The Killing 3 (17 page)

Rank pulled himself up, shook his head.

‘The very suggestion I intervened is absurd. Outrageous. I resent it deeply.’

Another roll of his head.

‘And it’s not my fault Ussing’s been given all this material. Rosa Lebech’s husband’s got it in for you, not me.’ He jabbed a finger across the table.
‘I won’t take the blame for your peccadilloes.’

Weber came back to the table, looked at Karen Nebel.

Then, before Hartmann could speak, said, ‘Don’t talk to the media until this thing’s over, Mogens. When I call, you answer.’

Rank nodded, looked relieved to be allowed to go.

‘I should throw him out of the fucking window,’ Hartmann grumbled when he’d left.

‘You can’t,’ Weber said straight away. ‘You may be facing a revolt inside the party very soon. Like it or not Mogens Rank’s on your side. In principle
anyway.’

Hartmann swore again.

‘I don’t trust him. We need to check his story.’

A knock at the door. Weber opened it. One of the attendants with some bags of food.

‘We need to eat first,’ he said, opening them up, putting plastic boxes on the table. ‘I got sushi. Hope that’s OK.’

‘To hell with food!’ Hartmann yelled. ‘I want to know what happened. From the moment that report came into Rank’s ministry and the second he decided to dump
it.’

Weber laughed.

‘What’s funny?’ Hartmann asked.

‘The only people I can get to investigate Mogens are the ones he appointed himself. Who investigates the investigators?’

‘I want—’

‘I know what you want,’ Weber cut in. ‘I’ll talk to Dyhring. See if we can prise him away from his master.’

Hartmann seemed mollified by that.

‘I should warn you,’ Weber added. ‘Jens Lebech’s in custody. This is starting to get close. We’ve been here before. I know you’re worried about Emilie
Zeuthen. We all are. But you’re the Prime Minister. We’re fighting an election. For everyone’s sake you need to keep your distance.’

He got a foul look back for that.

‘We haven’t been here before,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Don’t say that. What happened back then . . . was nothing to do with me.’

Morten Weber smiled, didn’t say another word.

Back in the Politigården forensic garage they were going over the recovered camper van. Plenty of evidence Emilie had been inside. Nothing to suggest where she’d
gone. Juncker was getting tired and grumpy, like the night before. At times he reminded her of a young Mark, when he was funny, charming and just a touch troubled. It was her fault she never
noticed the fragility until it was too late. Looking at Asbjørn Juncker going over the van, big eyes staring at the evidence, she saw her own failures so clearly.

‘What’s he after if it’s not the money?’ Juncker asked.

The contents of the van had been set out on tables in front of the vehicle.

‘Does he just want to kill people? Is that it? He’s a lunatic.’

Lund stared at the objects in front of her.

‘This man’s not a lunatic. Tell me what you have.’

He took a deep breath and started to point.

‘Got blonde hair and bits of food from the back of the cabin. He probably put her in front of the TV so he could watch her in the driver’s mirror. The van was stolen four days ago
from a dealership. The plates were changed.’

The curtains were taped up. There was no way the girl could see out.

Madsen came in and said the Zeuthens had arrived, demanding to speak to someone.

‘They’re very persistent,’ he added.

‘Get Borch to deal with it.’

He looked surprised.

‘Borch’s gone to Jutland. I thought you knew. PET wanted to look into the cold case.’

Juncker was chuntering again. Something about how she should have shot the man when she had the chance.

‘Fine,’ Lund retorted, then took a few of the things in plastic evidence bags and left.

Back in the office she began to spread them out in front of Robert and Maja Zeuthen. The couple looked different. They didn’t seem to be at war any longer. Brix sat in, listening
mostly.

‘He gave her toys and things to read,’ Lund said, spreading out a series of jigsaws, puzzles, books and magazines. ‘Do these things mean anything to you?’

The mother pored over them.

‘The books . . . this magazine . . . they’re her favourites. How could he have known that?’

‘Maybe he asked her?’ Brix suggested. ‘He’s trying to make her feel secure. As if she’s a part of this. Not a prisoner.’

‘That’s true up to a point,’ Lund agreed. ‘But it’s more likely he knew about these things before. He got close to Emilie somehow. Do you have any
idea—?’

‘No!’ Zeuthen interrupted. ‘How can you be sure he doesn’t want money? You didn’t do what he asked. You left the bridge.’

