The Killing 3 (3 page)

‘Who was the call from?’

He thought for a moment.

‘My dentist. I forgot an appointment.’ A shrug, the charming Hartmann smile. ‘Elections. They do get in the way.’

The tie was uncomfortable. The shirt had seen better days. Brix had organized the ceremony and for some reason brought in the police brass band. They stood in the corner
huffing and puffing at trumpets and euphoniums, making a noise that sounded like a party of drunken elephants.

She was trying to be polite listening to war stories told by an old officer from the sticks, waiting for the ceremony to begin, when her phone rang.

Lund walked away to take it.

‘It’s Juncker here. I’m still at the docks.’

‘Hi, Asbjørn.’

A long pause then he said, ‘Forensics have been taking a look at our bits and pieces. They’re sure it’s homicide. He was dead when the crane grabbed him. He’d been
whacked about with a claw hammer. Looks like he got away from a ship and the bloke caught up with him at the yard. Chucked him in the car. We’ve talked to the bums here. They’re
clueless. Zeeland don’t know of anyone missing.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Someone saw a speedboat hanging round. They thought it was chasing a seal.’

‘Why would someone chase a seal?’ she asked, walking to the window, taking a long look at the weather outside.

‘The coastguard said they got an interrupted call around two thirty in the morning. They don’t know who from. The speedboat was cruising round near the junkyard not long
after.’

Lund asked the obvious question. Had any nearby vessels reported a missing sailor? Juncker said no.

‘It’s probably left the harbour,’ she said. ‘You need to get all the local movements.’

‘What movements? Zeeland have pretty much mothballed this part of the docks. Also . . .’ He stopped for a moment as if trying to find somewhere quiet. ‘There’s all these
PET guys here sniffing round. What’s it to do with them?’

‘It’s OK, Asbjørn. They’re human too.’

‘You’re never going to call me Juncker, are you?’

‘Talk to Madsen. Do as he says. I’m busy—’

‘The PET bloke wants a word. Man called Borch. Got the impression he knows you already. He’s on his way.’

Lund didn’t say anything.

‘Hello?’ Juncker asked down the line. ‘Anyone there?’

‘Talk to Madsen,’ Lund said again, finished the call, looked down the long corridor, wondered how many more ghosts were going to come creeping out of the shadows.

She’d no idea what Mathias Borch did any more. Something important she guessed. He was bright, had shown that when they first met more than twenty years before at police
academy. Now he looked a little broken and worn. Still had all his hair though, uncombed as usual, and the wrinkled face of a boxer pup.

Puppy.

She used to call him that. The memory must have been why she was blushing when Borch strode up, didn’t smile, didn’t even look her in the eye much and said, ‘Sarah. We’ve
got to talk. This body down the docks. Your kid there said—’

‘Stop,’ Lund ordered, hand up. Then she pointed to the door. Brix had started giving his speech. She could hear him talking about the strength of the corps, year after year, and how
its integrity was the basis for justice and security in Copenhagen.

‘Heard it all a million times,’ Borch grunted. ‘This is important . . .’

Lund muttered a low curse and took him in the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry to disturb your day,’ he said. ‘I mean . . . congratulations and all that.’

‘Don’t overdo it.’

‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Really. Are you?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m involved in this case. I need to know what you’ve got.’

‘Nothing. We’ve got nothing at all.’

‘So you’ve searched the docks? And the ships there?’

‘We’re looking. There’s only one ship. Juncker got in touch with them by radio. They haven’t seen a thing.’

He frowned. The puppy looked his age then.

‘I expected more than that . . .’

‘Listen! I haven’t spoken to you in years. Then you turn up here, just when I’m about to pick up my long service medal, and start throwing questions at me. I’m going back
in there . . .’

‘I’m in PET. Didn’t you know?’

‘Why should I?’

‘We think there’s more to it. Two weeks ago there was a break-in down at the docks. It looked like the usual burglary. A computer gone, some loose change. Details of Zeeland’s
security system . . .’

‘Isn’t that their problem?’

He stared at her. It was a stupid remark. Zeeland was a huge international conglomerate. It carried clout, in government and beyond.

‘What’s this got to do with our man in bits?’ she asked.

‘There’s no CCTV footage from last night. Two minutes after that failed emergency call to the coastguard every last camera got turned off somehow. He hacked into the system, froze it
on old footage, then switched it back on before dawn.’

