The Killing 3 (10 page)

A voice from somewhere, now and long ago.

‘Sarah! Hey!’

Borch was on the train, leaning back against the door to stop it closing.

Mark and his girlfriend got on. Puzzled, Borch stepped towards her.

The doors began to close. Lund leapt for them. Stabbed at the button. Watched as the train started to move, picked up speed. Saw Mark and his girlfriend flash past, eyes locked on one
another.

Felt the ground start to slip beneath her feet.

Borch’s hand stopped her falling.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Head reeling.

‘I’m sorry . . .’

A young girl. A kidnapper. Mark. The woman with him.

‘What . . . ?’

‘It was my son,’ Lund said and was back with Borch then, trying to think this through. ‘Shit . . .’

The phone rang.

Before he could speak she said, ‘I missed the train.’

‘Not very good are you, Lund?’

‘Isn’t that why you want me?’

Nothing.

‘I’ve still got the money. We can do this.’

‘I know. Talk to the people with you. Tell them to close down the Metro. Stop the trains. Cut the power. After that I want you to walk down the tunnel. The direction of the
train.’

She looked at the black hole, the lights disappearing down its maw.

‘I’m supposed to go down there?’

‘You want Emilie back, don’t you? Keep walking until you see a steel staircase on the right. Go up it. I’ll be in touch then.’

‘Listen—’

‘You don’t have time.’

Ussing went for the jugular two minutes into the debate. The subject was supposed to be economic policy.

‘We need a broad-based coalition to get us through this crisis,’ Hartmann said. ‘A partnership based on trust and mutual respect.’

‘What trust?’ Ussing broke in. ‘What respect? Your deal with the Centre Party’s in tatters. They don’t support you over Zeeland. They don’t believe a word you
say.’

‘I’m not going to address Zeeland tonight for obvious reasons,’ Hartmann responded. ‘We can only guess at the pain the Zeuthen family are going through at the moment. I
will not allow that to be the subject of political point-scoring. The Centre Party and I have a solid relationship . . .’

‘That’s over!’ Ussing crowed. ‘When Lebech finds out you’ve been deceiving us all.’

Hartmann shook his head and asked, ‘About what?’

‘About this!’ Ussing raised the printed pages he’d brought. ‘Your so-called report on the course of events leading up to Emilie Zeuthen’s kidnapping.’

‘This is not a subject for public debate . . .’

‘It must be, Hartmann. While you doubled the protection around yourself this little girl was snatched from her parents. Even though your own Justice Minister met with Special Branch a week
ago and discussed a specific threat to kidnap a member of the Zeuthen family. I’ve an internal memo from the Justice department that makes this crystal clear.’

Another wave of Hartmann’s report.

‘And there’s not a word of that in here. A defenceless Emilie Zeuthen was seized while you strutted round Copenhagen begging for votes surrounded by the armed guards who should have
been keeping her safe. How do you explain that?’

‘I’ve already said,’ Hartmann replied. ‘I will not allow this family’s pain to become an issue for public debate.’

The interviewer cut in.

‘You don’t want to comment at all on his accusation? Really?’

‘I have complete confidence in PET and the police.’

Hartmann glanced at the edge of the studio. Rosa Lebech was supposed to be there, ready to make an announcement of the alliance the moment the debate was over. He could see her arguing with
Karen Nebel. Shaking her head. Then walking away.

‘That,’ he added, ‘is all I’m prepared to say.’

It took two minutes to shut off the power and the trains. Then Lund let herself down onto the track, took out her torch and walked into the cold, dank tunnel, past iron
pillars, past old graffiti, keeping to the maintenance pathway on the right.

The line beyond the arches was still live. From time to time a train would lurch down it, all lights and noise, faces at the window. Lund had no idea how far she’d walked. Was beginning to
wonder if she’d passed the point. Then the graffiti began again, a sign that this part of the tunnel was accessible to those in the know. On the right, rusty and old, a narrow ladder ran down
from above.

She put her hands to the cold railings, placed her right boot on the first rung and began to climb.

After a minute she felt cold air, heard the noise of traffic above. The manhole cover was off already. Not much more and she was out. Maintenance cones and fencing surrounded her. She was in a
cobbled square, yellow city buses running to one side.

