The Killing tk-1

by David Hewson

  Bengt’s hand came out and took hers. Fingers entwined. Warmth. Closeness.

  ‘I read the file. It wasn’t a crime of passion. It wasn’t the usual.’

  ‘We can talk about this later,’ she said, and wondered if she meant it.

  ‘Maybe he has a kind of method,’ Bengt went on, eyes closed, thinking.

  ‘We looked at that. We can’t find any links to anything earlier.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re not there. He dumped Nanna in the water. You saw what it was like. Wild. Remote. There are probably more you don’t know about.’

  ‘Later, Bengt.’

  ‘No.’ His voice sounded cross, his eyes were open and flashing. ‘Not later. You don’t know what that word means. I’m telling you. It turns him on that only he and the girl know how and where it ends. To him that’s intimacy. Like a love affair.’

  ‘Later,’ she said and turned on the TV.

  They watched the news together. Buchard had put out a statement clearing Kemal. He’d been a suspect through a tragic coincidence, the chief said. Nothing about how the police had been misled.

  That was the way of things. You were either right and a hero or wrong and a villain. There was no halfway house, no grey area. Not in the eyes of the media. Black and white. Nowhere else.

  Same in politics, she thought, watching the rerun of Hartmann and Bremer bickering in a clip from their earlier debate on TV.

  Nothing was different in their words, their gestures, their expressions. But before it was Bremer who seemed to have the upper hand, his sense of superiority obvious, the hint of victory in his eyes. Now that identical interview had a different, opposing tone. Bremer’s statesmanship seemed smug and superficial. Hartmann’s incautious and seemingly unwise defence of the teacher appeared brave and farsighted.

  It was the context that made the difference. But to understand the context one needed facts, waypoints, fixed positions from which to judge perspectives.

  All of which the Birk Larsen case lacked.

  ‘They said I can leave later today,’ he said, switching off the news.

  ‘I’ll talk to my mother. We can move in with her.’

  ‘You don’t need to go to the trouble. I’m going home to Sweden.’

  A flicker of something that might have been panic.

  ‘Why?’ Lund asked.

  ‘You’re busy. We’ve got workmen in the house. Your mother would find it odd.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment. She looked at the bruising on his face. Wondered how long it would take to disappear.

  ‘There’s no shame in being wrong,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  She got up. His hand reached out to stop her.

  Bengt looked at her and said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find him. Be patient.’

  Lund sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘What if we don’t?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘We’re at a dead end. I don’t have any more ideas.’

  ‘They’re there. Keep going. What do you know for certain?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Stop this, Sarah. You know that’s not true.’

  ‘OK. On Friday the thirty-first of October Nanna Birk Larsen goes to a party at her high school. Earlier the same day a driver delivers campaign material for Troels Hartmann there.’

  Lund got up, walked round the room, trying to think this through.

  ‘The driver feels unwell. He loses the car keys and goes to hospital. About nine thirty Nanna leaves the party on her bicycle. Someone found the car keys and followed her.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Bengt interrupted. ‘Stop there. This can’t be spontaneous. He didn’t just happen upon the keys and commit a crime.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He must have.’

  ‘He’s not impulsive. He plans his actions and then he covers them up.’

  ‘Bengt! The car was outside the school. That’s what happened. No one could have known the driver was going to be taken ill.’

  ‘It doesn’t fit the profile I came up with.’

  ‘What if your profile’s wrong? I know you’re trying to help but… what if everything’s wrong? The way we’re trying to see this. The idea there’s a pattern. Some kind of logic.’

  Lund got herself some water.

  ‘A nineteen-year-old girl is snatched and held and raped repeatedly. Horribly. There’s a kind of logic usually. But this…’

  ‘Forget what you know. Forget everything I told you. Go back to the beginning. Then go back further. There’s a method here, Sarah. A way of working he’s established in his own mind.’

  She waited.

  ‘The scissors, the soap, the ritual…’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe Nanna was the first. Go back further. Until you find something.’

  ‘Further,’ Lund whispered.

  Out in the Kalvebod Fælled by the Pentecost Forest. A black shape emerging from the water. An eel slithering over a dead girl’s naked limbs.

  Events had shaped everything that came after. Events had stolen her head.

  She kissed him carefully on the cheek, avoiding the bruises, then with a brief word of thanks she left.

  The black Ford was stored in a garage used by the forensic department. It was in the basement of the headquarters, reached by a ramp that led to the yard by the prison where Theis Birk Larsen was now in custody.

  The vehicle looked grubbier now it was dry. Mud-stained and covered in leaves. All the doors open and up on a ramp.

  The forensic technician got her the current reports as Lund turned on the huge vertical fluorescent tubes that surrounded the car. Numbered markers were stuck everywhere, on the windows, on the doors, on the floorpan.

  She looked at the paperwork. Nothing new.

  Lund took off her jacket, walked round with the duty officer.

