The Killing - 01 - The Killing (58 page)

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Hartmann asked.

Nothing.

He sat on the desk, made her look at him.

‘Don’t shut me out, Rie. That’s all in the past. I told you.’

She folded her arms, stared at the ceiling, her eyes damp and unfocused.

‘Rie!’

A knock on the door.

Olav Christensen walked in without waiting.

‘I heard you want to talk to me,’ he said.

‘Morten!’ Hartmann called.

They made the civil servant sit opposite them. Weber read through the material he’d assembled.

‘You’ve taken a close interest in the flat, Olav,’ he said.

‘No. Not at all. I put up some guests there a few times.’ He pointed at Hartmann. ‘With the mayor’s permission.’

‘Hartmann just signed an approval slip. Your guests never turned up.’

His brittle show of arrogance was cracking.

‘What am I? A hotel receptionist? I do what I’m told. Do I need a lawyer or something?’

Hartmann asked, ‘Did you use the flat yourself?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Weber placed a paper in front of him.

‘Six months ago you asked Dorte if it was free at the weekend.’

Christensen took the document, read it.

‘If I remember correctly that was for the Poles who were doing a report on the welfare system.’

‘The Poles stayed in a hotel!’ Weber snapped. ‘I had dinner with them. Don’t give me this shit.’

‘Really? Then I don’t remember.’

More paperwork.

‘Several times a week you booked the flat for no-shows. Never went in the file. If it wasn’t for Dorte—’

‘Dorte isn’t here. People changed their minds. Sometimes—’

‘Do we look like idiots?’ Hartmann pointed to Weber, to Skovgaard sitting taping the conversation. ‘Do we look as if we were born yesterday?’

‘Don’t blame me if you’re in the shit. It’s not my fault.’

‘One more time. Did you book the flat for yourself?’

‘You be careful what you accuse me of—’

‘No, no, Olav! You’re the one who needs to be careful.’

Hartmann waited a moment.

‘Did you bring the girl there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Did you make a copy of the key? Did you use my computer?’

He was laughing.

‘So it’s scapegoat time in the Liberal Party?’

Rie Skovgaard passed a document across the table.

‘We had a security scan of the network this morning. They found key loggers on all our PCs. Someone was keeping track of everything. Passwords. What we typed. They could log in and pretend they were us.’

‘What’s this to do with me?’

‘You’ve got a degree in computer engineering. You did this.’

‘Me? A civil servant? No.’ He smiled at the man across the table. ‘He’s the one who needs to do the explaining. I read it in the papers.’

‘I’m going to drive you down to police headquarters myself,’ Troels Hartmann promised.

‘He didn’t kill the girl, Troels!’ Skovgaard shrieked. ‘He was at the poster party with us. It couldn’t have been him in the flat.’

Olav Christensen smirked at them.

‘You know what?’ he said, getting up. ‘I’m going to leave this in your hands. You people . . .’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘It’s like Poul Bremer said. You’re falling apart, aren’t you?’

‘If it wasn’t you who was it?’ Hartmann roared.

There were Christmas decorations in a box by the door. Christensen pulled out some tinsel, waved it at them.

‘Santa Claus?’ he asked.

Meyer was running through what they had.

‘Hartmann saw plenty of women in that flat. He stopped for a few months. Then he started again.’

Blue lights from the headquarters yard flashed through the window.

‘He tried to get hold of Nanna Birk Larsen. He was jealous. He went to see her. It all went wrong.’

‘Someone must have seen something,’ Lund said. ‘A paper boy. A parking attendant.’

‘No one’s seen anything. Let’s bring in Skovgaard again.’

‘She won’t say anything.’

‘How the hell do you know? You talked to her last time.’

He felt the lapel of his wool zipper jacket.

‘I have a way with women.’

Lund glanced at him, sighed, shook her head.

‘He never called Nanna,’ she said. ‘His phone was turned off at ten twenty-nine that night.’

‘A way with women,’ he repeated very slowly.

She felt her head. A migraine was hovering.

‘OK,’ Lund said and threw the papers on the desk.

‘That’s that then,’ Meyer announced.

He went off with his jaunty punk walk. Lund felt sure she’d arrested someone very like Jan Meyer once upon a time.

She picked up the phone records. Someone had called Hartmann at ten twenty-seven just before he turned off the phone. There was a list of names of callers somewhere. She found it. Looked. Thought of telling Meyer. Got her coat instead.

Back in Store Kongensgade she stood in the courtyard, looking at the circular iron fire-escape stairs running up the back.

Nethe Stjernfeldt came ten minutes after Lund called.

‘What is this?’ she asked. ‘I told you everything—’

‘You said you hadn’t talked to Hartmann for a long time.’

‘I haven’t. I’ve got to pick up my son from youth club.’

‘You rang him that Friday night. October the thirty-first. Ten twenty-seven p.m. I can prove it. I can prove you lied.’

The woman fiddled with her leather gloves.

‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ Lund said.

She looked around, saw they were alone.

‘I promised my husband I’d never see him again.’

Lund waited.

‘I missed him. I wanted to see him.’

‘What did he say when you called?’

‘He said it was over. I had to stop ringing him.’

‘Then what did you do?’

She didn’t answer. Just turned to leave.

‘You got a parking ticket that evening. Here, on Store Kongensgade. You were too close to the corner.’

Lund caught up with her.

