The Killing 3 (31 page)

‘Sarah,’ Borch said finally. ‘Please?’

She went quiet. He looked at the girl.

‘Can you remember which way the car went?’

Too late. Too many tears.

‘I don’t know! I told Mr Overgaard. Louise didn’t kill herself. We were friends. He just said I should shut up if I knew what was good for me.’

Borch asked, ‘This man you met yesterday? You told him all this?’

Katja nodded.

‘I need to make a call,’ he said and walked away.

Robert Zeuthen was in the Politigården nagging Brix, demanding answers.

‘I’ve got marine crews,’ he said. ‘They could help find her.’

‘We’ve got the Navy. The Air Force. Our own people. We’ve enough resources.’

‘And how long are we supposed to wait? Do you know what this is doing to Maja? She thinks Emilie’s alive for God’s sake.’

The police chief kept quiet.

‘This is your doing. She heard you talking . . .’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Brix replied. ‘I regret it happened. We have to examine every possibility . . .’

‘And this farce in Jutland?’ Zeuthen’s voice was high and loud. On the edge. ‘What’s happening there?’

‘We’ve found nothing to indicate your daughter’s still alive.’

‘Where is she?’

Brix shook his head.

‘Emilie was thrown into a fast-flowing river. The rope that was attached to her broke. She could be anywhere. Sadly it’s not unknown for these searches to last—’

‘I’ve got to go and talk about a funeral. With a wife who doesn’t believe she’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry . . .’ Brix began.

‘Sorry isn’t good enough. If you haven’t found my daughter by the end of today I’ll take care of this myself.’

Zeuthen walked out into the corridor. Reinhardt had left a message. Maja was reluctant to join him at the church.

He called her. Got voicemail.

‘I’m going whether you’re there or not, Maja,’ he said.

Across the city in Carsten Lassen’s little flat, Carl by her side, she watched the message icon come on. Waited. Listened. Deleted the call.

The little boy was playing with his toys. He knew something. She was sure of that. It would have been strange if he didn’t.

Maja Zeuthen put down her phone, closed her eyes. Felt two small arms come round her head, hold her.

‘Mum?’ he asked. ‘Why are you crying?’

No answer.

‘I’ll take care of you,’ Carl promised and kissed her hair.

On Weber’s advice Hartmann’s first line of attack was the Centre Party. Rosa Lebech wouldn’t answer his calls so he ambushed her in one of the galleries of
the Parliament building. She didn’t smile. Didn’t object when he asked her to join him in one of the quiet alcoves. Karen Nebel listened in. Weber was elsewhere, testing the water.

‘We shouldn’t be talking, Troels,’ she said, glancing at Nebel. ‘Not until matters are resolved.’

‘I understand why you cosied up to Ussing. It’s not a problem.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘Your support. As we agreed.’

‘Troels! Your Justice Minister could have contributed to the death of Emilie Zeuthen! You knew that and you never told me. You had Jens arrested—’

‘Dyhring pulled him in. Not me.’ He kept his eyes on her. ‘I’ve asked them to go easy on him. There won’t be charges. There could have been . . .’

‘And I’m supposed to be grateful?’

Hartmann thought about his answer.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be ungrateful. PET are looking at the Zeuthen case. And any link Ussing may have there.’

She scowled.

‘Anders told me all about the Schultz man.’

‘Told you what?’

‘They were old friends. He’s amazed you’re trying to pull a stunt like this. It’s insane—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Rosa,’ Nebel snapped. ‘What’s the point? We’ve begged and cajoled you a million times. Offered you cabinet posts. Cut our policies and
replaced them with yours. And still you swallow Ussing’s line whatever we do . . .’

‘Maybe that’s because he’s more credible.’ A sideways glance at Hartmann. ‘And doesn’t come with such . . . history.’

‘Doesn’t help with your ex-husband leaking papers everywhere! He could go to jail for that . . .’

‘Karen!’ Hartmann cut in. ‘No one’s going to jail.’ He took Lebech’s hand, made sure Nebel saw. ‘Rosa and I just need some private time to talk about
this. Before any leaders’ meeting. We can—’

‘I’m with Ussing,’ Lebech said and snatched her fingers away. ‘I’m sorry. In the circumstances you leave me with no choice.’

She walked off.

‘Thanks for butting in about the husband,’ Hartmann grumbled. ‘That really helped.’

