The Killing 3 (14 page)

He looked round at the field full of caravans. The air smelled of woodsmoke and bad drains.

‘Has to be him.’

She nodded. Juncker too. He looked happier than the night before. As if he was settling into the investigation.

‘Has Zeuthen made an offer?’ Borch asked.

‘A hundred,’ she said.

‘A hundred million kroner?’

‘There’s got to be payment records. Names and addresses.’ She looked at Juncker. ‘Or am I missing something?’

‘Let’s go meet king troll,’ Juncker said. ‘You tell me.’

He was a man of about seventy with a crooked face, stroke probably, a flat cap, an old blue nylon jacket. He sat in a chair by the one building on the site: a low brick garage with a rotting car
inside.

‘I don’t spy on people,’ the site manager said. ‘We’re almost full. All two hundred and sixteen plots. Camper vans. Caravans. We’ve put up four cabins too.
Got permission for them. Don’t get pushy with me.’

The sign behind him read ‘Tip Top Camping’. There was a picture of a children’s playground. He saw her looking.

‘We took the rides away to make space. People are more interested in getting somewhere to live. Don’t get so many kids these days.’ He scowled at them. ‘If the social
people find they’re here too long they come sniffing. Take them away sometimes.’

‘Easier to make money if you don’t ask questions,’ Borch noted.

‘We used to have families come for holidays. Now they’ve lost their homes. They’ve got the banks on their backs. The credit card people. You want me to give them a hard time
too?’

Borch was getting cross.

‘This is about murder. The kidnap of a young girl. You saw him . . .’

‘No I didn’t.’ The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a receipt. ‘He booked one night over the Internet. Left the voucher in the mailbox with the money. I
didn’t see a thing.’

Lund looked at the voucher. He’d used Peter Schultz’s credit card. The lot he had been given was number sixty-four.

Borch held out a photograph of Emilie Zeuthen.

‘Have you seen this girl?’

‘Are you deaf? Didn’t see him come. Didn’t see him go. Leave people be. That’s my motto. Don’t get involved in their business.’

‘You’re a lot of help,’ Juncker grumbled.

‘I do what I can,’ the manager said.

A noise. Something was vibrating in Lund’s pocket. She pulled out Emilie’s phone and walked round the corner.

The voice was calm again.

‘What have you got for me now?’

She stood next to the nearest caravan. A woman, dark-faced, foreign, watched from behind the grubby curtain.

‘The family’s willing to pay a hundred million kroner. They just want Emilie back.’

In the silence that followed she tried to picture the man behind the voice. He was about her age. Educated. Intelligent. Experienced in ways she could only guess at.

‘I want it in five hundred euro notes. It has to fit into five bags. No GPS. No ink cartridges. Don’t play games this time. I won’t give you another chance.’

‘Understood,’ she said. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

The laugh.

‘What can I say? You have my word. Get the money. Be on the E47 with it. The bridge by exit sixteen at four p.m. on the dot.’

He was leaving them little more than four hours to prepare.

‘That’s a lot of cash to put together. I’m not sure they can do it that quickly.’

‘They’re Zeeland. They can do anything they want.’

‘But—’

‘Four o’clock. Don’t screw up this time.’

She tried to argue. But it was too late. Lund walked back to Borch and Juncker, still trying to get something out of the site man. Told them the offer was on.

Brix checked in. Borch called PET headquarters. They walked to the car.

‘Sarah.’

Borch had stopped, phone to his ear.

‘They traced him. That’s not Skype. He’s using an ordinary mobile. He’s somewhere in a ten-kilometre radius of here.’

The big grin. She hadn’t seen that in twenty years.

‘He’s dropped the ball.’ Borch clasped her shoulders, let out a little whoop. ‘We’re going to get this bastard.’

Between campaign events the Hartmann coach stopped at a temporary events office in a hotel in the suburbs. Karen Nebel was working on Rosa Lebech. The Centre Party was still
holding out. The police had briefed Weber on the coming ransom exchange.

‘Let’s hope to God it works this time,’ Hartmann said. ‘Is Zeuthen fine with the money?’

‘He’s shipping it in from Frankfurt. Seems there’s no problem.’

‘Good . . .’

Weber winced and said, ‘Can we have a quick word?’

Nebel didn’t like that much but Hartmann agreed. They went next door into one of the unused bedrooms.

