The Killing 3 (20 page)

For a year things had stabilized. Hartmann had fallen into a loving, faithful relationship with a beautiful schoolteacher working in a poor area of Nørrebro.

Then the pressures of office seemed to intensify. He spent more time in Slotsholmen than he did at home. One day, a few weeks after Hartmann became Prime Minister, he lost Benjamin. The
beautiful schoolteacher not long after. Hartmann was single again. Unencumbered. All the old ways returned.

He stopped in the kitchen. Once he’d sat here, being cunningly interrogated by Sarah Lund. Wondering about her too. She’d seemed an interesting, attractive woman. He was too
intrigued to notice she was simply trying to snare him. The Birk Larsen case almost ended his political career, even though he had nothing to do with the girl’s murder.

It’s never the deed that kills you. It’s the lie.

What Rosa Lebech said was true. And it so nearly finished him then.

He walked upstairs. Karen Nebel followed.

‘It’s a beautiful house, Troels. You should just pay to have the damp fixed and make them stick to the asking price.’

He went to the window, looked at the overgrown garden. Brambles had almost covered the summerhouse where his wife had liked to sit during those last difficult months. The roses needed pruning.
The fruit trees too.

‘I used to chop wood out there,’ he said with a smile. ‘Nothing better when you want to think about something. No phones ringing. No emails. Nothing but . . . the people you
want close. And this.’

He rapped on the wooden doors.

‘I hung those myself. I was pretty good at DIY.’

She laughed.

‘You?’

‘Why not?’

Nebel hesitated.

‘I never really thought of you that way.’

‘What? As a family man?’

He walked across the landing and pushed open the door there. A small room with a window out to the front.

‘This was going to be the nursery. I put up the wallpaper, every last bit.’

Cartoon cars running up and down the wall, grinning, racing, flying.

‘We knew it was going to be a boy. Thought so anyway.’ His fingers touched the paper. Damp. ‘When Benjamin came back he went for this room straight away. Twenty-six years old.
Always a kid.’

‘I only met him once. He was bright. Funny.’

‘Crazy,’ Hartmann added. ‘Maddening.’ A smile. ‘Had an opinion on every subject under the sun, and it was always the right one. I loved him.’ He cocked his
head to one side. ‘Sort of envied him really.’

He went to the cupboard, opened it. CDs and computer games. Left-wing posters and a baseball bat.

‘Mum always called him the happy accident. I was at university when he was born. Never lived at home when he was growing up. I guess . . .’ Hartmann picked up a cap. Boston Red Sox.
‘I guess I was more the serious uncle than a big brother really. By the time they kicked him out of Harvard I was all he had left.’

He put on the cap. Nebel sniggered, came and removed it.

‘Not the image.’

‘Suppose not.’

He looked out of the window.

‘I loved having him here. He drove me nuts. Then . . .’

She smiled. Struggled for something to say.

Morten Weber came up the stairs, popped his head round the corner.

‘I talked to Zeuthen’s man Reinhardt. He’d be happy to give you an audience later. If you want it.’ Weber didn’t seem too comfortable. He knew this house of old
too. ‘This place has seen happier days. You should sell it to someone who’ll bring some life back to it.’

‘Yes,’ Hartmann agreed. ‘Any news on the girl?’

‘There’s a new demand.’ Weber looked downcast. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.’

The phone calls were being captured automatically. Robert Zeuthen sat in Drekar’s downstairs office listening to the playback from a Politigården voice
recorder.

‘
Oh come on, Lund. We’re getting to know each other here, aren’t we? You’ve worked it out. Surely you have.
’

‘
No I haven’t. Tell me.
’

‘
Zeuthen says he’ll pay anything?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Then by all means let him.
’

‘
Robert Zeuthen had nothing to do with the death of Louise Hjelby. If you give me time I’ll get to the bottom of that. I can’t
. . .’

‘
A life for a life. Don’t you think that’s reasonable?
’

Zeuthen sat rigid, no emotion on his face.

‘
You get the girl. I get him. A loving father would do anything for his daughter. He should be grateful for the chance to prove it.
’

‘
Grateful? No one can agree to that. Ask for something reasonable.
’

A long break. Lund looked at the recorder, wondered if something had gone wrong. So did Zeuthen. His right-hand man Reinhardt sat bloodless, shocked, shaking his head.

