The Killing - 01 - The Killing (72 page)

Holck strode forward, to the space behind the car.

Looked round.

Shouted, ‘Bitch!’

Looked round again, not believing he could be so stupid.

Got a torch from the car boot, flicked it on.

A bright monocular beam seeking her. Like a hunter after a wounded deer. Its white beam ranged, a single blazing ray of light.

Five minutes, ten.

In the basement garage there was no thing called time. Only a man and a weapon, and a woman he sought in the shadows.

Behind a concrete pillar Lund lurked, trying to still her breathing, to make no sound.

Trying to convince herself the threats she’d made were not as idle as they seemed. That someone was coming. Even though she drove here alone. Told nobody. Not even Meyer.

They’d find her somehow.

Maybe.

Maybe.

He was close to the piles of cement sacks, torch ranging across the floor. Then she saw it. The Glock lay where it fell when Holck clubbed her with the wheel brace. A grey shape dimly shining, not far from the white estate.

Wait and hope.

Or act and win.

She wondered why she asked the question. There really was no choice.

He was down the far side of the basement. The gun four strides away, no more. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe he felt so powerful, so in control, he’d no need of any other weapon but his strength.

Lund ran.

Not four strides, five. She was leaping for the weapon when she saw him. Tall in the darkness, waiting all the time.

The gun was a lure for fools, she thought, as Holck snatched it from the floor with his left hand, punched her in the head with his right, sent her shrieking down to the stone floor.

Dust in the mouth. Bitterness and fear. She scrambled, crawled, half-kneeled before him.

Looked up, saw the Glock pointing straight in her face.

A second sound, another direction.

Another beam of light.

‘Hold it, Holck!’

Another voice, one she recognized.

She tried to move. Holck’s boot came out and kicked her in the gut.

Winded, aching.

Turning she saw him. Doing what he was taught for once.

Weaver Stance. Two hands, main elbow straight, support just bent. Gun steady, aim deliberate.

‘Put down the gun,’ Meyer ordered.

Holck stood unsteadily above her, the weapon at Lund’s head.

‘Drop it, Holck. For Christ’s sake.’

Lund crouched, didn’t look at the man. Thought about Mark. And Bengt. And Nanna Birk Larsen.

‘Put the fucking gun down!’ Meyer bellowed.

Holck wasn’t moving. Wasn’t going to. Death by cop. And sometimes they took one with them.

‘Come on, Holck! Gun down. You. On the ground. Now.’

He was staring at her and she knew it somehow. So Lund looked at him.

The Glock slipped down to the side of Holck’s legs. He was shaking. Eyes wide and terrified. Lost.

‘Tell my kids . . .’ he said and slowly, with an ambiguous intent, brought the weapon up to her scalp.

Three rapid explosions echoing round the empty, dusty garage.

She saw him jump with each, saw the pain and shock in his eyes.

The force took him backwards, sent him crumpling into a broken heap on the floor.

She hugged herself and waited.

Meyer was approaching. Regulations. Torch on the man, gun ready.

Lund looked at the still shape beyond her.

Watched for movement. Saw none.

Ten minutes later, medics putting clips in the wound in the back of Lund’s head. A corpse in a body bag, blood seeping through the seams.

In a flood tide of blue flashing lights, amidst the cacophony of sirens, Jan Meyer leaned against his car, smoking furiously with a shaking hand.

Watching Lund. Thinking. Wondering how many different outcomes there might have been. Were there other words? Other stratagems? Or did the road lead one way only, straight to the inevitable end?

Lennart Brix walked over. Blue raincoat. Burberry scarf tied carefully at his neck. He might have come from the opera.

Looked around then said, ‘How did you know where to go?’

Meyer watched her sitting in the ambulance, expressionless, letting the medics do their work.

‘The same way Lund did. I called his ex-wife.’

Brix held out his right hand, palm open, upwards. His leather gloves would have suited the opera too.

Meyer finished the cigarette, dispatched it into the dark, stood up and took the gun out of his holster. Checked the magazine, removed it. Held the gun by the grip, barrel down and placed it in Brix’s gloved hand. Then the magazine.

‘There’ll be an investigation. There has to be.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ll be informed. The girl’s parents need to be told.’

He patted Meyer on the back.

‘Well done,’ Brix said. ‘Now get some sleep.’

They let Hartmann go at ten. Lund was across the corridor, getting looked at again, as he collected his things.

‘Don’t you owe me an explanation?’ Hartmann asked Brix.

‘I don’t think so. Do you want to sign for your things or not?’

Hartmann picked up his tie and watch. Put a signature to the form.

‘Do we have a deal?’ he asked tentatively.

‘About what?’

‘About . . . what I told you.’

Not a flicker of emotion on Brix’s grey immobile face.

‘We only disclose statements to the public if a case comes to court,’ he said. ‘Since it won’t . . .’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me.’

Hartmann was staring at the watch. The time.

‘No need,’ Brix added with a smile.

Another torch. This time that of a police doctor, shining it in her eyes.

‘You’ve got minor concussion. Go home and relax.’

‘I’m fine,’ Lund said, carefully pulling the black and white sweater back over her head, noting the tears that wouldn’t mend, realizing she needed to buy another.

The door opened. Bengt came in. Arm in sling. He looked more shocked than after the car crash.

‘I’m not done yet,’ the doctor said.

Bengt took no notice.

