The Killing - 01 - The Killing (26 page)

He looked ashamed of himself. More ashamed than when Meyer pulled out the porn.

‘The girl made it up. He’s a nice man. Kind to everyone.’

‘Just like you,’ Meyer said and threw the mag in his face.

Pernille sat at the table trying to smile for the teacher, Rama. The handsome, polite one from the school. He’d brought flowers, photos, messages from the shrine. Took the chair opposite looking serious and sorrowful.

‘They’re a bit wilted. I’m sorry.’

She took them, knowing they’d go in the bin the moment he left. And that Rama understood this too.

‘Some of Nanna’s class would like to come to the funeral. If that’s OK.’

‘That’s fine.’

Rama smiled a brief, melancholy smile.

‘You can come too. Please.’

He seemed surprised. Did they think she wouldn’t want a foreigner?

‘Thank you. We’ll all be there. I won’t keep you any longer—’

‘Don’t go.’

He wanted to, she thought. But Pernille was past worrying about what others wanted any more.

‘Can you tell me something about her?’

‘Like what?’

‘Something she did.’

He thought about the question.

‘Philosophy. Nanna always loved that. She was really into Aristotle.’

‘Who?’

‘He was Greek. She was in our drama group.’

‘Acting?’

She never mentioned this. Not once.

‘I told them what Aristotle said about acting. She was very interested in that. She thought our plays should last from dawn till dusk. Just like the ancient Greeks.’

‘She was a schoolgirl,’ Pernille said, cross suddenly. ‘She had a life. Here. A real one. It wasn’t a dream. She didn’t need to make something up.’

A mistake. He looked embarrassed.

‘I think it was a joke.’ Checked his watch. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. I work at a youth club. There’s an appointment. I can’t miss it.’

Pernille looked into his calm, dark face. Liked this man. Looked at the table. Ran her fingers across the dimpled lacquered surface, stared at the photos and the faces.

‘We made this together. Planed the timber. Glued it. Stuck the photos.’

The wood felt smooth now and worn. It wasn’t always. There were splinters. Tears sometimes.

‘You’re alone,’ the teacher said. ‘Is that—?’

‘Theis is downstairs. In the office. Doing . . .’

It was dark in there when she answered the bell. Not a single light.

Doing what?

Smoking. Hugging a bottle of beer. Weeping.

‘Paperwork,’ she said.

It wasn’t paperwork.

Birk Larsen sat still and silent in the dark office. The door opened. Vagn Skærbæk walked in, turned on the dim light by the notice-board. Keys in his hand. Checked the line of hooks on the wall. Found the right place. Kept things in order.

Didn’t see the man in the black jacket hunched over the desk, cigarette in hand, bottle in fist until Birk Larsen grunted something wordless.

‘Shit! You scared me.’

The figure didn’t move.

‘Are you OK, Theis?’

Turned on the main light. Walked forward, looked.

‘I’ll go and get Pernille.’

A strong hand reached out and held him.

Birk Larsen’s eyes were pink and watery.

Drunk.

He said, ‘A week ago I had a daughter. She walked out of here. Went to a party.’

‘Theis . . .’

‘I saw her again today.’ The eyes beneath the black hat closed, tears squeezed between the lids. ‘It wasn’t really her. It was like something . . . Something . . .’

‘I’m going to get Pernille. You don’t drink any more either.’

‘No!’

His voice was loud and fierce. Vagn Skærbæk knew not to ignore it.

‘Theis. I got this friend Jannik. He heard something.’

Skærbæk hesitated. Felt Birk Larsen’s eyes on him.

‘Heard what?’

‘Maybe nothing.’

Birk Larsen waited.

‘Jannik’s wife works at the school. He said the police came back again.’ Hands fidgeting with the silver chain. ‘They started questioning the staff. All Nanna’s teachers.’

Another cigarette. Another pull at the beer. He gazed at Vagn Skærbæk.

‘Maybe she knows more than he told me.’ Skærbæk licked his lips. ‘The police are useless shits. If they weren’t you and me—’

‘Don’t talk of that,’ Birk Larsen snarled. ‘Those days are gone.’

‘So you don’t want me to talk to Jannik’s wife?’

Birk Larsen sat on the hard seat, staring into space.

‘Theis . . .’

‘You do that.’

Elections played on ideas. Themes. Icons. Brands. So Troels Hartmann found himself that night putting on tennis shoes then walking in his office suit, out to the sports hall, Rie Skovgaard by his side.

Basketball was a young sport. He was the young candidate. A photo opportunity. A chance to shake hands.

‘Frederiksholm’s a model school,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing on any of the teachers. I’ve been through every file. Lund’s got them. We’re in the clear.’

The smell of sweat, the sound of a ball bouncing on wood.

‘You’ve got a photo shoot. Then we meet some of the role models. We get youth, we get recreation, we get community. One strike, three hits.’

Hartmann took off his jacket, pulled his shirt out of his trousers, rolled up his sleeves.

‘When do the civil servants go home?’

‘Concentrate on why we’re here. These people are important for us.’

They walked into the hall. Figures playing. Black and white. Moving quickly, noisily.

‘Morten told me he noticed a couple of civil servants working late. Why would they do that?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘He says we need to watch them.’

‘Morten’s paid to run your campaign. Not offer you advice like that.’

‘What if Bremer’s got someone inside? Causing mischief? Leaking emails. Getting hold of my diary.’

‘Leave me to worry about that. You’re the candidate. The public face. I can handle the rest.’

Hartmann didn’t move.

‘I went out of my way to fix this opportunity,’ Rie Skovgaard added. ‘We’ve got every media outlet that matters out there. Try to smile for them, will you?’

