The Killing - 01 - The Killing (92 page)

‘Theis—’

He cut the call.

‘Problems?’ Skærbæk asked.

The car ahead was moving.

‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’

It took another ten minutes to get there. Three plain-clothes detectives he’d never seen before were in the downstairs living room, going through the bags of belongings, emptying black plastic sacks of building material onto the floor.

Birk Larsen marched in, stood, hands in pockets, face like thunder.

The cops looked at him.

‘You can’t be in here.’ A flash of the ID. ‘We’re working.’

‘This is my house.’

‘Your wife gave us the key.’

Birk Larsen jerked a thumb at the door, looked at all three of them, said, ‘Out.’

‘We have to search the place,’ one cop said.

‘Get out!’ Skærbæk yelled.

The cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. He was young and slight. They all were.

‘We’ve got a warrant.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about your warrant.’

Two steps forward. The three of them retreated.

‘You have to leave,’ a cop said gingerly.

‘You found Leon yet?’ Skærbæk shouted. ‘You found anything? It’s a house, you bastards! You have no respect. No decency . . .’

Another cop rushed up from the basement.

‘There’s no one here.’

‘Fine,’ the young cop said. ‘We’ll come back later.’

Birk Larsen bunched his fist at the man’s face.

‘Don’t come near us again until you’ve talked to the lawyer. Understood?’

They watched the cops go. Then Skærbæk ran downstairs, into the basement. Looked around. Came back up.

‘They didn’t make too much mess, Theis.’

Birk Larsen had barely moved. Frozen with fury, with a sense of his own helplessness.

‘We can get the boys’ room ready for them,’ Skærbæk added. ‘I took out a lot of the crap from the place myself anyway. All that shit in the basement.’

‘What shit?’

‘The blinds. The broken bathroom stuff.’ Skærbæk stuck his hands in his pockets, looked at him. ‘That stinking old mattress. You don’t need the kids to see all that crap.’

Another TV studio. Another round with Poul Bremer.

Hartmann was getting ready in his office, Morten Weber helping him pick the right clothes.

Not young this time. Sober grey suit, immaculate white shirt. Dark tie.

Hartmann looked at himself in the full-length mirror in the office wardrobe. Looked at Weber’s world-weary face.

‘Can we still win on Tuesday, Morten?’

‘Miracles happen. Rumour has it anyway.’

‘How?’

Weber scowled at the tie, told him to wear something brighter.

‘What does Rie think?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘If Bremer stumbles the votes come to you. Sometimes elections aren’t so much won. They’re lost. This is a two-horse race now. The minority parties are squabbling among themselves as usual. No one’s going to turn to them. It’s going to go to the wire, that’s for sure. So . . .’

Nothing more.

‘So what?’

‘So keep your head, play everything straight, and let’s pray the iceberg hits him this time, not us.’ Weber waited. ‘I thought you might at least look a little impressed by my uncharacteristically upbeat assessment of our chances.’

Hartmann laughed.

‘I am. Truly, Morten. That bastard Salin’s still on my back about the damned surveillance tape.’

Weber smiled. Awkwardly.

‘Someone took it from security,’ Hartmann said. ‘Someone sent it. Someone kept people out of Store Kongensgade. Or at least tried to. Ask Lund.’

Weber watched him put on the new tie. Nodded.

‘Why don’t we just let some things ride?’

‘Because we daren’t. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I looked at the logs. The only package that went out of here that day was sent by Rie. It doesn’t say where. I’m sure it was just routine.’

The shirt was brand new. The label was still on a button. Weber got a pair of nail scissors, cut the cotton thread and took it away.

Looked at Hartmann’s hands. Gave him the scissors.

‘You could use those, Troels. People look at everything these days.’

‘Rie sent a package? And she handled the bookings for the flat.’

‘Oh forget it, will you? There were no bookings.’

‘We used other places instead. That was Rie too, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. We’ve better things to think about.’ Morten Weber brightened. ‘Still . . . I do have good news.’

‘What?’

‘Bremer just fired Phillip Bressau.’ Weber shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea why. He’s one of the best men on his team. I wouldn’t want to lose someone like that six days before an election.’

Hartmann couldn’t think straight.

‘You look good, Troels,’ Weber said. ‘Smile at the camera, keep your temper. Go wipe the floor with that old bastard.’

Outside in the long corridor, by the brown-tiled steps. The phone rang.

‘Troels! You asked me to call.’

It was Salin.

‘I talked to the lawyers, Erik. We’ll sue you personally if you print any of those lies. And the paper.’

Laughter down the line.

‘I’m actually trying to help. Don’t you get that?’

‘It seems to have escaped me somehow.’

‘You’re no idiot. You know someone’s been working to cover things up. Maybe they did it without your knowledge. I don’t know. But they did it.’

‘Enough. No more calls. No more questions. No more communication. Understood?’

He stopped at the head of the broad staircase, beneath the iron lamps, by the paintings of a naval battle covering most of the long, high wall.

Rie Skovgaard was at the foot of the steps in her coat, ready to leave. So was Phillip Bressau. The two of them stood on the blue carpet with the emblem of Copenhagen, three towers set above waves.

They were arguing. Furiously. As he watched Bressau’s hand came out and grabbed her collar, then her red scarf. She stepped back, yelling abuse into his face.

Angrier than Hartmann had ever seen her.

