The Killing 3 (42 page)

‘OK.’ He shrugged. She could yell at him now and it made no difference whatsoever. ‘I just asked because his wife’s outside and she says she’s not going anywhere
until she’s talked to you.’

A slight woman with a pale drawn face sat alone on a bench in the corridor. Looked up nervously as Lund came out, introduced herself, held out a hand that wasn’t taken.

‘I’m on my way to an appointment,’ Lund added. ‘If you’d called ahead—’

‘Mathias came home late last night.’

Straight stare. Accusing. Miserable.

‘He didn’t come to bed.’ Head to one side, eyes fixed. ‘I found him in the living room. On the sofa.’

Lund looked at the door, tried to think of excuses.

‘At first I thought he was obsessed with this case the two of you had.’ A bitter, sarcastic smile. ‘But it wasn’t that, was it? He says he’s in love with someone
else. It’s you, isn’t it?’

No answer.

‘You went to Jutland together. What happened then?’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Don’t say anything if it’s just a lie. Don’t . . .’

Silence between them. Only one voice to break it.

‘Do you love him? Do you even know him? I don’t give a shit you were a couple once. I don’t care what was unfinished between the two of you.’

She started to cry, to shake. People nearby could hear. Looked embarrassed.

‘We’ve got two little girls. He’s their dad. Don’t take him from us.’

One moment waiting for an answer. When it never came she turned and left. Angry footsteps down the long Politigården corridor.

Then Brix breezed in.

‘We’re on. Hartmann’s willing to talk. Christiansborg.’ He peered at her. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered without thinking.

Kornerup was back at his desk when Zeuthen came into the Zeeland offices that morning. He looked as if he’d never been away.

‘Everyone sympathizes with you, Robert,’ he said. ‘But there’s still a business to run. And all these demands you’re making. They’re exceedingly
complex.’

‘You’ll do what’s necessary then clear out.’

Kornerup smiled.

‘Your fellow directors have asked me to . . . stand guard in the meantime.’

Along the corridor a door opened. Men in suits, a couple of women walked out. The board.

‘There was an informal meeting this morning. It seemed best not to engage you and Reinhardt. You were busy, understandably, with trying to find your daughter.’

‘I can block this,’ Zeuthen said.

‘True. But that’s all you can do. You don’t have the votes to force through an alternative. If you force a stalemate the markets will hear. We’ll be easy meat for a
predator. The share price is dismal enough already.’

Reinhardt was arguing with two of the men who’d left the meeting. Angry words there.

A hand went to Zeuthen’s arm. Kornerup’s beady eyes shone through the owlish glasses.

‘You take care of your family. Leave the rest to me. We can see this through then assess the situation in a week or so.’ A pause. ‘Though it may be that we have to offload some
operations more quickly than that. The stock . . .’

Zeuthen blinked, fought to keep hold of his temper.

‘We’ve a deal in place with Hartmann . . .’

‘And what’s that worth?’

‘Zeeland stays here.’

‘Hartmann’s being investigated. I wouldn’t place much faith in him frankly.’ He checked his watch. ‘You must excuse me. I have a conference call with
Shanghai.’

He walked off. Back in harness.

Reinhardt came up, still furious.

‘I knew they were muttering behind your back. I’d no idea they’d go this far.’

‘You let him in, Niels.’

The accusation hurt.

‘To help us with the shipping! That’s all.’ He shook his grey head. ‘Perhaps I should have realized. He’s a cunning old bastard. I’ll make sure he keeps out
of your way. He talks to me only from now on.’

The shipping monitors were alive again. Security estimated Emilie might be on any of fifteen different freighters at sea, or six terminals around Europe. Most of the ports had been checked but
Rotterdam, Hamburg, Stavanger and St Petersburg were refusing to open up shipments without the permission of the owners.

‘The police won’t help, I’m afraid,’ Reinhardt added.

‘We’ll approach them directly. I can take Hamburg and Rotterdam. You go to Stavanger and St Petersburg.’

‘Robert . . . is it really feasible he could have done this? I know the police found those papers. But . . . why?’

‘What else should I do?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps something here.’

‘The board don’t listen to me. Kornerup doesn’t. Are you joining them?’

Reinhardt shook his head.

‘I served your father through thick and thin. I do that for his son too.’

