The Killing 3 (27 page)

‘There’s a door over there, Anders,’ Weber said. ‘Try walking through it.’

He withdrew the hand and said, ‘If that’s the way you want to play things.’

Then laughed, left them there.

Morten Weber raised his eyebrows, stared at Hartmann.

‘Are you really going to roll over for a cock like that?’

‘Shut it, Morten.’

‘I guess Rosa didn’t turn out to be such a faithful bed mate either . . .’

‘I said . . .’

Karen Nebel hurried in, breathless, a laptop beneath her arm.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,’ Hartmann complained.

‘Busy,’ she said, and opened the computer, put it on the desk.

‘I’ve got a press conference.’

She hit the keyboard, pulled up a video.

‘Not before you see this.’

‘It’s about to start.’

‘Morten. Close the doors.’

The little man wandered over, did as he was told, came back to the table.

‘If this is one more pathetic trick to get me to stay . . .’ Hartmann began.

The video came alive. CCTV footage. Familiar location. The lobby of the Ministry of Justice. Mogens Rank and the dead Peter Schultz.

‘I got this from security,’ Nebel said. ‘Mogens met him out in the open. Where everyone could see.’ A smile. ‘Odd place to put together a conspiracy, don’t
you think?’

‘Too late,’ Hartmann muttered.

She fast-forwarded the footage.

‘There you go. Seventeen minutes. Not two hours like we were told. Mogens heads off for another meeting. Schultz goes to the toilet.’

‘Karen . . .’

‘Schultz comes out and walks to the corridor for the Parliament building.’

Weber came closer, looked interested.

‘So I got them to pull out the CCTV archives there.’

‘I’m going,’ Hartmann announced.

‘If Karen thinks this is important,’ Weber cut in, ‘the least you can do is hear her out. We got you into this place . . .’

‘This is pathetic . . .’

Nebel was trying to open another file.

‘I’ve fixed it so you can both keep your jobs here. Will you kindly cut this out?’

Morten Weber let loose a howl of fury.

‘We’re not here for us. We’re not here for you either. It’s the party. You made it. You lead it. If you’re gone and Eggert’s in the chair we’re screwed
. . .’

‘I never knew you were so high-minded,’ Hartmann snarled.

‘Oh go on then. Resign. Play the pitiful, self-righteous prig if you like. I won’t watch—’

‘I’ve heard enough from you for one day, Morten. Who do you think you are?’

Weber got to his feet.

‘A man who serves a fool,’ he said. ‘Which makes me an even bigger fool.’ He got his briefcase. ‘Bye, Troels.’ A smile, a wave to Nebel. ‘Karen. Try to
stop him making a complete idiot of himself when he goes through with this nonsense.’

Then he walked out, slamming the doors behind him.

‘I’m sorry about that . . .’

But she wasn’t listening. Nebel had found what she wanted. Hartmann grabbed his papers. She got up, stood in front of him, put a hand to his chest.

‘Unless you want me to storm out of here too you will watch this till the end. After that go home and chop your bloody logs if you like . . .’

That stopped him.

The video was paused. Two men in suits on a staircase, backs to the camera.

‘This is the entrance by the show grounds,’ she said. ‘Schultz saw someone else. They went into a meeting room. Stayed there for fifty-five minutes.’

‘Karen . . .’

She moved the video forward. Hartmann watched then pulled up a chair.

Schultz smiling. The other man turned. Smiled too. Shook his hand.

Hartmann took Karen Nebel’s hand, kissed it.

‘What do I tell the press?’ she asked.

‘You tell them the Prime Minister’s too busy to talk.’

Lund was back on the bridge. The construction signs had been cleared. The stolen truck was gone. On the bank downstream a diving team continued to labour, working under
floodlights, struggling in the dark.

She walked on the white line down the centre. Stood where she had the night before. Went to the point where they first heard Emilie’s voice. Thought about her memories. Then crossed the
road, stopped close to the point where the boat emerged.

The mind filled in gaps to see what it expected. Tried to make sense of the impenetrable. And sometimes invented things. Borch had been right: she wasn’t sure what she’d witnessed at
all.

A voice from below. A vessel moving on the surface.

‘We’re bringing her up,’ a man cried. ‘Keep clear.’

