Lund ordered Svendsen to take Frevert to headquarters to make a formal statement. Then she walked to the plain wall at the end of the room.
It was covered with newspaper front pages from the very beginning of the Nanna case. Photos of Hartmann. Of Jens Holck and Kemal. But most of all pictures of Nanna, smiling.
‘The brother didn’t know,’ Meyer said. ‘This creep kept it all to himself.’
‘We had him.’ Lund stared at the front pages, the felt-tip pen marks around Nanna’s photo on every one. ‘We had him and we let him go.’
She walked out, went down the stairs to the car park. Blue lights flashing. Cars everywhere marked and unmarked. Forensics turning up.
Svendsen was smoking by the metal steps.
‘He dumped the cab near Birk Larsen’s place then picked up his own car,’ Svendsen said. ‘We’ve got an alert out for it. His phone’s off. We’ll get a trace the moment it comes back on.’
‘Why didn’t we know Frevert worked for Birk Larsen? You interviewed him.’
Svendsen looked at her, said, ‘What?’
‘You interviewed him. Why didn’t we know?’
‘He came in as a witness. Not a suspect. You never asked us to check him out.’
‘Lund . . .’ Meyer began.
‘Are you an intern or something, Svendsen?’ she barked. ‘Do I need to tell you your job?’
‘He was a witness!’ the burly cop yelled at her.
Meyer retreated.
She stabbed a finger towards Svendsen’s face.
‘If we’d known he worked for Birk Larsen we wouldn’t be standing here looking like idiots. We’d have Leon Frevert in a cell.’
‘Don’t blame me for your fuck-ups.’
‘You,’ she said, waving a finger in his bull face, ‘are a lazy man. And there’s nothing I hate more than laziness.’
She walked back towards her car. Meyer was making conciliatory noises behind her.
‘We’ve been working round the clock!’ Svendsen shouted. ‘I’m not having that bitch call me lazy. You hear that!’
She got behind the wheel.
‘They’re doing their best,’ Meyer said through the window. ‘Give them a break.’
‘Find Leon Frevert and I might even buy them a beer. Get his description out to the media. Bring in Vagn Skærbæk for questioning again.’
‘Lund . . .’
She started the car and edged out into the road.
‘Lund?’ Meyer said, running at the window. ‘What the hell do we want Vagn for again?’
‘Company,’ she answered and drove off.
Morten Weber was listening to the radio news, grim-faced, weary. A couple of reporters and photographers had ambushed Hartmann on the way into the Rådhus, following him up the stairs until Skovgaard turned on them.
Weber turned up the volume as Hartmann took off his coat.
‘Sources in police headquarters indicate the killer of Nanna Birk Larsen has still to be found. There is new speculation about the coming elections. The case continues to haunt Troels Hartmann since the Liberal Party flat is known to be connected to the crime. The basis for the police report filed by Hartmann against the Lord Mayor appears to be crumbling. New witnesses have stated that Bremer was not privy to the conversation . . .’
‘Turn it off,’ Hartmann ordered.
The office was strewn with papers. Committee minutes and constitutional documents.
‘Let’s go back to the police and get an update. Rie?’
She nodded, looking glum.
‘Send out a press release stating that we maintain our position on Bremer. Emphasize that I’ve been cleared of all suspicion.’
‘I hope the public believe that,’ Weber grumbled.
Skovgaard asked, ‘What did Bremer say to you, Troels?’
‘He accused me of covering up details in the case.’
‘What details?’
‘The surveillance tape. The party flat. He seems to think we got the information on Gert Stokke deceitfully somehow.’
Skovgaard said nothing.
Weber checked his phone.
‘I hate to make a bad day worse,’ he said, ‘but that slimy bastard Erik Salin’s waiting outside for you. He says he has to talk to you. It’s important.’
‘To him or me?’
‘I’d guess him. Ignore it . . .’
Hartmann went into the main office. Erik Salin was on the sofa, helping himself to a glass of wine. He’d started working on special projects for one of the dailies, or so he said.
‘What does that mean?’ Hartmann asked.
‘Right now that means you.’
Hartmann sat back on the leather sofa and waited.
‘Thing is,’ Salin said, taking out his notebook, ‘I don’t get some of this story. The surveillance tape, say.’
‘Been talking to Bremer?’
‘I talk to lots of people. It’s my job. I just want to get this straight. Wasn’t it really convenient for you that the tape disappeared? It’s got you on there taking the car keys.’
‘It’s also got Holck with the girl. So it suited him more than me, don’t you think?’
‘I guess. But Holck was dead by the time the tape showed up.’ A thin, sarcastic smile. ‘Didn’t help him much then, did it?’
‘Erik . . .’
‘So the party flat was left untouched for more than a week? Is that right?’
‘Seems to be. I’m running an election campaign. Not an accommodation agency.’
Salin looked surprised.
‘You’re running the Liberal group, aren’t you? There were lots of meetings during that time. And you never used the flat. Don’t you find that strange?’
‘Not really. We hold meetings here. In the campaign office.’
‘I guess.’ Salin smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry to pester you with all this. New editor. You get all the pressure.’
‘You are aware, Erik, that the police have cleared me of all suspicion?’
‘I do know that. I have to ask. What with stuff flying around. Like all these rumours about Rie Skovgaard.’
Hartmann said nothing.
‘You must have heard them, Troels? It’s everywhere. Supposedly she got the tip on Stokke by spreading her legs for Bremer’s press guy Bressau.’
He picked up one of the papers, found a photo of Bressau with Bremer. Put it in front of Hartmann.
‘Can’t blame the guy. Skovgaard’s hot in a kind of . . .’ He scratched his bald head. ‘A cold kind of way.’