  There was a sad chalk outline in the boot where Nanna was found. She felt she’d looked at it a million times. Lund pulled on some throwaway plastic gloves, sat in the driver’s seat, the passenger’s. Checked the mirrors, the glovebox, the door compartments. Sat in the back, did the same.

  The man stayed on a bench outside watching her, bored.

  She got him to raise the thing, checked underneath. Mud and sticks from the canal. Nothing else.

  ‘Like I said,’ he told her. ‘There’s not a thing on it. He got everything out from the inside. The water did the rest.’

  He finished his coffee, threw the plastic mug into a bin.

  ‘I’ve been here all night looking. You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing new.’

  She went back to the paperwork.

  ‘I promised my wife I’d remind her what I looked like,’ the man said, pulling on his jacket. ‘Is that OK?’

  Lund had the tech report in front of her.

  ‘It says here there were fifty-two litres of petrol in the tank when the car was found. Are you sure of that?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Yes. It was five or six litres short of a full tank.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Turn the lights off when you’re done. Bye.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ she shouted as he left.

  ‘How many times—?’

  ‘This is important. Could you have made a mistake? It was in the water—’

  ‘No, no mistake. We checked that car over a thousand times. Five or six litres short of a full tank. Where’s the problem? What did we do wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t say you did anything wrong.’ She waved a document from City Hall at him. ‘According to the logs the tank was last filled a week earlier. If that’s the case it should be almost empty.’

  He came over, looked at the log.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. We should have…’

  ‘So who filled it up?’ Lund wondered.

  It was sunny though grey clouds were gathering. Meyer was waiting for her in the yard outside forensics. He wore a shiny leather jacket she’d never
seen before and fashionable shades.

  Cool, she thought. He belonged in narcotics or robbery or the gang squad. Not murder. He took it personally. That was always a mistake.

  ‘How’s Bengt?’ Meyer asked as he handed her a cup of coffee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We need to check for young women who’ve disappeared in the last ten years.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘In the city. All over the country. See if anything links to the Kalvebod Fælled. Or anywhere in Vestamager.’

  Meyer took off his sunglasses and looked at her.

  ‘How’s Bengt? How are you?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘He’s fine. Can we get to work now?’

  They had a room for lawyers’ meetings in the main block of the Politigården, near the court. The woman was called Lis Gamborg. Birk Larsen looked at her smart business suit, her pearl necklace, her immaculate hair and wondered how he was going to pay for this.

  He was in a prisoner’s blue suit, unshaven, dirty, hungry.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said.

  A guard stood and watched, a handgun on his belt.

  It looked bright outside the barred window.

  ‘I’m your court-appointed lawyer. It’s very busy today. We won’t get a hearing for a few hours.’

  He sat twiddling his thumbs, barely listening. Two decades ago, when he married Pernille, Birk Larsen had promised himself he’d never be in this situation again. Not that he mentioned this to Pernille. It was part of an unspoken pact between them. He would be a different man. No more tangles with the law. No more skipping dates for reasons he’d never reveal to her. He was young then. Angry and determined to mark his place in the world, with his strength, with his fists if need be.

  Then along came family and he tried to forget what he once was. Buried young Theis. Tough Theis. Theis the thug who would never be needed again.

  ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘that gives us time to talk about your case.’

  ‘What’s there to talk about?’

  ‘The prosecution are going to charge you with attempted manslaughter, false imprisonment and grievous bodily harm.’

  Birk Larsen closed his eyes.

  He had to say something. Had to ask.

  ‘How’s the teacher?’

  She kept looking at him as if he were a specimen. A zoo animal trapped in a cage.

  ‘He’ll recover. He says he won’t press charges.’

  Birk Larsen watched her.

  ‘That’s not enough. It won’t get you acquitted. Not on charges like this.’

  ‘The police told us it was him. The papers said it was him. No one did a damned thing.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘The judge may think there are some mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘I’ll plead guilty. Just tell me what to say.’

  He didn’t want to utter the words for fear of the answer that was coming.

  ‘I just want to go home to my family.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I need to go home.’

  ‘I understand. In the circumstances we should hope for leniency.’

  She put her slender hands together, leaned over the table, looked into his face.

  ‘I’ll try to convince the judge that you don’t need to stay in custody. You’ve confessed. You came in willingly. You’re not going to flee. You’ve got a family. A business to run—’

  ‘I’d like to talk to my wife.’

  The lawyer shook her head.

  ‘You have to wait until after the hearing.’

  His head went down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘Your friend? Vagn?’

  ‘Vagn had nothing to do with this. He tried to stop me. Don’t involve him.’

  ‘He is involved. He’s charged as an accessory.’

  ‘That’s not right!’

  ‘It’s a minor charge. He’s free. I don’t think…’

  He waited.

  ‘Don’t think what?’

  ‘He won’t go to jail. I wish I could promise the same for you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Any questions?’ she asked.

  When he didn’t answer she looked at the guard.

  Part of the process. Part of a system that almost swallowed him once before. Theis Birk Larsen was back in the belly of a beast he hated, and that hated him. With no one to blame but himself.

