The Killing - 01 - The Killing (65 page)

‘Help us,’ Lund pleaded.

Meyer pulled out a cigarette, lit it in the face of Bremer’s furious complaints.

Then he blew smoke up towards the mosaics and gilt of the ceiling.

‘Do what Lund says,’ he added. ‘Or I stay here all night.’

Poul Bremer wasn’t like his election photos. He seemed older. Skin more florid. Eyes more tired.

‘Tell Bressau what you want and he’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed on a regular basis. I require that.’

They didn’t move.

‘Is that enough?’ he asked.

Meyer took his feet off the table, stuck the cigarette between his lips, stood up.

‘We’ll see.’

On her own in the kitchen Pernille Birk Larsen listened to the radio news, keeping it quiet so that the boys in their bedroom couldn’t hear.

‘After the mother’s appeal several witnesses have come forward in the Nanna case. The police have searched the Liberals’ office and Troels Hartmann’s home. Hartmann himself has been questioned.’

Lotte came through the door with some takeaway food from round the corner.

Pernille watched her start to open the boxes. She didn’t want her sister in the house really. Not after the deceit over the club. But Theis was gone. She couldn’t bear to ask another favour of her parents, who’d never liked him and would wear that told-you-so look for ever.

‘Tomorrow we meet the cemetery manager at the grave,’ she said in a whisper.

‘OK.’

Lotte got some plates, forks and spoons.

‘What about Mum and Dad?’

‘It’ll be just us.’

‘Us?’

‘You and me. And the boys.’

‘What about Theis?’

She didn’t answer.

‘I know you’re mad at him, Pernille. But you have to talk. You can’t shut him out.’

Nothing.

‘Maybe he shouldn’t have packed her things without asking. But for God’s sake—’

‘This is none of your business.’

‘He didn’t do it to upset you! He did it because he wanted to help.’

‘To help?’

‘You’ve got to get past this. Don’t you see? If you let it destroy more than it has already—’

‘It . . .’

‘I mean—’

‘Someone killed Nanna!’ Pernille said as loudly as she dared. ‘It didn’t happen yesterday. Last week. Last year.’

She stabbed her head with her finger.

‘It happens now. Every day. You don’t . . .’

She didn’t feel hungry, didn’t want any food.

Lotte said, ‘I know they have to find him. But that’s not more important than you and Theis and the boys.’

Pernille felt the fury rising inside her and realized she was growing to like it.

She glared at her sister. Lotte was still beautiful. Lotte never had kids, never had those kinds of cares. Never had a husband or anyone who stayed for long.

‘Who are you to lecture me?’ Pernille asked her. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’

Lotte was starting to cry and it didn’t matter.

‘I’m your sister—’

‘Nothing’s more important. Not me. Not Theis. Not the boys. Not you—’

‘Pernille.’

‘If you’d told me what Nanna was up to I could have stopped her!’

Lotte sat at the table, hunched and tearful, silent, eyes downcast.

‘I don’t trust you any more than I trust him. How can I?’

Giggles from the bedroom. She wondered if Anton would finally have a dry night.

‘Anton! Emil!’ Pernille called. ‘We’ve got dinner!’

The boys yelled gleefully.

‘They shouldn’t see you crying, Lotte,’ she said. ‘Either stop it or go.’

Lotte went to the bathroom, dried her eyes. Wondered about the coke in her handbag. Hated herself for even thinking of it.

Then she went back and picked at the food, listened to the boys laughing, watched Pernille glued to the TV.

At eight thirty she walked downstairs to the garage. Vagn Skærbæk was there, calling round anxiously.

He hadn’t located Theis. Had no idea where he might be.

‘Who did you phone?’

‘As many as I trusted. I told them not to start any rumours. We don’t want it all over Vesterbro.’

He and Theis were like brothers. Theis always dominant, but the two of them close. If anyone could find him . . .

‘I’ll take a drive round,’ Skærbæk said. ‘I can think of a few places—’

‘What did he say when he came round your place?’

Skærbæk pulled on his jacket. Black, like Theis’s, but cheaper.

‘Nothing.’

‘He must have said something—’

‘He said nothing! I was at home watching TV and he rang the doorbell. He mumbled something about it all being his fault.’

‘And you let him go?’

‘What do you want me to do? Slap him round the head? Would you try that?’

‘Vagn—’

‘I didn’t know she’d bitten his balls off. I went to get him a beer and he was gone.’

It was cold in the garage. Lotte was in the skimpy top she wore to the Heartbreak. She hugged herself and shivered.

‘Does he know the urn’s being buried tomorrow?’

‘Yes. I guess. If Pernille told him.’

She was out of ideas.

Vagn Skærbæk took out his car keys.

‘I’ll drive around. I’ll find him.’

Then a bleak aside, to himself more than her.

‘I mean . . . it’s not like it’s the first time.’

Poul Bremer sat in front of the group leaders, the holders of the keys to City Hall, arguing for a formal investigation of Hartmann the following evening.

‘I’ve always admired Troels as a hard-working and clever politician. But the evidence is against him and he seems unable to give a credible explanation. This is a sad occasion . . .’

Bremer looked at each of them, Jens Holck more than the others.

‘We’ve no choice. We have to vote for his appearance before the Electoral Commission. He needs to explain himself.’

‘Hartmann’s not been charged,’ Holck broke in. ‘Why not leave this to the police?’

‘We all know Troels. We all like him . . .’

‘The whole council could have been sued if he’d pilloried the teacher the way you wanted,’ Holck added. ‘Should we risk doing the same to him?’

