The Killing 3 (34 page)

‘There was a reason,’ Borch said. ‘I want to tell you.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. You’re owed. And . . .’

She got up, walked out into the night.

Juncker briefed her. They were searching the sand dunes. A couple of nearby caravan sites. There was no easy way to guess where he’d gone.

‘He’ll have a plan,’ she said. ‘All ready. All prepared. Just in case.’

The young detective nodded.

‘I guess so . . .’

Borch came up, insistent at her side.

‘I didn’t stand in the way of anything, Sarah. Will you listen to me?’

Juncker glared at him.

‘I think there was a bloodstain on the timber near the generator,’ Lund said. ‘I shot him. He was wearing body armour but he may have cut himself. Could be wounded anyway. I
want forensic to take a sample and send it to the lab.’

The van had been found in the boatyard car park. No sign of Emilie. The dogs didn’t react when they were led inside.

‘She was never here,’ Lund said. ‘We’re going back to Copenhagen. Whoever was in that black car—’

‘I did what I could!’ Borch cried.

She walked on, under the red and white tape, back towards the police cars.

‘I was trying to help . . .’

Mad, she stopped and turned on him.

‘So who were you covering for? Whose arse is PET protecting here?’

Juncker folded his arms, glared at Borch.

‘Yeah. I’d like to know that too. I thought we were supposed to be a team.’

‘You don’t have clearance!’ Borch’s voice was strained. ‘Until . . . until . . .’

It was Juncker who lost it, not her.

‘That kid in there was raped and murdered. Emilie Zeuthen’s still missing somewhere. And here you are . . . bleating on like some bloody jobsworth. You make me sick.’

‘I’ll drive,’ Lund announced and held up her keys.

Juncker climbed into the passenger seat.

A face at the window.

‘I need a lift,’ Borch pleaded.

‘We don’t have clearance,’ Lund said and drove off.

Brix had expected to show Robert and Maja Zeuthen a body. Instead it was a grubby blue bag with a folded bundle of fabric inside. Two gunshots. Firm proof it was the object
Zeuthen saw from the bridge.

The bag had been moved to a small room in forensic. The Zeuthens stared at it, didn’t say a word.

‘I wish I could answer more of the questions this raises,’ Brix added. ‘It’s clear he intended to fool us. But—’

‘You think she’s alive?’ the mother asked.

Brix hated direct answers.

‘He was traced to Jutland. There are no signs Emilie went with him. From what we can see she was taken in the speedboat to Copenhagen harbour. After that . . . We’re searching the
area, looking at ship movements. He certainly had access to a container.’

He looked at Zeuthen.

‘He has some kind of maritime connection. Beyond that . . . I would caution against too much optimism. He’s a violent, organized man. If . . .’

Robert Zeuthen turned on his heels and marched out of the room. His wife followed. Brix too. The man was on the phone already, calling in the head of Zeeland’s security department and his
team.

‘Mr Zeuthen . . .’ Brix began.

‘We’ll manage our own search of the harbour. It starts now. We know these places better than you. Frankly from what I’ve seen . . .’

Brix shook his head.

‘I understand your frustration. I can’t allow you to interfere in our operations.’

‘You wasted forty-eight hours on this nonsense!’ Zeuthen yelled.

‘They weren’t wasted. My officers—’

‘We were about to tell our son his sister was dead. Can you imagine that? What are we supposed to say now?’

Brix didn’t move.

‘This is an unusual case. You’ll only complicate matters if you try to interfere.’

Zeuthen walked off without another word. The woman stayed.

‘This isn’t the right way,’ Brix said. ‘Please . . .’

‘He wants to do something! Can’t you understand that? We both do.’

‘Then look nearer to home. This man got close to you. Close to Emilie. He knows things about you, about Zeeland, he shouldn’t. If we could understand that . . .’

‘You’ve been all over my family, Brix. All over Zeeland . . .’

‘It doesn’t mean the answers aren’t there. Just that we haven’t found them. A different pair of eyes. A closer pair, perhaps . . .’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she promised.

He watched her walk down the corridor, meet her husband outside. They seemed a little less distant than before.

Then he went back to the ops room. Saw the interest, the eagerness, the energy. The case was back from the dead.

