‘If you like.’
‘That’s not the problem.’
More beer.
‘What is?’
She looked at him and said nothing.
Bengt sighed.
‘OK. I know what I said about the profile. That there could be more victims.’
‘Not likely if it was Holck. He couldn’t lead the life he did if he had that behind him.’
‘So there you have it. I was wrong. It happens.’
She looked at him again, was silent.
‘I’m not as smart as you, Sarah.’
He squeezed her hand. She didn’t respond.
‘I don’t see things. Imagine things. I can’t.’
Not a word.
‘I wish you couldn’t sometimes too. Don’t you?’
Lund finished the beer, thought about another.
‘We don’t get to choose who we are, do we?’ she said.
‘In some ways. Be glad that it’s over.’
He reached out and gently stroked the hair from her forehead.
‘Be glad you don’t need it all in there any more.’
She was staring at the blank TV. Hand reaching for the remote.
‘Come to bed, Sarah. For God’s sake, let it go.’
Sunday, 16th November
The Electoral Commission met in emergency session at nine in the morning and revoked its decision of the previous night. Troels Hartmann was back in the race, exonerated, a victim of circumstances. No one knew of the suicide attempt. Not even, Hartmann hoped, Poul Bremer.
Two hours later, in the Liberals’ office, Morten Weber was trying to instil some hope in the troops.
‘We’ve got a job to do. We have to explain to the voters that Troels is innocent. We know that. So do the police. But the voters have to understand.’
Eight campaign people there and Hartmann.
‘Many of our financial backers have pulled out,’ Weber went on. ‘Without money there’s no campaign. So we need to get them back onside.’
‘What about the alliance?’ Elisabet Hedegaard asked.
‘Forget the alliance,’ Hartmann said. ‘If we get the votes they’ll come. Where else can they go?’
Hedegaard looked unconvinced.
‘We go to the polls a week on Tuesday. We all know what that means. By next Saturday people have made up their minds. There isn’t time.’
Morten Weber grimaced and looked down the table.
Hartmann stood up, looking the part. Meeting their eyes, making each of them feel special.
‘What Elisabet says is true. Time’s against us. The media too. Maybe Bremer’s got more tricks up his sleeve.’ Hartmann shrugged. ‘All I know is this. If we don’t try we will lose. So why not give it our all? Why not fight? Why not dream?’
He laughed. Enjoyed this small stage, this tiny audience.
‘I don’t recommend a jail cell for political meditation. But it works, in a way. When I sat there . . .’
His eyes drifted off to the distance. All of them, Weber even, were caught by the moment.
‘In my blue prison suit I thought of who we were.’ He nodded at them. ‘Of you. Of what we’re fighting for. None of that’s changed. Our ideas, our ambitions are the same. Do we want them any less today than we did yesterday?’
His fist thumped the table.
‘No. I want them more, with a passion. I want a City Hall that can’t play fast and loose with the police just because someone here feels like it.’
A murmur of approval. A lighter mood. One that swung his way.
‘Do we make the best of it? Or do we give Poul Bremer what he and his henchmen have been angling for all along? Another four wasted years?’
Weber clapped. So did Elisabet Hedegaard. Then all of them.
Hartmann smiled, gazed at each in turn, remembered every name. Almost all had been ready to ditch him. Every one he would now thank personally, in fulsome tones, with a private phone call later, for the support they’d shown.
‘Let’s get moving. I’ll see you out there.’
He watched them go.
‘Have you talked to Rie?’ Weber asked. ‘There’s a lot we have to do.’
‘I know, I know. I’ve left a thousand messages. She doesn’t call me back.’
Someone rapping at the door. Poul Bremer, winter coat, scarlet scarf and beaming smile, looking as if he was about to audition for the job of Santa Claus.
‘Troels!’ A loud and cheery voice. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt. I had to come by to say . . .’
He came in, took off the scarf. The smile fell.
Sincerity.
‘To say welcome back.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Weber muttered something dark and wandered off to his desk. Bremer walked into Hartmann’s private office, helped himself to some coffee then sat on the sofa, shaking his head.
‘Holck, Holck. He was always a solitary soul. But this. I don’t understand. Why? We went to Latvia together. He was a bit down in the mouth but . . .’
He took a biscuit and picked at it.
‘A capable man if unimaginative. The Moderates will fare better without him in the end. Not this time round. As far as this election’s concerned they’re lost. As are Kirsten’s troops and all the other fleas that hang on the backs of others wishing to feed off them.’
That broad grin again.
‘One way or another you’ve left them all in ruins. It’s you and me now. I’d congratulate you if I thought it was intentional.’
‘Do you have something to say?’
Another sip of the coffee then his intense grey eyes turned on Hartmann.
‘I do. I’m very sorry about what’s happened. Believe me. Last night I thought we were doing the right thing in the circumstances. Mistaken circumstances but they were the only ones we knew.’
He waited. A political moment, one Hartmann recognized.
‘And I’m sorry, Poul, if I accused you unfairly in the heat of the moment.’
Bremer shrugged.
‘No need. Don’t give it another thought. I won’t. Now we must look forward. We’ve all been touched by this. Not just you.’
Hartmann took the chair opposite.
‘And?’
‘There’s a common consensus. A rare consensus. I talked to the others after we reversed the decision to exclude you. An easy decision, I might add. We all agree this is a time to bury our differences and turn around the public sentiment. The cynicism. The shock. The perception of chaos. It’s understandable but it’s wrong, as you well know. Our most crucial task is to win back the confidence of the voters. That’s the legacy Jens Holck has bequeathed us. We have to renew our contract with the people. Convince them of our worth. Are you with me?’
