The Killing - 01 - The Killing (56 page)

He embraced Vibeke, kissed her. Got the warmest smile in return.

‘It’s always nice to see you, Carsten,’ she said. ‘Come any time.’

He hugged Mark. Rapped his knuckles on the hockey stick.

‘I’ll walk you outside,’ Lund said.

The flat was on the third floor. She pressed the button for the lift.

‘I don’t want to pry. But I hope there aren’t problems between you and Bengt.’

‘We’ll work it out.’

‘Karen wants to know if you’d like to have dinner with us tomorrow. It would be nice. The girls can say hello to Mark.’

‘I can’t.’

The smile was gone. He never liked to hear the word no.

‘Is it OK for Mark to come?’

The lift was slow. She pushed the button again.

‘You want me to say yes so you can cancel again? The way you usually do?’

He folded his arms. Expensive raincoat. Expensive glasses. Floppy academic hair. Carsten had reinvented himself to be the man he wanted.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ he said. ‘I don’t see anything else that’s changed.’

‘I’m fine.’

Her phone went. The name Meyer flashed on the screen.

‘I’ve left my phone number and address with Vibeke.’

‘Good.’

She was walking back to the door listening. Carsten gave up on the lift and took the stairs.

‘I talked to the conference centre,’ Meyer said.

‘And?’

‘No one saw Hartmann until Sunday afternoon. He had the flu. It was Rie Skovgaard who held the meetings with sponsors.’

She heard the door go on the ground floor. Carsten leaving.

‘Let’s talk about this in the morning, Meyer. Goodnight.’

Thursday, 13th November

Just after eight, Lund and Meyer were watching the morning news in the office. Rie Skovgaard talking to a forest of microphones.

‘The Mayor for Education spoke to the police last night,’ she said. ‘He cooperated fully and was able to provide them with information they hadn’t previously gathered. I can’t go into details but let me emphasize that Troels Hartmann has no – I repeat no – connection with the murder of Nanna Birk Larsen. He will help . . .’

‘All the usual bullshit,’ Meyer said.

He waved a typed sheet.

‘I checked up on him. Forty-two. Born in Copenhagen. Son of a politician, Regner Hartmann. The father was Poul Bremer’s bitter enemy. Lost every battle. Went to pieces. Died a while back.’

Skovgaard was fielding questions.

‘Speculation made in bad taste by political opponents is deplorable,’ she said.

Lund waved her coffee mug at the screen.

‘So now the son’s taking on his father’s battles?’

‘Been doing that all along,’ Meyer agreed. ‘Joined the Liberal youth branch at nineteen. Elected to the city assembly when he was twenty-four. Served on committees. Became group leader four years ago. Got to run the education department as a result.’

Lund was making the bread, butter and ham sandwiches again. She had one for him. Meyer bit into it.

‘You do realize this man’s never had a real job. He’s spent his entire life playing round in that phoney world of theirs inside the Rådhus. No wonder he turns flaky the moment his little glass palace gets a crack in it.’

‘The alliance will succeed,’ Skovgaard emphasized to the cameras.

‘Hello?’

He waved his sandwich in the air, scattering crumbs across the desk.

‘Are we listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘He married his childhood sweetheart the year he became leader. She died two years ago. Cancer. She was six months pregnant.’

‘That must have felt real enough,’ Lund said. ‘Any criminal record?’

‘Not a thing. Whiter than white. Did you read the emails?’

‘Yes. I don’t buy the idea they were written by two different people. They sound the same. He always signs himself just as F.’

Meyer looked at the printouts.

‘Can you see any differences?’ she asked.

‘No. So what? How many ways can you write . . . meet me in the Hilton at eight thirty, sweetheart? My turn with the condoms. Any preference, darling?’

Svendsen came in and threw some files on her desk.

‘What’s this?’

‘Missing women from the last ten years. You asked for them.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘No. Brix thought it was a waste of time.’

‘Did you look?’

‘Brix says you’re barking up the wrong tree. If you want any more you’re to do it in your own time. Not ours.’

‘How many murdered women?’

Svendsen rapped his knuckles on the blue folder.

‘I’m busy right now,’ he said. ‘Here you go.’

Coffee on the table and pastries, beneath the wan light of the pink artichoke lamps, the group meeting began. The four minority leaders and Hartmann.

Jens Holck looked a little better. He’d shaved. Put on a jacket.

‘What’s going on, Troels?’ he asked. ‘Was the girl in your flat? Yes or no?’

‘Yes. At least that’s what the police say.’

Holck sighed.

‘This is wonderful. And you were there too?’

Skovgaard sat down next to Hartmann, started making notes.

‘I was in the flat shortly before her.’

He looked at each of them.

‘That caused a misunderstanding with the police. It’s clear now.’

‘And you drove the car?’ Holck asked. ‘What the hell is this? How can we even think—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Jens!’ Hartmann cried. ‘Get off your high horse. I had nothing to do with that girl. I never met her. Never talked to her. I’m as shocked . . . as baffled by this as you are.’

‘That doesn’t help.’

‘They’re looking at City Hall. Isn’t that obvious? Not me any more. But they’re looking here. Someone had access to my computer. To my passwords.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Someone here. I’ll help the police. What else can I do?’

‘You could have told us all this before we read it in the papers,’ Mai Juhl said.

‘I didn’t know! I was at a sponsor conference that weekend. If they thought I was guilty do you think I’d be here talking to you now?’

