The Killing - 01 - The Killing (64 page)

A long sigh down the phone.

‘I really don’t have time for this. You’ve got your orders.’

‘Olav was taking bribes to give someone access to the flat. Every month he gets a fixed sum straight out of City Hall. Brix? Brix?’

She thought he’d gone. Then he said, ‘Who ordered the payment?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I need his phone traced. He’s in a panic. He’s calling someone. Get me a name.’

Another silence.

‘He made a call in Vester Voldgade about half an hour ago.’

The long street that ran past City Hall. Not far away.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘Who to?’

‘An airline.’

Skovgaard came off the phone.

‘Bremer’s moving on the selection. He’s called the group chairs together. There’s going to be a meeting tonight.’

‘They’ll get Olav before that. Call Lund and find out.’

Weber watched her go into the adjoining office.

‘Troels. If they don’t find him you’re going to have to tell the truth. You know that, don’t you?’

‘We’ve already been through this.’

‘Bremer’s going to declare you unfit to be elected. There’s no comeback from that. No grubby deals. No alliances. You’re finished. For good. You’ll have to quit the party. Forget about politics. It’s over.’

‘They’ll find him!’

‘And if they don’t?’ Morten Weber looked around the small office. At the posters of Hartmann smiling. ‘All this gets pissed away just because you don’t have the guts to . . .’

Hartmann was on his feet, furious.

‘They’ll find him,’ he bellowed.

Poul Bremer walked through the City Hall parking garage, briefcase in hand, aide by his side.

In the shadows Olav Christensen lurked, silent, thinking.

‘The press have to be told something,’ Bremer said. ‘I haven’t heard a word from Hartmann or the police. I’ve called an emergency meeting of the group chairs. We need to decide on Hartmann’s eligibility. This scandal damages us all. The matter’s a slur on the political class.’

The woman was nodding.

‘I’m assuming we’ll decide Hartmann is unfit,’ Bremer added. ‘It seems inevitable. But it’s important we’re all agreed on this. Unanimous. If there’s dissent the problem will only fester.’

Christensen marched out of the darkness, straight up to Bremer.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘And who the hell are you? Press? Not now.’

Christensen’s eyes flared with fury.

‘You know who I am! I’m Olav. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

Bremer kept walking.

‘Olav?’

‘Yes. Christensen. In Hartmann’s division.’

Bremer shook his grey head.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what this is about and I’m too busy. I don’t know you.’

‘Yes!’

Christensen’s shriek echoed round the garage.

‘I’m the one who helped you. Remember? Without me you’re screwed, man.’

Bremer stopped and looked at him. He told the aide to walk on.

‘Helped me do what?’

‘You know perfectly well.’

‘No. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You needed the flat.’

‘The flat? What flat?’

‘I fixed the keys for you. When you wanted them—’

‘No, no, no. Calm down. I didn’t ask for any keys.’

Christensen stood in the chilly garage, open-mouthed.

‘Who asked you to do this?’ Bremer repeated. ‘Was it Hartmann?’

‘You mean he didn’t even mention me?’

Bremer closed his eyes for a moment.

‘For the last time. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. If you know something we should call the police.’

He pulled out his phone.

‘What did you say your name was again?’

Bremer fumbled with the buttons on the phone.

When he looked up he was on his own.

Two minutes from City Hall Lund got a call from Meyer.

‘I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you,’ he said.

‘I don’t have time.’

‘Tell him yourself.’

A voice she had to place said, ‘It’s Carsten.’

‘I’m going to have to call you back.’

‘It’s about Mark.’

‘He said you had a nice time.’

‘Mark hasn’t been to school all week. I talked to his teacher. They thought he’d already moved to Sweden.’

‘I’ll have a word with him,’ Lund said.

‘We’re past that, Sarah. When you can find the time to discuss your family phone me. Don’t take too long. I’m not having my son screwed up by you.’

Silence.

Then Meyer was back on.

‘You still there, Lund?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’ve found Olav.’

Mark and Carsten disappeared from her thoughts.

‘Where?’

‘If you’re near City Hall you should be able to see him. Just look for the blue lights.’

Three ambulances, two squad cars. A gurney on the ground. Blood on the shiny black street.

The uniform officer she spoke to said Christensen was crossing the street when he was hit by a fast car that drove off. No one saw the driver. No one got a registration number.

Lund walked towards the ambulances. Olav Christensen was in the office suit he always wore. Head a mess. Neck broken she guessed. Blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

Eyes still open. All the arrogance gone. Just fear now, sharp and real.

He was looking at her as she bent over him.

‘Take nice slow breaths,’ the ambulance man said.

‘What is it, Olav?’ Lund asked.

He was convulsing in tortured rhythmic throes. Gouts of gore came with each breath. No words.

‘Olav. Tell me.’

Someone called for oxygen.

‘Olav . . .’

In one moment his eyes glazed over then closed. The tension in his neck relaxed. The clinical mask went on. His head turned to one side.

‘Olav?’

The medics pushed her away. She watched the familiar dance around a dying man. Walked to the side of the road. Begged a cigarette from one of the uniforms. Smoked it in the shadow of the Rådhus, beneath the golden statue of Absalon.

There were lights on inside. It always seemed that way. But no one walked out to see Olav Christensen die on the black wet cobblestones of Vester Voldgade. They were all too busy with themselves.

