The Killing 3 (12 page)

Carsten Lassen lived in a two-bedroom apartment near the Marble Church. A long way from the sprawling cold luxury of Drekar. Emilie and Carl had to share a room when they
stayed. It was small, with a bunk bed. She always let her younger brother take the top because he thought that was fun.

Now he didn’t know where to sleep at all. So Maja Zeuthen took the lower bed and read a book to him. After a while he climbed down, got under the sheets with her. Went to sleep.

She kept her arms around him. Remembered what it was like to hold Emilie. To hear her smart, sharp voice picking an argument over something or other.

Someone rapped on the door. She heard Carsten answer. Knew from the tone of his voice it was Robert.

Her hand brushed Carl’s sleeping face. She never took much notice of the money. Before they split she’d been planning to take a job, teaching in a primary school. Robert would have
liked that. He didn’t enjoy being kept any more than she did.

Then his father died and the world fell noisily to pieces.

‘It’s important. Where’s Maja?’

She wanted to think he sounded like a stranger. That this new, hard tone in his voice made him hateful somehow. But that wasn’t true. Circumstances affected them both. She’d never
consciously wanted to leave him. Robert would have put up with anything, any row, any demand, to keep them together. The rift just happened, got slowly bigger every day. Then Carsten, kind,
handsome, needy Carsten came along and filled the hole Robert had left. Some of it anyhow.

‘Maja’s got enough worries because of you.’

He had the flat, unemotional voice of a doctor. Could speak harsh words – ones she perhaps needed sometimes – without a second thought.

Through the door she heard him.

‘Any business with Maja is business with me. So you say it to my face first.’

The argument was growing. Soon it would wake Carl.

She got up and shambled to the door, looked at the two of them. The only meaningful lovers she’d ever had. They sat at the table, the men on both sides, Maja Zeuthen at the end.

Talk about money and security advice. Options and plans.

‘You went to this place he kept her?’ she asked.

‘They let me in. Lund didn’t like that much but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a little room.’

‘And they’re sure she was there?’

‘She scratched her name on the wall.’

He leaned closer in a way that, in another time, would have led to him holding her hand.

‘They seem to think he knows her somehow. He’d bought her that book she likes. The one about the monkey. They want to know if we’ve noticed anything unusual. Among people we
know. Someone new getting close . . .’

‘So you think it’s me now?’ Lassen asked, outraged.

Zeuthen looked at him and said, simply, ‘No. I don’t.’

Then after a while, ‘They just want us to think about all the things we take for granted. Maybe see something we missed before.’

Lassen was still mad. He got up, found the custody schedule, threw it on the table.

‘Here are all the rules. Your rules. The ones we follow point by point. You look at them.’ He thumped his fist on the papers. ‘You tell me where this bastard got close to her
while she was with us.’

Maja had her hands to her face, crying. Lassen didn’t even notice.

‘You and your security people have harassed us from day one. We did our part. Now you’ve screwed up and you’ve got the cheek to blame Maja. How dare—?’

‘Shut up! For Christ’s sake, Carsten.’ She was staring at the pair of them, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Just stop it, will you?’

‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve wept buckets over this idiot and look where it got you. I’m not going to let him fuck up your life any more.’

‘Please . . .’ she begged.

He was in Zeuthen’s face.

‘Listen to me, Robert. She’s left your golden cage for good. No going back. You’ve punished her for that every day since. It’s done.’

He pointed to the door.

‘Get out.’

Zeuthen didn’t move. Then he saw her face. The sorrow. The embarrassment. The grief.

That made him leave. Nothing else.

Thirty minutes later he was back home. Reinhardt was on the phone as he walked in. A tall, genteel figure, patiently fielding phone calls with the police, with Zeeland’s own security
team.

When he finished he picked up his coat and brought Zeuthen up to date.

Little that was new. Zeeland’s security advisers were taking advice from some specialists they’d worked with on the ransom case in Somalia.

‘I never knew about any hijacking,’ Zeuthen said.

‘Your father handled it. Not long before he passed away. We had some people held by the pirates there. It took a while. Wasn’t easy. But we got them out. For less money than they
wanted. Without publicity too. Maybe they’ve got some ideas—’

‘Have I treated Maja badly?’ Zeuthen interrupted. ‘Was I unreasonable?’

