‘About what?’ she wanted to know.
‘He wouldn’t say. It sounded important.’
‘Hartmann can wait,’ Lund said. ‘We’re going to the flat.’
When she made for the door Buchard took her arm.
‘What were we just saying? Troels Hartmann might be the next Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. We don’t piss off people in the Rådhus without a reason.’
‘We’ve got a suspect’s flat to search . . .’
‘I can do that,’ Meyer cut in. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted.’
Buchard nodded.
‘Good. That’s settled.’
The chief walked out.
‘Give Hartmann a ring,’ Meyer said, following him down the winding corridor. ‘It was you he asked for.’
Lund waited at the counter feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She didn’t go out much, even with Bengt. After the last few days this touristy restaurant in Nyhavn seemed too ordinary. Too warm and human.
Hartmann was five minutes late, making excuses. While they waited for a table he asked, ‘How are the girl’s parents?’
Was that the politician, she wondered? Or the man?
‘Is that why you asked me here? To talk about the parents?’
‘You really don’t do small talk, do you?’
‘Not in the middle of a case. One like this.’
‘I’ve got a press conference tomorrow. I want to say the right things.’
‘Right for who?’
‘For you. For me. Mostly for them.’
Men like this did sincerity so well. It was hard to see any cracks.
‘Say what you like,’ she told him.
‘There’ve been so many surprises. Will there be any more?’
Without a blink.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Can I say you know there’s no connection between the crime and us?’
She nodded.
‘I suppose so.’ She watched him. ‘If you think that’s true.’
The waitress called. He’d booked a table.
‘Is that all?’
Lund got ready to go.
He put his hand to her arm, very gently.
‘I’m sorry. I know I made things difficult. There’s an election going on. Some odd things have been happening.’ Hartmann looked angry for a second. ‘I never expected any of this.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you hungry?’
A plate of food went past. Meatballs and pasta. It looked a lot better than the hot dog Meyer never got her.
‘I’ll have some of that,’ Lund said. Then, ‘Just a minute.’
She went to the lobby, called her mother’s. Got the loudest, friendliest greeting in months, then found out why. Bengt had arrived from Sweden, would be in Copenhagen for one night only.
‘You must talk,’ Vibeke crooned then handed the call over.
Don’t need this now
, Lund thought, listening to him talk about Mark’s progress with his Swedish, the Sigtuna hockey shirt he’d found, the perfect wood for the perfect sauna.
She nodded all the while, seeing little in her head but a small and grubby room in the basement of a school, a mattress stained with blood, a table of drink and dope, a discarded witch’s hat and a shiny blue wig.
‘When will you be home?’ Bengt asked.
Back to the awkward present.
‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘Soon.’
A pause.
‘When?’
He never pressed her. Never sounded upset or angry or cold. His pleasant, pacific nature was one of the things she loved. Or maybe it just made life easier.
‘When I’m done. I’m sorry this came up. Truly. Let’s talk later. I’ve got to go.’
Back at the table she got stuck into the food. They talked again about press releases. About cooperation. Close up Hartmann interested her. There was a frail naivety to him that was absent from the face on the posters. He was a widower. She’d checked that in the press cuttings library already, at the same time she had checked on Jan Meyer. Hartmann’s wife died from cancer two years before. The loss had affected him. At one point it threatened to bring his political career – the only job he’d ever had – to a premature end.
She found he was staring at her, uncharacteristically shorn of the right words.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ve got . . .’ His hand waved in her direction. ‘You’ve got food on your face.’
Lund grabbed a napkin, wiped her mouth. Ate some more just as greedily.
It was a pleasant cafe. The kind of place couples went. Or men with their mistresses. If someone had walked in at that moment, seen her with this man . . .
‘We’re agreed then?’ he concluded.
‘You tell your story. We’ll tell ours. Such as it is.’
‘What about your life?’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. It’s none of my business.’
‘It’s good. I’m going to Sweden with my son. My boyfriend lives outside Stockholm. I’ve got a job there. Civilian with the police.’
She took a quick gulp of wine, wished there was more food.
‘Everything will be fine,’ Lund insisted.
‘How old’s your son?’
‘Twelve. And you?’
‘I’m a bit older than that.’
‘I meant . . .’
‘I know, I know. We didn’t get that far. My wife died. Mostly . . .’ He shrugged, looked a little ashamed. ‘I spend my time working. I’ve met someone though. Hopefully it’s not too late.’
‘The woman from your office,’ she said and it wasn’t a question. ‘Rie Skovgaard.’
Hartmann cocked his head and looked at her.
‘Can you see into my pockets too?’
He’d barely touched his food or drink. Hartmann looked as if he could stay there all night. Talking, talking.
‘My boyfriend’s over from Sweden,’ Lund said. ‘I have to go. Here . . .’
She took out some money for the bill.
‘No, no, no.’ He waved it away quickly. ‘You were my guest.’
‘So long as you pay. Not the taxpayer.’
‘I’ll pay, Sarah,’ Hartmann said, waving a credit card.
‘Thank you, Troels. Goodnight.’
Bengt went straight to sleep the way he always did. Lund got out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, went to the window, sat in the cane chair, called Meyer.
‘What did you find out?’ she whispered.
‘Not much.’
Meyer was talking in a hushed tone too. It sounded odd.
‘There’s got to be something.’
‘Forensics have taken a computer and samples.’
The dinner with Hartmann still intrigued her.
‘Was there anything in Nanna’s room that suggests she was going out to meet someone?’