Onto the floor. Strong handshakes. Friendly greetings. One by one Hartmann talked to them, Iranian and Chinese, Syrian and Iraqi. Danish now, working for his integration programme. Unpaid role models for the communities around them.

Two teams. One with a gap for him.

Hartmann tied his laces, looked at the opposition, said: ‘Ready to be thrashed?’

For ten precious minutes this was all there was. Racing around the polished floor, throwing the ball. Passing it. Physical exertion. No thoughts. No strategies. No plans. Even the flash of the cameras didn’t bother him. The Rådhus. The Liberal Party. Poul Bremer. Kirsten Eller. Even Rie Skovgaard. All of them were gone.

A break in play. The throw came to him. Hartmann dashed, dummied, bounced, launched.

Watched the ball turn slowly through the air, descend to the net, fall through.

A roar. He punched the air. Pure emotion. No thought in his head.

The cameras burst like lightning. Smiling he turned, high-fived the nearest player.

Captured for ever: two men grinning happily at one another. Troels Hartmann in a blue shirt, victorious. The teacher called Rama, clasping his hand.

‘She walks down the corridor and finds the right hotel room. She’s about to knock. She wonders if this is wrong. Should she have come? It’s so different being with him. So different from everything at home. The garage she played in as a little girl with its smell of petrol. Her room and all her things. Far too many things because she can’t throw anything out. The kitchen where she spent hours with her mum, dad and two brothers, where they celebrated birthdays, Christmas and Easter. At home she will always be a little girl. But now . . . here in the hotel corridor . . . she’s a woman. She knocks. He answers.’

Feet up on her desk in her office Lund was reading Nanna’s story. Meyer walked in, arms full of food.

‘For your sake there’d better be a hot dog for me.’

‘No. Kebab.’

‘What kind?’

A shrug.

‘The meat kind. It’s a kebab, Lund.’

He placed a white plastic box on her desk, then a couple of pots of sauce.

‘No name,’ she said. ‘No description. Just a secret man she meets at various hotels.’

They flipped up the boxes and started to eat.

‘All we have,’ she went on, ‘is a pair of boots, an old essay and some gossip among the teachers.’

‘It’s not just gossip.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘I spoke to Rektor Koch. Rama . . . or rather Rahman Al Kemal was involved in something a few years ago. A third-year student said he groped her.’

‘What happened?’

‘She withdrew the complaint. Koch thinks the kid had a crush on him. Made it up when he didn’t play.’

Lund emptied the entire pot of hot sauce on her kebab and took a bite. Meyer watched in horror.

‘Go careful with that stuff.’

‘Nothing wrong with my stomach. Why tell us about the essay if it was him?’

‘We’d have found it anyway. Let’s talk to him. He said he was at home with his wife. We can check that.’

Lund sifted through the personnel records.

‘That incident should have been written up in his file.’

‘Dead right,’ he agreed.

She was rifling through the papers.

‘Don’t waste your time, Lund. We never got his file. Hartmann’s people sent over all the rest. Not his.’

She was thinking.

‘We did ask for them all, didn’t we?’ Meyer asked.

‘Of course we did.’

Lund picked up the remains of her kebab and got her jacket.

‘Well?’

Outside Rama’s block in Østerbro she called home, got Mark. Spoke to him in the cobbled street, Meyer listening, not discreetly either.

There was a party. She issued instructions. Go straight home afterwards. Call if he needed her.

‘We’re leaving tomorrow,’ Lund said. ‘Saturday night. I’ll book the tickets.’

She looked at the phone.

‘Mark? Mark?’

Put it in her pocket.

Meyer said, ‘How old’s your boy?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Want some advice?’

‘Not really.’

‘You need to listen to him. A kid of that age has got a lot on his plate. What with girls and all the rest. His brain . . .’ Meyer’s voice took on a different tone, one she didn’t recognize. ‘It’s at a certain stage of development. Just listen to him.’

Lund strode ahead of him, trying not to get angry.

‘He says I’m only interested in dead people.’

Meyer stopped, stuttered some words she didn’t hear.

‘Must be his brain,’ Lund said. ‘Number four, isn’t it?’

They found the place and rang the bell.

A blonde woman, very pregnant, very tired, answered the door and let them in without an argument.

Rama wasn’t there. She said he had an appointment at the local youth club.

‘You teach at the school too?’ Meyer asked.

It was a nice, modern flat, only half-renovated. Stripped walls, naked doors. Barely habitable.

‘Yes. Just part-time at the moment. The baby . . .’

While he talked Lund wandered round, looking. They’d fallen into this routine easily, without talking about it. The pattern seemed to work.

‘Did you know Nanna Birk Larsen?’ he asked.

The slightest hesitation.

‘She wasn’t a student of mine.’

Pots of paint, rolls of carpet waiting to be laid. No photos. Nothing personal at all.

‘Were you at the party last Friday?’

‘No. I get tired easily.’

Lund found nothing of interest, wandered back to the main room where Meyer stood with Rama’s wife.

‘So you were at home?’ he said.

‘Yes. Well, I wasn’t actually at home.’

Nothing more.

Meyer took a deep breath and said, ‘So you
weren’t
at home?’

‘We’ve got a little cottage on some allotments outside Dragør. We were there all weekend.’

Dragør. The other side of Kastrup. Not more than ten or fifteen minutes by car from where Nanna was found.

‘This place is a mess,’ she added. ‘The floors were being sanded. We couldn’t stay.’

‘Ah.’ Meyer nodded. His ears, Lund thought, looked bigger when he was curious. Which seemed impossible. ‘So you were both there?’