‘That’s just Hartmann being clever,’ Meyer said.
‘We need to think of the press,’ Lund added.
Meyer picked up the phone and asked for the prosecutor.
‘We can’t make another mistake, Brix. Think of the teacher. You heard what the lawyer said. If we get this wrong she’ll tear us apart.’
She paused, made sure this went in.
‘It won’t be just Buchard packing his bags.’
Back in the interview room.
‘We’re getting search warrants for your house,’ Meyer said. ‘If there’s anything there we’ll find it. We want access to your office and car. Your phone records. Your bank accounts. Your email.’
He grinned.
‘You can’t go back home. Maybe you should try sleeping on the street. Get closer to the voters, huh?’
‘Very funny,’ Hartmann muttered.
‘There’s a cellar and a summer house in the garden,’ Meyer went on. ‘I want the keys to those or we’ll break down the doors. And I want your passport.’
‘I take it from all this Troels is free to go,’ the lawyer said.
‘He can walk, can’t he?’
Hartmann reached into his jacket, threw a key ring on the table.
‘You’ll have my passport in half an hour.’
Lund looked at the keys.
‘It must be very important.’
‘What?’
‘Whatever it is that warrants all . . .’ She picked up the keys and shook them. ‘All this.’
‘It’s my life. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Mine.’
Then he left with the lawyer and Brix.
Lund pulled out the file for the party flat.
‘I’m going back to Store Kongensgade. Do you have the caretaker’s number?’
She was alone with Meyer for the first time that evening.
‘What the hell happened at Hartmann’s place?’ he asked. ‘Jesus, Lund. What did you think you were doing?’
She started going through the files, looking for the number herself.
‘All you talk about is Hartmann. How screwed-up he is. Then after five minutes you let him off the hook.’
Lund found the number.
‘What the hell are you up to? What aren’t you telling me?’
She put the file in her bag and left.
‘The press know you were questioned again,’ Weber said.
‘Holck and the alliance?’ Hartmann asked.
‘They’re discussing it,’ Skovgaard told him.
Hartmann took off his coat.
‘Bremer wants to know if we should cancel the debate tomorrow. What do you want me to say?’
‘We’re not cancelling anything.’
He still wore the shirt with the wine stain.
‘Rie?’
She didn’t meet his eyes.
‘Do I have a clean shirt? Can anyone get me a clean shirt?’
She didn’t move.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep quiet, Troels. They got my phone records somehow. I couldn’t . . .’
He tried to read her face. Sorrow? Embarrassment? Anger that he’d asked her to cover in the first place?
‘You don’t have to apologize. It’s my fault. I’ll make sure they understand. This is my problem, not yours.’
Weber got a shirt from somewhere. Hartmann walked into his office to change. Skovgaard followed.
‘Besides,’ she said. ‘It won’t matter. Now the police know where you were they’ll shut up. Maybe we should have—’
‘They won’t shut up. I didn’t tell them. They’re going to search the house.’
Weber came in to listen.
‘They’ll be all over me,’ Hartmann added. ‘All over this place too. We’ve got to check out Olav again. They don’t want to.’
‘I got as far as I could,’ Weber said.
‘What if Olav didn’t use the flat himself? Maybe he lent the key to someone?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Who benefits? Who wins from all of this?’
Weber stared at him, astonished.
‘Bremer? Poul Bremer’s an old man. Him and a nineteen-year-old girl. I can’t—’
‘Bremer, Olav. Olav, Bremer.’ Skovgaard looked furious. ‘You’re a murder suspect, Troels. And all you talk about is those two.’
‘See who benefits—’
‘You have to tell the police!’ she cried.
‘I don’t owe those bastards a thing.’
‘What does it matter that you went on a drinking binge? This is an election. We need to put this crap behind us.’
He was dragging on the clean shirt. There was a knock on the door.
Two men there, dark suits.
‘Police,’ the first said. ‘We need you out of this office.’
Four more came behind carrying metal cases, two of them in blue overalls.
‘All yours,’ Hartmann said.
He went next door into the main office. Skovgaard followed.
‘You told me you went drinking on your own. The date. Your wife—’
‘Yes! That’s right.’
‘So why not tell them where you were!’
He closed his eyes, exasperated.
‘Because it’s none of their damned business.’
She put a hand to his chest to stop him leaving.
‘It’s mine, Troels. Where were you?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this under control.’
Downstairs in the elegant arched basement that was the canteen Jens Holck was eating on his own. Reading the paper. Watching the TV news.
Hartmann found him.
‘How’s the food, Jens?’
‘The usual.’
Hartmann pulled up a chair, sat opposite him, smiled, watching Holck’s eyes, his face, his movements.
‘So what’s a man to think?’ he asked. ‘Did Troels Hartmann do it or not? They’re saying now he doesn’t even have an alibi. What’s next?’
Holck cut into his meat.
‘Good question. What is next?’
‘What’s next is finding the bastard who’s responsible.’
Holck kept eating.
‘Jens. Don’t walk away now. When they clear me you’ll regret it.’
He didn’t look impressed.
‘Will I, Troels? Does it matter? You promised this was the end of it. Now . . . it looks as if it’ll never stop.’
‘It’s a misunderstanding.’
