The Killing - 01 - The Killing (48 page)

‘OK,’ Weber agreed and read the paper.

A long minute’s silence.

‘I’m glad to see you’re working well together,’ Hartmann noted.

‘We usually do,’ Skovgaard replied.

‘The answer’s still no.’

Another long minute.

Then Hartmann took a long deep breath, looked around at the wooden walls, the leaded windows, the crests and gilt, up at the fancy artichoke lamp.

All the trappings of office. None of the power.

‘What would we get in return?’

‘We could invite him to your campaign meetings,’ Skovgaard said.

‘The most important thing is to get Holck into the deal,’ Weber added. ‘I hate this shit as much as you do.’

He shrugged.

‘But if it can bring us the alliance . . .’

‘Find out exactly what we can expect in return. I don’t want any escape routes.’

‘If we ask that question we’ve already said yes,’ Weber told him. ‘No going back.’

‘No going back,’ Skovgaard repeated.

‘Cut the deal then make me an appointment. With the Prime Minister. If it gets us into office I don’t give a shit who gets the credit.’

He got up from the table, walked out.

The two of them sat there, uneasy allies.

‘Any news on why the police were in the car park?’ Skovgaard asked.

‘What?’

‘You heard, Morten. You hear everything, even if you pretend you don’t.’

‘No news that I know of. I’ll call Parliament.’

‘I can do that. This is policy. You leave it to me.’

There was a new man round from the bank. Younger. Friendlier. Pernille had called the jail, tried to talk to Theis, failed. He was going to be kept in for another day at least. No phone calls but at least she might be able to see him later.

‘Sorry,’ she told the bank man. ‘I can’t talk to my husband.’

‘No problem.’ He spread out the papers in front of her. ‘So let’s assume the house will go on the market while you continue the renovations.’

‘OK.’

‘We’ll extend your credit so you don’t have to pay the instalments. Let’s hope the house sells quickly so we can break even.’

‘That’s fine by me.’

‘Then there’s the account your daughter opened.’

She stared at him.

‘In Anton and Emil’s names. Where should that money go?’

Pernille brushed back her hair.

‘What account?’

He pushed forward a statement.

‘It’s got eleven thousand kroner in it. She was a steady saver. It’s a lot of money . . .’

‘What kind of account?’ she asked.

‘It’s a savings account for the boys.’

‘Can I see?’

She snatched the statement before he could answer. Stared at the figures. Regular deposits. Hundreds of kroner a time. Never a withdrawal.

‘Where did she get the money?’

‘From a job?’ the man suggested. He was blushing, embarrassed.

‘She didn’t have a job. She worked for us from time to time. But that was pocket money. Not this . . .’

He shrugged, said nothing.

The account was opened the previous January. Regular deposits every fortnight. They stopped in the summer.

‘There’s no rush,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to make a decision right now. Well . . .’

A brief smile. He stood up.

‘Unless there’s something else.’

Pernille couldn’t take her eyes off the bank statement. It sat on the table, above the family pictures captured in the surface. Taunting her. Laughing.

When he was gone she called the prison again. Found someone amiable.

‘I’ll come now,’ she said.

The guard let Pernille into the tiny prison interview room then stood by the door. Theis sat hunched at a scratched wooden table in a bright-blue prison suit, eyes on the floor.

A moment of indecision. Then Pernille walked over, threw her arms round him, felt him clasp her, felt the tears rise in her face.

The two stayed locked together, rocking gently, his huge hand moving through her long chestnut hair as if looking for something that was lost.

Then they sat down opposite each other, Pernille’s eyes swimming as she cried.

Finally he asked, ‘How are the boys?’

‘The boys are fine.’

He wouldn’t look at her as he spoke.

‘I talked to the lawyer. She’s doing everything she can. When I get out I’ll take care of the bank and the house.’

She turned away, wiped the tears. Felt a stiff hot flicker of anger and couldn’t work out why.

‘I’ll fix everything,’ he said. ‘It’ll be OK.’

Looking out of the window at the monochrome day beyond she asked, ‘What happened between you and Nanna last summer?’

His head went up. His eyes – they were the part of him she liked the least – caught her. Unreadable. Aggressive sometimes.

‘What?’

‘You used to . . .’

The tears were coming again and she couldn’t stop them, however hard she tried.

‘Did you have an argument? Did you say something to her?’

Her voice was breaking and it was full of unintended blame.

‘What do you mean?’

Two decades she’d been with this man. There were always secrets between people. Perhaps there had to be.

‘Nanna opened a bank account in the boys’ names,’ Pernille said. ‘She made regular deposits. She had a job. The account . . .’ She said this very slowly. ‘It had eleven thousand kroner in it.’

‘You know she had a job! With us.’

‘She didn’t earn that kind of money with us.’

‘Maybe I paid her extra. Or she saved it up.’

‘Then why keep it a secret?’

‘I don’t know.’

She’d no idea whether she believed him or not.

‘Nanna never said anything to you?’

‘No.’ He rubbed his bearded chin, closed his eyes. ‘She was angry with me. I know that. I thought it was too early for her to move out.’

He reached over and took her hands across the table.

‘I used to give her money to cheer her up sometimes. What she did with it . . .’

‘Yes,’ Pernille said.

‘That’s all I can think of.’

