The Killing - 01 - The Killing (75 page)

He didn’t seem to mind the question.

‘Mette got depressed sometimes. She was a student. A bit naive. I think she hung around with some of the hippies for a while. Christiania and that. Not that she ever told us.’

‘Was there any kind of note?’

‘No. She didn’t kill herself. I know . . .’ He ran a finger across the cuttings. ‘Your people told me a father always says that. But she didn’t kill herself.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

‘Not that we knew of. Like I said, she’d just moved to the city.’ Hauge looked around the room. ‘This place is a bit boring when you’re young, I guess. It’s a long time ago. I don’t recall. She had a life . . .’

‘Did anything puzzle you at the time?’

He bridled at that.

‘Oh yes. One day you’ve got a daughter you love more than anything in the world. The next she’s gone for ever. That puzzled me.’

She got up, said, ‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’

‘Here’s another thing. After all this time how come I get a visit from you people twice in one week?’

Lund stopped.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I had an officer here asking the same questions.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I wrote it down somewhere. He spoke funny. Didn’t really hear all he said.’

Hauge sifted through some papers on an old desk by the window.

‘Maybe I left it in the living room. I’ll get it for you.’

She followed him, looking at the walls.

Photos and paintings everywhere. Family and landscapes.

Then one of Mette. It was black and white. Looked like student days. Hair dishevelled. Cheap T-shirt.

Necklace with a black heart.

She stood in front of the photo, unable to breathe for a moment.

Looked again.

Hand-made by hippies in Christiania, Meyer said. Not many of them around.

It was the same necklace. She knew that as certainly as she knew her own name.

Hauge came back.

‘Where did she get that necklace?’ Lund asked.

‘I don’t know. She was in the city by then. A gift maybe.’

‘Who gave it to her?’

‘Do you think she’d tell her father? Why?’

‘Did you ever see it again? In her belongings after she died?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He gave her the name of the man he’d spoken to. She wondered why she was surprised.

‘Do you mind if I take this photograph with me?’ Lund asked. ‘You’ll get it back. I promise.’

Meyer went to talk to the family. Sat around their odd kitchen table. Told them what he knew. Holck met Nanna through the dating site. He used Hartmann’s identity to conceal what they were doing. The affair ended.

‘Why did he do it?’ Pernille Birk Larsen asked.

The two of them clasped hands together like teenagers.

‘It looks like he was in love with her. Crazy. She broke it off. Holck persuaded Nanna to meet him one last time in the Liberals’ flat. After that . . . we don’t really know.’

Birk Larsen kept his eyes on Meyer and said, ‘How exactly did he die?’

‘He . . .’

Close to a stammer, Meyer struggled.

‘He threatened the life of a colleague. So we had no alternative. He was shot.’

‘Did he say anything?’ she asked.

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘And you’re sure it’s him?’

‘We’re sure.’

The couple’s fingers worked together, entwined. A glance between them. A nod. A flicker of a smile.

‘We’d like Nanna’s things back now,’ Pernille said.

‘Of course. My colleague Sarah Lund’s no longer on the case. If there’s anything you need, call me from now on.’

Meyer placed his card on the table.

‘Any time. About anything at all.’

He got up. So did Theis Birk Larsen.

The big man stuck his hand out. Meyer took it.

‘Thank you,’ Birk Larsen said.

A glance at his wife.

‘From both of us. Thanks.’

Bengt Rosling was in the kitchen, cooking with his one good arm, Vibeke watching, smiling.

‘When we get away from here things will be fine,’ he said.

A bottle of Amarone. Pasta and sauce.

Vibeke toasted him.

‘I need the place to myself again. Sarah . . .’

The door went. Her voice lowered.

‘She needs someone to keep her in check.’

Lund walked in. Anorak damp from the drizzle outside. Hair a mess.

‘Hi!’ Bengt said, getting a third glass, pouring some wine.

‘Can we talk?’ she said.

‘Now? We’re making lunch. Your mother’s helping me.’

Lund waited, said nothing.

‘Here we go again,’ Vibeke grumbled and walked into the living room, closing the door behind her.

Lund took the files out of her bag. Threw them on the table. Trying to control her temper, but not much.

‘Well . . .?’ he asked.

‘You talked to the father of one of the missing women.’

He sat down, gulped at the wine.

‘You pretended you were a police officer. I could pull you in for that right now.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because your boss Brix called me three days ago. He’d heard about my ideas. That maybe the man had killed before.’

He picked up the Mette Hauge folder, opened the first page.

Pretty girl. Dishevelled hair. It was a mugshot. Lund had checked. Mette had been cautioned over soft drugs.

‘I told Brix what I thought. He brushed it to one side. He seemed determined to get Hartmann in the frame.’

‘Really?’

‘He was very arrogant in the way he dealt with me. I found that irritating.’

‘I never realized your ego was so fragile.’

‘That was uncalled for. I wanted to prove I was right. The Hauge file was old but it looked the most promising. They found her bike not far from where Nanna was dumped. So I went and called on the father.’

More wine.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘And what did you find out?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘What did you find out, Bengt?’

He held out the second glass. She didn’t take it.

‘Last night you told me you were wrong. There was no connection to any of the old cases. But you went out there. You know that wasn’t true.’

‘One case. Tentative.’

