The Killing 3 (2 page)

By the time Hans Zeuthen died, not long before Troels Hartmann became Prime Minister, his clan was a fixture on the nation’s social, economic and political landscape. And then the company
fell into the nominal hands of his son as managing owner, heading a corporate board.

Robert, third generation, was cut from different cloth. A quiet, introspective man of forty he was at that moment wandering round the forest outside the family home looking for his nine-year-old
daughter Emilie.

Thick woodland, bare in winter. Zeuthen marched through the trees, across the carpet of bronze autumn leaves, calling her name. Loudly but with affection. His ascent to the throne of Zeeland had
come at a cost. Eighteen months before his wife Maja had left him. Soon the divorce would come through. She was now living with a doctor from the main city hospital while Zeuthen played the part of
single father, looking after Emilie and her six-year-old brother, Carl, as much as he was allowed under the separation agreement, and through the ceaseless pressures of work.

Hans Zeuthen had lived through a time of growth and prosperity. His son was experiencing none of this. Recession and business failures had hit Zeeland hard. The company had been laying off
workers for four years and there was still no real sign of any recovery. Several subsidiaries had been sold off, others closed for good. The board was getting anxious. Investors were openly
worrying whether the enterprise was best left in the hands of the family.

Robert Zeuthen wondered what else they expected. Blood? The crisis had cost him his marriage. The precious bond of family. There was nothing left to give.

‘Emilie?’ he cried again into the bare trees.

‘Dad.’ Carl had walked up behind in silence, dragging his toy dinosaur. ‘Why won’t Dino talk any more?’

Zeuthen folded his arms and gazed down at his son.

‘Perhaps because you launched him out of your bedroom window? To see if he could fly?’

‘Dino can’t,’ Carl said innocently.

He tousled the boy’s hair and agreed with that. Then called for his daughter again. Another day and it would be time for the kids to stay with their mother. For the best part of him to
leave again. And that meant Maja too.

A figure came racing out of the trees. Blue coat, pink wellies, legs flying, blonde hair too. Emilie Zeuthen dashed towards him, launched herself at his chest, arms wide, pretty face all
mischief.

The same old challenge. The one she’d made almost as soon as she could talk.

It said . . .
catch me, Dad. Catch me.

So he did.

When he’d stopped laughing Zeuthen kissed her cold cheek and said, ‘One day I’ll miss you, girlie. One day you’re going to fall.’

‘No you won’t.’

She had such a bright, incisive voice. A smart kid. Old for her years. Emilie led Carl a merry dance. Did that for the staff in Drekar too, not that they loved her any the less for it.

‘No you won’t, Dad,’ Carl repeated and got the dinosaur to give him a playful bite on the leg.

‘When can I have a cat?’ Emilie asked, arms round his neck, blue eyes firmly on his.

‘Where were you?’

‘Walking. You promised.’

‘I said you could have a pet. Anything but a cat. I’ve got to talk to Mum about it. Between us . . .’

Her face fell. So did Carl’s. Zeuthen had never imagined he’d lose Maja, lose them a little too. He’d no idea what to say by way of comfort, no access to the easy words he was
supposed to offer.

Instead he took them by the hand, Carl to his left, Emilie to the right, and together they walked slowly home.

Niels Reinhardt was in the drive with his black Mercedes. Another of his late father’s bequests. Reinhardt was the family’s personal assistant, liaison man between the Zeuthens and
the board, a fixer and social arranger who’d been doing this ever since Robert was a child himself. Now sixty-four, a tall and genial man, always in suit and tie, he looked ready to go on for
ever.

The newspaper was in Reinhardt’s hands. Zeuthen had seen the story already. An exclusive claiming that Zeeland was about to renege on its promises to Hartmann’s government and
abandon Denmark as its headquarters.

‘Where do they get these lies?’ Zeuthen asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Reinhardt replied. ‘I’ve told the board you want to convene a meeting immediately. Hartmann’s people are going crazy. He’s getting
questions from the press of course.’

Maja was on the steps of the house, green anorak and jeans. They’d met as students. Falling in love had seemed so easy, so natural. She didn’t know who he was at the time,
didn’t much care when she did find out. He was the stiff, shy, plain-looking rich boy. She was the beautiful, fair-haired daughter of charming hippie parents who ran an organic farm on Fyn.
They’d scarcely known a cross word until his father died and circumstances forced him to take the reins of Zeeland. After that . . .

