The Killing - 01 - The Killing (6 page)

She hadn’t a clue what Mark was talking about.

‘I told you, Mum. Magnus’s birthday party.’

‘Mark. Our flight’s tonight. We decided this ages ago.’

He grunted and turned to stare out of the rain-streaked window.

‘You look like a moose with the mumps,’ she said.

Lund laughed. He didn’t.

‘You’ll love it in Sweden. It’s a great school. I’ll have more time for you. We can—’

‘He’s not my father.’

Lund’s phone started ringing. She looked at the number and began fumbling the headset into her ear.

‘Of course he’s not. He’s found you a hockey club.’

‘I’ve got one.’

‘You must be sick of being the youngest at FCK.’

Silence.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘It’s called KSF.’

‘Yes,’ she said to the phone.

‘KSF,’ Mark repeated.

‘I’m on my way.’

Mark began to speak very slowly.

‘K . . . S . . . F . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘You get it wrong every time.’

‘Yes.’

It wasn’t far now which pleased her on two counts. She wanted to see Meyer. And Mark was . . . in the way.

‘Not long now and then we go to the airport,’ she said. ‘You do have your key, don’t you?’

Beneath a sullen monochrome sky a single line of twenty blue-clad officers moved slowly across the yellow grass, prodding the mud and clumps of vegetation with red and white sticks, search dogs snuffling at the damp earth.

Lund watched them for a moment then went into the wood. There a second team was working through the lichened trees, examining the ground, putting down markers, following another set of dogs.

Meyer was in a police jacket, soaked to the skin.

‘How clear’s the trail?’ she asked.

‘Clear enough. The dogs followed her from where we found the top.’ He looked at his notes and gestured to a thicket ten metres away. ‘We also got some blonde hair caught on a bush.’

‘Where does it lead?’

‘Here,’ Meyer said, gesturing with the map in his hand. ‘Where we’re standing.’ Another look at his notes. ‘She was running. Zigzagging through the woods. This was where she stopped.’

Lund came and peered over his shoulder.

‘What do we have close by?’

‘A logging road. Maybe she was picked up there.’

‘What about her mobile phone?’

‘Switched off since Friday night.’ He didn’t like these obvious questions. ‘Listen, Lund. We’ve gone over her route with a fine-tooth comb. Twice. She isn’t here. We’re wasting time.’

She turned and walked away, looked back to the marshland and yellow grass.

‘Hello?’ Meyer said with that dry sarcasm she was starting to recognize. ‘Am I invisible?’

Lund came back and said, ‘Spread out. Go over it all again.’

‘Did you hear a word I said?’

The local intercom on one of the search team’s jackets squawked her name.

‘We’ve found something,’ a voice said.

‘Where?’

‘In the trees.’

‘What is it?’

A pause. It was getting dark. Then, ‘It looks like a grave.’

The same sluggish twilight crept over the city, damp and dreary, wan and cold. In his campaign office, beneath the coral-coloured petals of the artichoke lamps, Hartmann listened to Morten Weber’s answers. Poul Bremer wouldn’t return to the school for another debate. Running the city was more important than begging for votes.

‘Doesn’t that suit him?’ Hartmann said.

Rie Skovgaard placed a cup of coffee on his desk.

‘Bremer’s office announced the new allocation of funds while we were at the school. He was ready to come out with it whatever happened.’

‘He knew about the twenty per cent. How’s that possible, Morten?’ Hartmann asked.

Weber seemed thrown by the question.

‘Why ask me? Maybe he did his own survey. Makes sense. Promising money for education always wins you Brownie points.’

‘And he got the same results? He knew.’

Weber shrugged.

‘You shouldn’t have cancelled,’ Skovgaard said.

Hartmann’s mobile rang.

‘A young girl’s missing. I had no choice.’

‘It’s Therese,’ said the voice on the line.

Hartmann glanced at Rie Skovgaard.

‘This isn’t a good time. I’ll ring you back.’

‘Don’t hang up, Troels. You’re not too busy for this. We have to meet.’

‘That wouldn’t be a good idea.’

‘Someone’s trying to dig up dirt on you.’

Hartmann took a deep breath.

‘Who?’

‘A reporter rang me. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.’

‘We’ve got a fundraiser here at five. Get here then. I can come out for a while.’

‘Five it is.’

‘Therese . . .’

‘Take care, Troels.’

Weber and Skovgaard were watching him.

‘Something we need to hear?’ Skovgaard asked.

Theis Birk Larsen went to the student house in Nørrebro where Lisa Rasmussen lived with Oliver Schandorff and some other kids from the school, pretending they were grown-ups, screwing around, drinking, smoking dope, acting the fool.

Lisa was outside wheeling away her bike. He took hold of the handlebars.

‘Where’s Nanna?’

The girl was dressed like a teenage tart, the way they all did, Nanna if he let her. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

‘I told them. I don’t know.’

His big fist didn’t move.

‘Where’s that bastard Schandorff?’

Still staring at the wall.

‘Not here. Not since Friday.’

He bent down and put his whiskery face in hers.

‘Where is he?’

Finally she met his eyes. She looked as if she’d been crying.

‘He said his parents were away for the weekend. He was staying there I think. After the Halloween party . . .’

Birk Larsen didn’t wait to hear more.

On the way he called Pernille.

‘I just talked to Lisa,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get her.’

He could hear the relief in her single brief sigh.

‘It’s that rich punk again. His parents went away. He’s probably . . .’

He didn’t want to say it, think it.

‘You’re sure she’s there? Lisa said so?’

