The Killing 3 (11 page)

Then Rank called in a heavyset, middle-aged man in a civil servant’s winter coat. He had close-cropped dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard. Sat down, handed round a set of bound reports.

‘The sender was untraceable,’ Rank continued. He tapped the documents. ‘It calls itself an indictment.’

Weber snatched a copy, then Nebel and Hartmann. Thick type, page upon page.

‘We get lunatic threats all the time,’ Dyhring said. ‘Nothing in this stood out. It’s a diatribe against the state, against the government.’

‘Left-wing rhetoric and doomsday nonsense,’ Rank cut in. ‘It’s the work of a madman. How were we to know . . . ?’

Hartmann skimmed the first page, a rant about how the government was controlled by big business.

‘It concludes by saying the guilty must be called to account,’ Dyhring said.

‘Is Emilie Zeuthen mentioned?’ Hartmann asked.

‘No,’ Dyhring said firmly. ‘Zeeland is several times. But the Zeuthen family . . . not once.’

Karen Nebel pressed a manicured finger on the report.

‘And this didn’t ring any bells?’

‘We made a risk assessment,’ Dyhring replied. ‘There was no specific mention of the family. The threat came in right after you called the election.’ He looked at
Hartmann. ‘It seemed to us to make more sense to focus on the safety of politicians.’

‘Which is what he wanted you to think,’ Weber suggested.

‘That’s possible,’ the PET man agreed. ‘We’ve no way of knowing.’

‘You’re paid to know!’ Weber yelled. ‘Jesus Christ if—’

‘Morten.’ One glance from Hartmann silenced him. ‘Here’s the position. We received no direct threat to the Zeuthen family. Had we known, PET would have acted.
Ussing’s pushing his luck.’

‘I like that,’ Nebel said and made some notes.

‘It still doesn’t explain how Ussing got to know of this before I did.’

Dyhring nodded.

‘He claims the document was in his office mail at Parliament. We’re looking into it.’

Hartmann picked up a copy of the evening newspaper. A new photo of Emilie on the front page.

‘There is a link, is there?’

‘Definitely,’ Dyhring agreed. ‘It was sent from the PC on the Zeeland ship. This is him.’

Weber threw the report back across the table.

‘Is the girl still alive?’

Dyhring scowled.

‘The policewoman screwed up with the handover.’ He looked at Hartmann frankly. ‘Lund. I think you know her.’

‘Is the girl alive?’ Hartmann demanded.

‘We don’t know. We don’t even know if he’ll call again. It’s possible there’s a connection with an old suicide in Jutland.’

‘Mogens?’ Hartmann asked. ‘A suicide now? Is this news to you?’

‘Very much so.’

‘I want this material looked at again. I want to be able to state categorically that you had no reason to believe Emilie Zeuthen was in danger. Is that clear?’

Mogens Rank fiddled with the documents in front of him. Didn’t look Hartmann in the eye.

‘That . . . that won’t be a problem, Troels. I guarantee it.’

Morten Weber sat hunched in a foul mood. He glared across the table at Dyhring.

‘Whoever leaked that report’s up to no good. I want you to find him. Give me a name.’

The PET man and Rank shuffled out of the room.

‘Rosa Lebech’s got a campaign meeting down the road,’ Karen Nebel said. ‘We can swing by and make sure she’s on side.’

‘She’s not on side. I’m not going begging,’ Hartmann grumbled.

Weber stayed quiet.

‘Well?’ Hartmann shot at him.

‘I told you already, Troels. If you don’t offer Rosa a sweetener she’ll fall into bed with Ussing. If you do Birgit Eggert’s going to start scampering round Slotsholmen
with a dagger underneath her frock. Your choice.’

‘They can both screw themselves . . .’

‘Good thinking!’ Weber cried, raising a plastic cup from the table in a sardonic toast. ‘Let’s go down with dignity. It’s the only way.’

Robert and Maja Zeuthen sat at a table in the Politigården, furious with everyone. The kidnapper. Lund. The world. But mostly Madsen who’d been left alone in the
room with them while Lund went through the place Juncker had found and Brix dealt with the commissioner’s people upstairs.

‘We gave him what he wanted,’ Maja complained. ‘Why didn’t he take it?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t enough,’ the detective suggested.

‘And then he murdered this prosecutor,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Why?’

‘We’re not sure,’ Madsen replied. ‘It seems to be something to do with an old case.’

