by David Hewson
‘It’s his duty to tell the truth,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘I’ll meet with him. We’ll work this out. Oh for Christ’s sake, Morten. Don’t look so worried. You wanted out of the truce, didn’t you?’
‘I did. But you haven’t learned yet, have you? Throw a stone at Bremer and you get a boulder back. I’ll try . . .’
He wandered off into the main room.
Hartmann was alone with Skovgaard. Hands in pockets. Tongue-tied.
She’d come off the phone.
‘Did I remember to thank you?’ he said. ‘For all the work?’
‘It’s what I’m paid for.’
Hair back. Attractive face tired and lined. But she thrived on pressure. Liked the tension. The race.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess, Rie.’
‘Me too.’
She didn’t leave then and she might have.
The briefest of laughs.
‘Still, that was quite a performance. Stealing the limelight from Bremer in front of everyone. I forgot you had that in you.’
‘What else could I do? Bremer knew. It was written in his face. He knew and I don’t think he even minded if I saw it.’ A glance outside the window. The Copenhagen night. The blue hotel sign. ‘He really thinks this all belongs to him.’
‘Morten’s got a point. He’ll come back at us somehow.’
Hartmann took a step towards her.
‘Do you think there’s any chance . . . maybe we could go out for a meal tonight? I’m still trying to get the taste of that jail food out of my mouth.’
He wore a self-deprecating smile. Didn’t mind begging.
‘Not tonight. I’ll start drafting a press release.’
‘Maybe tomorrow—’
‘You really need to think about what you’re going to say to Stokke. If he won’t play this game we’re done for.’
Theis Birk Larsen made some calls. People he hadn’t talked to for a long time. People he hoped never to have to deal with again.
But life changed.
He said what was needed then put down the phone.
Pernille was at the kitchen table, out of earshot he hoped, reading the paper.
He took the chair opposite. Pernille looked at the photo on the front page. Jens Holck.
‘They say he was a family man,’ she said. ‘Our age.’
He pushed the paper to one side.
‘I’m glad he’s dead. I suppose it’s wrong of me, Theis, but I am. We’re supposed to forgive.’
She looked at him, as if seeking some answer.
‘How can you forgive? How?’ A pause. ‘Why?’
He grimaced, stared out of the window for a moment.
‘I’ve made some calls about the house. The estate agents say they’re almost done with the paperwork. I’m going to see her tomorrow.’
He lit a cigarette and waited. She was still looking at the paper. Finally she put her hands on his arm, smiled, said, ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’
‘The sooner we sell the house the better.’
‘By Christmas maybe?’
‘I’ve got to get a good price. Those bastards at the bank are at our throats . . .’
She ran her hand down his strong arm. Put her fingers to his stubbly cheek.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You never thought you were marrying a millionaire, did you?’
She laughed at that, the first time he’d seen her laugh since the blackness fell upon them out on the Kalvebod Fælled, that dark damp night a lifetime before.
‘I was young. I never knew what I was marrying.’ Fingers on his skin again. ‘Just that I wanted him.’
The agency details for the house were on the table. She looked at the plans. Three floors. A garden.
‘Humleby,’ she said.
Theis Birk Larsen watched her, felt a warm rush of hope and love run though him.
A sound downstairs. The big door opening.
‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said.
The garage seemed empty. Just the goods they fetched and carried. Valuable goods.
Birk Larsen called, got no answer.
Thought about burglars and how much he relied on the little man called Skærbæk. An old friend he treated so badly at times.
He picked up a wrench and walked round to the office, turned on the light.
A figure emerged from the dark. Slight and young.
An Indian man, with scholarly glasses and a fetching round face that looked ready to burst into tears.
‘Hello,’ he said, and came and shook Birk Larsen’s hand. ‘The door was open. You don’t recognize me, do you?’
Birk Larsen shrugged.
‘No. I don’t. It’s late. We’re closed. Can I—’
‘I’m Amir. Amir El’ Namen.’
He pointed to the door.
‘You remember my dad? With the restaurant?’
A flash of memory, a sudden pang of pain.
Two children, no more than six, riding to school hand in hand, tight in the scarlet box of the Christiania trike. Little Nanna and the Indian boy, Pernille at the pedals, happy and beautiful. Vagn Skærbæk never approved. Birk Larsen wasn’t sure either. Pernille thought it was sweet, so sweet she’d invite Amir in for parties, make him Western clothes. Ride him and Nanna around and around giggling as it bounced and crashed across the cobbled streets.
That was one of the photos captured on the table.
They’d half-watched as Amir turned from a foreigner who spoke no Danish into one more local kid. Different skin but not different.
And besides, Birk Larsen remembered, Nanna loved him. Amir was her first boyfriend. For two years, maybe three. And then . . .
‘You’re Karim’s youngest,’ he said, and found the memories contained more smiles than pain, and one of them sprang to his face.
‘I’ve been in London. Studying.’
‘I remember. Karim told me. You’re getting married, right?’
He had a bag over his shoulder, a fashionable khaki jacket. A student with money. He didn’t find it easy to speak. He seemed – and this was ridiculous, surely – scared.