Salin was grinning.
‘Word is she took him to a hotel the night they let you out of jail. Worked a little pillow talk on him. Got favours in return. If it’s true Bressau’s finished, of course. I guess we’ll have to see. People always say I’m in a shitty business. But it’s not much different to yours, is it?’
Hartmann waited, thinking.
Then he said, ‘I know you people think you own my private life. But if you’re going to stoop to playing Peeping Tom with my staff you’ve crossed the line.’
He got to his feet.
‘I don’t want to see you here again.’
Salin scooped up his notebook and his pen.
‘You put yourself in the public eye, Troels. You’ve got to expect some scrutiny.’ That snide grin again. ‘People have the right to know who they’re voting for. The real person. Not the pretty face on the posters. Not the bullshit they’re fed from your publicity machine.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Still, I guess if she’s willing to go that far for her man you have to wonder.’ Erik Salin came close, looked into Hartmann’s eyes. ‘What else would she do? And here you are accusing Bremer of impeding the investigation. It’s a bit rich, don’t you think?’
‘Isn’t there an opening on a gossip column somewhere, Erik? Sounds more up your street.’
‘Ouch! That hurt.’ He nudged Hartmann gently in the ribs. ‘Just kidding. I will need to get back to you, Troels. With some more questions. Don’t freeze me out.’
‘Erik—’
‘You won’t kill this by not talking to me. That’s a promise.’
Vagn Skærbæk was in Lund’s office demanding his lawyer.
‘No one’s charging you,’ Meyer said. ‘We just want to know what Leon Frevert was doing round your place.’
Red overalls, black hat. He looked as if he never climbed out of them.
‘So that means I’m not a suspect any more?’
‘Where’s Frevert likely to hang out?’
‘That’s an apology? Jesus. You people . . .’
Lund looked at him.
‘You want us to find out what happened, don’t you, Vagn? You’re one of the family.’
‘Leon was bringing back the keys for the van. He did a job. He’s not working tomorrow. I’m closer to him than the garage. He was going to drop them through my door.’
Lund wrote that down.
Meyer got up from the desk, started looking at the one photo they had of Frevert. Not a good one.
‘How well do you know him?’
Skærbæk frowned.
‘Leon’s been hanging round the removals business for years.’ He took off his black cap. ‘If he’d been a bit more reliable we might have given him a job. But I don’t know. You never got friends with the guy. There was always something . . .’
He stopped.
‘Something what?’ Lund prompted.
‘He was married for a while. When that went tits up he turned a bit weird. You think I’m a loner? I’m not. Leon . . .’ He frowned. ‘Definitely.’
‘Where do you think he might go?’
‘God knows.’
‘Was he working for Birk Larsen when Nanna went missing?’ she asked.
Skærbæk took off his hat, played with it, said nothing.
‘Well?’ Meyer asked.
‘I don’t think he’s been around for a few weeks. I don’t carry a job list in my head. He worked a lot during the summer, off and on.’
‘How did he get the job there?’
‘Through me. There’s an agency we use for casual work when we need people. He was looking for some cash on the side.’
‘When did you first get to know him?’
Skærbæk’s dark and beady eyes were on her.
‘Through Aage Lonstrup. He was a casual when I worked there.’
Lund sat back, thought about it.
‘You’re saying twenty years ago Leon Frevert worked for Merkur?’
Skærbæk’s face was still unreadable.
‘Did he do it?’
She didn’t answer.
‘People in your business see a lot of empty buildings and warehouses.’
Lund passed him a notepad and a pen, placed it next to Meyer’s toy police car.
‘I want a list of all the places Frevert would know from the business.’
He laughed.
‘All of them? You’re kidding. I mean . . . there’s a million places.’
‘Get started,’ Meyer said. ‘When you’re finished you can go.’
Skærbæk nodded.
‘So . . .’ His voice was cracking. ‘I brought this bastard into their home.’
He closed his eyes, let out a low moan.
‘Vagn . . .’ Meyer began.
An accusing arm, thrust at both of them.
‘Thanks to you Theis and Pernille think I killed Nanna. Now I’ve got to go back and tell them . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .’ The volume and the anger fell, turned inwards. ‘Maybe I did in a way.’
Lund watched him.
‘Just write the list,’ she said.
She listened as Meyer talked to the night team in the briefing room. Next to the map of the city on the wall were some fresh photos of Frevert, pictures of Nanna and Mette Hauge, some of the other women from the missing persons files.
All the standard procedures. Background to Frevert’s activities over the previous two decades. Tracking down girlfriends, the former wife, workmates, neighbours. Staff from the closed Merkur. Something that might link him to Mette Hauge.
‘I want to know where his cab went after he let Nanna out,’ Meyer said. ‘Let’s get his phone records. Every call he made that weekend. OK?’
Lund watched them go. Svendsen came into the room, didn’t look at her.
He had an evidence bag and some old file records.
‘What’s that?’ Lund asked, making him look at her.
‘I tracked down some storage space Merkur used to rent. The tax people impounded everything over unpaid bills. Pile of crap so they’ve never got round to selling what they took. From what I can gather some of Mette’s stuff may be still there. The tax people have given me an entry card and some keys. Whether anything’s still there . . .’
‘Good,’ Lund said.
Svendsen looked at her.
‘Good,’ she repeated.
Meyer watched him leave.
‘You never did the teamwork course, did you, Lund?’
‘Depends on the team. The body we found is Mette Hauge. How many more are out there?’
‘We’ve got enough on our hands already. No time to look for more. Did he tie her up too?’
‘Mette was long dead when she was bound. Fractured skull. Fractured clavicle, forearm, femur and shoulder.’