The Killing - 01 - The Killing (97 page)

Half a kilometre away was the so-called free state of Christiania. A kind of hippie commune gone bad. There’d been drug dealers in the city for as long as Lund could remember. Half of them were in the gangs run by Danish biker groups. The rest were Turks and other foreigners. There was a constant war between the two. Sometimes people got caught in the crossfire.

She asked about Mette Hauge.

He shrugged.

‘We shared the house. That was all. I didn’t know her.’

Lund looked at him. His nervousness. The way he got more anxious when she wanted to go inside.

‘You were students together. You must have talked. In the kitchen. At parties.’

‘I told everyone this twenty years ago. We were studying. I was busy. Not doing dope and all the other shit like . . .’

He left it there.

‘Did you sleep with her?’ Lund asked.

Paludan didn’t answer straight away.

Then, ‘What?’

‘Did you sleep with her?’

‘No! What makes you ask that?’

‘It’s my job.’

‘Is it? I want your name. Your department.’

‘Listen to me. This case is open again and active. If you know something now’s the time to say it.’

There were people coming and going in the courtyard.

‘Can you keep your voice down? I don’t know anything.’ He was sweating. Patches on the arms of his biking gear. ‘Everyone slept with her. OK?’

Lund listened.

‘Me. Just once or twice. She probably never even noticed.’

Lund waited.

‘We were young. Students. There were parties. You know what it’s like.’

‘Tell me.’

Footsteps across the courtyard. An old woman with a shopping cart. She called out a friendly hello.

When she was gone Paludan said, ‘Mette was a lovely kid. But crazy. She’d do . . . anything. When they said she killed herself . . .’

He shook his head.

‘It was ridiculous. Overdosed maybe—’

‘She didn’t overdose. Someone beat her to death. Why didn’t you say any of this at the time?’

He leaned the bike against the wall.

‘Because I was terrified.’

‘Of what?’

His eyes drifted to the arch that led out from the cobbled courtyard.

‘Of them. Mette used to hang round with some scary people. If you wanted dope she always had someone who could get it.’

‘From Christiania?’

‘I don’t think so. We all knew those people. These were guys . . . like gypsies. They hung around with the gangs. Maybe were in the gangs. I don’t know.’

‘Any names?’

He laughed.

‘I wouldn’t have dared ask. I think one of them was her boyfriend. Maybe . . .’ He coughed. ‘Maybe more than one. Who knows? Mette was Mette. I wasn’t telling anyone I’d slept with her.’

‘You met some of them?’

‘Years ago . . . I don’t remember. I just—’

‘We buried this case,’ Lund said. ‘We thought Mette was one more kid who’d gone missing. If you’d told us—’

‘I’d just got married. My wife was pregnant at the time. Is that good enough for you?’

‘I need a name.’

‘I don’t have one. They were serious guys. Someone was dead sweet on her.’

A memory.

‘She came back one time with this ugly necklace. A black heart on it. I guess the bikers like that kind of thing.’

A tall young man was walking across the cobblestones. He looked at them, waved, smiled, said, ‘Hi, Dad!’

Paludan tried to smile back.

‘We were all stupid back then. Mette was a sweet kid. When I think back . . . in some ways she had it coming. Jesus . . .’

He stared at Lund.

‘That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’

‘What I mean is . . . something was going to happen. I don’t know what. But it was never going to be good.’

He bent down, lifted his bike onto the rack, chained it.

‘That’s why I never talked about it too, I guess. I could see it coming. And there was nothing I could do.’

Bülow was livid. He’d got the registration number for Bengt Rosling’s rental car, put out a general call to bring Lund into headquarters. No bail this time. No chance of release.

Now he stood outside Brix’s office, throwing out threats like a clown dispensing sweets at a birthday party.

‘If I find out you knew about this—’

‘I didn’t know,’ Brix said with a shrug. ‘How could I?’

His phone rang. He looked at the ID.

‘I’ve got to talk to my wife. We’re supposed to be going out tonight.’

The phone rang again. Bülow didn’t move.

‘Do you like ballet?’ Brix asked.

Bülow swore then strode down the black corridor.

When he was out of earshot Brix answered the call.

‘The list of contents says there was a photo album in the box,’ Lund said.

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Mette Hauge was a party girl. Sold dope. Had connections with gangs. Maybe in Christiania. Maybe not. One of the gang people was her boyfriend. Maybe more than one.’

‘Lund, you need to come here immediately.’

‘I need to see the photo album.’

‘We’ve done that already. Wait . . . I’ve got it here.’

He went back into his office, went through some of the material they’d recovered from the warehouse.

The album had a blue cover. School photos. Student shots. Trips to the beach. Parties.

‘There’s nothing in here.’

‘It’s either at the end or the beginning, Brix. That’s how people file photos. Look for the pictures closest to Mette’s disappearance.’

‘We found Nanna’s passport in Leon Frevert’s back yard.’

‘Where?’

‘In the rubbish bin.’

‘That doesn’t add up. He’d have got rid of it two weeks ago. It wouldn’t be in the bin any more. You need to find this photo, Brix.’

‘Maybe he kept hold of it. Frevert had her passport. He was the last person to see Nanna Birk Larsen alive. Five minutes after he dropped her off he left a message on the Birk Larsen office phone. Vagn Skærbæk’s confirmed to us he called in sick.’

She tried to think about this.

