The Killing - 01 - The Killing (50 page)

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.’

They got to the fourth floor. Lund walked to the flat, showed them how Nanna’s key worked.

‘She had one for the front door too?’ Buchard asked.

‘Yes.’

Six technicians in bunny suits and blue plastic mob caps were working in the interior. The place was decorated like a luxury hotel suite. Red velvet wallpaper, old, stylish furniture.

‘We’ve found her fingerprints already,’ Lund said, handing them forensic gloves and shoe covers to wear.

When they were ready she led them in.

Posters of Troels Hartmann were scattered round the room. There was a broken glass table and splinters from what looked like a tumbler on the floor.

Lund walked to the table, showed them the marks on the carpet.

‘The blood’s Nanna’s type. I’ve sent away for confirmation it’s hers. There was some kind of fight.’

There was a heavy walnut desk by the window.

‘We’ve got prints on the paperweight there. Nanna threw it at the mirror for some reason.’

Lund turned three hundred and sixty degrees on her heels, looking at the room. The broken glass. The disorder.

‘She didn’t just fight him. She got mad. Lost her temper I think. This wasn’t random. Unexpected. She knew him. It was an argument. A lovers’ tiff gone wrong.’

‘We’ve got lots to send to forensics,’ Meyer broke in. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll have a DNA result by tomorrow afternoon.’

Lund walked into the bedroom. The door was open, covered in forensic marks and stickers.

‘Nanna ran in here and tried to block the door. He kicked it open.’

The bed sheets were ruffled as if someone had sat on them, nothing more.

‘I don’t think he raped her here. Or beat her up. That was to come. Somewhere else.’

Lund tried to imagine what had happened. An argument. A fight. But Nanna didn’t die for another two days. A big piece of the jigsaw was still missing.

She walked outside onto the terrace.

Meyer and Buchard followed.

Buchard stood still, Lund eyeing him.

‘If you went down to forensics and checked the video you know perfectly well Hartmann was on the surveillance tape,’ Meyer added. ‘I got that in two minutes, Buchard. You’re no fool.’

‘I want to talk to Lund alone,’ the chief said.

‘Enough of that shit!’ Meyer shouted. ‘I’m sick of it.’

He slammed his hands on the iron railings.

‘Buchard! Buchard! Look at me! I want to know what’s going on. You owe us that. Both of us.’

The old man looked downcast, lost, defeated somehow.

‘It’s not what you two think.’

‘What is it then?’ Lund asked. ‘You erased a name from her mobile. You deleted a call from the list.’

‘No I didn’t.’ It was a weak, pathetic whine. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Who was it then?’

He didn’t answer.

‘We’re bringing in Hartmann for questioning,’ Lund announced.

‘And we want that information,’ Meyer added.

He stood on the cold terrace, panting. Someone’s servant. Not a happy one.

‘Well?’ Lund asked.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘Good,’ she said and then they left him there, pop-eyed and breathless in the dark.

The three of them were back in Hartmann’s office feeling satisfied. The debate had gone well. Morten Weber said the minority leaders were meeting in the morning to discuss the alliance.

‘If we’ve got Holck,’ Skovgaard said, running to her computer, ‘the rest of them will come too. What changed his mind?’

Hartmann was the only one who looked unhappy.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. Why was Lund asking about him? What’s all this about the car?’

Skovgaard waved him away.

‘If Holck’s involved I need to know.’

‘I left Meyer a message.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

Weber was getting wine from the cupboard, putting out sandwiches he’d brought.

‘No surprises, Morten,’ he said. ‘That’s what you want too.’

‘No surprises.’ Weber uncorked the wine, poured three glasses, toasted them both. ‘Jens Holck’s just following his nose, Troels. He knows you’re going to win. Don’t complicate things unnecessarily.’

Skovgaard’s phone rang.

‘Bremer looked worried as hell,’ Weber added. ‘He can feel the ground disappearing beneath him.’

Skovgaard spoke quietly into the phone, ended the call. Looked at Hartmann.

‘That was the police,’ she said.

‘And?’

‘They want to talk to you.’

‘Oh for God’s sake—’

‘Troels. They want you to go to police headquarters. Now.’

‘Is this about Holck and the car?’

‘It didn’t sound like it.’

‘Then what could it be?’

‘I don’t know. They said straight away. Either that or they come here for you. I really don’t want that.’

Hartmann’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He slammed his hand on the table. Dark burgundy spilled over the walnut veneer.

Then he got his coat. So did Skovgaard. So, after she stared at him stuffing his face, did Morten Weber.

Ten minutes later they were crossing the open courtyard, heading for the spiral staircase that led to homicide.

Lund waited with Meyer and Svendsen outside the interview room.

‘I only asked for you, Hartmann,’ she said, looking at Skovgaard and Weber.

‘I really don’t have time for this.’

‘We want to talk to you alone.’

‘What’s this about?’

Lund indicated the door.

‘Just take a seat.’

Skovgaard was getting mad.

‘If this is an interrogation say so. We’ve taken so much shit from you, Lund.’

Meyer smiled at her.

‘It’s just a few questions. A politician ought to help the police, surely.’

‘If he wants a lawyer you can call one,’ Lund added.

Hartmann glared at her.

‘Why in God’s name would I want a lawyer?’

They didn’t answer.

Hartmann swore, walked into the room, indicated for Skovgaard and Weber to stay outside.

Lund and Meyer sat opposite him, showed him the video of the car leaving the parking garage.

‘Looks like one of ours,’ Hartmann said. ‘But there are a lot of black cars out there.’

‘Any idea who’s driving?’ Lund asked.

He shrugged.

‘No. Why should I? If it’s important I can ask one of our people to check.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Meyer said. ‘We’re police remember.’

He hit some keys on the computer. Zoomed in. Face on the screen. Just to rub in the point he passed over a printout.

Hartmann stared at her.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It was after the poster party. I gave my driver the night off. So I borrowed a campaign car.’

Lund smiled. Svendsen came in with some coffee. Hartmann relaxed a little.

‘You left the poster party early?’ she said.

‘I had a headache. And a speech to write.’

Lund poured him a cup.

‘Where did you go?’

‘We’ve got a flat on Store Kongensgade. I thought I’d go there to finish the speech. Why?’

‘Who has a key to the flat?’ Meyer asked.

‘I do. There’s a spare key in the office. Some other officers too, I think. I don’t really know.’

‘But you use the flat?’

‘I told you. What is this?’

Lund shuffled some photos on the table, let him see them.

‘The car you drove is the car Nanna was found in. It was driven back to City Hall that night. You drove it away.’

He shook his head, said nothing.

‘What happened in the flat?’ Meyer asked.

‘It can’t be the same car,’ Hartmann said.

‘What happened in the flat?’ Meyer asked again.

‘Nothing. I was there for a couple of hours.’

‘So was Nanna Birk Larsen,’ Lund said, fetching some new photos. ‘She had a key. She was attacked there. Then driven away in the car you took.’

Lund pushed the photos from Store Kongensgade across the desk. Broken table, shattered mirror. Glass on the floor. Fingerprint markers.

‘In our flat?’ Hartmann asked finally.