‘The woman doesn’t trust you any more. It’s pointless . . .’

‘She’s a woman. It’s never pointless.’

Weber was walking along the corridor. He looked shocked, put a finger to his lips.

‘Temper, temper, people.’

‘You’re back then?’ Nebel said.

Weber smiled.

‘Pleased to see me?’

‘Always.’ She looked at Hartmann. ‘Don’t get excited. I haven’t had much time to check this out. But I’ve someone you need to meet. One of Anders
Ussing’s former employees. He’s got a tale to tell.’

Weber folded his arms.

‘I hope it’s a good one,’ he said.

They stood by the main road outside the school, both on their phones. Borch to PET. Lund to Brix. Not looking at each other.

He was last off the call. Looked round.

‘We’ve gone all the way along the coast and the main road. No sign of him.’

‘I’ve double checked,’ she said. ‘There’s no mention of a black car anywhere in Louise Hjelby’s file. Overgaard interviewed the girl. He must have kept it
out.’

‘Maybe . . .’

‘No! Not maybe. What other explanation is there? A big, black expensive car the girl said. Don’t see many like that round here. A businessman’s car.’ She watched.
‘Maybe a politician. There were plenty of them about.’

He took out a map, spread it on the roof of the car, holding down the corners against the brisk sea breeze.

‘I don’t think the car’s important right now. Where’s Asbjørn?’

Lund screwed up her eyes and looked at him.

‘Not important? She was putting her bike in the back . . .’

‘Yes! Two years ago. Right now we’re looking for Emilie Zeuthen. And a red van.’

There was an odd mix of embarrassment and anger between them. Shame perhaps too.

‘He wants to find out what happened,’ Lund said.

‘First things first. The Zeuthen girl . . .’

‘Are you pissed off with me because of last night? Is that why you’re being so objectionable?’

The accusation hurt.

‘I wasn’t being objectionable. Was I?’

‘Very.’

‘You keep going back to the old case, Sarah. We’ve got a new one here. A live one . . .’

‘Can’t we even discuss the black car? I mean . . . after . . .’

He screwed up the map.

‘For the last time . . . it’s not about last night.’

‘Louise Hjelby was found dead after she got into a black, smart saloon. The driver put her bike in the back.’

A marked white car had pulled up behind. Juncker was climbing out.

‘In case you can’t see this,’ she went on, ‘right now our man’s trying to find out where the black car went and who was driving it. Doing the job we’re
supposed to.’

‘Fine! Look for the black car.’

Juncker walked up.

‘I’m not interrupting any—’

‘No, you’re not,’ she barked.

‘Good,’ he said with a cheery grin. ‘Because while you two have been killing time yelling at each other I’ve found a bloke in a garage. Who saw something.’ He
tapped his chest. ‘I did that.’

‘What garage?’ Borch asked straight off.

‘Out of town. On the way to Esbjerg.’ Juncker pointed to the white car. ‘Just follow me.’

The place was as much a junkyard as a garage. Abandoned wrecks in front of a long white building. Inside a solitary man in greasy overalls worked on an ancient Lancia.

He barely looked up when Juncker said, ‘I heard you kept a record of cars driving down the road.’

The mechanic shook his head.

‘Do I look like I’ve got time for that?’

‘I heard . . .’ Juncker started.

‘You heard wrong. My boy does. We’ve got all sorts of cars here.’ He gestured to the rusting wrecks. ‘French. Italian. Japanese. American. He likes lists.’

The man gestured towards a smashed-up Ford.

‘For some reason he keeps his books in the glove compartment in that thing. Take a look if you want.’

Lund made sure she was there first. The windscreen was broken but the interior looked reasonably clean. Four notebooks inside. She started to flick through. Childish writing. Dates. Numbers.

‘He’s more crazy about number plates than he is about cars. If he sees a new one he writes it down.’ The man put a mucky spanner on the bonnet. ‘I think he’s
dreaming of getting out of this dump one day. Aren’t we all?’

He laughed, waved.

‘Here he is. Hi, Jakob!’

A fair-haired boy of around ten was riding his bike towards the house next to the garage.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Borch said. ‘You take a look at the books.’

Juncker asked the mechanic how long the boy had been keeping numbers.

‘Maybe three, four years,’ the man said.

Borch was having a long talk with him. Friendly. Lund watched. Walked over. Butted in and asked about a red van.

