The Killing - 01 - The Killing (32 page)

‘Listen.’ Meyer was getting cross. ‘Birk Larsen knows nothing. If he did why would they have let Kemal into their place? Why—’

‘Has he arrived home?’ she repeated.

‘As it happens, no. I don’t have time for this. Go fly away.’

‘Meyer!’

The line went dead.

The attendant came back, ordered her to put on her seat belt.

They were still at the gate, door open. Not for long.

Lund punched at her phone.

‘I’ve already told you once,’ the woman said. ‘Turn off that phone and put on your seat belt. We’re leaving.’

Lund stared at the dial. Hit the off button. Noticed Mark was looking at her. Her mother too. Probably had been for a while.

The pilot came on. Said the usual things.

Welcome on board your flight to Stockholm. Any minute now we’ll push back from the stand. The weather is fine en route. We expect an on-time arrival
. . .

Lund thought about Nanna and the teacher. Meyer and Theis Birk Larsen.

The flight attendant had her hand on the door. She was talking to the man outside on the gate. Getting ready to close it. Saying goodbye.

‘Fetch the luggage,’ Lund said, throwing off her seat belt.

‘What?’ her mother roared.

Mark punched the air, cried, ‘Yes!’

Then Lund marched down the plane, waving her police ID in one hand, clutching her phone to her ear with the other.

Through the dark Theis Birk Larsen gunned the van. The teacher in the passenger seat talking.

About school. About Nanna. About families and children.

Words lost on the big man at the wheel.

From Vesterbro into the city. Past Parliament and Nyhavn.

The water. The empty ground around the Kastellet fortress.

Long dark roads becoming narrow and deserted.

The teacher went silent.

Then said, ‘I think we passed the turning a while back.’

Birk Larsen drove and drove, into the black night, trying to think. Wishing he could find the words.

‘So we did,’ he said, and carried on.

In the cab from the airport Lund read over the details to the control room. Red van number plate UE 93 682. From Birk Larsen’s removals company. A general call to stop and wait for orders.

Vibeke sat in the back scolding Mark.

‘Of course you’re going to Sweden. You don’t think some silly trick of your mother’s will stop that, do you?’

When Lund came off the phone Vibeke said in a long, low voice, ‘Poor Bengt. Whatever must that nice man think?’

‘Bengt doesn’t just think of himself. He understands me better than you do.’

Her mother scowled at her.

‘I hope so. For your sake.’ A long, judgemental stare. ‘So shouldn’t you call him? Tell him there’s no point in waiting at the airport any more?’

Lund nodded.

‘I was about to. Thanks.’

Svendsen was outside the teacher’s home by the time Meyer got there. Kemal still hadn’t arrived. His wife had heard nothing. Theis Birk Larsen was missing. Not answering his phone.

‘Where’s Kemal’s car?’

‘Still in the garage.’

‘OK. Go drive the route from Birk Larsen’s house to here again.’

The detective bridled.

‘We did that already.’

‘You know that word I just used? Again?’

Svendsen didn’t move.

‘Shall I report Kemal missing?’

‘What for?’ Meyer asked.

‘Lund talked to Skov before she left. Birk Larsen was dangerous.’

Meyer popped some gum into his mouth, came up to the man, looked around, started calling, ‘Lund!
Lund!
’

Shrugged. Looked at the cop and asked, ‘Do you see Lund here?’

The man looked at him, said nothing.

‘From now on we do things my way. Understand? Lund’s away with the fairies. Milking cows or something.’

The radio was squawking. A message about Birk Larsen’s van.

Meyer called the control room and said, ‘This is 80–15. I didn’t put out a search for anything. What gives?’

‘Vicekriminalkommissær Lund requested the search.’

Meyer tried to laugh.

‘Lund’s in Sweden. Cut the jokes.’

‘Lund called five minutes ago and requested a search.’ A pause. ‘We don’t do jokes.’

Then hung up.

‘This is Theis Birk Larsen. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.’

Pernille held out the phone while the message played. Lund listened. The cab had gone on to take Vibeke and Mark home. She was alone with the Birk Larsen woman amidst the dirty plates, dirty cups, dirty glasses, uncleared tables of Nanna’s wake.

‘And you’ve no idea where he is?’ Lund asked.

‘He drove Rama home.’

Pernille looked pale, drained. And curious.

‘What’s so important?’

‘Did anything happen before they left? Between the two of them?’

‘I was talking to the teacher. Theis came over. He wanted some more coffee made.’ She scanned the remains of the wake, the empty garage. ‘So I went and made some. For the guests. What’s this about?’

‘Did your husband seem angry or upset. Or—?’

‘Upset?’

Pernille Birk Larsen glowered at her. A strong woman, Lund thought. A match for her husband in some ways.

‘How do you think Theis feels today? How do you think I feel? Take a look around. You’ve been everywhere anyway, haven’t you?’

‘Pernille.’

‘Everywhere . . .’

There was a noise from the office. The man who seemed to be here all the time, one of the workers, was there.

She knew his name. They’d run some checks. Minor crimes. Just like Birk Larsen.

Vagn Skærbæk.

‘Your husband may be about to do something stupid,’ she said, watching the woman very carefully. ‘It’s important I find him.’

‘Why? What would he do that’s stupid?’

There was a young voice from the stairs. One of the boys, calling for her.

‘My son needs me,’ Pernille said then left.

Lund walked straight into the office, showed the man her card.

‘You’re a friend of his?’

He was dealing with some papers. Didn’t look at her directly.

