by David Hewson
Lund looked at the officer on duty.
Tried to remember his name.
He gave her some soap and a towel. Walked out. Closed the door. Looked through the hatch.
‘Any chance of some food?’
‘It’s not food time,’ he said and closed the shutter.
Hartmann and Skovgaard were back at the Rådhus, alone in his office. Outside the city was starting to sleep. Bremer was in hospital, in a stable condition. There’d been talk of the effect on the election. Nothing about Nanna Birk Larsen on the news. Just the king of Copenhagen looking mortal for the first time in his long life.
‘You lied to me, Troels,’ she said, sitting in front of his desk like a junior come to an interview. ‘To me. You and Morten . . .’
‘What?’
‘How can you share a secret with him? But not me?’
‘We’ve been there,’ he said and thought to himself: this ended days ago. It died and no one noticed.
‘I was mad at you!’
He waited.
‘That night when everyone thought you were finished I ran into Phillip Bressau. We went to a hotel and sat in the bar. He said you were a lost cause. I should switch sides. There was a job going.’
And if I do fall, Hartmann thought, she’d be there. Alongside Bremer in an instant.
‘I knew something was going on. His phone kept ringing.’
She looked him in the face.
‘He asked me if I wanted a nightcap. In his room.’
Hartmann nodded.
‘Very generous of him.’
‘I could hear he was talking about Stokke. About our apartment. Bressau had had a couple of drinks. He wasn’t . . .’ She frowned. ‘He wasn’t so discreet. That’s how I knew Stokke was involved.’
‘What happened?’
‘You mean did I go to bed with him?’
Hartmann didn’t answer.
‘Does it matter? At least I know Bressau. I didn’t go on dating sites. I didn’t screw strangers.’
Nothing.
‘What’s it to you anyway?’ she said. ‘I listened. I had a drink. Then I went home.’
He got up, walked around the room.
‘That Friday night. You went looking for me?’
‘Did I?’
‘You went to the flat. You knew something happened there.’
‘No. I didn’t. The next morning I went to the conference centre without you. And lied for you there. What is this? What do you want? Some kind of pure virginal honesty when you feel like it? Then we turn as nasty and as crooked as everyone else if it’s needed—’
‘I never asked for that.’
She laughed.
‘You don’t have to, do you? You just need it to happen but never want to know. Bremer’s the same. Maybe it goes with the job.’
‘I expect certain—’
‘I can’t help what you expect. I didn’t go near the flat. I didn’t touch the stupid surveillance tape. I’d do a lot for you. But I wouldn’t cover up for murder.’
She got up, turned on the smile. Came to him, touched his shoulder, his shirt.
‘Come on. You know that. People have been screwing round with this office for weeks. Olav got into the system . . .’
He removed her hand from his jacket.
‘Olav’s dead. Would you have taken the job? With Bremer?’
‘I’ve got a job, haven’t I? I gave up a partnership in the ad agency to come here. Took half the pay—’
‘I thought it was commitment.’
‘It is commitment.’
‘Would you have taken the job?’
She closed her eyes. Looked near to breaking. He liked that.
‘I haven’t given it any thought. We’ve got work to do here.’
‘I can do that myself, thanks.’
‘Troels—’
‘I want you to go home. I want you to stay there.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
He looked at her. She met his eyes. She always could.
‘I’m not a piece of meat you can buy and sell. Tell your father, will you?’
‘I never thought you were!’
‘Just go,’ he said.
Twelve
Thursday, 20th November
Lund’s lawyer and Bengt Rosling began the meeting in Brix’s office at nine fifteen. She was still in her cell, still in the prison suit.
‘My client moves for her release,’ the lawyer said. ‘She’s willing to cooperate within reason. You have no proof against her. She denies the charges. Since the question of guilt’s undecided she shouldn’t be here.’
‘Tell that to the judge,’ Bülow said.