The phone rang and he said, ‘Can you see a fourteen bus?’

It was just coming to the stop. She ran towards the doors.

‘You want me to get in?’

‘No. Just throw the money inside.’

She stopped, looked at the crowd of people inside. Ordinary commuters. No easy way to follow. Then Lund took off the rucksack, walked to the entrance, pushed it onto the floor and watched as the
doors closed. Straight away the bus pulled out into the street, the bag by the legs of strangers.

‘Good,’ he said.

Lund looked around. He saw every move.

‘Where’s the girl?’

Silence.

She knew where she was now. Nytorv square where she’d been that morning, badgering a reluctant Peter Schultz. Fast footsteps running. Mathias Borch coming towards her across the
cobbles.

‘Where’s the girl?’ Lund asked again.

‘Look up, Lund,’ the voice said in a bright, laughing tone. ‘You should always look up. You need to learn that.’

The courthouse. The tallest building in the square.

Phone still to her ear she cricked back her neck, focused on the portico with its bold and visible inscription about justice. Saw nothing. Then at the peaked pinnacle, by the flagpole . . .

‘What is this?’ she whispered.

‘Read what it says.’

She never took much notice of the words above the building. This was a place for business.

Med lov skal man land bygge.

With law shall the nation be built.

‘Good joke, don’t you think?’

Borch close by, scanning the square.

‘I told you to come alone, Lund.’ Severe and judgemental now, like a schoolmaster who’d come across mischief. ‘Next time do as I say. Think twice about paying small
change for the life of a little girl.’

The portico was illuminated by floodlights on the handsome building. Something drifted down from the summit. A handkerchief, floating like a giant snowflake in the winter night. Borch turned his
torch on the portico. Lund’s breath froze in her lungs.

High up, crouched at the summit of the pitched roof, was a man. She could just make him out, something just visible round his neck.

‘Remember this,’ the voice said, and then the figure on the building fell forward, a rope snaking behind him.

Tumbled down like a stone, shrieking, arms wheeling, legs flailing, stopped from crashing to the Nytorv cobbles by the noose round his neck and the long rope above.

A crack like a gunshot. A neck snapping.

Lund yelled something, saw the hanged man start to swing, a slow pendulum between the Ionic columns, the slight and bearded figure of Peter Schultz turning all the time.

In the street a woman screamed. Staff started coming out of the courthouse doors. Mathias Borch was running frantically round the arches, towards the adjoining alley, calling in backup.

A long time ago Lund had walked up onto the roof of the courthouse too. Any number of ways out of that place.

She was starting to get a picture of this man. Someone who could shut down a giant corporation’s security system at will. Penetrate the underground tunnels of the city’s transport
system. Be one step ahead of them, always.

Gone already.

Thirty minutes later the square was swarming with police. A foul-tempered Brix. Borch desperately looking for leads. The sweep of the courthouse had produced nothing but a poor
CCTV image of a man in a hood, entering through the west roof. The ransom money had been found untouched on the bus.

They’d got Schultz’s body down from the rope. Now the front of the building was being sheeted off for forensic, and to keep out the cameramen and TV crews.

‘He probably got in from the rooftops and left the same way,’ Borch said.

‘And there was no one on the bus?’ Brix asked.

‘There was never anyone on the bus,’ Lund said. ‘He didn’t want the ransom.’

‘You spoke to him . . .’ Brix had listened in silence to her account of what happened at the station. ‘Is he going to call again?’

‘I guess. I need a car.’

‘You guess?’ His voice rose then, and that was unusual. ‘What about Peter Schultz?’

‘The mate from the Zeeland ship got in touch with him. He wanted money. Something to do with a court case. A suicide. Young girl. The mate and the other two crew members testified. We need
to look into the case.’

Brix took a long, deep breath.

‘Why didn’t I know about this?’

‘Because it only came out today,’ Borch broke in. ‘There wasn’t time.’

‘I need a car,’ she said. ‘I want another look at this place Juncker found.’

The homicide chief’s long arm shot out.

‘You’re not going anywhere until I get that phone.’

‘He said he’d only talk to me.’

‘The phone!’

She muttered something and handed it over.

