The Killing 3 (4 page)

The Zeeland man scowled.

‘No working ships. That’s
Medea
. One of our old freighters. She’s mothballed for scrap. We sold her to a Latvian broker but he went bankrupt.’

Borch took Juncker’s binoculars. The vessel was a good half a kilometre offshore. He scanned it, offered the glasses to Lund. She shook her head.

‘Is there anyone on there?’ she asked.

‘It’s the law,’ Reinhardt said straight away. ‘Even an old hulk like that needs a minimum three-man crew. We talked to them last night. And this morning too. They said
they didn’t see anything.’

He looked round at the empty ground, the sluggish Øresund.

‘They wouldn’t here, would they?’

Lund stepped towards the water’s edge, swore as her best boots went into a muddy puddle. A single cigarette butt lay in the dirt. Fresh. Unmarked by rain.

Borch was on the phone.

‘If you want to go out there,’ Reinhardt said, ‘I can call a boat.’

Asbjørn Juncker couldn’t wait. Borch came off the call.

‘According to the coastguard a Russian coaster sailed along here last night. It’s going to St Petersburg. We’re talking to the authorities there.’

‘Thanks for the offer,’ she said to the Zeeland man. ‘We don’t need it.’

Juncker started squawking. She walked to the car. Borch and the young cop followed.

‘We’ve got to go and look at that freighter,’ Borch said.

‘You can if you want.’

‘I don’t have time! Hartmann’s coming here. We’ve got security—’

‘I don’t need this,’ she cut in. ‘Asbjørn . . . will you get in the car? We’re off.’

He hesitated for a second or two then did as he was told.

Borch crouched down next to the driver’s window. Didn’t look much like a puppy at all then.

‘I hope the job’s worth it,’ he said.

Robert Zeuthen had inherited the men who ran Zeeland. Handpicked by his father. Loyal, as long as the old boss was around.

Kornerup, a portly, unsmiling sixty-year-old with keen eyes behind owlish glasses, had been chief executive officer of Zeeland for almost twenty years. He began the meeting with a new version of
the presentation he’d been making ever since Robert Zeuthen took over the presidency of the group.

‘Moving the shipyard east will reduce costs by forty per cent or more. We can play the exchange rates to finance the move. If we start planning today we should be able to start shifting
operations within a year. For the bottom line . . .’

‘This is old news,’ Zeuthen broke in. ‘We know the arguments. We agreed that ten or fifteen years from now it might be appropriate.’

Eleven men around the table, one woman. Zeuthen was the biggest shareholder. But he didn’t have an outright majority.

‘The world’s moving faster than we thought,’ Kornerup replied. ‘This is a decision for the board. If Hartmann loses the election we’ve got a red Prime Minister who
hates us, and a red cabinet behind him. They’ll bleed us dry.’

‘Which is why we support Hartmann,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Why it’s against our interests to undermine him.’

‘If he caves in and agrees some new deal, fine.’ The faces around the table nodded in agreement with Kornerup. ‘But let’s not fool ourselves. We’re just postponing
the day. The world won’t wait for us to wake up. I know this is hard. This is the company your father created. But if he were here today . . .’

‘He’d defend every last Danish job,’ Zeuthen said.

‘Perhaps we knew him differently,’ Kornerup said and smiled. ‘Perhaps—’

‘No,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Enough.’

Kornerup scowled.

‘There’s much more to discuss, Robert.’

‘Not with you.’ Zeuthen nodded to his PA, got her to walk round the table with the documents he’d prepared. ‘Kornerup has spent a lot of time researching how to abandon
Denmark. Not much on how best to betray this company.’

A murmur round the board. Zeuthen looked at each of them.

‘What our CEO appears to have forgotten is that the newspaper which ran this drivel is thirty per cent owned by my family trust. Also . . .’ A quick smile. ‘The managing editor
went to university with me. So it really wasn’t hard to get the emails you sent to their business editor.’

Kornerup for once seemed lost for words.

‘You planted these lies in order to bounce the board into this position,’ Zeuthen added. ‘Whatever the merits of the case for a move to the Far East – and I’m happy
to discuss them at a suitable stage in the future – this is an individual act of disloyalty that can’t be tolerated. You’re in breach of contract, Kornerup, as you surely know. We
may wish to pursue legal action.’

