The Killing 3 (37 page)

The smile became fixed.

‘What do you want of me exactly?’

‘Did Hartmann have a debate with Ussing on April the twentieth two years ago?’ Lund asked.

Weber’s fingers clattered the keys of the laptop on the desk.

‘Yes. He did.’

‘That’s not just a line in an old diary? You’re sure?’

The little man laughed.

‘Sorry I forgot. Talking to you is like the proverbial Muslim divorce, isn’t it? You have to say everything three times. Yes he did. Yes he did. Yes he did.’ Another rattle of
the keys. ‘It was in a fishmeal factory in Esbjerg. Started at five thirty.’

Another jab at the laptop. He turned round the screen so they could see. A cutting from a local newspaper. A photo of Ussing and Hartmann on a platform.

‘Did Ussing act strangely?’ Borch asked.

‘No more than usual I imagine. He’s a thug at heart. You don’t expect niceties from the man.’

‘And Hartmann?’ Lund asked. ‘How was he?’

Weber said nothing. Borch was looking at her too.

‘I was just interested,’ Lund added. ‘Did he drive himself that day? Or take a break in the ministerial car?’

‘Why would he do that?’ Weber replied.

‘I don’t know. I just wondered if he did.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you don’t know?’

Weber leaned back in his chair.

‘He has a chauffeur. For security purposes his movements are logged every inch of the way. Ask PET. They do it. Alongside that we have a campaign bus and some support cars. When he’s
on the road Troels Hartmann doesn’t go walkabout unless I say so. When he does someone’s always there.’

Borch’s phone rang. He walked away to take it.

‘Why do you ask?’ Weber demanded.

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Lund. I understand you feel Troels didn’t do as much as he should have before.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Fine. He didn’t. But he’s a decent, honest man. Somewhat prone to hidden shallows on the emotional front. But none of us is perfect. He has a right to a private life just like
the rest of us. Is that all?’

She looked at Borch. He had nothing.

‘For now,’ Lund said.

The latest polls came in at the end of the afternoon. Hartmann preened himself over them. Then Weber brought him up to date on the police investigation.

‘I gather you had Brünnhilde in the building.’

Weber gave him a quizzical look and took a seat by the window.

‘The Valkyrie of the Politigården.’

‘Oh. Opera’s not my thing. Sorry. She’s just doing her job, Troels. Rather well actually. We don’t really think Ussing murdered that girl, do we?’

Nebel was listening from the door.

‘So long as the mud sticks. It’s not the deed that kills you it’s the lie,’ Hartmann said cheerily.

‘Actually it could be either,’ Weber pointed out. ‘Or both.’

‘I’ve got Mogens here,’ Nebel said, changing the subject. ‘With Birgit. I told you they wanted a word.’

‘You did,’ Weber agreed. ‘Send them in.’

All smiles, Rank in a smart suit, Eggert dressed down, they came through the door.

‘We had an informal committee meeting,’ Rank said. ‘After all the fuss last night. They send their regards. Everything’s looking good. The polls!’

‘We haven’t had this kind of support in the provinces in ten years!’ Eggert added. ‘It’s wonderful. And if you look at the detail so much of it’s for you
personally. Your leadership. Your charisma. Your character.’

‘You checked then?’ Hartmann asked.

‘Well, we have to,’ she replied. ‘And now it seems your witness wasn’t entirely wrong about Ussing.’

She had her hands behind her back. Holding something. Eggert came up to the desk and held out a bottle of red wine. Bordeaux. Old. Expensive.

‘I can’t apologize enough for what happened. Mogens has been magnificent in clearing up an awkward situation. Putting me right on a few points.’ She brandished this bottle.
‘I hope this goes a little way towards . . . making up.’

He stared at the label.

‘I heard it was one of your favourites,’ she added hopefully. ‘I was saving it for election night but . . .’ She looked round. ‘Why not now?’

‘Don’t bother,’ Hartmann said. ‘Best save it for when I appoint my new cabinet. You’ll need something for comfort.’

‘Troels,’ Rank said quietly. ‘We’ve all been under a lot of stress lately. Birgit knows what she did was wrong. She’s trying . . .’

He stopped when Weber got up and stood next to the two of them, folded his arms, looked them up and down.

‘This isn’t a matter for debate,’ the little man said. ‘The Prime Minister doesn’t trust you any more, Birgit. Why should he?’

