The Killing - 01 - The Killing (83 page)

‘I doubt it. I see this as a civil servant’s attempts to wash his hands of a problem of his own making. I’m the victim. Hartmann has chosen, knowingly or not, to be his mouthpiece. I would have hoped for better—’

Weber hit the off button.

‘Bremer’s dumping it in Stokke’s lap. What else do you expect him to do?’

‘Stokke’s a big boy,’ Skovgaard said. ‘You should be too.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. This is going to bring Bremer down.’

Weber dragged on his coat.

‘I thought we were here to beat him with better ideas. Not by playing his own shitty game more grubbily than he does. Oh to hell with this. I’m sick of the rotten taste of it in my mouth.’

‘What was that?’ Hartmann barked at him.

‘You heard, Troels! I spent years making you what you are.’

‘Did you?’

Weber looked him up and down.

‘Damned right. The new guard. Clean and honest. Frank and fearless. And here you are trying to scrape the barrel like the worst of them. Jesus . . . You think you’re up to it?’

He pointed a finger at Skovgaard.

‘Do you think she is? The Jack and Jackie show’s falling apart and the two of you can’t even see it.’

‘That’s enough, Morten.’

Weber scowled.

‘I haven’t even started. You’re not supposed to wander onto the dark side, Troels. That’s my job. Leave it to the professionals.’

He was gone before Hartmann could answer. Rie Skovgaard sat fuming in her chair.

Hartmann perched on the desk.

‘I’m sorry. Morten turns brittle under pressure.’

‘That was brittle?’

‘I think so. I’ve known him a long time. That’s how it shows.’

Skovgaard seized her papers. Hair up now, severe. Dark eyes restless. Looking everywhere but him.

‘I was wondering if you’d like a drink.’

Head to one side, eyes examining him, she said nothing.

‘OK,’ Hartmann said with a shrug. ‘Just an idea . . .’

Weber marched back in. He was holding a gigantic bouquet of lilies.

‘Here.’ He thrust them into her arms. ‘These arrived for you. Maybe you’re supposed to turn them into a wreath or something.’

Then marched out.

‘Flowers,’ Hartmann said.

‘You’re very observant sometimes, Troels.’

‘Someone must appreciate you a lot.’

A smile, finally.

‘Can you call the police now?’ he asked.

There was a constituency meeting next. Weber relented and shared the car with Hartmann. They listened to Bremer’s statement on the radio. Halfway through Weber asked the driver to turn it off.

‘What did you mean, Morten? About the Jack and Jackie show?’

‘Oh come on. You see yourself that way. So does Rie. Don’t you know that was an act too?’

‘I’m not acting.’

‘You’re a politician. Don’t be so stupid.’

Hartmann shook his head.

‘Why do I take this constant abuse from you?’

‘Because we make a good match. Better than you and Rie. More honest anyway.’

Weber patted his knee.

‘Don’t be offended. I want the best for you. Both of you. She’ll make a good sidekick once she learns her limitations.’

‘Same for me, I imagine.’

‘You’re getting there.’

‘Why am I wrong about Bremer? Does it matter? If the end’s right, who cares about the means?’

‘Doesn’t work that way.’

‘I need to know I can rely on you, Morten. I need to know you won’t walk out. Throw a fit about Rie . . .’

No answer.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Hartmann said.

‘I believe you think you do.’

Hartmann held out his hand.

‘Come on, you grumpy old bastard. We’re in this together.’

Weber took his hand, shook it.

‘We always have been, Troels. And I’m not grumpy by the way. The thing is—’

Hartmann’s phone rang. Skovgaard. He put it on speakerphone so that Weber could hear.

‘I talked to the police,’ she said. ‘They’ll look into the allegations against Bremer.’

‘When?’

‘When they get round to it. They’re reopening the Birk Larsen case.’

Hartmann stretched back into the seat, wanted to scream.

‘What?’

‘They’re looking for someone else. They don’t think Jens Holck killed her after all. Lund and Meyer are back on the investigation. They’re out in Vestamager. They’ve shut down the waterworks and started searching all the canals.’

‘Find out more. We’ve a right to know.’

‘It’s a murder case, Troels. We don’t have the right to know anything.’

‘If Holck’s innocent it’s just a matter of time before they start banging on my door again. Find out what you can.’

A long pause.

‘They ruled you out, didn’t they?’

‘Since when did that mean a damned thing?’

He finished the call, told Weber what was happening.

‘They can’t come for you, Troels. How could they?’

Hartmann watched the city run past beyond the window.

‘Five days. One more punch. One more low blow. That’s all Bremer needs. By the time we get clear he’s back on the throne. You’re the strategist. If you were advising him, what would you do?’

‘If I was his strategist?’

‘Yes.’

Morten Weber laughed.

‘Then you’d be dead already.’

Vagn Skærbæk sat in their office chewing nervously on a plastic cup of coffee. Lund kicked off the questioning.

‘You worked for Merkur twenty years ago?’

‘I worked for lots of people over the years. You go where the money is. So what?’

She showed him the photo Aage Lonstrup’s daughter had found for them.

‘God, I was beautiful back then.’ Skærbæk stroked his chin. ‘I still am, don’t you think?’

‘How long did you work there?’

‘Three or four months. He was a nice guy but some of the others were idiots. A lot of boozing went on. I’m not much of a drinker.’

‘Did you know Mette Hauge?’ Meyer asked.

‘Who?’

‘A young woman called Mette Hauge. Merkur moved her into the city. Dark-haired girl. Early twenties.’

‘Are you kidding? We’d move someone every day. Two sometimes. I don’t remember. How’d you expect—?’

‘How well did you know Nanna?’ Lund cut in.

