The Killing - 01 - The Killing (89 page)

He looked at the photos in front of her.

‘He wasn’t kidding, was he?’

‘What are we missing, Meyer? Nanna was kept for the weekend. Raped repeatedly. Thrown alive into the boot of a car. Drowned. Mette was beaten to death, wrapped up in plastic sheeting, bound with Merkur tape, dumped in the water.’

There was more information about Mette Hauge on the desk. She was wrapped in the sheeting wearing a torn cotton dress. No bra. No underwear.

‘It says she was taking self-defence classes. Judo. She was a fit, muscular girl.’

‘She’d fight,’ Lund said. ‘If someone came at her. She’d fight for her life, fight well I guess. How can these be the same but different?’

‘You mean it’s not our guy?’

‘I don’t know what I mean. Maybe he had some sort of relationship with Mette. It went wrong. That made him mad. Nanna was different.’

She picked up the evidence bag with the entry card and the key to the warehouse.

‘If there was a relationship we could pick up something from her things.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Meyer said.

‘No. Now.’

Meyer got his jacket.

‘Look, Lund. Maybe you don’t have a life but I do. My youngest’s got an ear infection. I promised I’d be home.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’

‘Oh for pity’s sake. You’re not going on your own.’

She read through the file record.

‘OK,’ Meyer said. ‘That’s it. Time for a little frank speaking.’

His hand slammed on the papers she was shuffling.

‘Lund. I’ve been watching you for two weeks. You’re falling apart.’

She looked at him.

Meyer folded his arms.

‘I’m saying this as your friend. You need sleep. You need to get this case out of your head for a while. I’m driving you home now. No arguments. No . . .’

She smiled, patted him on the chest, got her jacket, walked down the corridor.

Footsteps behind her. Lund didn’t look back.

‘This better not take long,’ Meyer yelled.

She drove. The warehouse was in a deserted part of the docks. Two fluorescent tubes outside.

Meyer got a call from home. Apologies. Baby talk to a child.

‘Poor darling. Does it hurt?’

‘If it’s an ear infection . . .’ Lund said lightly.

She got out of the car, looked at the place, left the door open. Meyer didn’t move.

‘I’ll stop at the chemist on the way home. I won’t be late, I promise. Hang on a minute . . .’

Lund was at the door. It was a security card system.

‘Hey!’ Meyer cried. ‘The chances of that thing working are about equal to me making the next Pope. Just wait will you?’

She popped in the card, heard the lock clank. Opened the door. Turned, waved the card at him and walked in.

Meyer was screaming at her.

‘Lund! Goddammit! Lund!’

Just heard him say, in a voice more sympathetic than angry, ‘I’m sorry, love. It’s just that she’s really crazy right now. I’ve got to keep an eye out—’

The red metal door was on a massive spring. It slammed shut behind her, its iron voice booming through the darkness ahead.

Theis Birk Larsen refused to talk to the two detectives who came round demanding access to their records. Pernille was less reticent. She stood in the office with the two of them, fielding their questions. Asking some of her own.

They were asking about staff and when they worked.

‘Of course we make a note of who goes on each job,’ she said.

The two of them were hunting through calendars, worksheets, ledgers. Didn’t ask permission for anything.

‘What’s this about? What are you looking for?’

One of them found a financial ledger, started flicking through the pages.

‘We want to know when Leon Frevert worked here.’

‘Why?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Those are our accounts. They’re private. Nothing to do with you—’

‘We’ve got a warrant. We’ll take what we like.’

‘They’re the accounts!’

He grinned at her.

‘Everything goes through the books, does it? We work with the tax people too, Pernille. I can pass this on—’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see the paperwork that lists who’s worked here and when. Every day for the last year.’

She marched to the filing cabinets. Got what they wanted. Threw it on the desk.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said and went upstairs.

Theis was washing up at the sink. The basil plant and the parsley were dying on the windowsill. She hadn’t watered them. Never thought of it.

Pernille stood next to him, trying to catch his eyes.

‘They’re looking for Leon Frevert. They’re asking where he’s been. How long he’s worked for us. They want to—’

‘There’s no point in getting involved,’ he cut in angrily.

‘Yes but—’

‘There’s no point! Every day they point the finger at someone new. This morning it’s Vagn. Now it’s Leon. Tomorrow it’s probably me—’

‘Theis—’

‘I can’t believe we did that to Vagn. We were stupid enough to think there was something in it.’

‘Theis—’

‘If it wasn’t for Vagn we wouldn’t have this place. If it wasn’t for Vagn . . .’

His voice drifted into silence.

‘Maybe you should call him,’ she said.

‘I tried. He didn’t answer.’

A small, scared voice from the shadows.

‘Did something happen to Uncle Vagn?’

Anton walked out in his blue pyjamas, sat on the step, looked wide awake.

‘Were the police here again, Dad?’

‘Yes . . . I lost something. They came to return it.’

Folded arms, bright face. Always the one with questions.

‘What did you lose?’

Theis Birk Larsen looked at Pernille.

‘Well, it was supposed to be a surprise. But . . .’

He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket.

‘It’s these. We’re moving. We’ve got a house.’

Pernille smiled, at Theis, at Anton.

‘You get your own room,’ she said. ‘We can sit outside in the summer. You can have a slide in the garden.’

