The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘Then I’d say you’d screwed up again.’

  ‘What if I said it was driven back here? To the City Hall car park?’

  He was silent.

  ‘That Friday night. When you held your poster party. All the group leaders. All your campaign workers.’

  ‘What the hell is this about, Lund?’

  ‘I need to know if anyone left the party early.’

  ‘Wait, wait. I don’t understand. You’re saying the car was brought back here?’

  ‘Did anyone leave early?’

  Skovgaard walked in. She was on the phone. Saying, ‘Can I speak to Buchard now?’

  ‘Did Jens Holck leave early?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Holck?’

  Skovgaard was through, whining to Buchard.

  ‘Do you remember seeing him later in the evening?’

  Hartmann shook his head.

  ‘Your boss wants to talk to you,’ Skovgaard cut in, offering the phone to Lund.

  She stared at this woman. Attractive in a hard, unemotional way. It never seemed to touch these people that a young girl had died. No one except Hartmann, and that still interested her.

  ‘Yes?’ Lund said, taking the phone, not really listening.

  When it was done she passed the handset back to Hartmann’s smiling campaign manager.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Skovgaard said.

  Lund looked around her. At the wooden walls, the panelling, the beautiful lamps, the expensive furniture.

  ‘This place must feel like a castle,’ she said.

  ‘Go,’ Skovgaard repeated.

  Lund glanced at her, then, lingering more, at Hartmann.

  ‘It’s not a castle,’ she said.

  Back in her empty office Lund took a cigarette from Meyer’s pack, rolled it in her fingers. Did all the bad things. Turned it round, tip to end, juggled it, smelled it. Lifted it to her lips, felt the dryness as she put it in her mouth, lit the thing and breathed in the choking smoke.

  It didn’t taste good. It didn’t make anything better. It just was.

  Outside Buchard was briefing the team, in a voice pitched loud enough for her to hear.

  ‘Lund starts her new job in Sweden tomorrow,’ the chief told them. ‘Meyer takes over. Svendsen, you’re Meyer’s assistant.’

  He’d taken her name off the door already. Now it simply said: Vicekriminalkommissær Jan Meyer.

  Buchard came in to see her straight after. He looked at the cigarette.

  ‘I’ve informed the Swedish police you’re ready to start there. I refrained from telling them about your activities.’

  ‘My gratitude knows no bounds.’

  She took a suck on the cigarette and looked at him. Buchard wasn’t good at shifty.

  ‘I’m sorry things had to end this way,’ he added.

  ‘You’re the only one in this place who rates Svendsen.’

  A flicker of anger in his pug eyes.

  ‘That’s the last thing you have to say to me?’

  ‘No. There’s more.’ The cigarette was starting to feel good now. ‘But you’ve probably got calls to make.’

  When he’d gone Meyer came in, stood by the sign with his name on it. He didn’t seem happy.

  ‘We couldn’t find anything around Grønningen. Anything that links in Holck.’

  Svendsen stuck his head around the door. He was smiling.

  ‘There’s a delivery from Sweden, Lund,’ he said. ‘You need to sign for it. Before you go.’

  Emphasis on the last word then a big grin.

  ‘I will,’ Lund said. She pointed at the cigarette. ‘When I’m done.’

  Lund watched him wander off, turned to Meyer, pointed at the retreating Svendsen and said, ‘He’s theirs, Meyer. Not yours. Remember.’

  Then she went to the window. A yellow removals van stood below, the driver waiting by the door.

  ‘I’ve got some guy waiting in forensics,’ Meyer said. ‘So . . .’

  She blew smoke out of the window, remembered how many times she’d scolded him for doing the same.

  ‘You can keep the packet.’

  One more pull, one more lungful out into the damp November air.

  ‘Lund?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and didn’t look at him.

  When he was gone she went to the desk, went through the plastic evidence bags, found Nanna’s keys, the Rukos on a red plastic ring, and pocketed them.