Jakob held out his wrist. There was a number scrawled on it.

‘Could it be this one?’

‘It was red?’ Lund asked.

‘Yeah. It was out by the holiday homes.’

‘When?’

‘This morning. When I went to school.’

Juncker ran for the car.

‘I want those books,’ Lund told the father. ‘I’ll send someone later.’

By the water near the Little Mermaid Hartmann and Weber met the man Karen Nebel had tracked down. His name was Kristoffer Seifert, about forty, slick suit, slick hair, ready
smile. Used to be one of Ussing’s admin workers. He said he was there two years before when he met with Peter Schultz.

‘I came in to get some papers signed. I saw them.’

Weber asked why he didn’t work for Ussing any more. The fixed smile never cracked.

‘There was a problem with the campaign budget. Nominally it fell under me.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘Things didn’t add up. It wasn’t my fault. You want to hear my story or what?’

Hartmann told him to go on.

‘Ussing asked to meet Schultz. They were talking. He’d moved a couple of appointments to fit him in.’

Weber was beginning to growl.

‘They were friends, weren’t they?’ he wondered.

Seifert hesitated then said, ‘I always wanted to work in government, not opposition. I’ve got a degree in political science. I’d like to put it to good use.’

‘The story . . .’ Weber sighed.

‘Right, right. Well I would never eavesdrop of course. But Ussing asked me to stand outside the door. Which was odd frankly. Uncalled for. I couldn’t help but hear.’ He nodded.
‘Really. It was impossible not to.’

‘Hear . . . what?’

‘Ussing was interested in a case Schultz was handling. About a dead girl in West Jutland. I don’t think the prosecutor was keen to talk about it. Why would he? It was nothing to do
with us.’

Hartmann stopped. A cyclist went past.

‘Ussing insisted,’ Seifert added. ‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

Weber looked interested finally.

‘Did he say why?’

‘I got the impression there was something he didn’t want to come out.’ He retrieved an envelope from his pocket. ‘I worked in Brussels for a couple of years. Lots of
experience. It’s all here.’

‘What didn’t Ussing want to come out?’

‘Something to do with the girl. I didn’t hear exactly. He was getting quite worked up.’ A shrug. ‘Then they came and closed the door.’

Hartmann and Weber exchanged glances.

‘I’m freelancing at the moment. Any time you want me to start . . . I’m flexible.’

‘You need to tell all this to PET,’ Hartmann said.

He looked worried.

‘PET? Why?’ A nervous laugh. ‘This is just politics . . .’

Weber’s phone went.

‘I really don’t want to get involved with the police.’

‘But you are,’ Hartmann said then walked off towards Weber striding by the water, talking anxiously all the while.

He waited.

‘What do you make of that?’ he asked when Weber was off the call.

‘It stinks. We need to go back to Christiansborg. Birgit’s parking her tank on the lawn. It’s a big one.’

Fifteen minutes later Hartmann met her in the Parliament building. She was breathless, looked busy.

‘I think we may have some fresh information,’ he began.

‘No time for that now, Troels. A party committee meeting’s been called. It starts in an hour.’

‘I’m the Prime Minister, Birgit. I think I’d know if that had happened.’

‘Well it has. There’s only one item on the agenda.’ She passed him a single sheet of paper. ‘We want to do this decently. Without rancour. If you’re willing to be
persuaded to step down of your own accord we’ll do what we can to bring you back in a government position at some stage.’ A grim smile. ‘Depending on the results of
course.’

‘And if not?’

‘We’ll collectively and publicly withdraw our support for your leadership of the party.’

Hartmann screwed up the paper, threw it down the stairs.

‘You’ve really left us with no other option. I’m sorry.’

She checked her watch.

‘One hour.’

There was only one place for a Zeuthen funeral: Frederik’s Kirke, the Marble Church, the grand domed basilica that dominated the area west of the Amalienborg Palace. It
was empty save for the three of them: Zeuthen, his wife, the woman minister.

‘We want a private occasion,’ he said. ‘Only family and friends.’

‘Have you thought about hymns?’

Maja Zeuthen’s head went down. Despair and fury in her face.

Zeuthen in his dark raincoat, tie crooked, hair uncombed, said, ‘There was something we sang at her christening. I think it was called . . .’

He shook his head.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘ “Teach Me, The Night Star”,’ Maja whispered.