She marched down the steps, the face he’d come to love wreathed once more in anger and resentment. Reinhardt, always a man wise to the moment, took the children by the hand, said something
about finding dry shoes and led them into the house.

‘What’s this?’ she said and pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket.

Pictures of a tiny tabby kitten. Small hands stroking the creature’s fur. In one photo Emilie was clutching the little creature to her tummy, beaming at the camera.

Zeuthen shook his head.

‘I’ve been to the school, Robert! She was funny with me last week. Wouldn’t talk. As if she had some kind of secret.’

‘She seems fine.’

‘How would you know? How much time do you spend with her when she’s here?’

‘As much as I can,’ he said and it wasn’t a lie. ‘I told her she couldn’t have a cat . . .’

‘Then where did she get it? She’s allergic to them.’

‘The kids are under supervision every hour they spend with me, whether I’m there or not. You know that, Maja. Why not ask your mother? You didn’t need to come out here for
this. You could have called.’

‘I came here to take them with me.’

‘No,’ Zeuthen said immediately. ‘It’s on the schedule. You get them tomorrow. I can deal with this.’

Reinhardt and the children were back at the door. He looked as if he needed to talk. Zeuthen went over, listened. Hartmann’s staff were demanding a statement. The board would convene
within the hour.

‘A body’s been found at the docks, near our facility,’ he added.

‘One of our men?’

‘There’s no sign of that, Robert.’

It happened so quickly there was nothing Zeuthen could do. Maja pushed past him, walked up to Emilie, took her hands.

‘I want to know about the cat,’ she insisted.

The girl tried to pull back.

‘Emilie!’ Maja shrieked. ‘This is important!’

Zeuthen bent down, said gently, ‘Mum needs to know. So do I. Whose cat is it? Please?’

The years fell off her. An uncertain, shifty child again. Emilie said nothing. She struggled as Maja pulled up the sleeves of her blue coat.

Red skin, puffy and swollen.

She lifted the girl’s jumper. Her stomach was covered with the same livid marks.

‘There’s a cat here,’ Maja barked. ‘What the hell have you been playing at? I’m taking her to hospital now.’

He’d never seen her temper until their marriage began to falter. Here it was again, loud and vicious.

Carl put his hands over his ears. Emilie stood stiff and silent and guilty. Reinhardt said something Zeuthen barely heard about postponing the board meeting.

Responsibilities. They never went away.

Zeuthen crouched down, looked his daughter in the eye.

‘Where was the cat, Emilie?’ he asked. ‘Please—’

‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’ Maja screamed. ‘I’ll deal with that later. She’s going to hospital . . .’

Emilie Zeuthen began to cry.

Troels Hartmann liked being on the stump. Especially when his opponent was a left-wing windbag like Anders Ussing. The world of Danish politics was a seething stew of small
parties fighting for the right to make peace with their enemies and seize a little power for themselves. In the current climate only Hartmann’s liberals and Ussing’s socialists stood a
chance of winning sufficient votes to hold the Prime Minister’s chair.

The polls were close. One slip-up on either side could tip them easily. But that, he felt sure, was more likely to come from a loudmouth like Ussing than any of his own, carefully shepherded
supporters. Morten Weber, the wily campaign organizer who’d won him the mayor’s seat in Copenhagen, had followed into the Christiansborg Palace. He’d recruited Karen Nebel, a
slick and telegenic media adviser who’d worked as a political hack for one of the state TV stations. It was as good a team as Hartmann had ever possessed. And he had a few tricks of his own
up his sleeve too, though listening to Ussing try to wind up the audience in the run-down Zeeland docks terminal he wondered whether he’d need them.

It was a typical turnout for an industrial gathering: women from offices, a handful of burly stevedores in hard hats, some seamen, few of them interested in politics but glad of a break from
work. The platform was on a pickup truck set by a pair of shiny barrel-like containers in an open building beneath a corrugated roof. The TV crews had been positioned at the front, the news
reporters corralled into the seats behind.

Ussing was trotting out the same lines he’d been spouting up and down Denmark since the election campaign began.

‘This government is starving the ordinary citizens of Denmark to fill the pockets of the rich who bankroll them.’