Reinhardt looked shocked by the question.

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘Because she hates me. And I wonder if I deserve it.’

The older man shook his head.

‘I don’t believe she hates you, Robert. A divorce is never easy. I think you’ve been very understanding. She’s the one who refused any financial support. I don’t
know what else you could have done.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘She never really liked the business I’m afraid. I think she had what she felt were . . . principles.’

By the time they got back to the Politigården Brix had a call out to stop and check all camper vans going through border controls. A team was working on registration
records. The number plate was false. They had, at last, a lead.

‘It’s either a VW or a Fiat,’ Borch said, throwing some photos on the desk. ‘What they call an alcove van. Hard to tell which. These things all look the same.’

Lund pored over the prints. Brix came and joined them.

‘I want checks on campsites,’ he said. ‘Lots of them are open during the winter now. People who’ve lost their homes.’

He glowered at the PET man.

‘And there’s this,’ Brix added, throwing a heavy document straight in front of Borch. ‘The kidnapper sent a kind of manifesto to the Ministry of Justice a week ago. PET
knew all about it.’ He leaned down, looked in Borch’s face. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Sure. But we didn’t know it was from him until tonight.’

He shoved the document to one side.

‘Give,’ Lund said and snatched it.

‘There’s no mention of an old case in Jutland, Sarah. It’s just crazy left-wing nonsense—’

‘You ignored a direct threat to Zeeland,’ Brix cut in. ‘Now I’ve got management on my back wanting to know why we were never told.’

Borch muttered something about talking to Dyhring.

‘You’re here. He isn’t,’ Brix said. ‘Next time speak up a little sooner. I don’t want . . .’

Madsen came in and said, ‘We’ve just interviewed Peter Schultz’s secretary. Schultz told you the mate was there asking for compensation, right?’

Lund nodded.

‘Well, she talked to the man before he went in. He didn’t mention that at all. He said he wanted to change his testimony in a case, one Schultz handled. Something about . . . his
conscience getting to him. Also . . .’

He didn’t look keen to go on.

‘Also what?’ Brix snapped.

‘The girl’s phone rang. We answered. He hung up.’

Brix closed his eyes.

‘He didn’t say a word?’

‘Not exactly. He said he’d only talk to Lund.’

A female officer was standing behind him, Emilie’s phone in her hand. She looked upset.

Then it rang. Brix nodded. Lund took the handset and answered.

The voice didn’t sound so calm or genteel any more.

‘If you give the phone to anybody else I’ll take that as a sign you don’t give a shit about this kid, Lund. Do we understand each other?’

‘We had a deal. You broke it. They took me off the case.’

That laugh again.

‘Is that why you’re still in the Politigården?’

‘What do you want?’

‘A new offer. Think about it overnight. I’ll call tomorrow. Maybe by then you’ll grasp the seriousness of the situation.’

‘Why did you kill Schultz?’

‘Because I was owed. You can’t fob me off with Zeeland’s petty cash.’

‘Why him? Why the three sailors?’

Silence. She thought she’d lost him.

‘Do you have children, Lund?’

She couldn’t answer straight away.

‘Simple question. I asked if you had children.’

‘Yes.’

‘Boy or girl? How many?’

‘A son.’

‘Then you know what a child’s worth, don’t you? I’ll call tomorrow.’

‘Wait! How do I know the girl’s still alive?’

Silence. Then a beep and a photo popped into the inbox. Lund opened it. Emilie Zeuthen in a dark coat, a woollen hat. Next to her that afternoon’s paper with the school photo on the front
page.

Lund put the phone to her ear. He was gone.

‘You keep that thing with you all the time now, Lund,’ Brix demanded. ‘Charged. Ready. Understood?’

She nodded.

‘Now go home. Get some sleep. We’ve got a night shift coming on. I want you all fresh for tomorrow.’

She didn’t do as Brix suggested. Lund picked up pizza, some beer, and a box of chocolates then headed for the back street of Vesterbro where Mark lived.

Three months he’d been here and never once invited her round. A couple of streets from where the Birk Larsens still lived. Perhaps that was why she never pushed it.

It was one of the up-and-coming districts. Part old Vesterbro, grimy, dark with graffiti and some shady characters in doorways. Part new, with signs of building and renovation.