  Pernille was manning the phones. Lotte had arrived to help. Their usual luck. Every minute a customer was on the line demanding something straight away.

  ‘I can’t do that right now,’ Pernille said to the latest. ‘Let me get back to you. I will. I promise.’

  Lotte waited until she put down the phone then asked, ‘What’s he going to be charged with?’

  Another call.

  ‘Birk Larsen’s Removals. Please wait a moment.’

  Hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘I don’t know. Can you look after the boys for a while?’

  ‘Sure. What did Theis do?’

  Pernille went back to the phone and made excuses.

  Lotte was still there, getting cross.

  ‘He did something to that teacher, didn’t he?’

  ‘It’s all my fault. I pushed him.’

  Her hand ran through her straggly hair. She looked a mess and didn’t care.

  She looked at the appointments, wondered how all this was done.

  One of the men came in asking for instructions. Pernille did her best. The phone went. Lotte answered.

  ‘Do the job in Østerbro first,’ she told him. ‘Do it the way Theis would do it. Ask Vagn.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Where’s Vagn?’ she asked.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Just…’ She waved a hand at him. ‘Just do what you think. I’m sorry…’

  ‘Pernille?’

  Lotte had waited till he was gone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bank called when you were out. They said they need to talk to you.’

  Buchard wore his best shirt, freshly pressed. Best suit. The uniform for a lecture from the commissioner.

  He was straight from that and hurting.

  Bent over that morning’s papers, reading them in the grey light streaming through the window of Lund’s office. Downturned mouth, shaking head.

  Saying plenty without speaking a word.

  Lund and Meyer sat next to one another, fidgeting like naughty children brought before the teacher.

  Meyer broke the silence.

  ‘We realize things haven’t gone as well as they should.’

  Buchard said nothing, just showed them another headline: ‘Hartmann’s Role Model Cleared’.

  ‘If Kemal had told us the truth…’ Lund started.

  Buchard shut her up with a single caustic glance.

  ‘I told you our working relationship wasn’t the best,’ Meyer added. ‘Not that I’m kind of blaming anyone.’

  ‘Kemal lied!’ Lund said again. ‘He had every opportunity to clear himself and didn’t. If he’d—’

  Buchard waved the paper at her again.

  ‘All people see is this,’ he snarled. ‘Not your excuses.’ A pause. ‘The commissioner wants you off the case. We don’t need this kind of coverage. Getting caught up in an election campaign… it’s embarrassing. And now the father’s charged with manslaughter.’

  ‘Kemal doesn’t want him prosecuted!’ Meyer cried. ‘Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  ‘It’s up to the lawyers, not him. You screwed up, both of you.’

  They stared at the carpet.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick you out of here right now?’

  ‘Just the one?’ Lund said straight off. ‘I could give you…’

  ‘Start then.’

  ‘We know more about this than anyone. Bring in a new team
and they’ll take a week to go through the papers.’

  ‘I’d rather wait a week and get it straight than have you two bringing the commissioner down on my head again.’

  ‘We know more than we did yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment at the school,’ Meyer added. ‘I can clear things there. We’ll bring this under control. Lund’s right. Get someone else and they’ll be starting from scratch.’

  Buchard thought for a long moment.

  ‘If this case is still going nowhere tomorrow you’re off it. Both of you.’

  He stood up, headed for the door.

  ‘Stay well away from the Rådhus. And Troels Hartmann. I don’t want any more shit from that direction. Understood?’

  ‘Sure,’ Meyer said.

  Buchard left. Lund sat silent, thinking, arms tightly folded over her black and white sweater.

  Meyer went out into the corridor, talked to the day team.

  ‘We need to get this back on track,’ he ordered. ‘Go back to the school. Talk to everyone. Workmen, cleaners. Everyone.’

  Lund got up and started going through the evidence bags, found the one she wanted.

  ‘Get Nanna’s picture out to all the taxi drivers,’ Meyer said.

  ‘We did that already,’ Svendsen moaned.

  Meyer turned on him.

  ‘Every driver? Every last one in Copenhagen? No. I didn’t think so. See who was working near Kemal’s flat. Find out if she took a taxi from there. Anything!’

  He came back into the office, grumbling.

  ‘Jesus. How hard can it be?’

  She had the City Hall vehicle logbook open.

  ‘Send a photo of the car to all the petrol stations in the city,’ Lund said. ‘Ask if they saw it on the evening of October the thirty-first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We missed something.’

  She passed him the logbook.

  ‘According to this there shouldn’t have been much petrol left in the car. The tank’s almost full. If he went to a petrol station—’

  ‘He’ll be on a surveillance tape. Yes. I know. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Good! Let’s start with the petrol stations near Nanna’s school.’

  ‘Lund. If you were driving a stolen car with a kidnapped girl in the boot would you fill the car up yourself? The log might be inaccurate.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You could be right. Check it out with the security people at the Rådhus.’

  Meyer laughed.

  ‘Oh! Good joke! You heard what Buchard said. He’ll have my balls if I go near that place.’