Zeuthen slapped a hand on his arm. A brief smile.

‘Then sort out the plane.’

A grand room in Christiansborg, winter sun through leaded windows. A landscape of the old harbour. A marble fireplace and walnut bookcases. Lund sat one side of the table with
Brix and Dyhring. Hartmann on the other, next to Karen Nebel. No Morten Weber, which seemed odd. The man seemed a little lost without his political adviser, kept looking round the room as if
counting the furniture, the paintings, the fittings, like someone about to be dispossessed of a home he loved.

Then he pulled himself together, looked at her and said, ‘I never knew Benjamin was in Jutland that day. He took my car without my knowledge. Not that I believe for one
moment—’

‘So why didn’t Morten tell you?’ she asked.

‘For Benjamin’s sake. In case I got mad with him. For my sake in case I worried.’

There was something in Hartmann’s gaze she hadn’t seen before. A touch of self-knowledge. Of doubt.

‘I wish he had. Morten wishes it too. But we were stuck in the madness of an election. You don’t think about anything but the result. Friends. Family . . .’

Lund looked at the two men next to her. Neither wanted to speak.

‘Louise Hjelby was raped and killed in a boatyard. Your brother was in the area—’

‘The Prime Minister’s aware of the case,’ Dyhring said abruptly. ‘You don’t need to waste his time going over old ground.’

She looked at the PET man. At least she and Brix now knew where they stood.

‘Benjamin was being treated for depression. He’d been diagnosed as bipolar. Arrested at a demonstration in the city. Kicked out of America for much the same—’

‘Lund!’ Dyhring said. ‘We know all this.’

‘Then you know why I’m asking.’ She turned to Hartmann again. ‘How was he after the episode in Jutland? Did he change?’

A shrug.

‘It was an election. I was on the road. We barely spoke.’ He closed his eyes, grimaced. ‘There was no time. Never was. Even before.’

A short note of laughter.

‘I told him if I lost we’d go on holiday. The Alps or somewhere. Barricade ourselves in a hut up the mountains and just walk, hour after hour, day after day.’

He leaned forward, hands together, eyes on her.

‘I knew Benjamin wasn’t well. He knew it too. We were trying to work on it. He was seeing specialists at the hospital. They all said the same thing. It was going to take time.’
Hartmann frowned. ‘We didn’t have it.’

‘What did he do all day?’ Brix asked.

‘He listened to music. Watched TV. Messed around on the computer for hours on end. And . . .’ A sour glance. ‘You know what he did. He was hanging round with some of these
left-wing, anarchist creeps. That’s where PET picked him up.’

‘Embarrassing for you,’ Lund observed.

‘Not really,’ Hartmann shot back. ‘It’s hardly unusual to have a troubled adolescent in the house. It’s just that mine was twenty-six and didn’t want to grow
up. He was never violent. Not even aggressive really. He was just lost and I didn’t find the time to help him. That’s my cross to bear . . .’

Nebel tapped her watch.

‘We’ve answered all your questions. The Prime Minister has important engagements—’

‘Benjamin killed himself!’ Lund cried. ‘Don’t you want to know why?’

‘He was depressed,’ Hartmann whispered.

She pulled out a sheet of paper bearing the logo of the university hospital.

‘It was more than that. The day before he died he asked for an urgent appointment with his consultant. This is the report. He wanted extra medication. He said he was suffering from anxiety
attacks. He wanted to know if the hospital would admit him.’

‘May I see that?’ Hartmann asked.

She handed over the report.

‘They wanted him to come back with you and discuss it. But when they said that he told them he’d done something you’d never forgive. Do you have any idea what that might
be?’

The room was so still, so silent. Hartmann could do nothing but stare at the medical record.

Then, in a low, uncertain voice he said, ‘The day before he died I did come home. Very late. I just . . . just thought he was asleep. No music. No TV. I thought that was a good
sign.’

He grabbed the carafe, poured himself some water.

‘I was in the kitchen. Benjamin came downstairs. He had these brochures for Switzerland. Some catalogues for mountain clothes. Tents. All that stuff . . .’

‘Troels,’ Nebel said and put her hand on his. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘No. This needs saying.’ He looked at Lund. ‘I knew there was something he wanted to talk about. But I think he could see I was wiped out. So in the end he said it didn’t
really matter. He just wanted to show me the travel brochures.’