Borch grabbed a sandwich from a platter prepared for the get-together and took a bite.

‘Burglars are rarely that smart,’ he said, spitting a few crumbs down his front.

Brix had stopped speaking. Soon the medals and the diplomas would be handed out.

‘Leave me your number,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’

He stopped her as she tried to walk off.

‘Someone’s taken down one of the most sophisticated security systems in the country. There’s a dead man in the harbour when it comes back online. On the very day the Prime
Minister’s due to spend some time around there. The financial crisis. Afghanistan . . .’ He laughed. ‘Irate husbands. Hartmann’s got as many people who hate him as love
him.’

‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘I don’t want you to pass it on. I want you on the case. Brix has already agreed . . .’

‘I bet he has.’

‘You’re better than OPA.’

‘Listen! There’s no one reported missing. The chances are he was a foreign sailor from a foreign ship and it’s out of our waters.’

‘I still want you on the case. And so does Brix.’

Applause from the next room, laughter too. The presentations had started. She couldn’t just blunder in now.

‘You do look good,’ he said, and seemed a little embarrassed. ‘Me . . .’ A shrug, and she could picture him back in the academy, with all his grim humour and bad jokes.
‘I just got old.’

She wanted to shout at him. To scream something.

Instead Lund said, ‘I’m not getting this uniform dirty. I’m supposed to have an interview later.’

The Zeeland headquarters sat on the waterfront near the harbour. A modern black glass monolith with the company dragon stencilled across the top six floors, it was now
surrounded by little more than construction sites turning the dockside into cheap housing. One of the few commodities that still sold.

Robert Zeuthen parked his shiny new Range Rover outside. Reinhardt was waiting in the lobby with news about the body in the docks. It was now a murder case but there were no indications Zeeland
were involved. PET were working on it alongside the police. Troels Hartmann’s presence in the area made their interest inevitable.

‘Where did that cat come from?’ Zeuthen asked.

‘Not the house,’ Reinhardt insisted. ‘I’m still checking. This incident at the docks looks bad. It seems the security system was breached somehow. We’ve got a team
looking into it. PET want to talk to them.’ He frowned. ‘Hartmann’s more concerned about the newspaper report. He’s waiting to hear us deny it.’

‘I want you there when PET talk to our security people,’ Zeuthen said. ‘If there’s a breach maybe it’s not the only one.’

‘I should be with you for the board,’ Reinhardt said.

Zeuthen went to the lift, shook his head.

‘I can handle that. Find out what’s going on with PET. Keep looking for Emilie’s cat. Maja’s going to kill me for that. We both knew Emilie has that allergy.’

‘Robert.’ Reinhardt’s hand was on his arm. ‘I’ve reason to believe the board could be difficult. You may need me there.’

Zeuthen smiled.

‘Not this time, old friend.’

Back in Christiansborg Karen Nebel was worried.

‘People are starting to talk,’ she said as they sat down in his office. ‘They don’t understand why Zeeland haven’t denied the newspaper report.’ Her phone
rang. ‘Maybe this is it . . .’

Hartmann watched her go out into the corridor to take the call then muttered, ‘Are we supposed to jump up and down every time the press publish a lie?’

Morten Weber folded his arms, leaned back in the chair by the window.

‘Sometimes.’

Weber had been there throughout Hartmann’s career. A diminutive, modest, somewhat shabby man with wayward curly black hair, he’d steered Hartmann into the mayor’s chair against
all the odds. Then seized the chance to do the same with the Prime Minister’s office when the opportunity arose. His knowledge of the Danish political landscape was unrivalled, and at times
underpinned by a quiet, frank ruthlessness. No one dared speak to Hartmann the way Weber did. Even then there were explosions.

‘We’re dealing with Zeeland,’ Hartmann said. ‘Karen’s on to it.’

‘Good. I’ve cancelled this insane visit to the docks. PET aren’t happy with what’s going on there. And they don’t want us to talk about it either.’

‘Uncancel it,’ Hartmann ordered. ‘Ussing will say I don’t care about the homeless.’

‘Screw Ussing.’

‘We’re on the back foot here, Morten! Ussing’s using Zeeland to say I’m stealing from the poor to give to the rich.’

‘Troels—’

‘I’m going,’ Hartmann said. ‘Even if I have to catch a bus. OK?’

Nebel walked back in, clutching her phone.

‘We’re not going to get that denial.’

