The Killing - 01 - The Killing (63 page)

Birk Larsen got some of the flat-packed cardboard boxes they used for crating smaller things.

‘Let’s go upstairs.’

Nanna’s bedroom. The police marks he ignored. All he saw was the mess. The books. The pens. The pot plants, the perfumed candles. The cosmetics and creams.

And the bed with its reindeer-skin cover, the coloured sheets, the patterned pillows.

These things seemed to have been here for ever. A part of him – a stupid part he knew – once believed they’d never disappear.

He went to her corkboard, cast his eyes over the photos there. A decade or more of a life cut short. With the boys, with her parents. With friends and teachers.

Nanna smiling, always. Nanna the kid. Nanna, lately, the teenager looking to shrug off childhood and march straight into an adult world she craved, not knowing what lurked there. What the cost might be.

‘Everything goes. Everything.’

‘Theis—’

‘Everything. The clothes go in plastic bags. Just as usual.’

‘Did you talk to Pernille about this?’

‘Be careful not to break anything. OK?’

Skærbæk stepped into the bedroom, stopped by his side.

‘If that’s what you want.’

He popped open one of the cardboard cases.

Birk Larsen didn’t move. Stood in his dead daughter’s bedroom, staring at what remained.

‘No.’ He took the box. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

Morten Weber found an empty office in the education department. One man there tapping idly at a computer.

‘I need some statistics for Hartmann,’ he said. ‘I can do it myself . . .’

‘Take a seat. Everyone’s gone to lunch and I’m joining them.’

Then he was on his own.

Weber chose the desk furthest away from the door. Typed in the username and password Rie Skovgaard gave him. One second and he was in.

Same email system the campaign office used, different linked network. Olav Christensen’s email account stared at him. He scanned the messages.

Got partway through when Christensen walked in carrying a set of folders.

Weber tried to think.

‘Can I help?’ Christensen asked. ‘We don’t normally see political people in here. Just us.’

‘No, no need.’ He was floundering. ‘Someone told me there was a virus.’

Weber got up quickly from the desk and realized straight off he hadn’t logged out of Christensen’s account.

The young civil servant was on him immediately.

‘You’re tech support now, Morten?’

He looked at the screen, swore, logged himself out.

Bunched up a fist, jabbed Weber hard in the chest, pushed him against the desks.

‘They sent you to make me the scapegoat, did they?’

Christensen’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen.

‘Did Hartmann put you up to this?’

‘It’s a virus,’ Weber said and tried to push back.

Got another punch in the ribs, a kick in the shins. Christensen had him by the lapels, shoving him into the shadows by the wall.

Weber looked at the door.

No one.

‘Don’t give me that shit!’ Christensen barked at him.

Footsteps down the corridor.

Weber fought free, stumbled for the door, got out into the light. Half-walked, half-ran.

Behind he heard the phone again and Olav Christensen’s low, frightened voice as he answered it.

Morten Weber stopped. He’d taken a file into the office as a pretext. It was important. Confidential. He’d left it there.

And Christensen was an arrogant, pushy kid.

A playground bully. Someone else’s puppet.

Slowly, quietly, Weber walked back to the education office and slipped through the door, listening.

Christensen had retreated into a corner, his back to the door. He sounded scared.

‘We’ve got to talk. For Christ’s sake! What am I supposed to say?’

Weber edged forward, hearing every word.

‘They’re checking my payslips. They want to know where the money comes from. You’ve got to do something.’

The folder was still on the desk. Weber realized he could get out without being seen.

‘Fuck it!’ Christensen screeched. ‘I need some help. No, no. Either I talk to him in person or I’m spilling the beans. I’m not going down for this. I’m not going down for him.’

Morten Weber picked up the folder and stood where he was. Olav Christensen turned, saw him, fell silent.

Put the phone in his pocket.

Weber wondered if he’d ever seen anyone this scared in the grandiose surroundings of City Hall.

‘Who were you talking to?’

Christensen looked dumbstruck.

‘Olav. If you’ve done something wrong . . .’

Christensen picked up his briefcase. He was in a daze.

‘We can help you,’ Weber said. ‘Come on . . .’

The civil servant was scouring the office, unlocking filing cabinets, taking documents.

As he headed for the door Weber stood in front of him.

‘Talk to me and I can do something.’

‘No,’ Olav Christensen said. ‘You can’t.’

Lund was back at Hartmann’s house watching Meyer, Svendsen and three other officers go through it room by room.

She’d got a call from headquarters about the payslip.

‘Someone in City Hall has to know who ordered that money to be paid,’ she told the officer handling the inquiry. ‘Check Christensen’s records. Check the audit trail. It’s important. Who, when and how.’

When she was off the phone Svendsen stuck his head round from the kitchen and said with some sly amusement, ‘The Swedish guy . . . your ex, has been trying to get you.’

She ignored him.

‘The diary’s interesting,’ Meyer said.

It was the one Lund saw, but briefly.

Meyer flicked through the pages.

‘He’s been keeping it ever since his wife died. Then that Friday he stopped. Why?’

‘What do you think?’

Meyer licked his fingers and turned more pages.

‘Something happened and he’s not proud of it. Or he did something he didn’t want to write down. Listen to this.’

He read out from the page.

‘“I’m beside myself. I have to let this go before it kills me.” ’

‘This is a waste of time,’ she said.