‘All the people you can interview have been interviewed,’ the lawyer retorted. ‘Lund is the last person to commit new crimes. She has a son—’
‘The son lives with her ex-husband.’
‘She’s been under great mental stress lately. She was a hostage and has been in two shooting incidents. Her record in the police is impeccable.’
Bülow laughed.
‘If you think you can get her out on the grounds that she’s crazy, forget it. She shot her partner. She’s going to court.’
He got up.
‘Release her,’ the lawyer added quickly, ‘and she’s willing to let you see her psychiatric file.’
Bengt Rosling, still in a sling from the accident, placed a folder on the desk.
‘What file?’ Brix asked. ‘She wasn’t getting any treatment from us.’
‘It wasn’t a police psychiatrist,’ Rosling replied. ‘There’s reason to believe she’s suffering from paranoia and anxiety attacks. She may be suicidal.’
Bülow grabbed the papers, read them, laughed.
‘Did you write this shit?’
‘She went on my advice,’ Rosling said. ‘The psychiatrist confirmed that she’s predisposed to depression and shouldn’t be left alone in a cell.’
‘Thanks,’ Bülow cut in, waving the papers. ‘I’ll use this in court. So why’s Lund telling us she’s crazy?’
‘Because she wants help!’ the lawyer said. ‘Is this your attitude towards the health of your officers? I’ll use that in court too. Let us take care of her. Then you’ve got some time to reconsider these ridiculous accusations which frankly I will tear to shreds if you’re ever stupid enough to proceed with them. Before launching a civil suit for punitive damages.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ Bülow grunted.
‘Try me.’
Thirty minutes later Lund picked up her things. Put the white and black jumper back on, her jeans, her boots.
She signed the release paper, watched by Brix.
‘You’re suspended,’ he said. ‘Your statement’s being investigated. You need to surrender your passport. Your flat’s being searched.’
She went through the contents of her handbag. Found the Nicotinell, popped a piece in her mouth.
‘I had some cigarettes in here.’
‘No one’s touched your cigarettes. Report here immediately if we ask you.’
She tied up her uncombed hair, put on the elastic band.
‘I need to see the storage box.’
Brix stared at her.
‘Goodbye, Lund,’ he said and made for the door.
‘Give me a list of the contents, Brix. Give me something. You’re not dumb. You know I didn’t shoot Meyer. You know Leon Frevert didn’t kill Nanna.’
He stopped.
‘I know your case doesn’t look good.’
‘A list of the contents. That’s all.’
He hesitated. Then he said, ‘Bengt Rosling’s waiting for you outside the building.’
He was in a silver rented Renault on a meter close to the front arcade.
Lund got in, didn’t look at him.
‘Did you talk to the pathologist like I asked?’
‘If Bülow gets to hear of this—’
‘He won’t.’
She went through the autopsy report on Leon Frevert. Chipped tooth, injured
mouth.
‘It looks as if the injuries were caused by a gun barrel,’ he said.
‘Some suicide.’
‘Forget about Frevert. It won’t take them long to find out that file I gave them’s a forgery. I put it in the name of a colleague I know. Magnus. He’s away at a conference in Oslo right now. But maybe they’ll contact him. That Bülow guy is out to get you.’
‘Bülow’s a moron.’
There was a knock on the door. Jansen, the helpful ginger-haired forensic officer.
‘You wanted this,’ he said and gave Lund a sheet of paper. ‘Good luck.’
He was gone before she had the chance to say thanks.
‘What’s that?’ Rosling asked.
‘A list of the contents of Mette Hauge’s storage box from the warehouse.’ She went through it. ‘He must have known Mette somehow. There was something there that linked him to her. He took it.’
Rosling looked at his watch.
She got out her notepad.
‘We’ve an address for where Mette went to. It was a house share for students near Christiania. If I can find out who lived there twenty years ago . . .’
He didn’t take the papers when she tried to hand them over. Just looked out of the window. Not at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t . . .’