‘Amir. What can I do for you?’
‘Will you move some things for me? Tomorrow?’
‘Move what?’
A pause.
‘Things for the wedding. Some tables and chairs.’
‘Tomorrow? No. It’s the middle of Sunday night. You can’t expect us to drop everything. I mean . . .’
Amir’s face fell. He looked ashamed.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just . . . It’s OK. I’ll make some other arrangement.’
Birk Larsen breathed a deep sigh, walked to the desk, got the schedule.
‘Look. I’ll try to find someone for you.’
‘Mr Birk Larsen . . .’
‘What?’
He walked up, looked hopeful.
‘I really need it to be you.’
‘Me? What difference does it make?’
‘I need it to be you. Please.’
Two little kids in the box of the Christiania trike. Nanna’s first boyfriend. So sweet, so meek, so deferential. No different now.
‘I’ll pick you up at lunchtime,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘One o’clock in the restaurant. You’ll have to help me.’
‘Of course.’
He held out his hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Amir said.
Lund’s mother was seething that Bengt had left.
‘What in God’s name did you say to him? To make him run out like that?’
Lund had taken over her work desk. Covered it with reports taken from headquarters. Removed the white, half-finished wedding dress from her mannequin and pinned photos of Nanna and Mette Hauge to the headless shape instead.
‘I told him he had to stay in a hotel.’
The TV news was on. She heard Hartmann’s name. Turned to see the story about the conflict with Bremer, and the promise of revelations about Holck.
Vibeke was i
n her blue dressing gown, skinny arms folded, staring at her like a judge from an ancient drama.
‘Hartmann accused Bremer of failing to disclose his knowledge of Holck’s actions,’ the news said.
‘You told me the case was over.’
Lund watched the TV closely, took in Hartmann’s words.
‘Mark’s moved in with his father, Sarah. You’ve kicked out Bengt. You treat me as if I’m just here for your convenience.’
Lund turned up the volume on the TV.
‘I want an explanation!’ Vibeke cried. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s important, for Christ’s sake! Important. You know what that word means?’
That unforgiving basilisk stare. Then Vibeke said, ‘I talked to your Aunt Birgit. I’m going to stay with her for a few days.’
The news got less interesting.
‘Are you taking the train? Because I’ll need your car.’
Vibeke closed her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling.
The doorbell rang. Her mother wasn’t moving so Lund left the TV and walked out briskly to answer it.
No one there. She walked out into the hall, looked up the stairs, down them. Heard the door slam far below.
Gone. And – this was her first thought – no CCTV in Vibeke’s damned building.
She walked back to the apartment, caught something with her foot, looked down.
There was a padded envelope on the doormat. No name. She picked it up. Knew the shape straight away.
A video cassette.
Her mother went to bed. Lund cut the envelope carefully. She didn’t have gloves so she used a remnant of Vibeke’s satin to handle it.
An old tape, the label scratched off. The way some were in City Hall security.
She slotted it into the TV and watched.
Picked up her phone.
‘Meyer?’ she said.
Thirty minutes later he arrived, red-faced and cursing.
‘Will you ever leave me alone?’
‘You came didn’t you? Sit down.’
‘This is like a bad affair. All the danger and none of the sex.’
Lund got the remote.
‘Not that I’m asking,’ he added quickly.
‘You’ve never had an affair, Meyer. You wouldn’t know how.’
After that he sat down like an obedient little boy.
The video came on.
‘So why am I here?’
‘It’s the missing tape. From the CCTV system at City Hall.’
The security office came on screen. People leaving for the evening.
Meyer pulled at his right ear.
‘How the hell did you get this?’
‘Someone left it on my doormat.’
She passed him the padded envelope. It was now in a freezer bag from the kitchen.
Then Nanna walked on the screen, still beautiful in black and white. Hair a little untidy. Not a teenager. That seemed impossible. She was smiling, nervously but affectionately too.
Looking up. Looking around. An expression on her face that seemed to say: farewell.
A man walked in from the left. Jens Holck. Took something from his pocket. A key ring it looked like. Nanna came to him, embraced him.
Lund pushed out another stub of Nicotinell and began to chew.
‘Is Holck seen leaving the Rådhus?’ Meyer asked.
‘Half an hour later.’
‘There’s nothing there we didn’t know already.’
‘You’ve got to learn to look, Meyer. How many times do I have to say this?’
She started rolling back the tape.
‘I did! We see him give her the keys. They make a date. And then she goes to the flat.’
‘I know you can’t help the fact you’re a man. But really. They don’t make a date. Look!’
Meyer’s bug eyes fixed on the screen.
‘Can’t you see? Holck’s face. He’s not happy. If Nanna had come back to him why would he look so miserable?’
A final hug, a kiss that was friendship not passion. Holck looked like a man who’d lost everything. And Nanna as happy as the child she dreamed she no longer was.
Meyer nodded.
‘OK. It still doesn’t mean he didn’t meet her at the flat.’
He got up and started nosing around. Looking at the reports on the work desk. The photos on the mannequin.
‘Where’s your mother?’
Lund froze the video.
