The Killing 3 (16 page)

Another corner. A figure in white. Her gun went up. A woman started shrieking. The lift opened. Two porters there. A body on a gurney. They stared at her. At the weapon.

Lund looked down at their feet. All white hospital slip-ons.

No time to explain, no time to ask.

There was one way only he could go and so she followed, getting breathless, getting lost.

The smell of washing. Detergent and steam. She pushed open the door, found herself in a vast, empty laundry. Lines of gowns on racks, like skins shed for the night. Machines gently gurgling at
the side.

A noise. Gun out, revolving round.

A face. She was aiming straight at Mathias Borch, black clothes, black hat, waving at her.

Two of them in a long, wide dimly lit room, filled with clothes and racks and storage cupboards. Plenty of places to hide.

Lund pointed to the right. Knew he’d understand. They’d worked together once. Had a feeling for it.

Now they moved slowly down the length of the laundry, Lund to one side, Borch the other. Nine-mill Heckler & Koch Compact pistols tight in hand, looking, hunting, listening.

Halfway along a sound. The ventilation rattling. The plumbing. Anything. Lund was next to pile upon pile of neatly ironed white sheets. Eyes scanning the floor, looking for a pair of black
shoes. Wishing there was some way she could tell Borch.

Three more steps. A white gown thrown to the ground. He’d been here. Changing again.

‘Borch?’ she said.

And then a sound. One brief cry of pain. The thud of what sounded like a weapon on flesh.

‘Mathias!’

She crossed the room and saw them. A figure in a heavy jacket, a three-hole ski mask obscuring his face. Borch in his arms. Pistol to the neck.

Lund lifted her weapon, aimed it. Kind of.

‘Drop the gun, please,’ the voice said and it was as calm and flat and intelligent as he sounded on the phone.

The hooded head was clear. But mostly she could only see Mathias Borch.

‘I’m not fond of repeating myself. Drop it.’

‘Shoot the bastard, Sarah!’ Borch struggled in his arms. ‘Just do it.’

Then he yelped with a sudden pain. She couldn’t see but she could guess. A punch to the kidneys.

‘Drop the gun or I kill him. And then you.’

‘Sarah,’ Borch pleaded, the pistol hard into his cheek.

She took a step closer.

‘Do it!’ Borch yelled.

‘Three . . .’

Slowly so he saw, Lund held the gun, side on, pointed the barrel at the ceiling. Then crouched down to the ground, placed the weapon on the floor, slid it over.

Borch looked mad at her.

‘I’ll give you one final chance, Lund,’ the man said. ‘Bring me an interesting offer this time. Turn my head. Expect a call tomorrow.’

Then he retreated into the darkness near one of the rumbling laundry machines, dragging Borch with him.

She looked at her weapon on the floor. Heard a shriek of pain. Picked up the Heckler & Koch. Saw the open door. Borch on the ground in front of it.

Stepped over him, looked at the staircase rising up to street level.

Gone again. He knew this escape route too and she’d no idea which way to go after him.

Too many memories at that moment. Jan Meyer bloody in the dark, another partner lost.

‘Mathias?’

She knelt down, touched his forehead. A cut there, bruise growing around it.

‘Are you OK?’ she whispered and put a hand to his cold, damp cheek.

Borch came to. Saw something in her eyes. Looked at the open door. Muttered a low curse.

Back in the autopsy theatre they were working on the corpse of Lis Vissenbjerg. Three men from forensic had started the painstaking job of detailing her death. No secrets about
the method. They took one look and came up with an answer: he’d cut her throat, let her bleed to death on the spot.

‘How’s Borch?’ Brix asked.

‘Knocked about a bit. Pissed off. With me probably.’ She looked at him. ‘Not the only one.’

‘You left a king’s ransom by the side of the road without telling me. I’d no idea what was going on. The Zeuthens are going crazy.’

Lund waved away that last remark.

‘He was never going to pick that money up. I told Borch to come and get it, didn’t I?’

She took him over to the desk, jabbed a finger at the preliminary report.

‘Vissenbjerg called me while I was on the bridge. She wanted me to see these papers. I think she was getting worried. If he went after Schultz he might come after her.’

Brix took the notes.

‘That’s the original report. She didn’t think the girl committed suicide at all. Schultz told her to take that out of the autopsy or she’d get fired. He said he was being
leaned on by someone.’

‘Who?’

