The Killing 3 (35 page)

‘Someone stole mine.’

‘This can’t go on. You’re hurt. I shot you.’

‘Had worse. I’ll call tomorrow. This phone from now on. I want names and social security numbers. I want . . .’

Eva was back with a bowl of soup and a puzzled smile.

‘Not a chance,’ Lund told him. ‘Do you want your daughter’s case solved or not? Give me Emilie and I’ll find who murdered your kid. Play these games and he’s
going to walk free.’

She didn’t know if he was still there.

‘We’re pulling in PET tomorrow. If they kept a copy of those car numbers we start there. First thing. OK?’

A long wait.

‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Don’t disappoint me. That has consequences.’

‘Emilie . . .’

‘You don’t have to wait till morning. There’s a copy by your front door.’

A car engine started in the road.

He was gone by the time she got there. Nothing but two distant red lights disappearing down the hill to the city.

A white envelope on the mat.

One page, a photocopy. The childish handwriting of a young boy in Jutland. Numbers. Letters. Nothing more.

Tuesday 15th November

The Politigården was alive with activity when Lund turned up. She went straight into the meeting with Brix, Borch and the PET boss. Before anyone could speak Dyrhing
began with an update. The car the kidnapper used had been found abandoned in a backstreet near Nyhavn. There was blood on the passenger seat. Not much.

‘We’ll put your house under surveillance,’ he added. ‘Maybe he’ll return.’

‘Thanks but I’d place more faith in the local kindergarten,’ she shot back. ‘We can handle it.’

The faintest of smiles on Brix’s face. Borch was in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven. Tired. He looked like a salesman nervously waiting for a job interview.

‘Our brief isn’t your brief,’ Dyhring said carefully. ‘You may look at what you see and interpret events . . . mistakenly. Two years ago we had to make sure Hartmann
wasn’t unfairly tarnished.’ He gazed directly at Lund. ‘We all know he suffered that once before. As Prime Minister he didn’t deserve to go through the same ordeal
again.’

‘From me?’ Lund asked. ‘Hartmann made himself a suspect in the Birk Larsen case. If he’d told the truth from the outset we wouldn’t have dragged him in here
thinking he killed the girl. He could have helped us get to the bottom of that long before—’

‘The Birk Larsen case is dead,’ Brix broke in. ‘We’re not going back there.’

‘How do you know Hartmann wasn’t involved in Jutland?’ Lund demanded.

Brix rolled his eyes.

‘Fair question, isn’t it?’ she added.

‘We looked at transport records for the day. GPS locations,’ Dyhring said. ‘He was in the car with his chauffeur and staff all the time. That was all we needed. No one from PET
talked to Peter Schultz. Whoever put pressure on the man . . . it wasn’t us.’

Borch kept quiet.

‘Schultz’s behaviour took us by surprise,’ the PET chief went on. ‘We’ve been straight with you throughout.’

Brix snorted.

‘Except Borch stole the book. An important piece of evidence. Right from under our noses. And you’d never even have mentioned it if we hadn’t . . .’

Dyhring didn’t blink.

‘I was going to tell you all about it this morning. We had to take a look first and work out what it meant. As I said before, our brief is not your brief. We have other
responsibilities.’

‘Covering politicians’ backs?’ Lund asked.

‘No need to get smart with us. You of all people ought to know we need to watch our step.’

She snatched a piece of paper from the table, a copy of the page the kidnapper had left her, brandished it at them.

‘Which one of these twelve cars is it?’

Silence.

‘Peter Schultz changed the date of the crime to cover for one of these vehicles. Which one . . . ?’

‘If we knew that,’ Borch said, ‘we would have told you.’

‘So have you got a tongue?’ She tapped the paper. ‘Is Ussing’s car there?’

‘Yes,’ Dyhring agreed. ‘We’re looking into the suggestion he knew Louise Hjelby. This so-called witness sounds a touch dubious . . .’

She looked at Brix and said they needed to interview the man.

‘Parliament’s our call . . .’ the PET chief began.

‘Your brief ‘s not our brief. The Hjelby girl was raped and murdered then dumped in the harbour as if she didn’t even matter. Rape. Murder. They’re ours. And if all the
kidnapper wants in exchange for Emilie Zeuthen is the truth I’ll give it him.’

‘Unless you have any other suggestions?’ Brix asked.

