The Killing 3 (38 page)

His wife was still looking at the video. Fingers on the screen. As if the girl was really there.

‘You should talk to her, Robert. She needs you.’

So many maps and charts. Inlets and fjords. Ocean routes and weather. A wide world beyond this tiny cabin.

‘You can’t stop the hurt,’ she added, ‘but maybe if you share it a little goes away.’

He walked over then, watched the video replaying. Put his fingers on the screen alongside his wife’s. Then his arm round her shoulder.

Juncker was getting fidgety.

‘Need a look,’ he said, pointing at the iPad. ‘Just want to check something.’

Maja Zeuthen hesitated for a second then passed it over.

‘He gave Emilie this,’ Juncker said. ‘He knows computers. He must have set it up first so the two of them could talk.’

‘Makes sense,’ Borch agreed.

Juncker closed the video screen and went to the settings. The thing would keep track of the networks it used to go online. They were there: a series of numbers, IP addresses. One only to begin
with.
Drekar.

Then, at the very beginning of the records, another.

A line of numbers. And a name:
Marigold Cafe.

Juncker got out his smartphone, typed something with his thumbs.

Showed them: an industrial area somewhere near the water beyond Vesterbro.

‘This is where he first went online,’ the young detective said. ‘He must have had a place there.’

Lund couldn’t take her eyes off the map. The river was between the harbour and the bridge where he’d faked Emilie’s death. He could have stopped along the way.

Twenty minutes and they were there. A dead factory by the water, empty piers, empty car parks. Juncker had established it had belonged to Zeeland. The one working business was
the cafe. Lund sent him to check there while she and Borch took a look around.

Not much to see.

After a couple of minutes Juncker was back with news. Louise Hjelby’s mother had worked in the cafe when the area was bustling. People remembered her, liked her. One man even recalled the
daughter as a toddler. He said someone had been asking about the mother and the girl not long before.

‘And?’ Borch asked.

‘And that’s it. There are a few homeless people living rough round here. Have you made their acquaintance yet?’

It was hard to find anyone who’d talk to them. Borch had tried a couple of men huddled round a brazier but they barely spoke Danish. Lund scanned the empty area in front of the factory.
There was a shape in one of the alcoves.

She went over. A woman with long straggly grey hair huddled by the wall, clutching at a bottle.

Worth a try.

‘Three nights ago,’ Lund said, ‘this was around here.’ She had a picture of the speedboat from forensic. ‘Did you see anything?’

The woman scowled, shook the bottle.

‘Night-time’s for sleeping. Why don’t you go home and try it?’

‘Because we’re looking for a missing girl, grandma,’ Juncker threw in.

He got a mouthful of abuse for that. And a filthy look from Lund.

Borch pulled out a couple of notes.

‘Fine. We’ve established you’re not Asbjørn’s grandma. Here’s two hundred kroner if you can tell us something we don’t know.’

She was about to speak.

‘Something useful,’ he added. ‘Have you seen anyone unexpected round here at all?’

‘Listen, sonny. There’s me. There’s that filthy creep round the corner. That’s it usually.’

‘Pets,’ Lund said. ‘Anyone keep pets?’

She stopped and thought.

‘Cats in particular,’ Borch added.

The woman pointed at the far end of the building.

‘Some weirdo goes in there sometimes. He’s got cats. Stays down in the basement. I don’t bother with him.’

‘Why not?’ Juncker asked.

‘He’s rude. Doesn’t talk to anyone. He’s got money too. You can smell it on him and he won’t give the likes of me the time of day.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Lund asked.

She tugged on the long greasy hair.

‘Couple of hours ago.’

Borch got directions, gave her the notes.

Empty building. One set of stairs down at the corner. Torches out. Guns too. Borch forced his way to the front.

The place had an earthy, mouldy smell. But from somewhere ahead there was a sound, low and mechanical.

Borch went in first. Found a light switch. No one. Just a small empty room. A ventilation fan working in the ceiling. The place had been occupied.

‘Jesus,’ Juncker whispered. ‘This guy just goes where he likes.’

Lund’s torch fell on a pile of bloody tissues and bandages.

Juncker caught his head on a wire dangling from the ceiling.

‘Dammit he’s got power. Probably a net connection too.’

