The Killing - 01 - The Killing (38 page)

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Skærbæk said, ‘OK.’

He didn’t leave. Sat there. Waiting.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ Birk Larsen said eventually.

‘I don’t know.’

Birk Larsen stood up. A head taller than Skærbæk. A year older. Stronger by far. King of the quarter. Once anyway.

‘It never lets you go,’ Birk Larsen said.

‘What?’

‘What you’ve done. Who you are.’

Birk Larsen nodded at the van keys on the wall.

‘Don’t go to the house, Vagn,’ he said. ‘Send Rudi on his own.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ the big man said.

Svendsen’s men found Mustafa Akkad when he walked back to the garages at Nørreport, straight into the arms of the team working there. By five that Sunday he was in an interview room with the woman interpreter. Lund was watching through the door, talking on the phone to Mark, telling him to get something to eat. Meyer came out and she ended the call.

‘He won’t say a word,’ Meyer told her.

‘We’ll see about that,’ she muttered and walked towards the room.

He didn’t follow.

She stopped.

‘What is it?’ Lund asked.

‘Are we sure he’s involved?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘He’s got a clean record. He works. He’s got four children. He prays five times a day.’

‘So what?’

‘So something doesn’t fit.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake. Where did you come from? Are they meant to wear badges or something?’

‘There’s something wrong! He could have removed all that stuff from the garage if he’d wanted.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘And he came back. To a murder scene. Please . . .’

‘Watch me,’ she said and marched into the room.

Akkad was a swarthy man of thirty-five. Leather bomber jacket. Scruffy gleaming black hair. Scared face that looked too young for his age.

Lund sat down, threw some papers on the table, said, ‘Here’s the thing. If you don’t talk I throw you in a cell. With a couple of bikers we picked up pushing dope in Christiania. They’re not into integration, Mustafa. Or didn’t you know that?’

He suddenly looked worried.

‘No language problems then.’ She pointed to the door. ‘So what is it? The cell? Or you talk? You tell me.’

The interpreter was still translating.

‘He doesn’t need this,’ Lund said. ‘Don’t translate another word. He talks to me in Danish. Or he goes to meet his new biker friends. Listen.’

Akkad’s eyes were on the table.

‘Listen!’ Lund shrieked in his face. ‘The court doesn’t care what you promised Kemal. Any more than I do. I can get you served with a deportation order in three days flat. You won’t see daylight. We’ll bundle you on a plane straight back to the place you came from.’

Finger in his face. That got some attention.

‘Straight back, Mustafa. We’ll make sure the police meet you at the airport.’ She waited a moment. ‘How are the police back home? Do they smile at you like we do? Are they nice?’

The translator was interpreting anyway. Lund let her chant on. It helped with the atmosphere.

‘After that,’ Lund said, speaking over the woman in the burka, ‘I visit your wife and kids. Check their papers. See if I can send them after you.’

His face went down into his hands.

‘Can you support them from a jail back home? Can they go to school? Go to hospital for free? Pick up benefits when they feel like it while everyone else goes out to work? Or maybe they’ll be begging on the streets like everyone else—’

‘I work!’ he roared.

The armed uniformed cop at the door took a step towards the table.

‘I work every hour I can.’

‘You speak good Danish too,’ Lund said, and folded her arms, sat back as if to listen. ‘So why the silence?’

‘It’s not what you think.’

Meyer pulled up a chair.

‘What is it then?’ he asked.

Mustafa Akkad shook his head.

‘Rama’s a good man. You’ve got to believe me.’ He stared at Lund. ‘He wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes.

‘He just did something stupid.’

‘What?’ Lund asked.

‘I went to his place that Friday night. He knew the girl would be coming by. I said I didn’t want anything to do with it.’ A shrug. ‘But he needed somewhere. When I arrived the girl was hurt. She’d been beaten up. She could hardly walk. We carried her to the car and drove her to my garage. So she could hide from her family. Then I left . . .’

‘Her family?’ Lund asked. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The girl. You keep asking me about the girl. I’m telling you . . . the girl Rama helped.’

‘What girl?’

Mustafa Akkad said, very slowly, ‘The girl from his father’s congregation. The one you keep asking about. Abu Jamal’s daughter. Leyla. They wanted her to marry some guy from home so he could come in here. So she tried to run away.’

‘Shit,’ Meyer muttered.

‘If they found her I don’t know what they’d do.’ He glared at them. ‘Not that you’d be much help. So Rama got her away from them. He hid her in my garage. Then somewhere else on Sunday. I don’t know where.’

Meyer swore again then got up and walked out of the room. Lit a cigarette in the dim corridor. Looked down towards the end.

Kemal’s wife was there. Big in an old khaki anorak. Phone in hand.

She said, ‘Rama didn’t come home. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not his babysitter.’

‘He went to pick up some shopping. He doesn’t answer his phone.’

Lund came to the door, listened.

‘I left lots of messages. He never got back to me.’ She showed Meyer the phone. ‘He always calls.’

Lund walked into Svendsen’s office. He was there looking relaxed over a mug of coffee.

‘Where’s Theis Birk Larsen?’ she asked.

‘Last I heard he was at home.’

‘I told you to keep him under surveillance.’

‘Give me a million men and maybe I can do a quarter of what you ask.’

‘Find out where he is,’ she ordered.

He picked up the coffee mug, toasted her.

At quarter past six the scarlet van drew up by the front door of the deserted warehouse. Skærbæk got out first, looked around.

No one came to this part of the city much on a Sunday night.

Checked right, checked left. Remembered the old days when he and Theis worked the streets. A good team. Good partners too, most of the time.

