The Killing 3 (55 page)

He went somewhere quiet. The raucous noise of an office party had receded.

‘You could have got me in big trouble . . .’ he moaned. ‘I had to shove those Birk Larsen files in a drawer every time Brix was hanging around.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘No.’

Someone was laughing close by.

‘Oh. Apart from one little thing. Probably doesn’t mean a lot . . .’

‘Just tell me, Asbjørn.’

‘You mean . . . Juncker.’

‘Juncker,’ she sighed.

He did, all in a single sentence.

Borch came out of the police van, climbed into the driver’s seat of the car next to Reinhardt. Parped his horn.

Mouthed a word, gestured with his finger.

In.

Mogens Rank was in his office with Dyhring when Hartmann and Karen Nebel barged in.

The champagne was open already. Rank looked a little giddy.

‘Oh come on, Troels! Lighten up. I know there are still a few votes to be counted. But all the same . . . we won.’

Dyhring was sliding away.

‘You’re going nowhere,’ Hartmann said. Nebel booted the door shut.

He had her iPad. Put it on the desk. Pulled up the photos. Niels Reinhardt by the side of the road. A girl with a white bike behind him. The whole sequence was there. Reinhardt talking to Louise
Hjelby. Putting the bike in his boot. Then opening the door, smiling, as she got in the passenger seat looking a little wary.

Rank was about to speak when Hartmann said, ‘Whatever you do, Mogens, don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve seen these.’

The smile vanished from Rank’s face. Dyhring came over and looked at the iPad. Said nothing.

Hartmann jabbed a finger at the photos.

‘You both knew Zeuthen’s assistant murdered that girl.’

Rank glanced at Dyhring.

‘Was this the two of you?’ Hartmann demanded. A nod at Rank. ‘You leaned on Schultz and got him to cover up the case? Then cleaned up my brother’s pictures as soon as you
learned about them?’

Rank took off his glasses, fiddled with them, put them back on.

‘Nothing’s ever quite as simple as it seems. Let me explain . . .’

‘I don’t need an explanation!’ Hartmann yelled. ‘It’s obvious. You told Zeeland about the photos. They deleted them from Benjamin’s account. When Morten came
back without the originals you set PET on him. And now he’s dead . . .’

Dyhring came over, stood next to Rank.

‘It wasn’t like that.’

Hartmann waved a fist at them.

‘Who killed my brother?’

‘No one.’ Dyhring looked at Mogens Rank. ‘The Justice Minister can tell you—’

‘Out with it!’ Hartmann roared. ‘Before I get in a car to the Politigården and send you both to jail.’

Rank scowled. Looked sick of this.

It was Dyhring who started to talk.

‘We knew about his lock-up. We searched it late that night. We couldn’t find those photos. While we were there he turned up. I tried to talk to him, to explain what we were doing. He
got scared, ran off.’

The PET man thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

‘The train line there’s unfenced. I don’t think he knew where he was going. There was nothing—’

‘You murdered him.’ Hartmann, jabbing a finger in Dyhring’s face.

‘No we didn’t. We don’t kill people, Hartmann. We protect them. Or we try to.’

‘Don’t give me that shit . . .’

‘I didn’t go out there because I wanted to,’ Dyhring objected. Another glance. ‘I was sent.’

Mogens Rank nodded.

‘True. By me. It’s easy to say I regret it now. Which I do. What happened to your brother was terrible. A dreadful, unfortunate accident.’

Hartmann leaned on the table, listened.

‘We’d had so many problems with Benjamin,’ Rank added. ‘The demos. That day he stole your private car and careered drunk all over Jutland. I didn’t want you to be
bothered by any more nonsense . . .’

‘Tell that to the judge,’ Nebel snapped.

Rank sighed, as if impatient with them.

‘This was about much more than a few photos, Karen. We’d just won the election. The credit crunch was biting. We all know the trouble Troels went through with Lund six years before.
One loose accusation against a senior executive of Zeeland could have brought down the entire government . . .’

‘A loose accusation?’ Nebel cried. ‘It’s proof he killed that girl.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Rank brushed the photos away with his fingers. ‘They’re just a few pictures. And it was made very clear to me that Zeeland wouldn’t forgive
such a suspicion being placed at their door.’

‘By whom?’ she demanded.

‘That’s irrelevant. I had a choice to make and I made the right one. The case was closed. Why risk everything for the sake of an orphan girl in Jutland no one really
missed?’

