The Killing - 01 - The Killing (40 page)

A long silence. Broken only when Henrik Bigum swore, got up, stormed out of the room. Then Elisabet Hedegaard squeezed Hartmann’s hand, beamed at him, leaned over, whispered, ‘Well done.’

Ten minutes later, alone in his office, in front of the TV.

‘It’s now evident that Hartmann’s role model has been cleared of all suspicion,’ the newscaster said.

A reporter was chasing Poul Bremer down a City Hall corridor, shoving a microphone in the mayor’s face.

‘I’m pleased the case has turned out this way for Hartmann’s sake,’ Bremer said with no conviction. ‘But you saw the way he behaved. He was paralysed by indecision. Troels Hartmann isn’t fit to be Lord Mayor. Not up to the job.’

Weber walked in, all smiles for once.

‘Lots of people calling, Troels. The press would love to talk to you. Everyone’s happy with the outcome.’

Skovgaard was behind him.

‘Even in Parliament,’ she added. ‘People like a winner.’

Kirsten Eller came on the screen, smug outside her office.

‘This is a happy moment,’ she said. ‘It proves Troels Hartmann is a trustworthy alternative to Bremer. That’s why we placed our faith in him from the very beginning.’

Hartmann rolled back his head and laughed at the ceiling.

Then he turned off the TV.

‘The press,’ Skovgaard said.

‘I don’t want to talk to them till tomorrow. Put out a statement saying I’m glad justice has been done. Morten?’

Weber got out his notepad.

‘Step up the poster campaign. Let’s focus on our integration policy. Make a point of mentioning the role models. What a success they’ve been. Oh . . .’

He got his coat, put it on.

‘I want another group meeting tomorrow. Don’t call anyone till the morning. Tell them then. Say everyone who was here today needs to be there.’

‘Short notice,’ Weber said.

‘Same as they gave me.’

Weber wandered off.

Troels Hartmann got Rie Skovgaard’s coat, brought it to her. She looked happier than she had in days. Beautiful too, though exhausted. He worked everyone too hard.

‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘And we need to talk.’

Theis Birk Larsen sat in a room with two uniformed officers going through the paperwork. Lund watched from outside with Pernille.

‘What happens now?’

‘We charge him,’ Lund said.

‘Where will he go?’

‘A holding cell.’

The uniformed men nodded at the big man in the black jacket. He got up, walked out with them.

‘When can he come home?’

Lund didn’t answer.

‘We’ve got two boys. When can he come home?’

‘That depends on the charge.’

‘Is he going to jail?’

Lund shrugged.

‘This is all your fault, Lund. If it wasn’t for you—’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ll have a car drive you home. Someone will be in touch after the hearing.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Pernille . . .’ She wondered if this was worth saying. Whether it might make a difference. ‘We’re not special. We’re just like you. If people lie to us we think ill of it. We don’t know whether their reasons are good or bad. All we know is . . . they’re lying.’

Pernille Birk Larsen stood in the Politigården office, rigid with fury.

‘You think I’m lying now?’

‘I think there’s a lot we still don’t know.’

She waited.

‘Fine,’ Pernille said and walked off.

Meyer was at his desk, going through the latest papers.

‘The Muslim girl’s made a statement.’ He looked like a tired schoolboy in his zip-up jerkin and striped T-shirt. ‘She confirmed Kemal’s alibi. She said it was her top we found. I’ve spoken to Kemal.’

She was listening, just. Mostly Lund was staring at the photographs on the wall. The car. The canal. The Pentecost Forest.

‘The doctors say he’ll recover,’ Meyer added. ‘He doesn’t want to press charges.’

‘It’s not up to him.’

‘Can you not do that again, Lund?’

‘Do what?’

‘Disappear on your own without telling me.’

‘Birk Larsen is going to be charged with false imprisonment and grievous bodily harm. For starters.’

Meyer lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling.

‘We did the right thing,’ Lund insisted.

‘We did nothing. The father’s going to prison. Kemal’s in hospital. Jesus . . .’

Knock on the door. Svendsen. He looked pleased with himself.

‘Buchard wants a meeting with you two in the morning.’

‘Thanks for keeping an eye on Birk Larsen,’ Lund shot at him. ‘Like I asked.’

Svendsen glared at her.

‘If you ask for too much, Lund, you get it in alphabetical order. I talked to the chief about that already. He’s straight on things.’

‘A meeting about what?’ Meyer asked.

Svendsen laughed.

‘The commissioner’s going to rip him apart tonight. I guess he wants to pass on some of the pain. Goodnight. Sleep tight.’

He closed the door behind him.

Meyer sat there looking shocked and worried, his big ears moving backwards and forwards as he chewed on some gum. Any other time it would have looked comical.

Lund kept peering at the photos on the wall.

‘I’m not taking the fall for this,’ Meyer said. He got up, got his jacket. ‘I refuse.’

She was glad when he was gone. It was easier being alone.

Back to the photos. Nanna Birk Larsen. Nineteen years old though she could easily pass for twenty-two or -three. Curly blonde hair. Good with her make-up. Smiling at the camera easily, confidently. Not like a teenager at all.

They still didn’t know this girl. Something was missing.

Lund went for her things, mumbled goodnight, walked off into the corridor.

Footsteps behind her. Meyer running, panting, wild-eyed.

‘Lund,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘About what?’

‘There’s been an accident.’