‘Hartmann?’ Salin said in his ear. ‘Are you still there?’

Skovgaard stormed off. Bressau stayed there, hurling insults as she headed for the security office exit. Then he picked up his briefcase. Looked around.

Looked up the long staircase, saw Hartmann.

Scowled, walked off in the opposite direction, towards the main doors.

‘You heard,’ Hartmann said and cut the call.

Martin Frevert was in Lund’s office, wilting under her questions.

‘We’ve got all the details. You rented a car on the Internet. It was picked up at a petrol station near Valby.’

‘So what? It was for my company.’

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘I told you already. I don’t know.’

Papers on the desk. She pushed them over.

‘You withdrew thirty-two thousand kroner from the bank. Was that for your company as well? I don’t have time for this. I can walk you straight to a cell as an accessory to murder if you like. Save us all some time.’

Silence.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Enough. I’m taking you in.’

‘I didn’t give him the money!’

He took an envelope out of his jacket. Threw it in front of her.

‘Good. Where are you meeting him?’

‘Listen. Leon’s a bit weird. But he didn’t kill that girl. He couldn’t hurt anyone.’

‘You’ve no idea how often I hear that. Where are you meeting him?’

Silence.

‘My partner was shot last night,’ Lund said. ‘If you want to help your brother you should make sure I find him before . . .’ Her finger went to the window. ‘. . . anyone out there.’

‘It’s not you he’s scared of.’

‘Who is it then?’

‘I don’t know. Leon’s mixed up in something. He’s not the brightest guy. If he sees an opportunity—’

‘What’s he mixed up in?’

‘I think there was some smuggling going on. When I talked to him I thought he was scared about that.’

‘Not about us?’

‘No.’ He said that emphatically. ‘Leon said he tried to help you. But you kept doing a shit job.’

‘Where are you meeting him? And when?’

‘He’s my brother. I don’t want him hurt.’

‘Me neither. Where is he?’

Martin Frevert stared at the envelope on the table.

Lund looked at her watch.

The house in Humleby was in darkness. It looked too big, too cold, too dusty and bare for a seven-year-old with an active imagination.

Anton walked through the door, stepped carefully over the sheets.

Listening.

They were talking about all the things that weren’t there. Toys and furniture. Beds and cookers, toilets and fridges.

Grown-up things.

It was a grey cold place and he hated it.

‘This house sucks,’ Anton said.

His father’s face went red and angry, the way it often did.

‘Is that so?’

‘I don’t want to live here.’

‘Well, you’re going to.’

The boy walked to the stairs, found a light switch, looked down.

A basement.

That was new.

A voice from behind.

‘Leave him alone, Theis.’

He went down the steps. Looked around.

His mother cried, ‘Emil! Come and look at your bedroom. It’s nice.’

Footsteps on the wooden boards above.

Three floors and a cellar. One and a garage was enough in his real home.

Dim light from a street lamp fell through a couple of small blue-tinted windows. Enough to see the place was full of junk and dust. Rats too probably. Other things that lurked in the shadows.

A barbecue. He ran his finger along the lid. Looked at the mark it left in the dust. A football, white with black spots, tucked inside a box.

Anton took it out, booted it. Watched it bounce off the bare grey walls.

Aimed it at the tools, kicked it again from side to side.

A loud metallic clatter.

His eyes went up to the ceiling. He could see the look on his father’s angry face already.

Don’t touch. Don’t mess. Don’t fiddle. Don’t interfere.

Don’t do anything because it’s bound to be wrong
.

He went to get the ball, stepping softly so no one could hear.

The sound had come from a piece of rusty tin that had fallen off the wall. The blue light from the little window fell straight on it. Pipes and stopcocks and the bottom of a piece of equipment. A boiler maybe.

Something else. Small, made out of card. Maroon with a gold crest.

He picked it up, opened the pages.

Nanna smiling.

Shook a little when he saw the blood, dried, like a red puddle in the corner.

Thought of his father just above him. What he’d say. What, in his fury, he might do.

Stared at the photo.

Nanna smiling.

‘Anton!’

The deep voice was loud. On the edge of angry.

‘We’re going for pizza. Are you hungry or not?’

Don’t mess. Don’t look. Don’t do anything.

It was Nanna’s passport. He knew what they looked like because once, not long ago, she’d shown him the thing that now sat grubby and bloodstained in his trembling fingers. Made him swear it was a secret, would tell no one, not even blabbermouth Emil.

‘Anton!’

On the very edge of angry.

He placed the passport beneath the old pipes, carefully picked up the tin door and pushed it back where it was, all without making a sound.

Then he walked upstairs, looked at his father stamping his feet, getting mad.

‘This house sucks,’ Anton said again.

Martin Frevert arranged to meet his brother on a Russian coaster moored by one of the distant piers in the sprawling commercial port area to the north of the city.

Lund had Svendsen drive her there, issuing orders all the way. Don’t approach until she’s arrived. Have boats in the water close by.

The pier was in darkness and deserted. One vessel at the end of the jetty. Old, red, decrepit. The name
Alexa
on the bows.

Three unmarked cars there when she arrived. No lights. Nothing to draw attention.

The SWAT team leader, in black with a sub-machine gun tucked beneath his arm, met her.

‘We’ve got the rental car,’ he said. ‘It’s behind one of the containers. Nothing in it. We’ve seen a light on board. He must still be there.’