‘Take me through that again—’

‘Get the hell in here! Lund!
Lund!
’

Pernille Birk Larsen was in a flap. Anton’s birthday. The last they’d ever celebrate in the cramped little apartment above the garage. The place was a mess. Packed bags everywhere, ready to move.

Anton was at a party with some school friends. Pernille would pick him up. No talk of passports. No talk of anything but birthdays.

‘I need you to cook the roast, Theis,’ she said, scrubbing the sink clean. ‘I need you to hoover too.’

He was making some Nutella sandwiches for the kids.

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’ She caught his eye. He was in a good mood. ‘That’ll do.’

‘The place’ll be a mess in five minutes anyway.’

He slapped some of the sticky spread on a couple of slices of bread.

‘It’s just family.’

‘I want the place clean.’

He rubbed his forehead. She looked at him.

‘So long as the boys have a good time . . .’

She had her hand over her mouth. Stifling a giggle.

‘Oh. So I’m funny now, am I?’

Pernille walked up, ran a finger across his forehead. Picked up some of the spread he’d wiped there.

Showed him her finger.

‘Oh shit.’

But he laughed.

Bags covered the kitchen table with its lacquered pictures and memories frozen in time. She wouldn’t let them follow. The thing could go into storage. Maybe get looked at from time to time.

At some point they had to leave the past behind. She knew that now.

His big arm came round. He pulled her to him, kissed her cheek. Black leather and sweat, the rough touch of his beard.

She was still gazing round at the room, the walls that once bore photos, the missing plants, the blank, pale space that was the corkboard. Pernille Birk Larsen found herself crying and didn’t know why. Only that these weren’t bad tears, and they were temporary. The tight, cruel circle that had opened when Nanna died was beginning to close, hour by hour, day by day. It would always be there. But with time it would become a part of them, accepted, like a familiar scar, always acknowledged, no longer a source of constant hurt.

‘Will you miss this place?’ his low growl whispered in her ear.

‘Only the happiness. And we can make all that again.’

He wiped her cheeks with his fat, scarred fingers.

She held him tight. He held her.

‘I wish I could have made it better, sweetheart.’

‘I know you do. I know.’

Twenty minutes later she picked up Anton from the party. He didn’t look tired. He didn’t look happy.

‘Did you remember not to eat too much? Dad’s cooking.’

‘Didn’t eat much.’

‘Did you hand out the invitations to the house-warming next week?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at him in the mirror, smiled.

‘And the girls too?’

‘And the girls,’ he sighed.

He didn’t want to talk. She did.

‘They’re fixing up the basement last,’ Pernille said. ‘The house is going to be really nice.’

His head went from side to side. He looked out at Vesterbrogade in the rain.

‘Are you still mad at Uncle Vagn for telling us?’

For a second she turned and looked at him.

‘Now we know there was no passport it makes everything better, doesn’t it?’

‘Somebody got it first,’ he said in a sharp, young voice that took her breath away. ‘Somebody.’

‘No. They didn’t! Lord . . . Anton. Why must you make up these things?’

He buried his arms in his jacket, said nothing.

‘Nobody took it. Sometimes . . .’ She looked in the mirror again. At least he was listening. ‘Sometimes you see things that aren’t really there.’

His eyes were on the mirror now, trying to find hers.

‘That’s true, isn’t it? Anton?’

The boy sat in his safety seat, arms folded tight. Eyes on the mirror.

In a soft, scared voice she asked, ‘Why would someone take it?’

‘So you and Dad wouldn’t get upset.’

He was still staring at her reflection.

‘Who do you think took it?’

Silence.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t tell on people. Don’t ever tell.’

Face at the window, at the street again.

When they were home he ran straight upstairs. Pernille went to the office. Pulled out the schedules and the diaries. Found the work list for that weekend.

The name of the office company was there. And a number.

She called it, got voicemail.

‘My name’s Pernille Birk Larsen. We were meant to do a job for you. One of our employees cancelled it. Can you please call me back to discuss this? So we can clear up any misunderstanding? Thanks.’

Lund left the rental car two blocks from the Humleby house, down a dead-end alley, away from the street. Then she walked through the rain, hood up, to the narrow road. Birk Larsen’s house was on the corner shrouded in plastic sheeting and scaffolding. A red company van was parked at the front. Lights were on inside.

The door was open. She walked in without knocking. There was no one on the ground floor. Just pots of paint, stepladders, sheets, paintbrushes.

A sound.

Someone walking up from the cellar.

Lund stood in the room and waited. It was Vagn Skærbæk. He stayed at the top by the shadowy stairwell. She could just make out the black hat, a sweatshirt jumper spattered with paint, a box of tools in his hands.

‘I’m really sorry to bother you, Vagn . . .’

‘Oh Christ. Not you again.’

He brushed past her, walked to the back of the room, didn’t turn.

‘It’s about Leon Frevert. A couple of questions.’

‘Make it quick. I’m going to a birthday party.’

‘The message Leon left on the answering machine. Do you still have it?’

Skærbæk came and stood in the light, shaking his head.

‘The other guy asked me the same thing. Don’t you people talk to each other?’

‘Tell me.’

‘No. I deleted it. I didn’t know it was important. It was just some guy cancelling.’

He tidied the tools, put each back into its slot in the box.

‘What exactly did he say?’

‘This was three weeks ago. Can you remember a ten-second message from—?’