by David Hewson
Hartmann stared at him, speechless.
Bremer shrugged.
‘I would have told you in there. But now… We’ll put out a release straight away. Good news. I trust you’ll welcome it.’
A long moment of silence.
‘You’re happy, I see,’ Bremer said, then, with a wave, walked off.
Half past three in the afternoon. They were still in the room where the debate was supposed to happen, getting nowhere. Nanna had been to the Halloween party in the school hall the previous Friday, dressed in a black witch’s hat and garish blue wig. No one had seen her since.
Now it was the teacher’s turn.
‘What’s Nanna like?’
They all called him Rama. He stood out and not just because of his dark, striking Middle Eastern looks. He was one of Troels Hartmann’s role models, part of an initiative to bring immigrant groups more closely into the fabric of the community. An articulate, intelligent, convincing man.
‘Nanna’s a clever kid,’ he said. ‘Always full of energy. Always wanting to do something.’
‘I saw the photo. She looks older than nineteen.’
He nodded.
‘They all want that, don’t they? Desperate to grow up. Or to feel they have. Nanna’s top of her class in most things. Bright kid. Doesn’t stop her wanting what the rest do.’
‘Which is?’
The teacher looked at her.
‘They’re teenagers. Are you serious?’
‘What happened at the party?’
‘Fancy dress. A band. Ghosts and pumpkins.’
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘Ask Lisa.’
‘I’m asking you.’
He looked uncomfortable.
‘It’s best a teacher stays out of these things.’
Lund went outside, stopped the first girl she found, sat her down, talked to her until she got an answer.
Then she went back to the teacher.
‘Oliver Schandorff. Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know Oliver was her boyfriend?’
‘I told you. It’s best we keep some distance.’
She waited.
‘I’m their teacher. Not their guardian. Not a parent either.’
Lund looked at her watch. The interviews had run on for more than three hours and this was all they had. All anyone had. Meyer, out in the woods and fields near the airport with a search team, hadn’t found a thing.
‘Shit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the teacher said.
‘Not you.’
Me, she thought. She could surely have got this out of Pernille in a few minutes if she’d tried. Why was it the best questions only came when she had something — people, evidence, crimes — in front of her?
Two hundred and thirty-five three-storey terraced houses made up the place called Humleby, a tiny estate four streets from Birk Larsen’s home. The colour of slate and gunmetal, they were built in the nineteenth century for workers at the nearby shipyard. Then the Carlsberg brewery expanded and the houses fell into the hands of men who made beer. They came onto the market slowly, sought after even if some needed much expensive restoration. Theis Birk Larsen had bought the cheapest he could find. Squatters had been in before, leaving behind their junk, mattresses and cheap furniture. It needed clearing, a lot of repair work. He’d do most of it himself, quietly, without telling Pernille, not until it was close to time to move in and escape the tiny apartment above the garage.
Vagn Skærbæk was helping. The two had known each other since they were teens, gone through a lot together, including a few appearances in court. To Birk Larsen he’d become almost a younger brother, uncle to the kids, steady employee in the transport company. Reliable, trustworthy, kind to Anton and Emil. A solitary man who seemed to have no life of his own once he took off the scarlet uniform.
‘Pernille’s looking for you,’ Skærbæk said coming off the phone.
‘Pernille’s not going to know about this place. I told you. Not a word until I say.’
‘She’s phoning round, asking where you are.’
There was scaffolding on the outside, sheeting against the rotting windows. Birk Larsen was paying his own men to carry in new floorboards, guttering and piping, making them promise to keep quiet about the place when Pernille was around.
‘The boys can have their own rooms,’ he said, looking at the grey stone house. ‘You see that top window?’
Skærbæk nodded.
‘Nanna gets that whole floor, a staircase of her own and some privacy. Pernille a new kitchen. And me…’ He laughed. ‘Some peace and quiet.’
‘This is going to cost a fortune, Theis.’
Birk Larsen stuffed his hands into the pockets of his red bib overall.
‘I’ll manage.’
‘Maybe I can help.’
‘Meaning?’
Skærbæk was a slight and fidgety man. He stood there shuffling from foot to foot even more than usual.
‘I know where there’s thirty B&O TVs going cheap. All we’ve got to—’
‘You’re in debt? That’s it?’
‘Listen. I’ve got buyers for half of them… We can share…’
Birk Larsen pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket, ripped off a few.
‘All I need is to borrow a forklift…’
‘Here you go.’ He folded the money in Skærbæk’s hand. ‘Forget the TVs. We’re not teenagers any more, Vagn. I’ve got a family. A business.’ Skærbæk kept hold of the money. ‘You’re part of both. Always will be.’
Skærbæk stared at the cash. Birk Larsen wished he’d lose that stupid silver neck chain.
‘How’d the boys feel if they had to visit their Uncle Vagn in jail?’
‘You don’t have to do this…’ Skærbæk started.
Theis Birk Larsen wasn’t listening. Pernille was riding towards him on the Christiania trike, so quickly the shiny scarlet box on the front bumped up and down over the cobblestones.
He forgot all about the secret house, about building work and where the money might come from.
