

‘A list of the contents. That’s all.’

He hesitated. Then he said, ‘Bengt Rosling’s waiting for you outside the building.’

He was in a silver rented Renault on a meter close to the front arcade.

Lund got in, didn’t look at him.

‘Did you talk to the pathologist like I asked?’

‘If Bülow gets to hear of this—’

‘He won’t.’

She went through the autopsy report on Leon Frevert. Chipped tooth, injured mouth.

‘It looks as if the injuries were caused by a gun barrel,’ he said.