The Killing 3 (23 page)

‘This can’t be right.’ The voice in Juncker’s handset sounded oddly lost for a moment. ‘Lund went out on thirty-eight.’

The police saloon had slowed, was back under control. Juncker looked at Madsen, nodded.

‘Yeah well. We’re following him.’

‘Keep back!’ Brix shouted.

One giant truck lumbering down the side road. A single car behind it.

A line of derelict buildings separated by a potholed muddy road. Lund was starting to recognize his signature. He liked these dark and damaged places. Something about them
matched his mood.

She drew up at the first door. The place seemed deserted. In spite of this a line of ancient dim electric bulbs was strung between the abandoned warehouses, casting a yellow light on the wet
cracked concrete, the broken windows, the shattered timberwork of what must once have been a rural industrial unit.

To Let signs on both sides. Broken and dusty.

Brix’s voice came out of the dashboard.

‘Asbjørn has a visual,’ he said. ‘We’re keeping in contact with him. Borch’s on the way too.’

Nothing made sense.

‘Where is he?’ Zeuthen asked from the passenger seat.

Brix must have heard.

‘He’s a long way from you. Stay where you are. It’s safe.’

Lund got out. There was an abandoned fridge next to the car. A couple of discarded barrels.

‘How far?’ she asked into her phone, so Zeuthen couldn’t hear.

‘Too far,’ Brix said. ‘There could be more people than we thought.’

Zeuthen joined her, shivered in the freezing night, asked what was going on.

‘They’re following him,’ Lund said. ‘Best stay in the car.’

He didn’t move.

The lights bothered her.

‘Has he seen your people? Lund?’

She walked up the narrow path between the units.

‘Lund!’

‘I don’t think so.’

No one came here any more. It was a miracle the power still worked. There was no good reason for the lights to be on at all.

Then a noise.

Lund took out her torch and her gun.

It sounded like a bird. But it wasn’t. A phone was ringing somewhere.

Close to the last unit on the right.

‘Stay behind me,’ she ordered and the two of them walked towards the sound.

Water butts overflowing in the steady drizzle. An old, abandoned bike. A rat scuttled in front of them. From somewhere she heard the flap of wings. Something big. A crow or an owl.

The ringing got louder. On a stack of tyres, she saw the phone flashing.

Old Nokia. Lund answered.

‘You took your time. Say cheese.’

‘What?’

‘A joke. Don’t you get it? In your vehicle, please.’

She nodded at Zeuthen. Walked back to the police saloon.

‘No, Lund,’ he said and he was laughing. ‘Not your car. I laid on more suitable transport for you.’

‘I’m not much in the mood for jokes.’

‘Are you ever? Look up. Like I said, say cheese.’

Turned on her heels. Scanned the units in the dim light, helped out with her torch.

‘Look up!’

Attached to the broken drainpipe of the nearest unit was what looked like a webcam. A blue light flashed steadily from the bracket.

‘Leave your phones where I can see them,’ he ordered. ‘Tell Zeuthen I’m flattered he wore a tie.’

Lund put her own phone on the ground. Got Zeuthen to do the same.

‘Good. Now look ahead. See the van?’

Another trademark. A rusty old commercial heap, sitting by the road beyond the buildings.

‘It’s a present for you. Keys in the ignition. Ready to go.’

She didn’t move.

‘I’m waiting, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Hurry up. We’ve got a date.’

Juncker and Madsen had followed the truck into deep countryside. They were keeping back as much as they could. But on deserted narrow lanes it was hard to believe they
weren’t seen. And another three cars were behind them, crewed by the armed team waiting to pounce.

‘I don’t like this,’ Juncker told Brix. ‘It’s getting too obvious.’

A long pause then the chief came back.

‘OK. Four hundred metres ahead you go under a railway bridge. After that the road splits. Let the SWAT team past once you’re through. They can take the route he doesn’t use,
cut back and intercept him ahead.’

Madsen sniffed at that and looked at him.

‘They’re going to need to hurry,’ Juncker warned.

The bridge came up. A narrow underpass, barely wide enough for the truck.

Madsen braked hard. Juncker’s hands flew to the dashboard, saved himself from hitting the glass.

Brix heard. Started yapping down the line.

The lorry was stationary, all lights on. So wide nothing else could get past.