He nodded at the PA. She opened the door. Two security staff there in uniform.

‘These gentlemen will see you off the premises now. We will send on any personal belongings once we’ve examined your files here to see what else you’ve been up to.’

He glanced round the table again.

‘Unless the board feels it wishes to ignore the leaking of confidential documents to the media. And God knows what else.’

Silence. He waved at the door.

‘What I did,’ Kornerup said, getting to his feet, ‘I did for the benefit of Zeeland. This company stands on the precipice, Robert. You’ll drive it over and won’t
even notice until they come to shutter this place.’

In silence they watched him walk out. Zeuthen shuffled his papers, put them in his briefcase.

‘I’m sorry. My daughter’s been taken to hospital. I have to go.’ A pause. ‘Unless there’s any other business?’

He waited. Nothing.

‘Good,’ Zeuthen said and left.

Hartmann got his driver to take him to the school in Frederiksberg where Rosa Lebech was setting up her election meeting. She was six years younger than him. A lawyer turned
politician. Still dressed for her old profession: cream shirt, dark trousers, black hair tidy and neat. A striking woman, beautiful and businesslike at the same time. He’d first met her when
he was mayor and begging for coalition votes.

She was married then.

Nebel waited by the door until she got the message. Then she left the two of them, with just a PET security guard to watch.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ Hartmann joked.

‘Like what?’

‘Like politicians.’

‘You think we should find a mattress and a couple of candles? You can get your security man to guard the door.’

Hartmann nodded.

‘I like that idea.’

‘You’re an arrogant bastard. Why am I going through all this?’

Hartmann turned and nodded at the bodyguard. He took the hint and walked down the corridor.

‘That’s the kind of thing I mean. Troels . . .’

He grabbed her waist, kissed her hard, wriggled his fingers inside her shirt until he found flesh.

Lebech broke away, giggling.

‘Rough sex with the Prime Minister of Denmark. It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do.’

His fingers grappled inside her blouse.

‘That was a joke!’ she cried. ‘Cut it out.’

He stopped then, looked like a little boy robbed of his favourite toy.

Hartmann sighed.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘It looks like the Zeeland rumours are true. Robert Zeuthen’s with us. The rest of his board aren’t.’ A short, wry frown. ‘I may have to throw something their
way.’

She sat down. Politician again.

‘How much of a something?’

‘Big enough to make them think twice. Small enough to make sure you climb in bed with me.’ The big, cheeky smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking. I know I don’t have to worry
about the literal side of things.’

She didn’t laugh.

‘Don’t push me too far. You think I can sell my people on the idea everyone pays except Zeeland? I’m the party leader. I don’t own them. I won’t even ask the
question. No point. I already know the answer.’

‘Maybe they’d listen if they knew you were headed for high office. A ministerial post. Something you’d like.’

‘Prime Minister?’ Lebech said. ‘I’d love that job.’

He folded his arms, looked at her, waited.

‘My hands are tied, Troels. I can’t push my people any further than I have. Some of them think Ussing’s a better bet. If Zeeland are packing up they’re going to go.
However hard you try to bribe them . . .’

She stopped. Karen Nebel had marched in tapping her watch.

‘Think about it,’ Hartmann pleaded.

‘I have. Sorry.’ Her hand crept to his knee. ‘But this is politics. That’s all. Remember.’

Hartmann tapped his nose, squeezed her fingers discreetly, and nodded.

Then got to his feet and for the benefit of the audience of one shook her hand, wished her well with the campaign.

‘We’ll keep talking, Rosa,’ he promised.

Carsten Lassen, Maja’s boyfriend, was a doctor in the university hospital. Zeuthen guessed it was inevitable she’d take Emilie there. Inevitable too that Lassen
would be waiting for him in the car park with Maja and the kids inside their VW.

‘What is it?’ Zeuthen asked.

‘It’s an allergic reaction to the cat she should never have touched,’ Lassen snapped. He had on his white doctor’s coat and the surly expression he wore whenever Zeuthen
was around. ‘It’ll be gone in a few days if she keeps using the medication. And keeps away from cats.’

Carl started growling through his dinosaur the moment Zeuthen arrived. Emilie smiled and waved. Zeuthen opened the back door and told them to get inside his Range Rover.

