The Killing - 01 - The Killing (46 page)

So perhaps, Lund thought, she wasn’t alone at all.

Meyer called when she was back in the car.

‘Hello? Cat got your tongue?’

‘What is it?’

‘I went to forensics and made them take another look at her phone. There were fifty-three numbers on her contacts list.’ He paused. ‘We were only given fifty-two.’

She couldn’t face talking to him.

‘Can this wait till the morning?’

‘I found a list of the calls she made going back a couple of months. I compared it to the data on the phone. Someone’s screwing us around here, Lund. The list wasn’t complete. She made calls we were never told about.’

‘Where are you speaking from?’

‘Outside. You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’

‘No. I don’t. Do I have to keep saying this?’

‘Here’s the worst part. The first person to see those lists and take a look at the phone was Buchard.’

Lund kept driving.

‘That can’t be right.’

‘It’s right, Lund. I don’t like this. If Buchard is covering for someone it’s got to be Hartmann. Everything points there.’

‘Not now,’ she whispered.

‘If we can’t talk to Buchard who can we talk to? Huh? Who pulls his strings? Jesus . . .’

She took the phone from her ear.

‘Lund? Lund!’

The headquarters building loomed ahead in the darkness, a pale grey palace, with so many curving corridors, offices and hidden corners, she could still lose herself there if she tried.

Sarah Lund kept going. Right past. On the way to what was, for now at least, home.

There were four minority parties on the Copenhagen City Council, right and left and somewhere in between, all bickering constantly, then pandering to Bremer to win a few prize committee chairs and paid appointments.

At a quarter to ten Hartmann had their leaders in his office.

He’d got a new shirt from the wardrobe, shaved, had Rie Skovgaard check him over. Combed his hair.

These people didn’t get the smile. They were part of the game. They didn’t need it.

‘We represent five parties and five very different kinds of politics,’ he said in a calm, practised tone. ‘If we took the last election and added your votes to ours we would have had a clear majority.’

He paused.

‘A clear majority. From what we’ve seen of the polls it’s the same this time around. Maybe even better in our favour.’

Jens Holck, the leader of the Moderate Group, the biggest, the toughest nut to crack, sighed, took out a handkerchief and began to polish his glasses.

‘Don’t act bored, Jens,’ Hartmann said. ‘We’re looking at the difference between victory and defeat. Bremer knows it. Why do you think he’s playing these games with me on TV?’

‘Because you keep inviting it, Troels.’

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘I didn’t. What happened to me could happen to any of us if he felt you threatened him. That’s the state the Rådhus is in. That’s why we need a broad alliance that gets Bremer out for good.’

Mai Juhl was a small, intense woman who’d created the Environment Party out of nothing. She carried plenty of respect and little goodwill. Politics was everything for her, which seemed odd to Hartmann since she’d achieved precious little in her time in office.

‘That’s all very well but what do we have in common?’ she asked. ‘How could we—?’

‘We’ve plenty, Mai. Education, housing, integration. The environment too. You’re not the only one to care, you know. We’ve more common ground among us than you think.’

‘And the role models?’ On most conventional issues Juhl swung to the right. ‘You’d do anything to keep them.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would.’

‘We’re a million miles apart there.’

Someone else agreed.

He looked at each of them, picking the subject carefully from the research Morten Weber had provided.

‘Leif. Last time round Bremer promised you he’d reduce CO
₂
levels? Never happened. What’s he done for the elderly? Isn’t that a key issue for you too? Bistrup? Did he create jobs like he promised? Jens? You used to say the city needed to attract families with children. What happened to all that?’

They didn’t answer.

‘Bremer took your well-meant commitments when he needed your support then threw them in the bin afterwards.’

He pushed their own election material across the table.

‘If we were sitting round a TV studio now I’d tear you apart for this. You’re asking for votes yet you never deliver on your promises. Because Bremer never delivers to you. It doesn’t have to be that way. We can work together. We can compromise.’

He raised his shoulders in a gesture of indifference.

‘We’ve all got issues we’ll sacrifice. Me too.’ Hartmann held up his own manifesto. ‘This is a piece of paper, not the Bible. What matters is we win something. With Bremer you’ll come away empty-handed and you know it.’

Hartmann got up, distributed Morten Weber’s document around the table.

‘I’ve drafted a collaboration between the five of us. Obviously it’s only a beginning. Everything’s up for discussion. You’ll want changes. I welcome that.’

He went back to his seat, watched as they picked up the paper.

‘I know it’s a big step. But between us we have the talent and the energy and the ideas to make this city better. If we don’t do something now he’s back again. An administration stuck in the doldrums. No imagination. No fresh blood—’

‘I think Bremer’s done a good job,’ Jens Holck broke in.

‘So do I!’ Hartmann said. ‘Twelve years ago he was the right man. Now—’

‘This is Copenhagen. Not paradise. I haven’t seen anything from you that suggests you can be as good a Lord Mayor. Lately, more the opposite.’

‘Fair enough. We should talk frankly. Let’s see what the voters think.’

‘And,’ Holck added, ‘you’re on bad terms with Parliament. The Lord Mayor’s there to negotiate the city’s budget. If Parliament hates you they starve us. I really don’t see this—’

‘The way we deal with Parliament is through strength. If we have a broad alliance . . .’ His hand swept the table. ‘Then we can do better than Bremer. If they piss us off they piss off everyone. Don’t you see?’

Jens Holck got to his feet.

‘No. I don’t. I’m sorry, Troels. I don’t believe in you.’

‘Won’t you even look at the proposal?’