Hartmann almost broke then. Had to wait for a moment to compose himself.

‘But we’d won, hadn’t we? I told him I couldn’t make it that year. Not with the work we had on. Maybe another time.’ He shut his eyes in anger. ‘As if . .
.’

A nod of the head. A moment of self-hatred.

‘I got up the next morning. I was going to make him breakfast. I thought we were getting somewhere finally. But then I went to his room and his bed was empty. He was gone and that was the
last . . .’

Nebel’s hand squeezed his. A man came to the door. Dyhring got up and spoke with him in the corner.

‘I let him down so badly,’ Hartmann said. ‘But he didn’t hurt that girl. He could never have done something like that. It’s not—’

‘We need the car,’ Lund cut in. ‘Forensics can find traces going back years—’

‘This is ridiculous!’

High voice, pained eyes, Hartmann glared at her and she saw him now the way he was in the Politigården six years before, bringing down the wrath of a murder inquiry simply to avoid the
revelation of another personal tragedy.

‘Benjamin would never—’

‘This has to end here,’ Lund said, getting cross. ‘What did he say that night? Did he mention the girl? There was something on his mind . . .’

Dyhring walked over. He had an iPad from the man who’d come in.

‘It doesn’t matter what he said. Benjamin’s innocent.’

He placed the tablet on the table. There was a map there, and a car route.

‘We’ve recovered the stolen hard drive from an Internet cafe in Vesterbro. The satnav tracks show exactly what we’ve been told. The Prime Minister’s private car went
nowhere near the boatyard, nowhere near the harbour.’

Lund grabbed the iPad, looked at the map.

‘I want everything you have, Dyhring. I want to go over—’

Hartmann swore, got up, walked out. Karen Nebel leaned over the table.

‘I expect a full and public apology. If it’s not out there within the hour this will go further.’

She left. Then Dyhring. Then, after a single bitter glance, Brix.

Outside with nothing but her folder, no idea where to go next, who to call.

He was standing by the palace steps, leaning against the wall.

‘Not now,’ she whispered, looking at him.

Then Borch was on her.

‘What happened? What did Hartmann say?’

She walked to her car. He dogged her every step, pleading.

‘Sarah . . .’

‘Hartmann’s Mercedes was nowhere near Louise. The satnav proves it.’

‘What satnav?’

‘Dyhring’s people found the hard drive. I haven’t heard from the kidnapper. We don’t have a clue where Emilie is.’

She looked at him.

‘They did you a favour pulling you from this one. We’re in for a kicking.’

He was shaking his head.

‘Dyhring can fake satnav records if he wants. He can do anything he damn well likes. Did you ask Hartmann about his brother—?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ She turned, gestured at the palace. ‘Go and interrogate him yourself if you don’t believe me.’

Then she climbed into her car. He was in the passenger seat before she could lock the door.

‘Have you still got the kid’s notebook?’

‘We’ve checked all thirteen black cars listed on that day. Nothing fits.’

Borch held out his hand and said, ‘Gimme.’

Lund growled. Did it anyway. Borch flicked through the pages, and the reports that came with them.

‘Hang on. One of the people you chased was a woman who said she’s never even been to Jutland.’

Lund looked through the window, kept quiet.

‘Maybe the kid got the date wrong,’ he went on. ‘Or the number or something. Sarah . . .’

Still staring ahead at the lifeless day she said, ‘Your wife came to see me this morning.’

Borch clutched the notebook to him, kept quiet. She turned and looked him in the eye.

‘I don’t want you to ruin everything . . . your family, their lives . . . over me.’

He shut up then. Her phone rang. Juncker.

‘I heard about the hard drive, Lund. He’s going to be very pissed off when he finds he’s been wasting his time.’

‘True,’ she agreed.

‘I’ve got a name for someone who knew Monika Hjelby. Birthe. She lives at the yacht harbour. Expecting a visit. I’m going to check out what PET found at the Internet cafe. Can
you handle her?’

‘Text me an address.’

‘Thanks.’

The message came through straight away. Asbjørn Juncker never waited on anything. Lund reached over and popped open the passenger door.

‘He won’t give up, Sarah.’

‘I’ve got to go now.’

Borch got out. She drove off. It was only when she was in traffic that Lund realized he’d kept hold of Jakob’s notebook.