She didn’t look at him. Just Hartmann.

‘We’ve worked together for years, Troels . . .’

‘All the more reason you should have supported us when we needed it,’ Weber noted. ‘The Permanent Secretary will prepare the Treasury for your dismissal once the election is
over. Until then you’ll make no public appearances. Nor should you regard yourself as a member of the government.’

He went to the door, opened it, nodded at the bottle.

‘There’s a corkscrew in my office. You can borrow it on the way out if you like.’

Closed it after her then looked at Rank, alone, unsmiling, worried.

‘Nothing to be afraid of, Mogens,’ Weber said and patted him on the back. ‘That’s the end of it. You may have a shitty memory but at least you’re loyal.’

Rank said thank you and meekly left.

‘She’ll be calling her scheming little pals before she gets to the lift, Troels. You know that.’

‘Let her. They’re deadbeats. I’m winning. That’s all that counts.’

‘And Rosa?’

Hartmann got up.

‘You can leave her to me.’

Beyond reception, down a long corridor he found her, sitting on a sofa, looking blank in a sharp new suit.

She got up as he approached, was all over him before Hartmann could open his mouth.

‘I just came from a party executive. It’s a done deal. Even your doubters are getting excited. We can do this now. We can make it public.’

‘Really? You’re sure this time?’

‘Absolutely! The Centre Party will get behind your nomination as Prime Minister. When you win we’ll be there, applauding.’ She picked up her coat. ‘Let’s get the
press release done and go for dinner. Last night was a bit . . . rushed, shall we say?’

‘Can I get a word in here?’ Hartmann asked.

‘Sorry?’

He shrugged.

‘I mean thanks . . . but no thanks. There isn’t going to be an alliance. Not politically.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘Not personally.’

Her face fell.

‘I don’t understand.’

The briefest of wry smiles.

‘However delightful your company, Rosa, however sweet our time together . . . your ex-husband still tried to screw me by leaking documents from the Ministry of Justice. Worse than that you
went running to Anders Ussing the moment things got sticky round here. You weren’t there when I needed you. And now when I don’t . . . well . . .’ A sorry frown that wasn’t
sorry. ‘Who gives a . . . ?’

‘We mean something to each other. Don’t we?’

Hartmann sighed, looked downcast.

‘I have to be honest. I’m a simple, affectionate man. I never doubted my own sincerity. The trouble is . . . I just can’t convince myself of yours.’

A look of fury on her face. He did that to women sometimes, and it always surprised him.

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘
What?
’

‘This shouldn’t affect our work,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll always value your opinion when it comes to matters of policy. Within reason, of course.’

A smile. A handshake, one that surprised her so much she took it.

Nebel was watching from reception when he walked away. She grabbed his arm and dragged him into a corner.

‘Dare I ask what that was about?’

‘Decisions.’

‘I just bumped into Birgit Eggert on the stairs. She’s livid.’

‘So what?’ he asked. ‘I don’t need her.’ A glance back at Lebech, walking out. ‘Any more than I need the Centre Party. You’ve seen the polls,
haven’t you? We’re ahead.’ He stabbed his chest. ‘I’m ahead. It’s me this country wants. Not Birgit. Not Rosa.’

She looked furious.

‘So you and Morten put this together? And didn’t think to tell me?’

Hartmann put his head to one side, as if puzzled.

‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’

Down in the Parliament garage Lund and Borch were working their way along the lines of vehicles.

Black cars everywhere. Politicians seemed to like them. Information was coming in about Ussing. It looked interesting.

Ten minutes in Borch came upon one that matched. BMW. Still registered in Ussing’s name.

They went round it, inch by inch. Almost three years old, Ussing’s private vehicle.

‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, Sarah, forget it.’

She crouched down at the back. The boot was big enough for a young girl’s bike.

‘He could be the next Prime Minister,’ Borch added. ‘We need to tread carefully.’

She was down by the tyres. He came and joined her.

‘I know he’s an obnoxious jerk but that’s not against the law. Not yet—’

The lights flashed. Something beeped. They looked up and there was Ussing walking towards them, the car remote in his hand.

‘What the hell is this?’ he yelled. ‘Are you Hartmann’s lackeys or what? Get out of there . . .’

He went for the door. Lund stood in the way.

