The Killing 3 (33 page)

Yet something drove him too. Unfinished business.

The lead pathologist was there. So was the chief forensics officer. Both stood silent in white bunny suits, scalpels in hand.

One for a body. One for evidence. Which to choose?

‘What is it?’ Brix asked.

The forensic man answered.

‘A tarpaulin bag for a sail from a small dinghy. Common type. You can find them everywhere in the harbour.’

The water smelled of salt and decay. Soon there would be worse. No shrinking from it.

‘Well?’ the pathologist asked, raising the sharp scalpel. He nodded at his colleague. ‘Me or him? You choose.’

What had happened had happened. The present didn’t shape the past. Only the other way round, much as one struggled to hope otherwise.

Brix turned to the forensics officer and said, ‘You.’

Then stepped back, took a deep breath, reminded himself of the stench to come and watched as the man pulled up his mask.

A couple of officers walked out, couldn’t take it. He envied them in a way. Soon, when the prosecutor and Ruth Hedeby had done their work, such ignorance would be a part of his daily life.
He wondered what it felt like. Comforting or simply bleak.

‘Cutting,’ the forensics officer announced then placed the sharp scalpel at the head of the bag, near the ties, and moved slowly, carefully, making a shallow incision the length of
the fabric.

A new smell. Brix couldn’t place it.

The forensic man didn’t turn.

A second cut, horizontal across the middle. Then some more.

This was happening too quickly. What lay beneath needed to be extracted carefully from the covering, like a butterfly pupa rescued from its cocoon.

Then another cut and Brix was on him, starting to shout.

Only to fall into silence.

The forensic officer pulled down his mask. Shrugged.

Brix looked, tried to place the smell.

Cloth and resin. Fresh. Unused.

Pristine, folded tightly, still white for the most part, it sat inside the blue bag.

A sail. Nothing more. A blackened bullet hole near the top. A second at the middle.

‘Lund was right,’ Madsen said behind him. ‘She was . . .’

By then Brix was marching back into the corridor. A man renewed.

‘Tell Hedeby the case is back on,’ he ordered as the detective tried to keep up. ‘Find every officer you can. I don’t care if they’re off duty. I want them in
here.’

People to inform. An order to be decided.

‘Tell the Zeuthens we need an urgent meeting,’ he added. ‘Get Lund on the line.’

Back in the ops room. There was a buzz there already. Juncker had been on from Jutland. They thought Lund had tracked him down finally. But it wasn’t going well.

A paint shop. An engine works. One skylight high in the roof.

Outside the generator rattled and shook. They could feel its breath mingle with theirs. He’d been there all the time. Watching. Listening.

Borch did what men did. Tore at the walls, threw things, yelled.

Brick and metal everywhere. Sleeves to mouth, short breaths. Not that it did any good.

A sound. Unfamiliar yet one she knew.

Emilie’s phone, ringing in her pocket.

Lund took it out, went to a corner, tried to find the air to speak.

‘This is fun,’ she said, half-gagging.

‘I just want the book, Lund. Not you. Give me that and you can live.’

Borch was there. She told him. He grabbed the phone, barked, ‘Listen! We don’t have the book. There are men on the way here. Turn that thing off, will you?’

Nothing.

She looked up at the distant skylight in the roof. Borch got a bucket, told her to stand on it. She tried, couldn’t even reach the first beam.

‘I can’t do this,’ Lund said, fell back to the floor. ‘You get out there. Kill the engine. Come back for me.’

Hesitation on his face. She yelled at him till he moved.

Fit man. One leap from the bucket, arms on the beam. Pulled himself up. Climbed along the joist then up to the roof. Gun through the glass. Old iron moving. The briefest scent of night air
coming down among the fumes, like water in a drought.

She sniffed it. Closed her eyes. Tried to think.

When she opened them he was halfway through, legs disappearing.

Gone then. A body rolling down a corrugated iron roof.

She heard him fall.

Heard him groan.

Then another sound.

The sharp retort of a gun.

Borch tumbled from the workshop roof, landed on the muddy ground, turned twice, heard something. Rolled out of the way.

Looked up. A black figure. Ski mask. Gun in hand. Barrel pointed straight in the face.