  It was starting to rain. Bengt had sent back what things she had in Sweden. She opened up the first case. Clothes and bedding, nothing she could use.

  So she signed for them, made a call to the company, ordered storage, then watched the yellow van drive off with a part of her life still inside. Gone until she reached some point in the future she still couldn’t begin to imagine.

  The lawyer, Lis Gamborg, saw Birk Larsen in his cell.

  ‘Vagn’s been questioned. He confirmed he encouraged you to take revenge against the teacher.’

  ‘He didn’t do that. He tried to stop me.’

  ‘That’s what he says. It’s to your advantage. Let’s leave it there. Vagn will be charged as an accessory. He’s not looking at jail.’ She paused. ‘You are.’

  Birk Larsen took a deep breath, stared at the grey concrete floor, said nothing.

  ‘I argued that you wouldn’t try to abscond. That you’d suffered enough. You wouldn’t interfere with witnesses, since you’ve already pleaded guilty.’

  ‘And?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘And you’re free to go.’

  In his blue prison suit Birk Larsen felt like a child being gulled by a performer on stage. He didn’t like tricks and maybe she realized that.

  ‘Provided,’ she added quickly, ‘you don’t leave Copenhagen. And under no circumstances must you interfere with the investigation again. I mean that, Theis. If you do anything else . . .’

  ‘I won’t do anything. I just want to go home.’

  ‘Good. For your sake and your family’s it’s important you keep a low profile. Don’t talk to the media. Don’t get involved. Go back to the way you were.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘As much as you can. I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. You can get your things now. Theis . . .’

  She hesitated over something.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘People have got such sympathy for you. For Pernille. But sympathy’s like a dripping tap. One little turn . . .’

  The lawyer made a twisting gesture with her hand.

  ‘Then it’s off. What replaces it may not be so nice. Be invisible. Be patient. I’ll see you when we come back to court. If no one’s heard a word of you in the meantime then maybe I can keep you out of jail.’

  He nodded.

  She smiled then left him alone, in his blue prison suit and black boots. Unshaven, unwashed. Thinking about the strange world beyond the door.

  Pernille took the call, shrieked with a sudden burst of joy. Called Lotte round to look after the boys, shuffled on her coat before getting the car.

  Her sister came straight away with a bagful of shopping, ready for the night. Sweets ready, and a book.

  Families ran on these daily rituals, all taken for granted, all so painful when the reason for them was gone.

  Lotte started running the bath, got the boys in. Pernille went for her keys.

  One packet of sweets only, she thought, and looked in Lotte’s shopping bag.

  Plenty of crisps and snacks. Some shampoo. The kind of things a woman on her own bought in such small quantities it seemed ridiculous.

  A pile of letters. Lotte must have picked them up on the way out, brought them round to read while she was babysitting.

  The top one was square and formal, a card in an envelope.

  It bore Nanna’s name and Lotte’s address.

  Squeals from the bathroom, the noise of Lotte scolding them.

  ‘I want the duck,’ Emil cried.

  ‘Not until you stop splashing,’ Lotte s
aid.

  Without a thought Pernille reached in, took out the square envelope, ripped it open.

  The card was silver with an ornate Christmas tree. An invitation to a staff Christmas party for a nightclub in the centre. Four weeks away.

  She stared at it feeling cold and stupid and betrayed.

  ‘Where’s the duck?’ Lotte asked by the bathroom door. ‘Oh. Right.’

  She’d found it. Then looked. Saw.

  ‘Nanna worked with you all along,’ Pernille said, the card in her hands. ‘She gave them your address. That’s why we never knew.’

  Lotte came over, stared at the card, retreated, guilty.

  ‘When did she start there?’

  Little sister, little sister, Pernille thought. I never did trust you really.

  ‘In January.’

  Lotte had the evasive, shifty look of the naughty child she once was.

  ‘She only started as a temp. She left last summer.’

