The Killing - 01 - The Killing (85 page)

Lund shook her head.

‘I looked upstairs when you were talking to the nurses. There are other exits. He could have got out if he wanted.’

‘Then he’s smarter than he looks.’

‘I told you. He is.’

Meyer went quiet.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘You heard that old man. You heard the manager. They all love Vagn.’

‘Doesn’t mean a thing, Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t mean a thing!’

‘He goes and sits with his old uncle most Friday nights? When the average Copenhagen working-class male can’t wait to hit the beer? That—’

‘It . . doesn’t . . . mean . . . a . . . thing.’

‘If it wasn’t for Skærbæk Theis Birk Larsen wouldn’t have a business from what I’ve seen.’

Lund was thinking.

‘Weak kid, bullied at school. Parents gone. Brought up by an uncle.’

The rain came on suddenly. The windscreen turned opaque. Meyer reached over and turned on the wipers.

‘I wish you’d let me drive.’

‘We’ll do a line-up. See if Amir can identify him.’

‘You’re clutching at straws. Any news in the woods?’

She turned the wipers up to double speed. Watched the sheets of rain envelop the car.

‘If we don’t find anything on Vagn then Brix will shut down the Hauge case,’ Meyer said. ‘We need more than a few pills and an old photo.’

‘I know that, thanks.’

Theis and Pernille Birk Larsen talked to the lawyer, Lis Gamborg, in the kitchen, around the decorated table. Complained about the police, about the constant visits, the ceaseless questioning.

The woman listened then said, ‘I sympathize but there’s really nothing you can do. It’s a criminal investigation. A murder case.’

‘But they’re not doing anything,’ Pernille said. ‘Nothing useful. They keep saying it’s solved. Closed. And then the next day they come back and it starts all over again.’

‘The police usually have good reasons, Pernille. Even as Nanna’s parents you’ve no right to know.’

‘No right?’

‘In law, no. I can talk to headquarters. Ask that they don’t turn up without warning.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ Birk Larsen broke in. ‘We won’t have anything to do with them. We’re finished. We won’t hand over the videotape either.’

‘They can get a warrant.’

‘I don’t want them here. I don’t want them in my home . . .’

‘I’ll talk to them. See what I can do.’

‘One more thing. They’re harassing one of our drivers. A close friend.’

Pernille stared at him.

‘This is about us, Theis.’

‘I won’t let them pick on Vagn. He always stood up for me. I do the same for him.’

‘Theis—’

‘The bastards took him in for questioning. If it happens again I’d like you to help.’

The lawyer made some notes.

‘I can do that, of course. But the police wouldn’t question him without a reason.’

He tapped the table.

‘I want you to help him.’

‘Of course.’

Lis Gamborg took out a business card, passed it over.

‘Give him my number. Tell him to call any time.’

Vagn Skærbæk had been complaining to anyone who’d listen. Most of them had now gone out on jobs. He was left with Leon Frevert, the two of them shifting a pile of household belongings into one of the smaller scarlet vans.

‘Being questioned like a criminal sucks. It’s like I did something wrong. Like somebody grassed on you.’

Frevert had ditched the black wool hat for a baseball cap. The peak was turned round to the back now. He looked ridiculous.

‘And there you are, these idiots throwing the same things at you hour after hour.’

He watched Frevert lug out some carpet to the van.

Anton and Emil were kicking a football around the yard.

Frevert returned and picked up a box of crockery.

Skærbæk came up close, looked him in the face.

‘Someone put them up to this. Was it you?’

Frevert was taller but skinny, older.

‘What do you mean, Vagn? What would I have to tell them?’

‘Some bastard did . . .’

Frevert laughed.

‘You’re getting paranoid. They’re just hitting on anyone they can.’

A young voice crying, ‘Vagn, Vagn.’

‘Are you playing with my football?’ Skærbæk cried. ‘I told you that was my football. How dare . . .?’

He made a gorilla shape, face furious, wandered outside on comic legs.

The boys squealed, ran around. Skærbæk caught them both, got Anton under his right arm, Emil under his left.

Was lugging them around like that, listening to them scream happily, when Birk Larsen came down with Pernille and a woman in a business suit.

Skærbæk let the boys go.

‘My ball,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

Then they were off, giggling, kicking it round the yard again.

The woman went to her car. Birk Larsen gave Skærbæk a business card, said to call the number if the police were round again.

Skærbæk said thanks, put it in his pocket.

‘We’re going to get some guttering, Theis. Leon can come. I’ll fix it.’

‘Yeah. I’m going to let a squirt like you put up guttering. Leon can stay here. I’ll show you how it’s done.’

The boys were on Vagn again, tugging at his red overalls.

‘These kids need a trip to the toy store, Pernille. I’ll come back later and pick them up. OK?’

She stood and watched him.

It took a long while but eventually she said, ‘OK.’

In the mahogany office, from the shadows by the window, Hartmann told them about the meeting with Lund.

‘Wonderful,’ Weber said. ‘If it wasn’t Holck, who did it?’

‘Damned if I know.’

‘Does this mean we’re back in the frame?’ Skovgaard asked. ‘They’ll be looking at the flat? At us?’

Hartmann shrugged.

Weber leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and said, ‘You were supposed to have the police on Bremer by now. What happened to the report you filed?’

‘He’s guilty. They’ll get round to it.’

