The Killing - 01 - The Killing (96 page)

‘Some suicide.’

‘Forget about Frevert. It won’t take them long to find out that file I gave them’s a forgery. I put it in the name of a colleague I know. Magnus. He’s away at a conference in Oslo right now. But maybe they’ll contact him. That Bülow guy is out to get you.’

‘Bülow’s a moron.’

There was a knock on the door. Jansen, the helpful ginger-haired forensic officer.

‘You wanted this,’ he said and gave Lund a sheet of paper. ‘Good luck.’

He was gone before she had the chance to say thanks.

‘What’s that?’ Rosling asked.

‘A list of the contents of Mette Hauge’s storage box from the warehouse.’ She went through it. ‘He must have known Mette somehow. There was something there that linked him to her. He took it.’

Rosling looked at his watch.

She got out her notepad.

‘We’ve an address for where Mette went to. It was a house share for students near Christiania. If I can find out who lived there twenty years ago . . .’

He didn’t take the papers when she tried to hand them over. Just looked out of the window. Not at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t . . .’

She waited. Such a nice, weak man. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

‘You wrote that fake report very quickly, Bengt.’

‘It wasn’t hard. Most of it’s true. You need help, Sarah. I can suggest someone.’

‘I don’t need that kind.’

‘That’s just the kind. This impulsive behaviour. The way you relate to distant people but not those close to you. Go off on your own with no regard to the consequences—’

‘Enough, Bengt! What was I? Your lover or your patient?’

No answer.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, and pulled on her seat belt.

‘I’ll call you from Sweden,’ he said.

‘If you like.’

She started the car. He got out. Lund drove off alone into the pale day.

They took the boys round to Humleby. Almost all the men were working there, painting, plastering, labouring round the clock.

No one had found anything. Not a passport. Not a thing that was out of place.

Anton stood near the door, eyes on the floor, miserable.

Vagn Skærbæk came in, crouched down, said, ‘Happy birthday, buddy!’

Not a word.

‘I had to tell them, Anton.’

Skærbæk glanced at Pernille.

‘It was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it, Mum?’

She was looking at the room. Not listening.

Anton shook his head.

‘I’ve got a present for you, kid. You won’t get it till tonight. OK?’

Punched him lightly on the shoulder. Still didn’t get a smile.

‘Dammit,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘Let’s stop this now.’

He took Anton’s hand, led him down to the basement with Pernille following. Fresh paint and plaster. New floorboards almost done.

‘Where is it?’

‘In the cupboard,’ the boy said.

Birk Larsen pulled open the metal door.

No boiler. No pipes.

No passport.

Pernille ruffled his fair hair.

‘Maybe it was something else. It was dark down here.’

He looked at his father and said, ‘Can I go upstairs now?’

Birk Larsen leaned down, black jacket, black hat. Put his big face up to the boy’s.

‘Anton. Listen to me. I know it’s hard moving house.’ Narrow eyes open, straight at the child’s. ‘But you mustn’t make up stories like this. Do you understand?’

The young head went down, rested, chin on chest.

‘Do you?’ Birk Larsen asked, voice rising. ‘It upsets your mother. It upsets me. You can say whatever you want. But don’t lie about Nanna. Don’t ever—’

‘That’s enough, Theis,’ Pernille broke in.

Anton was close to tears. She put a hand round his shoulder, led him upstairs.

Vagn Skærbæk stayed on the steps. When the two of them were gone he said, ‘Was that really necessary?’

‘What do you know about kids?’

‘I used to be one. Did you find him a dog?’

‘As if I’ve time for that—’

‘I’ve got a friend who can’t get rid of some puppies, Theis. Maybe . . .’

Birk Larsen stared at him.

‘I don’t want to interfere,’ Skærbæk said quickly. ‘Just if it helps.’

‘I thought the boiler was supposed to be in by now.’

‘No problem,’ Vagn Skærbæk said. ‘I’ll fix that too.’

They were waiting vulture-like on the step of the Rådhus. Reporters, camera crews, sound men thrusting mikes at everyone who went inside.

Hartmann and Weber entered together, side by side.

The position was agreed. Hartmann stuck to it. In spite of all their differences, Bremer was a respected figure in Copenhagen politics. His sudden illness was a shock.

‘The election, Hartmann!’ someone yelled as he approached the door.

He turned, waited for the hubbub to fall silent.

‘This is a time to wish Poul Bremer well. Not to try to take political advantage.’

‘Convenient though, Troels!’ cried a familiar voice in their midst.

Erik Salin elbowed his way through, bald head gleaming, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Voice recorder shoved out like a weapon.

‘I don’t think a stroke’s convenient for anyone, is it?’ Hartmann said.

Salin found the lights on him for a change.

‘Bremer had proof that your office hindered the Nanna Birk Larsen murder investigation.’

‘What proof?’ Hartmann asked, hands in pockets, puzzled. ‘I’ve received no proof at all.’

‘Bremer has it.’

‘I can’t talk about what I’ve never seen.’

Be calm, be reasonable, Morten Weber said.

‘But let me make this perfectly clear. I would never accept such behaviour from anyone on my team.’

He turned from Salin, found the TV cameras.

‘It’s against everything I believe and stand for.’ Hand raised, finger to the sky, making a point. ‘If ever I have proof that one of our people has stooped to something like that I assure you I will tell the world. And . . .’ The slightest of self-deprecating smiles. ‘I will seriously consider my own future in politics.’