The evening traffic was heavy. The house was out on one of the new developments, south, near the airport.

‘I’m sure. Don’t worry.’

She was crying. He could see her tears. He wished he could touch them, brush them away with his fat, rough fingers. Pernille was beautiful and precious. Like Nanna, Emil and Anton. They all deserved better than he’d given them and soon they’d get it.

‘Won’t be long, sweetheart. I promise.’

When Lund was back among the bare dark trees Buchard called.

‘The helicopter. Three forensic units. I hope you’ve found something?’

‘A grave.’

‘You left me out of the loop.’

‘I tried. You were in a meeting.’

‘I was at your leaving party. People don’t say goodbye over breakfast . . .’

‘Hang on a minute.’

Meyer was walking towards her through the wood. In his arms was a plastic forensic sheet. Something beneath. A body.

‘Have you found something?’ Buchard demanded.

Meyer put the sheet on the ground, opened it and showed her a dead fox. Stiff and dry, caked with earth. It had a cub scout kerchief around its neck along with the wire noose that had strangled it.

‘We can put out a call for any kids nearby,’ Meyer said, lifting the fox by its back legs. ‘Animal cruelty’s a shocking thing.’

‘No,’ Lund told Buchard. ‘Not yet.’

‘Pack up, come home and give me a full report. Maybe there’s time for a beer before you catch your plane.’

Meyer was watching her, the stiff dead animal beneath his arm. Its eyes were black and glazed, its fur streaked with mud.

‘Meet my new friend Foxy,’ he said with a quick sharp grin. ‘You’ll like him.’

One more reception among so many. Part of the political calendar. A chance to meet, to negotiate, to forge alliances, confirm enmities.

The food came from an oil corporation, the drink from a transport magnate. A string quartet played Vivaldi. Morten Weber talked policy while Rie Skovgaard spoke spin.

Hartmann smiled and chatted, shook hands, made small talk. Then when his phone rang he excused himself and walked back to his office.

Therese Kruse was waiting for him. A couple of years younger than him. Married to a boring banker. A serious, well-connected, attractive woman, tougher than she looked.

‘You’re doing well in the polls. People in government are noticing.’

‘So they should. We worked for this.’

‘True.’

‘Did you get the reporter’s name?’

She handed him a piece of paper.
Erik Salin.

‘Never heard of him,’ Hartmann said.

‘I made some enquiries. He used to work as a private investigator. Now he’s a freelance selling dirt for the highest fee. Newspapers. Magazines. Websites. Anyone who pays.’

He pocketed the note.

‘And?’

‘Salin wanted to know if you paid your hotel bills with your own credit card or the office’s. If you buy lots of presents. Stuff like that. I didn’t say anything, naturally . . .’

Hartmann took a sip of wine.

‘He wanted to know about us,’ she added.

‘What did you say?’

‘I laughed off the whole idea, of course. After all . . .’ The smile was brief and bitter. ‘It’s not as if it was anything important. Was it?’

‘We agreed it was best, Therese. I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . .’

He stopped.

‘Couldn’t what, Troels? Take the risk?’

‘What did he know?’

‘About us? Nothing. He was guessing.’ The caustic smile again. ‘Perhaps he thinks if he asks enough women he’s bound to strike gold. I think he’s got something else though. I don’t know how.’

Hartmann glanced at the door, made sure they were alone.

‘Such as what?’

‘He seems to have seen your diary. He was checking dates. He knew where you’d been and when.’

Hartmann looked at the name again, wondered if he’d heard it somewhere.

‘No one sees my diary outside this office.’

She shrugged. Got up. The door opened. Rie Skovgaard looked at the pair of them.

With that stiff suspicious smile she said, ‘Troels. I didn’t know you had company. There are people in reception you need to meet.’

The two women stared at each other. Thinking. Judging. No need for words.

‘I’m coming,’ Troels Hartmann said.

Oliver Schandorff was a skinny kid of nineteen with a head of curly ginger hair and a sour unsmiling face. He was puffing on his third smoke of the day when Theis Birk Larsen burst through the front door.

Schandorff leapt out of his chair and retreated as the big and angry man marched towards him.

‘Call her now,’ Birk Larsen bellowed. ‘She’s leaving.’

‘Hello!’ Schandorff cried, skipping into the hall. ‘There’s a bell here. Private house.’

‘Don’t mess with me, sonny. I want Nanna.’

‘Nanna isn’t here.’

Birk Larsen began marching round the ground floor, opening doors, yelling her name.

Schandorff followed, at a safe distance.

‘Mr Birk Larsen. I’m telling you. She isn’t here.’

Birk Larsen went back to the hall. There were clothes on a chair by the sofa. A pink T-shirt. A bra. Jeans.

He swore at Schandorff and made for the stairs.

The kid lost it, raced in front, punched Birk Larsen’s chest, yelled, ‘Do you mind? Do you—’

The big man picked him up by his T-shirt, carried the kid back down to the hall, launched him against the front door, balled a massive fist in his face.

Oliver Schandorff went quiet.

Birk Larsen thought better of it. Strode up the open-plan stairs two at a time. The place was vast, the kind of mansion he could never dream of owning, however hard he worked, however many scarlet trucks he ran.

There was deafening rock music coming from a bedroom on the left. The place stank of stale dope and sex.

A double bed with crumpled sheets, crumpled duvet. Curly blonde hair poked out from beneath the pillows. Face down, naked feet out of the bottom. Stoned. Drunk. Both, or worse.

He glowered back at Schandorff who was following him, hands in pockets, smirking in a way that made Theis Birk Larsen want to punch him out on the spot.