The Killing 3 (25 page)

Zeuthen was transfixed by nothing more than the expanse of flat grass. Here the family played in the heat of a bright summer. He could picture her now, kicking wildly at Carl’s football,
laughing as it flew away.

‘There are many messages of condolence,’ Reinhardt added. ‘You don’t need to do anything until you feel like it. I can handle all this. The media. A couple of reporters
tried to get into the estate.’

Reinhardt came to the window.

‘They won’t be back.’ He hesitated. ‘I had a call from the police. They think they’ve found her. There are some problems but they believe they’ll be able to
recover Emilie soon.’

Zeuthen closed his eyes.

‘They’ll need to take her to the forensic department first I’m afraid. The police say that whenever you want they will offer you a full report on where matters stand. The
timing’s entirely up to you.’

Two years before, when Zeuthen’s father passed away, Reinhardt had handled everything, proved a rock for the family in a time of grief.

‘I’d like to leave the practicalities to you,’ Zeuthen said, back to staring out of the window. ‘Contact the priest. Tell Maja I’m happy with whatever arrangements
she wants.’

‘Carl’s at his grandparents’. He knows nothing about this. It’s up to you and Maja when you want to . . .’

Was it raining? Was that what streaked and ruined the day?

Zeuthen gazed out at the lifeless lawn, the sea beyond, and realized he was weeping.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ Reinhardt said and walked slowly, quietly from the room.

Mathias Borch seemed to have commandeered the little office he’d found. There were photos on the wall. Emilie. The bodies of the sailors. Schultz and Lis Vissenbjerg. He
looked busy when she walked in, was working the photocopier, churning out page after page.

‘Brix seems to think he’s fled the country,’ Borch said when she came in. ‘On what grounds—’

‘Why don’t you just go home, Mathias. You’ve got a family . . .’

She didn’t like the look on his face then.

One of the junior PET men attached to the Politigården team stuck his head through the door and said Dyhring wanted an immediate report on the situation.

‘Yeah, yeah, Kasper,’ Borch answered then waved him away. ‘Why did he take the speedboat all the way to the harbour? He could have abandoned it anywhere. Had a car waiting. I
don’t—’

‘It’s not our problem any more. Interpol are taking over. Madsen’s sending them the material.’

He went to the wall, and the photos on the clipboard. Lund stayed where she was.

‘This man knows what he’s going to do every step of the way. He kidnaps Emilie Zeuthen. He murders those sailors. The prosecutor. The pathologist. Then he rejects shitloads of money
all because he wants to avenge a forgotten crime out in Jutland.’

‘Yes,’ she said and took a seat.

‘But when you tell him there’s a chance he’s wrong about Robert Zeuthen what does he do?’ Borch made a gun shape with his right hand. ‘He shoots the girl anyway.
Why?’

‘Does it matter?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It does. If there’s one thing we know about him it’s that he has some warped sense of justice. He doesn’t think he’s a criminal. He believes he’s a
righteous warrior out to avenge Louise Hjelby. If that’s the way he sees himself how can he take Emilie’s life as if it doesn’t count?’

‘But he did. Just go home will you? Let’s leave this to Interpol . . .’

‘I did go home.’

He didn’t look at her when he said that. Just pulled a pack of cigarettes off the desk and lit one.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘You do now.’

She reached out, took the cigarette, stubbed it out on the desk then threw it in the bin.

‘Not allowed in here any more.’

‘I sat outside in the car. Watching Marie make breakfast for the girls.’ He picked up another cigarette, lit it. She did nothing. ‘It all looked so nice. They were probably
chatting about what to eat, when to go swimming.’

He looked up at her.

‘I couldn’t go in there.’ He pointed at the photos on the wall. ‘Not with this running round my head. We can find this man, Sarah. I don’t think he’s run
away. He’s not like that. We’ve overlooked something. It’s like . . .’ He patted his jeans pockets, looked crazy for a moment. ‘Like I’ve lost my phone. Or my
keys . . .’

Another knock. The PET man Kasper walked in.

‘Dyhring’s going crazy. He wants to talk to you now.’

The explosion was sudden and so unlike him. Borch kicked at the desk, sent it flying onto its side, papers on the floor, coffee mug, everything.

‘Didn’t I tell you already?’

Kasper stood there, hand on the door.

