by David Hewson
‘That’s right.’
‘With women?’
He grimaced.
‘I’m a caretaker. You see lots of things.’
‘Do you remember seeing this woman?’
She showed him the photo of Nanna.
He was looking round at the damage. Calculating.
‘I’ve seen some ladies ringing the bell. I’ve seen him come in with them.’
‘But not her?’ she asked, showing him the photo again.
‘No. I think she must have had her own key. She used to let herself into the flat and wait for him.’
Lund wanted this clear.
‘She was with Hartmann?’
‘That’s what I said. A couple of months ago. I was changing a washer next door. I saw her outside. I heard him talking.’
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘Who else could it have been?’
She put the photo back in her bag.
‘When do I hear?’ the caretaker asked.
‘Hear what?’
‘I saw it on the news. There’s a reward. Fifty thousand kroner. When do I hear?’
She took a deep breath and sighed.
‘It was him,’ the man insisted. ‘I swear it.’
Twenty-five minutes later she was at the door of the apartment, talking to Pernille Birk Larsen.
‘I need you to waive the reward.’
The woman wouldn’t let her in.
‘We didn’t offer it.’
‘If you talk to the TV people they’ll do as you say, Pernille. I know how hard it is—’
‘No you don’t. You’ve no idea.’
The husband was lurking in the background, listening.
‘You’re not surrounded by her things. You don’t keep getting her post. People don’t look at you in the street as if this was all somehow your fault—’
‘All that will happen is lots of people who want that money will contact us with useless information. Because they’ve done that we’ll have to take every one of them seriously.’
‘Good.’
‘We don’t have the officers. Things that matter will suffer.’
‘What things?’
‘I can’t tell you. I know you feel we should be more open with you. But we can’t be.’ She glanced at the man in the background. ‘We’ve said too much already. I thought you’d appreciate that.’
Pernille walked back into the living room. Theis Birk Larsen stood where he was, staring balefully at Lund.
‘You have to make Pernille understand this is wrong, Theis. Please.’
He walked to the door and closed it in her face.
Friday, 14th November
Meyer phoned when she was just out of the shower. Straight away he began complaining about the flood of calls coming in after the appeal and the reward.
‘I talked to the parents,’ Lund told him. ‘They won’t help. I’m sorry. We’re going to have to deal with all of them.’
‘Wonderful. Anything else?’
‘I want more on Olav Christensen.’
‘Get someone else to deal with that, Lund. Not me.’
Mark walked in looking for breakfast.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
He slunk off to the table in silence.
‘I’m bringing in Morten Weber again,’ Meyer told her. ‘See you.’
Mark poured himself some cornflakes.
‘How was dinner round at your father’s?’
A long pause then, ‘OK.’
‘And his girls? Are they nice?’
Lund had broken out a new jumper from its wrapping from the stock she’d bought by mail order. Thick wool, dark brown, black and white lozenges.
Mark was staring at it.
‘They’ve got a lot of different clothes,’ he said.
The milk ran out when he tried to pour it. He held up the carton.
Lund sighed, came and sat down at the table, tried to take his hand until he snatched it away.
‘Listen. I know everything’s a mess. Bengt’s coming back to Copenhagen soon. He has to teach. We’ll talk. We’ll work it out.’
He picked at the half-dry cornflakes.
‘At least now you can go to the Christmas concert at school.’
Mark played with the earring for a second then gave up on the cereal.
‘Do we have any more milk?’
She went to the fridge.
‘No. Grandma has gone shopping. She’ll be back soon.’
He sat in front of his food, head on hand, miserable.
Lund tied up her hair, got ready to go.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
Mark looked awkward.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘You don’t need to wait for Grandma to get back. If you’ve got to go . . .’
She smiled at him, touched his arm.
‘You’re so sweet.’
He was looking at her in a way she didn’t recognize.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Go to work.’
Meyer had Morten Weber in the office.
‘So you don’t know what Hartmann was doing that weekend either? And you’re his what?’
‘Campaign manager. Not his nanny.’
Meyer didn’t like this man. He seemed slippery.
‘He looks to me like a guy who needs one.’
Weber groaned.
‘How many times do I have to tell you this. You’ve searched our office. You’ve confiscated our computers. I told you already. We are having them checked.’
‘Forget computers. Who visited Hartmann at his home on Sunday morning?’
No answer.
‘Don’t know? Someone who looks like you, Morten. You went into his house.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Why?’
‘I was worried. I hadn’t heard from him. So I went over there.’
Meyer’s wife had sent him off to work with two apples and a strict order to eat both. He started peeling the first with a knife, munching on the pieces.
‘What did you do there?’
Weber folded his arms and said, ‘I looked for Troels. I’ve got a spare key. Why not?’
‘And after that you went to the dry cleaners.’
‘So what?’