‘If the stitches come undone you’ll have to get new ones.’

He came and held her.

Still Lund looked out into the corridor, saw Hartmann putting on his grey coat, walking for the door.

The doctor coughed.

‘I said I hadn’t finished.’

Lund gently stepped back from Bengt. Looked at the corridor again.

‘I said I’m fine.’

But Hartmann was gone.

Morten Weber had the car outside.

‘It was Holck. He took Sarah Lund prisoner. She’s lucky to be alive.’

Hartmann watched the city lights, thinking ahead.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Your lawyer. All charges have been dropped. She says you could sue the living daylights out of them.’

‘I’m not suing anybody. Where’s Rie?’

A pause.

‘It was too late to help, Troels. They voted. You’re excluded from the election. I’m sorry.’

‘We’ll see about that. Where is she?’

‘Bremer’s called a press conference.’

Hartmann looked out of the window. Winter night. Someone he knew, not liked but knew, was dead. Another man on the city council with a life that was withheld from those around him.

Troels Hartmann realized he wasn’t alone. Wasn’t afraid any more. Wasn’t bound by the demons that once haunted him.

‘No one’s ever going to know about the cottage,’ he said.

‘You confessed to the police.’

‘No one’s ever going to know about that. We’re back in business, Morten.’

‘Troels!’

‘I’m a wronged man!’ Hartmann roared. ‘Don’t you understand?’

Weber was silent.

‘I’m the victim here. As much as that Birk Larsen girl—’

‘Not as much,’ Morten Weber pointed out. ‘If you’re going to play the sympathy card, best play it carefully.’

‘Good point.’ Hartmann took out his phone, wondered who to call first. ‘Let’s work on it.’

The hotel room was wrecked. Smashed mirrors. Bad paintings on the floor. Vagn Skærbæk looked at Pernille, silent on the bed, half-dressed.

The drunk Norwegian was scared.

‘I didn’t know she’d go crazy! I got a number off her phone. It was me who called you.’

Skærbæk was still in his work clothes. Hands in pockets. Black hat. He bent down, looked into her face.

‘Pernille.’

She stared at him and said nothing.

‘Is it OK?’ the Norwegian pleaded. ‘I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. I thought she wanted it and . . .’

He looked at Skærbæk. It was supposed to be man-to-man.

‘She went berserk. I mean . . . I didn’t know she was married. I thought she wanted a little company—’

‘Piss off out of here,’ Skærbæk yelled then bundled him out of the door.

Went back to her. Knelt by the bed.

‘Pernille. I think you should get dressed.’

He set a chair upright. Got her tights off the bed.

She wouldn’t take them.

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

He struggled to get them on her feet. Gave up.

‘Where are your shoes?’

No answer. He looked around. Found the black boots.

‘I’ve been trying to get you. The police called.’

The boots weren’t easier.

‘Pernille! I can’t dress you.’

She looked at him. Said nothing.

‘They found who killed her.’

Wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t help him. The boots again.

‘Do you get what I’m saying? They caught him. He’s dead.’

Nothing on her blank face. Not a word.

‘He’s dead,’ Skærbæk repeated.

She took the boots off him, slowly pulled them on. Vagn Skærbæk looked round the room. Did what he had to sometimes. Cleaned up a little. Straightened the flowers, the broken lamp.

Got her out of the hotel.

He’d brought a small works van. It smelled of fusty carpets.

‘Lotte’s with the boys at your parents’. Have you heard from Theis?’

Nothing but lights and traffic. Not a word.

‘For God’s sake, Pernille! Will you say something?’

Past the Rådhus, past the station, down the long straight drag of Vesterbrogade. Into Vesterbro, past cafes and bars, past the side streets with their drug dens, past the hookers and the partygoers, the people of the night.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘we went to the beach and I wanted to teach Nanna to swim.’

Past the school where the boys went and the church where her white coffin rested.

‘We stood out in the sea. I said . . . first you have to learn to float.’

Towards home.

‘Nanna was scared. But I said I’d hold on to her. Always. No matter what. I’d hold her.’

Her hand went to her mouth. Tears. A sudden convulsion of grief.

‘Never let go,’ she sobbed. ‘Never.’

Back in Vibeke’s apartment Lund watched the evening news. Her head didn’t hurt too much. The beer helped.

Brix stood outside the warehouse block, looking serious for the camera. He liked being on the TV.

‘Jens Holck was shot in self-defence after threatening an officer with a firearm. He was killed by another officer on the scene. Evidence points to Holck being the man we were looking for in the Birk Larsen case.’

The reporter tackled him about Hartmann. Brix was unmoved.

Bengt came into the room and sat beside her.

‘We had strong reasons to believe there was a link with the Rådhus. Unfortunately Holck appears to have doctored some records to make it appear Troels Hartmann was responsible. I’m happy to say Hartmann was an innocent victim in all of this and has gone out of his way to help the police throughout.’

‘Sarah . . .’

‘A minute,’ she said.

He reached over, took the remote, turned off the TV.

‘You should talk,’ he said.

‘About what?’

‘About how you feel?’

‘How do I feel?’

‘Guilty.’

‘No,’ she said immediately.

‘Frightened?’

She stared at the dead screen and shook her head. Then she took a swig of the beer.

‘You will have a reaction,’ he insisted.

Still watching the dead screen.

‘Is that a professional diagnosis?’