‘Yes, Borch. You did. But he’s still ringing—’

‘I’ll be there for fuck’s sake! Give it a break.’

He grabbed his jacket, sucked on the cigarette. Stabbed a finger at her.

‘We’re missing something, Sarah. Think about it.’

Hartmann didn’t show up in his office in Christiansborg that morning. Weber and Karen Nebel tried his apartment. Then security came back and said he was at his old house
in Østerbro.

The two of them went there straight away, bickering about how to proceed. Nebel was full of positive phrases about support and help in making decisions. Weber listened as they walked up the path
to the house and said, ‘Maybe he just needs a bit of time to himself.’

‘We’re in the middle of an election. If he goes walkabout Birgit Eggert’s going to start scheming again. He shouldn’t be sitting in this old dump when half of
Denmark’s asking what’s going on.’

Weber kept quiet.

‘OK,’ Nebel said, getting the idea. ‘You’ve known him since for ever. And I’m just the new girl who doesn’t understand a single thing.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite as harshly as that. Troels is a strange animal. He’s simple but complicated. Thick-skinned but sensitive at the same time.’

‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘An enigma. That’ll look good on the election posters.’

‘They don’t need to see that side of him. It’s for the best. Believe me.’

The argument seemed about to go up a notch. Then they heard something. It took a moment for the sound to register.

Weber groaned.

‘Oh God. He’s back to chopping wood.’

She followed him into the garden behind the house. Hartmann was in a green country jacket swinging at logs with an axe.

‘How’s my little tree elf this morning?’ Weber asked brightly. ‘Building ourselves a new bunker to hide in, are we?’

Hartmann chuckled, looked happier than he’d been in days. A pile of neatly quartered logs ready for the fire stood by him.

‘That’s a good one, Morten. Have you used it before?’ Hartmann pointed at the wood. ‘These need to go inside. I’m lighting a fire. Give us a hand, will
you?’

‘I don’t do manual labour,’ Weber told him. ‘Why do you think I came into politics?’

‘I’ve decided I’m keeping the house,’ Hartmann announced. ‘It’s too nice to give to someone else.’

He grabbed an armful of wood and walked through the open back door. They followed. Hartmann stacked the logs by the side of a large fireplace in the living room.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘this place only seems cold and lost because no one’s been paying it any attention. If I light the fire the damp will go. If I move back in . .
.’

‘Bit far from the office,’ Nebel noted.

Weber took a deep breath, glanced at her, launched in.

‘OK, Troels. An update. PET are going to take care of Rosa Lebech’s loopy husband. There’ll be no more leaks from him. In return he won’t be going to court. I’ve
got calls in with the police . . .’

‘I’ve decided to resign as Prime Minister.’

They went quiet. He took off his gloves and laid them carefully on the logs.

‘And as party leader of course. I should have listened to you both and backed off the Zeuthen case. It was stupid to get involved. I just couldn’t help it.
I’m—’

‘Is this a joke?’ Weber yelled at him. ‘Are you taking the piss or what? We’ve worked our arses off—’

‘This is Rank’s doing,’ Nebel cut in. ‘Not yours. He’s going to have to bear the blame.’

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘He was my minister. I’m responsible for him. I won’t have this kind of scandal happening over Emilie Zeuthen’s grave.’

‘Oh please!’ Weber kicked the pile of logs, sending a few scattering across the carpet. ‘Leave your tender ego out of this for once. We’ll hang Mogens if we need to and
that’s it.’

‘I want you to set up a meeting with Birgit Eggert,’ Hartmann continued. ‘My mind’s made up.’

Weber came and stood in front of him.

‘Your mind’s not yours to command. Haven’t you worked that out yet? We’re a team. This is not going to happen.’

‘Set up a meeting with Eggert,’ he said again.

Karen Nebel shook her head.

‘You don’t have the right to give up. We’ve got a campaign behind us. Hundreds of people who’ve put their faith in you.’

Hartmann nodded.

‘Maybe they shouldn’t have done. Just call Eggert, will you? I’d like to pay my condolences to Robert Zeuthen in person when he’s ready. Make a call on that too.’
He looked at his grubby hands. ‘I need to change.’

Then he went back outside.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Nebel muttered.

‘I do,’ Morten Weber said. ‘Unfortunately. When you speak to Eggert say he’s minded to resign.
Minded.
That’s all.’

