The Killing - 01 - The Killing (31 page)

‘I’ve left my number. If . . .’

He stared at her.

‘I’m sure you won’t need it. But . . .’

Buchard sat on the desk looking miserable. Before he could say a word she shook his hand too, said goodbye.

Then walked out of the Copenhagen Police Headquarters. Career over. Job gone.

Case still open.

The cab had a dropdown TV. Mark one side, Vibeke the other, Lund watched the nightly news. A debate between Hartmann and Bremer. All the polls said the fight for City Hall was a battle between these two. One misstep might give the other the game.

‘We haven’t bought any beer or brandy,’ Vibeke complained.

‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘And chocolates to go with the coffee.’

‘They sell chocolates in Sweden I believe.’

‘Not
our
chocolates!’

Lund’s phone rang. She looked at the number.

Skov. The detective she’d sent chasing information about Theis Birk Larsen after Buchard’s tip-off from the retired cop.

Waited. Thought about leaving it. Answered anyway.

‘What took you so long?’ He sounded excited. ‘I got the file from the retired DCI.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you want to know what’s in it?’

‘Give it to Meyer.’

He hesitated.

‘To Meyer?’

‘That’s what I said.’

The weather report. Lund picked up the remote, turned it off.

‘What does it say?’

‘It’s a case from twenty years ago. Some kind of vendetta between dope dealers. It never went to court.’

Mark looked around the car, mumbled, ‘I’ve forgotten my cap. Left it at Gran’s . . .’

‘It looks to me as if . . .’

‘Mum?’

‘I’ll buy you a new one.’

The cop droned on, ‘It’s about a . . .’

‘I don’t want a Swedish cap.’

‘We’re not turning back now, Mark.’

Silence on the phone.

‘I’m listening,’ Lund insisted.

‘Really?’ Skov said. ‘It involved a pusher from Christianshavn. Got beaten up. Almost killed. They never found who was responsible. Theis Birk Larsen was the main suspect. They questioned him.’

‘Mark!’

He was rootling round the footwell, looking for something else.

‘I forgot—’

‘I don’t care what you forgot,’ she snapped. ‘We’re going.’

‘Brandy and beer and cigarettes,’ her mother murmured from the other side.

‘Birk Larsen had a motive,’ the cop said. ‘The drug dealer had threatened to reveal something involving him. Was going to talk to us.’

‘About what?’

‘Don’t know. He kept quiet after that. Real scared of Birk Larsen it seems. The man’s got a reputation. Violence. Bad temper. Wait . . . I’m still reading this. There’s a second file underneath.’

Then, so loud she took the phone from her ear, ‘Christ!’

Mark was fidgeting, her mother still moaning.

‘What is it?’

Silence.

‘What is it?’

‘They went back a month later to see if the pusher had changed his mind. Intelligence asked for it. They really wanted Birk Larsen.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. They found him dead. I’ve got the pictures here. Jesus . . .’

‘What?’

‘This is worse than the first time. The guy looks like a piece of meat.’

‘OK,’ she cut in. ‘You need to tell Meyer.’

‘Meyer’s busy.’

‘Tell him to call me right away.’

‘OK. Bye.’

The garage was full, the wake quiet. No speeches. No songs. Only tables covered with white cloths and flowers, portable chairs, simple food.

Theis Birk Larsen wandered among their guests, nodding, saying little. Watching the boys, Emil and Anton, grow puzzled and bored.

Pernille flitted from table to table. Listening, speaking rarely. Letting the gentle murmur of so many voices dull her pained, bruised mind.

This was a business. People still called. Customers. They had no idea.

By the door, on the extension, Vagn Skærbæk fielded them all, watching, sad-eyed in his black jumper, black jeans.

Coffee and water. Sandwiches and cake.

Birk Larsen walked like a ghost between tables, making sure cups were full, plates never empty. A waiter with nothing to say.

Then, in the office, by the hot silver urn, Skærbæk cornered him.

‘Theis. I just had a call.’

‘No business today, Vagn. I’m making coffee.’

‘I just spoke to Jannik’s wife. The woman at the school.’

Birk Larsen turned off the tap, put the half-filled cup on the table.

Walked into the shadows, away from the people outside.

‘Now’s not the time—’

‘No,’ Skærbæk insisted. ‘Now is the time.’

‘I told you. It can wait.’

‘I’ve got something.’

Birk Larsen looked at him. That plain thuggish face he’d known since childhood. More lined. The hair receding. Still a little scared. A little stupid.

‘I told you, Vagn. I’m making coffee.’

Skærbæk stared at him. Defiant. Angry even.

‘He’s here,’ he said.

Birk Larsen shook his head, stroked his chin, his cheek, wondered why he couldn’t shave well on a day like this.

Asked, ‘Who is?’

‘The man they think did it.’ Skærbæk’s dark, tricky eyes were shining. ‘He’s here.’

A name. Said with that savage distaste Skærbæk saved for the foreigners.

Through the glass Birk Larsen stared.

The room began to empty. The wake was coming to an end. After a long time he walked out of the office, crossed the room with slow, ponderous steps, trying to think of the right words to say. The proper thing to do.

Pernille was thanking the teacher for the wreath.

Rama, smart and handsome in a dark suit, prepared and presentable in a way Birk Larsen knew he could never hope to emulate, said, ‘It was from the school. From all of us. Students and staff.’

The man looked at Birk Larsen, expecting something.

Words.

‘We need some coffee.’

Pernille stared at him, affronted by his rudeness.

‘You want me to make some coffee?’

