The Killing - 01 - The Killing (74 page)

‘Me. There’ll be an investigation of the shooting. Bound to take weeks.’

‘You don’t have to worry. You did the right thing—’

‘Why the hell didn’t that idiot just drop the gun? God knows I tried—’

‘Meyer—’

‘What the hell could I do?’

He looked shocked and scared and defenceless. And young, with his big ears and guileless face.

Lund stopped packing, came and stood in front of him.

‘You couldn’t do anything else. You didn’t have any choice.’

Close up his eyes were glistening. She wondered if he’d been crying.

Meyer sucked on his cigarette, glanced nervously around the office.

She remembered finding him in the Memorial Yard, staring at the name of his dead colleague. Meyer was marked by that event. Couldn’t shake it off.

‘I’m glad you did it. How could I not be? You saved my life.’

He picked up the little car again, ran the wheels along the desk. Didn’t laugh when the blue light fired.

‘So now what?’ he asked. ‘The case is closed, right?’

An ashtray and a commendation plaque went into her cardboard box.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh please. I can see what you’re thinking. I can read you by now.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m just tired. Like you. That’s all.’

Brix came back. The legal department had ruled. There was sufficient evidence to prove Holck was Nanna Birk Larsen’s murderer. Meyer agreed to tell the parents.

‘What about Sweden, Lund?’ he asked. ‘Any news?’

She picked up the box.

‘Not yet.’

Brix scratched his ear, seemed uncomfortable.

‘I’ve got a bottle of a very good malt whisky in my room. If you’re willing. We ought to celebrate, you and all the others. It’s been a long and difficult road. For you two especially. Maybe . . .’

He coughed. Looked at them. Smiled without the slightest side or hint of sarcasm.

‘Perhaps I didn’t make it easy sometimes. Life’s never going to be simple when politics comes into play . . .’

‘I’ll have a drink,’ Meyer said and left the room.

‘In a minute,’ Lund told him.

Brix headed off down the corridor. She could hear laughter there. No voices she recognized.

Alone, Lund went to her files. Pulled out the folder of missing women. Ten years. A handful. Nothing promising. The man she’d set to work on this was an old cop, not well. Once a fit officer, good in the field. Now confined to hunting through old papers, looking for lost gold.

Ten years was not enough. So he’d gone back further. Twenty-three by the time Brix had dragged him off the job.

Thirteen missing women. Young. No link to City Hall or politics. Nothing to connect any of them with a man called Holck. Nothing to link them to a single, serial killer either. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

She turned to the last, the oldest. Twenty-one years before.

The colours in the photograph had faded. Mette Hauge. Student. Twenty-two. Long brown hair. Vacant, friendly smile. Big white earrings.

Lund looked at the cold case sheets and sat down.

The phone never stopped and there was only Vagn Skærbæk there to answer it. Lotte hung around him in a low, half-revealing top. He knew why.

‘I don’t give a shit about your deadline,’ he yelled then slammed down the phone. ‘Fucking reporters.’

He scowled at her.

‘Don’t you get cold going round like that?’

Then he went back to work on one of the engines.

‘Have you heard from Theis?’ she asked.

‘He’s on his way in. God knows where he’s been.’

Lotte smiled at him, fluttered her eyelashes. As if he’d fall for that by now.

‘Vagn. We don’t have to tell Theis about yesterday. It wouldn’t help. We could keep it between us.’

‘You want me to lie now? Jesus. I’m working Sunday. Trying to keep the vans on the road. Is there anything I’m not supposed to do round here?’

Footsteps at the garage door. Theis Birk Larsen turned up. Black jacket, black hat. Cuts on his face. Unshaven.

Lotte found a nervous smile.

‘Hi, Theis. Did you hear they found him? The police say they’ll be here in an hour.’

He didn’t look at either of them. Just walked to the office, started to look at the week’s schedules.

‘I heard. Where’s Pernille?’

‘Where the hell do you think?’ Skærbæk shrieked.

Lotte looked at her feet. Birk Larsen turned his narrow, cold eyes on the small man in the red suit, twitching nervously a couple of strides away from him.

‘What?’

Skærbæk’s temper broke.

‘Don’t give me that shit.’ He jabbed a finger at the stairs. ‘She’s where you should be. Here. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

Birk Larsen turned to him, big head to one side, fixed him with a stare, said nothing.

‘You didn’t bother coming to the cemetery, did you? Too busy, huh, you pisshead? We ran round everywhere looking. We were there with Pernille and the boys. Where the fuck were you?’

Lotte stepped back, ready for the explosion.

Skærbæk took one stride forward, looked up at the huge man in the black jacket.

‘You’ve lost it, you worthless piece of shit. Everything round here’s fucked and I’m not holding it together for you. Not any more.’

He took off his work gloves, slapped them on the engine of the van.

‘Fix this stinking mess yourself.’

Swept the tools and the cans from the workbench. Stormed out, kicking an oilcan on the way.

Birk Larsen watched, looked at Lotte.

‘What’s gone on?’

She was quiet. Scared.

His big hand fell on her shoulder.

‘I want you to tell me what’s happened, Lotte. I need to hear it now.’

In the kitchen, winter sun streaming through the windows. Pot plants. Pictures. School schedules on the wall. The door to Nanna’s room was open. Everything back the way it was.

Pernille sat at the table, staring at the surface. Her back to him as he came through the door.

He walked to the stove and got himself a cup of coffee.