‘We talked to your people in Jutland,’ Borch said. ‘They didn’t know where you were on April the twentieth two years ago until you turned up for the debate.’

He was getting irate.

‘I have an appointment. I want you to move away from my car.’

Borch pulled out his notebook.

‘You’re on the board of the Workers’ Bank. Schultz was heavily in debt to them over a property deal. The bank never pursued him for the money.’

Mouth open, Ussing shook his head, said, ‘What?’

‘Was that the deal?’ Lund asked. ‘You cleared the debt and he wrote down the girl’s death as a suicide?’

‘That’s it!’ He went for the car door. ‘If you want any more speak to my lawyer.’

He grabbed the handle, started to get in. Lund pushed him away, slammed the door shut.

‘You recognized Louise Hjelby,’ she said. ‘What was it? Stick with me and I can make you famous? Put your bike in the back and we’ll head out of town for a little
ride?’

‘This is ridiculous. I’m going.’

He brandished the car keys. Lund snatched them.

‘Not where you think,’ she said. ‘We’re taking the car for examination. You’ll have to answer questions . . .’

Ussing started screaming harassment and lots more besides. Lund’s phone rang.

Juncker, still at the harbour. It wasn’t good. A camera had caught the speedboat as it returned from the bridge.

‘There’s just one man on it. He’s still wearing that mask. No sign of Emilie. Maybe he threw her overboard along the way.’

‘That’s not—’

‘I’ve got the pictures! Twenty minutes later you can see the red van leaving. Emilie wasn’t there.’

She could hear the despair in his voice.

‘If that poor kid’s dead,’ Juncker said, ‘it doesn’t matter whether we solve the old case or not, does it?’

‘It matters. Keep looking.’

When she hung up Ussing was still yelping. She wondered whether to take him there and then.

Then her phone rang again. Brix.

‘We’re doing this by the book,’ she said wearily. ‘Whatever Ussing’s people say . . .’

‘Forget Ussing,’ he broke in. ‘I need you down at the docks. The Zeuthens have been on. They’ve found something.’

It was raining when they got to the Zeeland terminal. Cranes and trucks worked the piers, harsh lights reflecting on the flat water. Juncker and Madsen stood outside the
portable office Zeuthen had commandeered for the search. The police had been kept at arm’s length though Niels Reinhardt had talked to them from time to time, telling them what was going on.
An expensive, fruitless exercise by the sound of it.

Lund peered through the cabin window. Zeuthen was there in a work jacket for once, Reinhardt by his side wearing a hard hat. Then the slight figure of Maja Zeuthen, something in her hands. They
wouldn’t tell Juncker what they’d found. They wanted Lund.

‘OK,’ she said and led the way inside.

Maja Zeuthen had it. An iPad. Proof, she said of how the kidnapper had made contact with Emilie. Zeuthen stood back while she explained. It had happened at Drekar. Perhaps he felt
responsible.

Then she pulled up the video she’d found.

Emilie, happy, excited, looking into the camera. A message for a stranger. A response to an apparent kindness.

‘Hi, there! And thanks for the iPad. I’m really happy with it. And I promise not to tell.’

Lund looked closely. The girl was in a nightdress, hair long, beautifully combed. Behind her what seemed to be an attic wall. This was a secret. One to be kept.

‘Mum and Dad won’t let me go online anyway. They say I can’t talk to strangers.’ The blonde hair shook. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’

Zeuthen looked away. They’d seen this before. He didn’t want to repeat the experience.

‘They don’t talk much any more,’ Emilie said with a shake of her head. ‘Just argue. They don’t know what I do. They don’t care.’ She brightened.
‘And thanks for the kitten photos. They all look so cute. I don’t know which one to have.’

Juncker swore, looked at Lund.

‘You can bring them to the fence so I can meet them.’ Nervous hand to hair again. ‘If you feel like chatting tomorrow just leave a message on my wall. Bye . . .’

A wave. Zeuthen crossed the narrow office, stared at the maps on the wall.

Lund went to him. Waited until he looked at her.

‘I could have stopped this,’ he said.

‘How?’

He didn’t answer.

‘You should call off your people, Robert. Emilie never came to the port. We’ve got CCTV when he got back from the bridge. He was on his own.’

Zeuthen thought for a moment then pointed to the maps.

‘He must have put her off on a ship along the way. We’ll extend the range. We can . . .’