She almost walked past the door. It was next to a charity shop, the window full of pictures of cats and dogs up for adoption. Lund stood outside with the pizza, the beer, the chocolates, and
just remembered to take off the price stickers before she rang the bell.

No sound so she knocked instead and a young, high female voice cried, ‘Come in. It’s open.’

A bare hallway, the smell of renovation. She walked into the first room. The woman she’d seen at the station stood in front of a wall trying to scrape off paint. There was building
material everywhere, tools, sacks, pots. Not much furniture. Just a small table, a sofa, and a low double bed.

Lund stayed at the doorway, didn’t know what to say.

The young woman marched up smiling, shook her hand.

‘You must be from upstairs. I’m sorry about the noise. I’m almost done here.’ She patted her belly. ‘Don’t want to take on too much. I’m Eva.’

‘No . . . I came for Mark. Is he in?’

She put the pizza, the chocolates and the beer on the small table. There wasn’t much room.

‘No.’ She had fair hair, a smiling, pretty face, long hair swept back from her forehead and large staring eyes. ‘He went to drop off some rubbish.’ Her jumper looked
threadbare. It was covered with paint stains. Everything about the place spoke of penury. ‘So much work to do here.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Don’t go. Are you Mark’s mother?’

Lund didn’t know whether she was glad to hear that or not.

‘Yes. Sorry.’ She shook Eva’s hand again. ‘Sarah. I brought . . .’ A glance at the table. ‘Just a couple of things. When will he be back?’

‘I don’t know. You can stay and wait if you like. Can I get you a coffee or something?’

Lund couldn’t stop looking at the place and she knew that was bad. Just a ground-floor flat, one main room, a kitchen with a bathroom beyond. None of it finished.

‘It’s a dump,’ Eva said, ‘but we’re doing it up. We got the place cheap because the people before went bankrupt. They wanted someone in who could see . . .
possibilities.’

Enthusiasm. Lund never felt comfortable with that. Eva was maybe two years older than Mark, in late pregnancy, living in a freezing dump. And still she looked content.

‘It’s really nice you came round. Mark doesn’t talk about some things much. You’re a bit of a mystery. Not . . . not that he said anything bad. I wanted to meet
you.’ She patted her stomach. ‘So you could see this. But he said we had a lot on our plates right now.’

There was a noise at the door. A voice, calling her.

Mark walked in. Happy, animated, a long piece of timber in his hands.

‘Take a look what I found at the dump.’ The wood was broken. But maybe there was something to be done with it. ‘Someone just left it. Just . . .’

The smile disappeared the moment he saw her.

‘Hi,’ Lund said.

‘Has something happened?’

‘No. I was just in the area and I thought . . .’

She picked up the chocolates, pointed at the pizza and the beer.

‘What do you want?’ he asked and it wasn’t a friendly tone.

‘Nothing. It’s just so long since we saw each other.’

Eva tried to keep smiling. Like a schoolgirl trapped in the midst of an unwanted argument.

He kept quiet.

‘This is a big job you’ve taken on,’ Lund said. ‘If I can help somehow . . .’

‘We’ll manage. Did you speak to Grandma?’

‘She didn’t tell me you were having a baby. I saw you at the station . . .’

Eva sat down, looked at him.

‘I wanted to say congratulations, Mark. I’d like to help . . .’

‘We’re fine.’

‘We could use a place to sleep for a few days until the ceiling’s done,’ Eva said in a fragile, hopeful tone.

‘Sure,’ Lund agreed. ‘Any time. There’s a key right by the front door. It’s underneath a plant pot. Just let yourself in. Call me if you—’

‘Mum?’ he said loudly. ‘Can you listen for once? We’re fine.’

A noise from somewhere. It didn’t register at all.

‘Your phone’s ringing. You’d best go outside and answer it. Can you do that now?’

In the cold, dark street she took out the handset. Her phone. Not Emilie’s. Lund looked at the number: Asbjørn Juncker. Maybe five years older than Mark. A smart young man, trying
to shape the life ahead of him.

‘Not making any progress with the camper van,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

She could hear the sound of the Politigården behind him. It was a family of a kind, thrown together by circumstance, riven by argument and division at times, at others bound by mutual need
and a sense of respect and decency.