‘
I’m the most reasonable man in Denmark. That’s my final offer. I’ll call back this afternoon. Make sure you have a car ready. I want you and Robert Zeuthen in
it.
’

Brix reached forward and shut off the little machine.

‘Let me say immediately,’ he told them, ‘this is a preposterous demand. One we cannot agree to.’

Zeuthen’s eyes narrowed, turned on him.

‘When did I give you ownership of my life?’ he asked in a quiet, calm voice.

‘The solution lies in the Hjelby case,’ Brix replied. ‘He’s convinced someone inside Zeeland pressurized Peter Schultz to shut it down. If you can find us a lead inside
your organization . . .’

Zeuthen wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on a painting on the wall: a wild grey ocean, a ship tossed by the violent waves, the Zeeland dragon on the side.

‘If there’s anything that can help us find your daughter,’ Brix added.

‘How many times do you have to ask this? Wouldn’t I tell you?’

Reinhardt intervened.

‘We’ve been through all the records. Checked everything. There’s nothing to add. I’m sorry. Can’t you trace the call? Why’s this man still free?’

‘Because he’s clever,’ Lund said. ‘And knows things we don’t.’

Brix caught Zeuthen’s eye.

‘I’m going to arrange bodyguards for you until this is over.’

Reinhardt didn’t like that.

‘We have our own security. There are people who might think it’s more efficient than yours.’

‘It’s for me,’ Zeuthen said with a grim smile. ‘To make sure I don’t wander.’

‘Robert . . .’ Lund started.

‘No need,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve got the message. You must excuse me now. We have important visitors. Niels will show you out.’

Back in the cold, airy hall three people stood in quiet conversation. Lund was almost on them before she realized.

Hartmann. The little adviser Weber who’d given him an alibi he’d never needed in the Birk Larsen case. Karen Nebel, the TV journalist turned spin doctor.

‘Hi,’ Lund said and looked into Hartmann’s face.

He didn’t look much older. Still handsome. Might have been more so if he smiled.

‘You,’ he said. ‘Long time.’

‘It is.’

Brix was coughing into his fist.

‘Could have been longer,’ Weber growled.

Hartman slapped him down for that. Started on a lecture. Fine words, beautifully delivered. About how he wanted everything done to bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion.

Lund’s phone rang. She went away to take the call. Asbjørn Juncker sounding excited.

When she got back the speech was finished. Probably for her benefit anyway. Instead Weber leaned over and said, ‘I gather PET have pulled in Jens Lebech again. What’s going on
there?’

‘Who?’

‘Jens Lebech . . .’

‘Leave it,’ Hartmann ordered. ‘Any news on the girl?’

‘Not that I can talk about,’ Lund replied.

To her surprise he didn’t push it.

With muted goodbyes they went outside.

Brix muttered something under his breath.

‘I couldn’t ignore him,’ Lund complained.

‘Is there any news?’ he asked.

‘Juncker thinks he may have narrowed down the area Emilie’s being kept.’

He brightened at that.

‘Where?’

‘Near the docks.’ She glanced back at the red-brick castle. A grand, imposing palace. Looked up at the dragon on the roof, like the prow of a Viking ship. ‘There’s a
surprise.’

The three of them watched the tall figure of Niels Reinhardt walk steadily towards them. Amanuensis, butler, personal assistant. The man had been at the right hand of Hans
Zeuthen for decades and now did much the same for his son.

‘I’ll handle this on my own,’ Hartmann said then gave Reinhardt a serious smile, shook his hand, walked into the private office of the Zeuthen empire.

Model ships everywhere. Paintings of the sea. Robert Zeuthen got up from a massive walnut desk to greet him. The two men sat next to one another on a sofa in front of the marble fireplace.

Nothing in the hearth. This vast palace seemed cold, deprived of life.

‘The police are doing everything they can,’ Hartmann said. ‘I want you to know that the government and I are absolutely behind them in this. We’re praying for a solution
that gets Emilie back home.’ He watched Zeuthen nod. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. ‘I’m confident you have the very best people in the police, in PET on your
side.’

Zeuthen scarcely seemed to be listening.

‘Anders Ussing is trying to take advantage. He’s spreading shameful rumours. I’ve given him all the information I can to disprove them but still . . .’ Hartmann scowled.
‘It’s politics I’m afraid.’

