by David Hewson
Sarah Lund was revolving slowly round the room, three hundred and sixty degrees.
‘They need some peace.’
She stopped and looked at him.
Just the two of them there, in the empty house in Humleby. Something in Vagn Skærbæk’s eyes she’d never seen before. A hint of recognition. Of knowledge.
In her face too she guessed.
‘What’s wrong?’ Skærbæk asked.
All the tools, the hammers, the chisels, were near him.
She tried not to look. Not to seem scared.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked again.
He was a smart man. She’d known that all along. He looked at himself. At the jacket he’d just put on.
Old. Dark blue. The logo of the winter Olympics. And the words . . .
SARAJEVO 1984.
A car drove past outside. Dim street light through the stained-glass window. People walked down the street. She could hear the sound of pram wheels or maybe a Christiania trike. Laughter. A key in a lock. Steps on nearby stairs.
‘Anything else?’ Vagn Skærbæk asked.
It took a while but she said no in the end. Then walked towards the stairs and the hefty door with the lock and key.
Something was going on in his head. She didn’t want to know.
He stood in her way.
Smart man. Maybe as scared as she was. His throat was moving. There was a glistening sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘So we’re agreed then?’ Skærbæk asked. ‘It’s all done with. Finished.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off his too-young face. A sense of grief, of shame was there. A recognition of who and what he was.
Lund looked around and said, ‘I guess so, Vagn. You’re right.’
Then slowly, very deliberately, he stepped to one side.
She was shaking by the time she got to the street. Crossed the road, found another house that was empty, being rebuilt, four doors away. Leaned against the grimy wall in the side alley, clutching herself, teeth chattering.
Waited three or four minutes then saw the last light go off. Skærbæk came out, looked up, looked down the street. Climbed into his scarlet van. Chucked a colourful bag of something in the driver’s seat. Then left.
Lund looked at her phone. Thought better of it. Went back to the Birk Larsen house, found the back door.
She got a brick and broke the window. Removed the splinters and the shards piece by piece. Found the key in the other side and let herself in.
Lund called Jansen, the ginger-haired forensic officer Brix had entrusted with the Mette Hauge file.
A good man. Quiet to the point of taciturn. Told him to come in by the broken back door, and find her by the noise downstairs.
First she started on the wall. Chipboard. Easily removed with a pickaxe. If there was blood splatter she ought to see it. The floor was timber, nailed in tightly. She couldn’t do that on her own.
A third of the chipboard was off by the time he arrived. Smashed and splintered wood was scattered across the floor. There seemed nothing behind except plain plaster. Recently washed by the look of it.
‘I’m never inviting you to a DIY party,’ Jansen said. ‘They’ve got your registration plate. You’re supposed to be taken into custody on sight. Go straight to those funny bastards across the building.’
It was probably the longest sentence she’d ever heard him speak.
‘I’m having trouble with the floor,’ she said, handing him a crowbar. ‘Can you start there?’
Jansen had worked with her for years. He saw things. Like her.
‘My,’ he said, looking at the new timber boards. ‘Someone was in a hurry here.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘Yeah. I told them I was going home.’
‘There are more tools upstairs if you need them.’
‘They’re going to find you, Lund.’
She tried to smile at him.
‘Thanks. I need your phone.’
He handed it over.
‘How much do you want me to remove?’
‘Enough for us to find something,’ she said, then walked upstairs to get a signal. ‘We don’t have a lot of time.’
Bülow was back in Brix’s office, lost for a lead.
‘If you know where Lund is I swear I’ll bring you down with her.’
Brix shook his head.
‘She phoned. She didn’t say where from.’
‘Did you trace the call?’
‘Lund doesn’t think Frevert killed the girl. Or shot Meyer.’
‘She shot Meyer.’
Brix stared at him.
‘It looks like Frevert was murdered.’
‘I want Lund! Trace the call.’
‘Her mobile’s off. She’s not stupid. She’s the best officer in the building when it comes to tracing people.’
‘She’s forged evidence, Brix. She’s gone missing. Gone crazy. And still . . .’ He lost it. Yelled the last. ‘Still someone here’s helping her. If I find it’s you—’
Brix’s phone rang.
He looked at the number, put it straight to his ear.
‘It’s Lund here. Can you talk?’
‘I don’t think I’ll make the concert. Give me a minute.’
‘What do you think the Ministry of Justice is going to say about this?’ Bülow barked at him.
Brix said nothing.
‘You’ll be watching ballet for the rest of your life,’ the squat man said, then stomped out.
‘Yes?’ he said when Bülow had gone.
‘Did you get the photo?’ Lund asked.
‘You’ve got to come in now.’
‘I know who it is, Brix. I know where Nanna was taken after the flat. Where she was assaulted and beaten. Vagn Skærbæk. Send me a team from forensics.’
‘We found the girl’s passport—’
‘Vagn planted it. We don’t have time for this. Send someone.’
Brix looked outside the window. Bülow was still haranguing the men out there.
‘Send him where?’
‘Küchlersgade in Humleby.’
‘That’s Birk Larsen’s house.’
‘Yes. We need to move. Vagn knows I’m onto him.’
