The Killing tk-1

by David Hewson

  She held up a hand. Meyer shook his head, baffled.

  ‘Your lighter. I’m giving up. Remember?’

  ‘Oh.’

  He threw her the silver Zippo. It looked expensive. She looked at the photos and the flowers, wished there was more she could offer than this. Knew that had to come. Then she lit the other candle and watched the tiny yellow flame flutter.

  A small offering. Pathetic.

  ‘We should look at the basement,’ she said and followed him down.

  Jansen, a ginger-haired officer from forensics, stood by the portable floodlights. Listed what they had so far. Blood on the mattress, the table, the floor. Some spots that could turn out to be semen. Hair.

  A witch’s hat. Nanna’s it looked like.

  And fingerprints. Lots of fingerprints.

  ‘Access?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘There’s the door from the basement,’ Jansen said. ‘And one from the school. Just needs a key for either.’

  ‘A…’

  ‘A different key,’ he said.

  Everything was visible under the bright floodlights. On the low table stood empty bottles of Coke and vodka, a Chianti flask. Plates of food. And pills. Red, green, orange. All the colour of children’s sweets.

  ‘Joints,’ Meyer said. ‘Amphetamine. Coke.’

  Thirty minutes later Rektor Koch arrived at the school. They kept her out of the location. Too many people in bunny suits. Too much to see.

  In a classroom upstairs Lund asked, ‘What did you use that room for?’

  ‘Storing tables and chairs.’ Koch had brought her dog. A small brown terrier. Cuddled it for comfort. ‘Books and the like. Nothing…’

  ‘Nothing what?’

  ‘Nothing special. I didn’t know the pupils had access. They weren’t supposed to have.’

  Meyer walked in and said, ‘Well they did. They had their own private party there. Right under your nose.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  Lund didn’t answer. She said, ‘The party was planned by the student council. Is that right?’

  ‘It should have been locked,’ Koch insisted. She held the dog more tightly. ‘Is that where Nanna was?’

  Lund took out her stack of school photos, pointed to the kid John Lynge had identified. Jeppe Hald. Nice-looking. Clean tidy black hair. Scholarly glasses.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  Koch smiled.

  ‘Jeppe’s wonderful. President of the student council. Star pupil. We’re proud of him. Fine parents…’

  ‘Where does wonderboy live?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘He shares a flat with Oliver.’

  Meyer said, ‘Is Oliver a good pupil too?’

  The smile again, less warm.

  ‘They come from good families. The law. Both of them. I’m sure they’ll follow their fathers into the same profession. Be a credit—’

  ‘Better than being the offspring of some sweaty removals man from Vesterbro?’ Meyer snapped.

  The smile never cracked.

  ‘I didn’t say that. We’re not prejudiced here. Against anyone.’

  ‘So long as they pay the fees.’

  Rector Koch glared at him.

  ‘Oops,’ Meyer said. ‘I think I just got detention.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lund told her and got him out of the room.

  Jeppe Hald strode up and down the window of the office, watching the blue lights flash outside, listening to the occasional wail of sirens.

  Lund and Meyer walked briskly in, threw their folders on the table.

  Tall and skinny. Thick glasses. Harry Potter’s taller geeky brother. Or that was the act.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Just routine,’ Lund said pleasantly. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘But I’ve got a physics essay to do.’

  The two cops looked at each other. Meyer buried his head in his hands and pretended to weep.

  While Hald was taking a chair Lund said, ‘You met a man in the basement on Friday night. He was delivering election campaign material.’

  Hald looked around at the empty chairs.

  Meyer leaned forward, grinned cheerily.

  ‘We tried to call your daddy but he was out getting fitted for a wig. The man in the basement?’

  ‘I met him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  Silence.

  Lund said, ‘You knew we were looking for a driver.’

  ‘How was I to know he was a driver?’

  Meyer raised his hands to his mouth, kissed his fingertips like a chef tasting the perfect dish.

  ‘Superb. You do Shakespeare too?’

  ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘First,’ Meyer roared, ‘we kill all the fucking lawyers.’

  Jeppe Hald went white.

  Lund scowled at Meyer.

  ‘Shakespeare never said fucking. Don’t teach the boy wrong. Jeppe. Jeppe!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The driver lost his car keys. Did you happen to see them?’

  ‘I’m here because of some missing keys?’

  ‘What were you doing in the basement?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Fetching… fetching things for the bar.’

  Meyer started picking at his nails. Hand closed to a fist.

  ‘We found a room,’ he said. ‘Someone had a party. Do you know anything about that?’

  Hald hesitated. Almost said no. Instead, ‘I think the organizers had a room where they kept beer and soft drinks. Is that the one?’

  ‘The one with beer and soft drinks, blood and drugs and condoms?’ Meyer replied, still looking at his nails. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Lund said nothing for a long while. Nor Meyer. They looked at their papers. Jeppe Hald sat at the table, barely moving, barely breathing.

  Then she showed him a photo.

  ‘Nanna’s hat. We found it there. Did she go in that room?’

  Shake of head. A shrug. No idea.

  Meyer breathed a sigh so long it seemed to last a minute.

  ‘I came down for the last beer about nine o’clock. I didn’t see anyone.’

  Slowly Meyer’s head fell to his arms, and he lay there staring at the kid in the chair through half-closed eyes.

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t go back later?’ Lund asked.

  A moment, a pause to be convincing. Then, ‘I’m very sure.’

  ‘No one saw you after nine thirty. What did you do?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Think, Jeppe,’ Meyer said stifling a yawn. ‘Think before you answer.’

  Hald bristled. Looked more confident.

  ‘The disco ball blew the fuses. I’d used the last one. So I went to buy more. I had to cycle a long way to get them.’

  ‘We’ll check,’ Meyer muttered not looking up from his arms.

  ‘When I got back Oliver was asleep in a classroom. He’d had too much to drink. I walked him home.’ Folded his arms, looked the model pupil. ‘We were there just before midnight. I put him to bed. Had to.’

  ‘That’s early!’ Lund said brightly.

  ‘I was going hunting the next morning.’

  ‘Hunting!’ Lund said, impressed.

  Meyer grumbled something obscene into his sleeves.

  ‘On the Sonderris estate. Our hunting club was holding a big event. I spent the night there.’

  ‘I’m going to take up hunting in a minute,’ Meyer muttered.

  Lund scribbled on her pad.

  ‘I’d really like to help,’ Hald pleaded.

  In a high-pitched squeal Meyer whined, ‘I’d really like to help.’

  ‘But that’s all I know.’

  Lund smiled at him. Said, ‘Fine.’ Wrote some more on her pad. ‘Well…’

  She closed her pad, shrugged. Jeppe Hald smiled back at her.

  ‘That’s it,’ Lund said. ‘Unless…’

  She prodded the near-comatose Meyer.

  ‘You want to ask something?’

 
; Head straight up, face in the kid’s.

  ‘You won’t object if I take a blood sample?’ Meyer said very loudly. ‘And fingerprints?’

  He touched Hald’s hand. The kid recoiled.

  ‘I’ll be as gentle as I can.’

  Meyer waggled his big right ear at Jeppe Hald, listening, hearing nothing.

  ‘Otherwise,’ Lund added, ‘I’m going to arrest you and we’ll take them anyway.’

  Jeppe Hald, the smart kid, star pupil, head boy, said in a young and petulant trembling voice, ‘I’m not saying any more. I want to see my lawyer.’

  Lund nodded.

  ‘A lawyer. That’s fine. Meyer?’

  ‘Sure.’ He took hold of Hald’s arm. ‘First you get your phone call, wonderboy. Then let me introduce you to the concept of a cell.’

  Thirty minutes later. Meyer had people working the phones.

  ‘I checked up on Oliver,’ he told Lund. ‘On Saturday he worked in a cafe. Met some woman. Went out and got drunk and took her to his parents’ house. The two of them hung out there till Monday.’