In the corner was a small pile of clothes. Dark, warm, practical, cheap. Her torch beam stayed on them. Borch looked at the things, then at her.

‘That’s what Emilie was wearing when we saw her on the boat. Isn’t it?’

Juncker had found another heap in the corner. Adult this time. Winter boots, survival gear, waterproofs.

‘Looks like he’s getting ready for a war.’

‘He’s in one already,’ Lund said and found the inevitable laptop, a cheap Samsung, propped up on a makeshift desk created out of packing cases.

Borch came over, picked up a few of the sheets of paper scattered around the computer. Ship movements. Container numbers. Cargo assignments and schedules.

‘You think he could have shipped Emilie off in one of those?’ Juncker asked. ‘Like the kid was freight or something?’

A map of the world roughly drawn in crayons on a whiteboard. Arrows for shipping routes.

It was too simple. Too obvious.

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘I don’t . . .’

The light was winking on the lid of the laptop. Webcam. Working.

Her phone rang and she knew it was him.

‘I thought we had a deal, Lund. You’re supposed to be looking for him. Not me.’

‘Working on it. Zeuthen’s offer of a reward’s complicated things . . .’

‘I don’t give a shit about him and his money. You told me you’d solve that case.’

He coughed. Sounded sick.

‘Not overnight. We’re getting there.’

‘Yeah,’ he crowed. ‘I read the news. You think it’s Ussing now?’

Juncker was going through more papers. Borch kept messing with the laptop.

‘We’re running through some options . . .’ she insisted.

‘No you’re not. You’re being jerked around again. Ussing’s nothing to do with this.’

‘For God’s sake give me some time!’ she yelled.

A pause then he said in the same croaky voice, ‘You had plenty. Here’s the truth. There weren’t twelve black cars that day. There were thirteen.’

‘What?’

‘Take a look behind you, in the waste bin. You’re in my apartment. Make yourself at home.’

She walked to the packing cases, found the bin, upended it.

Something familiar. The kind of notebook the kid had used in Jutland.

‘Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Someone tore out a page before I saw it. Probably your boyfriend from PET.’

Lund held up the book so Borch saw.

‘You’ve disappointed me greatly. I’m going to have to do this myself now,’ the man said then hung up.

She stared at Borch.

‘There was another car. Someone removed the last page. Was that you?’

‘For God’s sake, Sarah. Do you believe him?’

Lund held up the book.

‘The page is missing. Yes. I do.’

Juncker bent his head round to take a look.

‘It may be missing but he’s still got the number.’

He took the thing gingerly. Laid it out by the laptop. The boy’s pencil had made marks in the back cover. The impression had been outlined in ink:
AF 98 208.

‘This is a joke,’ Borch said, snatching the book. ‘It’s got to be. That car was never there.’

‘What car?’ Lund wanted to know.

Juncker had moved to the laptop, turned to the browser.

‘He’s been reading the news, folks. Keeping up to date.’

‘What car?’ Lund cried.

Borch elbowed Juncker out of the way and started looking through the open windows on the screen.

In a photo app there was a close-up of a rear number plate. The same one. Black Mercedes.

‘Talk to me,’ Lund pleaded.

Borch’s fingers hit the zoom keys, pulled out.

Three figures in the background. Hartmann, Morten Weber, Karen Nebel, smiling, ready to visit the garden nursery that morning.

Juncker placed a slender finger on the screen.

‘You said PET checked out Hartmann’s car.’

‘We checked out his campaign car. As far as we knew that was the only one he was using that day. This is his own. We never . . .’

Lund was on the phone, running for the stairs.

Got Brix as she hit the cold night air.

‘It looks like our man’s got his eye on Hartmann,’ she said, feeling for the car keys. ‘We’re going to Christiansborg. You might want to think of getting him into
the panic room or whatever they call it over there.’

Blue light flashing, Lund’s car slewed to a halt on the slippery cobblestones outside the Christiansborg Palace. She’d left Juncker to deal with the latest
bolthole. Just Borch with her, making calls to PET along the way.

He claimed they didn’t know Hartmann’s private car was in Jutland even though it had a tracking device too.

Lund looked at him.

‘If it wasn’t on the official vehicle list we wouldn’t check for it,’ Borch pleaded.

‘And who ripped that page out, I wonder.’