She waited. Such a nice, weak man. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it.
‘You wrote that fake report very quickly, Bengt.’
‘It wasn’t hard. Most of it’s true. You need help, Sarah. I can suggest someone.’
‘I don’t need that kind.’
‘That’s just the kind. This impulsive behaviour. The way you relate to distant people but not those close to you. Go off on your own with no regard to the consequences—’
‘Enough, Bengt! What was I? Your lover or your patient?’
No answer.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, and pulled on her seat belt.
‘I’ll call you from Sweden,’ he said.
‘If you like.’
She started the car. He got out. Lund drove off alone into the pale day.
They took the boys round to Humleby. Almost all the men were working there, painting, plastering, labouring round the clock.
No one had found anything. Not a passport. Not a thing that was out of place.
Anton stood near the door, eyes on the floor, miserable.
Vagn Skærbæk came in, crouched down, said, ‘Happy birthday, buddy!’
Not a word.
‘I had to tell them, Anton.’
Skærbæk glanced at Pernille.
‘It was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it, Mum?’
She was looking at the room. Not listening.
Anton shook his head.
‘I’ve got a present for you, kid. You won’t get it till tonight. OK?’
Punched him lightly on the shoulder. Still didn’t get a smile.
‘Dammit,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘Let’s stop this now.’
He took Anton’s hand, led him down to the basement with Pernille following. Fresh paint and plaster. New floorboards almost done.
‘Where is it?’
‘In the cupboard,’ the boy said.
Birk Larsen pulled open the metal door.
No boiler. No pipes.
No passport.
Pernille ruffled his fair hair.
‘Maybe it was something else. It was dark down here.’
He looked at his father and said, ‘Can I go upstairs now?’
Birk Larsen leaned down, black jacket, black hat. Put his big face up to the boy’s.
‘Anton. Listen to me. I know it’s hard moving house.’ Narrow eyes open, straight at the child’s. ‘But you mustn’t make up stories like this. Do you understand?’
The young head went down, rested, chin on chest.
‘Do you?’ Birk Larsen asked, voice rising. ‘It upsets your mother. It upsets me. You can say whatever you want. But don’t lie about Nanna. Don’t ever—’
‘That’s enough, Theis,’ Pernille broke in.
Anton was close to tears. She put a hand round his shoulder, led him upstairs.
Vagn Skærbæk stayed on the steps. When the two of them were gone he said, ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘What do you know about kids?’
‘I used to be one. Did you find him a dog?’
‘As if I’ve time for that—’
‘I’ve got a friend who can’t get rid of some puppies, Theis. Maybe . . .’
Birk Larsen stared at him.
‘I don’t want to interfere,’ Skærbæk said quickly. ‘Just if it helps.’
‘I thought the boiler was supposed to be in by now.’
‘No problem,’ Vagn Skærbæk said. ‘I’ll fix that too.’
They were waiting vulture-like on the step of the Rådhus. Reporters, camera crews, sound men thrusting mikes at everyone who went inside.
Hartmann and Weber entered together, side by side.
The position was agreed. Hartmann stuck to it. In spite of all their differences, Bremer was a respected figure in Copenhagen politics. His sudden illness was a shock.
‘The election, Hartmann!’ someone yelled as he approached the door.
He turned, waited for the hubbub to fall silent.
‘This is a time to wish Poul Bremer well. Not to try to take political advantage.’
‘Convenient though, Troels!’ cried a familiar voice in their midst.
Erik Salin elbowed his way through, bald head gleaming, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Voice recorder shoved out like a weapon.
‘I don’t think a stroke’s convenient for anyone, is it?’ Hartmann said.
Salin found the lights on him for a change.
‘Bremer had proof that your office hindered the Nanna Birk Larsen murder investigation.’
‘What proof?’ Hartmann asked, hands in pockets, puzzled. ‘I’ve received no proof at all.’