‘Meyer. You have to help me.’
Nothing.
‘If you have the slightest doubt . . .’ she started.
He waved the freezer bag and the envelope at her.
‘I don’t like this. Someone delivers a tape and we’re back in all that shit at City Hall again.’
‘It doesn’t matter where it is.’
‘You only get stuff like this if they’ve something to gain.’
‘You’re very cynical sometimes. Maybe they just want to help.’
Meyer looked mournfully at the frozen picture. A miserable Holck kissing a joyful Nanna.
‘Oh crap,’ he said.
Monday, 17th November
First thing that morning Hartmann had Gert Stokke in his office. The civil servant looked shifty.
‘All I’m asking is you tell the truth. That you say you told Bremer about Holck using our flat.’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’
Stokke had a long grey bloodhound face and pink, watery eyes.
‘I can’t get involved with you and Bremer.’
‘You already are,’ Rie Skovgaard said.
Morten Weber leapt in.
‘Do you think he’ll reward you for keeping quiet, Gert? You know him. You’re a civil servant. He can’t dump this on Holck any more. So he’ll pick on the department. You’ll be the first to go.’
Stokke scowled at the three of them. A smart man, cornered.
‘And you’re on my side? My friends now, huh? Go stab one another. Leave me out of it.’
‘If Bremer survives this you’re gone,’ Weber said.
The civil servant shook his head.
‘Bremer’s never going to admit we had that conversation.’
‘There must be minutes,’ Skovgaard said.
A moment’s hesitation. Then he said, ‘Bremer didn’t want it minuted. He said he’d have a quiet word with Holck. Then it would be over with.’
Weber swore and slammed his papers on the table.
‘I’m sorry. If I come forward I’m finished. I always thought you’d make a good Lord Mayor, Hartmann. Maybe next time round.’
‘There won’t be a next time,’ Hartmann grumbled. ‘We need you, Gert.’
‘Who’d hire me if I spoke out? I’m fifty-eight. What about my pension?’
Skovgaard was livid.
‘So Troels should pay the price instead? When he did nothing?’
‘Leave it, leave it,’ Hartmann cut in. ‘Let’s not pressure Gert any more. If he won’t do it, he won’t do it. It’s up to him.’
He held out his hand. Stokke took it.
‘Thanks for coming anyway,’ Hartmann said, and watched the civil servant button his jacket and leave.
Weber had a copy of Stokke’s minutes from the original meeting.
‘Is it there?’ Hartmann asked.
‘No. Look for yourself.’
He passed over the sheets.
‘We should have leaned on him more,’ Skovgaard said.
Morten Weber shook his head.
‘Pointless. He’s terrified of Bremer. Won’t work.’
Hartmann stopped on the second page.
‘It says here there’s an appendix. Where is it?’
‘Probably technical documentation,’ Weber suggested.
Hartmann wasn’t convinced.
‘Stokke’s a good civil servant. I can’t believe he wouldn’t set down something. It’s financial impropriety for God’s sake. He’d want to cover his back.’
‘He’s terrified of Bremer. I
told you.’
‘Maybe. Are we friendly with anyone in Holck’s department? That big woman—’
‘You mean Rita?’ Skovgaard asked.
‘If that’s what she’s called.’
‘Yes. I know Rita.’
‘Well,’ he said, throwing the minutes at her, ‘you know what to do.’
Then she started bickering about a media strategy. Hartmann didn’t listen. Weber was on the phone again. Getting heated.
‘What is it?’ Hartmann asked when he was done.
‘You’re going to have to talk to that lawyer of yours again, Troels.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. Not Lund.’
‘Not Lund. Bremer wants to sue for libel.’
Vibeke’s car was a ten-year-old green Beetle. Lund didn’t feel minded to drive it very carefully.
The laundry was in Islands Brygge. She’d used it once before when the police couldn’t find the right person.
A charity. Sponsored by the city. Most of the people working there were disabled in some way. A few deaf from birth.
The manager remembered her.
‘Why does everybody think that because someone’s deaf they can lip-read?’ he moaned when she turned up. ‘It’s not true. Even if they can they probably only pick up a third of what they see.’
The place handled many of the big city hotels. She walked past industrial washing machines, piles of sheets and pillows. The air was hot and humid, and sickly with the smell of ironing and detergent.
‘I’ll take a third,’ she said.
‘You need to know the subject matter, the context.’
‘I can do that.’
He stopped.
‘I imagine you can. If anyone can help it’s Ditte. She’s a smart little thing. Deaf and dumb. Bright as they come.’
She looked about twenty, long fair hair, immobile face. Working a commercial ironing machine with a steady, practised ease.
Lund spoke, the manager signed. The girl watched Lund mostly.
Bright as they come.
Ditte’s fingers flew.
‘She wants to see your badge.’
Lund fumbled in her pockets. The girl’s eyes never left her.
‘I forgot it. It’s supposed to be my day off. I must have left it at home.’ She smiled at the manager. ‘I’ve been here before. He knows me.’
Nothing.
‘I can give you my card.’
Brix hadn’t taken those.
Ditte read the card carefully and then they went and sat in a storeroom.