He stared at her.

‘I first held her when she was a week old. Does that answer your question?’

‘Not really. Did you know about her boyfriends?’

‘Not the politician. There was that rich kid from school who used to come round drooling. She had the sense to get rid of him.’

Lund watched him closely.

‘Did you know she was planning to travel that weekend?’

‘Travel? Where to?’

‘Talk to us about that Friday, Vagn,’ Meyer said. ‘You spent the evening at a nursing home with your uncle. That’s right?’

‘I told you that already.’

‘You’re a single man. You spend Friday night with your uncle?’

‘Yes. Every Friday.’

‘What about the rest of the weekend? Choir practice? Feeding the ducks? Knitting?’

Skærbæk rolled back his head, looked at the ceiling and said, ‘Ha, ha.’

‘You beat up the teacher.’

He glared at them.

‘You should never have told Pernille he did it. Wouldn’t have happened without you idiots.’

‘Where were you?’

‘At work! Like I told you! Theis and Pernille took the boys away for a break. I offered to cover. I’ve known Theis since for ever. They’re like family. I’d do anything for them.’

‘Have you seen this before?’

Lund passed him a photo of the necklace.

‘No. Can I go now? It’s been a long day.’

‘What about the other Merkur movers? Still know them?’

‘Twenty years ago? You’re kidding. Old man Lonstrup died. The rest were clowns, like I said. You know if you can’t work out who killed Nanna maybe it’s time your bosses found someone who can.’

He closed his eyes for a moment, looked as if he was in pain.

‘You’ve got to stop putting Theis and Pernille through all this. Do you people have no feelings? Christ . . .’

Lund looked at Meyer.

‘Stay there,’ she told Skærbæk.

They updated Brix in the adjoining office, watching Vagn Skærbæk through the glass.

‘He knew Nanna,’ Meyer said. ‘It’s possible he helped Mette Hauge move. He’s agreed to prints and a DNA swab. We’re checking them now.’

Brix got up and took a closer look at the man beyond the glass. Skærbæk was chewing on his empty plastic cup, spitting out the pieces. He looked bored and exhausted.

‘Any news from the woods?’

‘No. But they’ll work through the night.’

‘Check Skærbæk’s alibi again. Take a look at his family, his friends.’

‘We need to see if any other missing women had contact with a removals company,’ Lund suggested. ‘Think about it. You invite these people into your life. They see your home. Your routine. You trust them . . .’

‘You could say that about a priest. A doctor. A postman . . .’

‘I’m saying it about Vagn Skærbæk. Merkur—’

‘Wait,’ he broke in. ‘We’re working on the murder of Nanna Birk Larsen. Maybe there’s a connection to a girl who disappeared twenty years ago. I don’t know. All you have is a necklace. I’m not letting you dig up every cold case on the files—’

‘Brix—’

‘Take a look at him!’

Skærbæk had bitten through half the cup, done nothing else all the time they’d left him.

‘That guy can’t even change a light bulb. The idea he’s been running rings round us for twenty years . . . I don’t believe he’s been doing it for twenty days.’

Lund glanced at Meyer, stayed silent.

‘You’ve got seventeen hours left in the woods. Then the water supply goes back on. If there’s nothing but a necklace to link Nanna to the Hauge girl you drop that line altogether. Understood?’

Meyer gave him a little salute.

‘I want this case under wraps. No leaks. Not even to Hartmann.’

‘When do I get my gun back?’ Meyer asked.

‘When forensics are done with it.’

‘There are other guns, I believe. Sir—’

‘You just shot a man dead, Meyer. Three bullets. No mistake. Maybe it’s best you stay away from firearms for a while. We were wrong about Holck. I don’t want any more screw-ups.’

No answer. Brix left.

‘At least he said we,’ Meyer noted.

Lund was watching Vagn Skærbæk through the glass.

‘He’s not stupid,’ she said.

When they let Skærbæk go he went straight back to the garage in Vesterbro, talked to the Birk Larsens in their kitchen over coffee.

‘They haven’t a clue. You want to know what I think? They’re so desperate they’re going to go through everyone. Every guy who works here, Theis. Same thing. What did you do all weekend? Let’s have your fingerprints. Lick this. Sit there. Jesus—’

‘What did they ask about?’

‘Just that. What did you do all weekend? Why don’t you have a girlfriend? Stupid things.’

‘What sort of things?’ Pernille asked.

‘Like what I knew about Nanna’s boyfriends. Did I know she’d been seeing the politician. All kinds of stuff. It’s a joke.’

Birk Larsen’s narrow eyes turned on him.

‘Did you know about Nanna and Amir?’

Skærbæk squinted, shook his head.

‘The Indian kid? The one she used to hang about with when she was little?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Know what?’

‘They were going out together again.’

Skærbæk thought for a moment.

‘You mean like . . . now?’

‘Now,’ Birk Larsen snapped.

‘I don’t know jack shit about anything. I haven’t seen that Indian kid in years. What is this? I spent the weekend looking after the business.’

Pernille said to no one in particular, ‘Why do they think it’s one of the men?’

Birk Larsen shook his head.

‘They don’t tell anyone a damned thing,’ Skærbæk said, getting louder. ‘I told them to stop messing you around. They don’t care. They don’t give a fuck about anyone’s feelings. Jesus . . . Nanna.’

His eyes were getting glassy.

‘They said . . . how long did I know her? Nanna? Only since she was a baby. It’s disgusting—’

Birk Larsen put a hand on his shoulder,

‘Calm down, Vagn. It’s like you said. They’re just trying it with anyone. I’m getting a lawyer for this. We need some peace and quiet. I’m not having these bastards marching through the door any time they feel like. Pestering . . .’