The Killing 3 (21 page)

She called the Politigården, got someone to run a check. Knew the answer before the operator gave it.

‘This was a Zeeland subsidiary,’ Lund said to no one in particular. ‘They’d been running it down for years. Closed it finally eighteen months ago.’

Brix said nothing.

‘He’s one of theirs,’ she added. ‘Why can’t they come up with a single name?’

‘We’ve looked everywhere,’ Juncker insisted.

‘He knows every last piece of Zeeland’s security system,’ Lund said, voice rising. ‘What’s the betting he’s got a map of this place? He can hide wherever the
hell he likes.’

Brix took a call. As she watched he barked out a curse and fetched a hard kick against some corrugated iron fencing, started yelling something she couldn’t hear.

‘Keep looking,’ she said quietly.

He came off the phone. She walked over.

‘We need to get names and photos out of Zeeland,’ Lund insisted. ‘We need to show them to Overgaard. He’s the only witness we’ve got who’s met this
man.’

Huddled against the cold in his long black winter coat Brix stayed silent.

‘OK,’ Lund added. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘No point,’ he mumbled. ‘Overgaard’s dead.’

She blinked. Shivered on the windy, abandoned dockside.

‘How?’

‘He managed to tear off the sleeve of his shirt and hang himself. He was gone when the guard looked in.’

Brix put a pale hand to his chin, thought for a moment.

‘We’re going to have to go through with this somehow. You need to find me an officer Zeuthen’s build and age for a stand-in. I don’t want him anywhere near. Hear
that?’

Yes, she thought. But would he?

By three thirty the city was swamped in rain. Night was starting to fall. The wind howled outside the Ministry of Justice window. Mogens Rank was watching the TV. It was meant
to be a debate about the economy. Instead it turned into a heated argument about the Zeuthen case.

Ussing repeated the refrain he was chanting everywhere: Rank had been given the opportunity to take action to prevent Emilie’s kidnapping and ignored it. Hartmann fought back with
accusations of his own. Ussing was using a criminal case for his own political ends. The investigation was being handled effectively. He went on record to defend Rank’s actions, and deny that
he’d done anything improper.

Mogens Rank smiled at that, gave the words a round of quiet applause. Then he made his way through the internal corridors that linked his building to the rest of Slotsholmen, wandering the
passageways once used by his predecessor Thomas Buch until he stood in the Christiansborg Palace itself, the quarters of the Prime Minister.

Hartmann’s door was open. He was talking to Karen Nebel and Weber.

Rank knocked, smiled, asked for a word.

The chair swivelled round, Hartmann looked him up and down and asked, ‘The police are being cagey, Mogens. What’s going on?’

‘They’re trying to arrange an exchange. An officer’s taking the place of Robert Zeuthen, I believe.’

Nebel and Weber stopped what they were doing and began to take notice.

Rank outlined the kidnapper’s latest demand.

‘It would have been useful if I’d known that when I saw Zeuthen earlier,’ Hartmann muttered.

‘I only found out after your meeting. These are police matters, Troels. Keeping us informed isn’t in their nature. Or their priorities.’

‘When I ask it is.’

Rank sighed.

‘I just wanted to say how deeply I regret all the trouble I’ve caused. How much I appreciate your words on the TV just now.’

Hartmann sat silent, expressionless. The other two stood and watched.

‘You’ve handled a series of very difficult events admirably,’ Rank added. ‘I’m sure that will be reflected when it comes to the vote.’

There were some documents on the desk. Hartmann picked them up, began to read.

‘I’m aware there’ve been failings in my ministry. Things need to be tightened up. I’m on it already.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. Well.’ A bright, optimistic smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Just one thing,’ Hartmann said, looking up from the papers.

‘Yes?’

‘When I spoke on TV it was for the benefit of the cameras. I didn’t have much choice.’

‘Troels . . .’ Weber muttered, only for Hartmann to wave at him to be silent.

‘I won’t excuse your forgetfulness, Mogens. If that’s what it turns out to be. People have died. A young girl’s missing. And you’ve done nothing but squirm and lie
and duck your responsibilities from the outset.’

Head to one side, arms behind his back, Rank glared at Hartmann.