‘Bad luck,’ she said. ‘I get that sometimes.’

‘Does my husband have to know?’

‘Just tell me what happened.’

Stjernfeldt looked up and down the long, empty street.

‘I didn’t like the way he cut me dead. I was home. On my own again. Going crazy.’

‘So you came here to see him. What time, Nethe? This is important.’

‘Doesn’t the parking ticket say?’

‘I want to hear it from you.’

‘It was almost midnight. The lights were on. So I rang the bell.’

Lund looked at the shiny brass doorplate.

‘Did he let you in?’

‘No,’ she said bitterly. ‘He didn’t even answer. I kept my finger on the buzzer until someone picked it up.’

‘Then you talked to Hartmann?’

‘I didn’t talk to anyone. Whoever it was . . .’ She shrugged. ‘They didn’t say a word.’

‘You didn’t hear anything?’

‘I tried to get them to let me in. But then they hung up.’

Lund looked up at the big red-brick building.

‘Did you drive home?’

‘No. I was furious with him. I went into the courtyard and screamed his name.’

They walked back beneath the arch, stood in the open interior space.

‘I saw a silhouette.’

She stopped and looked up at the fourth-floor windows.

‘It wasn’t him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t him! It didn’t look like him.’

‘How could you tell? It was dark.’ Lund gestured at the building. ‘It’s high up. How can you be sure?’

‘You really want to nail Troels, don’t you?’

‘I want the truth. How do you know?’

‘He seemed shorter. Troels is tall. He holds himself well. The man I saw . . .’

She shrugged and looked at the street outside.

‘It wasn’t Troels Hartmann.’

Lund said nothing.

‘He saw me,’ Stjernfeldt said. ‘He was looking directly at me. It made me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to stay here. Troels wasn’t in that flat any more. What was the point?’

Pernille drove the boys home listening to them bicker in the back. It never used to get to her.

Now. . .

‘It’s mine,’ Anton said. ‘Give it to me. You should’ve brought your own.’

‘Mum, tell him to stop!’

The traffic was bad. The night wet. The noise of their voices filled her head but not so much it drowned out the dark thoughts.

‘You’re mean.’

‘Tell him, Mum! I haven’t played with it all day.’

‘Can’t you take turns?’

The stupid things parents said. Share what you have. Be quiet. Be good and obedient. Tell us what you think, where you go, what you do.

And who with.

‘Mum! Tell him!’

‘Shut up!’ Anton wailed.

Or Emil.

When they screeched they both sounded the same.

‘My toy! My toy! My toy!’

Like two little kettles coming to the boil.

There was a gap in the cars by the side of the road. She swung the car violently knowing it would shake them in their safety seats. Slammed her foot on the brakes. Listened to the tyres screaming.

Hit the pavement. People scattering and shouting around her.

They shut up then. They let her sit in the driver’s seat, staring at the figures milling round the car.

No damage done. Just a brief and insane turn off the steady stream of traffic that was life.

‘Mum?’ asked a quiet, frightened voice from behind.

She looked at their faces in the mirror. Felt shocked she’d done this. Put such fear into their unformed, fragile lives.

‘Emil can have the toy,’ Anton said. ‘It’s OK. We can take turns.’

She was crying again. Tears streaming down both cheeks, making the night seem blurry. The wheel felt too heavy to drive. The car stank of kids and petrol and Theis’s cigarettes.

‘Mum? Mum?’

Theis Birk Larsen was cooking supper when the boys came through the door.

‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

‘I picked up the boys. I told you.’

‘I know, but the time. I was ringing round. I called Lotte . . .’

‘I told you.’

He didn’t push it.

‘I made spaghetti bolognese.’

She didn’t look right.

‘I called the journalist who came this morning,’ she said.

He stopped stirring the sauce.

‘I set up a meeting. He’ll be here soon.’

‘Why the hell did you do that? Without talking to me? The police say I’m not supposed to go near the case.’

She laughed at him.

‘The police? You’re doing what they tell you now?’

‘Pernille—’

‘We need help. We need to get things moving. Someone must have seen something. They’ll offer a reward.’

He had his eyes closed, his head up to the ceiling.

‘If it’s not Troels Hartmann then it’s someone else.’

He went back to the stove, stirred the sauce.

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Well that’s the way it’s going to be.’

‘Pernille—’

‘I’ve agreed and that’s that!’ she cried. ‘Stay here and do the cooking if you like. I’ll deal with it.’

Meyer kept running over the same points with Rie Skovgaard, again and again.

‘So none of the sponsors saw Hartmann until Sunday?’

‘As I’ve told you a million times, he was ill.’

Meyer shrugged.

‘But he told me his speech went down well. I don’t get it. Why are you covering for him? Your father’s an MP. How’s he going to feel when we drag you into court for aiding and abetting?’

She looked as if she’d changed for the interview. Smart pin-striped shirt. Glossy, well-brushed hair. A pretty woman. Beautiful even when she chose to smile.

‘Is a man like Hartmann more important than your own career?’

‘You don’t know Troels Hartmann. And I’m not covering for him.’

‘Do you know him, Rie? He didn’t tell you he called himself Faust. He didn’t tell you he was screwing around through that dating site.’

She smiled.

‘Water under the bridge. Everyone does things they regret. Didn’t you?’

‘I always tell my wife. That’s safest. That’s the right thing to do.’