‘Clear,’ he said and banged the driver’s side. Then he took out the security card, opened the locks, rolled up the folding door, guided him in. Stood back and watched as Birk Larsen edged the vehicle into the half-empty interior.

A train went past. A shriek of a klaxon. Pigeons scattered round the inside of the building, flapped anxiously as they flew to the door.

Skærbæk popped on the lights then rolled the outside door back down.

The old days
.

Birk Larsen had brought a sledgehammer with him. Skærbæk a pickaxe handle. Both men stood at the back of the van, swinging them idly, remembering.

‘Theis—’

‘Keep quiet.’

Skærbæk fell silent. Watched. Wondered.

It was Birk Larsen who walked up to the back, unlocked the doors, threw them open.

The teacher crouched by the racks still pretending to be white.

Smart black jacket. Preppy scarf. Shiny shoes.

Skærbæk had a torch. He shone it in the man’s eyes.

Kemal got up, climbed out, opened his arms, looked at both of them.

Half angry, half terrified.

‘Listen to me,’ the teacher pleaded. ‘I haven’t done anything. I told you everything I know. I told the police—’

Birk Larsen upturned the sledgehammer, held it by the iron head, swung the shaft round, landed it in his gut.

Kemal went down, shrieking. Birk Larsen got a kick into his head, watched as he rolled round once on the floor, dragged him up by the leather jacket, threw him against the van.

Stood there, next to Skærbæk, waited.

‘Your daughter was in my flat for a minute,’ Kemal said, wiping the blood from his mouth. ‘She brought some books back. Then she left.’

Birk Larsen upturned the sledgehammer, let the iron head hang down to the ground, swinging it like a pendulum.

‘There was another girl there that night. Someone I was helping. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell the police.’

Skærbæk wiped his nose with his sleeve, banged his pickaxe handle against the van wall.

‘I know I should have told you but I couldn’t,’ Kemal yelled. ‘It’s the truth.’

Birk Larsen nodded. Looked at Skærbæk.

‘Gimme his phone,’ he said.

‘Theis . . .’ Skærbæk began.

‘Ring her,’ Birk Larsen ordered, handing over the mobile.

The teacher stood by the back of the van, hunched over, rigid, hurting and scared.

‘Go on,’ Birk Larsen ordered. ‘Ring the girl.’

Trembling fingers stabbed at the buttons. Rahman Al Kemal made the call.

As soon as she knew Lund left in her own car. Now she was out on the road, listening to the radio.

Control said, ‘We have a possible kidnapping. We’re looking for number plate PM 92 010. It’s a red van from Birk Larsen’s Removals. It left the garage around 6 p.m.’

Meyer was working up a team. She liked being on her own, trying to think.

‘Theis Birk Larsen is six foot four tall. About forty-five years old. Exercise caution when approaching him. He may be violent. Apprehend immediately and . . .’

She put her phone headset on, called Meyer.

‘What do you know?’

‘Where the hell are you? You can’t just walk out on me like that.’

‘I did.’

‘We’ve got the kidnap negotiators on standby.’

‘It’s not a kidnap, Meyer. He’s going to kill him. What do you know?’

‘We found Kemal’s car near his house. Looks like there’s been a struggle. Birk Larsen took a van.’

She was heading towards Vesterbro. This was Birk Larsen’s territory. Surely . . .

‘Places,’ she demanded. ‘Give me places.’

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Places!’

He sighed.

‘We’ve checked the garage and the warehouse next door. Trouble is Birk Larsen’s got little cubbyholes all round the city.’

‘Isn’t there a warehouse at Teglholmen?’

There was a big industrial park south of Vesterbro. The closest deserted area in the city to Birk Larsen’s home.

She heard the sound of papers being shuffled.

‘Yeah but he hasn’t used it in six months.’

‘What does Pernille say?’

‘I brought her in. She won’t even speak to me.’

‘Ask his best friend Skærbæk. If Theis is going to use anyone he’d pick him.’

‘Yeah,’ Meyer said. ‘I notice things too. Skærbæk’s not at home. Both of them have got their mobiles turned off.’

‘Shit.’

‘He used his credit card at a petrol station on Enghavevej about an hour and a half ago. That’s in Vesterbro, three streets from where he lives.’

Lund pulled in to the side of the road. She was near the turning for Vesterbro, by the Fisketorvet shopping centre. Several roads converged here. She could head anywhere in the city.

‘Wait,’ he ordered. ‘OK. We have a call from Kemal’s mobile registered in P Knudsens Gade. Let me look at a map.’

She knew where that was.

‘He’s going south-east to Valby,’ Meyer said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘He isn’t. I checked the Valby address.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Lund. Maybe he’s taking the motorway. What about Avedore? They’ve got a depot there.’

She pulled out into the traffic.

‘Would he use his own place?’

‘My psychic powers fail me. You got any better ideas?’

‘Birk Larsen isn’t stupid. He knows we have a list of his depots.’

‘Yeah!’ Meyer yelled. ‘They’re all we have. Think of something, will you? Damned if I can.’

‘Where did you say the call came from?’

‘P Knudsens Gade.’

‘I’ll take a look. Tell the wife she’d better talk to you if she wants to see her husband again.’

‘Yeah.’

The street was five minutes away, a broad, double carriageway lined with bare trees, running parallel with the motorway.

Houses and offices. Brightly lit.

Not the place for a killing.

Birk Larsen looked at his watch.

Kemal had tried the number repeatedly. Never got through. Now he sat on the ledge of the van door, pressing the buttons, getting nowhere.