Brix came to her rescue.

‘He went nowhere near the ransom. Not today. Not yesterday. He didn’t have Emilie with him either. It’s not possible. He’s just playing. Trying to draw us away from what
he really wants to do.’

‘What’s that?’ Maja asked.

‘To get to the bottom of this old police case,’ Lund said. ‘A thirteen-year-old girl was found dead in a harbour in West Jutland. Not far from some Zeeland facilities. Those
three dead sailors of yours came upon the body. He wants—’

Zeuthen slammed his hand on the table.

‘I’ve told you. I know nothing about this.’

‘It looks as if the girl was murdered,’ Lund added. ‘Someone covered it up.’

Maja Zeuthen turned to him.

‘How are you involved, Robert?’

‘I’m not. I’ve never heard of it until now.’

‘It doesn’t mean you personally,’ Brix said. ‘You’re symbolic. Maybe to him you are Zeeland. Someone else in the company could know about the case . . .’

‘I’ve asked Reinhardt to get our security people to check the records. Talk to him. What else are you doing?’

Lund hesitated before answering.

‘We’re still trying to track some things—’

‘You’ve no idea, have you?’ Maja Zeuthen interrupted. ‘After two days . . . not a clue.’

No answer.

Zeuthen said, ‘When he calls again tell him I’ll pay anything. There’s no ceiling. Whatever he wants.’

‘He’s not looking for money . . .’ Lund started.

‘Just tell him!’ he shouted. ‘And this time do as he says.’

He got up, marched out. The mother stayed.

‘Emilie scratched her name on that wall,’ she said. ‘Maybe she left something else . . .’

‘We searched the camper van.’ Lund got to her feet. ‘I’m sorry. We didn’t find anything of much use.’

‘Her room at home . . .’

‘We searched that too,’ Brix said.

She glared at them.

‘I’m her mother. I see things you don’t.’

With that she left. Lund thought about what she’d said. Returned to the garage downstairs. Juncker was still grumbling like a tired toddler. She told him to go home and get some sleep. He
didn’t move.

Inside the caravan she sat where Emilie might have been. Juncker watched, kept quiet for once.

‘He could see her all the time,’ Lund said, eyeing her own reflection in the driver’s mirror. ‘Except for the corners and there’s nothing there.’

She got up and walked into the tiny toilet. The window was taped up with black plastic so Emilie couldn’t look out. But she couldn’t be seen either.

‘I’ve been through the toilet roll,’ Juncker said. ‘There’s nothing there.’

The tape had been pulled back on one corner. The glass was opaque underneath. Lund slowly removed the plastic and breathed on the surface.

Finger marks.

‘We need something dusted here,’ she said.

Juncker sat outside and watched. Guilty but fascinated. One of the forensic officers came over, got out a brush and powder and went to work.

Gradually the letters emerged.

Top C. 03. KPS.

‘She left a message and I never saw it,’ Juncker whispered. ‘I’m rubbish at this.’

‘No you’re not,’ Lund said and gently punched his arm. ‘I told you. Learn to look.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Emilie’s a clever kid. She’s telling us where she’s been. Top Camping. 03 is the ring road. That’s the route out from the campsite.’

‘And KPS?’

She moved closer, stared at the letters.

‘Somewhere else he’s been keeping her. If we’re lucky . . . where she is now.’

Around eight Karen Nebel came into Hartmann’s office and said he had an unexpected visitor: Rosa Lebech demanding a private meeting.

He took his head out of a speech for the following day then told her to bring Lebech in. She looked angry, hungry for something.

‘I’m not passing judgment on the Justice Minister just yet,’ he told her. ‘I want to get to the bottom of it. Just like you . . .’

‘I don’t give a shit about Mogens Rank. What are you and PET doing with Jens?’

Hartmann thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, kept quiet.

‘He was picked up at home. In front of the kids for pity’s sake.’

‘We don’t tell PET what to do, Rosa. We’re not that kind of government. They’re investigating a leak of confidential information. That’s their business. Not
mine.’

She came close.

‘You knew they were going to arrest him, didn’t you?’

‘No. I knew they suspected him.’

‘Because of us! Because he knows!’

‘I wasn’t aware he did,’ Hartmann said carefully.

‘I told him a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t want him or the kids to hear from someone else.’