‘The cleaner confirmed you brought his clothes in on Monday. The ones he wore on Friday. Why get them cleaned?’
‘They were in the house. He wears them a lot in public—’
‘Why did they need cleaning?’
‘Because they were dirty?’
Meyer finished half of the apple.
‘So you’re not his nanny. You’re his maid.’
‘I went to his house because I was worried. That’s all there is to it.’ He got up from the table. ‘I’m leaving now. We’ve got an election to fight.’
‘Why didn’t you phone him, Morten? If you were so bothered?’
‘Hartmann had nothing to do with the girl. You’re wasting your time. And ours.’
‘Rie Skovgaard called Hartmann that weekend. Over and over again. I’ve got your phone records. You didn’t try once.’
Weber shrugged.
‘Maybe I had other things to do.’
‘No you don’t. You’re a bachelor. You live for the party. Always have. Always will.’
Meyer grinned.
‘I’ve got your number. You knew where Troels Hartmann was all along. You knew what he was doing. Just the two of you. It’s your little secret. And when I find out . . .’
Morten Weber laughed in his face.
‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving now.’
In the office in City Hall Skovgaard and Hartmann were going over the day ahead.
‘There has to be a link between Bremer and Olav,’ he said. ‘A conference? Something . . .’
‘We haven’t found one. Cancel the debate.’
‘Not a chance. People will think I’m in jail.’
‘If you told the truth we wouldn’t be in this situation.’
He didn’t respond.
‘You have to cancel the debate. Some of the assembly members are talking. They’re saying you might not be fit for office. They can block your nomination.’
‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘It’s Bremer’s call. He can do it, Troels. If he wants rid of you . . .’
Hartmann’s eyes lit up.
‘If? What do you mean if?’
Weber came in, grumbling about the police.
‘Olav?’ Hartmann asked.
‘People say Bremer doesn’t know him.’
‘What do you expect them to say?’
‘I’ll keep checking. But really it doesn’t feel right.’
‘Wonderful,’ Hartmann moaned. ‘I’m starving.’
He walked back into the main office to get a pastry.
Weber looked at Rie Skovgaard.
‘The police still suspect him,’ he said.
‘Of course they do. He won’t tell them where he was. Here . . .’ She passed him a slip of paper. ‘The computer people who found that thing on the network. It’s a sniffer. Logs every keystroke on every account. I told them to keep it there. It didn’t just trap our passwords. It got Olav’s too. He changed it last night. That’s the new one.’
‘What the hell am I supposed to do with . . .?’
Hartmann marched back in, dropping pieces of croissant everywhere.
‘I’ve got a meeting with the committee clerks,’ he said. ‘Call if you hear anything.’
Downstairs in a corner of the echoing lobby Olav Christensen was sweating. He’d called six times that morning. Never got through.
‘No, no. I need to talk to him personally. When’s he going to be free?’
He listened. From the dark recess he could see the policewoman Lund walk into the building. Christensen fell further into the shadows.
‘This is important,’ he said. ‘Tell him he has to call me as soon as possible. This is urgent. OK?’
She was walking towards him. Christensen started to head down the stairs towards the basement. The canteen. The security office. Out the back way to the car park, anywhere.
‘Olav?’ she called.
Too late.
He stopped. Tried to smile.
‘Spare a minute?’
Lund got the civil servant to find them a spare desk in the library. He sat there in front of the morning paper, phone on the desk, massaging his temples.
A worried man.
She took the chair opposite and smiled.
‘What’s this about?’ he said. ‘I’ve talked to you.’
‘Just a few more questions.’
‘I’d really like to help. But it’s supposed to be my day off.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I came in for a meeting. It starts in a few minutes.’
‘What kind of meeting?’
‘Just a meeting.’
‘It’s cancelled,’ she said and took out her pad, looked at the notes, looked at him.
‘You told us you didn’t know about the key to the party’s flat.’
He had his hand to his face, trying to look confident.
‘That’s right.’
‘But you booked it for people. Lots of times. We’ve got the details from the book in Morten Weber’s drawer.’ Another brief smile. ‘The same drawer where the key’s kept. You did know about the flat. And the key.’
‘I never touched the key.’
She looked around the library. Shelves and shelves of old books. Empty desks and chairs.
‘Must be hard getting on in a place like this. Waiting to fill dead men’s shoes. And Hartmann doesn’t give you the job you want.’
‘Is ambition a crime?’
‘Do you make enough money?’
He grinned.
‘Do you?’
‘You are a smart puppy,’ Lund said.
An ironic smile.
‘Thanks.’
‘No. I meant I ought to feel guilty when I kick you. I don’t. But I ought to.’
She reached into her bag, pulled something out. He looked at it.
On the polished walnut table Lund spread out Olav Christensen’s last payslip.
‘You get an extra five thousand kroner every month on top of your basic for consulting services.’ Lund watched him. ‘What services?’