The corridors were long and dark and winding. Sometimes even Lund felt lost in the interior maze of the angular grey building that was the Politigården.

November. Rain fell on the central circular courtyard that was supposed to have a roof, an eye above it like the Pantheon.

Lights on everywhere. People she didn’t know shuffling from department to department, floor to floor.

OPA worked in a different modern building. An ordinary block near the station. A place of safe boredom and predictable hours. There’d be time to tend to the garden, maybe ask Eva’s
advice on what to plant.

It was only lately that she’d noticed how people sometimes looked at her. That beneath their puzzled, worried gaze she’d felt an ache to be like everyone else, to slide into the same
unthinking contentment and eke out the day.

Now she had to face Maja and Robert Zeuthen to explain the inexplicable. Lund had never run from these difficult moments. It was her job to break the worst news of all. The Zeuthen case was
different. More and more in her head it was starting to rank with the murder of Nanna Birk Larsen. Not simply a vicious, impenetrable crime. Just as much a mark of the times, a way the world was
falling slowly, steadily into uncaring chaos.

Lund walked into reception. Three of them there. Zeuthen in another dark suit, black tie, blank face. His wife in the green parka, hair straggly, face drawn. Next to her the boyfriend.

Carsten Lassen stayed behind. Zeuthen and his wife went into an interview room and sat by the barred window while Lund took the seat opposite.

‘We’re doing everything we can to trace your daughter’s murderer,’ she began and realized her words were an echo of the ones she used with Pernille and Theis Birk Larsen
six years before, probably at this same table.

She wondered what the two of them were doing now Theis was out of jail. Looking at the Zeuthens a thought came unbidden. Time healed nothing, but love eased the pain. The Birk Larsens’
devotion was tested then confirmed with a terrible finality. Maja Zeuthen scarcely glanced at her husband, though he couldn’t take his eyes off her. There seemed no such catharsis coming
their way.

‘We suspect he may have escaped on a ship out of the country,’ she added. ‘Interpol are handling that side of the investigation. They have a full schedule of ship movements . .
.’

Her voice sounded detached, as if it belonged to someone else. Like a minister reciting an old prayer, never noticing the words.

‘We still think he may be a former Zeeland employee with a grudge.’

Lund wished they’d say something. Acknowledge one another’s presence.

‘We can offer you counselling,’ she added and thought again of a weary priest, reciting the same old refrain.

‘Where is she now?’ Maja asked in a tired, weak voice.

‘There are some technical issues with the diving operation. I’m sorry. I can’t be precise.’

‘What was she wearing?’

Zeuthen was trying to catch his wife’s eye and failing.

‘You saw?’ Maja persisted. ‘You were there, Lund?’

‘I don’t really know. It was very dark—’

‘She was wearing a dark coat,’ Zeuthen interrupted.

‘Was she afraid?’

Still the woman wouldn’t look at him.

‘She didn’t see anything,’ Lund told her. ‘It was all very . . . very quick. The boat went under the bridge. I’m not sure . . .’

Borch’s voice kept wanting to say something in her head.

‘I don’t know what I saw exactly. I don’t think she could have understood what was happening. I didn’t.’

Maja Zeuthen nodded.

‘I want to see her.’

Lund just looked, wondering what to say.

‘Did you hear me? I want to see her.’

‘I’ll pass that on. If there’s anything else . . .’

Zeuthen moved, tried to take her hand, spoke her name.

‘No!’

It was almost a shriek. She half-ran from the room. Through the door they could see Carsten Lassen open his arms, embrace her.

Zeuthen sat back hunched in the hard Politigården chair, biting his lip.

Then he stared at Lund and she knew that expression so well. Hatred. Blame.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘I still don’t understand . . .’

The look didn’t change. He got up and left without a word.

Lund sat there in the interview room, hearing the voices around her. Maja Zeuthen. Pernille Birk Larsen. So many and they all asked the same question . . . why?

Hair back in a ponytail, smarter than usual, black sweater, black trousers. Dressed for a funeral and she’d never even noticed. She bent over and just for a brief minute allowed herself to
cry.

Hartmann wouldn’t be deterred. By midday he was in Birgit Eggert’s office with Weber by his side, discussing the practicalities. There was an obvious glint of
opportunity in her face.