The Killing - 01 - The Killing (98 page)

‘Bear with me.’

Skærbæk looked at the ceiling.

‘It was something about being sick. He couldn’t work that weekend.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. And I didn’t call him back. Pisses me off when people cut out of work like that. We were lucky the customer cancelled.’

Lund paced the floor, one half-painted wall to the other.

‘How did he sound? Was he afraid? Did he sound strange? Did he say what—?’

‘It was a message on the answering machine. It sounded like Leon.’

She looked at him. Lined face still babyish. Silver chain. Sad, pained eyes.

‘Did he mention Nanna?’

‘Don’t you think I’d have mentioned that?’

He went and got a piece of rag, wiped his hands on it, looked at his watch, then a blue jacket thrown in the corner.

‘Why did he call the company? Not you?’

‘Everyone calls that line. If no one answers it redirects to me.’

‘Right.’

Thinking.

Imagining.

‘So Leon Frevert calls the company line thinking he’s going to get Theis or Pernille. Instead he gets you.’

He’d stopped rubbing his hands. Stopped everything. Was still. Very still. Staring at her.

‘No. He got my voicemail. I told you. I was with my uncle. I got the message the next morning when I went in to work.’

Thinking.

‘Is that all?’ Skærbæk asked. ‘I’d like to turn off the lights. It’s Anton’s birthday. I’m going to be there. You’re not stopping me.’

‘I’m not.’

He ran downstairs. She followed him into the basement. The door there was old. A lock on it, and a key.

‘Did Leon ever mention someone called Mette Hauge?’ she asked.

He was taking down some temporary lamps, winding up the cabling.

‘No.’

‘Was he in the gangs?’

‘I don’t know! Listen. We’re sick and tired of all your questions. OK?’

He walked to a stepladder, starting tying his shoes.

‘We want to put this all behind us.’

Lund looked around at the basement.

‘All that stuff about that bastard Frevert. What he did. We don’t want to think about it.’

New timber boards across the floor. Springy and shiny. Quickly laid. Fresh chipboard covered the entire back wall, none of the other three.

‘We’re not taking this shit any more.’

He was near the steps, putting on his jacket, getting ready to leave.

‘You’ve got to leave us alone. After what the family’s been through . . .’

Sarah Lund was revolving slowly round the room, three hundred and sixty degrees.

‘They need some peace.’

She stopped and looked at him.

Just the two of them there, in the empty house in Humleby. Something in Vagn Skærbæk’s eyes she’d never seen before. A hint of recognition. Of knowledge.

In her face too she guessed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Skærbæk asked.

All the tools, the hammers, the chisels, were near him.

She tried not to look. Not to seem scared.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked again.

He was a smart man. She’d known that all along. He looked at himself. At the jacket he’d just put on.

Old. Dark blue. The logo of the winter Olympics. And the words . . .

SARAJEVO 1984.

A car drove past outside. Dim street light through the stained-glass window. People walked down the street. She could hear the sound of pram wheels or maybe a Christiania trike. Laughter. A key in a lock. Steps on nearby stairs.

‘Anything else?’ Vagn Skærbæk asked.

It took a while but she said no in the end. Then walked towards the stairs and the hefty door with the lock and key.

Something was going on in his head. She didn’t want to know.

He stood in her way.

Smart man. Maybe as scared as she was. His throat was moving. There was a glistening sheen of sweat on his brow.

‘So we’re agreed then?’ Skærbæk asked. ‘It’s all done with. Finished.’

She couldn’t take her eyes off his too-young face. A sense of grief, of shame was there. A recognition of who and what he was.

Lund looked around and said, ‘I guess so, Vagn. You’re right.’

Then slowly, very deliberately, he stepped to one side.

She was shaking by the time she got to the street. Crossed the road, found another house that was empty, being rebuilt, four doors away. Leaned against the grimy wall in the side alley, clutching herself, teeth chattering.

Waited three or four minutes then saw the last light go off. Skærbæk came out, looked up, looked down the street. Climbed into his scarlet van. Chucked a colourful bag of something in the driver’s seat. Then left.

Lund looked at her phone. Thought better of it. Went back to the Birk Larsen house, found the back door.

She got a brick and broke the window. Removed the splinters and the shards piece by piece. Found the key in the other side and let herself in.

Lund called Jansen, the ginger-haired forensic officer Brix had entrusted with the Mette Hauge file.

A good man. Quiet to the point of taciturn. Told him to come in by the broken back door, and find her by the noise downstairs.

First she started on the wall. Chipboard. Easily removed with a pickaxe. If there was blood splatter she ought to see it. The floor was timber, nailed in tightly. She couldn’t do that on her own.

A third of the chipboard was off by the time he arrived. Smashed and splintered wood was scattered across the floor. There seemed nothing behind except plain plaster. Recently washed by the look of it.

‘I’m never inviting you to a DIY party,’ Jansen said. ‘They’ve got your registration plate. You’re supposed to be taken into custody on sight. Go straight to those funny bastards across the building.’

It was probably the longest sentence she’d ever heard him speak.

‘I’m having trouble with the floor,’ she said, handing him a crowbar. ‘Can you start there?’

Jansen had worked with her for years. He saw things. Like her.

‘My,’ he said, looking at the new timber boards. ‘Someone was in a hurry here.’

‘Did you tell anyone?’

‘Yeah. I told them I was going home.’

‘There are more tools upstairs if you need them.’

‘They’re going to find you, Lund.’

She tried to smile at him.