The boy got up, frowned.

‘I like it here.’

‘You’ll like it there better.’

‘I like it here.’

‘You’ll like it there better.’

The hard tone in Theis Birk Larsen’s voice silenced the boy.

‘Go to bed, Anton,’ he ordered and the child went straight away.

Lund was on the sixth floor, poking round the storage spaces, when Meyer called.

‘What the hell are you doing in there?’

‘I found the floor where Merkur’s stuff’s kept.’

The building was still used regularly. The lights worked. The concrete was swept. Each floor was allotted to a company. Everything was stored behind chipboard doors.

‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

The key Svendsen found had the number 555 scrawled on the label in pencil. Lund looked at the nearest door. Five hundred and thirty.

‘You do realize you locked the door behind you? I can’t get in.’

He sounded anxious. Almost frantic.

‘I’ll be back down in a minute. What are you doing?’

‘Right now? Taking a leak. You did ask.’

Meyer finished peeing into the water by the dock. Called home again. Got ticked off again.

‘I told you. She’s not right in the head. I can’t leave her on her own.’ He listened to the list of complaints. ‘I can’t leave her! You know why.’

Women
, he thought after the desultory, angry goodbyes.

He looked at the building. It wasn’t the wreck he was expecting. Graffiti all over the front. From the smell some people weren’t as particular about peeing in the water instead of peeing against the walls. But there were low security lights on every floor, good strong doors. No exterior CCTV. Apart from that . . .

He pulled the torch out of his anorak pocket, shone it the length of the grey cement facing.

On the right something glittered. He walked over, found his feet scrunching through broken glass.

Looked down.

Fresh.

Shone the light on the window above.

Broken.

A commercial waste bin was pushed up close to the wall. With that someone could climb inside.

He pushed back, shone the torch on the floors above.

Said, ‘Shit.’

She walked along until she reached door 555. Same chipboard slab. Same basic lock mechanism. Sliding bolt with a padlock.

It was half open.

Lund didn’t have any gloves with her. So she pulled her sleeve down until the wool covered her fingers then slowly prised the door back.

The space beyond was half empty. What lay there was stored at the rear.

Cardboard boxes, like the ones in Birk Larsen’s garage. But these had white tape with blue lettering. The name Merkur with the flying wing to the left. The same tape that bound Mette Hauge.

It looked mostly junk.

The phone rang.

She looked at the ID.

‘I said a minute, Meyer. One of my minutes. OK?’

‘There’s a broken window at the front. Someone’s been here.’

‘Makes sense. The door was forced when I got to the Hauge unit.’

‘What floor are you on?’

‘The sixth. The top one.’

Silence. Then Meyer said, ‘OK. I can see your torch now. You’re at the window.’

Lund tucked her hands in her pockets, tried to think.

‘What window? I’m not using a torch.’

The silence again.

‘Stay where you are, Lund. You’re not alone. I’m coming in.’

She walked to the corner of the cold, dry room. Stood in the darkness. Turned her phone to vibrate, not ring.

Someone was out there. She could hear their footsteps. Up and down. Searching.

Something silver glittered in a nearby box. Lund looked. A heavy metal candlestick. She picked it up and walked back into the corridor, looking right, looking left in the waxy low security lights, walked on, seeing nothing but concrete and chipboard and dust.

Jan Meyer ran back to Lund’s car, cursing Brix for taking his weapon. Hunted through the Nicotinell packets and the tissues in the glovebox until he found the Glock.

Full magazine. Chewing gum on the grip.

He put it on the roof of the car, plugged in his headset, called her again.

‘Lund, are you there?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.

‘Good. I’m on my way.’

He climbed through the broken window, lowered himself gently onto the floor inside. Yellow chipboard doors. Concrete floor. Nothing.

Hit the call button.

‘Lund? Can you hear me? Hello?’

No answer.

‘Lund!’

A noise. A reluctant mechanical growl. Cables moving, wheels turning.

A voice in his ear.

‘Shit!’

‘Lund!’

‘Meyer. He’s got the lift and he’s coming down. I’m on the stairs. The lift!’

It sounded like a rusty metal animal stirring from a long sleep. Meyer walked the concrete corridor. Found the place. Buttons on the wall. Folding metal door. Cables falling and rising beyond.

Got out the Glock. Fell against the wall.

‘I’m by the lift,’ he said.

He could hear footsteps on the stairs, rapid and anxious. Drowned out by the approaching squeals of the tin cage falling from above.

A light. A clank. The lift stopped beside him.

Gun out. Waiting for the folding doors to slide. To move.

Nothing.

Waited.

Nothing.

Barrel pointing, turned the corner, aimed it straight ahead.

Nothing but an empty cage, a single bare bulb bright in the ceiling.

Meyer looked around him, saw blank space.

Confused.

‘The lift’s empty,’ he said.

Footsteps racing down the stairs. Getting closer.

‘I’m coming up for you.’

‘I don’t think he’s here.’

Her voice sounded shrill and scared in his head.

‘He’s gone down. He’s with you—’

‘I’m coming . . .’

Walked for the stairs. Saw the chipboard door come flying out to meet him.

Wood slammed into his face, hard metal bolt and padlock smashed against his waist.

A shout. A cry. His?

Meyer was on the floor, stunned and hurting.