  One of the cadets came back with a package. Meyer groaned with delight.

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  He stripped the thing from its wrapping. Lund watched. Big hot dog in a roll. Crispy fried onions. Remoulade sauce. Sliced cucumber pickles on the top.

  Lund said, ‘You sent a boy out to the pølsevogn and you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I thought you only ate Swedish sausage.’

  She stood there with her hands on her hips, big eyes boring into him. He took another quick bite of his food. Grimaced.

  ‘Bastard,’ Lund said. ‘Where’s the motive?’

  ‘I was hungry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Oh. Right. Jeppe and Oliver. They’re lying. Find the lie first. The motive won’t be far away. Meyer Handbook of Detection. Page thirty-two.’

  Lund still looked angry about the food and the sausage crack. The first mostly.

  ‘I’ll talk to Ginger and give you a call,’ Meyer said.

  ‘He’ll just scream for a lawyer like Jeppe.’

  ‘No,’ Meyer insisted. ‘Can’t demand that unless we arrest him. If I just talk to him as a witness… I know the law. Mostly I abide by it. Also…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a very negative woman sometimes. Just because I didn’t get you a hot dog…’

  ‘I want mouth swabs. I want blood samples.’ A quick decision. ‘Let’s arrest them now.’

  Meyer looked torn.

  ‘Much as I adore that idea the lawyers won’t be here for hours. We’ll be sitting around on our hands until they turn up.’

  ‘No. We search the flat. Check their emails. Phone records. Find the woman Schandorff says he spent the weekend with.’

  He was eating and cursing between mouthfuls.

  ‘Anything else?’

  That tone of voice again. He had others. She’d heard them. Not often. But they were there.

  ‘Why are you so angry, Meyer?’

  The rest of the sausage disappeared while he thought about this.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I have feelings.’

  Silence.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked again.

  ‘No.’

  She thought about it.

  ‘Yes.’ Lund came and stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘Next time you send a cadet out to the pølsevogn, get one for me.’

  Lund decided to check with Buchard first. The chief was flicking through the morgue photos of the girl. Bloody eye, crouched, foetal corpse, lesions and wounds. Bruising. A violent, prolonged assault.

  ‘What do you have on the boys?’ he asked. ‘Physical evidence from the room?’

  ‘Nothing until the results come in. The DNA people are giving us priority.’

  Buchard flicked through more photos.

  ‘You do realize who the parents are?’

  Lund frowned.

  ‘Why should we care about that?’

  He was in a foul mood for some reason.

  ‘We’ve caused enough trouble as it is. We need to tread carefully.’

  Meyer stuck his head through the door and announced, ‘Hartmann wants a meeting.’

  ‘About what?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘He wouldn’t say. It sounded important.’

  ‘Hartmann can wait,’ Lund said. ‘We’re going to the flat.’

  When she made for the door Buchard took her arm.

  ‘What were we just saying? Troels Hartmann might be the next Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. We don’t piss off people in the Rådhus without a reason.’

  ‘We’ve got a suspect’s flat to search…’

  ‘I can do that,’ Meyer cut in. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted.’

  Buchard nodded.

  ‘Good. That’s settled.’

  The chief walked out.

  ‘Give Hartmann a ring,’ Meyer said, following him down the winding corridor. ‘It was you he asked for.’

  Lund waited at the counter feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She didn’t go out much, even with Bengt. After the last few days this touristy restaurant in Nyhavn seemed too ordinary. Too warm and human.

  Hartmann was five minutes late, making excuses. While they waited for a table he asked, ‘How are the girl’s parents?’

  Was that the politician, she wondered? Or the man?

  ‘Is that why you asked me here? To talk about the parents?’

  ‘You really don’t do small talk, do you?’

  ‘Not in the middle of a case. One like this.’

  ‘I’ve got a press conference tomorrow. I want to say the right things.’

  ‘Right for who?’

  ‘For you. For me. Mostly for them.’