‘What old case?’ Maja demanded. ‘What the hell’s this got to do with me and my family?’

Madsen sighed.

‘That’s what we’re trying to work out.’

‘Will he call again?’ Zeuthen asked. He seemed the quieter of the two. ‘Do I need to come up with a better offer?’

‘We’re still looking into it. We’ve found the place he kept her.’ He looked at them in turn. ‘When we know more we’ll be in touch.’

He got up, shook Zeuthen’s hand. Offered his to Maja’s. Got no response and left.

‘I’m sure he’s going to call.’

He tried to reach for her. She dragged herself away.

‘Maja. He has a reason for this. He doesn’t seem to be a madman.’

‘He just strung up someone by the neck in the middle of Copenhagen!’

‘I meant . . . there’s a logic somewhere.’

‘Meaning what? This old case, Robert. The prosecutor. Do you know what they’re talking about?’

A sound at the door. Carsten Lassen was there. Donkey jacket and jeans. He nodded at Maja, didn’t look at Zeuthen.

She got up, walked to him, took his arm, went down the corridor.

Alone.

He’d never felt that way much. Growing up in the midst of a happy, rich family, one of the new aristocrats, Robert Zeuthen had little time to himself. Life was always shared with others.
On equal, decent terms usually.

He found the detective at a table in the adjoining office.

‘Madsen, isn’t it?’

The man looked exhausted. Disappointed. They took this personally too. Zeuthen could see that.

There were photos on the wall. Lots of Emilie, but men as well. The crew of the
Medea
he guessed. Alive and dead.

‘Mr Zeuthen. I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t be in here.’

Robert Zeuthen walked towards the corkboard, torn between the school photos and the pictures of slashed and tortured men. Madsen came and stood in front of him.

‘You shouldn’t see this.’

It was his daughter’s photo he wanted to look at. That was all. A picture he knew by heart. Never thought about much.

‘I tried to keep them safe,’ Zeuthen said in a quiet, hurt voice. ‘We had all the money in the world.’ He looked at the downcast, sad-faced cop. ‘It was worthless,
wasn’t it? I couldn’t keep my marriage together. What right did I have to hold on to her? To Carl?’

Madsen sighed.

‘You can’t wrap your kids in cotton wool. No one can.’

‘You’re not me,’ Robert Zeuthen said without thinking.

‘No,’ the detective agreed. ‘For the last time . . . you have to leave this room now. Please . . .’

Gloves on, white bunny suit too, Lund walked round the tiny room in the Amager industrial unit where Emilie had been kept. There was a sleeping bag, empty noodle pots, water
bottles and four short children’s books next to where she’d been sleeping. A portable toilet in the corner, used.

Forensics were sifting and dusting.

‘What about semen?’ she asked. ‘Fingerprints?’

Stickers on the wall. Numbers pointing to potential evidence. One more crime scene among many.

‘Not that we’ve found,’ the nearest forensic officer said.

They were setting up the lights to look for blood. Asbjørn Juncker followed every move. This was the first serious case he’d seen and it was starting to affect him. He was jumpy,
upset, anxious.

‘Why in God’s name didn’t he just take the money and let the girl go?’

Voice brittle and high too.

‘Maybe he got scared we were too close to him,’ she suggested.

There were shiny wrappers on the floor. And a can of Coke.

‘He gave her sweets,’ she said.

‘That’s what they do,’ Juncker snapped. ‘Isn’t it?’

Borch came in. She didn’t take much notice.

‘She scratched her name with a plastic fork from the noodles,’ Juncker said.

He was sitting on a box near the toilet.

‘Asbjørn,’ Lund said. ‘Maybe you should go and get some fresh air.’

The name etched into the soft plasterwork was right next to him.

‘What kind of a monster could do this to a kid?’

He got up, looked wild and so very young at that moment.

‘The kind of monster who sits next to you on the bus and you never notice,’ she said. ‘Go outside. I don’t want you in here like this.’

‘The building opposite’s got a CCTV feed. Take a look at it,’ Borch suggested.

He scowled at her after Juncker had gone.

‘You still don’t do sympathy much, do you?’

‘Sympathy won’t bring Emilie Zeuthen back.’ The room puzzled her. ‘Unless I’m wrong he’s really looking after this kid. It’s as if he cares.’

He shook his head.

‘He cares?’

A uniform man came in. He said Robert Zeuthen was at the door, refusing to leave until he spoke to her.

