The Killing - 01 - The Killing (94 page)

He reached and took the car. Skærbæk didn’t try to stop him. Then Anton walked upstairs.

The boys were in bed. The three of them sat round the kitchen table, in front of the dirty plates and cutlery.

Birk Larsen was smoking. Face like a basilisk.

‘What else did Anton say?’ Pernille asked.

‘Nothing,’ Skærbæk told her. ‘Just that he saw Nanna’s passport there.’

‘Bloody kids,’ Birk Larsen grumbled. ‘I’ve been there hundreds of times and I haven’t seen it. Have you?’

‘He’s just jumpy, Theis. It’s all got to him. God knows . . . it got to all of us, didn’t it?’

‘Where?’ Pernille asked.

‘He said it was in the basement. There was nothing there to begin with. Just some rubbish I cleared out the other day.’

‘Why would her passport be in the basement?’ Birk Larsen asked. ‘Nanna didn’t even know about Humleby.’

‘I can go and take a look if you like.’

‘There’s nothing there, Vagn.’

Pernille’s fingers worked at her temples. The smell of bread was gone from the kitchen. Now it was just cigarette smoke and sweat.

‘Then why,’ she asked, trying not to get mad, ‘did he say there was?’

‘It’s Anton! He can say what he wants. I’m not having him making up shit like this. I’ll talk to him in the morning.’

She wasn’t going to stop.

‘The police never found her passport. They asked us time and time again.’

He stared at her. The other Theis. The cold one saying: don’t ask, don’t come near.

‘I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t talk to Anton about it,’ Skærbæk said. ‘I promised . . .’

Pernille was on him in an instant.

‘Of course we’re going to talk to the boy. We’ll go over there tomorrow and take a look. I want to know—’

‘It’s not there!’ Birk Larsen roared.

She closed her eyes for a moment, fought the anger.

‘It’s not there,’ he said more quietly. ‘And tomorrow’s his birthday.’

‘Theis . . .’

His big hands cut the air above the table.

‘That,’ Birk Larsen said, ‘is it.’

Out in the main TV studios in Amager, minutes to go before the last broadcast debate of the election, Poul Bremer was arguing minutiae with the production team.

‘I’m the biggest party. I go last,’ Bremer said.

The producer didn’t look ready for a fight.

‘The agreement was,’ Rie Skovgaard said, ‘we draw lots.’

‘I didn’t sign up for that. We do things the way we’ve always done them. The leading party has the final say. That’s what’s going to—’

His phone rang. Bremer walked away to take it.

‘Maybe we should drop the idea about drawing lots,’ the producer said. ‘If it’s going to cause trouble.’

‘We had an agreement.’

Bremer was listening intently to the call, looking directly at Skovgaard.

‘We’re on air in ten minutes,’ the producer said.

Poul Bremer walked over, all smiles, all pleasantness.

‘Let’s draw lots after all. I’m feeling lucky.’

Grey eyes on Skovgaard.

‘When we’re done here there’ll be nothing left to play for any way.’

Hartmann was still in the dressing room, on the line to Morten Weber in City Hall.

‘Why was Bressau fired, Morten? I want the truth.’

‘He messed up big time, I guess. Aren’t you supposed to be on TV soon?’

‘Why was he fired?’

Weber hesitated.

‘This place is always swimming with rumours. If you believe every one of them—’

‘Tell me the truth, dammit! I just got another call from that bastard Salin. Crowing that he’s nailed me. He won’t say what. Bremer’s got it and planning to hand it over after the debate. I need to know. What is it?’

‘He’s just trying to get to you. Succeeding by the sound of it.’

‘Where did Rie send that package? To Lund?’

‘I don’t know and frankly I’m not going looking. I’ve got better things to do.’

‘Could Rie have kept people out of the flat?’

‘Of course she could. Anyone in the office could.’

‘Did you check what she did that Friday night?’

‘I’m not here to spy on people.’

‘I asked—’

‘No, Troels. I’m not playing this game. That’s final.’

The line went dead. When he turned Rie Skovgaard was in the door.

‘Is everything OK?’ she said. ‘It’s time now.’

He didn’t answer.

‘This is the last TV debate of the campaign.’ She was back to being professional, looking him in the eye. ‘Whatever impression the people get today they’ll take with them into the voting booth.’

One more product to be sold. A puppet for her father to manipulate from Parliament.

‘All the polls say this is between you and Bremer. The minorities convince no one. It’s the two of you.’

He nodded.

‘If they mention the murder case stick to what we agreed. You’ll do whatever you can to help the investigation. You’re the new broom. You stand for candour and clarity. Bremer’s the one with skeletons in the cupboard. Don’t go anywhere else . . . dammit, Troels, are you even listening?’

His eyes were on the studio outside. Bremer there. Confident. Beaming.

‘Troels. This is important.’

She went quiet, looked nervous. A studio assistant came to the door and asked him to take his seat.

Hartmann stepped out towards the bright lights, turned and looked at her in the shadows.

‘I know what you did.’

‘What . . .?’

‘I know all about it. Bremer knows too.’

No answer.

‘About Bressau. About the surveillance tape.’

She stood rigid, face emotionless, eyes fixed on him. Saying nothing.

‘About how you tried to keep people out of the flat.’

‘No, no. This isn’t what you think.’

The studio man was back.

‘We’re on the air now, Hartmann. If you want to be part of this you’d better get in here.’

‘Troels!’

He walked towards the bright lights and took his seat.

Ten minutes into the live debate, they were throwing around the case for higher taxes. Hartmann couldn’t take his eyes off the old man two seats away. He looked as if he’d won already. Couldn’t wait to walk into the council chamber, smiling, triumphant. Four more years on his shining throne.