She looked terrible.
Pernille got off, came straight up to him, took the collars of his black leather coat.
‘Nanna’s missing.’ She was breathless, pale, scared. ‘The police found your video rental card out near the airport. They found…’
Her hand went to her mouth. Tears started in her eyes.
‘Found what?’
‘Her top. The pink one with the flowers.’
‘Lots of kids wear tops like that. Don’t they?’
She gave him a sharp look.
‘And the video card?’
‘Did they talk to Lisa?’
Vagn Skærbæk was listening. She looked at him and said, ‘Please, Vagn.’
‘You want any help?’
Birk Larsen stared at him. He went away.
‘What about that bastard kid?’
‘She isn’t seeing Oliver any more.’
There was a touch of red anger in his cheeks.
‘Did they talk to him?’
A deep breath then she said, ‘I don’t know.’
He had his keys out, called to Skærbæk, ‘Take Pernille home. And the trike.’
A thought.
‘Why didn’t you drive?’
‘They wouldn’t let me use the car. They said I couldn’t move it.’
Theis Birk Larsen took his wife in his broad arms, held her, kissed her once, touched her cheek, looked her in the eye and said, ‘Nanna’s fine. I’ll find her. Go home and wait for us.’
Then he climbed into the van and left.
‘I’ll drop you off at Gran’s. You’ve got your key?’
The weather was closing in, the day ending in mist and drizzle. Lund was driving out to Østerbro, her twelve-year-old son, Mark, in the passenger seat.
‘You mean we’re not going to Sweden after all?’
‘I’ve got something to do first.’
‘Me too.’
Lund looked at her son. But in truth all she was seeing in her head was the flat yellow grass, a teenager’s bloodstained top. And the photograph of Nanna Birk Larsen, smiling like an older sister proud of her little brothers. Looking too grown-up with all that make-up.
She hadn’t a clue what Mark was talking about.
‘I told you, Mum. Magnus’s birthday party.’
‘Mark. Our flight’s tonight. We decided this ages ago.’
He grunted and turned to stare out of the rain-streaked window.
‘You look like a moose with the mumps,’ she said.
Lund laughed. He didn’t.
‘You’ll love it in Sweden. It’s a great school. I’ll have more time for you. We can—’
‘He’s not my father.’
Lund’s phone started ringing. She looked at the number and began fumbling the headset into her ear.
‘Of course he’s not. He’s found you a hockey club.’
‘I’ve got one.’
‘You must be sick of being the youngest at FCK.’
Silence.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘It’s called KSF.’
‘Yes,’ she said to the phone.
‘KSF,’ Mark repeated.
‘I’m on my way.’
Mark began to speak very slowly.
‘K… S… F…’
‘Yes.’
‘You get it wrong every time.’
‘Yes.’
It wasn’t far now which pleased her on two counts. She wanted to see Meyer. And Mark was… in the way.
‘Not long now and then we go to the airport,’ she said. ‘You do have your key, don’t you?’
Beneath a sullen monochrome sky a single line of twenty blue-clad officers moved slowly across the yellow grass, prodding the mud and clumps of vegetation with red and white sticks, search dogs snuffling at the damp earth.
Lund watched them for a moment then went into the wood. There a second team was working through the lichened trees, examining the ground, putting down markers, following another set of dogs.
Meyer was in a police jacket, soaked to the skin.
‘How clear’s the trail?’ she asked.
‘Clear enough. The dogs followed her from where we found the top.’ He looked at his notes and gestured to a thicket ten metres away. ‘We also got some blonde hair caught on a bush.’
‘Where does it lead?’
‘Here,’ Meyer said, gesturing with the map in his hand. ‘Where we’re standing.’ Another look at his notes. ‘She was running. Zigzagging through the woods. This was where she stopped.’
Lund came and peered over his shoulder.
‘What do we have close by?’
‘A logging road. Maybe she was picked up there.’
‘What about her mobile phone?’
‘Switched off since Friday night.’ He didn’t like these obvious questions. ‘Listen, Lund. We’ve gone over her route with a fine-tooth comb. Twice. She isn’t here. We’re wasting time.’
She turned and walked away, looked back to the marshland and yellow grass.
‘Hello?’ Meyer said with that dry sarcasm she was starting to recognize. ‘Am I invisible?’
Lund came back and said, ‘Spread out. Go over it all again.’
‘Did you hear a word I said?’
The local intercom on one of the search team’s jackets squawked her name.
‘We’ve found something,’ a voice said.
‘Where?’
‘In the trees.’
‘What is it?’
A pause. It was getting dark. Then, ‘It looks like a grave.’
The same sluggish twilight crept over the city, damp and dreary, wan and cold. In his campaign office, beneath the coral-coloured petals of the artichoke lamps, Hartmann listened to Morten Weber’s answers. Poul Bremer wouldn’t return to the school for another debate. Running the city was more important than begging for votes.
‘Doesn’t that suit him?’ Hartmann said.
Rie Skovgaard placed a cup of coffee on his desk.
‘Bremer’s office announced the new allocation of funds while we were at the school. He was ready to come out with it whatever happened.’