‘You can’t let him in here,’ Borch said. ‘Truly, Sarah. You can’t.’

Zeuthen had already pushed his way into the adjoining room. Now he was shuffling his shiny leather shoes among the dust and cigarette butts, hands in the pockets of his smart business raincoat.
Wide-eyed, shocked. Like a man who’d wandered into a world he knew existed but had never touched or truly seen before.

‘There’s a forensic process going on here,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll talk to you but you can’t stay.’

Zeuthen gazed at her and for the first time she saw in him some evidence of power, of authority.

‘You spoke to this man, Lund. You must know why he didn’t take the money.’

‘He said something about . . . small change.’

‘Is she alive?’ he asked and didn’t take his eyes off her.

‘I’m assuming so.’

The look in his face took her straight back to Birk Larsen’s warm, ramshackle home in Vesterbro. They were like this whenever she gave them a hint of positive news: torn between relief and
despair.

‘This prosecutor, Peter Schultz . . . does the name mean anything to you?’

Zeuthen shook his head.

‘I’ve been asked this already. I don’t know anything about the man. Or some old case in Jutland. What happened to Emilie here?’

‘Did you meet any of the dead sailors?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear about them somehow?’

‘No.’

‘Did you—?’

‘No, no, no!’

She waited. There was no point in pushing this man.

‘Did he do anything to her?’

Lund drew herself up and tried to look convincing when she said, ‘We’ve no reason to believe so.’

He nodded.

‘I would like to see where my daughter was kept.’

Borch glanced at her. A look she could read. It said ‘I warned you.’

She didn’t speak.

‘I’d like to see,’ Zeuthen repeated.

‘Walk where I tell you,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

They went into the tiny room. It was bright now with the neon lights of the forensic team. Soon the blue ones would come on. In the Birk Larsen case they’d revealed handprints, smears, all
manner of stains around the walls. There was no such bloody evidence here. She could feel it.

Zeuthen stared at the sleeping bag, the spent food cartons, the empty bottles and cans. The numbers and arrows on the wall. The scratched name in the plaster.

‘He gave her light and food,’ she told him. ‘This too.’ There was a little electric heater next to the sleeping bag. ‘It looks brand new. He must have bought it for
her. He gave her books to read.’

Hunched inside his raincoat, the man said nothing.

‘The fact she wrote her name . . . that’s a positive sign,’ she said.

‘Emilie’s like her mother. Strong-willed. Dogged. Doesn’t . . .’ He was straying and he knew it. ‘Doesn’t listen unless she wants to.’

Something caught his eye. Zeuthen bent down to pick it up.

‘No!’ Lund cried, there in an instant, hand out to stop him. ‘Don’t touch a thing!’

He couldn’t stop looking at the books.

‘She loves that one about the little monkey.’ He turned to her. ‘It’s one of her favourites. How could he know that?’

‘Maybe she asked for it?’

‘And he just went out and found a copy? In the middle of all this?’

No, she thought. That was a stupid idea. He’d prepared for that too. He knew already.

Juncker was back at the door making noises about the CCTV from the building opposite.

‘I need you to go now, Robert,’ she said. ‘We’ve work to do. I know you want to help. But you’re in the way.’

Zeuthen didn’t move.

‘Does this touch you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if you can’t see that. It’s just . . . me.’

He nodded. Went out to the shiny Range Rover in the mud outside, brought the big car to life and edged it down the drab and dirty service road.

Juncker was good with technology. He had the CCTV on a laptop by the time Lund and Borch got there. The camera was aimed too far down the line of units to be of much use.

‘No bloody good,’ the young cop swore. ‘All you can see is half of the building.’

A car moved through. Recent, clean. A woman at the wheel. Juncker stepped through the frames.

‘Wait,’ Borch said. He went back to the beginning.

Lund leaned in to look.

There was a circular mirror on the wall at the right of the frame, there to make reversing easier. A shape in it.

‘What is it?’ Juncker asked. ‘A car?’

She got so close she was in their way.

‘It’s some kind of camper van,’ Lund said. ‘There’s a number plate. If it’s him it’s going to be fake.’

Juncker zoomed in.

‘This thing’s ancient,’ he said. ‘Look at the lights. It’s like something from the Eighties.’

Borch didn’t like that.

‘Old for a camper van,’ Juncker added.

‘Check it out,’ she ordered. ‘I need to talk to Brix.’