He looked at Hartmann and shrugged.

‘It was the right decision, Troels. Think about it. Benjamin . . . none of us knew or wanted that. His death was a tragic accident. If there was some way we could turn back the clock . .
.’

‘Come on,’ Nebel said, and grabbed the iPad. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘We can’t run the country without Zeeland!’ Mogens Rank bellowed. ‘They won us the election back then. Emilie Zeuthen’s winning it for us today. The girl’s
alive. Her kidnapper’s dead. How is this a disaster?’

He got to his feet as they started to leave.

‘Tell me how!’ Mogens Rank yelled at their backs.

Five minutes through the winding corridors of Slotsholmen. Past the busy election party, through all the glorious rooms. Back in his office Hartmann sat, tie gone, hair a mess, sweating,
wondering.

The TV was calling a historic victory. The greatest gap between the majority party and its rivals in modern history. He sat at his desk, going through the iPad again.

‘We’ll go and see Brix,’ Nebel said. ‘We’ll show him the photos. Tell him everything.’

He didn’t move.

‘It’s important we do this before Mogens has the chance to clean up his files,’ she added. ‘After that we can have a party committee meeting and decide what to
do.’

She took his arm again. Before long they were walking down the stairs.

‘I can distance you from this. We can escape the damage.’

He was almost at the door when a figure came out of the shadows.

Anders Ussing, smiling as always, hand extended. Hartmann stopped, had no choice.

‘Well, Troels. Congratulations on your victory. Here’s to . . .’

Hartmann stared at the outstretched hand, brushed past. Ussing yelled an obscenity down the stairs.

By the side door, peering into the rainy night, Karen Nebel checked round and said, ‘There’s no reason you can’t still meet the Queen tomorrow and form a government. We can ask
for a judicial review of Rank’s actions and PET too.’

In the windows opposite he could see the party. Faces at the bright windows, beneath the great chandeliers. People were laughing, dancing. Creatures of Slotsholmen, puppets in the great
charade.

A woman by the leaded panes caught sight of him. Talked to some of her friends. Pointed. Waved. Cheered.

Pretty, all of them. Part of the make-believe.

He stopped, smiled, waved back. It all came so naturally.

‘Troels,’ Nebel said. ‘We have to go.’

He didn’t move. Mind turning.

‘Mogens is right, isn’t he?’ Hartmann said. ‘Of themselves the photos prove nothing. Reinhardt had an alibi. It wasn’t just PET said that. It was the police
too.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘There was no proof. Just a few pictures. The damage to the country if they’d pursued an innocent man like Reinhardt—’

‘If he was innocent where’s the problem?’

He wasn’t listening.

‘Benjamin wasn’t well, Karen. I don’t want to reopen that wound. I owe him that. If anyone’s to blame for his death . . .’

Her hands gripped his shoulders.

‘Stop this. Stop this now,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t you see? It’s what they’re after. They want you to keep quiet. To give in. Accept they can screw with little
people’s lives as much as they like. This isn’t you, Troels . . .’

The faces at the window were still there. Fascinated. Perhaps thinking this was another of Hartmann’s trysts.

‘I’m going to find a driver. Then we’re off.’

She headed for the car pool round the corner.

The women were waving again. Raising their glasses.

Troels Hartmann broke into his best smile. The one from the posters. Asked himself where he wanted to be.

The moment Robert Zeuthen landed he called Maja. She was still at the hospital, waiting for Emilie to be discharged. There’d be a doctor coming home with her. Counselling
in the days to come. But she was fit, had been reasonably well treated until Rantzau left her trapped in the tiny room in the
Medea
. There never was a pressurized tank or a deadline. In
the end he probably meant to free her anyway.

‘Give me an hour,’ Zeuthen pleaded.

‘We’ll be home by then,’ she said. ‘Maybe the four of us can get away together.’

Silence. He stood in the lift in the black glass Zeeland office, seeing in his mind’s eye the dragon flit past outside, trying to find the words.

‘Can’t wait,’ Zeuthen agreed. ‘Wherever you want. For as long as you like.’

She said goodbye and then he went looking.

Kornerup was in his executive office on his own, going through charts and reports. He looked up when he heard the door open. Leapt to his feet. Strode across the office beaming, pumped
Zeuthen’s hand.

