by David Hewson
‘No,’ Bremer agreed. ‘I liked to bluster back then. To threaten. That’s all it was. I was a lot like you. Wore my heart on my sleeve. Then you get the thing you dream of. And it’s…’
Hartmann saw the expression of disgust.
‘It’s a piece of shit. You don’t change anything. You’re lucky just to keep the wheels on the cart.’
‘You’re supposed to rest.’
‘Rest?’ The voice grew a little louder. ‘Rest? How can you rest? How can you do anything… change anything… if you don’t have the power?’
‘Poul…’
The old man’s eyes were glazed and unfocused. His breath came in shallow irregular wheezes.
Bremer’s hand came out and gripped Hartmann’s arm. It was the weak and trembling touch of a frail man.
The monitor by the bed bleeped and blinked.
‘You think you’re different,’ the old man groaned. ‘Maybe you are. Everything’s changed these days. There’s so much I don’t understand any more.’
He coughed, winced in pain.
‘Poul? What did you want to tell me?’
Bremer’s eyes rolled, trying to focus.
‘I know who’s been protecting you.’
The nurse came in quickly, looked at the monitor, said, ‘I’ve got to ask you to step outside now.’
Hartmann got up. Bremer’s weak hand still gripped him.
‘I thought it was Rie but it wasn’t.’
The old man gulped. In pain again. The nurse felt his forehead, checked the monitor again.
‘I sent something to your office. It’s up to you…’
The woman was calling for a doctor. He could hear footsteps down the corridor.
‘You have to leave now,’ she said firmly, pointing at the door.
Still Bremer’s arm held him, still there was the blank basilisk stare, eyes the colour of the bleak marble inside the Politigården.
‘Do the right thing, Troels. You have to live with it. No one else.’
There were tears and a sudden look of terror.
‘You think you’re the captain of this ship,’ Poul Bremer whispered. ‘But really… it’s the master of us all.’
Voice high, trembling, frail. Hand on his.
‘Troels…’
White-clad figures raced around him, pushing Hartmann out of the way. The monitor started shrieking. Doctors, nurses talking anxiously.
The grey eyes opened in stark fear then closed and Hartmann was manhandled out of the door.
Down the corridor, down to the exit.
Someone was causing an argument.
Yelling, ‘But he’s an old friend! He asked…’
Troels Hartmann reached the desk. It was as far as they’d allowed Erik Salin.
The bald hack was on him straight away.
‘Hartmann? What did Bremer say? Huh? Come on, Troels…’
He looked at the man in the black coat, smelled the tobacco on him and the anxiety.
‘Bremer gave you the proof, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have called you here for nothing. He had it. He told me.’
Hartmann stopped.
‘What do you want?’
‘Bremer told me he had something,’ Salin repeated. ‘So…?’ A look of defeat, of desperation. ‘What is it?’
He doesn’t know, Troels Hartmann thought. Any more than I do.
‘Goodnight, Erik,’ he said.
Brix went straight to the Birk Larsen house, talked to Lotte, looked at the puppy.
‘We tried to call them,’ she said. ‘Theis left his phone here. Vagn’s not answering.’
‘What did Sarah Lund say?’
‘She just came along and picked up my sister.’
‘Where were they going?’
‘To look for Theis and Vagn.’
‘Where?’ Brix asked.
She looked at the officers searching the garage, the blue flashing lights outside.
‘Lund’s police, isn’t she? Why the hell are you asking me?’
A familiar voice on the radio.
‘They’re in a red van with Birk Larsen on the side. Registration number UE 93 682.’
‘Lund,’ said a voice from control. ‘You’ve no authority. Come in now.’
‘Just put out a call, will you?’
Brix strode to the car.
‘The van was last seen going east on Vesterbrogade,’ Lund said.
‘Come in!’ control barked again.
He picked up the mike.
‘Brix here,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Back in the Rådhus Hartmann marched to his office. The broken window was taped up. On his desk was a Christmas bouquet, holly and poinsettias, with an envelope bearing his name.
Inside was a photo he struggled to recognize. From the summer maybe. It looked like a school party in a park. He was smiling among a group of older students. Next to him was a young blonde woman, arm linked through his, laughing as if he’d just made a joke.
Hartmann’s blood froze.
Nanna Birk Larsen.
A sound from the back of the office. In the shadows by the sofa Morten Weber sat, coat over his arm, scarf in hand.
He got up, came to the desk, looked.
‘I was about to leave when that turned up. I thought I’d got every copy. It seems Bremer found the last one. He must have been looking very hard. Even Erik Salin didn’t get that I gather.’
Weber took the seat opposite Hartmann.
‘It was last July. The Frederiksholm school fun run. Remember?’
Hartmann stared at the photo.
‘Arm in arm. Eye to eye. She doesn’t look like a schoolkid at all, does she? In a way I guess she wasn’t.’
Weber got up, went round the back of Hartmann, took the picture.
‘Thank God it was never published. Nanna won the bronze medal. You gave it to her. That could have killed us. And Bremer hands it away for nothing. There must be a God.’
He passed the photo back to Hartmann, returned to his seat.