‘There are protocols here,’ Dyhring insisted. ‘Matters of security to do with the government. With Hartmann.’

‘Are you telling me the Prime Minister doesn’t want the police to go near a murder case?’ Brix asked. ‘After we exonerated him over the Birk Larsen girl?’ He
shrugged. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘You can’t just march in here,’ Dyhring snapped. ‘You search the harbour. We’ll assemble the investigative team. Once—’

‘Screw that,’ Lund said. ‘We’ve had men down the harbour all night. This is ours now.’ She nodded at Borch. ‘We’ll keep him in case he remembers
something else along the way. I’ll let you know if I need more.’

Brix broke into a broad smile.

‘Unless you want to go bleating to the Justice Minister,’ he added. ‘Though from what I hear I doubt he’s going to stick his head above the parapet. So . . .’ He
clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

Juncker had been at the harbour since seven, didn’t feel tired. Just angry. With PET. With the kidnapper. With himself. Walking round the port, hard hat on, he wondered
if they’d ever find her.

The night team had established the car the man had used was stolen from one of the piers. That was all they had.

Then Lund called.

‘Don’t give me a hard time,’ he pleaded. ‘Plenty of places he could have hidden Emilie here. I bet only a quarter of the warehouses are busy right now.’

‘Go through every one,’ she ordered. ‘Check the boats. Look at the cameras. Someone must have seen something.’

‘Is that like . . . a law? Lund’s law?’

A pause. He was sure he made her laugh sometimes.

‘Yes, Asbjørn. It is.’

‘Speaking of laws . . . what should I do about Zeuthen’s people? They’re everywhere.’

Three suited men wearing grey helmets were watching him as he spoke.

‘Are they supposed to be with us or something?’ Juncker asked.

‘No. They’re not. Don’t take any crap from them. And don’t let them tell you where you can and can’t go. I’ll have a word here . . .’

He had to ask.

‘What about Borch?’

‘What about him?’

‘Are you two OK? I know he was screwing us around. But he’s a nice guy. I mean . . . he got us back on track when we thought Emilie was dead. Can’t be all bad.’

A long silence.

‘I’ve got to talk to some people in Christiansborg,’ she said. ‘Call me when you find something.’

Hartmann’s first stop of the day was a debate with the other party leaders at a commercial garden nursery west of the city. He sat in the black saloon with Karen Nebel
going through the suburbs. As they drew up at their destination she leaned over and adjusted his tie.

Licked a tissue. Dabbed at something on his collar.

He recoiled, like a child with a fussy mother.

‘I can’t have you photographed with lipstick on your shirt,’ she said briskly. ‘Sit still.’

He did. Looked a little guilty.

‘Need I ask?’ she wondered.

‘Tell me about this place.’

Familiar story. Almost a hundred employees. Heavily in debt. Running on bank credit. Facing imminent closure.

‘You might get a rough ride,’ she warned.

‘From you or them?’

Nebel picked up her briefcase.

‘What you do in your free time is none of my business.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Theoretically,’ Nebel added. ‘If there’s a political dimension . . .’

‘Then I’ll mention it.’ He hesitated. ‘But it’s personal. Honest.’ His hand strayed to hers. She blinked very slowly. ‘I really appreciate what
you’ve done.’

‘You should. I’d rather you didn’t hump Rosa Lebech in the office though. People may notice.’

‘People?’

She tapped her chest.

‘Like me.’

They got out.

‘Rosa won’t be siding with Ussing,’ he said as they went for the door. ‘Something changed her mind.’

‘Must have been a policy decision,’ Nebel commented. ‘He hasn’t gone public on that. Nor has she.’

Hartmann tapped the side of his nose and winked. She couldn’t stop herself laughing.

‘You’re a dreadful human being.’

‘Oh, come on! No one wants a saint running the country. Not if they’ve any sense. A scoundrel with a streak of integrity’s so much more reliable . . .’

She reached up and got the last of the scarlet stain from his collar.

‘Let’s just focus on the integrity, shall we?’

A busy crowd of people in overalls. In the midst of the photographers and reporters Anders Ussing was answering questions. Rosa Lebech stood to one side looking . . . tired.

Nebel put on her best smile, strode over, gave her a sheet of paper.

‘Slept well? No, no need for an answer. The organizers wanted to ask a few extra questions. If it’s OK . . .’

‘Fine with me,’ Ussing announced.