‘You always make a good speech.’
‘This isn’t about me. Or you. It’s about . . .’ He waved a hand at the elegant room, the mosaics, the sculptures, the paintings. ‘. . . this place. Our castle. Our natural home. The Rådhus. Tonight we hold a press conference. I’ll talk about a new desire on the part of all the parties to work together for the common good and clean up the mess Holck left us. Are you with me?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We’ve agreed to a
borg fred
. A truce. We put a halt to these personal attacks. The frenetic nature of the debate. The hostile climate. A gentlemen’s agreement. We behave ourselves.’
‘A
borg fred
. . .’
‘Peace in the castle. It’s happened in extraordinary circumstances before. The election goes on. We simply mind our manners. Bring down the temperature.’
The grey eyes were on him.
‘Talk about policies not individuals. I’m sure you can agree to that.’
Bremer got up from the sofa.
‘That’s how things stand. I suggest you throw your weight behind us. I’m being generous, Troels. You’re in no fit state to fight anything. Not now.’
The smile, the outstretched hand.
‘Can I count on you?’
Hartmann hesitated.
‘Let me think about it.’
‘What’s there to think about? There’s a consensus. Call them if you like. I’m giving you a chance to come back into the fold. You’ll look a fool if you stay outside. But if that’s what you want . . .’
‘Whatever’s best,’ Hartmann answered.
Poul Bremer glared at him.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. The joint press conference is at eight. We’ll expect to see you there.’
By late morning Svendsen’s team had got hold of Holck’s bank and credit card statements. They showed a string of purchases at expensive fashion stores and jewellery companies.
‘We can trace her boots directly,’ Meyer said.
Lennart Brix sat in the office looking at the photos, no expression, no emotion on his face.
‘What about the necklace?’ Lund asked. ‘The one with the black heart?’
Meyer shoved the photo from the lab in front of Brix.
‘She had this in her hand when she was found,’ he said. ‘We think he made her wear it. Nanna ripped it from her neck when she was drowning.’
Lund persisted.
‘Did Holck buy her the necklace?’
‘It probably wouldn’t show on the records. If he did he must have paid cash down on one of the junk stalls in Christiania or somewhere.’
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
Meyer shuffled uncomfortably on his chair. He looked pale, exhausted. It was rare for anyone to die at the hands of a Danish police officer. The media were fascinated. An internal inquiry was inevitable.
‘From what we can gather the necklace is old. Twenty years or more. It’s hand-made. Cheap gilt chain. Glass . . .’
He was staring at her and she knew that look now. It said: why do you keep pressing? Why can’t you just accept there are things we’ll never know?
‘What does a black heart mean, Meyer?’
‘The hippies in Christiania . . . they had a fashion for them back then. It was kind of a badge for the drug gangs. Now they just get bought and sold on junk stalls.’
Brix spoke for the first time.
‘We can’t waste time going back two decades.’
Lund reached over and sifted through the evidence pile. The necklace was there in a plastic bag. She picked it up. Looked at the gilt chain. Unmarked. Not tarnished.
‘This hasn’t been worn for twenty years. If Holck bought it . . .’
Meyer carried on.
‘Jens Holck transferred money personally to Olav’s account. Not just the five thousand he was giving him through City Hall. Blackmail. We found his prints in Store Kongensgade too. We got these in his home.’
Meyer spread out some photos on the table. Lund shuffled her chair closer. Holck with Nanna somewhere in the country. Happy, loving. Holck was smiling. Barely recognizable.
‘It’s obvious they were having an affair. His wife confirmed it. She didn’t know who he was seeing. Just that he was obsessed with her. And she was young.’
Meyer scratched his head.
‘They always mention that, don’t they? I guess he was proud.’
‘And happy,’ Lund added.
Brix looked bored.
‘What do we know about his movements that Friday?’
‘He was at the poster party. Nanna went to the Rådhus later. Probably to pick up the keys so she could let herself into the flat.’
Lund went back to Holck’s photos. Another set. It was colder. Both of them in winter coats. Laughing. Nanna too old for her years. Holck a different man, holding her. In love. It was so obvious.
A memory from the night before.
That filthy little whore
.
‘Did anyone see Holck that weekend?’ Brix asked.
‘No. His ex-wife had the kids and was blocking access. She was giving him a hard time over everything. We don’t have anyone who saw him at all.’
Brix nodded.
‘And the car we found at Holck’s?’
‘No doubt about that,’ Meyer said. ‘It was the car that killed Olav.’
Lund kept flicking through the photos. Holck and Nanna, a couple. Twenty years apart. Happy as could be.
‘What do you think, Lund?’
Brix’s question took her by surprise. She threw the pictures on the table.
‘Sounds like a good case,’ she said without much conviction.
‘Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.’
She said nothing.
‘Well done,’ Brix declared, got up, patted Meyer on the shoulder, left the room.
Not long after Lund was packing her things again. It was Meyer’s office now.
He was watching her. He looked concerned.
‘What are you going to do?’
She had a cardboard box, was putting things into it.
‘I don’t know. Bengt and I have to talk. Mark too. We’ll work something out.’
Meyer started playing with his toy police car. Gave up on that and began pacing the office, cigarette in hand.
‘What about you?’ she asked.