‘I just heard he had another stroke. It looks serious. If he can’t take the job it’s yours. We need to think about how you play this…’
Troels Hartmann stared at the pretty blonde girl then looked at the Christmas bouquet, thought of the old man fighting for breath in the hospital.
‘What have you done to me? What in God’s name…?’
Weber shrugged, looked at him, asked, ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘You really must try to see things from the point of view of others sometimes. You’d been in the flat. You were dead drunk. When I found you in the cottage you were a stupid, incoherent mess.’
He shook his head, wouldn’t take his eyes off Hartmann.
‘You’d tried to kill yourself. I remembered that girl. I remembered that photo the moment the police said who it was. I had her name, Troels. I work. I keep records.’
‘You… knew?’
‘What was I supposed to think?’
‘I don’t know her,’ Hartmann insisted, putting the photo on the desk, refusing to look at it. ‘I don’t remember this…’
Weber leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes and sighed.
‘You thought me capable of—’
‘I’ve worked for twenty years making you what you are!’ Weber cried. ‘Waiting for a chance to achieve something finally. I wasn’t having that go to waste.’
Voice quieter. Hartmann’s breath became shallow. The room swam.
‘Oh for pity’s sake, Troels. I went round to the flat that Sunday. The table was broken. I could see something had happened. The next day they say it’s her…’
His face became stern.
‘Of course I made sure they didn’t find it. As best I could. I got the security tape too. I thought maybe we could give it to the police once the election was over. Let them into the flat. When it was safe. If it was safe…’
‘If?’
‘Don’t push it. In principle I di
d nothing to interfere with the investigation. Just helped it—’
‘In principle?’
Weber got the brandy decanter, poured himself a drink, stood over Hartmann. Like a boss.
‘I’m sorry about Rie,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘But let’s face it. She wasn’t the right woman for you.’
‘That’s your decision, is it?’
Weber scowled at him.
‘After all the sweat I’ve put in you think I don’t deserve some say? You should have hooked up with that policewoman, Lund. More your type. I can see you now…’
He took a swig of the brandy.
‘In bed. You thinking of your next speech. Lund with those big wide eyes, wondering what’s in the room to look at, what’s next door.’
‘You disgust me…’
‘That’s fine, Troels. Be as disgusted as you want. Was I supposed to throw away two decades of my life just because somebody killed a girl from Vesterbro?’
Hartmann lost it, dashed the brandy glass from his hand, stood above him.
‘Are you mad, Morten?’
Weber didn’t retreat the way he used to do. He stayed there, defiant, smirking.
‘No. Just efficient.’
‘The police are going to find out. They’re in Store Kongensgade now.’
‘No, they’re not. I never called them.’
He got himself a new glass. Poured himself a second brandy. Took Hartmann’s seat. Looked up at him.
‘Sit, Troels? Sit. We’ve things to discuss.’
Hartmann stayed by the window.
‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ Weber groaned and got another glass, poured Hartmann a brandy. ‘If it makes a difference…’
He took the chair on the other side of the desk. Waited for Hartmann to fall into his own.
‘You’ve nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. This speech for tomorrow…’
He took some sheets from the desk.
‘I need to make a few changes. We have to insert some references to Bremer. Expressions of admiration. I’ll handle it.’
‘There isn’t going to be a speech tomorrow. When they find out what you’ve done…’
Weber laughed.
‘Oh, right.’
‘If not I’ll tell them.’
‘Is that what you want? Fine.’
He pushed the phone across the desk.
‘Go ahead. Call them.’ He tapped a finger on the photo again. ‘We can show them this. You can tell them what happened when you met her. Last July. Rie was on holiday with her father in Spain. Remember?’
Hartmann said nothing.
‘You do remember, don’t you? Fun run.’ Finger on the photo. ‘I was there. That’s me at the back of the group. Always at the back. I know my place and…’
He pointed to his eyes, grinned.
‘I watch. I have to. Had a few beers, didn’t you? Those wandering eyes. Lingered around afterwards. Tell me, Troels. I was never much good with women. Did you even remember her name? Does it matter?’
‘What do you mean?’ Hartmann murmured.
‘The thing is…’ Weber had dropped the picture of Nanna Birk Larsen, was playing with the photo of JFK and Jackie. ‘You just dream of the White House. And I know you. I see what you’re like. The way you were before you married. While you were married. After.’
He leaned forward. Voice rising.
‘I know. You dream of the White House. And I just see Chappaquiddick. Pretty girl. A few beers. I saw you give her your number. I couldn’t work it out at the time. But, well…’
He shrugged.
‘Turns out she was screwing Jens Holck, wasn’t she? Maybe she wanted to try out someone new from the political classes. A different notch on her bedpost. I saw you—’
‘Morten—’
‘You gave her your number. You went round to Store Kongensgade. You waited. Got some good wine. Brought in some food. Was that how it worked?’
Hartmann was shaking his head.
‘I don’t remember…’
‘I took the kid to one side after you left for the flat. I ripped up the phone number. I scared the living daylights out of her. That’s why she never turned up. But I did. Just by accident. To make sure you really were on your own. Not screwing a schoolkid you bumped into at a prize-giving. Do you remember that?’