‘She didn’t get round to telling me. We need to pull in whoever investigated the original case in Jutland.’

Brix shook his head.

‘Why are people getting killed because of this? Where’s the connection with the Zeuthens?’

‘There must be one. I ought to check on Borch. He was never good with cuts and bruises. What did you get out of the campsite?’

‘Nothing. He just handed that camper van and the phone to some impoverished foreigner he saw at a petrol station and said if she waited for him by the gravel pit there might be something
else. It’s a woman from Estonia. She thought . . .’

He went quiet.

‘Thought what?’

‘She thought he seemed kind. He told her he felt sorry for someone in trouble. It was all down to big business and the government. Ruth Hedeby’s going to haul me over the coals when
I get back. I don’t have a damned thing to tell her, do I?’

Lund tried to think of something to say. Then Borch walked in, holding a piece of surgical gauze to his neck.

‘Are you OK?’

‘They said I nearly needed stitches.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Nearly?’

A caustic glance then, ‘Do we have witnesses here? Anything?’

‘What do you think?’ Brix grumbled.

‘He arranged that motorway stunt as a diversion,’ Lund told them. ‘He wanted space to get to Vissenbjerg. He’s chasing this old case. So . . .’ At least they were
listening. ‘We need to work out where he’s going to look next.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you shoot when you could?’ Borch demanded.

Brix wasn’t interested. They’d taken the camper van into the forensic garage in the Politigården. He wanted them to check it out. Find something he could pass off as a
lead.

Borch stood in front of her, waiting for an answer.

‘You could have taken him.’

She walked back towards the exit.

He followed, asked, ‘Why . . . ?’

‘How would we have found Emilie Zeuthen if I’d shot him?’

‘You could have wounded him in the arm or leg or something. You’re a good shot—’

‘No I’m not! You know nothing about me. If you hadn’t interfered . . .’

He threw up his arms.

‘Oh it’s my fault now! You were wandering round in the dark when I turned up. You could have shot him and—’

‘You were standing there!’ she yelled. ‘In the way.’ Then, without a thought until the word had emerged, ‘Again.’

He latched on to that.

‘Again?’

‘I just couldn’t. OK?’ Lund said and wished she could go somewhere quiet, sit alone for a while, not think about him or Emilie Zeuthen. Or any of the old ghosts either.

That shut him up for some reason. So she walked out to the car.

Borch wasn’t the only one hurting. Robert Zeuthen had cut himself on the hand in the pointless fight at the campsite. Sore, miserable, aching, Zeuthen was driving his
Range Rover, Reinhardt in the passenger seat, Maja in the back.

Then the old man broke the news of another murder. A pathologist.

‘The police are asking if we know anything about this,’ he added. ‘I told them it was a mystery to us. The prosecutor. The woman. Some case in Jutland. We’ve dealt with
none of these people. They seem to think the kidnapper wasn’t after the ransom.’

‘Why not?’ Maja asked, the first words she’d spoken since they got in the car. ‘What in God’s name does he want?

‘They don’t know. He’s told them he’ll call again tomorrow with a new demand. The last one. Though of course he said that before.’

‘Did he mention Emilie?’ Zeuthen wondered.

‘That’s all he said.’

Maja’s voice was getting louder, angrier.

‘There must be more than that. Did he say why he didn’t want the money?’

‘No. I’ve arranged for it to go into the National Bank, Robert. After that . . .’

Zeuthen looked at his wife. Asked if she was OK. She looked pale, worn out.

‘Stop,’ she ordered. ‘I want to get out.’

They were on the outskirts of the city. Lights. People in the street.

‘I’ll take you to Carsten’s,’ Zeuthen said.

‘Stop the car!’

He drove on. She started shrieking. Zeuthen pulled in by the side of the road. She was out in an instant, dashing into the bushes. He leapt after her.

‘Maja . . .’

Maybe she wanted to be sick and couldn’t. Maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of him, the big car, the talk about money. Sobbing, close to hysterical, she walked out of the bushes,
started marching aimlessly down the pavement.

‘Talk to me,’ he begged. ‘Please.’

She turned, furious, eyes shiny with tears.

‘Emilie’s not coming back, Robert. Can’t you see it?’

He caught up with her. She kept walking.

‘I’ll get him what he wants. Whatever it is . . .’

‘Maybe she’s dead already.’

That made him mad.