‘No,’ Maja said, closed the door again. ‘We need to talk.’

It was a while since they’d had the argument about where the kids were going to live. Zeuthen didn’t want a replay.

‘If you think this is going to get you custody of them—’

‘She’s got a rash all over! What the hell’s been going on?’

‘I don’t know. Do you?’

‘Either you’re lying or you’re not taking care of her.’

‘No.’ He was struggling to keep calm. The kids were watching and these rows upset them. ‘I know what they do when they’re with me. We don’t have a cat anywhere near
the house. It’s not like this is fatal . . .’

Lassen heard that and barged in.

‘It could be serious,’ he said. ‘If you leave an allergic reaction unattended—’

‘This isn’t your business,’ Zeuthen pointed out. ‘They’re not your kids.’

A white van pulled in close to them. For a moment Zeuthen thought Emilie had waved at someone. But that seemed impossible. If there was a smile it hadn’t stayed. Carl and Emilie looked
worn and miserable as the argument grew and grew.

‘There’s a legal agreement,’ Zeuthen pointed out. ‘You can’t just take my children from me when you feel like it.’

‘The law!’ Maja shrieked. ‘That’s what you’re threatening me with now? Are you going to bring down the whole of Zeeland on us? Will that make you feel like a
man?’

The door of the little VW opened. Emilie walked over, stood between them, gave each an accusing look. Lassen retreated to the hospital entrance.

‘I saw the cat when I played at Ida’s. That’s all.’ She looked at her mother. ‘I don’t want to live with you and Carsten. Carl doesn’t either. We want
to be with Dad.’

Emilie walked to the Range Rover. Carl was there already. Maja ran after the two of them, voice breaking and that was a sight that tore at Zeuthen’s heart.

The kids climbed in the back, were doing up their seat belts.

‘Look,’ he said to Maja, as calmly as he could. ‘We shouldn’t be arguing like this. Not in front of them. I’ve got something to do. You can go to Drekar with them.
Stay there till I get home.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. I can phone you from the car if you like. So you know when to leave.’

Lund’s home for the last six months had been a two-bedroom wooden chalet in the suburbs. It lay on a narrow hilly road overlooking the city, behind a small, bare garden
she was trying to revive.

She listened to the radio while she washed up some plates for Mark and his guest. Hartmann was back in the headlines, expected to make a statement about Zeeland when he visited the homeless camp
PET had specifically warned against. He always did what he felt like. Never worked with the police if he didn’t want to, even when he was trying to win an election.

Not that this one was looking good. Ussing was whipping up his troops, warning of fresh concessions to the rich. The Centre Party, whose support would probably decide the outcome, was
wavering.

Lund looked in the oven, realized she hadn’t taken the film off the supermarket lasagne, grabbed it, took a pair of scissors to the brown plastic then put the thing back inside and wiped
her hands on her jeans.

The phone rang. Mark said, ‘Hi, Mum . . .’

‘It’s not easy to find. You need to turn left at the yellow house at the end of the—’

‘We can’t come. Eva’s sick. Another time . . .’

She looked at the table. The bottle of good chianti. The new wine glasses she’d bought. The candles.

Brix had sent round her long service diploma and a bottle of champagne. There was an envelope from OPA.

‘Is it bad?’

‘No. Just a cold. See you some other time.’

He couldn’t wait to go. She could hear that in his voice.

‘Mark,’ she said, suddenly desperate.

‘What?’

‘I know . . . I know I haven’t been around the way I should. I was never good at . . .’ Saying these things, she thought. ‘I’m sorting myself out. You’ve got
every right to be mad at me.’

Silence.

‘Mark?’

‘Yes?’

‘I just want to see you once in a while.’

‘Things are really busy.’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow’s not good.’

She sat down. Juncker’s photos were on the table. A severed head. A dead mouth set in a grimace. An arm with tattoos. A woman’s name probably. Something else, a short word, the
middle letters removed by a bloody wound.

‘The day after then. You tell me when.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

The first letter on the obscured tattoo was a capital ‘M’ in a gothic script.

‘It’ll have to be another day,’ Mark said.

The last letter was a lower case ‘a’. Probably five or six letters in the word, that was all.

‘Mum? Hello?’