Among the plastic bags, the cases, the cardboard packing boxes, Anton was opening his presents. A fishing rod. A toy boat. A magic set and some pens and books for school. Lotte was back in their midst, helping with the table. Theis Birk Larsen wore his chef ’s apron, handed out drinks, wine for the adults, orange squash for the two boys.
Scalloped potatoes. An expensive joint of pork.
He took the meat out of the oven, put it on the side.
‘I should let it rest.’ He looked at her. ‘Don’t you think?’
She glanced at the pork, watched him reach for some foil, start to wrap it.
‘I talked to Anton about the passport.’
His mood wavered.
‘What? The passport wasn’t there. We looked.’
‘Anton thinks Vagn took it.’
Still messing with the pork.
‘I thought we’d agreed not to talk about this nonsense.’
The boys were starting to squabble. Lotte tried to calm them down.
‘I left a message with the people Vagn cancelled. The office. That Saturday.’
He smoothed down the edges of the foil, barely looked at her.
‘Why would you do that? This is Anton’s birthday . . .’
Her wide eyes flared. She came close and peered into his face.
‘Because there’s something wrong, Theis! Can’t you feel it? Can’t you . . .?’
Quickly he kissed her.
Bristly cheeks. Beer on his breath. A lot, she thought.
Lotte was there asking if she could help. His phone rang.
‘Take a look at the potatoes, Lotte,’ she said.
He was laughing.
‘Where the hell are you?’ he asked.
Then listened, put a finger to his nose, sa
id, ‘Ssshhh.’
And went downstairs.
The kennel was by the garage door. Brand new. With a price tag on it which Vagn Skærbæk quickly snatched away as Theis Birk Larsen approached.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Skærbæk glared at him.
‘Don’t spoil it!’
He got a cover sheet, draped it over the kennel, grinned.
‘I was coming past this shop. They had this outside.’
Birk Larsen peered under the drape.
‘That must have cost a fortune.’
‘The boys’ll love a dog.’ He was smiling. Smartly dressed in a black jacket and white shirt. Looked different. Older. More serious somehow. ‘I always wanted one.’
An odd, uncharacteristic smile.
‘You never really get what you want, do you?’
‘For Christ’s sake. We don’t have a dog.’
‘I got one from Poland.’
Birk Larsen stood in his blue apron and best shirt, starting to lose patience.
‘You got a dog from Poland?’
‘Yeah. I can get anything you want, Theis. Remember? I know a guy who imports them . . .’
‘Vagn—’
‘Don’t get mad with me. It’s a great dog. Pedigree and all. Nice surprise.’
‘Big surprise,’ Birk Larsen grumbled. He looked around the garage. ‘So where the hell is it?’
‘We can pick it up tonight. The two of us. After dinner.’ He pointed to the kennel. ‘Let’s keep it covered up. Until we get the dog. OK?’
Birk Larsen shook his head. He thought he could hear something nearby, scratching. Time to put rat poison down again.
‘It’s like having another kid around here sometimes.’
‘Kids are magic,’ Skærbæk said. ‘Kids are everything. I need to write the card.’
‘And then they grow up. I’ve got to finish cooking.’
He looked at the office.
‘I forgot to put the calls upstairs.’
‘It’s a birthday, Theis.’
‘It’s business.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Skærbæk said. He waved the pen over the bright yellow birthday card. ‘When I’ve written this. You go and see the boys.’
Vagn Skærbæk watched him go. Scrawled happy birthday on Anton’s card.
Heard the familiar answering message greeting an incoming call on the speakerphone.
‘This is Birk Larsen Removals. Please leave a message.’
A beep.
‘Good evening,’ said a stiff and tetchy male voice. ‘Henrik Poulsen from HP Office Supplies.’
Skærbæk stopped writing, looked round, made sure he was alone, then walked into the office.
‘You called about the move we ordered for the first weekend in November,’ the voice said. ‘To be honest we were very disappointed. We’d planned it for weeks. And suddenly your man cancels at the very last minute. It was very unfortunate. If you need more information you can call me at home. The number is . . .’
He let it run, took the tape out of the machine, placed it in his jacket pocket. Then switched the calls to upstairs.
Rie Skovgaard was bright and cheerful again, showing him the private polls. It was going the way Weber had predicted. A two-horse race with him in the lead. Bremer’s illness provoked sympathy but not support. If anything it improved Hartmann’s chances, not diminished them.
‘I talked to a friend in the police,’ Skovgaard said. ‘There’s something going on. It doesn’t affect us.’
Hartmann got a decanter of brandy, poured himself a glass, said nothing.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. All this nonsense Erik Salin’s been peddling. It’s just . . .’
He was staring at her.
‘Hot air,’ she said in a voice close to a whisper. ‘Should this be in private, Troels?’
Weber started to get up.
‘Morten stays,’ Hartmann said.
The brandy was old and expensive. A fire in the throat, in the head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘if you feel I let you down somehow.’
Hartmann sipped the strong liquor, thought of the night in Store Kongensgade. Had felt much the same way then. As if nothing really mattered. As if he were hurtling towards a fate over which he had no control.