Monday, 10th November

She slept in a chair by the bed in his hospital room. Bengt had a bandage round his head, a drip in his right arm, a cast on his left.

He didn’t wake up. Not even when she came close to his face and whispered his name.

When the morning light began to filter through the dusty windows Lund looked around. They’d brought some of the things he’d had with him in the car when he crashed on the way to the bridge to Malmö.

A coat. A scarf and sweater.

A black leather briefcase. Some papers were sticking out of the top. They had the police stamp on them.

Lund checked him. Still sleeping. Then she began to look through the documents.

The file was thick, full of official reports. Autopsies and crime details. Photos and forensic material.

She sat down, spread them out on the floor in front of her, began to go through them one by one.

A voice broke her concentration.

‘You’re right,’ Bengt said in a pained, croaky voice. ‘He’s done it before.’

Lund put the papers to one side, came and stood over him.

‘How are you feeling?’

He didn’t answer.

‘They said you had concussion and a broken arm. The car’s a write-off. You were lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘Yes. Lucky. You hadn’t slept in a day . . .’

‘I was so pissed off with you.’

She didn’t say anything.

‘I decided to drive home. I’d had enough. Jesus . . .’

Lund wondered if she was about to cry. Her eyes pricked. Her mind was wandering.

‘I don’t know why I’m like this,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. Sometimes . . .’

Bengt’s hand came out and took hers. Fingers entwined. Warmth. Closeness.

‘I read the file. It wasn’t a crime of passion. It wasn’t the usual.’

‘We can talk about this later,’ she said, and wondered if she meant it.

‘Maybe he has a kind of method,’ Bengt went on, eyes closed, thinking.

‘We looked at that. We can’t find any links to anything earlier.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re not there. He dumped Nanna in the water. You saw what it was like. Wild. Remote. There are probably more you don’t know about.’

‘Later, Bengt.’

‘No.’ His voice sounded cross, his eyes were open and flashing. ‘Not later. You don’t know what that word means. I’m telling you. It turns him on that only he and the girl know how and where it ends. To him that’s intimacy. Like a love affair.’

‘Later,’ she said and turned on the TV.

They watched the news together. Buchard had put out a statement clearing Kemal. He’d been a suspect through a tragic coincidence, the chief said. Nothing about how the police had been misled.

That was the way of things. You were either right and a hero or wrong and a villain. There was no halfway house, no grey area. Not in the eyes of the media. Black and white. Nowhere else.

Same in politics, she thought, watching the rerun of Hartmann and Bremer bickering in a clip from their earlier debate on TV.

Nothing was different in their words, their gestures, their expressions. But before it was Bremer who seemed to have the upper hand, his sense of superiority obvious, the hint of victory in his eyes. Now that identical interview had a different, opposing tone. Bremer’s statesmanship seemed smug and superficial. Hartmann’s incautious and seemingly unwise defence of the teacher appeared brave and farsighted.

It was the context that made the difference. But to understand the context one needed facts, waypoints, fixed positions from which to judge perspectives.

All of which the Birk Larsen case lacked.

‘They said I can leave later today,’ he said, switching off the news.

‘I’ll talk to my mother. We can move in with her.’

‘You don’t need to go to the trouble. I’m going home to Sweden.’

A flicker of something that might have been panic.

‘Why?’ Lund asked.

‘You’re busy. We’ve got workmen in the house. Your mother would find it odd.’

He closed his eyes for a moment. She looked at the bruising on his face. Wondered how long it would take to disappear.

‘There’s no shame in being wrong,’ he said.

‘Do you want some water?’

She got up. His hand reached out to stop her.

Bengt looked at her and said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find him. Be patient.’

Lund sat on the edge of the bed.

‘What if we don’t?’

‘You will.’

‘We’re at a dead end. I don’t have any more ideas.’

‘They’re there. Keep going. What do you know for certain?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Stop this, Sarah. You know that’s not true.’

‘OK. On Friday the thirty-first of October Nanna Birk Larsen goes to a party at her high school. Earlier the same day a driver delivers campaign material for Troels Hartmann there.’

Lund got up, walked round the room, trying to think this through.

‘The driver feels unwell. He loses the car keys and goes to hospital. About nine thirty Nanna leaves the party on her bicycle. Someone found the car keys and followed her.’

‘Wait, wait,’ Bengt interrupted. ‘Stop there. This can’t be spontaneous. He didn’t just happen upon the keys and commit a crime.’

She shook her head.

‘He must have.’

‘He’s not impulsive. He plans his actions and then he covers them up.’

‘Bengt! The car was outside the school. That’s what happened. No one could have known the driver was going to be taken ill.’

‘It doesn’t fit the profile I came up with.’

‘What if your profile’s wrong? I know you’re trying to help but . . . what if everything’s wrong? The way we’re trying to see this. The idea there’s a pattern. Some kind of logic.’

Lund got herself some water.

‘A nineteen-year-old girl is snatched and held and raped repeatedly. Horribly. There’s a kind of logic usually. But this . . .’

‘Forget what you know. Forget everything I told you. Go back to the beginning. Then go back further. There’s a method here, Sarah. A way of working he’s established in his own mind.’

She waited.

‘The scissors, the soap, the ritual . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe Nanna was the first. Go back further. Until you find something.’

‘Further,’ Lund whispered.

Out in the Kalvebod Fælled by the Pentecost Forest. A black shape emerging from the water. An eel slithering over a dead girl’s naked limbs.

Events had shaped everything that came after. Events had stolen her head.