‘Doesn’t help if you make Karen feel she’s outside the team, Morten.’

‘Yes, well.’ Weber looked awkward, worried. That was unusual. ‘I just want to be careful until I know exactly where we stand.’

Hartmann grabbed a bottle of water from the bed, swigged at it.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Ussing’s just put out a new statement.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake . . .’

‘He’s demanding an official inquiry right after the election whoever wins.’

‘There’s a nine-year-old girl somewhere out there! Does he even think about that?’

‘Fine,’ Weber said. ‘Righteous anger. We all love it. But here’s the thing. I talked to the Ministry of Justice. There’s a lawyer I know there . . .’

‘Don’t have time for this.’

‘You do, Troels. She thought she’d seen this old case in Jutland – the girl’s suicide – before. She wasn’t sure but when I mentioned the Zeeland
sailors—’

‘The case never went through them,’ Hartmann interrupted. ‘You were there when Mogens told us that last night.’

Karen Nebel appeared at the door. Weber glared at her.

‘I just got through to Rosa. If we throw some low-level ministerial job the way of her troops she’s fine with announcing the alliance tonight. I told her yes.’

‘Good news!’ Hartmann cried.

‘We need to get moving if we want to make the announcement before the debate,’ Nebel added. ‘So can you two deal with your argument later?’

‘No need,’ Hartmann said. ‘We’re done.’

The E47 crossed countries, starting in Germany at Lübeck, by ferry link to Denmark, passing through Copenhagen and running into Sweden where it ended at Helsingør.
Brix had teams ready to block the route going both ways.

The busy motorway junction was by a bridge above what looked like a miniature version of the campsite Juncker had found. Only more mean this time. Little more than a rough encampment by a small
lake.

Juncker had been talking to some of the locals. He had a pair of binoculars trained on the dismal hovels below.

‘Apparently they call it the Mudhole. There’s forty or fifty illegals down there.’

Lund took the field glasses, looked for herself. It wasn’t just caravans. There was a wrecked van, a man in a tent, a couple of children playing with an old football.

‘Every time we send them home they come back,’ Juncker added.

Borch had spent most of the time on the phone back to PET headquarters. When he came off Lund said, ‘I don’t believe for one moment he’s just going to walk onto this bridge and
pick up the money.’

‘No.’ He pointed to the trailers and vans below. ‘He’s down there. We’ve traced the signal from his phone.’ He pointed to a white vehicle parked at the edge
of the camp, as if newly arrived. ‘That’s the motorhome. I’d put my life on it.’

Juncker rubbed his hands.

‘So let’s go in . . .’

‘Brix said to wait for the call,’ Lund told him.

He didn’t like that.

‘She’s down there! Let’s go.’

Borch put out a hand to stop him.

‘Brix is right. We can’t risk her getting hurt. We’ve got him cornered . . .’

Lund took another look through the binoculars. The camper van looked the right kind.

‘Why’s he suddenly started using a phone we can trace?’

Juncker rolled his eyes and retrieved his binoculars.

‘Maybe because he can’t get a data connection?’

Borch told her to get on the bridge.

‘Why here?’ Lund demanded. ‘He’s so exposed. This man lives off computers. He knew what was going on when he was on that ship. How the trains were running yesterday. And
now . . .’

His phone rang again.

‘It’s time,’ Borch told her. ‘The Zeuthens are in the underpass on the other side of the bridge. Brix is with them. And the money. Will you kindly move?’

‘This makes no sense.’

‘When he calls do whatever he wants. We’ll take him when he moves to pick up the money. Come on. Chop, chop.’

Juncker giggled at that and went back to scanning the campsite with the binoculars. It was getting dark. Lund drove round to the area Borch had indicated.

Three cars. Brix wearing a dark winter coat. Robert Zeuthen in the perpetual suit. His wife in a new blue parka.

A couple of uniform men unloaded five bags from the back of Zeuthen’s Range Rover. Thirteen and a half million euros, all in the largest denomination note available.

Brix gave Lund some black body armour and told her to put it on. A woman officer led the Zeuthens to one side.

‘I’m going to keep them out of the way,’ he said. ‘We can’t be close by but we’ll be listening in.’

‘What’s happened with the Jutland case?’

He didn’t like the question.