‘Politics?’ Zeuthen asked in a weary, suspicious tone.

‘Not for me,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘I’m sorry this has become part of the election campaign, Robert. It’s quite indecent. If there’s anything . . .’

Zeuthen got up from the sofa, walked to the window.

‘So there’s no truth in what the press are saying?’ he asked.

Hartmann joined him. The rain had stopped. Reinhardt was on the lawn in front of a tiny set of goalposts. Laughing as a young boy tried to kick a ball past him. Zeuthen’s wife stood there
and watched them both, her face the very picture of misery. Beyond the rise of the garden was the distant dull line of the sea.

‘No uncertainty or doubt about the handling of the case?’ Zeuthen added.

‘I’m looking into these stories. If anything improper has occurred I’ll deal with it.’

He made sure Zeuthen saw him then.

‘I assure you we’re doing everything we can. I hope . . . I hope this doesn’t affect your support for our campaign. It’s much appreciated. If you were able to reaffirm
that at some stage. Say later today . . .’

Hartmann couldn’t interpret the look on the man’s face at that moment.

A knock on the door. Reinhardt came in. He’d changed into an incongruous pair of red slippers but his trousers still dripped water onto the carpet.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt. I had a call from Brix. He said they found the place they thought Emilie was last being kept. There’s no sign of her I’m afraid.’

‘They found out where she was?’ Hartmann said, offended. ‘I talked to Lund outside. She never mentioned this.’

Reinhardt ignored him.

‘They have to make some preparations for the exchange, Robert.’

‘What exchange?’ Hartmann demanded. ‘I’d like to know . . .’

Zeuthen stared at him, said nothing, walked out of the room.

A deep breath. Hartmann sat down. Wished he’d handled this better. Weber and Karen Nebel wandered in.

‘Some good news anyway,’ Weber announced. ‘Mogens wasn’t at that Ministry drinks party. He never met Schultz there. PET didn’t come up with anything on him
either.’

Hartmann walked to the window. The boy was kicking the ball again. Maja Zeuthen looked just as wretched as before. Zeuthen came out, said something that made Carl laugh.

‘He doesn’t know,’ Hartmann whispered. And wondered: how do you tell a child such a thing? Zeuthen was a man, and the words failed Hartmann when he tried to speak with him. He
hadn’t been trying to beg a fresh reaffirmation of Zeeland’s support. Not really. But struggling for something to say.

‘The police have been searching a factory near the docks,’ Weber went on. ‘They thought she might have been kept there. Nothing so far.’

‘There’s some kind of exchange being planned,’ Hartmann said. ‘Did the police mention that?’

He shook his head.

‘Then how do you know they’re telling you the truth now?’

No answer. He looked out of the window.

The boy ran to his father, hugged him round the waist. Then the mother came close too. At that moment they looked ordinary. Just another couple with a kid. But the Zeuthens couldn’t be
that way. They weren’t born to it. Any more than he was.

‘That’s one more reason we should back off,’ Karen Nebel said quietly.

The factory was just a kilometre away from the scrapyard where the Zeeland mate’s body had been found. Decrepit, empty buildings. The letters ‘KPS’ written in
old-fashioned script on the tallest.

Madsen had set a dog team to work. Asbjørn Juncker was going frantic looking for leads.

‘She’s got to be here somewhere,’ he said, pointing at the line of derelict buildings. ‘There’s a million places to hide.’

‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Lund told him.

Brix leaned against the wall, talking intermittently with Ruth Hedeby, his immediate boss in the Politigården. Someone was stirring it back there. Hartmann probably, Lund thought. He
needed to have Robert Zeuthen on his side. They’d kept the latest demand from the politicians. Only the closest team and Zeuthen knew. Brix had been hoping for a lead that meant it would
never need to be considered. That was looking a slim possibility now.

‘She could have seen the name when they were driving past,’ Brix said mournfully.

‘No,’ Lund insisted. ‘Emilie’s a bright girl. She wouldn’t have written down just anything.’

The place was so big. Madsen must have had fifty officers running from the water’s edge to the decrepit warehouses. An old-fashioned nautical time ball stood on a squat brick tower at the
end that led towards the homeless camp where Hartmann spoke the previous Wednesday.