‘The book,’ said a flat, cold voice and then the gun blazed, so close to his head the sound deafened him for a moment. The smell of cordite rose above the stink of the nearby
generator wheezing and rattling, sending its poison to Lund inside.

Got his breath back. Tried to see something behind the mask.

‘I don’t have the book. I told—’

‘If I have to kill you I will.’

‘I don’t—!’

A kick in the guts then. Another in the head. Borch yelped. Struggled to stand. Thought about fighting.

But the blows kept coming. After a while that was all there was.

Coughing, eyes hurting, lungs shrieking, Lund kicked the junk across the floor, looking, looking.

One thought in her head: she’d heard the sea beneath the timber floorboards. It was there, cold and bleak and uncaring. A way out. Had to be.

In the corner close to the door she found it. A couple of grimy hinges.

A handle, round, rusty. Stiff.

Three heaves and it shifted an inch. Three more in the grey haze working its way around her and she’d got it free.

The hatch came up. In the beam of her torch the water shone beneath, a good five metres. An iron ladder, at the foot a walkway that had to lead to the jetty at the front.

Lund went down, hand over hand. Got to the rickety iron grating. Made her way to the concrete pier. Climbed up. Looked along.

One upright figure, another on the ground. Then the man bent down, kicked Borch once more, started hunting through his pockets.

On she walked, gun out, quiet, trying to still her breath.

Something changed. As she watched he retrieved what looked like a plastic evidence bag from inside Borch’s pocket, waved it at the stricken figure on the ground, cursed and yelled,
‘What’s this then, shithead?’

A book, she thought. The book. The one Borch said he never had.

Still walking.

The man in the ski mask stood back, took out his gun, pointed it straight in Borch’s face.

Lund loosed a shot then, a wild one. She never could get this right.

‘Put it down!’ she yelled still walking straight at him.

He drew back and it was as if she could see an expression behind the mask: amusement.

‘Put it—’

His gun came up so quickly a part of her she didn’t recognize started to wake.

One shot.

His.

Missed her.

One shot.

Hers.

A yelp of pain. Black figure hurled into the darkness near the rumbling engine.

She didn’t stop to think about it. Got to Borch, bent down. Blood on his mouth. Touched his cheek.

‘Sarah . . . He’s got the book. You need to . . .’

No hesitation, gun up she walked towards the generator.

Bare floorboards on the mud. A couple of footprints. Maybe some bloodstains. Nothing else.

Weapon out higher. Walked on.

Saw nothing.

In the distance the sound of sirens and a flicker of bright blue.

From the sea the low turn of a small boat engine.

Not a light on the water. Gone again.

Borch was with her then.

‘I shot him,’ she said. ‘I saw him. I hit him.’

And God knows how, she thought.

Borch tapped his chest, winced at the pain.

‘I told you before. He’s wearing a jacket of some kind.’ He patted himself down. Seemed halfway happy with what he felt. ‘Still must have hurt though.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Lund whispered.

Borch looked at her then, kept quiet.

‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked.

He thought about it.

‘Unusual,’ Borch said. ‘Very.’

A phone flashed and rang. Hers this time.

Lund listened. Looked at Borch.

‘She’s alive,’ Brix said from what sounded like a bustling ops room. ‘Emilie’s alive somewhere. We’re back in business.’

The committee meeting was in full flow. Fifteen people round the table. Eggert in control.

‘We’re all fallible,’ she said. ‘But as politicians we will be held accountable for our mistakes. It’s not as if we’re talking about a single error here. Your
relationship with Rosa Lebech alone—’

‘A private matter,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘It’s never interfered with my work or the policies I pursue.’

‘I doubt her husband would agree there,’ Eggert said with a marked disdain. ‘And your whole handling of the Zeuthen case . . . You ignored every warning you received. You
allowed Mogens Rank to appear blameless when we now know that’s not the case.’

‘This is bullshit,’ Rank intervened. ‘My ministry was not—’

She thrust the evening newspaper in front of him.

‘Read this, Mogens. The media make or break us. It’s no use complaining they’ve been . . . unkind. The truth is what they make it. You dodged questions on the case. While
Troels has become involved in a way quite unbefitting a Prime Minister. Our credibility as a party has been undermined and here we are days from an election. Ship rudderless, sinking in front of
us. We owe it to the party, to the electorate, to the Zeuthens . . .’