Figures in red suits bent over the edge of a boat, looking at the frogmen’s green lights rising from the river.

An orange shape emerged. The cement weight he’d tied to the tarpaulin. Then a severed rope.

Someone swore. Lund listened.

The blue bundle had disappeared. They’d have to go back to dragging again, a much wider area this time.

There’d be no body yet. Perhaps not tomorrow. Ever.

Lund got back in her car, drove to the Politigården, went straight to the forensic garage where Juncker and Madsen were looking again at the boat. Borch had been sniffing around. She
listened, pulled on a pair of disposable gloves, told Juncker to come with her.

The speedboat looked smaller under the bright lights of the garage. Room for two people in the little cabin. Not much more.

A head bobbed up from the bows.

‘You took your time,’ Borch said with a grin.

‘So he stole these papers this morning?’ Lund asked as Juncker pulled some steps closer to allow her to get on the deck.

‘Exactly.’

His head went down again. When she climbed on board she saw he was looking inside a storage hatch built into the bows. A sizeable one.

‘Do you remember seeing him open this?’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘He was at the back. Nowhere near.’

She walked to the stern, looked round. Little here matched what she saw in her memory.

‘So the thing is,’ Borch said following her, ‘he was in a hurry. Making it up as he went along and that wasn’t like him.’

‘It couldn’t have been at the front,’ she insisted. ‘There wasn’t enough time when he went under the bridge.’

Juncker put his hand in the air.

‘What on earth are you two talking about? I thought you saw him shoot her. Then shove her overboard.’

‘We saw something,’ Borch agreed. ‘Let’s rewind this, Sarah. Where was she in the end? Where was he?’

Lund turned a circle on her heels.

There was a hatch. It ran the width of the boat at the stern. A single handle in the middle. Just by the point at which they’d seen the blue tarpaulin and the orange block go over the
side.

She took out her torch, lifted the lid, looked inside.

Pulled out the thing she found there.

Black hat. Small. Wool. Blonde hairs around the edge.

They got a pool car for the drive to Gudbjerghavn, the little town in West Jutland where Louise Hjelby died. It was close to Esbjerg where Zeeland ran most of the port
facilities. Lund took the wheel. Borch was fast asleep in the passenger seat, snoring more loudly than she remembered. Asbjørn Juncker had dozed off in the back. Before that he’d been
remarkably chipper. Just the idea Emilie might be alive had cheered him so much that a little of his good humour had spread to her. Then, like a toddler, he curled up on the seat.

On the way Lund called the Politigården and got Madsen to talk to the sleepy police station where Nicolaj Overgaard had once been chief. Brix was being interviewed by an investigator from
the Ministry of Justice. The first step in the disciplinary process. One that would reach her soon. She was glad the chief was out of things at that moment. It meant there was no need of
explanations. Her and Borch’s idea – hazy, insupportable probably – was that the kidnapper would return to Gudbjerghavn to hunt for new leads. She wanted the locals to check for
strangers asking questions. And she was hungry for a look at the Hjelby case herself.

‘Get Brix to call me as soon as he’s out of the meeting,’ she said. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

To her surprise the call didn’t appear to wake the men. Lund looked at Borch. They’d set off in a hurry. His jacket lay on the floor by the side of the seat. The car’s heating
wasn’t so great. She took a hand off the wheel, got the jacket up and spread it over him as best she could.

‘When will we be there?’ Juncker asked from the back seat.

‘You made me jump. I thought you were sleeping.’

‘Not sleeping now. May need a leak soon though. When will we be there?’

‘Soon, Asbjørn,’ she said in the best motherly tone she could manage. ‘Try to hold on if you can.’

‘What are we looking for exactly?’

A red van was stolen from Copenhagen harbour that morning not far from where the speedboat was abandoned. They had its number in Gudbjerghavn. A start.

‘You really think she could be alive?’

‘Until someone proves otherwise.’

‘Where do you know Borch from?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘Just being friendly.’

‘We went to the academy together. He was in the year below.’

He uttered a long, knowing, ‘Oh . . .’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘It means . . . oh.’ He laughed. ‘You two were lovebirds. Come on. It stands out a mile. And I heard your mum . . .’

The talking woke Borch. He stretched, yawned, listened to her tell him about the stolen van.

‘When you two were a couple did you argue like you argue now?’ Juncker asked chirpily.