‘He knew about the twenty per cent. How’s that possible, Morten?’ Hartmann asked.
Weber seemed thrown by the question.
‘Why ask me? Maybe he did his own survey. Makes sense. Promising money for education always wins you Brownie points.’
‘And he got the same results? He knew.’
Weber shrugged.
‘You shouldn’t have cancelled,’ Skovgaard said.
Hartmann’s mobile rang.
‘A young girl’s missing. I had no choice.’
‘It’s Therese,’ said the voice on the line.
Hartmann glanced at Rie Skovgaard.
‘This isn’t a good time. I’ll ring you back.’
‘Don’t hang up, Troels. You’re not too busy for this. We have to meet.’
‘That wouldn’t be a good idea.’
‘Someone’s trying to dig up dirt on you.’
Hartmann took a deep breath.
‘Who?’
‘A reporter rang me. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.’
‘We’ve got a fundraiser here at five. Get here then. I can come out for a while.’
‘Five it is.’
‘Therese…’
‘Take care, Troels.’
Weber and Skovgaard were watching him.
‘Something we need to hear?’ Skovgaard asked.
Theis Birk Larsen went to the student house in Nørrebro where Lisa Rasmussen lived with Oliver Schandorff and some other kids from the school, pretending they were grown-ups, screwing around, drinking, smoking dope, acting the fool.
Lisa was outside wheeling away her bike. He took hold of the handlebars.
‘Where’s Nanna?’
The girl was dressed like a teenage tart, the way they all did, Nanna if he let her. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.
‘I told them. I don’t know.’
His big fist didn’t move.
‘Where’s that bastard Schandorff?’
Still staring at the wall.
‘Not here. Not since Friday.’
He bent down and put his whiskery face in hers.
‘Where is he?’
Finally she met his eyes. She looked as if she’d been crying.
‘He said his parents were away for the weekend. He was staying there I think. After the Halloween party…’
Birk Larsen didn’t wait to hear more.
On the way he called Pernille.
‘I just talked to Lisa,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get her.’
He could hear the relief in her single brief sigh.
‘It’s that rich punk again. His parents went away. He’s probably…’
He didn’t want to say it, think it.
‘You’re sure she’s there? Lisa said so?’
The evening traffic was heavy. The house was out on one of the new developments, south, near the airport.
‘I’m sure. Don’t worry.’
She was crying. He could see her tears. He wished he could touch them, brush them away with his fat, rough fingers. Pernille was beautiful and precious. Like Nanna, Emil and Anton. They all deserved better than he’d given them and soon they’d get it.
‘Won’t be long, sweetheart. I promise.’
When Lund was back among the bare dark trees Buchard called.
‘The helicopter. Three forensic units. I hope you’ve found something?’
‘A grave.’
‘You left me out of the loop.’
‘I tried. You were in a meeting.’
‘I was at your leaving party. People don’t say goodbye over breakfast…’
‘Hang on a minute.’
Meyer was walking towards her through the wood. In his arms was a plastic forensic sheet. Something beneath. A body.
‘Have you found something?’ Buchard demanded.
Meyer put the sheet on the ground, opened it and showed her a dead fox. Stiff and dry, caked with earth. It had a cub scout kerchief around its neck along with the wire noose that had strangled it.
‘We can put out a call for any kids nearby,’ Meyer said, lifting the fox by its back legs. ‘Animal cruelty’s a shocking thing.’
‘No,’ Lund told Buchard. ‘Not yet.’
‘Pack up, come home and give me a full report. Maybe there’s time for a beer before you catch your plane.’
Meyer was watching her, the stiff dead animal beneath his arm. Its eyes were black and glazed, its fur streaked with mud.
‘Meet my new friend Foxy,’ he said with a quick sharp grin. ‘You’ll like him.’
One more reception among so many. Part of the political calendar. A chance to meet, to negotiate, to forge alliances, confirm enmities.
The food came from an oil corporation, the drink from a transport magnate. A string quartet played Vivaldi. Morten Weber talked policy while Rie Skovgaard spoke spin.
Hartmann smiled and chatted, shook hands, made small talk. Then when his phone rang he excused himself and walked back to his office.
Therese Kruse was waiting for him. A couple of years younger than him. Married to a boring banker. A serious, well-connected, attractive woman, tougher than she looked.
‘You’re doing well in the polls. People in government are noticing.’
‘So they should. We worked for this.’
‘True.’
‘Did you get the reporter’s name?’
She handed him a piece of paper. Erik Salin.
‘Never heard of him,’ Hartmann said.
‘I made some enquiries. He used to work as a private investigator. Now he’s a freelance selling dirt for the highest fee. Newspapers. Magazines. Websites. Anyone who pays.’
He pocketed the note.
‘And?’
‘Salin wanted to know if you paid your hotel bills with your own credit card or the office’s. If you buy lots of presents. Stuff like that. I didn’t say anything, naturally…’
Hartmann took a sip of wine.
‘He wanted to know about us,’ she added.
‘What did you say?’
‘I laughed off the whole idea, of course. After all…’ The smile was brief and bitter. ‘It’s not as if it was anything important. Was it?’