‘Tentative?’

She pulled the black and white photo out of her bag.

‘Look me in the face and say you never saw it. I want to know what it’s like when you’re lying. I never looked for that before.’

He glanced at the photo, frowned.

‘It’s probably just a coincidence. There might be thousands of those necklaces.’

‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now I know what it’s like.’

She went and stood over the sink, trying to think, trying to calm down.

‘Sarah . . .’

He was behind her. Touched her shoulder briefly. Thought better of it.

‘I love you. I’m worried about you. I didn’t want this hanging around us for ever . . .’

She turned and faced him.

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘I took some notes and gave them to Brix.’

She closed her eyes briefly.

‘You gave them to Brix? Not me?’

‘We weren’t speaking. I was pissed off with you. How could I?’

Lund nodded.

‘How could you?’

She picked up the folder and the photograph, stuffed them back in her bag.

‘Sarah . . .’

Lund left him bleating in the kitchen, with his wine and his pasta and her mother.

Hartmann’s unscheduled appointment proved to be with Gert Stokke, the head of Holck’s council department. Skovgaard stayed to listen.

Stokke was a tall man approaching sixty. Civil servant’s suit. Subtle, intelligent face. Bald as a coot and slippery.

He sat down, looked at Skovgaard first then Hartmann, and said, ‘This had better be in confidence. I don’t like coming in on Sundays. People talk.’

‘Thanks for being here, Gert,’ she said, and ushered him to the sofa.

‘You realize the risk I’m taking?’

‘Yes.’ She glanced at Hartmann. ‘We do. And we appreciate it.’

‘Well . . .’

Stokke had worked in City Hall for more than twenty years. Three years before he was appointed to run the department Holck headed.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I had access to all the accounts and budgets. This is public money. It’s a very important job, and much under-appreciated if I might say so.’

Hartmann checked his watch and glared at Skovgaard.

‘Am I keeping you?’ Stokke asked.

‘Tell us about Holck,’ she said.

‘Cold man. During the summer he changed. He was always so conscientious. Not likeable. But he was on top of his job.’ A shrug. ‘Then things started to slide.’

‘How?’ Hartmann asked.

‘He took a day off and told me his child was sick. Then his wife called and asked me where he was. Men have affairs. It’s none of my business.’

‘Why am I listening to this, Rie?’ Hartmann asked. ‘None of it’s new. Holck’s dead. I’ve got a press conference.’

He got up from the chair.

‘Gert,’ she said. ‘You knew Holck had an affair and that he used our flat?’

Hartmann stopped at the door.

‘I knew about the affair,’ Stokke agreed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the flat. Not entirely. I heard rumours about it. Once I wanted to send him some papers and he said that I should send them by taxi to Store Kongensgade.’

‘Jesus,’ Hartmann muttered.

‘It could have been for a meeting with you.’

‘You knew he used our flat?’ Hartmann shook his head. ‘Do you understand what you could have spared me? Why the hell didn’t you say so? They threw me in jail—’

‘I told Bremer,’ Stokke said quickly. ‘He knew all about it. He’s Lord Mayor. If it’s for anyone to speak out surely—’

‘What?’

‘Months ago. When I first knew about it. I asked for a meeting. Bremer said he was going to take care of it. He’d have a word with Holck.’

‘When was all this?’

‘May, June. He’s Bremer! The Lord Mayor. If he says he’s in control of something who am I to argue? Don’t look at me like that, Hartmann. I’m here, aren’t I?’

A sound at the door. Morten Weber bustled in.

‘Troels. You’re late for your castration. The press conference is assembling. Bremer wants to meet everyone beforehand.’

Weber caught the atmosphere.

‘Gert?’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Jan Meyer was in the office with his wife. The kids. Three girls. Seven and five and two. They’d brought him two new toy police cars. Went
vroom vroom
with them on the desk top.

‘Let’s go out for a Sunday meal,’ his wife said.

He had the eldest on his knee, arms around her waist.

‘I’d really like to go home if that’s OK.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Home.’

‘We do have food at home, don’t we?’

His voice grew big and bold, like a cartoon giant.

‘I want big steaks and lots of ice cream. And candy and Coke. And then . . . more big steaks!’

‘We can pick up some pizza . . .’

A shape beyond the glass. Lund stern-faced and anxious. She’d stopped at the door.

‘Wait here,’ Meyer said. ‘I’ve got to talk to someone. It won’t take a moment.’

Out in the corridor.

‘What’s up, Lund?’

‘I don’t know.’

She touched her head. He looked at her fingers.

‘You’re bleeding. The doctor said you’d need that restitched if they came out.’

‘We’ve to go back to the canal. I think there’s more out there.’

‘Lund . . .’

The kids were waving at him from the office. They were making eating gestures. His wife didn’t look happy.

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘No. Tell me now.’

‘I’m not crazy, Meyer.’

He didn’t speak.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Shall we go?’

Lund drove, Meyer read her files. The radio news was on. Holck’s death. A police officer held hostage. Brix saying the Nanna Birk Larsen case was closed. A truce rumoured at City Hall as the politicians drew in their horns and tried to ride out the blaze that had suddenly burst into life in their midst.

He was looking at the photo of the necklace. In Nanna’s hand. Around the throat of Mette Hauge twenty-one years before.