‘Lund!’

It was Svendsen again, phone in hand.

‘No,’ Meyer cut in. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to her ex.’

‘You need to call Morten Weber. He caught Olav Christensen talking to someone about his payslips. Then the guy took off from City Hall.’

‘I want Olav Christensen taken into custody. I want those payslips explained.’

‘Now we’re wasting our time,’ Meyer grumbled.

‘Olav Christensen knows who was using the flat on the side. He’s been doing someone a few favours.’

Meyer folded his arms and sighed.

‘Says who?’

‘Morten Weber by the sound of it. Put a trace on Christensen’s phone.’

She picked up her bag and headed for the door.

‘There’s no point in looking here.’

‘We haven’t finished, Lund!’

It was cold outside and dry. Lund popped in a Nicotinell and drove back to the centre.

Theis Birk Larsen sat at the kitchen table, tapping the truck keys, waiting for her footsteps on the stairs.

He hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. He didn’t feel right. Feel settled. The flat, their home was changing, and they were changing with it.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Pernille said when she came through the door. ‘Did anyone call for me?’

‘No.’

She had that animated expression that came from thinking about Nanna. The only time she looked alive. He was starting to hate it.

‘I’m glad I went. They were using the wrong lettering. It wouldn’t look right.’ She listened. ‘Where are the boys?’

‘At your parents’.’

‘Why?’

Birk Larsen glanced at the faces frozen into the table.

‘We’ve got to talk about this. Pernille. We’ve got to . . .’

She wasn’t listening. Eyes wide she was staring past him, at the open door to Nanna’s room. She walked towards it, went in.

Bare walls, bare cupboards. No desk, no carpet. No photos. No clothes. Just the single bed stripped of everything but a mattress. Not a thing in the window. Not even a plant.

He stayed at the table, back to her.

‘Where are her things?’ she asked in a cold, bleak voice.

‘Anton’s pissed the bed three nights running. Emil says crazy things. If you listened to the boys you’d understand.’

She marched back to the table, said again, ‘Where are her things?’

‘In the van. I’m putting them in storage in Valby tonight. We’ll keep everything. We just don’t need it here.’

With a sudden violent movement she went for the truck keys on the table.

Birk Larsen’s hand closed over them.

‘Give me them.’

‘No. We can’t go on this way. Stuck like this. I’m not allowing it.’

There was a look on her face he didn’t recognize for a moment. Then he put a word to it: hatred.

‘You’re not allowing it?’

She flew through the door, down to the garage. Was at the spare key rack in the office by the time he caught up with her.

‘Listen to me, Pernille.’

She kept scrabbling through the nests of rings.

‘Listen to me! The cubs cancelled the trip because of that shit on TV. Do you understand what’s happening?’

She pushed past him without a word, went to the parked van, tried the doors.

‘Take it out on me. Not the boys. They don’t deserve it—’

‘Just open it, will you?’

Birk Larsen hesitated.

‘Don’t talk to me like that. I don’t deserve it.’

‘Open it!’

He pulled out the keys, hit the remote. She scrabbled at the back of the van, dragged the door open.

All the photos and the furniture. Everything that was left of Nanna’s life stared back at her from the grubby rear of a scarlet removals truck.

‘I’ll take it to the warehouse. It won’t be damaged. Nothing’s going to get lost.’

She got on the step and climbed inside.

Birk Larsen rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands.

‘Pernille . . .’

She got hold of the photos first. Then with her spare hand the bedside lamp. Climbed down from the back of the van and looked at him.

‘I’m going to take this upstairs. Then I’m going to pick up the boys.’

‘Pernille—’

‘Am I just a face here?’ she asked. ‘Someone to sleep with? A servant to do your washing and look after your kids? Not to talk to. Not ask about . . . about . . .’

The words wouldn’t come, for either of them this time. The social people had told them to put Nanna’s death behind them. Clearing her room made sense to him. It was doing what he was told, and ever since he’d married, that, he thought, was what people wanted. The new, obedient Theis. Not the one from before.

‘When I come back . . .’ she said, face hard set and furious.

A long moment. One in which he felt his heart stop. They never argued outright like this. Never talked much sometimes. There wasn’t the need. Now, trapped in this dread limbo, everything had changed. Thoughts that went unspoken now burst into the air alive and thrashing, demanding to be heard.

‘When I come back I want you to be gone,’ she said and that was that.

He stood there stiff and still as a pillar, struggling with his ravelled thoughts. Wondering if there could ever have been another way. A different set of actions. Another fork in the road.

Thought of only one thing to say.

‘OK,’ Birk Larsen murmured and watched her walk away.

Lund was at the wheel of her car, Lennart Brix in her ear.

‘What in God’s name are you doing now?’

‘I tried Olav’s home. He’s not there. I’ve got an address for his sister.’

‘Why are we looking for him?’

‘Because he’s involved. Have we traced his mobile yet?’

‘No, Lund. I called off the search.’

She took her foot off the pedal. Let the car coast for a moment.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘We’ve got a witness who saw Hartmann with bloody clothes on Saturday morning.’

‘Since that idiotic reward we’ve got fifty people claiming they saw everything.’

‘I want you to concentrate on them.’

‘If they knew something why didn’t they come forward until there was money on the table? Christensen knows who was with Nanna.’