The Killing 3 (19 page)

‘We haven’t got anything that looks like KPS,’ he said when he called in. ‘Maybe he was trying to pull some trick with the camper van. We don’t know for sure she
was in it when we caught the thing on CCTV.’

He sounded fresh. He was young. She wasn’t and had slept badly on the hard single bed in the tiny spare room, wondering about Eva and Mark, what kind of future their child might have.

‘Take a look round the harbour,’ she suggested.

A pause, then, ‘May I ask why? Nothing we’ve got—’

‘This man’s got something to do with ships. He keeps coming back to the docks. To Zeeland. I’m just guessing but I think this is his world. Where he feels comfortable. Where he
retreats when things turn bad.’

Another long moment.

‘That makes sense,’ the young cop said.

‘Thank you, Asbjørn.’

‘I thought I was Juncker.’

‘Today’s a new day. The harbour. Start looking.’

When she came off the call Brix was there anxiously asking if she still had Emilie’s phone with her. Lund rolled her eyes and showed him.

‘Did we get anything else out of our friend from Jutland?’

He shook his head.

‘Ten hours we’ve had him in here and all he can do is whine about going to Bangkok to see his girlfriends.’

‘Let me at him,’ she said and grabbed a notepad and pen.

‘He is a colleague!’ Brix pointed out. ‘I’d like a bit more to go on than a ticket to Thailand.’

She stomped off to the holding cell, Brix behind her, and got one of the guards to let them in.

The first thing Overgaard did was moan about the quality of the breakfast.

‘I’m not here to talk about food,’ Lund said, sitting down. ‘Or your teenage hookers in Bangkok. There’s a young girl out there. I’m trying to keep her alive.
Either you come up with something that helps—’

‘Or what?’ Overgaard snapped. He was trying to look cocky. Didn’t work. He was a nervous, frightened man.

‘Or I kick you out of here and let you fend for yourself. Maybe you can get a ticket out to love land tomorrow. Will that be time enough do you think?’

He was staring at her, mouth open, terrified.

‘Think about it,’ Lund went on. ‘Peter Schultz covered up Louise Hjelby’s death and he got strung up from the courthouse. I know. I watched. Lis Vissenbjerg wrote a fake
autopsy. So he cut her throat and sat her upright in a lecture theatre in the hospital, bleeding to death. He has a certain kind of style, don’t you think?’

She wondered if the old man was going to cry. Instead he asked, ‘Do you like seeing dead people?’

‘It’s my job.’

‘It wasn’t mine. I was a police chief in the back end of nowhere. We pulled up drunk drivers. Threw the odd burglar into a cell. We never had the kind of shit you deal with . .
.’

Brix bridled at that.

‘You were a police officer. You were supposed to cope with whatever came your way.’

Lund slapped the original police report on the bed.

‘According to this pile of crap you believed Louise Hjelby ran away from her foster home and drowned herself five days later. Five days . . .’

‘So what?’

‘Didn’t it seem the least bit odd no one saw her? Didn’t you want to know where she might have been?’

Overgaard waved a dismissive hand.

‘The kid was an orphan. She’d been in God knows how many different homes. She used to wander away on her own.’

‘I hope you’re right. We’ve got officers down there going through every single line of your report,’ Lund promised. ‘She was thirteen. She’d had sex not long
before she died.’

He frowned, shrugged.

‘Didn’t that strike you as curious?’ Lund asked. ‘Given that as far as you knew she never even had a boyfriend?’

‘Do you think she was going to advertise the fact? Who says this pathologist got it right anyway?’

Lund smiled at him.

‘Good question. We’re checking that too. She’s coming up sweeter than you.’ Another rap of the fingers on his report. ‘You were very happy to conclude that the kid
didn’t just throw herself into the water. She tied herself to a concrete block too.’

Another wave.

‘I don’t remember the details . . .’

She threw a photo on the table. A lump of cement, the remains of a heavy rope tied through a ring.

‘We’ve recovered the block from your forensic store. It weighs forty-six kilos. She was a short, slight, thirteen-year-old girl. I doubt she could even have moved that thing on her
own. Certainly not carried it to the dockside and thrown it in.’

‘Maybe it was already on the pier. She just pushed it over—’

‘Maybe?’ Brix cried. ‘You should have called in a homicide team the moment you saw this. Even a hick police chief—’

‘You knew this girl had been seized,’ Lund interrupted. ‘You knew full well she was kept somewhere, raped there, then murdered and thrown into the dock. You’re an
accessory . . .’