‘Thanks. I need your phone.’

He handed it over.

‘How much do you want me to remove?’

‘Enough for us to find something,’ she said, then walked upstairs to get a signal. ‘We don’t have a lot of time.’

Bülow was back in Brix’s office, lost for a lead.

‘If you know where Lund is I swear I’ll bring you down with her.’

Brix shook his head.

‘She phoned. She didn’t say where from.’

‘Did you trace the call?’

‘Lund doesn’t think Frevert killed the girl. Or shot Meyer.’

‘She shot Meyer.’

Brix stared at him.

‘It looks like Frevert was murdered.’

‘I want Lund! Trace the call.’

‘Her mobile’s off. She’s not stupid. She’s the best officer in the building when it comes to tracing people.’

‘She’s forged evidence, Brix. She’s gone missing. Gone crazy. And still . . .’ He lost it. Yelled the last. ‘Still someone here’s helping her. If I find it’s you—’

Brix’s phone rang.

He looked at the number, put it straight to his ear.

‘It’s Lund here. Can you talk?’

‘I don’t think I’ll make the concert. Give me a minute.’

‘What do you think the Ministry of Justice is going to say about this?’ Bülow barked at him.

Brix said nothing.

‘You’ll be watching ballet for the rest of your life,’ the squat man said, then stomped out.

‘Yes?’ he said when Bülow had gone.

‘Did you get the photo?’ Lund asked.

‘You’ve got to come in now.’

‘I know who it is, Brix. I know where Nanna was taken after the flat. Where she was assaulted and beaten. Vagn Skærbæk. Send me a team from forensics.’

‘We found the girl’s passport—’

‘Vagn planted it. We don’t have time for this. Send someone.’

Brix looked outside the window. Bülow was still haranguing the men out there.

‘Send him where?’

‘Küchlersgade in Humleby.’

‘That’s Birk Larsen’s house.’

‘Yes. We need to move. Vagn knows I’m onto him.’

Among the plastic bags, the cases, the cardboard packing boxes, Anton was opening his presents. A fishing rod. A toy boat. A magic set and some pens and books for school. Lotte was back in their midst, helping with the table. Theis Birk Larsen wore his chef ’s apron, handed out drinks, wine for the adults, orange squash for the two boys.

Scalloped potatoes. An expensive joint of pork.

He took the meat out of the oven, put it on the side.

‘I should let it rest.’ He looked at her. ‘Don’t you think?’

She glanced at the pork, watched him reach for some foil, start to wrap it.

‘I talked to Anton about the passport.’

His mood wavered.

‘What? The passport wasn’t there. We looked.’

‘Anton thinks Vagn took it.’

Still messing with the pork.

‘I thought we’d agreed not to talk about this nonsense.’

The boys were starting to squabble. Lotte tried to calm them down.

‘I left a message with the people Vagn cancelled. The office. That Saturday.’

He smoothed down the edges of the foil, barely looked at her.

‘Why would you do that? This is Anton’s birthday . . .’

Her wide eyes flared. She came close and peered into his face.

‘Because there’s something wrong, Theis! Can’t you feel it? Can’t you . . .?’

Quickly he kissed her.

Bristly cheeks. Beer on his breath. A lot, she thought.

Lotte was there asking if she could help. His phone rang.

‘Take a look at the potatoes, Lotte,’ she said.

He was laughing.

‘Where the hell are you?’ he asked.

Then listened, put a finger to his nose, said, ‘Ssshhh.’

And went downstairs.

The kennel was by the garage door. Brand new. With a price tag on it which Vagn Skærbæk quickly snatched away as Theis Birk Larsen approached.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Skærbæk glared at him.

‘Don’t spoil it!’

He got a cover sheet, draped it over the kennel, grinned.

‘I was coming past this shop. They had this outside.’

Birk Larsen peered under the drape.

‘That must have cost a fortune.’

‘The boys’ll love a dog.’ He was smiling. Smartly dressed in a black jacket and white shirt. Looked different. Older. More serious somehow. ‘I always wanted one.’

An odd, uncharacteristic smile.

‘You never really get what you want, do you?’

‘For Christ’s sake. We don’t have a dog.’

‘I got one from Poland.’

Birk Larsen stood in his blue apron and best shirt, starting to lose patience.

‘You got a dog from Poland?’

‘Yeah. I can get anything you want, Theis. Remember? I know a guy who imports them . . .’

‘Vagn—’

‘Don’t get mad with me. It’s a great dog. Pedigree and all. Nice surprise.’

‘Big surprise,’ Birk Larsen grumbled. He looked around the garage. ‘So where the hell is it?’

‘We can pick it up tonight. The two of us. After dinner.’ He pointed to the kennel. ‘Let’s keep it covered up. Until we get the dog. OK?’

Birk Larsen shook his head. He thought he could hear something nearby, scratching. Time to put rat poison down again.

‘It’s like having another kid around here sometimes.’

‘Kids are magic,’ Skærbæk said. ‘Kids are everything. I need to write the card.’

‘And then they grow up. I’ve got to finish cooking.’

He looked at the office.

‘I forgot to put the calls upstairs.’

‘It’s a birthday, Theis.’

‘It’s business.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Skærbæk said. He waved the pen over the bright yellow birthday card. ‘When I’ve written this. You go and see the boys.’

Vagn Skærbæk watched him go. Scrawled happy birthday on Anton’s card.

Heard the familiar answering message greeting an incoming call on the speakerphone.

‘This is Birk Larsen Removals. Please leave a message.’