‘I’ve known Troels longer than any of you. I understand how you feel.’

The statesman’s smile.

‘Especially since you were about to enter into an alliance with him.’

He came round and patted Holck on the back.

‘Right, Jens? But parties aside, it’s our duty to maintain the public’s confidence in the political system. We have to ask ourselves how long our own credibility can withstand such a prominent member of our assembly being questioned daily as a suspect in a murder case. If we’re to—’

The doors broke open. Hartmann stormed in.

‘I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?’

‘You weren’t invited, Troels.’

‘No,’ Hartmann snarled. ‘I wouldn’t be. Have you told everyone the police are now investigating the case here? In the Rådhus? Did you tell them they’re looking at the civil servants? That they interviewed you?’

Bremer stood his ground.

‘This is a private meeting. You were the subject. That is why you weren’t invited.’

Hartmann looked at the group around the table.

‘If you’ve got questions ask them! Don’t listen to this devious old bastard. Ask me!’

Bremer laughed.

‘If that’s what people wish. Have your say. While you can . . .’

Hartmann walked in front of them.

‘I know you’re worried about the damage. Reporting me to the Electoral Commission doesn’t solve a thing. I’ve nothing to do with this case . . .’

‘You’ll find that out soon enough,’ said Bremer.

Bremer’s phone rang. He walked away to answer it, then went to the fax machine in the corner of the office.

‘Someone bought Olav’s services and his silence,’ Hartmann went on. ‘With the help of funds paid for by City Hall. Don’t ask me how. The police are investigating.’

Bremer was coming back with a sheet of paper from the machine. He was reading it carefully.

Hartmann was in his stride.

‘The Lord Mayor neglected to mention any of this information even though he knew of it. He wants to get rid of me to help his own campaign.’

‘Oh, Troels,’ Bremer said. ‘You’re so full of accusations for others, and silent when it comes to answering for yourself.’

‘I will not—’

‘We’ve traced the money Olav Christensen was receiving.’

He brandished the paper.

‘Phillip Bressau came across it hidden in the accounts. He’s given the records to the police. They’re on their way. There. Are you happy with my recounting of the facts now?’

He passed the paper round the table.

‘It’s true the money came from the pay office,’ he added. ‘It was in connection with environmental reports, supposedly. Reports made for the schools service. Money for so-called consultation, paid for directly from the Mayor of Education’s budget.’

Hartmann snatched the sheet as Jens Holck read it.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know every damned person who’s on my payroll! Any more than you do. This is one more piece of nonsense.’ Hartmann was floundering. ‘It’s a mistake. The police can clear it up.’

The people around the table were silent, wouldn’t look at him.

‘If I was using this man,’ Hartmann yelled, ‘would I put him on my own payroll? It’s a fabrication . . .’

Bremer took his seat at the head of the table, watched Hartmann ranting.

‘A fabrication,’ Hartmann repeated more quietly. ‘Like everything else. From the beginning. Jens . . .’

He took Holck’s arm.

‘You know I wouldn’t do this.’

Holck didn’t budge.

‘Someone’s changing the damned records. Someone in this place—’

The door opened. Meyer was there with his big ears and miserable unshaven face.

They all turned and looked and waited.

‘For God’s sake . . .’ Hartmann began.

Meyer rapped on the shining wood.

‘Time for walkies, Troels,’ he said.

The melee was there already. Flashing cameras, shrieking reporters. Meyer told a cameraman to piss off. Svendsen got his hand on Hartmann’s head as he thrust him into the back of the squad car parked on the cobbled courtyard beneath the golden statue of Absalon.

Rie Skovgaard and Morten Weber watched from the gates. The pack ran after the blue police car with ‘Politi’ painted on the side in white. Hartmann sat slumped in the back, heading back to headquarters again.

‘This time, Hartmann,’ Meyer said from the front seat, ‘you tell us the truth or you will spend the night sweating in a cell.’

Back in the committee room Bremer walked over to Holck who was on his own, smoking by the window, watching the commotion outside.

‘If you want a life in politics, Jens,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll vote with me.’

Holck looked pale and worried. He chewed on the cigarette. Said nothing.

‘And if you’re smart you’ll get the rest of Hartmann’s lapdogs to do the same. Right now I could cut you all loose if I wanted and rule this place on my own.’

‘Poul—’

‘No, Jens. Don’t talk.’

The old man looked cruel and vengeful. There was an opportunity here and he was determined to take it.

‘He got out of there before,’ Holck said anyway.

‘Not this time. But you choose.’

His voice grew louder. The others looked at him the way they used to do. In meek obedience.

‘All of you,’ Bremer said, ‘must choose. Do it wisely this time.’

From the corridor Lund watched as Svendsen dealt with Hartmann in the detention room.

Standard procedure. Happened every day. But not to a man in a fine business suit, a politician of Hartmann’s stature.

Svendsen counted out his belongings. Seven hundred kroner and some change. Twenty euros. Two credit cards and a phone.

‘Now remove your jacket and put it on the chair.’

A uniformed officer wrote down a tally of the items.

‘Your tie,’ Svendsen said.

They watched.

‘Shoes on the table.’

Hartmann did it.

‘Now lift your arms. I need to search you.’

The uniformed officer got up and twisted the venetian blinds. Lund saw no more.

Back to the office, Brix in a chair, looking at the paperwork.

‘So we can prove Hartmann was behind the payments to the civil servant?’ he asked.

‘It’s a bit complicated,’ Meyer said. ‘But from what the Bressau guy came up with it looks that way.’