Lebech muttered something about talking to her political adviser and walked off.

Ussing came and stood close to Hartmann.

‘Even for you this is a dirty game, Troels. Do you really think you can steal the election with gossip from a fool like Seifert?’ A laugh, not much confidence or humour in it.
‘You must be desperate.’

Hartmann was unmoved.

‘I thought you wanted me to get to the bottom of the Zeuthen case. PET seem to think you can help. Are you asking me to stop them?’

‘One word, you shit . . . one wrong word and I’ll bury you in a libel suit. I promise . . .’

An aide came up, whispered in his ear. Ussing’s face froze. He strode off to take a call.

‘Anders has to return to Christiansborg,’ the man explained. ‘The police want to talk to him.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Hartmann said. ‘Couldn’t they wait?’

‘Apparently not.’

Ussing pushed his way through the press mob, ignoring the shouted questions. Camera flashes. A face like thunder.

Hartmann wandered over to where Lebech was standing.

‘Well,’ he observed with a wink, ‘looks like it’s just you and me.’

It was cold in the office. She went to the lockers in the cloakroom, got out a patterned wool sweater, pulled it over her shirt. When her head popped through she realized Borch
was watching from the door. Smart suit, ironed shirt, dark tie.

‘Why are you dressed like that? You look like you’re selling insurance.’

A sarcastic smile in return. Then he came over.

‘I work for PET, Sarah. You know there are things I can’t tell you. Don’t be like this. I don’t deserve it. I did what I could.’

Her hands tugged at the jumper. She remembered him doing that in the shabby little bedroom in Gudbjerghavn.

‘Why did you come here? Why couldn’t you have stayed—?’

‘I wanted to see you.’ He bent down, tried to catch her eye. ‘I wanted to know how you were doing. Whether there was anyone—’

‘You’re married. You’ve got kids.’

He nodded.

‘True. I still couldn’t help it. Don’t regret it either. Don’t . . .’

She pulled on her jacket. Got her bag.

‘You’re on my team,’ Lund said. ‘Not Dyhring’s. When we talk to Ussing . . . anyone in that place . . . you do as I say.’

He nodded.

‘So the idea is we pretend it never happened? Is this . . . ?’

She put a finger to her lips.

Went, ‘
Ssshhhh.
’

Robert Zeuthen had summoned a meeting with the heads of his security teams. They were hunting through containers in ships berthed in Zeeland terminals, opening them one by one.
It was a protracted process, one that was causing difficulties with their customers.

Eight men round the table, Reinhardt too.

The lead security officer said it could take up to a week to complete.

‘Hire more men,’ Zeuthen ordered. ‘Whatever you need.’

‘Men aren’t the issue. We have to persuade the shipping companies to let us open sealed consignments. That means they need to go through all the paperwork again. The cost . .
.’

‘Just do it.’

Reinhardt wanted a private word. They went to the window. The grey ocean outside, piers along the harbour. They could see groups of security officers working alongside the police below.

‘I’ve been liaising with the board. Everyone wants the best outcome for you, naturally.’

Something unspoken hung in the air.

‘But?’ Zeuthen asked.

‘We’re rudderless, Robert. The stock price is dropping. Rumours are rife. If it falls any further we could be open to a hostile bid, from the Koreans, the Chinese.
Anybody.’

‘If they’ve got complaints tell them to talk to me.’

Reinhardt stiffened, unhappy with the tone of Zeuthen’s voice.

‘Kornerup’s still around. It would help if we allowed him to return on a temporary basis. I’ll keep an eye—’

‘Just do what I ask, will you? What you’re paid for.’

‘I’ve worked here since I was eighteen years old, Robert. Most of that time for your father. He never spoke to me like that. It wasn’t necessary.’

‘Did my father have to deal with this?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. There was a figure in reception. Maja in a powder-blue sweater and black trousers. Zeuthen went to her.

‘I can’t find anyone who knows what “the gap” is,’ she said, coming off the phone. ‘I’ve talked to the nanny. Their teachers.’

‘Maybe it’s just a game they made up. The TV crew are here. We’ve got the script written. We can make the appeal now. They’ll give it to the news channels straight
away.’

They’d talked about it already that morning. Brix had been on the phone.

‘The police really don’t want us to do this, Robert. They say they’ll be inundated with calls. Most of them will be fortune-hunters.’