‘From now on you’ll have nothing to do with this case. The police and PET will report directly to me.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Rank said with an easy laugh. ‘It’s unthinkable.’

‘Go home. Stay away from the office. Keep out of the media. Step out of line and I will drop you from the high heavens. I promise.’

Rank was about to say something, thought better of it.

‘If by some chance we survive this shitstorm you’ve brought down on us,’ Hartmann added, ‘and by some miracle win the election . . . don’t expect a call from me.
Any questions?’

Nothing. Mogens Rank walked briskly from the room.

Weber came to the desk.

‘Don’t start,’ Hartmann warned him.

‘You can’t sack him! He’s one of the most loyal ministers you’ve got. If Birgit Eggert comes running—’

‘He’s gone. Live with it.’

Nebel sat down.

‘You’ve just made sure we get all the blame if the girl turns up dead,’ she said. ‘Even if Mogens does keep his trap shut. Which I doubt.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

Hartmann ignored that and turned to Nebel.

‘Find out what’s happening with the police. I’m not going to let Sarah Lund keep me in the dark.’

She reached for her phone.

‘Outside, please.’

The two men watched her leave.

‘Why do I do this?’ Weber asked. ‘What’s the point when you ignore everything . . . ?’

‘You do it because you’ve got nothing else. Just like me.’

‘It’s unwise to piss off your friends. You never know when you’ll need them.’

‘If you’d rather go and wait this out with Mogens . . .’

Weber shook his head. He rarely lost his temper but the moment was close now.

‘I saved you! Without me you wouldn’t even have a seat on the council let alone . . .’ His hand swept the grand office. ‘. . . this.’

Hartmann leaned forward, looked him in the eye.

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘You can keep saying it. Won’t make it true. You’ve got Rosa Lebech’s old husband coming at you. Birgit too. Next to her Mogens Rank’s little shitstorm’s
going to be a breeze.’

Zeuthen and his wife were in the family room. The two of them were agreed. They’d stay at Drekar, be briefed by the police during the operation. They didn’t want to
be in the Politigården. To know the details.

Carl came running in, looking for his toy car.

‘Maybe you left it in the garden when you were playing with Mum,’ Zeuthen said.

‘I think Emilie took it when she went on holiday. She’s always stealing my toys.’

Zeuthen smiled at him, patted his head, told him to take another look outside.

Maja watched Reinhardt and Carl leave. Soon she heard their voices, one low and gruff and friendly, the other high and bright, beyond the window.

‘I’m sorry about Carsten,’ she said. ‘He’d no right to throw all those things at you.’

‘He’s upset. We all are.’

She was in jeans and an old T-shirt. He wore another dark business suit. Zeuthen never quite knew what brought them together. What she saw in him. It wasn’t the money or the position. In
truth she hated those.

‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I know you’d never do anything to harm the children. You’ve always been . . . a good father.’

That seemed to hurt him and she never wanted to do that. Not when she was thinking straight anyway.

‘So they’re sending some officers here?’ she asked, trying to change the subject. ‘We wait with them this time?’

A brief smile. Carl came running in, Reinhardt behind him. He’d found the car and wanted to tell the world.

It was his father he ran to first, anxious to show him.

‘Emilie didn’t have it!’ Carl cried.

‘No,’ Zeuthen agreed and tousled his hair, held him, too tightly for a moment.

The boy pulled away and looked at him, puzzled.

‘You all right, Dad?’

The doorbell.

‘Do you think it’s the police?’ Maja asked.

Robert Zeuthen took a good look round the room. For a moment she thought he was going to come over and embrace her. She wondered what she’d do if that happened.

Instead he said, ‘I’ll go and see.’

Carl brought her the car then, chattered happily. Reinhardt stood there, wouldn’t look her in the eye.

The front door slammed and somehow she knew he was gone.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘What’s Robert doing?’

Another snatch squad in place. Another armed team waiting for instructions. The latest photographs from Zeeland had arrived. Lund was getting them checked. A stocky man from
uniform was putting on body armour. He was around the same size as Robert Zeuthen. Similar hair. It might work in the dark but not for long.

The stand-in started buttoning up his white shirt over the armoured vest. Lund was talking to Juncker who was still down at the abandoned factory.