‘I talked to the local police chief in Jutland. He confirmed what the pathologist told you. It was suicide. That’s a dead end.’

They put the money in the boot of her plain black Ford Focus.

‘Good luck, Lund.’

‘This Jutland thing . . .’

‘Forget about Jutland! Take good care of the money. Yourself too.’

She drove onto the bridge. Dusk fell. Dusk turned to night. Two wheels up on the pavement she waited.

Twenty past five and nothing. Borch, Juncker, and the observation team shivered in the wood above the Mudhole, watching the white camper van below. The curtains were closed.
Darkness inside. Borch’s people thought the phone was in there. Another snatch team had assembled on a slip road beneath the bridge, led by Brix. The same level as the camp. Ready to enter
instantly.

The Zeuthens were silent, anxious, listening to the rumble of cars above them.

Finally Maja strode over and tackled Brix.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Please,’ the homicide chief insisted. ‘I’d much rather the two of you waited in the car.’

‘He’s more than an hour late,’ Zeuthen said.

‘We’re doing what he wanted,’ Brix pointed out. ‘Lund’s in position. She’s got the money. It’s his call now.’

A brief gap in the traffic. The noise from the bridge receded. In its place, briefly, what sounded like a phone.

It looked as if it would be the biggest debate of the campaign. Crowds swarming into the vast hall by the water. The news networks were running a planted story from Karen
Nebel. They were saying the election was as good as over. Rosa Lebech was going to throw the Centre Party’s weight behind Troels Hartmann for Prime Minister that evening. On the current polls
nothing the Socialists could do would generate sufficient votes to give them power.

Hartmann walked through the campaign workers’ room to the side of the hall, smiling, waving. Nebel by his side.

‘I’ve got some of the papers accusing Ussing of exploiting the Zeuthen case tomorrow,’ she said quietly as they made their way through the happy tables. ‘That should give
us more breathing space.’

Anders Ussing stood next to the exit, beckoning.

‘He looks apologetic,’ Hartmann noted.

‘He should,’ she said. ‘Be gentle.’

‘I always am.’

It was a short conversation. Ussing looked nervous, talked about only doing his job.

‘Well it’s over and done with now, Anders. Who goes first tonight?’

‘You do, Troels. You’ve got rank on me.’

Hartmann gave him the politician’s smile.

‘I just want you to know,’ Ussing added, ‘that when you lose office over this . . . it’s not personal. In any way.’

That made Hartmann laugh. Ussing was in a donkey jacket. No tie. Hair dishevelled. He didn’t look ready for anything, least of all a debate.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Hartmann said. ‘You worry about your campaign. I’ll deal with mine.’

Karen Nebel sensed something from across the room. She flitted to Hartmann’s side. Ussing nodded at her, grinned.

‘It’s not the first time Mogens Rank’s led you up the garden path.’ He beamed. ‘Probably the last though. Good luck with the, um . . .’ A hearty laugh.
‘The alliance.’

‘What the hell was that about?’ Hartmann asked when Ussing wandered off. ‘Rosa’s with us, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. She told me . . .’

Morten Weber was marching across the room, tie to one side, papers in his hand, face like thunder.

Lund stared at Emilie’s phone. It was quiet. Reached into her pocket, took out the police handset, said, ‘Lund?’

‘It’s Lis Vissenbjerg. We spoke this morning. Can we meet?’

‘This isn’t a good time. Let me call you back.’

‘You said this man killed Schultz over that case.’

A sudden rush of traffic. Cold night air in her face.

‘It looks that way.’

Long pause.

‘The thing is . . . that autopsy you got hold of . . .’

A truck roared past. Lund went and leaned over the bridge, looked down at the grubby little camp and the white camper van at the perimeter.

‘What about it?’

‘I should have told you this morning. I had concerns about the cause of death. I thought the girl could have been murdered. But when I wanted to run more tests . . .’

‘What?’

‘Schultz said he was under pressure from people above him. I’d be out of a job if I didn’t do what he wanted. I’ve still got the original draft. You need to see
it.’

Getting on for five thirty. No call.

‘Hello? Are you still there, Lund?’

‘Where are you?’

‘At work. They . . . they put Peter Schultz on my schedule for today. I told them I couldn’t possibly . . .’

‘Bear with me,’ Lund said.

She phoned Borch.