‘When, Troels? A month or two after we lose the election? I warned you not to play that old bastard’s game.’

‘The police will question Stokke. He can’t lie to them. Bremer’s running out of time.’

‘So are we,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Bremer’s still in for the debate tonight.’

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

She looked at him as if the question were idiotic.

‘If we were in that position I wouldn’t let you out in public. What’s the point? I don’t get it . . .’

‘Amateurs,’ Morten Weber scoffed. ‘Why do I work with amateurs?’

Hartmann waited.

‘Gert Stokke’s gone missing,’ Weber said. ‘I got a call a couple of minutes ago. The police came for him but he wasn’t there. Stokke lives on his own. No one’s seen him since yesterday’s hearing.’

He let it sink in.

‘Your key witness just went walkabout, Troels. Now what do we do?’

‘Find him,’ said Hartmann.

Skovgaard walked out of the office, went to her desk, started making some calls.

‘Not easy finding a man who doesn’t want to be found,’ Weber said.

‘The surveillance tape.’

‘What about it?’

‘Find out who gave it to the police.’

He got his jacket, came over, tapped Morten Weber in the chest.

‘You do that. No one else.’

Lund and Meyer went to Humleby. Skærbæk was out at a roofing suppliers. They looked at the house. New window frames, new doors. Scaffolding and fresh paint. Timber and glass waiting to be fitted.

‘Is Birk Larsen inside?’ Lund asked one of the men in red overalls in the street.

She left Meyer checking on the progress of the ID line-up, walked through the open, half-finished door, over the tarpaulins, carefully picking a path among the plasterboard and the buckets, the tools and drill cases.

He was in what would one day be the living room. Big windows. It would be full of light once the plastic was replaced with glass.

Birk Larsen was by a stepladder, working on the ceiling.

‘The doorbell doesn’t work,’ Lund said, chewing on Nicotinell.

She took a look around.

‘I’ve got some questions about Vagn.’

He took a deep breath, picked up a bucket, walked to the other side of the room.

Lund followed.

‘What exactly did he do that weekend, Theis? When he was minding the business?’

Birk Larsen moved some chipboard to the wall, took out a retractable knife, popped up the blade.

‘You left Friday night, right after Nanna went to the school party. Did you plan all that in advance?’

‘No. Why do you keep asking the same questions?’

‘Because people keep giving us the same answers. When did you know you were going away?’

‘The night before. Pernille’s mother called to offer us the cottage.’

‘Did you talk to Vagn during the weekend?’

‘I didn’t want any calls on Saturday. It was a holiday. There was a problem with a hydraulic lift on Sunday. We talked.’

‘How many times?’

He didn’t answer, just shifted some more chipboard.

‘Did his relationship with Nanna ever strike you as odd?’

That struck home.

He came over, stood in front of her.

‘I’ve known Vagn for more than twenty years. His father abandoned him. His mother drank herself to death. He’s always been our friend. It doesn’t matter what ridiculous stories you come up with. I don’t give a shit. Is that clear?’

He marched to the door, held it open.

Lund followed, stopped at the threshold.

‘One of your people saw Nanna and Amir together that day. He’s the only one who knew she was running away. I need to know if it was Vagn.’

‘Get out,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the dull day outside. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’

She walked to the front steps.

Turned. Looked at his stony, stubbled face.

‘Vagn’s mother didn’t drink herself to death. She died giving birth. To him.’

‘Get lost—’

‘Theis!’

The half-finished door slammed in her face.

Lund went to the hole for the letterbox, yelled through it, ‘He lied to you. Think about it.’

Down the curving corridor on the eastern wing. The line-up room had floor-length one-way glass. A platform on the suspects’ side. Chairs and tables on the other. The lawyer Birk Larsen had hired stood with Lund and Meyer watching as Amir went up and down the line of six men, all in identical khaki uniforms, each with a number round the neck.

‘Do you recognize anyone?’ Lund asked.

‘I don’t know. I only saw him for a second.’

‘Take your time. Take a good look. Think about what you saw. Try to remember a face.’

Amir adjusted his heavy spectacles, went closer to the glass.

‘No one can see you,’ Meyer said. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

Amir shook his head.

‘Did you see him face on or in profile? Think about it.’

He looked.

‘It might be him. Number three.’

‘Number three?’ Lund repeated.

Skærbæk.

‘Maybe.’

‘Is it him or not?’ Meyer wanted to know.

‘Or maybe number five.’

The lawyer let loose a long, pained sigh.

‘I don’t know.’

Lund put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Amir?’ the lawyer said. ‘How far’s your flat from the Birk Larsen garage?’

‘Two streets.’

‘You’ve walked past the place most of your life. You used to go there as a kid, to play with Nanna?’

He said nothing.

‘So,’ the woman added, ‘you could just be recognizing a face you know.’

Lund nodded to one of the uniform men to take him back to the office.

The lawyer looked at both of them.

‘I can’t believe you did this. Number five’s one of your detectives, isn’t he? Even if he’d picked Vagn . . . Of course he’s seen him. In the garage.’

She looked at her watch.

‘We’re going now.’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘You’re not.’

Back in the office, Skærbæk in his scarlet overalls, hat on, scowling, bored.

‘No one saw you in the nursing home from ten at night until eight in the morning,’ Meyer said.

‘Why would they? I was asleep in a chair. In my uncle’s room.’