‘Bremer has it.’
‘I can’t talk about what I’ve never seen.’
Be calm, be reasonable, Morten Weber said.
‘But let me make this perfectly clear. I would never accept such behaviour from anyone on my team.’
He turned from Salin, found the TV cameras.
‘It’s against everything I believe and stand for.’ Hand raised, finger to the sky, making a point. ‘If ever I have proof that one of our people has stooped to something like that I assure you I will tell the world. And . . .’ The slightest of self-deprecating smiles. ‘I will seriously consider my own future in politics.’
He left it there, strode to his office. Threw his jacket on a chair.
Went to stand by the window.
‘That was good,’ Morten Weber said. ‘Very.’
The Meyers’ place was in Nørrebro, semi-detached, a little run-down. Basketball net in the yard along with a bird table, a Christmas tree, kids’ scooters, a pram.
Lund parked the car in the street, stood in the drive for two long minutes. Asking herself why she was there. If it was the right thing.
She’d tried to get through to someone in the hospital. They were under orders not to talk to her. So, in all probability, was Hanne Meyer.
Shapes at the window. A blonde woman cuddling a crying child. An older girl, blonde hair too, staring mournfully from behind the glass.
Lund went and stood under the lean-to by the garage. The door was open. She could see more toys inside. A big motorbike. At the back a DJ’s deck.
After a minute Hanne Meyer walked out leaving the kids behind, came and stood in front of her with arms folded, eyes still pink. Face lined.
‘How is he?’
A stupid question. A necessary one.
Meyer’s wife shrugged. There were tears not far off.
‘Same as when he came out of the theatre. They say if things don’t change . . .’ A long look up at the grey sky. ‘If things don’t change soon we’ve got to talk about the life support. And . . .
I don’t know.’
She didn’t cry. Lund had been close to situations like this so many times over the years. After a while a sense of the inevitable, of practicality, fell upon everyone.
‘I didn’t do what they say. I swear to you. When we got there . . .’
A sudden look of anger, of release.
‘Why couldn’t you leave him alone? You said the case was closed.’
‘It wasn’t. Jan knew it too.’
No response.
‘It’s not closed now,’ Lund said.
‘What’s that to me? Tomorrow I might have to go there and watch him die. Do I hold his hand? What words do I use for that? Do you know?’
Lund shook her head.
‘They told me he said something that sounded like Sarah.’
Hanne Meyer closed her eyes.
‘Jan said your name. Not mine.’
‘No he didn’t. He never called me Sarah. Not once. It was always Lund. You heard him. Did he call me Sarah to you?’
Arms folded, eyes half closed.
‘He was thinking of something else. Trying to say something important. Can you remember exactly what he said?’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Because I want to find the man who shot him. The man who killed Nanna Birk Larsen. Other women too. I need your help. I want—’
‘He said your name. Sarah. That’s all.’ Her eyes opened a little. ‘And some numbers. I don’t know—’
‘What numbers?’
‘I couldn’t really hear.’
‘What did it sound like?’
‘Eight four.’
‘Eighty-four?’
The door opened behind her. Two girls walked out. Tearful. Lost.
‘Did he say anything else? Hanne?’
She stopped.
‘No. He didn’t. I don’t even know if he knew I was there. OK?’
She kissed the youngest, put a hand to the hair of the older girl. Ushered them into the house.
Lund stood in the lean-to, next to the Christmas tree and the yellow motorbike she’d never seen Meyer ride.
Her phone rang.
‘I made a call to a friend in Sweden,’ Bengt Rosling said. ‘They’ve got access to the Danish databases. I’ve got a name from the time Mette Hauge lived in that student house. A man called Paludan. He still lives at the same address.’
‘That’s good.’
‘It’s the only thing that is. Magnus called me. They tracked him down in Oslo. They know I lied about your file. Bülow has put out a call for you. The rental car’s in my name. They won’t have that. At least I don’t think so.’