Rank waved her into silence.

‘It’s not for the party to remove the Prime Minister. He represents the coalition . . .’

‘You think they’re behind him now? Even Rosa won’t come near. If she’s slipped out from under the sheets . . .’

Hartmann turned on her then.

‘Am I hearing this? Is this what we’ve become? A bickering, gossiping, backstabbing bunch of chancers looking to hitch a ride to the next fast show in town?’

He looked round the table, at every face.

‘I got you here. I made this work. Yes . . . our credibility, our future, our standing with the public, with Zeeland . . . all these are at stake. But we have a plan. Ditch me and you
ditch that vision. You chose me for the same reason I chose you. Faith.’ Hartmann slammed his fist on the table. ‘I need that faith now. So do you. I demand it.’

Silence. Broken by Birgit Eggert’s brief laughter.

‘You speak so well, Troels. But words won’t bring Emilie Zeuthen back to life. Either resign or we abandon you. A dignified exit or a bloody civil war. The choice
is—’

Behind them the double doors opened. Karen Nebel marched in, looked at him. Hartmann got up. So did Mogens Rank. They listened in private.

Eggert was going on to practicalities. A meeting of the business committee. Rules and procedures.

‘Troels!’ she shrieked. ‘Will you kindly come back to the table and deal with this?’

It was Mogens Rank who answered. He pushed back his glasses, looked at her amiably and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me. We have news from the Politigården.’

‘Good news,’ Hartmann added. ‘The police have recovered the bag they thought contained the body of Emilie Zeuthen. It was a ruse . . . There was nothing in it but a dinghy
sail.’

Nebel threw some photos on the table. The blue muddy bag, two bullet holes, white material inside.

‘They firmly believe Emilie’s alive,’ Rank added. ‘I’d rather be dealing with that than spending time here discussing . . .’ A wave of his hand.
‘Whatever this was meant to be. Birgit?’

She wore the most fragile of smiles, said nothing.

Hartmann walked out. Nebel followed. Briefed him on what she knew. The police didn’t believe Emilie had been taken to Jutland. She was more likely to be kept captive somewhere close to the
city.

Back in the office the three of them sat down. Hartmann closed his eyes, looked thoughtful. Nebel was checking her messages. Weber went for the booze cabinet.

‘Not now,’ Hartmann said, suddenly coming awake.

Weber stopped, looked puzzled.

‘You and Karen have had a long day,’ Hartmann added. ‘Go and have a drink on me somewhere.’ He pulled out his wallet, threw some money on the table. ‘With my
gratitude.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Nebel asked, grabbing the cash.

He looked round the comfy room. The sofas. The paintings.

‘I just want a little quiet time to myself. Go on.’ He waved at them with the back of his hands. ‘Shoo!’

They got up, puzzled.

‘And order me some food on the way out. Lobster, salad. Enough for two. I’m starving.’

Weber sighed, gave her a knowing look and they left.

Hartmann went to the office fridge. Two bottles of champagne. Good quality. Nicely chilled.

Ought to work.

The boatyard was lit up like a fairground. Scene of crime officers. Local cops rubbernecking. Too many people. She tried to keep them back but Gudbjerghavn had never seen this
before. It was a spectacle, not to be missed.

Brix was back on the line demanding to know how the man got away.

‘He had a boat,’ Lund told him. ‘He always has a boat.’

‘The girl—’

‘We found where Louise Hjelby was murdered. I don’t think anyone even looked. There was a black car. Borch had some numbers in a book . . .’ And kept them, she thought.
‘He heard us talking. He took it.’

Lund thought of the low mattress, the bloodstains, the manacles.

‘Whoever killed Louise must have been so confident. He didn’t even try to clean up. Or maybe . . .’

Perhaps that was someone else’s job. And it was still going on.

‘How come Borch got that book? Not you?’

He always knew the right question to ask.

‘You need to ask him that. Or Dyhring. Someone from PET. I don’t know.’

When she came off the phone she realized he was there, listening.

They went to a corner of the workshop, beyond the forensic officers, near the white bike. He had a bandage on his arm where the man beat him. Nothing broken.