She got out, strode up the steps to the entrance to the palace. Uniformed security everywhere. Hartmann wasn’t in the panic room. He was chairing some kind of meeting inside, refusing to
budge.

‘We don’t see any threat here,’ the chief security officer said. ‘No one gets in without ID.’

‘There’s a threat,’ she insisted. ‘I want this place locked down. I want a list of current visitors . . .’

Borch was still bleating about the book.

‘No one at PET touched that bloody page. We need to focus on Ussing—’

‘He says it’s not Ussing!’

‘How the hell would he know?’

‘Check the CCTV,’ she said. ‘Take a look at everyone who’s come through these doors over the last hour.’

‘They’re all kosher,’ the security man insisted. ‘Proper IDs . . .’

‘I want it checked!’ she yelled.

Someone came up with a printout of current visitors. The phone rang. Lund walked away to take it.

‘What the hell’s happening?’ Brix asked. ‘I’ve had Hartmann’s people on squawking. Ussing’s too. They don’t like you, Lund.’

‘I’ll try to live with that. He’s here in Christiansborg. I know it.’

‘Really. About Ussing . . .’

Hartmann’s meeting was with the leaders of three minority parties. Bit-part actors in the theatre that was Danish politics. But if the polls were right he would garner
sufficient support to form a government with their backing, paid for with a handful of lesser ministerial posts.

They shook hands on a provisional deal. Karen Nebel watched, smiling, as the men went back to their offices.

‘I’m still pissed off you fired Birgit without telling me.’

‘There wasn’t time. Talk it through with Morten.’

‘I can’t. He’s been called into a meeting with security. Something’s up. You could have discussed this with me.’

He didn’t like that.

‘If people plot they know the risk. Let’s draw a line under—’

‘Leave the clichés to me, please. You’ve just gambled the whole election on a hunch. We go to the polls on Friday.’

‘I’m aware of the date.’

‘We’re exposed now. If we lose just a couple of points of support you won’t have a majority, not with those three clowns you just talked to.’

He headed back to his office.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m talking to you,’ she screeched. ‘If—’

‘You’re paid to make sure we don’t get hitches, Karen. Focus on that. I’m finished with Rosa Lebech. Ussing’s in shit with the police. Who’s going to vote for
them? And if we get Emilie back home—’

‘I thought Emilie Zeuthen wasn’t part of our campaign.’

He looked briefly guilty.

‘Also,’ she added, ‘there’s something odd going on. Lund asked for some transport details from the archives. I had the PA complaining the motoring logs for those days in
Jutland are missing.’

Hartmann scratched his head.

‘You mean our logs?’

‘Exactly. And . . .’

Fast footsteps down the hall. Morten Weber scurrying towards them.

‘OK,’ the little man cut in. ‘I just talked to the security people. Lund thinks Emilie’s kidnapper is inside the building. Looking for someone.’

‘The kidnapper?’ Hartmann asked, astonished.

‘Exactly. I want you back in your office.’ He took Hartmann’s arm, started to drag him. ‘Right now.’

Downstairs in the security office Borch and Lund went over the CCTV. One monitor, screens from cameras all over the palace.

‘Everyone’s accounted for,’ the local man said. ‘No sign of an intruder. No one in the place who doesn’t have full ID.’

‘This doesn’t feel right,’ Borch grumbled. ‘Maybe he’s conned us again and he’s going for Ussing.’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘Ussing’s in the Politigården with his lawyer. He’s not a suspect.’

Borch’s tie was adrift. Hair a mess again. He looked better that way.

‘What do you mean he’s not a suspect?’

‘He’s got an alibi. He was in a hotel with the wife of one of his campaign team. She’s confirmed it.’

She ran a finger down the list.

‘Complicated lives these people lead . . .’

The security officer was moaning about the work, people wanting to go home, catch trains.

‘Here,’ Lund said, jabbing at a name. ‘You had someone come in from the photocopying service four hours ago.’

The man nodded.

‘We’ve got a lot of photocopiers.’

‘Twenty minutes ago someone used the same ID to get back in.’ She looked at the clock. ‘At six thirty. For a photocopier.’

He shrugged.

‘They’re all security approved. Maybe he forgot something . . .’

‘It says here’s he’s approved all the way to the Prime Minister’s quarters. So where is he now?’