‘No. She isn’t. Emilie wrote her name on that wall. For us. She knows we’re coming for her. She knows . . .’

His leg hurt. Must have bruised that too somewhere. He was limping, pathetic in the freezing night, their breath misting up around them.

She stopped by the railings. He tried to hold her slender shoulders.

‘If you’d just let her come home with me,’ she cried. ‘Where she belonged. Just . . .’

No words. Nothing to do but put his arms around her. Tears against his cheek. His against hers.

Maja sobbed at his neck, fought for a while. Gave up. Her arms drifted round his waist. Clutched him. It was like the old closeness. The love that had vanished.

Mouth to her ear, he whispered the words, meant every one of them.

‘I’ll bring her back. I promise. Nothing else matters. Nothing . . .’

She didn’t speak. Just cried.

‘I promise,’ Robert Zeuthen said again. ‘I’ll make this better.’

There was an election poster on the fence. Troels Hartmann, beaming out at the world. Prime Minister. A good man they all said. Someone on your side.

Hartmann had the radio on as the car pulled onto the cobbles of the Christiansborg courtyard. The murder in the university hospital and its probable connection to the Zeuthen
case made the lead item. But Anders Ussing came a close second, accusing Hartmann’s government of negligence over the abduction of Emilie.

Reporters and TV crews crowded round the car. The news bulletin carried a brief report of the failed ransom, and the suggestion that the kidnapper’s motive might not be money at all.

‘There’s been no statement from Hartmann, the police or PET,’ the report continued. ‘Ussing claims both the kidnapping and the murders could have been avoided if the
Justice Minister had heeded the warnings he received.’

‘As if he’d know,’ Hartmann grunted then got out, smiled for the cameras, let the bodyguards push through the mob, get him into the building.

He went straight to his office. Mogens Rank was waiting there fiddling nervously with a pencil.

Hartmann sat down, Weber and Nebel at his side. Opened his hands, stared at the smartly dressed man opposite, waited.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to any of you on the phone,’ Rank said, smoothing down his jacket. ‘I was looking into what’s happened here. It seems we did know
about this girl, Hjelby. It was just after we came into office. I was overwhelmed with work. I didn’t—’

‘Tell us about it, Mogens,’ Hartmann demanded.

‘It was nothing. A thirteen-year-old girl was found dead in a harbour in West Jutland. Three Zeeland sailors came across the body.’ A shrug. ‘Which meant, of course, the case
had to go by my desk.’

‘Why?’ Morten Weber asked.

Rank looked at him, surprised.

‘Zeeland were behind us during the campaign. It only seemed right to take an interest.’

He looked at Nebel, as if for support. Got none.

‘All the evidence said it was suicide,’ Rank added. ‘So I assumed the case was closed.’

‘Last night you said you knew nothing about this,’ Weber pointed out.

‘Yes,’ Rank agreed. ‘I apologize. I was busy. It was a few pages that crossed my desk and required no action. I forgot.’ He looked at Hartmann. ‘I’m sorry,
Troels. I know I’ve embarrassed you. But really, however much Ussing wants to make of this, that’s all there is to it.’

Morten Weber groaned and let his head fall briefly on his arms.

‘You forgot, Mogens?’

‘Yes. Don’t you believe me? Why would I lie?’

‘And when these same three sailors are murdered?’ Weber yelled. His hand twirled at his ear. ‘Still no bells ring up here?’

No answer.

‘When the deputy prosecutor involved in the case got strung up from the courthouse? And now the pathologist’s dead too?’

‘No bells. Sorry.’

Weber got up, walked to the wall, kicked it hard.

‘We were looking for Emilie Zeuthen,’ Rank barked at him. ‘I didn’t have that old case in my mind. It seemed of no importance . . .’

Hartmann sighed, stared at him.

‘But it was, Mogens. Tell me truthfully. Have you interfered in any of this? Acted in a partial manner?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He means,’ Weber cut in, ‘did you do anyone a favour? Zeeland for example?’

‘Of course not! Why would I? As far as I could see the case was solved.’

Hartmann slammed his fist on the table.

‘But it wasn’t. Was it?’

A long silence.

Then he said more quietly, ‘Emilie Zeuthen’s life hangs in the balance. She could be dead over those . . . pieces of paper you ignored. The bastard behind this has told the police
they’ve one final chance to get her home. We don’t even know how . . .’