She took one look at the man who’d just walked into the room and cut the call.

Zeuthen came straight up to her.

‘I’ve thought about this. Emilie’s my daughter. My responsibility. I want to go.’

Brix was out of his office in an instant, shaking his head.

‘You may not know who this man is,’ Zeuthen added. ‘But it’s pretty obvious he’s not stupid. He’ll know if it isn’t me. He told you this is the last
chance. If—’

‘We’ve a plan already in motion,’ Brix cut in. ‘More people looking for her than ever. I can’t abandon that now.’

Zeuthen didn’t budge.

‘You know she’s dead as soon as he sees it’s not me. I’m the only chance we’ve got to save her. The only chance you have to take him.’

Brix shook his head.

‘I can’t take that risk.’

‘You don’t have to.’

Zeuthen walked over to the stand-in, looked at the body armour.

‘That should fit,’ he said.

Asbjørn Juncker was still at the abandoned factory. They’d searched every building. Looked inside basements, storage tanks. Found no trace of the girl.

Reluctant to leave he’d climbed to the top of the tallest block. Emilie wrote down those letters because she saw them somehow. Perhaps the van had simply passed this place. Or she glimpsed
them from another location nearby.

Night had fallen. No stars, only low cloud spitting rain. The distant lights of the nearest occupied buildings glittered like Christmas decorations come early.

Twenty-three, all of his career spent in the sticks or the suburbs, the most serious case he’d seen until now was a burglary with violence. Those things happened. The abduction of a child
by a determined, organized man willing to kill without a second thought was beyond imagination. And that worked at him. Kept him awake.

Alone on the roof of the tallest building, buffeted by the winter winds, Juncker took out his binoculars.

‘Emilie . . .’

His whisper caught on the blustery night air.

It was the name of his sister too. She was thirteen, an ordinary, happy girl in Vesterbro. He told himself that didn’t matter. It was his job anyway.

‘Emilie,’ he sighed and started to count off the grimy broken windows in the block opposite, one by one.

Zeuthen came prepared. A lawyer by his side. A set of indemnity documents he’d drawn up and was ready to sign with witnesses, absolving the police of any responsibility
in the event of his death.

Brix phoned the commissioner.

He was out at a meeting.

Phoned Ruth Hedeby.

No answer.

Lund listened to his moans.

‘They don’t want to make the decision,’ she said. ‘They daren’t. It’s up to us.’

‘That makes a change,’ Brix grumbled.

‘They’re right, aren’t they? We’re the ones who’ve got to deal with this.’

‘And the consequences. I don’t want Zeuthen anywhere near this man. He’ll kill him. Maybe Juncker will come up with something . . .’

‘He hasn’t.’ She took Emilie’s phone out of her pocket. ‘What am I supposed to say if he calls and asks to speak to Zeuthen? He’ll know if it’s someone
else.’

‘Maybe we can work round that.’

‘This is the last chance! He told us that. If we don’t follow what he says she’s dead. Then what happens? At least if Zeuthen goes he’ll be out there with me. If we
can’t protect him there we’re screwed anyway.’

Her phone went. Juncker. Nothing to report. She told Brix.

He glanced back at the room, Zeuthen and his lawyer.

‘Get him ready,’ he said.

Marked police cars gathered round the bottom of the building. Juncker looked over the edge. Blue lights flashing.

Someone shouted up, ‘Hey, kid! Are we going or what?’

He could see everything from up here. The Zeeland offices across the water. The scrapyard where the case began. The homeless camp.

In the distance the bright lights of the city. Church spires. Slotsholmen and the tall tower of City Hall.

‘Juncker!’ came a voice from below. ‘We need to go.’

One last turn. Three hundred and sixty degrees on his heels. He’d seen Lund do this when everyone else wanted to give up.

You have to learn to look
.

That’s what she said and for all her awkwardness and unpredictability she was the most interesting and incisive detective he’d ever seen.

Somewhere around two hundred and seventy degrees the binoculars caught a window on the top floor of what looked like an abandoned office block maybe half a kilometre away.

A light was flashing on and off. Not flickering as if it was failing. But regularly as if someone kept throwing a switch.

He scanned the rest of the building. Not a sign of life.