The car that killed Olav Christensen was a white estate. They knew no more than that. Lund put out a bulletin straight away. The savage injuries to Christensen indicated it had been travelling at speed when it hit him. There had to be damage.

The best witness she had, an off-duty parking attendant from the City Hall garage, was adamant the collision was deliberate. Christensen had been crossing the empty road when the car pulled out of the side and went straight for him.

Meyer was there with Svendsen and some night men.

‘I want Christensen’s computer taken into forensics,’ she said. ‘I want his office searched and everyone in his department questioned. See if anyone close to him drives a white estate car.’

Svendsen went off to City Hall.

‘You’re sure this was deliberate?’ Meyer asked.

‘Where are the skid marks? He was accelerating straight at Christensen. He wanted to kill him.’

Lund looked at the Rådhus.

‘The parking attendant was finishing work. He said he saw Christensen before. He was in the garage. He spoke to Poul Bremer.’

Meyer stopped in the street.

‘Bremer?’

‘Bremer,’ Lund said. ‘Come on. Let’s talk to the Lord Mayor.’

City Hall was abuzz with rumour. Skovgaard had confirmed what she could to the police. On the way to the meeting she briefed Hartmann.

‘He died in the street.’

‘They’re sure it was him?’

‘Absolutely. Lund was there. She tried to talk to him.’

She put a hand to his arm.

‘You have to tell them where you were.’

They were at the top of the main staircase. Lund and Meyer were walking up.

Hartmann pounced.

‘Not now,’ Lund said. ‘I don’t have the time.’

‘Is he dead?’

Lund kept walking.

‘Yes.’

‘Morten overheard a conversation. Olav was talking to someone about the money.’

‘I know, I know.’

Down the long corridor, beneath the tiles and mosaics.

‘Stop this!’ Hartmann barked at her. ‘You know I’m not involved. Why not say it?’

Lund and Meyer walked a touch more quickly.

‘We don’t have time,’ Meyer said.

Skovgaard’s temper was fighting its short rein.

‘Troels could lose his seat because of this crap!’

Meyer stopped and stared at both of them.

‘You lied to us, Hartmann. And you . . .’ He stabbed a finger in Skovgaard’s face. ‘You gave him a fake alibi. Don’t pretend we owe you a damned thing.’

‘Am I above suspicion?’ Hartman pressed him. ‘You’re investigating Olav. Not me. That’s all I need to know.’

Lund started walking again. Meyer stayed for a moment.

‘You know what? I’ve worked out what you guys do here. You talk and talk and talk. But never listen.’

Then he walked on.

The two cops were disappearing down the corridor, towards Bremer’s department.

‘I’ll remember this,’ Hartmann shouted after them.

Poul Bremer looked relaxed, confident. Baffled.

‘You had a meeting with Olav Christensen before his accident?’ Lund asked.

‘I’ve never met the man as far as I know. He hung around the garage and just leapt out and started haranguing me.’

Meyer had his feet up on the polished coffee table, making notes.

‘You say this was unplanned?’

Bremer’s grey eyes fixed her.

‘I’m the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. I don’t hold meetings in car parks. I told you. I’ve never spoken to him before.’

‘What did he say?’ Meyer asked.

‘He started talking rubbish. He said he’d been helping me.’

‘With what?’

‘I didn’t understand. He was talking about the key to a flat.’

‘What flat?’

‘I’ve no idea. I assumed he’d confused me with someone else.’

‘You’re the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen,’ Lund said.

‘I didn’t know this man. I didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about. Phillip . . .’

A tall, bearded figure had walked into the room. City Hall suit and tie.

‘This is my private secretary, Phillip Bressau,’ Bremer said. ‘Since you seem to think this is important I’d like him to listen.’

Bremer shook his head.

‘I don’t understand. Why all these questions about a traffic accident?’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Bressau said. ‘You two are working on the Nanna case, right?’

‘Is this true? He was killed?’

‘We’re looking into it,’ Lund said.

‘Dammit. I won’t take that kind of evasive nonsense from my staff. I won’t take it from you. What’s going on here?’

‘When Christensen spoke to you did he mention any names?’

‘No! He realized he’d made a mistake. Then he walked off.’

Lund waited. Nothing more.

‘Every month,’ she said, ‘five thousand kroner were paid into his wages. Above his salary.’

Bremer turned to Bressau, perplexed.

‘No one can tell me what the money was for,’ Lund went on.

‘The mayor has nothing to do with this civil servant,’ Bressau broke in. ‘He worked for education—’

‘Someone gave him the impression he was doing you favours, Bremer. To do with the flat in Store Kongensgade and the girl.’

‘What?’

The old man sat on his comfy leather chair, rigid, astonished.

‘Is this an accusation?’ Bressau asked.

Meyer was swearing, his head in his hands.

‘It’s a question,’ Lund said. ‘I’m trying to find a connection here. We need your help . . .’

Poul Bremer was thinking.

‘Did he mention a name?’ Lund asked again.

‘Is this about us or Troels Hartmann?’

Meyer leaned back in his chair and let out a long howl.

That shut them up.

‘It’s about murder,’ Meyer cried. ‘It’s about a nineteen-year-old girl who was raped and then dumped inside a car and left to drown.’

Bremer and his civil servant stayed silent.

‘It’s about finding out what happened while all you fine and important people . . .’ Meyer’s hand waved around the grand office. ‘. . . do nothing but protect your backs.’