‘Yeah.’

‘Where did he go?’

Straight out, ‘I don’t know.’

More papers. She walked over, took them from his hands.

‘Listen to me. This is important. If you’re his friend you should help him. Where did they go?’

He had a silver necklace and a young man’s face growing old. Lund had dealt with a generation of people like this. Not much money. Not many prospects. She knew what to expect.

‘I’ve no idea.’

Sound at the door. Someone chewing, clearing his throat. She recognized his presence by now.

Lund was on the phone to control by the time she turned to face Meyer.

‘I need you to trace two mobiles. Theis Birk Larsen’s and Rahman Al Kemal’s. Here are the numbers.’

She handed the phone over to Meyer and nodded: do it.

‘God, you’ll pay for this, Lund.’

‘We don’t have time. Vagn?’

He was back in the corner, hiding.

‘Where are your warehouses?’

Meyer was on the phone, handling the numbers.

‘Vagn?’

Out by the waterfront, north of the city, the deserted docks in Frihavnen. Rain like tears from an endless black sky.

The red van sauntered slowly to the end of the road. A line of concrete. A path by the water. No cars. No lights. Not a sign of life.

Theis Birk Larsen bumped the front tyres against the path, pulled on the brake.

They’d sat together like this for almost an hour driving through the city. Going north. Going nowhere. Scarcely exchanging a word.

Now he killed the engine. The headlights. There was just the dim bulb above the mirror between them.

The phone in Birk Larsen’s suit pocket rang again. He took it out. Turned it off without answering. Put it back. Stared ahead.

‘What’s going on?’ the teacher said. ‘What . . .?’

Birk Larsen reached down, opened his door, climbed out.

Pulled the jacket of his funeral suit round his big frame. Walked through the blustery wind and freezing rain out to the water’s edge.

Turned, stared at the van. A dark face at the glass. Worried, grey in the single light.

Birk Larsen took out a packet of cigarettes, struggled to light one in the downpour. Shielded it with his powerful shoulder. Brought the flame to life.

Alone in his office Troels Hartmann was locked on to the news again. There was a time when he craved to be the lead item. Not now. Not like this.

‘The battle for the mayoral post took a dramatic turn when Bremer accused one of Hartmann’s role models of being involved in a murder case.’

Rie Skovgaard walked in, chanting the standard no comment at one more reporter looking for an interview. She came off the line, handed Hartmann a sheet of paper.

‘The Centre Party want a meeting. I had to promise it.’

Hartmann turned off the TV. She was walking out.

‘What did the police say?’ he asked.

She stopped at the door.

‘I can’t get through to anyone. Troels?’

She didn’t even look tired. She’d grown up in the brawling world of city politics from which his own father had been excluded. It was as if this all came naturally . . .

‘You realize you’ve got to suspend Kemal and issue a statement. Otherwise—’

‘Not until I’ve heard from the police. When I get a reason—’

‘You have to do this! It’s important we show you’ve got nothing to hide. This is about transparency.’

‘No it’s not. It’s about giving in. Letting the pressure dictate what you do. Not what’s right.’

He got up from the chair, found his jacket. Felt calm. Content this was the way forward.

‘Bremer stirred this up for a reason . . .’

She leaned back against the door, shifted her head left to right. Dark hair moving. What was it Morten said? The Jackie Kennedy funeral look.

‘You should have stuck to the script. No mention of role models. Just because Bremer went there you didn’t have to follow.’

‘I did what was right.’

‘You fouled up.’

‘Is that Daddy speaking?’

She broke, spat at him, ‘No, it’s me. I want you to win. Not throw away your chances for no good reason.’

‘Whose chances, Rie? Mine? Yours? Your father’s?’

She shook her head, narrowed those bright, piercing eyes.

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘I asked—’

‘You know maybe I’m not the adviser for you. What’s the point? If you ignore every damned thing I say.’

A turning point.

‘Maybe not,’ Hartmann said.

‘Here’s the truth, Troels. That teacher’s guilty. It doesn’t matter whether they convict him or not.’

‘You think so?’

‘If that’s what the press say. And they do . . .’

He grabbed his coat from the stand.

‘Talk to the police. If they say something . . . if they arrest this man. If they tell me he’s guilty . . .’

‘Too late.’

‘Then I act.’

She watched him get ready to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ Skovgaard asked. ‘Troels? Where?’

‘Have they traced those phones yet?’

Meyer didn’t answer. He was still on a call.

Lund was going through the documents on the wall, tracing the company premises, watched by a silent, surly Skærbæk.

She read them out to the control room. A warehouse at Sydhavnen. A depot in Valby. A warehouse at Frihavnen with no address.

‘Where in Frihavnen?’ she asked Skærbæk.

‘I’ve never been to that one.’

There was a cupboard full of keys. She went through those.

‘What about this workshop? Could he be there?’

‘I told you. I don’t know a bloody thing.’

Meyer came off the phone.

‘We’ve got a trace off a mobile phone mast. Kemal’s in Frihavnen.’

Port area. Not much used at night. Easy to hide, Lund thought.

‘He’s in Frihavnen,’ she told control. ‘Send out a car.’

No rain now. Just the Øresund’s black water, Sweden somewhere in the distance. Waves reflected in the lights from across the channel. Birk Larsen stood at the edge, in the headlamps of the van. Back to the world.

A sound. He turned. The teacher was out now. Not running. Which he could. Younger and fitter. Could race all the way back to the city. Avoid Birk Larsen and the van.