His grey head was going from side to side.

‘I’m putting all this in front of a judge,’ Lund promised. ‘If you’re lucky he indicts you. If you’re not you can walk out of here on your own and wait and
see what happens. We won’t be covering your back.’

Overgaard’s heavy chin was on his chest. He didn’t say a word.

‘Thanks to you we’re dealing with a kidnapping and a bunch of murders,’ Brix told him. ‘I want a name. I want to know who was leaning on you to bury this thing. How a man
in your position—’

‘I was doing my job!’ Overgaard yelled. ‘That’s all.’

They waited. The old cop looked lost and desperate.

‘I was just a nobody. Happy that way. Nothing ever happened there. Then this kid turns up. We thought the Zeeland sailors had something to do with it. They’d been in port.’

‘It wasn’t them . . .’ Lund cut in. ‘If they’d killed her why would they report the death?’

‘I didn’t do . . . murder. I sent it off to Copenhagen for an autopsy. Next thing that deputy prosecutor turns up, breathing down my neck. He says . . . it’s suicide. End of
story. Argue with me and you’ll be out of a job. No prospects. No pension.’

‘So you rolled over?’ Brix said.

‘No! I tried to argue . . . he was from here. One of you. Schultz talked to the crew as well and they shut up after that.’ Overgaard looked away. ‘He seemed to know all kinds
of people.’

‘What sort of people?’ Lund asked.

‘Maybe a month afterwards this man turned up. He didn’t think it was a suicide. He wanted the case reopened.’

‘Give us a name.’

‘He never said who he was. Danish. Forties. I thought maybe he was family but they said she didn’t have any.’

‘This man . . .’

‘He said he’d been away at sea for a long time. Probably for Zeeland by the sound of it.’ He looked up at them. ‘That’s all I know, honest. I was just trying to do
my job. Schultz came along and got heavy. I never liked it. I had a breakdown after that. Stress they said.’

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Lund told him.

‘Schultz was leaning on me! What was I supposed to do?’

Brix looked him in the eye.

‘You were supposed to say no.’

‘What sort of people?’ Lund asked again.

Nothing. Then Overgaard said, ‘I’ve told you all I can. What happens now?’

‘We put you in front of a judge,’ Brix said. ‘We get you remanded. No chance of bail. Not with that ticket to Bangkok in the file.’

Nicolaj Overgaard put his grey head in his hands and groaned.

A face in the corridor, anxious at the glass. Mark.

Brix noticed. Seemed to know she had family difficulties.

‘I’ll get someone to deal with this one,’ he said, nodding across the table. ‘Keep it short.’

Lund found Mark waiting on a bench seat near the office. She sat down next to him, asked if he’d talked to Eva. A shake of the head.

‘She slept at my place last night. It’s OK. You can use it if you want.’

‘No thanks. I can cope.’

The juvenile petulant tone was there already.

‘She thinks you’ve got doubts about the whole thing. You don’t want the baby.’

He looked as if he hadn’t slept.

‘I told her to calm down. That she could trust you. If it’s about money I can help . . .’

‘What if I do have doubts?’

This wasn’t the place to talk. Too many people. She asked him into an unused cubicle. To her surprise he followed, sat down opposite her.

‘Of course you’ve got doubts,’ Lund said. ‘Eva must have too. It’s only natural. I did. Just like your father.’

‘And look what happened there.’

He’d thrown these accusations at her constantly when he was angry. With some justification. That didn’t make them any the less tiresome in the end.

‘I never regretted having you,’ she said. ‘Just that I made such a crappy mother.’

‘And I’m supposed to play happy families now? What if I’m just as fucked up as you? At least you and Dad had decent jobs. Some money. Me . . .’ He pulled a few notes out
of his pocket. ‘That’s a night’s work. I can’t keep Eva and a kid.’

So many things she’d wanted to say over the years and never quite found the moment.

‘Mark . . .’

The phone rang. Emilie’s. She snatched it out of her pocket, looked at him, wagged a finger and said, ‘This is important. Stay here. We need to talk.’

She went out into the corridor. Answered on the fifth ring.

‘I thought you’d gone walkabout, Lund. You’re not playing games again, are you?’

Calm, rational, intelligent. In control. He didn’t change.