‘Juncker? What’s happening? We don’t see you moving on the GPS.’

‘He’s stopped under the bridge. Maybe he’s looking at the map or something.’

It was hard to see in the dark. The cab was hidden.

‘Is the engine running?’ Brix asked.

The tailpipe was moving. Grimy smoke puffing out into the night air.

They could just make out the sound of a door slamming.

‘Shit!’ Madsen barked and was out before him.

Guns up, torches, scared, short of breath, they took one side each. Went down past the container. Got to the cab. The front.

The backlights of a car were just vanishing in the distance as a train roared over the bridge above them covering Juncker’s curses.

When it was gone he picked up his radio.

‘We’ve lost him. He’s blocked the bridge. We can’t get past. He’s left the container but . . .’

Everything here was planned.

‘Do we have anybody on the other side?’ Juncker asked.

Silence gave him the answer.

The radio channel was open. The men by the bridge and the abandoned truck could hear Brix calling.

‘Lund. We have a problem here. Lund? Come in . . .’

A long silence then a familiar voice.

‘It’s Borch. I’m at the workshops. Their car’s abandoned. I just picked up her phone from the ground. Brix?’

Nothing.

Half a kilometre away the PET man looked down the dismal line of abandoned buildings and wondered where she was.

It was an old Ford van that smelled of animals: dogs probably. He phoned when they set off from the workshops. Told them to look in the glove compartment. There was a cheap
satnav there, a route preprogrammed into it. A robotic voice gave directions.

Winding rural lanes. Circuitous turns. Then, finally, a bigger, broader road, one that seemed strangely empty.

‘Do you have any idea where we are?’ Zeuthen asked.

‘Do you?’ she replied and didn’t mean it unkindly.

Wherever it was this was a place the likes of Robert Zeuthen probably never visited.

The road grew wider. Still no more traffic. Then there was a sign: construction work ahead. Dead end.

Lund kept following the voice in the satnav. Finally they found themselves heading to a bridge over a broad river. Couldn’t be far from the harbour. She could smell the salt of the
Øresund on the air.

Traffic cones and flashing yellow lights. The construction crew had gone home for the day. The lanes worked down to one. Ahead of them a red and white warning barrier blocked the way, what
looked fresh asphalt beyond it.

Lund slowed to a crawl then a halt.

The satnav announced, ‘You have reached your destination.’

Brix didn’t have any teams near. She felt sure of that. The man had got what he wanted: the two of them alone.

She left the headlights on full beam, got out. So did Zeuthen. The bridge superstructure was lit. Some of the street lamps leading to it.

Across the bridge stood a big truck, lights on, name sign too, parked up. Nothing visible in the cab.

Zeuthen started to walk for it, hands in pockets, coat blowing in the wind.

‘Stay here,’ Lund told him. He didn’t stop. ‘Robert! We don’t know what he wants.’

He looked back at her, resentful. But shuffled to a halt.

The new phone rang.

‘Send Zeuthen over. When I’ve got him the girl walks.’

Lund looked behind her then ahead. Saw nothing anywhere.

‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said. ‘We’ve been tracked here. The place is all tied up. You can’t get away. Let’s talk . . .’

The laugh.

‘You don’t give up, do you? If your people were here I wouldn’t have time to make this call. I’d be dead already. Please. I wish you no harm. Send him over now. I
won’t ask again.’

Zeuthen must have read her face.

‘I’m going,’ he said and started across the bridge, towards the lights of the truck.

‘Robert! Stay here. If you’re dead he’s got no reason to let her go. Listen!’

She stepped in front of him, put a hand to his chest.

‘We’ll have officers here soon. We can negotiate. If he’s got you he can do what he likes.’

He was still ready to go.

‘I’ll do this,’ Lund said and started walking.

Hartmann had Rank in his office again, determined this would be the last time.

‘Did you or did you not have a meeting with Peter Schultz?’

Birgit Eggert was in the meeting. It seemed wise.

‘This is becoming tedious,’ Rank said, a little tetchily. ‘I’ve told you before. Not that I recall.’

‘And these?’

Karen Nebel had got the photos from a press contact. Hartmann slapped them on the desk.

‘The Ministry of Justice CCTV system. Two years ago. One week after the girl died in Jutland.’

Rank went through them slowly, one by one.

‘What did you talk about?’ Hartmann asked.