Robert Zeuthen was in the office in Drekar with Reinhardt and a team from Zeeland’s security section. Grey, serious, determined professionals, talking about places to
look, shipping records, destinations.

Maja had heard a couple of the servants gossiping. Zeeland didn’t run itself. There were board problems even before Emilie was kidnapped. Whispers about mutiny and how Robert wasn’t
his father.

And he wasn’t. She’d never have married him otherwise. Listening to them talk, watching him try to guide their efforts, she felt powerless. As did he.

They had a big monitor by the table. Maps and shipping movements displayed there. He was asking where the police had been, what they were doing. It seemed comprehensive, to her anyway.

‘They’ve checked all the ships in port,’ Reinhardt said.

‘What about the containers?’

‘They’re sealed. We can’t just—’

‘I want you to talk to the freight station people,’ Zeuthen interrupted. ‘Tell them we want every last one opened and checked. We’ll cover the losses. We’ll pay for
any subsequent costs caused by the delays.’

The security officer shook his head.

‘We don’t have the right. They’re cargo. The contents are private property. If—’

‘Ask their price. Then pay it. I doubt they’ll argue.’

‘The board needs to meet,’ Reinhardt added. ‘It’s important—’

‘Not for me,’ Zeuthen snapped.

A noise at the door. Carsten Lassen was there, looking at Maja. Carl was with him. He’d been crying.

She went to the boy. So did Zeuthen. Lassen looked shamefaced. He’d had the TV on. Carl had heard the news.

‘I forgot. I’m . . .’

Maja had her arms round the boy, gave Lassen a look. He took the hint and left them.

They went to the family room, sat Carl between them, arms round him. The way it used to be.

‘Mum and Dad are looking for her,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Everywhere. We’ll find our Emilie. We both . . . we all miss her.’

‘What if you don’t?’

Her hand went to his hair. Zeuthen’s followed.

‘But we will,’ Maja told him.

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

He rolled over on the settee, put his head on her lap, his legs on his father’s.

‘I went looking for her,’ the boy said.

She wanted to cry but wouldn’t allow that.

‘Where?’

‘I thought she was in the gap. But she wasn’t.’

Maja Zeuthen closed her eyes. The old mansion was so big. The kids spent long hours exploring places she’d never even found.

‘What gap, darling?’

He looked worried. She asked again.

‘The place Emilie goes when she doesn’t want to hear things.’

Zeuthen put his hand to Carl’s cheek.

‘Hear what?’

‘You two. Fighting and stuff.’

They glanced at one another. A shared moment of grief, of guilt. Of something that hadn’t yet died however hard they’d tried to kill it.

When she looked up Carsten Lassen was at the door, lost and miserable, a small case in his hand.

‘Let’s find a biscuit. And milk or something,’ Zeuthen said and led his son away.

Lassen came in. Said, uncertainly, ‘Maybe we should pack Carl some more of his things from here. So he feels at home with us.’

She didn’t speak.

‘Is there any news?’

Maja shook her head.

‘Did Carl or Emilie ever mention a secret place they had? They called it “the gap”?’

He laughed, not kindly.

‘You think they’d share secrets with me?’

Maja looked at the old, familiar room. Thought of the happy times in here. The break with Robert had hidden them somehow. Only the quarrels and the pain were visible then. They’d sent
Emilie scuttling into the shadows, to a place she could only guess at. Perhaps somewhere she was taken from finally, never to return.

‘We’ll stay here tonight,’ she said softly. ‘It’s best for him to be near his father right now.’

A nod, a bitter smile. She’d disappointed him once more.

He placed the bag on the floor.

‘If that’s how you feel.’

Maja scarcely noticed he was gone.

The gap.

A place they’d sent her.

The gap.

She had to know.

Near midnight Lund arrived home. Brix called as she walked through the door. On the way from Jutland she’d whinged about Borch and PET and the missing notebook.
He’d raised it with them. Come up with next to nothing.

‘They say it was a routine check, Lund. Nothing special.’

‘Is that why Borch was there two years ago sweeping up everything he could lay his hands on?’

‘He wasn’t. If he had been he’d have found that boatyard, wouldn’t he?’

‘Borch got that book without telling me. He had a reason.’

A low curse down the line.

‘They’re PET. They do security for politicians. You know their games. Don’t get paranoid.’

The house was in darkness and very cold.