‘Can’t this wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.’
‘She must have had a date.’
‘Yes, Lund. With Oliver. But you won’t let me talk to him.’ Noises behind his quiet voice. Movement. A baby crying. ‘There. Look. You’ve woken the whole house.’
She went out into the dining room, turned on a light, sat at the table.
‘Do the parents remember anything new?’
‘I’ll ask them tomorrow. OK?’ A grunt. ‘Some idiot on the team told the mother the girl had drowned in the boot. She’s going mad.’
Lund swore.
‘You don’t need to do that. I’ll talk to them.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes,’ Lund said. ‘Of course.’
She walked past Mark’s room. He was still fast asleep. Bengt was awake but didn’t want to show it. Everyone here was fine, Lund thought. They didn’t need her at all.
Thursday, 6th November
The morning was dull and damp with drizzle. They ate breakfast together then Lund drove Bengt to the station. Talked about the weekend. Who they’d see in Sweden. What they’d do.
He listened in silence. Then she said, ‘The house-warming party . . .’
‘Forget about the party. I’ve cancelled it.’
She wondered: was that a stray note of displeasure in his voice? It was hard to tell. Anger was so foreign to him.
‘Let’s wait until your case is over, Sarah. Then . . .’
‘I don’t need to wait. I told you. We’re coming Saturday, whatever.’
He gazed out of the window at the traffic and the morning travellers.
‘I’m not inviting lots of people for you to call again and say you’re not coming.’
That was sharp. Unmistakable.
‘Of course I’ll turn up! I’m looking forward to seeing your parents. And . . .’ His little refrain of Swedish names from the other day came back to her. ‘Ole and Missan and Janne and Panne and Hasse and Basse and Lasse . . .’
He was laughing. She could still get that out of him.
‘It’s Bosse, not Basse.’
‘Sorry. Still learning.’
‘Well. If you’re sure . . .’
‘I’m sure! It’s a promise.’
She dropped him at Central Station then drove on to Vesterbro.
Lund sat on Nanna’s bed trying to remember what it was like to be a teenager. The room was small and bright, messy and chaotic. Bags from inexpensive clothing companies, scribbled notes from class, books and magazines, make-up and jewellery . . .
A reflection of Nanna Birk Larsen’s personality, her life.
She went through the diary, found nothing. Nothing in the school notebooks, the photos on the corkboard above her small desk.
Lund thought of herself at this age, an awkward, morose child. Her room was more untidy than this. But different somehow. It existed for her, an inward expression of her solitary, introverted nature. Here, she thought, Nanna had created a place for preparation. A private dressing room from which she would emerge to enchant the world outside, entrance it with her beauty, her clothes, her sparkling and obvious intelligence.
All the things the teenage Sarah Lund lacked this girl possessed in abundance. A loving mother too.
And now she was dead.
There was a path from this room to Nanna’s shocking end in the canal at the Kalvebod Fælled. There were reasons, and reasons left traces.
She looked in the wardrobe, sifted through the clothes. A few had scissored labels, bought from a budget store perhaps. A few didn’t. And . . .
Lund fought again to recall herself at this age. What did she wear? Much the same as now. Jeans, shirts, jumpers. Practical clothes for a practical life, not the attention of others. It was natural for an attractive teenager to dress to be seen. Lund herself was the exception. Yet the clothes she found sifting through Nanna’s coat hangers seemed too good, too adult, too . . . knowing.
Then she brushed the hangers to one side, looked at the back where a small mountain of shoes stood, pair upon discarded pair.
Behind them something glittered. Lund reached in, felt Nanna’s clothes fluttering against her cheeks like the wings of gigantic moths, retrieved what was there.
A pair of shiny brown cowboy boots decorated with coloured motifs, glitter, studs, tiny mirrors.
They shouted money.
No. They screamed it.
‘My wife’s here,’ said a brusque male voice behind her.
Lund jumped, banged her head on the hanger rail.
It was Theis Birk Larsen.
He watched her rub her hair.
‘Be careful what you tell her.’
Seated round the table, frozen faces captured in the surface.
‘I’m sorry you were told,’ Lund said.
The day had brightened. The flowers were fading. But still the place smelled of their sweet scent.
‘The officer shouldn’t have done that. He’s been transferred so you won’t see him again.’
Theis Birk Larsen, head down, eyes dead, muttered, ‘Well, that’s something.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Pernille said. ‘I want to know the truth. I want to know what happened. I’m her mother.’
Lund checked her notes.
‘No one saw Nanna after the party. She was probably driven away in the stolen car. The one we found her in.’
Lund looked out of the window, looked back at her.
‘She was raped.’
Pernille waited.
‘She was beaten.’
Pernille waited.
‘We think she fought back. That may be why he hit her.’
Nothing more.
‘In the woods?’ Pernille asked.
‘In the woods. We think so.’ Lund hesitated. ‘But maybe she was held captive somewhere else first. We just don’t know.’
The big man went to the sink, placed his fists knuckles down on the draining board, gazed out at the wan grey sky.
‘She told us she’d be at Lisa’s,’ Pernille said. ‘Nanna didn’t lie to me.’
‘Maybe she didn’t.’ A pause. ‘Do you have no idea?’ A glance at the shape at the window, the hunched back clad in black leather. ‘Did you remember anything else?’
‘If something was wrong Nanna would have told me,’ Pernille insisted. ‘She’d have told me. We’re . . . We were . . .’
Words proved a struggle.