Didn’t look at her as he said, ‘I was in the house in Humleby last night. It doesn’t look too bad. I’d got further than I thought.’

At the table. The morning paper. Nothing on the front page but a huge photo of Jens Holck and a smaller one of Nanna.

Pernille looked pale. Hungover. Ashamed maybe. He didn’t want to think about it. Wouldn’t.

He picked up the paper, his long, stubbly face held by the page.

Holck’s photo was a politician’s portrait. He looked decent, friendly, reliable. A pillar of Copenhagen society. A loving family man.

‘They say he’s dead,’ Birk Larsen murmured.

Her eyes were as wide as he’d ever seen. Glistening with the coming tears.

‘Theis. There’s something I have to—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

A single heavy teardrop ran down her right cheek.

With his big, rough hand Theis Birk Larsen reached out and brushed it away.

‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

More tears. He wondered why he couldn’t join her. Why he owned the feelings but not the words.

‘God I missed you,’ he said. ‘One day and it felt like for ever.’

She laughed then and two gleaming rivers appeared, so free and flowing he couldn’t staunch them even if he wanted.

Her hand reached out, touched his chin, his brown beard going grey. Stroked his cheek, the wounds, the bruises. Then she leaned over and kissed him.

Her lips were warm and damp, and so was her skin. Over the table, with its mosaic of frozen faces he held her and she held him.

The way it was supposed to be.

Hartmann didn’t break the news until the afternoon. It still left Weber furious.

‘A
borg fred
? I can’t believe you agreed to this, Troels. A truce benefits no one but Bremer. It’s a way of silencing you. He’s treating us all like naughty schoolchildren. If you go along to that meeting we’re finished.’

Hartmann nursed his coffee, looked out of the office window, thought about a few days outside the small enclosed world of City Hall. With Rie somewhere. Alone.

‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘Oh! So now it’s fine Bremer stays in office.’

‘No. It isn’t. But he’s backed us into a corner.’

Hartmann swore under his breath.

‘God that man’s got timing. If I do what he wants I can’t criticize him. If I don’t I look like the solitary troublemaker with a questionable past. We’re screwed. Aren’t we?’

No answer.

‘Aren’t we, Morten? Unless you’ve got some ideas?’

Weber took a deep breath. Was still out of words when the door opened and Rie Skovgaard came in with a face so pale and furious he beat a rapid retreat next door.

‘I tried to phone you,’ Hartmann said. ‘You weren’t home.’

‘No.’ She threw her bag on the desk, sat down. ‘I was at a friend’s house.’

‘I’m sorry I never told you.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I was . . . I said I’m sorry.’

She came and stood in front him.

‘Three days after your lost weekend you were asking me to move in with you.’

‘I meant it.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because . . . I was drunk. It was stupid.’

‘You could tell Morten. But you couldn’t tell me. Is it going to make the papers?’

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Brix gave me his word.’

‘That means a lot.’

‘I think it does this time around. They won’t look good if the truth comes out either. Forget the police, Rie. I didn’t want to make things worse with you. Sometimes . . . I don’t know what you want. I’m the one saying we should get a house somewhere. Have kids.’

‘Now it’s my fault?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Then why say it? Oh screw it. I don’t give a shit anyway.’

She got some papers out of her case, started to go through them.

‘At least let me try to explain.’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

She looked at him. No expression. It might have been a glance over the table at a committee meeting.

‘Troels, it’s over. We’re still in the campaign. I’ve worked my heart out for that. I’m not quitting now. Tell me truthfully. Did you really agree to a truce with Bremer? You know what that means?’

‘I told him I’d do what was best. He didn’t leave me any options.’

‘Well you’ve got them now. There won’t be a truce.’

‘That’s my decision. Not yours.’

Rie Skovgaard reached over and took his diary off the desk.

‘While you were pissing off everyone you could find and playing the martyr with the police I was working. You’ve got an extra appointment today. Tell me you still want to be Poul Bremer’s poodle after that.’

Mette Hauge’s father lived on a farm on the city outskirts near Køge. Lund drove out there alone. The place was mostly derelict from what she could see. The commercial greenhouse was empty with cracked windows and missing panels. There was no car, only a cheap motorbike parked by the back door.

It took a while for Jorgen Hauge to answer. He was a fit-looking grey-haired man in a blue boiler suit, not unlike the one Theis Birk Larsen had worn recently. Perhaps seventy.

He seemed puzzled when she showed him her police ID and asked about his daughter Mette.

‘Why do you want to know? After all this time?’

‘Just a few questions,’ Lund said. ‘It won’t take long.’

Hauge lived on his own with a few chickens and an ancient sheepdog. The house was tidy and clean. He seemed a punctilious, careful man.

While he made coffee she walked round, looking. A photo of a young girl playing on the beach. Then a few years later posing on a couch. Prizes for cattle and pigs at shows.

‘It was twenty-one years ago,’ Hauge said when he came back. ‘She disappeared on the seventh of November. A Wednesday.’

He looked at her.

‘It was raining. I was worried about the drains.’

He brought more photos to the table.

‘She’d just moved to Christianshavn. First place she had after leaving home. They said she was on her way back from handball. We called the police.’

News cuttings from the time. The same photo of Mette everywhere. Pretty.

‘Two, three weeks later there were only a couple of officers on the case. They never found her.’

Another cutting. Wreaths. A headstone.

‘So we buried a casket without a body.’

‘Is it possible she committed suicide?’