‘What a result, Robert! We’re all delighted. The board met while you were in Norway. They send their best, naturally. If there’s anything—’

‘Before I kick you out of here one final time you can tell me whether Reinhardt murdered that girl in Jutland.’

The hand came back. Kornerup’s face froze. A look of disdain behind his big, round glasses.

‘You’re tired. It’s understandable. Go home and get some rest. Don’t rush. We can cope.’

Zeuthen looked around the office. It had once been his father’s. He didn’t recall how Kornerup had acquired it in the confusion after his death.

‘I talked to that lawyer you brought in. I know you briefed him yesterday when Reinhardt was under suspicion.’

‘Niels is a senior executive of the company,’ Kornerup objected. ‘He deserved our support.’

‘By giving him a fabricated alibi? From our own hotel chain?’

Kornerup laughed.

‘You don’t think we could have got it from someone else’s, do you?’

Furious, Zeuthen took a step towards the man.

‘I want answers.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Did Reinhardt kill that girl?’

Kornerup thought about this.

‘To tell you the truth . . . I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to believe. He was your father’s personal assistant for many years. I thought I knew the man but . .
.’ A shrug. ‘It’s irrelevant. We’ve had so many crises around here of late. There was no need for another.’

‘Get out,’ Zeuthen ordered, pointing at the door. ‘Leave now before I call security and have them throw you in the street.’

The laugh again.

‘You’ve no evidence against Reinhardt. Why bring down a scandal on your own head? It could ruin Zeeland if we allowed it. Think of the positives. You’ve got Emilie and Maja
back. Hartmann won the election. The board’s behind the idea we stay in Denmark, for now anyway.’

‘I fired you—’

‘No you didn’t. You couldn’t. You’re a name on the notepaper, Robert. That’s all. The board confirmed me in post this afternoon. That’s not going to change.
Though Reinhardt . . . I think it’s time he retired. Don’t you?’

He leaned forward, then added, ‘I’m asking on a personal basis, you understand. Not an executive one. Think of yourself as an occasional ambassador for us from now on. A figurehead,
nothing more. You really don’t need to turn up here at all. Not unless I ask for it.’

A short, ironic smile.

‘And enjoy the weekend with your family. On Monday I’ll get my PA to fit you in for a chat about your future. Does that sound OK?’

Zeuthen started to lose it. Kornerup stood his ground, listened for a moment, said, ‘No. That didn’t require an answer. I’m busy. Let yourself out.’

Then returned to his desk, to the reports, the charts, the business.

On the way to the airport the phone rang. Vibeke, Lund’s mother, full of pride and delight.

‘You should have been here. Mark and Eva are doing brilliantly. And the kiddie’s a real sweetie . . .’

She sat in the back of the car, Borch driving, Reinhardt in the passenger seat.

‘Is that nice Mathias Borch still working with you?’

‘He is.’

‘Send him my love. He was always my favourite. Yours too, I think, if only you knew. Let me pass the phone to Mark.’

She could hear the baby cooing. Picture a cot, Eva doting over her. All in Lund’s little cottage. Borch’s ‘shed’.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and sounded happy, relaxed, exhausted. ‘She’s really cute. Sleeps all the time. Is it OK if we stay in your place for a couple of days?’

They must have been past the fjords. Barely any traffic. Just the occasional farmhouse in the bleak winter dark.

‘As long as you like, Mark. And congratulations.’

‘I forgot to send you the photos. It was all so busy. I’ll do it—’

‘No need right now,’ Lund said. ‘I’ll be back soon. I want . . . I can’t wait to see you.’

She said goodbye. They were driving over a long bridge. What looked like a runway on the other side, lights marking the outline in the dark.

‘Did someone have a little one?’ Reinhardt asked from the front.

Her phone beeped. She looked at the pictures that had just come in. Mark, Eva and the baby. Her mother pleased as Punch.

Lund ignored the question, went back to staring out of the window.

‘The plane’s paid for and ready,’ Reinhardt said when he got no answer. ‘They just need some signatures and ID.’

Borch pulled into the car park. A line of light aircraft stood on the apron. The place seemed deserted apart from an office near the tower beyond some hangars.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said and got out.

The night was clear. No rain. Bright stars. A waning moon. The sharp tang of snow on the way. She took out the notes she’d made from the last phone call with Juncker, when he’d been
looking at the old Birk Larsen case files while keeping out of Brix’s sight.