‘Sorry. I was talking . . .’

‘Shame you got that Overgaard creature. I had a big surprise waiting for him at the airport.’

Lund closed her eyes and said automatically, ‘Are you keeping tabs on us all?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Listen. If he’s guilty, and I think he is, he’s going to court. We’ll do that. Give yourself up. Bring Emilie in. I know what you want. We’re looking into Louise
Hjelby’s case . . .’

‘I don’t have much faith in the courts. Or you. Unless you can tell me who killed her.’

‘I need time,’ she said.

‘You’ve had two years.’

‘No. I’ve had less than two days. I can’t unravel a riddle like this in an instant. How did you know this girl? How did you find out?’

A crowd was gathering round. Brix was watching her.

‘You’ve had all the time in the world, Lund. Spin me a story if you like.’

‘It’s not a story! I can see a mistake was made—’

‘A mistake?’ His voice got louder at that and she could just detect a note of anger in it. ‘Did you really say that?’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Is it a mistake when a whole society turns its back on a young girl’s murder? Is that all it takes? A flash of some money?’

‘No. Please. Listen—’

‘I’m past listening. Your stinking world’s falling down. You should be tugging at the walls, not trying to keep them standing. What’s Zeuthen offering now?’

One of the tech team was at the back, shaking his head. Another call over the web. Untraceable.

‘Whatever you want.’

‘Does he think he’s rich enough to get his life back? How much? Two hundred million? Five hundred?’

‘I told you. There’s no limit.’

He laughed at that.

‘The idiot hasn’t learned a thing, has he?’

‘Tell me—’

‘This is the final demand. I mean it this time. No negotiation.’

‘What . . . ?’

A long, deliberate pause.

‘Oh come on, Lund. We’re getting to know each other here, aren’t we?’ The laugh had a finality to it that chilled her. ‘You’ve worked it out. Surely you
have.’

First thing that morning, ready for another day of campaigning, Hartmann told Karen he needed to stop by his old family house in Svanemøllevej, near the embassies in
northern Østerbro. The place had been on the market for almost a year. The estate agent thought there might finally be a buyer. But there was a problem with damp. Money to be spent or
knocked off the price. No one else to make the decision.

She sat next to him as the black Mercedes made its way down the street. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. Constant sleety rain, a low dark sky.

On the way Morten Weber took some calls. PET had come to the conclusion that Mogens Rank never spoke with the deputy prosecutor at the meeting Weber had uncovered.

‘Are they sure about that?’ Hartmann asked.

‘They say so,’ Weber replied. ‘Mogens made his presentation and left.’

‘Good.’

‘Maybe,’ Weber said. ‘There were some drinks at the Ministry afterwards. Lots of mingling. Mogens can’t remember whether he talked to him there or not.’

‘Does that man remember anything?’ Hartmann grumbled.

Nebel was going through the morning papers. They were casting doubts about Rank’s future. Ussing was still making hay out of the failures in the kidnapping.

‘I want a meeting with Robert Zeuthen. I want to talk to him in person.’

Weber’s hands shot up in protest.

‘Stay away from Zeuthen. There’s a wounded bear in the road here. No point in kicking it.’

Hartmann turned to Nebel and said, ‘Fix it.’

The car stopped at a large house. No lights. No sign of recent life. Hartmann gazed at it through the window, went quiet.

‘Let’s get this over and done with,’ he said.

Weber stayed in the car, on the phone again. Hartmann walked up to the front door, let himself in. Karen Nebel followed. He’d left Svanemøllevej eighteen months before, moved into a
smaller bachelor flat near Christiansborg. The place still had memories. Back when he was nothing more than a city councillor, dreaming that one day he might become mayor of the city, he’d
bought the house with his wife, a lawyer. Two years before he became mayor she’d died, pregnant, of cancer. That pain still lingered within these walls. The younger Hartmann had wanted
nothing more than to rise through the Danish political aristocracy with her by his side. When she was gone a different side of him emerged. A relentless womanizer, unable to settle.

Not long before he became Prime Minister a brief period of stability had arrived in the form of Benjamin his kid brother, almost twenty years his junior, newly kicked out of college in America.
Lost for a way back into the world, Benjamin had been a lively, infuriating feature in Hartmann’s bachelor life for a while, flirting with left-wing journalism and campaigning, arguing
constantly. Usually in good humour.