Hartmann nodded, smiled. Took her hand. She didn’t recoil.

Soft voice. Understanding.

‘You did the right thing. This is awkward for all of us. I had nothing to do with it. If Jens is innocent they’ll let him go. I can’t get involved. And even if I did know . . .
do you think I could have told you?’

She pulled away at that.

‘Yes. You could. You’re too much trouble. I have to defend you to my party. Now I’ve got to do it to my family. Enough’s enough . . .’

She was getting loud. The doors were open. There were civil servants still around. Hartmann got up and closed them.

‘If Jens leaked those files he got us into this mess. Blame him. Not me.’

‘He’s innocent. I want him released.’

‘If he’s innocent he will be. Love . . .’

Again he reached down and squeezed her fingers. Then touched her cheek.

‘I wish to God we were just a couple of ordinary people. That we didn’t have to jump through these hoops. We’ve talked about this. For now we do.’ His fingers rose and
brushed her short dark hair. ‘Let’s meet later. Put the politics to one side.’ He cocked his head to one side, grinned. ‘Let’s just be us.’

Rosa Lebech retreated from him, folded her arms.

‘If you want a meeting call my campaigns officer. She keeps the diary.’

Weber was walking past as she marched out.

‘Not a happy woman,’ he noted. ‘I wonder at your choices sometimes. Couldn’t you have picked someone a little less perilous? Say . . . an actress. With a drug problem.
And tattoos.’

Hartmann seemed amused by that.

‘It’s the heart, Morten. If you had one you’d understand. Rosa’s pissed off PET have brought in her husband.’

‘Yes, well. They won’t be holding him. Insufficient evidence at the moment.’

‘That’s good,’ Hartmann said.

‘Is it?’ Weber scratched his head. ‘If so it’s the only thing that is.’

‘Don’t play games, please.’

‘Why not? Everyone else is. I had a long talk with Dyhring. Our PET man.’

‘And?’

Weber picked up a calendar printout, and a list of names.

‘In the middle of that Jutland case Mogens Rank attended a business association dinner out there. So did Peter Schultz.’

‘What does Rank say?’

A shrug.

‘He says he doesn’t remember ever meeting Schultz. For a government minister his memory truly is shocking at times.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Hartmann asked, half in hope.

‘I’d like to, Troels. Honestly.’

Back at the Politigården Juncker wouldn’t go home. So she sent him out looking for the camper van’s tracks while she went upstairs to view the traffic CCTV
they’d recovered. They had the van leaving the motorway at an industrial area exit, number fourteen, then rejoining the road on the way to the petrol station where he handed over the keys and
the phone to the first person who’d take them. They’d no idea where he went after that, but Lund thought it a good bet he’d taken the exit to leave Emilie somewhere close by.

Someone called Eva Lauersen kept calling. Mark’s girlfriend she said. But before Lund could phone back Brix brought in a tubby, silver-haired man with a broad Jutland accent. Nicolaj
Overgaard. Local police station chief when Louise Hjelby’s death was investigated.

He looked . . . sleepy. None too bright.

Lund parked him opposite her. Brix sat on the corner of the desk. She asked who might have been upset by the suicide verdict: family, boyfriends, someone close?

‘Nobody I can think of,’ Overgaard said. ‘The girl was in a foster home. Hadn’t been there long. They moved her around a lot. No one really knew her much.’

His clothes seemed too light for winter. A pink checked shirt. A jacket made for warmer weather. Lund scribbled a note and gave it to Madsen.

‘The original autopsy report’s turned up,’ Brix said. ‘Different to the one that got filed here. It says the girl was murdered.’

The old cop lifted his head. He had a nervous tic. Right eye, flickering.

‘It seems clear Louise was attacked and injured before she went into the water,’ Lund added.

‘Can I see this report?’

Brix handed it over. Overgaard flicked through it, too quickly.

‘You’re saying you never saw that?’ Lund asked.

‘News to me.’

‘How’s that possible? The pathologist said Peter Schultz pressed her to write a false report. If Schultz leaned on her he must have leaned on you.’

Overgaard just stared at her, didn’t speak.

‘And they’re both dead now,’ she added. ‘Think about it.’

‘No . . . no one put pressure on me.’

‘So there was nothing irregular in the investigation?’ she asked. ‘You found a girl who’d been murdered and dumped in the water. Then you signed off a report saying it
was suicide.’