  Pernille held the card and waited.

  Lotte licked her lips, tried to get hold of herself. Look convincing.

  ‘She didn’t plan it. She came to visit me and thought it seemed . . .’ Lotte shrugged. ‘Exciting.’

  Pernille looked around their little apartment. The cramped rooms. The photos on the walls. The table they made. The books. The TV. The kids. The close and intimate thing called family.

  ‘Exciting?’

  ‘It just happened. I didn’t see any harm in it.’

  She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. To fly at Lotte or run away.

  Instead she asked, ‘What happened last summer?’

  Lotte folded her arms. Confident in herself now. Afforded an escape route.

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Theis.’

  ‘Charlotte. You’re my sister. Tell me what happened.’

  Sounds from the bathroom. The boys giggling, splashing.

  ‘She liked the job. Then she started seeing someone. A man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone she met there. I don’t know who. She wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Did he give her money?’

  Lotte looked sly again.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just tell me. Did he give her money?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t like that. She started to turn up late for her shifts. Then one day she didn’t turn up at all. I was worried.’

  Pernille knew what was coming, had to hear it.

  ‘I called Theis,’ Lotte said. ‘I’m sorry. We found her in a hotel room. She was dead drunk. It was when you were away with the boys on the school trip. Nanna promised she’d stop seeing him. She promised Theis.’

  Pernille laughed at the idea, laughed and held back her head, let the tears begin to flood her bright eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lotte said again.

  Pernille walked over, took the towels off her and the rubber duck.

  ‘I want you to go now,’ she said.

  ‘Pernille—’

  ‘I want you to go.’

  The debate was in the Black Diamond, the angular glass building by the water that housed the Royal Danish Library.

  Still the Nanna Birk Larsen case haunted Troels Hartmann. Rie Skovgaard and Morten Weber had bickered about little else in the car.

  ‘Lund thinks the car was driven to City Hall,’ Hartmann said as they walked into the library. ‘Why? Why would anyone drive it back?’

  ‘If any of this was important,’ Skovgaard cut in, ‘we would have heard of it. Lund’s off the case. I told you.’

  ‘So that’s why the police were in the car park?’ Weber asked.

  ‘Doing what?’ said Hartmann.

  Weber shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever police do.’

  They got out, walked through the doors.

  ‘This is a public event, Troels,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Time to smile.’

  He wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Why did she ask me about Holck?’

  On the escalator, rising towards the busy crowds above.

  ‘The only thing that matters about Holck is whether he’s with us or not.’

  ‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘We need to know what’s going on. I don’t want all that shit again.’

  ‘The shit came from Lund!’ she barked at him. ‘Lund’s gone. Focus on the meeting. This is important.’

  ‘I need to know!’

  ‘Jesus, Troels . . .’ Skovgaard muttered and wandered away.

  Weber watched her, looked at Hartmann.

  ‘For once I’m with her. Think about the meeting. We can deal with the rest later.’

  Then they wandered off into the audience while Hartmann lugged his briefcase to the podium.

  Bremer was there already. Immaculately dressed. Smiling as always. A little flushed under the lights.

  ‘Welcome, Troels,’ he said, shaking Hartmann’s hand. ‘You’ve been fishing in troubled waters, I hear. Did you catch anything?’

  A laugh. A hard slap on Hartmann’s shoulder. Then a wave to the crowd, some private gestures to people he maybe knew and maybe didn’t.

  All the politician’s tricks and habits. Troels Hartmann had learned them, from Bremer mostly. Could summon them up too. But then. . .

  A figure in a crumpled black suit entered from the right. Bremer leapt up, took Jens Holck by the hand, made a point of saying, ‘Good evening, old friend. Sit by me, Jens . . . Sit.’

  He pulled up a chair. Holck looked at it.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Walked on, looked at the empty seat next to Hartmann.

  ‘Is this free? I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘If you want it, Jens.’

  ‘I believe I do,’ Holck said and sat down.