She watched him trying to smile. Trying to say what he always said.

I will fix this. Things will get better
.

So she smiled back, squeezed his hands in return, came forward over the old wooden table and kissed him.

‘Everything’s going to be OK,’ he said again.

Lund drove to the TV station to see a reporter who was making a documentary about the election campaign. The woman was following Hartmann and Bremer from beginning to end.

‘I’m just interested in what happened on the night of the poster party,’ Lund said.

They were seated in front of a screen, the woman flicking through unedited video.

‘What do I get out of this?’

‘Nothing.’

The TV woman blinked.

‘It’s only fair—’

‘No it isn’t. I could get a warrant in five minutes. If I do that you won’t work again today. We’ll take everything.’ Lund smiled at her. ‘If I think there’s evidence here I can stop you using this.’

‘So why should I show it you?’

‘Because you don’t have a choice.’

‘I still want something.’

‘If there’s a story you’ll get it first. If there’s a story . . .’

Lund sat on the edge of the desk, not moving an inch.

‘All I need is footage from seven p.m. to eight p.m.’

‘The poster party was October the thirty-first?’

‘That’s right.’

‘OK. I remember that. They were in Hartmann’s office.’

Her fingers flashed across the keyboard. Then she scrolled through the footage. Poul Bremer came on the screen, laughing and joking, glass in hand.

‘I love the way they pretend they respect each other. You should hear what they say in private.’

‘Like what?’

‘They smile and smile and hate each other’s guts. And they’d climb into bed with anyone if it’d get a few votes.’

Lund was watching the screen, barely listening.

‘Hartmann invited everyone into his office for a drink.’

Skovgaard, the leaders of the minority parties, Morten Weber, Bremer, all together, laughing and joking over glasses of wine.

‘Does anything interesting happen?’ Lund asked.

‘Hartmann gives a short speech. Nothing special. No point in wasting effort on this bunch, is there? Either they’re voting for him or they’re not.’

Lund leaned forward, looked more closely. There was a figure in black at the back of the crowd. Talking to no one. Looking uncomfortable.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Jens Holck. Leader of the Moderates. He’s behind Bremer.’

‘Was he there all evening?’

‘Yep.’

Hartmann clinked a glass against a bottle. Poul Bremer came and stood next to him beaming, genial.

Lund wasn’t watching them. Her eyes were on the figure at the back.

‘So why’s Holck putting on his coat?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Is there any more footage of him?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Curiosity.’

Lund nodded at the keyboard. The woman worked it, set the video to run more quickly.

The camera scanned the room. She went forwards, back, looking round the sea of bodies.

‘I can’t see him. I thought he was there. Sorry.’

‘What’s he like?’ Lund asked.

‘Holck? Been in politics for years. Serious. Bit of a loser. Nothing without Poul Bremer.’

She sat back in her chair, put her hands behind her head.

‘Not exactly oozing charm if I’m honest with you. There was some gossip about him having an affair and getting found out. It never made the papers. His wife’s divorced him though.’

‘He had an affair? Is that true?’

The woman laughed at her.

‘You don’t know politics, do you?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘They feed off gossip. Off one another. They live in this little world of their own and nothing else matters. I’ll tell you something . . .’

Lund waited.

‘Anybody who had an affair with Jens Holck must have been pretty desperate. Or they had a high boredom threshold.’

Lund called Meyer as she left the TV station.

‘The car left at seven fifty-five. Jens Holck slunk out of the poster party fifteen minutes earlier and wasn’t seen again.’

‘Buchard’s been asking for you,’ Meyer said.

‘Does Holck live near Grønningen? It might even be a hotel room.’

‘I couldn’t care less, Lund.’

‘The talk in City Hall is that he’s been having an affair.’

‘We’re not making inquiries at City Hall. Not with the politicians. Leave it. Didn’t I mention Buchard was asking for you?’

‘You did.’

‘Were you listening by any chance?’

She looked at the phone. Tried to imagine Jan Meyer’s face at that moment.

‘Lund?’ said a tinny, uncertain voice from the speaker. ‘Lund?’

She found Troels Hartmann as he was leaving his office.

‘I need two minutes of your time,’ she said.

‘Does your boss know you’re here?’

‘It’ll only take a moment. I just wanted to apologize.’

‘You need to leave,’ Rie Skovgaard said. ‘You’ve caused us no end of problems.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. This is a difficult case. Two minutes . . .’

Hartmann waved her into the office and closed the door.

‘I need your help,’ she said.

‘I have a citizens’ surgery on Mondays. You can make an appointment like anyone else.’

‘What if I said your car wasn’t at the school?’

‘Then I’d say you’d screwed up again.’

‘What if I said it was driven back here? To the City Hall car park?’

He was silent.

‘That Friday night. When you held your poster party. All the group leaders. All your campaign workers.’

‘What the hell is this about, Lund?’

‘I need to know if anyone left the party early.’

‘Wait, wait. I don’t understand. You’re saying the car was brought back here?’

‘Did anyone leave early?’

Skovgaard walked in. She was on the phone. Saying, ‘Can I speak to Buchard now?’

‘Did Jens Holck leave early?’ Lund asked.

‘Holck?’

Skovgaard was through, whining to Buchard.

‘Do you remember seeing him later in the evening?’