‘I’ll give you a choice, Rie. Either tell me the truth about the video, about the flat, and we go to the police. Or you take the consequences.’
Skovgaard stared at him, shook her head.
Morten Weber squirmed at the table, said, ‘What the—?’
‘I’ll deal with this,’ she broke in. ‘What are you talking about, Troels?’
‘Don’t lie to me any more. I know. You went looking for me that night. You went to Store Kongensgade. When you saw the place you knew something was wrong. Come Monday when the police were sniffing around here you thought if you could keep people out of there for a few weeks it would all go away.’
She laughed.
‘You’re more ridiculous than that Lund woman. I was at the conference.’
‘Not till ten o’clock.’
‘If this is one more piece of shit from Bremer—’
‘Was it someone from Parliament? Your father? Did he order you to step in and cover for your little puppet?’
Rie Skovgaard’s mouth opened. No words.
‘Or was this your own career move?’
Bright wide eyes filling with tears.
‘How can you even think this?’
‘There’s a gross misconduct clause in your contract. Go home and read it. I want you out of here now. I don’t want to see you again. In this office. Or anywhere else. Is that understood?’
He got up and went to the window. Took the brandy with him. Sipped it in the light of the blue neon sign.
She followed him.
‘If I thought you’d killed that girl . . .’
Hartmann didn’t turn to look at her.
‘Do you think I’d have still stayed with you? I did this for us—’
Hartmann spun round, eyes wild, voice roaring.
‘I know why you did it! I know what I was! A step on the ladder. A means to an end.’
‘Troels—’
‘Get out!’
Weber was behind her. An arm on her shoulder. Easing her towards the door.
‘Get off me, Morten!’ she yelled at him, and broke free.
Hartmann went back to the window. Looked at the city beyond the glass.
‘They’re the only people that matter,’ Rie Skovgaard shot at him. ‘Aren’t they? You don’t want love. You want adulation. You want—’
‘Just go,’ he said, not looking at her, waving with a single hand.
Not listening either to her curses and her screams.
And then she really was gone. Along with his only chance to seize Copenhagen for himself. A battle lost. The only victory that mattered put beyond reach.
When he went back to the brandy and poured another big glass, he thought he was alone.
Then a sound.
Morten Weber.
‘Troels,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Call for the car,’ Hartmann said. ‘I want to see Bremer in the hospital.’
‘We need to talk . . .’
There was a flame in his head and it wasn’t the booze.
Hartmann turned on the little man screaming, high-pitched, like a lunatic, out of himself, out of the tidy, manicured, manufactured mannequin he’d become.
‘Is there one fucking person in this office who will do as I say?’
He’d never seen Morten Weber look at him this way before.
‘Of course, Troels. I just wanted to—’
Hartmann smashed the brandy glass against the window. It shattered a pane. Cold winter air came through, whipped round him, chilled his skin.
There was a release for everything somewhere. In booze. In action. In the physical rush of love. And still it led to the same bleak place, to nothing.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in his old, quiet voice. ‘I just thought she was . . .’
He kicked at the shards of broken glass with his shoe.
‘I thought it was me she wanted. Not . . .’He looked at the poster, his face young and smiling from the wall. ‘Not the other one.’
‘He’s the one they all want,’ Weber said in a low, sad voice. ‘This is politics. It’s not for real people. They want figureheads. Icons they can watch rise and fall and say . . . Hey, they’re all in it for themselves, aren’t they? Just like us. Frail and human and venal. That’s the game we’re in.’
‘Tell the police about the flat. About the video. We’ve been party to an obstruction of justice. Brix can work out what to do.’
‘Now? It’s late. And you’re seeing Bremer. Why not . . . I don’t know. Let me see if I can find some way we can make this work for all of us.’
‘It can’t work—’
‘Troels, if we go to the police you’re finished. It’s too late to be the comeback kid again. You’re dead.’
Hartmann glared at him.
‘Call the police,’ he ordered. ‘You’re not fixing this.’
Jansen had a third of the floorboards up. Lund was looking at the concrete floor beneath. The two of them were covered in sawdust, plaster, wood chips, broken board.
Lund got down on her knees, put her face against the cold floor below the boards.
‘Give me the inspection lamp.’
She placed the bright bulb next to the joist and peered beneath the section leading back from the wall.
‘I think they did this part first,’ she said into the dead space. ‘Where the hell’s Brix and some help?’
Held out a hand.
‘Hammer.’
Jansen put it in her fingers. She got the claw end lodged some way down the board, eased it up. He wound a crowbar in. Another line of Vagn Skærbæk’s carefully laid, brand-new flooring rose from its fastenings.
‘Can you see anything?’ he asked.
‘He won’t have laid it straight over. He’ll have cleaned the floor first. Bleach. I think it’s on the walls too.’
She stood up. White and black sweater filthy with wood dust and dirt.
A light outside. Headlamps coming through the narrow blue window.
‘About time,’ Lund said. ‘Pull up the rest and let’s see what we’ve got.’
She walked upstairs. Brix was by his black Volvo.
‘Have you picked up Skærbæk?’ she asked.