Holck shook his head.
‘Jens. Trust me. Have I ever let you down?’
The news came on. Hartmann heard the girl’s name. Everyone in the canteen stopped what they were doing, turned to the TV, saw Pernille Birk Larsen’s interview. Blue checked shirt, notes in her hand, pale, taut face staring at the camera. Not frightened. Determined.
She began to read.
‘I hope that someone saw something. Someone must know something. We need help. We need to hear. It’s as if the police . . . I don’t know what they’re doing. Maybe they’re not taking it seriously.’
The reporter asked, ‘How do you feel about Troels Hartmann being a suspect?’
Eyes wide open, staring into the camera.
‘I don’t know about that. But if someone saw something I hope they’ll come forward. Anything might be relevant. Please . . .’
‘I won’t distance the party from you yet,’ Jens Holck said.
Hartmann nodded gratefully.
‘But I can’t be seen with you any more. I’m sorry, Troels.’
Holck picked up his tray and headed for the stairs.
Back in Store Kongensgade Lund waited in the living room of the Liberal Party flat. She looked at the broken glass again. The shattered table.
An argument? An accident? The smallest of fights?
Thought about the bedroom again.
Finally the caretaker arrived. He managed several buildings in the area and lived close by.
‘You’ve seen Hartmann here before?’ Lund asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘With women?’
He grimaced.
‘I’m a caretaker. You see lots of things.’
‘Do you remember seeing this woman?’
She showed him the photo of Nanna.
He was looking round at the damage. Calculating.
‘I’ve seen some ladies ringing the bell. I’ve seen him come in with them.’
‘But not her?’ she asked, showing him the photo again.
‘No. I think she must have had her own key. She used to let herself into the flat and wait for him.’
Lund wanted this clear.
‘She was with Hartmann?’
‘That’s what I said. A couple of months ago. I was changing a washer next door. I saw her outside. I heard him talking.’
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘Who else could it have been?’
She put the photo back in her bag.
‘When do I hear?’ the caretaker asked.
‘Hear what?’
‘I saw it on the news. There’s a reward. Fifty thousand kroner. When do I hear?’
She took a deep breath and sighed.
‘It was him,’ the man insisted. ‘I swear it.’
Twenty-five minutes later she was at the door of the apartment, talking to Pernille Birk Larsen.
‘I need you to waive the reward.’
The woman wouldn’t let her in.
‘We didn’t offer it.’
‘If you talk to the TV people they’ll do as you say, Pernille. I know how hard it is—’
‘No you don’t. You’ve no idea.’
The husband was lurking in the background, listening.
‘You’re not surrounded by her things. You don’t keep getting her post. People don’t look at you in the street as if this was all somehow your fault—’
‘All that will happen is lots of people who want that money will contact us with useless information. Because they’ve done that we’ll have to take every one of them seriously.’
‘Good.’
‘We don’t have the officers. Things that matter will suffer.’
‘What things?’
‘I can’t tell you. I know you feel we should be more open with you. But we can’t be.’ She glanced at the man in the background. ‘We’ve said too much already. I thought you’d appreciate that.’
Pernille walked back into the living room. Theis Birk Larsen stood where he was, staring balefully at Lund.
‘You have to make Pernille understand this is wrong, Theis. Please.’
He walked to the door and closed it in her face.
Friday, 14th November
Meyer phoned when she was just out of the shower. Straight away he began complaining about the flood of calls coming in after the appeal and the reward.
‘I talked to the parents,’ Lund told him. ‘They won’t help. I’m sorry. We’re going to have to deal with all of them.’
‘Wonderful. Anything else?’
‘I want more on Olav Christensen.’
‘Get someone else to deal with that, Lund. Not me.’
Mark walked in looking for breakfast.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
He slunk off to the table in silence.
‘I’m bringing in Morten Weber again,’ Meyer told her. ‘See you.’
Mark poured himself some cornflakes.
‘How was dinner round at your father’s?’
A long pause then, ‘OK.’
‘And his girls? Are they nice?’
Lund had broken out a new jumper from its wrapping from the stock she’d bought by mail order. Thick wool, dark brown, black and white lozenges.
Mark was staring at it.
‘They’ve got a lot of different clothes,’ he said.
The milk ran out when he tried to pour it. He held up the carton.
Lund sighed, came and sat down at the table, tried to take his hand until he snatched it away.
‘Listen. I know everything’s a mess. Bengt’s coming back to Copenhagen soon. He has to teach. We’ll talk. We’ll work it out.’
He picked at the half-dry cornflakes.
‘At least now you can go to the Christmas concert at school.’
Mark played with the earring for a second then gave up on the cereal.
‘Do we have any more milk?’
She went to the fridge.
‘No. Grandma has gone shopping. She’ll be back soon.’
He sat in front of his food, head on hand, miserable.
Lund tied up her hair, got ready to go.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
Mark looked awkward.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘You don’t need to wait for Grandma to get back. If you’ve got to go . . .’
She smiled at him, touched his arm.
‘You’re so sweet.’
He was looking at her in a way she didn’t recognize.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Go to work.’
Meyer had Morten Weber in the office.
‘So you don’t know what Hartmann was doing that weekend either? And you’re his what?’