‘I already did. Goodnight.’

Mai Juhl was leaving too.

‘We couldn’t do this without Jens,’ she said.

The other three followed.

Alone in the office, in the blue light of the Palace Hotel’s neon sign, Hartmann wondered whether he’d jumped the gun.

There’d never been a broad coalition like this before. Maybe it was madness. But madness had its place in politics sometimes. When the old order gave way a little chaos was only to be expected. That was when the bold would strike.

And he wasn’t the only bold one around.

Morten Weber predicted Holck would reject the offer outright and the others follow. He rarely read the situation poorly. He also said they’d think about it offline. That before long someone would call.

Hartmann poured himself a brandy.

It took exactly seven minutes.

He looked at the name flashing on the phone and laughed.

Jens Holck was in the garden courtyard hidden in the heart of City Hall, smoking among the Russian vines and ivy next to the fountain.

‘You’re back in bad habits,’ Hartmann said, looking at the cigarette. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Yes. It is.’

Holck was a couple of years short of Hartmann’s age, about the same height and build, a one-time student leader, young-looking at first glance but worn down by underachievement. He had dark hair and black fashionable glasses, a bleak schoolmasterly face. He hadn’t smiled much of late. Or shaved either. He looked a mess.

‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’ Holck asked.

‘Very. So why did you call?’

Holck’s head went from side to side.

‘In case I could make myself a little clearer.’

‘Jens. We’ve got to do something. The city’s drifting. Bremer’s administration is disorganized. The finances are a mess. He only listens to himself.’

Holck took a draw on the cigarette, blew smoke over the fountain.

‘He’s like a dying king,’ Hartmann added. ‘We all know he’s not long for this world. But no one wants to mention it. Or say a word in case the old man hears.’

‘Then maybe we should wait for the funeral. And pick up the pieces from there.’

Hartmann looked around the courtyard. They were alone.

‘Did you hear about his trip to Latvia?’ he asked.

Holck’s head bobbed up. He was on the audit committee. Rie Skovgaard had been fishing there too.

‘What about it?’

‘Officially it was a visit to a company. Inward investment. But the expense account—’

‘Been snooping have we, Troels? I thought you were the good guy.’

‘I don’t mess with public money.’

‘We see the expenses. There wasn’t a thing wrong with them.’

‘What you saw was tampered with. Thousands—’

‘Oh for God’s sake. Is this your new politics? I don’t give a damn if Bremer creams a little here and there. He’s an old man and he’s worked like a dog here. Always has. In spite of the miserable salaries and the godawful hours.’

‘So we just carry on as we are?’

‘Someone has to be Lord Mayor. Do you really think you’re different?’

‘Give me the chance.’

‘And you
are
on terrible terms with Parliament. That’s the heart of it. They don’t like you, Troels. They don’t like the way you preen yourself for the cameras. The women swooning. Your sanctimonious smugness. The way you think you’re better than everyone else.’

Holck laughed, a short, harsh sound.

‘Not me. I don’t have that problem. I’ve known you long enough to see through the performance. Tell me. Are you running for the sake of Copenhagen? Or the benefit of Troels Hartmann? Which matters most?’

‘You called to tell me this?’

‘Pretty much,’ Holck said, then threw the cigarette into the fountain and walked off.

Ten minutes later.

‘You’re wasting your time on Jens Holck,’ Morten Weber said. ‘He’s Bremer’s lapdog.’

‘Then let’s throw him the right bone. They were interested, Morten. They were wavering. If I’d got Holck on side they’d all fall in line behind him. In a heartbeat. Do we have any food?’

Weber bowed, said, ‘At your service.’

Then went off to find something.

‘So if we don’t placate Jens Holck we’re sunk?’ Skovgaard said.

She sat on the desk, feet on his chair, chin propped on her hands. She didn’t look unhappy with the idea.

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘We know who we are. We’re strong.’

Skovgaard held out her arm, flexed her bicep.

‘I’m strong too. Feel.’

Hartmann laughed, came to her, tested her arm with his fingers.

‘Not bad. One more thing.’

He bent down. Her arms went round his neck. They kissed. Fingers though hair. Grey business suit against black business dress.

She stayed in his embrace, said dreamily, ‘It seems a long time since that happened.’

‘When this is over I will take you somewhere with the biggest, softest, warmest bed . . .’

‘When it’s over?’

‘Or sooner.’

‘Is that a politician’s promise?’

Hartmann pulled away from her, smiling.

‘No. It’s mine. Call your father and get him to talk to the Interior Minister. Tell me what I have to do. Just a word from Parliament. Holck will hear it.’

Morten Weber walked back in with a dinner plate full of sandwiches.

‘The car park’s crawling with policemen,’ he said.

‘Why?’ Skovgaard asked.

Weber frowned.

‘Search me.’

Lotte Holst was eleven years younger than her sister Pernille, pretty enough to hold down a job behind the bar of the Heartbreak Club for five long and eventful years. The place catered to businessmen, young executives, anyone with enough money to pay two hundred kroner for a weak cocktail. It was near Nyhavn, close to the hordes of tourists heading for the canal boats and the restaurants.

She had her hair up, glossy lipstick, a revealing halter dress open at the midriff, and a permanently bored smile as she served up bottles of Krug and vodka to the deafening music.

The money was good. The tips better. And sometimes there were surprises.

Around eleven one of the barmen came over and said she had a visitor.

Lotte walked to reception, saw Pernille there in her fawn raincoat, hair a mess. Put a hand to her own head, felt embarrassed, the way she always did as a kid.