The Killing - 01 - The Killing (81 page)

Stokke nodded, looked at each of the leaders round the table.

‘As you can see from the documents I had a conversation with Holck. I tried to get him to understand that something was wrong. But he didn’t want to know. I was unable to convince him.’

‘And then?’ Bremer asked.

Stokke puffed out his cheeks, said eventually, ‘I brought it up at a later date. He was no more cooperative. With hindsight I see I should have informed someone. I apologize for this. We have systems in place now . . .’

‘And Holck himself . . .’ Bremer prompted. ‘He had a bullying nature which was not known to most of us, I believe.’

‘He was forthright,’ Stokke agreed. ‘And convincing. He told me he’d deal with the matter directly. I assumed he was telling the truth. What else could I do?’

Bremer put his hands together, like a priest taking confession.

‘I think we’ve all learned lessons from this sad episode. As far as I can see you did what you could. No further questions are needed. So thank you—’

Hartmann put up his left hand.

‘I have a question if you don’t mind.’

Bremer waited for a moment then said, ‘Go ahead, Troels.’

‘Just so we’re absolutely clear, did you tell anyone about Holck’s actions?’

‘No one.’

Hartmann picked up the folder in front of him.

‘I’d like to hand out some documents.’

He walked round, placing the sheets in front of each, Stokke first.

‘These are minutes from a meeting between Gert Stokke and Bremer. They discussed planting trees. There are references to an appendix which wasn’t included with the file copy. It was mislaid, I imagine. Is that right, Gert?’

‘I’d have to check the records—’

‘No need.’ Hartmann picked up another pile of documents. ‘I’ve managed to recover the appendix anyway.’

Stokke blinked.

‘It was in a safe place, hidden there by the head of administration of Holck’s department.’

A wave to Stokke.

‘You, Gert.’

The civil servant’s eyes locked on the document in front of him.

‘Let me refresh your memory,’ Hartmann went on. ‘This is your note of a report you gave to the Lord Mayor about what you call the worrying conditions in Holck’s administration. It cites, for example, the payment of five thousand kroner a month to a civil servant named Olav Christensen, who worked in my department, not that any of my payroll team or my administration were aware of this relationship. Or that there’s any clear indication why Christensen was paid in the first place.’

Bremer sat flushed, speechless.

Hartmann turned to the council members.

‘This appendix was never part of the official minutes. It was Gert Stokke’s secret insurance policy. A way of making sure that if the sky fell he could at least say we were warned.’

Hartmann pointed to the document.

‘And here it is. Proof that the Lord Mayor knew about Holck’s wilful and illegal misconduct in office long before the rest of us. Proof that the Lord Mayor withheld from the police information that could have revealed the real murderer of Nanna Birk Larsen long before they did.’

He looked across at Bremer.

‘Would the Lord Mayor care to comment?’

Nothing.

‘No?’

‘Well,’ Hartmann said, getting up from the table, leaving them with the papers, ‘thanks for listening.’

Lund and Meyer were out looking for Amir. He’d come back to the city after seeing Theis Birk Larsen. Picked up his car. Hadn’t been seen since.

They’d tried the father’s restaurant. The cemetery.

Nothing.

As Meyer cruised through Vesterbro his phone rang.

‘His mobile is registered on a tower near Tårnby. Not far from the airport. Maybe he’s trying to get out . . .’

He wheeled the car round, headed for the road out to Kastrup.

Lund thought. Remembered the picture. Two little kids and a red Christiania trike.

‘He’s not going to the airport.’

‘The mobile—’

‘I know where he is.’

The traffic was light. It took twenty-five minutes to get there.

Meyer grew more sullen and morose as he realized where they were headed.

Down the narrow lanes, along the ditches and the canals. Past the dark wood where the dead trees gave no shelter.

Their headlights caught the low metal bridge. A shape midway along.

Meyer checked his gun, realized Brix still had it. Lund scowled at him, got out, walked straight towards the figure by the canal.

There was a bouquet of flowers at his back. Amir sat on the edge, looking at the black water, arms through the railings, dangling his legs in the air.

Like a kid.

A second squad car pulled up on the other side, blue lights flashing. Two men raced out. Lund waved them back.

She walked up.

‘Amir El’ Namen?’

She gestured for Meyer to take out his ID then bent down to talk to him.

‘We’re police, Amir. It’s OK. You’re not a suspect.’

He kept looking at the water.

‘Witnesses saw you at the airport in Malmö.’

She went to the edge, leaned on the ironwork, wanting to see the eyes behind his thick black-rimmed spectacles.

‘There’s something I need to know,’ Lund said. ‘Who knew? Who did Nanna tell?’

Finally he looked at her.

‘Who knew, Amir?’

‘No one knew. We weren’t stupid.’

‘Someone must have known. Someone who kept an eye on Nanna . . . Or saw you together. An ex-boyfriend, maybe. Think.’

He did.

‘Someone saw us. But he couldn’t have known. It’s not possible.’

Lund got closer.

‘Who saw you?’

‘It was when I picked her up to take her luggage to the station. He got out of a car. I didn’t really see him. I don’t know who he was.’

Meyer sighed.

‘So what did you see then?’ he asked wearily.

Amir glared at him.

‘A red uniform. But he couldn’t have known.’

Meyer shook his head.

‘What do you mean a red uniform?’

‘I mean a red uniform. Like they wear.’

‘Who?’ Meyer asked.

‘His people. Their people. The overalls. Birk Larsen’s.’

Thirty minutes later Brix arrived, gave Lund her ID card without a word.