He sniffed, went quiet for a moment.
‘I do some things for the environmental people. In my own time.’
‘A busy puppy too. But you work for the Education Department, don’t you?’
Christensen laughed, shook his head, muttered, ‘I don’t believe this.’
Lund pushed the payslip under his nose.
‘What don’t you believe? It’s all here. Except who gives you this money.’
He picked up the piece of paper, said nothing.
‘There must be some documentation for the amount and why you get it.’
‘Ask payroll.’
‘I did. They’d no idea.’
She took the slip from him and put it back in her bag.
‘They’re getting back to me today. They promised they’d find out. It seemed a puzzle to them too.’
She let that hang.
‘Public money, Olav. One thing you can say about a place like this . . .’ She looked at the rows and rows of books again. ‘There’s going to be a record somewhere.’
He nodded.
‘So why not tell me now?’
‘There’s nothing to tell. I did some work. I got paid.’
‘You can do better than that.’
‘I’m busy right now.’
He got up, walked to the end of the room, out into the corridor.
Lund put her away her notebook, watched him from the door. Christensen was in the shadows of an arch along the way. On his phone already. And shaking.
Vagn Skærbæk was fielding calls again. Theis Birk Larsen wouldn’t come to the phone.
‘For the love of God,’ Skærbæk grunted when the last one finished. ‘The weirdos we get.’
‘Pull out the lead,’ Birk Larsen said.
‘What if it’s a customer?’
The big man walked over, yanked the wire from the wall.
‘Two vans to Valby, and you’ll drive one of them.’
Pernille came down. They’d barely spoken that morning.
‘I can’t go on the cub trip,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Birk Larsen asked.
‘The funeral director called. I have to see the headstone. Make sure it’s ready.’
Birk Larsen closed his eyes, said nothing.
‘I don’t know how long—’ she began.
‘The boys really want to go—’
‘I can’t do it!’
He glanced at Skærbæk.
‘I can cover, Theis. No problem.’
‘Yeah,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘I’ll take the boys. Of course.’
He handed over the keys of the truck.
‘Find someone, Vagn. Pay double if you have to. Pernille?’
He looked round the garage. She was already walking out of the door.
It was frosty in the playground where the cub trips met. No one on the tyre swings. No kids playing on the slides.
Just one woman he barely knew standing alone, smiling at the boys as they ran up in their blue uniforms, excited, ready to go.
They leapt onto the tyres and started to play.
Birk Larsen walked up to her, looked around.
‘We’re late. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve been trying to call. There was no answer.’
Birk Larsen scanned the deserted playground.
‘This is where we’re supposed to meet, right?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
He’d seen this look before. Was beginning to recognize it. At school. In the shops. It was a distanced, embarrassed kind of sympathy.
‘You
didn’t get my message?’
She had something she didn’t want to say. She wanted to run, to be anywhere but here, with him and the boys.
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘The trip was cancelled this morning.’
‘Cancelled?’
‘I tried to go through with it.’
He stood there in his black hat and black jacket, feeling stupid and slow. The boys were shouting, starting to argue.
‘Why was it cancelled?’
She struggled for an answer.
‘Too many people pulled out.’
He waited.
‘A lot of them saw the TV last night. They didn’t think it was the best thing to do.’
Birk Larsen watched them on the tyre swings, barked at Anton to be more careful.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What did we do?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ the woman said. ‘Everyone feels for you. They just—’
‘The boys have been looking forward to this trip.’
She looked guilty. He felt miserable for making her feel this way. At least she’d had the courage to come and tell him.
‘I know. And we’ll do it in the end. I promise.’
‘When?’
‘A couple of weeks. I don’t know. When things—’
‘Boys!’ he shouted. ‘Anton! Emil!’
They stopped what they were doing and looked at him from the tyres.
‘We’re going. Come on.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
Anton ran up, always the first to talk.
‘When are the other kids coming, Dad?’
‘The trip’s cancelled,’ Birk Larsen told him. ‘Grandma and Grandpa want to see you. Let’s go.’
He left them with Pernille’s parents and went back home. Vagn Skærbæk had called in some help. The business was like that. There was always someone who’d come in to pick up a day’s work when it was going. Birk Larsen didn’t like using drifters. He preferred men he knew. Sometimes there was no choice.
Skærbæk was still in the depot loading cases.
Pernille wasn’t back.
‘What happened to the trip to the woods?’
‘Got cancelled,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘The boys are at their grandparents.’
He was thinking. Wondering how long Pernille would be gone.
‘Can you give me a hand, Vagn?’
‘Sure. With what?’
Birk Larsen got some of the flat-packed cardboard boxes they used for crating smaller things.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Nanna’s bedroom. The police marks he ignored. All he saw was the mess. The books. The pens. The pot plants, the perfumed candles. The cosmetics and creams.