Then it came.

‘Taxes are important,’ Bremer said with that calm, magisterial air he’d mastered over three decades of working Copenhagen’s political circles. ‘But just as important is the character of those we choose to represent us.’

He looked directly into the camera.

‘The murder of Nanna Birk Larsen—’

‘Wait,’ the interviewer cut in. ‘We’re here to talk politics—’

‘Politics is about ethics and morals, first and foremost,’ Bremer said, glancing at Hartmann across from him before returning to the lens. ‘The voters have a right to know . . .’

Hartmann sat back, listened.

Bremer’s face now wore a look of resigned indignation.

‘I’ve been accused of withholding information. I’ve even been reported to the police. All at the instigation of Troels Hartmann. The very man who deliberately withheld information himself, impeded the progress of a criminal investigation . . .’

Hartmann raised a finger, lacked the energy to interrupt. Found himself looking back at Rie Skovgaard by the studio door.

‘How can it be that his party flat was left untouched until the homicide team found it?’ Bremer demanded. ‘How could a surveillance tape suddenly disappear and then just as suddenly turn up? How?’

Finally, Hartmann found his voice.

‘The police have given me their word that Bremer’s accusations are unfounded. These are the desperate efforts of a man who’ll do anything to cling to power.’

‘Power?’ Bremer’s voice had risen above its natural register. His face was flushed. He was loosening his tie. ‘Then they’ve been misinformed. When they see the proof I have . . .’

The interviewer was getting flustered.

‘Briefly—’

‘This goes to the very heart of the matter!’ Bremer shrieked.

Hartmann wondered at his temperament. His state of mind.

‘If you’re so convinced of your own fantasies, Poul, go to the police. I’ve nothing to fear from the truth. Unlike you—’

‘You sanctimonious little shit,’ Bremer spat at him.

Silence.

Then Hartmann said, ‘Copenhagen deserves policies, not personal abuse. If the police want to talk to me they know where to find me.’

‘When I’m done you’ll be back in a cell again, Hartmann. Where you belong—’

‘Excuse me! Excuse me! I’ve been cleared.’

A shouting match now. The interviewer had lost control.

‘Before I came on air—’ Bremer began.

‘This is what twelve years in power does to you,’ Hartmann barked at him.

Bremer’s eyes were down on the studio floor. His face was red. His breathing agitated.

‘I have information—’

‘No, no,’ Hartmann shouted over him. ‘All you can do is come here and try to sling mud. Not talk politics. This is unworthy of the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. You’re unfit to hold the office.’

‘Unfit?’ Bremer’s voice was close to falsetto. ‘I have information—’

‘The system’s in a rut,’ Hartmann interrupted. ‘We live under a despotism ruled by one wretched old man who instead of engaging in debate treats political colleagues as pawns then vents his arrogance on the voters.’

Hand at his neck, jerking at his shirt, gasping for breath. Bremer said, ‘I have proof that—’

Hartmann was on him.

‘You’ve nothing. You’re just trying to sidetrack the debate from your own failings. This is what you always do. Try to turn the spotlight on others to hide your own corruption and lack of vision.’

Bremer stared at him, lost for words. Lost for breath.

‘Corruption, Poul,’ Hartmann added, in a clear, confident voice. ‘There I said it. The worm of corruption eats you as we watch—’

‘I have proof—’ Bremer bleated.

‘You’ve nothing.’

He looked at the old man in the grey striped suit. Bremer was clutching his right arm. His mouth was open and working.

‘I . . .’

Poul Bremer let out a low, frightened moan and rolled off the studio chair, onto the floor.

Eyes glassy behind the statesman’s spectacles. Face immobile. Sweat on his brow.

Hartmann was by his side in a moment. Loosening his tie.

‘Bremer?’ he said. ‘Bremer?’

Lund was back in Bülow’s office. On the second floor of headquarters, the opposite side to homicide. Down a long black marble corridor, through places she’d never before seen.

‘Why didn’t Meyer go with you?’

‘He didn’t think it was worth going there.’

‘Did you give him an order?’

‘No. I just wanted a quick look. He called and told me he’d seen a broken window. And that there was a light from a torch on the floor near me. It was Frevert’s, not mine.’

Bülow sat down, looked at her.

‘Frevert’s?’

‘OK. I’m sorry. I’m tired. It was . . . someone’s torch.’

He looked pleased.

‘So we do agree Frevert wasn’t there, right?’

She’d been thinking about this.

‘He had more to tell us. He just didn’t want anyone to know. Frevert was scared of someone. Maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.’

‘So even though he wrote that note he didn’t murder Mette and Nanna?’ Bülow asked.

‘You don’t know he wrote that note. You don’t know he killed himself.’

‘Your career seems based on wild guesses.’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘It isn’t. Someone got inside the warehouse. He knew we’d be looking for something there. The storage unit for Mette’s belongings was broken into. He must have taken what we were looking for.’

‘You were supposed to go to Sweden, Lund. Did Meyer want the case for himself?’

‘What do you mean? He wanted it to begin with. Then Buchard asked me to take it on—’

‘You argued—’

‘Of course we argued. A case like this. It was nothing.’

‘Did Meyer complain to his superior about nothing? He told his wife you weren’t yourself that evening. You were crazy. He said there was no reason for you to be at the warehouse.’

‘Meyer wouldn’t have come if there was no reason—’

‘He’s not the only one to notice the state you’re in,’ Bülow said. ‘Obsessed. Detached from reality.’

‘Who said that? Brix? Svendsen?’

‘Never mind who said it. Is it correct?’