‘The river search team you wanted is on their way. I expect you to find something.’

‘What about the water supply?’ Meyer asked.

‘They’ll close it for twenty-four hours. No more. What did the Indian boy say?’

‘We’re looking for one of the removals men. Someone who works for Birk Larsen. That’s the link.’

Brix was scanning the arriving cars.

‘The link to what?’

‘To Mette Hauge. She’d moved from her dad’s place to the city not long before she disappeared.’

She waited, wanting to get this clear in her own head.

‘When you move home,’ Lund said, ‘you let strangers into your life. Mette did. Nanna . . .’

Vagn Skærbæk looked at the orders, the schedules, the money owed. They were doing some night work off the books to make ends meet.

It wasn’t easy.

Theis Birk Larsen was back from a cash run out to the docks, looking beat but happier than he had of late.

‘You know I’m calling in extra people,’ Skærbæk said. ‘What with the work, the calls. We don’t have enough.’

‘So long as the jobs cover it.’

Skærbæk nodded.

‘They will. Don’t worry. I can add up.’

‘Good.’

There was a ring at the door.

‘Go upstairs, Theis. You look beat.’

Skærbæk watched him leave.

The man was lean, around their age. Bloodless face. Sick-looking.

‘You could have come earlier.’

‘I couldn’t. I was busy. The guy who owns the taxis is giving me a hard time. He wants me to do more shifts.’

‘Yeah well. Theis needs you more. And you owe him. So don’t screw us around again. Get your overall on. We’ve got work to do.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yeah. Cash.’

‘Nothing . . . you know—’

‘Nothing what?’

‘I don’t want trouble, Vagn.’

Skærbæk shooed him into the room with the lockers.

‘Just do the job. There’s still a uniform with your name on it. Even if you do mess us around. This is a family firm, remember?’

‘Family. I know.’

The scarlet overalls were where the new man left them two weeks before, the last time he’d worked. He picked up the red cotton, checked the name on the tag anyway.

It said:
Leon Frevert
.

Lund looked up and down the canals, wondered what secrets they hid. Scuba divers had been working for two hours, dropping into the water from inflatable boats. Other officers were scouring the weed banks and bulrushes at the edge. Floodlights everywhere.

Even Jansen, the ginger-haired forensic officer who never seemed to question Lund’s orders, was starting to have doubts.

Around eight, during a break to move the scuba team to a different patch he came up, said, ‘We’ve searched two of the smaller canals. God knows how many there are left.’

‘Try the old drain line. Twenty years ago most of this area was off limits. He’d know that, he’d have made use of it.’

‘All of this was off limits twenty years ago. The army used it as a firing range. No one came here. To dump a car . . .’

She was barely listening. Lund was trying to imagine what might have happened.

‘Don’t assume she’s in a car.’ She thought of Bengt, going behind her back, tracking down Mette Hauge, convinced he was right. ‘Don’t assume anything.’

Meyer had spoken to Mette’s father again. She’d used a removals firm to take her from her home into a new apartment in the city. He’d no idea which one. But the police report said her belongings went to a warehouse registered to a company called Merkur. It had long since gone out of business.

‘The last person it was registered to was someone called Edel Lonstrup,’ Meyer added. ‘I’ve got an address. Maybe tomorrow . . .’

It was almost ten.

‘Let’s go now,’ Lund said.

‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ Meyer asked.

‘Yes. Twenty years.’

Lonstrup was in Søborg, on the edge of an industrial zone. It looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a home. The metal gates were unlocked. So were the doors to the run-down metal shack that greeted them at the end of the drive. Meyer pushed in. Boxes everywhere and dusty junk. The name Merkur was stencilled on a few. At the back was a long window with a light on. They could see a kitchen. A few pot plants.

Someone lived here as well.

A bloodless face came to the glass, put a leathery hand to her cheeks, peered out.

In her grey dressing grown, with her lank unwashed hair, she didn’t look as if she got many visitors.

They sat in the kitchen, watching her eat. The place seemed to be made out of the junk she’d collected: unmatched crockery, a rickety stove, an ancient radio. Merkur closed down ten years ago after her husband died. She said she didn’t have a list of staff, any paperwork at all.

‘What happened to it?’ Meyer asked.

‘I threw it all out. Why keep it? If this is about taxes or something go down to the cemetery and talk to him.’

‘Did one of your employees switch to Birk Larsen’s company?’

‘Employees? It’s the moving business. They’re all gypsies. They worked for us one minute. The competition the next. God knows what else they got up to on the side.’

Her face hardened. A memory.

‘That’s why he hung around with them, not his family. For the drink and the women and whatever else was going on.’

‘Birk Larsen?’

‘Who’s Birk Larsen?’

The woman had no TV as far as she could see. No papers on the table. Nothing that linked this place to the world outside.

‘Does the name Mette Hauge mean anything?’ Lund asked.

‘Who?’

‘Mette Hauge. She had some things in storage.’

‘Aage sold everything he could before he went bust. Other people’s belongings too. If he hadn’t died he’d be in prison. All to get drunk and hang around with scum.’

‘So you didn’t keep anything?’

‘Take a look. What you see is ours. No one else’s.’

A voice emerged from the dark behind them, younger, more frail. It said, ‘We’ve still got some things in the garage.’

The woman behind them looked forty but was dressed like a teenager from another time. Long woollen cardigan, a colourful, tatty T-shirt beneath. Jeans. Her hair was in pigtails, turning from brown to grey. She had the face of a child, scared and mutinous at the same moment.