  Grønningen ran straight along the side of the Kastellet grounds for half a kilometre. There were buildings, apartment blocks, on one side only. Nanna’s Ruko keys didn’t work in any of the front doors.

  After Lund wasted half an hour testing every lock there she checked the short road at the south, Esplanaden. Nothing.

  She called Meyer.

  ‘I need your help,’ Lund said.

  ‘You were wrong about Holck. He drove off in his own car that night.’

  ‘Did you check if any party members owned flats around Grønningen?’

  ‘We did. No one does. And there are no politicians living nearby. The Liberals own a flat on Store Kongensgade.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Number hundred and thirty.’

  Lund walked the short way into the street, checked the numbers. It was back to the north, closer to Grønningen. Store Kongensgade was a long and busy road that ran all the way from close to Østerport Station into the city itself. The taxi driver, Leon Frevert, said he dropped Nanna near to the junction between the two streets. She should have worked this out earlier.

  On the left ran lines and lines of low, old ochre-coloured houses. The naval cottages of Nyboder, laid out in low rows in the dark like soldiers frozen to attention.

  ‘It’s on the fourth floor,’ Meyer said. ‘Where are you?’

  A massive building. Red brick, white facings gleaming in the street lights. Grand communal entrance. Lots of bells. A Ruko lock.

  ‘It’s irrelevant,’ he added. ‘We’ve checked out Hartmann already. Lund?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where are you? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, then put the phone in her pocket.

  Two keys. One for the outside. One for the apartment.

  Lund walked up to the double door, put the first key in the lock, turned.

  Nothing.

  Tried the second.

  The door opened.

  The lift was gleaming and ancient, double folding doors, room for no more than four inside.

  She got in, pressed the button for the fourth floor. Listened to the mechanism whirr and hum.

  The
place seemed empty. She rose past offices and dentists’ surgeries, past private apartments and places that bore no name.

  Then the lift stopped. Lund got out and started to look around.

  Meyer was back in forensics, going through the video from the car park again. The black car pulling away. The driver just out of sight.

  ‘Stop it there,’ he told the technician. ‘What was that? It looked like a flash of light.’

  ‘It’s the fluorescent tube. On the way out. Flickering.’

  ‘Go back, back. Take it step by step.’

  Seven frames. Just visible in the driver’s window, illuminated by a single brief flash of light, was the face of a man.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Meyer asked, trying to stifle his impatience. ‘Can you enhance it?’

  ‘I can try.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘It’s Lund.’

  ‘Good timing. We’re about to find out who was in the car.’

  ‘It was Troels Hartmann,’ Lund said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Silence.

  ‘Lund? Lund? Where are you? What’s going on? Talk to me. Please.’

  ‘I’m in the Liberals’ flat in Store Kongensgade. Nanna’s keys open the door to the block and the door to the flat. Call forensics. Meet me here.’

  ‘Hartmann?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  The screen was rendering the enhanced image. A face was emerging out of the grey murk. Angular and handsome. Grim-set and familiar.

  Meyer thought: Poster Boy. You’re mine.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ he said.

  A full team were in place within the hour. Ten men in the blue uniforms of forensics, white bunny suits, white gloves at the ready. Floodlights. Cameras. Chemicals.

  Lund had a second unit outside, in the courtyard behind the block, was walking among them, checking their work, offering advice and opinions, some of them well received, others plainly ignored.

  Meyer brought her coffee. Buchard didn’t say a word.

  She took the two of them through the front door, into the noisy old lift.

  ‘The taxi driver dropped her off on Grønningen at quarter to eleven. I imagine she didn’t want anyone to know she was coming here. Nanna could have been in the flat four or five minutes later. It belongs to the Liberals. A donation from a supporter. They use it for work lunches, meetings, putting up guests.’

  ‘Who lives in this place?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Most of the units are offices or corporate accommodation. It was pretty much empty all weekend.’