No answer.
‘So you see. When she was dead I had to ask myself. Did she get your number some other way? The pretty schoolgirl who looked so much older?’
‘I never killed that girl!’
‘I know you didn’t. Now. This is good. This we can live with. Had it been otherwise… I’d have faced some difficult decisions.’
He got up, put on his coat.
‘Any questions, Troels?’
The black phone stayed untouched.
‘Good. We have this conversation once only. Never again.’
Morten Weber looked at his watch.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late.’
On the long road that led from the city, Pernille wide-eyed and scared in the passenger seat, Lund behind the wheel.
Blustery rain came in through the shattered side window. There was glass on the floor, on the dashboard.
‘Can you think of any warehouses they might use?’ Lund asked.
‘We’ve got some in Sydhavnen.’
An industrial area, across the main road leading to the airport and Vestamager.
‘Lund?’ said the radio. ‘It’s Brix here.’
‘And?’
‘You were right about Skærbæk. The girl was held captive in the basement.’
Next to her Pernille Birk Larsen put a hand to her mouth.
‘So let’s find him,’ Lund said.
‘We will. You’ve got to come in.’
Straight away, ‘Not a chance.’
‘You don’t know where they are, Lund! You’re in the way of the operation. We’re alerting the border patrols—’
‘Vagn’s not skipping the country. It’s not about—’
‘We found shotgun cartridges in Skærbæk’s garage. He’s armed. I don’t want you out there. I don’t want Pernille either. There’s nothing you can do. Turn round and come back here.’
She looked at the woman next to her. Pernille shook her head.
‘What about the woods?’ Lund asked. ‘Pinseskoven.’
The Pentecost Forest.
‘Why the hell would he go there?’ Brix asked. ‘Middle of nowhere. A dead end.’
‘It started there. Somehow. Maybe he wants to finish it there too.’
‘Come in now. I’ll deal with this.’
She put down the mike, drove on, took the turn for Vestamager.
‘Why would they go to the woods?’ Pernille asked.
The traffic grew lighter as the night darkened. Soon they were beyond the street lamps and the dual carriageway, heading down the long damp road that led to the forest.
After a while the road narrowed to a single carriageway, then little more than a lane.
Dead end, Brix said. There anyway he was right.
Theis Birk Larsen nursed his third can of beer, not taking any notice where they were going. He was a little drunk, a lot happy. Reminiscing.
‘First dog I ever had was called Corfu. Remember that?’
‘Yeah,’ Vagn Skærbæk said, sounding bored.
‘Smuggled it home from Greece in a backpack. We learned a few things then, huh?’
‘I never knew a little dog could shit that much.’
Birk Larsen scowled at the beer.
‘Maybe we’ll be smuggling a few more things pretty soon. Got the house to pay for. If they put me inside for the damned teacher…’
He looked at the man at the wheel.
‘You’ll cope.’ Birk Larsen slapped his shoulder. ‘You’ll manage.’
He grabbed the remaining cans.
‘Want another beer?’
‘Nah.’
‘OK. I’ll have yours.�
�
They were on a lane. The van bounced and lurched on the rough track.
‘Where the hell are we going?’
‘Not far.’
‘Pernille’s going to kill us if we’re not back for cake.’
Birk Larsen raised his can.
‘Here’s to women.’
Then took a swig.
A distant roar above them. And lights. Birk Larsen watched as a passenger jet descended through the night sky.
‘We’re near the airport. What kind of idiot keeps dogs out here?’
‘There’s something I need to show you. It won’t take long. And then we’re done.’
‘Pernille…’
The van bounced. He looked at the lane in the headlights. Gravel. What looked like ditches by the side. In the grey light cast by a moon behind clouds the outline of a wood.
A dim memory, fuddled by beer.
Vagn Skærbæk interrupted it.
‘Do you remember when we used to go out fishing at night?’
‘Fuck fishing, Vagn. Where’s the damned dog?’
Trees now. Bare silver bark. Slender trunks rising like dead limbs from the earth.
‘It was always freezing. We never caught a damned thing.’
The van had slowed almost to walking pace. It kept running in and out of black potholes.
Birk Larsen felt slow and drunk and stupid.
‘You said Pernille would think we’d been drinking if we didn’t come back with some eels. You should have seen your face when I got some. You never asked where they came from.’
‘Vagn—’
‘I just went and stole them from someone’s trap.’
‘So what?’
Skærbæk nodded.
‘Yeah. So what? So long as things get fixed. Then they never come back to haunt you. What’s it matter?’
He found the place he was looking for. Stopped the van. Pulled on the brake.
Silver peeling trunks in the faint moonlight. Deep ditches both sides of the road. No sign of life.
Skærbæk leapt out, went to the back of the van, opened the doors.
Birk Larsen sighed. Took a swig of the beer. Decided he wanted a piss anyway.
Climbed out of the passenger side, walked round the side.
Vagn Skærbæk had dressed. He stood there in full hunting gear. Long black galoshes, long khaki coat. Over his shoulder was a shotgun on a strap.
He pulled another pair of rubber boots out of the back.
‘You need to put those on, Theis.’