Borch stretched again, turned, stared at him and said, ‘What?’

Anxious to change the conversation Lund asked about Gudbjerghavn. Feeder port for the Zeeland facilities in Esbjerg for decades. During the economic crisis the company had steadily run the place
down. A couple of years before they pulled the plug completely. Two thousand residents. Most of them out of work.

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Borch asked.

‘Have we got any crisps or something?’ Juncker added. ‘Also I really need to pee.’ A pause. ‘Unless someone’s got a bottle.’

She pulled in at the next service station. Juncker bought some food. He and Borch went to the toilet. Then the two of them returned looking lively.

Back on the road Borch said, ‘I hate falling asleep in cars. The last time I dozed off with you driving was in Norway. I woke up with a bad back in a lay-by somewhere.’

‘It wasn’t my driving that gave you a bad back.’

‘Oh . . .’ Juncker said slowly. ‘What were you doing in Norway? Apart from the obvious . . .’

Borch stifled a snort. She went quiet. Not long after they pulled into Gudbjerghavn, found the police station. A low two-storey building with one car in front.

The officer in charge was by the bonnet, enjoying a smoke. He eyed her ID when she got out.

‘We’ve been in touch with Copenhagen,’ he said and threw his cigarette in the gutter. ‘They didn’t know what we were talking about.’

‘I asked for a search.’

‘Not a lot to look at here.’

Borch stayed back for some reason. Then changed his mind, walked up to the man, smiled, shook his hand and said, ‘Good to see you again. It’s about the Zeuthen case. Check with
Zeeland if you like.’

Lund wondered at that. Still the uniformed officer wasn’t impressed.

‘According to Copenhagen the kidnapper killed the Zeuthen girl then hitched a ride on a ship out of the country. Nothing to do with us.’

‘Red van,’ Juncker broke in. ‘You’ve got the registration. Let’s get moving, shall we?’

‘This place is dead, sonny. If it was here we’d have seen it.’

He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

‘Overgaard went out with my sister for a while. Bit of a moron. Didn’t deserve to be chief here. But all the same . . .’

‘Listen . . .’ Borch began.

‘There’s a boarding house round the corner. Nothing swanky but it’s all we have,’ he said, heading for the car. ‘Talk in the morning if you want.’

Lennart Brix had instigated plenty of disciplinary proceedings against others and dodged a good few himself. There was no avoiding this one, or the consequences. Ruth Hedeby
had made that clear when she led him to an interview room and introduced the investigating officer from the prosecutor’s department. His name was Tage Steiner, a lean man as tall as Brix,
with a fixed stare behind rimless glasses.

Brix listened to Steiner reel off a list of one-sided questions, did his best to answer. There was a good response to most of them. Not that it mattered. Emilie Zeuthen was dead. And so,
professionally, was he.

After the last pointed attack he got bored.

‘Let’s be candid, Steiner. You need a scapegoat and I fit the description.’ He leaned back, looked at the man opposite, a lawyer, a civil servant, not a cop. ‘Don’t
pretend this is about something it’s not.’

Steiner sipped at his coffee and said, ‘I’m just doing my job.’

‘Me too. If you think you’ve got a case then make it. Don’t waste my time right now. We’re still—’

‘Your handling of the investigation was deeply flawed,’ Steiner cut in.

‘Were you a police officer in another life? Do you feel qualified to judge?’

‘I’m judging you, Brix. Like it or not.’

‘We followed standard procedures. Made all the right decisions . . .’

‘And the girl died. An honourable man would hand in his resignation without being asked.’

Brix checked his watch. Said nothing. The door opened and Ruth Hedeby came in, ignored Steiner when he told her to leave.

‘I need you now,’ she said and waited until Brix joined her.

‘What the hell’s happening, Lennart?’ Hedeby asked in a whisper. ‘I just heard Borch and Lund and Juncker are in Jutland. They’re asking for extra manpower for a
search.’

‘For what?’ he asked.

‘I rather hoped you’d tell me.’

The prosecutor got up and walked over.

‘I’m developing a very interesting impression of this whole department I must say. Perhaps the problem goes deeper than a single officer.’

Hedeby started clucking, trying to make him happy. Brix’s phone went.

He looked at the name on the screen, strode back to the office.