The Killing 3 (43 page)

Reinhardt had fixed the plane for Rotterdam: flight plan filed, fuel and pilots booked, arrangements made at the other end. He went through the details in Zeuthen’s
office.

‘I’m going to have another word with Kornerup after that,’ he added. ‘Make sure the man doesn’t step out of line.’

‘Good luck,’ Zeuthen said, got up, nodded, smiled. ‘And thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t mention it, Robert. It’s why I’m here.’ A short laugh. ‘Why I live on the job.’

They were by the window overlooking the port. Ever since Zeuthen could remember Niels Reinhardt had a house and an office in the grounds, not far from the water. Another sign he was part of
Zeeland, and seemed to have been for ever.

‘Take a break some time,’ Zeuthen suggested.

‘Not till we’ve got Emilie back. Besides Annette’s in the house in France, staying there with the girls. I’m just a bachelor boy. I want to do what I can. I’ll call
with any news.’

Zeuthen got his jacket and his briefcase, was about to leave for the airport when one of the security team came in. Someone had turned up in reception. A yachtsman claiming he saw something the
night Emilie disappeared after the incident at the bridge.

‘We’ve talked to him as much as we can. He’s demanding to see you. I think . . .’ He rubbed his fingers. ‘It may just be for the money. We’ve got him next
door.’

Zeuthen asked his assistant to tell the airport he’d be late for the flight then went to the empty office where they’d taken the visitor. He wore a green oilskin jacket in spite of
the heat. Thick heavy glasses. A woollen hat. The face was coarse and weather-beaten, unshaven, not quite a beard. A stocky man, powerful. Unusual.

The story.

Four nights before he’d been sailing the Øresund in his dinghy. It was three in the morning, freezing cold. He was sitting at the helm.

‘All of a sudden I heard a speedboat going by very quickly.’ His voice was Danish, local. Cultured. ‘It didn’t have any lights which I found a bit odd. You’ve got
to have lights.’ The man pointed out of the window. ‘You’re shipping people. You know that.’

‘And then?’ Zeuthen asked, glancing at his watch.

‘Not long after I passed a coaster. Not a big vessel. Then I saw the speedboat again. It had berthed by the side. They put down a ladder. I saw a child walk up ahead of a man.’

‘Four nights ago?’ the security officer asked. ‘And now you come to us? Not the police?’

His head went to one side. He peered at Zeuthen through the thick glasses.

‘I’ve been sailing. I didn’t know till I got back. Then I tried to phone the police but it was impossible to get through. You don’t seem grateful.’

Zeuthen shook his head.

‘Let me understand this. You say you saw my daughter on the Øresund while you were out on a yacht. At three in the morning. In the dark. The winds were strong that night . .
.’

‘They were,’ the yachtsman agreed.

Zeuthen got to his feet, glanced at the security officer and said, ‘Show him out. I’m going to the airport.’

The yachtsman laughed, shook his head. Smiled.

‘Why’s it so hard to be believed when you’re telling the truth, Mr Zeuthen? She was about a metre and a half tall. I’d guess around forty kilos.’

Zeuthen stopped, listened.

‘She had long blonde hair. Straight. Very blonde I’d say. Black trainers. Blue raincoat. No life jacket.’

Robert Zeuthen came back, took the chair again.

‘I couldn’t help but see,’ the man insisted. ‘I was bobbing up and down thirty, forty metres away. They had lights on the deck. Lights to help that little girl up the
ladder. And the man. They knew what they were doing. It was very clear.’

He leaned back, stretched his arms, looked to one side.

‘I don’t know if I should say this. It’s a bit embarrassing.’

‘Say what?’

‘It looked as if she was waving. At me. Children do that, of course. I should have realized something was wrong.’

Heart in mouth, Zeuthen asked, ‘Did you see the name of the coaster.’

A nod of the head.

‘Oh yes. Of course.’

‘What—?’

‘I’d like to tell you. But you’re a businessman. You understand we have to deal with the practicalities first.’

The security officer stiffened, glared at him. Zeuthen waved at him for silence.

‘If what you’re telling me’s the truth you can have the reward as I promised. I’m a man of my word.’

A laugh. A nervous finger scratched at the woollen hat.

‘I don’t doubt it. All the same I would like some kind of guarantee. A token of good faith.’

‘Such as?’ the security officer asked.

He thought for a moment then said, ‘A written contract, properly witnessed. And two per cent of the reward up front. In cash. That’ll do.’

‘We don’t have that kind of money here,’ Zeuthen told him.