A nod.

She left.

Words.

‘Thank you for welcoming us into your home,’ the teacher said.

Birk Larsen looked at the table. The cups, the glasses, the plates with half-eaten food.

Lit a cigarette.

‘It means a lot to her classmates.’

His voice was slick and sweet. Just a touch of the exotic there. Not like most of them, inarticulate. Strangers. Foreign.

‘It means a lot to me,’ Rama said and reached out to touch his arm.

Something in Birk Larsen’s eyes stopped him.

Parks and recreation. Clean technology and environmental jobs. The interview was going well. Hartmann knew it. So did the studio. He could tell from the tone of the questions, the nodding heads behind the cameras in the dark.

From Poul Bremer’s stiff responses too.

‘You must be happy with all these ideas, Lord Mayor?’

The interviewer was a woman Hartmann had met before. Smart and attractive.

A nod of that grey magisterial head.

‘Of course. But let’s talk about something different. Immigration. Role models especially.’

He looked at the camera, then at Hartmann.

‘Really, Troels. They’re just a gimmick.’

Hartmann stiffened.

‘Try saying that in your ghettoes.’

A genial laugh.

‘We built good affordable housing for people who mostly arrived here uninvited. They seem grateful. We can’t tell them where to live.’

Hartmann’s temper stirred.

‘You can try to address social inequality—’

‘Let’s go back to role models,’ Bremer broke in. ‘You seem so fascinated by them. Your personal invention. Why is this? Why are they so important?’

‘Social inequality—’

‘Why treat immigrants differently? I won’t tolerate discrimination against minorities. But you wish to give the minorities rights that are denied to the rest of us. To people born here. Why not treat them like everyone else?’

Troels Hartmann took a deep breath, studied the man across the table. He’d heard these sly gambits so many times . . .

‘That’s not the point and you know it.’

‘No I don’t,’ Bremer retorted. ‘Enlighten me. What is the point?’

Hartmann fumbled for the words. Bremer sensed something.

‘You don’t seem very proud of your role models right now. Why is that?’

Poul Bremer knew something. It was written in that smirk.

Hartmann’s hands performed contortions. His mouth opened. Said nothing.

In the darkness he heard a faint instruction.

‘Stay on him. Camera one.’

A politician’s career could disappear in an instant. With a single thoughtless action. A solitary careless word.

‘I’m very proud of them.’

‘Are you?’ Bremer asked amiably.

‘These people work unpaid to make Copenhagen a better place. We should thank them. Not dismiss them as third-class citizens—’

‘This is wonderful.’

‘Let me answer!’

‘No. No. It’s wonderful.’

A glance at the camera. Then Bremer’s cold eyes fell on the man across the table.

‘But isn’t it true some of your role models are criminals themselves?’

‘That’s nonsense—’

‘Be honest with us. One of them’s involved in a murder case.’

The interviewer broke in.

‘What murder case?’

‘Ask Troels Hartmann,’ Bremer said. ‘He knows.’

‘An actual case?’ the woman asked.

‘As I said. A murder. But . . .’ Bremer frowned as if unwilling to elaborate for reasons of taste. The point was made. The bomb was dropped. ‘Hartmann’s the Mayor of Education. Ask him.’

‘No.’ The interviewer was cross now. ‘This is unacceptable, Bremer. If you won’t be specific you must drop this subject.’

‘Unacceptable?’ He raised his hands. ‘What’s unacceptable is—’

‘Stop this!’

Hartmann’s voice was so loud a technician near the table ripped off his headphones.

‘Imagine you’re right. Let’s say this is true.’

‘Yes,’ the old man agreed. ‘Let’s say that.’

‘Then what? If one immigrant makes a mistake does that implicate all immigrants? That’s absurd and you know it. If that’s so then what applies to one politician must apply to all of them.’

‘You’re avoiding the point—’

‘No.’ Hartmann no longer cared how this might look. ‘These role models have achieved more for integration in four years than you’ve managed in all your time in office. Unpaid, without thanks. While you did nothing—’

‘Not true—’

‘It’s true!’

Hartmann heard his own furious tones echo back at him from the dark belly of the studio.

Bremer relaxed in his seat, arms folded, smug and satisfied.

‘I’ve got plans for Copenhagen,’ Hartmann began.

‘We’ll hear more of this,’ Bremer broke in. ‘We’ll hear more very soon I think.’

Kastrup. Fifteen minutes to departure. Their seats were halfway along the plane. Mark by the window. Vibeke in between. Lund in the aisle, phone in hand.

Meyer’d called.

‘Did you hear about Birk Larsen?’ she asked, cramming her bag into the overhead locker.

‘No. But we’ve found the girl’s bike. What did you want?’

‘What bike?’

‘A patrol car stopped a girl on a bike for riding without lights. Turned out to be Nanna’s.’

A severe-looking flight attendant came up to Lund and ordered her to turn off the phone.

‘The girl said she stole the bike from outside Kemal’s place. We’re picking him up. Where are you?’

‘On the plane.’

‘Have a nice flight.’

‘Meyer. Keep an eye on Birk Larsen.’

She sat down. The flight attendant was at the front of the plane, haranguing someone else.

‘Why?’

‘Read the old case file like I told you. Don’t let him near Kemal.’

She could hear him pulling on a cigarette.

‘Now you tell me. The two of them just left the wake.’

‘What?’

‘I sent someone to pick up Kemal. He was there after the funeral. Birk Larsen had already offered him a lift. What’s wrong?’

‘Has Kemal arrived home?’