‘I don’t remember.’ He looked up. ‘If you met a casual acquaintance in a corridor would you recall what you said? Two years on?’

‘Is that going to be your answer when these appear in the papers? They have them. Will you just stand up and say . . . hell, I don’t remember? Really—’

‘Enough!’ Rank shouted. ‘I’ve been a loyal minister of yours, Troels. An admirer. I supported you . . .’ He glanced at Eggert. ‘When others thought you too .
. . perilous a proposition.’

‘We’re past that,’ Hartmann said. ‘I need the truth.’

Ten steps, gun out, low down in her right hand, phone up to her left ear. It rang again.

‘Lund. What are you waiting for?’

‘I’m coming for Emilie. I want to see her.’

‘I told you to send Zeuthen over.’

He sounded mad and that was a first.

‘Robert will come when he knows his daughter’s safe. That’s a fair bargain. You wanted a deal. That’s it.’

‘What is this?’ he yelled. ‘What do you care for these people? Why risk your life for the likes of them?’

‘Because they’re innocent. Like Louise Hjelby. Zeuthen did nothing to harm her. He’s gone out of his way to try to help us find out what happened.’

Closer. She could smell diesel on the briny marine air.

‘Don’t give me this shit—’

‘It’s the truth. What happened was terrible. We’re working to fix it. But Robert Zeuthen wasn’t to blame.’

She still couldn’t see anything, work out where he was.

‘You’re lying. Zeeland had the case closed. Zeuthen’s responsible and you know it.’

‘Get serious,’ Lund cried. ‘Do you think a man like Zeuthen would go to all this trouble to save three foreign sailors? You believe that? I thought you were smart.’

She heard him curse.

‘Ask Zeuthen,’ he said.

Her finger gripped the trigger. Still no sign of him anywhere.

‘I don’t need to. I know he had nothing to do with it. Overgaard and Peter Schultz changed the evidence reports. Louise disappeared the day before they said. The
Medea
wasn’t even in port then.’

A low, incomprehensible grunt.

‘Did you hear me? Those sailors weren’t in the country when she went missing. You’ve been chasing the wrong people all along.’

Too many things to think about. She was walking. Seeing nothing. And something told her he was in the same position.

‘You murdered three innocent men. All those sailors did was find her. Schultz made them change their evidence so it looked like suicide. That’s what they told you, didn’t
they?’

The truck engine was running. No one behind the wheel.

‘Did Schultz tell you it was Zeuthen?’

No answer.

‘Thought not,’ Lund said. ‘Whoever he was shielding it wasn’t Zeeland.’

The headlights were so bright she had to bring her gun hand up to shield her eyes.

Lund raised it higher, said, ‘I’m going to lose my weapon now. I don’t have anything else.’

She crouched down, placed the gun on the road, kicked it away.

‘When Emilie’s safe we can talk. I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as you.’

Walking forward at a snail’s pace Lund moved round to the driver’s side of the cab. The door was ajar. Lund climbed up.

Empty. A curtain marking off the space behind. She opened that, shone her torch down the length of the truck.

Nothing.

‘All fine words, Lund. But too late. The man deserves to suffer as I have.’

Worried, getting desperate, she half fell from the cab, looked back across the bridge.

‘He’s got nothing to do with this!’

A sudden blast of cold wind caught her. Zeuthen was walking down the bridge alone, looking puzzled.

Then they both heard it. A lone, high cry on the breeze.

‘Dad! Can you hear me?
Dad!
’

Zeuthen looked around. So did Lund.

No sign of the girl anywhere.

Then her cry came again and they knew.

He was by the edge of the bridge before she got there, hands on the rail, trying to see something in the darkness below. A new sound. The low steady rumble of a marine engine. Just visible in
its own lights on the water a small craft was headed towards the bridge.

‘Dad!’

She was there and all Zeuthen could do was answer her frantic call like a wounded animal hunting a lost cub.

Lund retrieved her gun. The girl’s cries turned to shrieks and then screams.

Back by the rail the picture was clearer. A speedboat, long nose, light at the rear.

Deck mostly in darkness. Lund pointed her weapon over the water anyway.

Then they saw. A man in black. A small shape struggling in the stern. As Lund and Zeuthen watched he drew what looked like a blue tarpaulin bag over the girl’s head.