He left it there, strode to his office. Threw his jacket on a chair.

Went to stand by the window.

‘That was good,’ Morten Weber said. ‘Very.’

The Meyers’ place was in Nørrebro, semi-detached, a little run-down. Basketball net in the yard along with a bird table, a Christmas tree, kids’ scooters, a pram.

Lund parked the car in the street, stood in the drive for two long minutes. Asking herself why she was there. If it was the right thing.

She’d tried to get through to someone in the hospital. They were under orders not to talk to her. So, in all probability, was Hanne Meyer.

Shapes at the window. A blonde woman cuddling a crying child. An older girl, blonde hair too, staring mournfully from behind the glass.

Lund went and stood under the lean-to by the garage. The door was open. She could see more toys inside. A big motorbike. At the back a DJ’s deck.

After a minute Hanne Meyer walked out leaving the kids behind, came and stood in front of her with arms folded, eyes still pink. Face lined.

‘How is he?’

A stupid question. A necessary one.

Meyer’s wife shrugged. There were tears not far off.

‘Same as when he came out of the theatre. They say if things don’t change . . .’ A long look up at the grey sky. ‘If things don’t change soon we’ve got to talk about the life support. And . . . I don’t know.’

She didn’t cry. Lund had been close to situations like this so many times over the years. After a while a sense of the inevitable, of practicality, fell upon everyone.

‘I didn’t do what they say. I swear to you. When we got there . . .’

A sudden look of anger, of release.

‘Why couldn’t you leave him alone? You said the case was closed.’

‘It wasn’t. Jan knew it too.’

No response.

‘It’s not closed now,’ Lund said.

‘What’s that to me? Tomorrow I might have to go there and watch him die. Do I hold his hand? What words do I use for that? Do you know?’

Lund shook her head.

‘They told me he said something that sounded like Sarah.’

Hanne Meyer closed her eyes.

‘Jan said your name. Not mine.’

‘No he didn’t. He never called me Sarah. Not once. It was always Lund. You heard him. Did he call me Sarah to you?’

Arms folded, eyes half closed.

‘He was thinking of something else. Trying to say something important. Can you remember exactly what he said?’

‘Why did you come here?’

‘Because I want to find the man who shot him. The man who killed Nanna Birk Larsen. Other women too. I need your help. I want—’

‘He said your name. Sarah. That’s all.’ Her eyes opened a little. ‘And some numbers. I don’t know—’

‘What numbers?’

‘I couldn’t really hear.’

‘What did it sound like?’

‘Eight four.’

‘Eighty-four?’

The door opened behind her. Two girls walked out. Tearful. Lost.

‘Did he say anything else? Hanne?’

She stopped.

‘No. He didn’t. I don’t even know if he knew I was there. OK?’

She kissed the youngest, put a hand to the hair of the older girl. Ushered them into the house.

Lund stood in the lean-to, next to the Christmas tree and the yellow motorbike she’d never seen Meyer ride.

Her phone rang.

‘I made a call to a friend in Sweden,’ Bengt Rosling said. ‘They’ve got access to the Danish databases. I’ve got a name from the time Mette Hauge lived in that student house. A man called Paludan. He still lives at the same address.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It’s the only thing that is. Magnus called me. They tracked him down in Oslo. They know I lied about your file. Bülow has put out a call for you. The rental car’s in my name. They won’t have that. At least I don’t think so.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and looked out of the windscreen, out into the street.

Wondered what it would feel like to be on the other side. Hunted not hunter.

Troels Hartmann and Morten Weber caught Lennart Brix in his office going through records.

‘I don’t have time to deal with you right now,’ Brix said, not looking up from the papers.

‘We’ve got the press hounding us again,’ Hartmann said. ‘I think this comes from you. I want to talk to Lund.’

Brix looked up.

‘Join the queue.’

Hartmann slammed his briefcase on the desk, glared at the tall cop.

‘I’m at the end of my patience with you people. I want some answers.’

‘You’ve already had them. If I could have pinned something on you I would have done. Instead you’re out there on TV begging for votes. Don’t play hurt with me. You’re a consenting adult.’

Brix got up.

‘Who sent Lund that tape?’

‘I don’t know. It’s possible someone from your office took it. If I knew who it was I’d charge them. But I don’t. I don’t understand why they did that then waited until you were cleared. Frankly at the moment I don’t much care. Do you think I should?’

‘Is it important?’ Weber asked.

Brix smiled.

‘Who knows?’

He held out his hand.

‘I assume you have votes to beg. Don’t let me keep you.’

In the car on the way back Hartmann called the office. Rie Skovgaard answered. She’d turned up for work anyway, was going through his speech for the following day.

They talked as if nothing had happened.

‘One of Bremer’s people phoned from the hospital. He wants to see you.’

‘Why? I thought he was supposed to be out of there by now.’

‘Some kind of complications. They want to keep him in overnight.’

‘What kind of complications?’

‘I’m not a doctor. I said you didn’t have time. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

Weber sat silent, listening.

Hartmann finished the call.

‘When we get back I want you to find Rie’s contract,’ he said. ‘I want to read it.’

It wasn’t a student house any more. Mette Hauge’s old block was neatly painted, converted into pricey apartments. Christiania trikes for the kids. Cobblestones and privacy.

Paludan was a lean, athletic-looking man who turned up on a racing bike while she was parking.

He didn’t ask to see her police ID. He seemed more anxious that they talk outside, in the courtyard. Away from his wife.