Hartmann stared straight at the TV cameras, smiled and shook his head.

‘And today!’ Ussing roared, like the trade union boss he once was, ‘we see what Hartmann’s weakness has won us.’

He held up that morning’s paper, with the headline about Zeeland abandoning the country for a new low-tax base in the Far East.

‘One of our biggest employers is joining the exodus now. While he sticks us with the bill they ship their jobs to Asia.’

A murmur of approval, white hats shaking. Hartmann picked up the mike.

‘A sound industrial policy works for everyone, Anders. If we can keep Zeeland happy they’ll employ more Danes in return . . .’

‘Not any more!’ Ussing yelled, slapping the paper. ‘You’ve turned a blind eye to their monopolies. You’ve sucked up to them with your tax cuts and oil subsidies . .
.’

The rabble-rousing was starting to work. He was getting a few cheers and the odd round of applause.

‘The only sucking up that’s going on here’s from you,’ Hartmann broke in. ‘Easy words. Irresponsible ones. You’d have us believe you can wish this crisis away
with a few sweet words while quietly dipping into the pockets of ordinary Danes and relieving them of what money they have.’

Hartmann scanned the crowd. They were quiet. They were listening.

‘I know it’s hard. For too long we’ve been reading about layoffs and bankruptcies. About private savings disappearing into thin air.’ A long pause. They were waiting.
‘If I had a magic wand do you think I wouldn’t use it? This is the world we have. Not just in Denmark. Everywhere. The choice you face is a simple one. Do we deal with these problems
now? Or pass this mess on to our children?’

He gestured to the stocky, ginger-haired man next to him.

‘If you want to duck your responsibilities, vote for Anders Ussing. If you’ve got the guts to face them, choose me.’

They liked that. Ussing took the mike.

‘So when Zeeland bleat to the papers about moving you’ll give them more of our money, Troels? Is that how it works? Another bribe for your friends . . .’

‘If we make the climate good for business, the jobs will stay here,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Our industrial policy looks for growth. But there are limits. We’re in this
together. Everyone contributes, just as everyone’s affected. That means Zeeland too.’ Hand to his heart, he said it again. ‘That means Zeeland too.’

They were clapping as he left. Karen Nebel still wasn’t happy as they headed for the car.

‘I specifically asked you to steer clear of Zeeland.’

‘What was I supposed to do? He had me on the spot. I can’t ignore a question like that. Zeeland have to go public and deny the article.’

She was a tall woman with swept-back fair hair and a tense, lined face bordering on hard. Scheming at times but he could handle that.

‘They will deny it, won’t they, Karen?’

‘I keep leaving messages everywhere. No one gets back to me. I think something’s up.’

‘Get it out of them,’ Hartmann ordered. ‘I’ve just about got a deal with Rosa Lebech’s people sewn up. I don’t want anything to get in the way of
that.’

She scowled at the mention of the woman who ran the Centre Party.

‘There’s a homeless camp next door,’ she said. ‘I scheduled a stop there.’

‘If I can talk to people, fine. I’m not just doing photo-ops.’

They got to the car. She held the door open for him.

‘Troels. They’re homeless. Pictures are the only reason we’re here.’

Hartmann’s phone rang. He saw the number, walked away from the car for some privacy.

‘I just saw you on TV, honey. If I wasn’t leading another party you’d get my vote.’

‘I still want it,’ Hartmann said. ‘We’ve got to close this deal, Rosa. And after that I need to see you. Somewhere quiet.’ He looked round, saw he was alone.
‘With a big brass bed.’

‘Oh my God. And your Dylan records too.’

‘The deal first.’

‘We’ll back you as Prime Minister. So long as we know you’re on top of Zeeland.’

He laughed.

‘You don’t believe Ussing, do you? Or that stupid rag this morning?’

‘Let’s talk about this later,’ Rosa Lebech said.

Then she was gone.

Before he could think straight Karen Nebel was over, calling off the visit to the homeless camp. One of the security people was with her. He said they’d found a dead body round the
corner.

‘PET think there might be some kind of threat. The security systems have been compromised or something. They think—’

‘I’m not giving Ussing more ammunition,’ Hartmann said. ‘Schedule it for later in the day. Unless PET come up with something concrete.’