  Men like this did sincerity so well. It was hard to see any cracks.

  ‘Say what you like,’ she told him.

  ‘There’ve been so many surprises. Will there be any more?’

  Without a blink.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Can I say you know there’s no connection between the crime and us?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I suppose so.’ She watched him. ‘If you think that’s true.’

  The waitress called. He’d booked a table.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Lund got ready to go.

  He put his hand to her arm, very gently.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I made things difficult. There’s an election going on. Some odd things have been happening.’ Hartmann looked angry for a second. ‘I never expected any of this.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you hungry?’

  A plate of food went past. Meatballs and pasta. It looked a lot better than the hot dog Meyer never got her.

  ‘I’ll have some of that,’ Lund said. Then, ‘Just a minute.’

  She went to the lobby, called her mother’s. Got the loudest, friendliest greeting in months, then found out why. Bengt had arrived from Sweden, would be in Copenhagen for one night only.

  ‘You must talk,’ Vibeke crooned then handed the call over.

  Don’t need this now, Lund thought, listening to him talk about Mark’s progress with his Swedish, the Sigtuna hockey shirt he’d found, the perfect wood for the perfect sauna.

  She nodded all the while, seeing little in her head but a small and grubby room in the basement of a school, a mattress stained with blood, a table of drink and dope, a discarded witch’s hat and a shiny blue wig.

  ‘When will you be home?’ Bengt asked.

  Back to the awkward present.

  ‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘Soon.’

  A pause.

  ‘When?’

  He never pressed her. Never sounded upset or angry or cold. His pleasant, pacific nature was one of the things she loved. Or maybe it just made life easier.

  ‘When I’m done. I’m sorry this came up. Truly. Let’s talk later. I’ve got to go.’

  Back at the table she got stuck into the food. They talked again about press release
s. About cooperation. Close up Hartmann interested her. There was a frail naivety to him that was absent from the face on the posters. He was a widower. She’d checked that in the press cuttings library already, at the same time she had checked on Jan Meyer. Hartmann’s wife died from cancer two years before. The loss had affected him. At one point it threatened to bring his political career — the only job he’d ever had — to a premature end.

  She found he was staring at her, uncharacteristically shorn of the right words.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ve got…’ His hand waved in her direction. ‘You’ve got food on your face.’

  Lund grabbed a napkin, wiped her mouth. Ate some more just as greedily.

  It was a pleasant cafe. The kind of place couples went. Or men with their mistresses. If someone had walked in at that moment, seen her with this man…

  ‘We’re agreed then?’ he concluded.

  ‘You tell your story. We’ll tell ours. Such as it is.’

  ‘What about your life?’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘It’s good. I’m going to Sweden with my son. My boyfriend lives outside Stockholm. I’ve got a job there. Civilian with the police.’

  She took a quick gulp of wine, wished there was more food.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ Lund insisted.

  ‘How old’s your son?’

  ‘Twelve. And you?’

  ‘I’m a bit older than that.’

  ‘I meant…’

  ‘I know, I know. We didn’t get that far. My wife died. Mostly…’ He shrugged, looked a little ashamed. ‘I spend my time working. I’ve met someone though. Hopefully it’s not too late.’

  ‘The woman from your office,’ she said and it wasn’t a question. ‘Rie Skovgaard.’

  Hartmann cocked his head and looked at her.

  ‘Can you see into my pockets too?’

  He’d barely touched his food or drink. Hartmann looked as if he could stay there all night. Talking, talking.

  ‘My boyfriend’s over from Sweden,’ Lund said. ‘I have to go. Here…’

  She took out some money for the bill.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He waved it away quickly. ‘You were my guest.’

  ‘So long as you pay. Not the taxpayer.’

  ‘I’ll pay, Sarah,’ Hartmann said, waving a credit card.

  ‘Thank you, Troels. Goodnight.’

  Bengt went straight to sleep the way he always did. Lund got out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, went to the window, sat in the cane chair, called Meyer.