Holck was silent. So was Mai Juhl.

Morten Weber came to the door, tapping his watch.

‘Let’s stay calm,’ Hartmann said. ‘Are you happy with that? Are we still together or not?’

It was Mai Juhl who spoke first.

‘You said this is the end of it?’

‘It’s the end of it.’

She glanced at Holck.

‘Then I’m in.’

‘What choice do we have?’ Holck asked. ‘If the alliance doesn’t hold we’re all finished.’

He got up, glowered at Hartmann.

‘You got us into this corner, Troels. You can get us out of it. Step up, talk to the press. It’s no good hiding behind Rie. This is your problem. Bury it or it’ll bury all of us.’

Morten Weber watched them go.

‘What happened? Are they still in?’

‘Yes. Found anything?’

‘The three of us are the only ones set up as users on the flat’s PC. You, me and Rie. Who might have your password?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe you forgot to log off.’

‘It’s not that. Someone’s been snooping round here. Keep asking. Keep looking.’

‘It’s not easy. These are people we trust. Or we’re supposed to.’

Hartmann looked at Weber. A man he’d known all his adult life. A solitary bachelor, carrying his insulin and needle around without a complaint. Doing the menial work, the drudgery. The dirty work when needed.

‘I’m sorry, Morten.’

‘About what?’

‘About not listening to you.’

Weber laughed.

‘That was yesterday! This is politics. Today and tomorrow. Nothing else exists.’

‘Will you fix this?’

‘If I can.’

Skovgaard came up. She was carrying her coat.

‘Lund wants to talk to you again,’ she said.

‘No—’

‘The lawyer says you have no choice. Leave by the side door. I’ve arranged a private car.’

She looked him in the eye.

‘They’re taking you to the flat in Store Kongensgade.’ She passed Hartmann his gloves. ‘Lund wants to put some questions to you there.’

Anton and Emil were in their winter jackets. Pernille was checking they had everything for school. At the office desk, red overalls, black hat, Theis Birk Larsen had been on the phone to the bank, talking calmly, trying to think things through.

The storm that had hung over them the night before had never broken. They slept in the same bed, not touching. Not sleeping really. Halfway through the night Emil had come in crying. Anton had wet the mattress for the first time in months.

The storm hadn’t passed them by. It was simply waiting.

‘They might give us an overdraft of a hundred thousand,’ Birk Larsen said when she came in. ‘With that we can pay the staff this month and sell the house.’

Just one month. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the grubby ceiling.

‘Have you seen Emil’s hat?’ she asked.

He closed his eyes.

‘Isn’t it on the shelf? Where it usually is?’

‘If it was there I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’

He stubbed out his cigarette.

‘OK. I’ll find it.’

When he was gone she walked round the office, looked at the bank statements. Wondered what else she didn’t know about. He’d bought a paper. The politician’s face stared out from it. He wasn’t arrested. Just questioned then released.

‘Mum?’ one of the boys called.

Anton ran in.

‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

A tall man of about thirty stood silhouetted in the garage door. Dark designer ski jacket. Big smile.

‘I’m here to talk to Theis Birk Larsen,’ he said.

‘If it’s about a move my husband will be right down.’

‘Pernille?’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

‘My name’s Kim Hogsted.’ He pulled out a business card. ‘I’m a TV journalist. I rang a few times.’

He held out his card. She took it.

‘I know you don’t want to talk to the likes of me.’

‘We don’t.’

‘It’s the police.’ He seemed earnest. ‘I cover crime. I’ve never seen a foul-up like this. It must be awful for you. I can’t imagine.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You can’t.’

‘Now there’s a politician involved . . .’

He shrugged.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘They’ll try and keep everything under wraps. For you too.’

‘What do you want?’

‘We want to help. Give you the opportunity to tell your story. In your words. Not theirs. Not ours.’

She tried to imagine this.

‘You want me to talk about Nanna?’

He didn’t answer.

‘What kind of people are you? It’s best you leave. If my husband comes down—’

‘Three years ago in Helsingborg a five-year-old boy went missing. The police hadn’t a clue. We ran an interview. Offered a reward. They found him. Alive. You remember?’

‘You really should go.’

‘We can’t get Nanna back for you. But we can put up a reward for information. I know you want to find out what happened. Think about it, please.’

‘Leave!’ she shrieked at him.

The reporter walked out into the daylight. She threw the card in the office bin.

Theis Birk Larsen was back with the hat.

‘Shall I take them to school?’

‘No! We already talked about this. Why do you keep asking twice?’

He stood stiff and awkward in the doorway.

‘I’ll meet you at counselling.’

‘Emil!’ Her voice was high and brittle. ‘I told you not to bring that. Why don’t you ever listen?’

Birk Larsen gently prised the toy from Emil’s tight little fingers.

‘Have a nice day, boys,’ he said, and patted them on the head.

The Liberals’ apartment was covered in forensic marks. Stickers and arrows. Numbers and outlines.

Troels Hartmann stood in the main room next to the grand piano. The party lawyer was with him.

‘I parked outside and let myself in.’

‘Did you see anyone on the way up?’ Lund asked.

‘Not that I know of. I wasn’t looking much. It was just . . .’

‘Just what?’

‘Just another night.’

Lund waited. Wondered if he was going to say something else.

Hartmann looked at the shattered table. The broken mirror. The crumpled sheets on the double bed in the room beyond.