Weber pushed his heavy glasses up his nose.

‘You mean the story’s true?’

‘The board would like it to be. They’re trying to work round Robert Zeuthen. They think he’s weak. Ordinary—’

‘Listen,’ Hartmann interrupted. ‘Zeuthen’s father promised he wouldn’t move any more of the company abroad if we helped them out. Robert said he’d abide by
that. If they renege on the deal now I’ll crucify them . . .’

‘No you won’t,’ Weber said. ‘You won’t be in a position to.’

Hartmann fought to keep a rein on his temper. It was at times like this that Weber was at his most valuable, and infuriating.

‘So what happens?’

‘If you give in and offer Zeeland more sweeteners Rosa Lebech won’t climb under your sheets. If you don’t our own people will start smuggling the daggers in here.’ Weber
wrinkled his fleshy nose. ‘My guess is Birgit Eggert. She thinks the Ministry of Finance is beneath her.’

‘If Zeuthen’s ousted we’ve got to give them something,’ Nebel said. ‘I’ll talk to the Treasury. It doesn’t need to be much.’

‘Christ!’ Weber yelled. ‘Why not hand Ussing the keys to the office now? Can’t you see the posters? If you’re rich vote for Hartmann. If you’re
not—’

‘We do nothing until we know where Rosa Lebech stands,’ Hartmann said. ‘I can bring her round. Tell PET I’m going to the homeless camp whatever they say. And . . .’
He walked to the cabinets, pulled out a clean shirt and a new suit. ‘That’s it.’

Nebel glowered at Weber when Hartmann strode off to the bathroom to change.

‘I don’t like losing, Morten.’

‘Who does?’

‘Why won’t he listen?’

The little man laughed.

‘Because he’s a politician. Troels only feels truly happy when he’s living on a knife edge. He likes the rush. The thrill. The danger.’ He got up, winked at her.
‘Don’t we all?’

Brix was on the phone the moment she got back to the docks. He wanted to know what PET were up to.

‘They seem to think there could be trouble for Hartmann’s visit. It wasn’t my fault I missed the ceremony. You told Borch I was on the case.’

‘True.’

‘So will you explain to the OPA people why I wasn’t around?’

‘When I see them. Go along with whatever PET want.’

That makes a change, she thought, and ended the call.

Borch and Asbjørn Juncker were marching round with clipboards.

‘We need every vessel in the vicinity searched,’ the PET man said.

‘There’s only one off this dock,’ Juncker replied. ‘It’s been done.’

He had a folder of pictures. Lund always relished photographs. She took them off him and started to flick through the set one by one. Stocky dead man. Middle-aged. One of the tattoos had a
woman’s name, east European forensic thought. Another on his right arm was indecipherable. What looked like a knife wound had taken out the middle letters.

A black Mercedes drew up and a tall, straight-backed man got out, balding with neatly trimmed grey hair. He introduced himself as Niels Reinhardt, Zeeland’s link man for the case.

‘Robert Zeuthen’s taken a personal interest,’ the newcomer insisted in a quiet, polite voice. ‘He wants you to know we’ll help all we can.’

‘Is the security system back in place?’ Borch asked.

‘We think so.’ Reinhardt looked uncertain. ‘One of our IT subsidiaries runs it. They cover everything from office surveillance to some private properties.’

Lund ran through the obvious questions. Reinhardt said there were no labour problems since the last layoffs. No unusual ship movements.

‘They must have been around here before they took down the security,’ Juncker said.

‘No. We would have seen any intruders,’ Reinhardt insisted. He looked down the dockside, towards an abandoned area at the end. ‘Unless they came in through the old Stubben
facility. That’s been dead for years.’

‘I have to go back . . .’ Lund began, but Borch was pointing to his car already.

It was a few minutes away, a desolate wasteland, rubble and abandoned containers by the grimy waterfront.

‘We were going to build a hotel here,’ Reinhardt said as he joined them. ‘No money for it now . . .’

‘Who comes here?’ Borch asked as Lund wandered round the gravel lane, hands in pockets, tie to one side, kicking at pebbles and rubbish on the ground.

‘Fishermen,’ Reinhardt said. ‘Birdwatchers.’ A pause. ‘Lovey-dovey couples sometimes I guess.’

‘You said there were no ships.’ Juncker was scanning the grey horizon. An ancient rusting hulk sat there looking as if it hadn’t moved in years.