‘Now you can go,’ Brix added. He nodded at Borch. ‘You too.’

On the way Lund took it out on the PET man. Gave him a hard time about the phone. They had no trace whatsoever except that he was using a mobile provider, routed through London.

‘How the hell does he know all this stuff?’ she barked. ‘And why weren’t you . . . more use?’

That made him mad.

‘More use? Do you think I’d have spotted a man on the roof with a noose round his neck? Did you?’

They got to the car. She kicked the door for the hell of it.

‘And,’ Borch added, ‘it wasn’t me who stopped on the platform to say hi to someone either, was it?’

They got in, Lund in the driving seat.

‘So,’ Borch said. ‘Mark’s going to be a dad. Congratulations.’

There was a white police van blocking the way. Lund stamped on the horn.

‘Why won’t they move?’

‘With a desk job at OPA, working nine to five, you’ll have a lot more time to be a grandma too.’

She was minded to tell him to fuck off but when she looked she realized he meant it.

‘Funny way to find out,’ Borch said with a friendly shrug. ‘He probably wants to keep it quiet until he’s ready.’

‘She looks nine months if she’s a day!’

Another bang on the horn.

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘It’s probably down to her anyway. She looks older than him. Doesn’t want me to know my eighteen-year-old son’s about to become a father.’

Borch nodded.

‘Couldn’t be anything to do with you. Could it?’

Lund just stared at him.

‘My advice,’ he went on bravely. ‘For what it’s worth, which probably isn’t very much . . . buy them a present. Something a bit better than pizza and beer. Go and
congratulate them. Bring it out into the open. Try and—’

‘You know nothing about me, Borch. Nothing about my life.’

That offended him.

‘Really? I remember standing outside that little flat in the freezing cold, all my stuff in the street and not the first clue what I’d done wrong. Not a—’

‘We were too young. We should never have moved in together.’

‘Yeah, well . . . thanks for telling me now. I never thought that. My dad put down the deposit on that place.’

She banged her fist on the horn again.

‘Do I still owe you money?’

‘Technically, yes. I’ll let it pass.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘No I’m not. Here’s the truth. Anything emotional . . . you want to run away. Me, Mark, God knows what else . . .’

‘Well at least that worked out for the best, didn’t it? Now you’re the happy family man. A wife. Two kids. Nirvana . . .’

Silence. She looked at him. Borch was staring out of the side window. He looked wretched.

Another slap of the horn and this time the van moved.

After the debate Hartmann summoned his Justice Minister Mogens Rank for an urgent meeting. PET found the nearest secure location: a government office in a bank building close
by. There was frost on the ground by the time the campaign coach pulled up outside. Morten Weber was there already, anxious to brief Hartmann on the murder at the courthouse.

‘What the hell has this got to do with Emilie Zeuthen?’

‘The police don’t know,’ Weber said. ‘The ransom wasn’t picked up. They don’t have a clue where the girl is.’

Karen Nebel came off the phone.

‘Birgit Eggert’s kicking up a stink. She wants a meeting. She’s demanding we respond to Ussing’s claims.’

‘Is she?’ Hartmann muttered.

Rank was waiting for them inside. A dapper man in his thirties with ginger hair and thick glasses he fiddled with constantly. Hartmann had appointed him out of gratitude for the help he’d
provided during the last campaign. He was dry and nervy, but seemed a safe pair of hands.

‘I can explain,’ Rank said the moment Hartmann entered the small, secure room PET had found for them.

‘Zeuthen’s daughter’s been kidnapped. A public prosecutor murdered. An explanation would be good, Mogens.’

He sat down at the table. Rank took the chair opposite. Weber and Karen Nebel joined them.

‘I absolutely understand your anger, Troels. We’re investigating where Ussing got this information. I expect answers—’

‘I want to know if it’s true! The inquest can come later.’

Rank squirmed on his chair.

‘Well . . . if you’ll give me the chance to explain . . . things have been very busy of late—’

Morten Weber banged the table.

‘Did you know there was a threat to kidnap a member of the Zeuthen family? Yes or no?’

Rank didn’t appreciate being shouted at.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Not in those specific terms. We received an anonymous email. I’ve asked Dyhring along. He’s head of PET. His department received it.’