‘I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘They must have kept a copy of the car numbers they picked up before.’

‘I’ve got Dyhring coming in here tomorrow first thing. You can come and watch me kick his arse from pillar to post. Did Borch give you anything?’

‘No,’ she said and left it at that.

‘We got a preliminary result on the blood you found. Looks like he’s Louise Hjelby’s father.’

A sound behind. Eva wandered in wearing a nightdress, bleating at Lund not to turn on the heating. She was carrying a candle in a jam jar. There was a smell like incense. She walked round
lighting more candles. Plant pots on the carpet, on the tables, everywhere.

‘Everything that was still alive I brought in,’ she said. ‘If the room’s too hot they’ll think it’s spring. Then they wake up and they die.’

Lund put down the phone. Wondered what to do.

Eva said very earnestly, ‘The thing is . . . if we get a bit of winter without frost they can go out early so long as we keep an eye on them. If not . . .’

‘I can’t freeze all winter for the fucking plants,’ Lund murmured.

Eva smiled, pretended to ignore that.

‘I made some pumpkin soup. Very healthy. Want some?’

No answer. Lund walked to the fridge, looked at the beers.

‘No!’ Eva shrieked and rushed to shut the door. ‘You didn’t see!’

Photos on the front. Ultrasound images from the hospital.

‘I’ll get the soup going . . .’

‘I’m not interested in soup, candles, plants or pictures of babies right now.’

One beer. Cold and beckoning. She took out a second for good measure.

‘No need to get mad,’ Eva complained. ‘I’m only staying till tomorrow.’

Lund looked at her, felt for one brief moment a pang of guilt.

‘Do you ever read papers, Eva? Or watch TV?’

‘Not right now. It’s all so miserable. What if the little one hears?’

The pang of guilt got bigger.

‘Have you talked to Mark?’ Lund asked.

She had a naive and pretty face, one that advertised its pain so freely.

‘He said he didn’t know what to do. About me. About . . .’

She patted her belly and Lund so wished she hadn’t.

‘I need to think about myself. About the baby. I can move in with a friend I think. You don’t need to worry.’

It wasn’t too late to fry an egg, even if the plants might scream.

‘You can’t live like that with a baby. There’s always the flat.’

A shrug, one that said: defeated.

‘The ceiling’s got asbestos. They’ve closed the whole block. Going to come down.’ A brief laugh, not bitter. She probably couldn’t manage that if she tried.
‘Probably why we got it on the cheap.’

Lund knocked back more beer. Wondered if she’d hit three.

‘I guess it’s not so weird being a single mum,’ Eva said. ‘You managed it.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Lund said without thinking. ‘I thought I could. I wanted to. So much. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Things didn’t work out with Mark’s dad. I thought I didn’t need him. Didn’t need anyone.’

Bright eyes shining in the candlelight Eva asked, ‘Why didn’t it work?’

‘Maybe I would like some soup.’

A glimmer of recognition.

‘Were you pregnant too? Is that why you got married?’

Lund laughed. Nodded.

‘And you didn’t love him?’

Too close but those eyes wouldn’t leave her.

‘No. I loved someone else. Before. But I was scared. So I chased him away. It seemed easier . . .’

A noise. Her phone was ringing.

‘You can stay here as long as you like,’ she said. ‘I’ll be proud to have a picture of your baby on the fridge. Any time . . .’

Lund pulled herself together, picked up her phone, said, ‘What’s up?’

‘Why did you stop me, Lund? What was that bastard to you?’

The voice from Emilie’s handset. Cold. Intelligent. Cultured.

Her head was spinning.

‘How did you get my number?’

‘I can get anything I want. Your friend from PET deserved to die. You heard what he was covering up. So did I.’

‘Where’s Emilie? What have you done with her?’

‘There’s still a trade to be made here. I need your help.’

She walked across the room. Something in her tone sent Eva scuttling to the cooker.

‘We know you didn’t take her to Jutland. Is she alive?’

‘The book lists twelve black cars. I need names and social security numbers for the drivers. I’ll manage the rest.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Come in. Give me Emilie. I’ll find who killed your daughter.’

Silence then.

‘We’ve got your blood. I know you’re Louise’s father. She told her friends you were a good man. A hero. Is that what heroes do? Steal children in the night?’