He relaxed back into the chair, looked out of the window at the ocean.

‘No rush.’

Zeuthen snapped his fingers at the man next to him. Told him to make the arrangements.

When he was gone he looked at the yachtsman.

‘This is my daughter we’re talking about. Every minute matters.’

Not a flicker of emotion.

‘I understand that,’ the man replied. ‘All the same I’d rather wait.’

He rolled the chair from side to side.

‘A cup of tea would be nice. Milk. No sugar.’

They got a PA to fetch one and left him there.

Alone. A cup of tea. He went to the computer. The last user had logged off. So he typed in a new user name, a fresh administrator password. Found himself staring at a wide-open network,
wondering where to roam.

The yacht harbour had seen better days. Lund parked next to a rotting rowing boat on a deserted quay and double-checked the address. It looked like a maritime junkyard not a
home. Lifebelts, ropes, anchors, broken masts. At the back, next to a two-storey corrugated-iron building with a few plant pots on the stairs, was a woman in a long work jacket, sorting through
boxes.

‘Birthe?’ Lund asked, pulling out her ID.

She had shoulder-length black hair, and swept it back from a suspicious face.

‘If you’re here about the pilfering you’re too late.’

‘I’m not. You knew Monika Hjelby. Louise’s mother. We’re looking into the girl’s death.’

‘Too late for that too.’ She nodded at the stairs. ‘I let Monika the flat up there for ten years. Long gone now.’

‘All the same,’ Lund said. ‘Can we talk?’

Inside it was tidy, clean, organized. The two women had met through the cafe where Monika worked.

‘She was pregnant. A bit posh. No money. She said she needed a place for a couple of months. After that the father was going to be back. But . . .’

Birthe sighed.

‘Men,’ she murmured. ‘So Monika stayed.’

‘You never met Louise’s dad?’

‘She went on about some guy. He never showed up. She reckoned he had money. Was a class act.’

‘In what?’

‘I don’t know. She used to get all secret if you asked. I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you. All that stuff.’ She laughed. ‘I liked Monika but really .
. .’ A finger twirled at her head. ‘She was away with the fairies mostly.’

Lund wanted it straight.

‘So she never had a man stop by?’

‘Not while she was alive. Some guy called a couple of years ago. Said he was an old friend. Wanted to see her.’

‘And?’

A shrug.

‘I told him to look in Amager cemetery.’

‘And Louise?’

‘He didn’t know she had a daughter. Big surprise I think. She was in the children’s home by then.’

Lund asked what he looked like. The woman frowned.

‘Just kind of ordinary. I don’t really remember. He definitely didn’t know Monika had a kid. I never saw him after that. Never gave it much thought.’

Phone call. Lund took it and an urgent voice said, ‘This is Eva Lauersen’s midwife. I need to talk to your son.’

Birthe was starting to look bored.

‘This isn’t a good time,’ Lund said.

‘Eva was brought in last night with severe abdominal pain. The baby could be premature.’

She went to the window.

‘Is it serious?’

‘We really need to talk to Mark.’

‘I’ll try and get hold of him.’

Grey water. Dead land.

When she turned the woman had gone back down the stairs, was sorting through the boxes again. Looking for pennies in a pile of junk.

On the way to the car Lund said, ‘Do you know which children’s home Louise was in?’

Birthe stopped for a moment.

‘It wasn’t a council home. I know that. They were all full. Monika went to a charity when she knew she was dying.’

Keys. Phone. She wondered where Mark had vanished to.

‘What charity?’

‘She wanted things to be right for Louise. I helped her write lots of applications.’ The woman scowled. ‘Why do I call them that? Begging letters. That’s what they were.
For a dying mother who just wanted to do the right thing for her kid.’

Her gnarled hands pulled at a piece of netting, threw it to one side.

‘Only one of them was interested. Zeeland. Monika was dead happy. Apparently they liked unmarried mothers.’

Lund came back.

‘Zeeland? You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. They’ve got the money, haven’t they? I still feel sorry for that poor couple though. That girl of theirs . . . They help all those kids and have to deal with
this shit.’

‘Where was the home?’

She thought for a moment.

‘Jutland somewhere. I think.’

On the way back from another debate Karen Nebel turned on the TV in the car. The interview hadn’t gone badly. Ussing kept making the same points over and over again,
about hidden agendas and cover-ups. But he had no ammunition and knew it. If anyone came out on top it was Hartmann.

‘I heard from Zeeland while you were on air,’ she said. ‘They’re still behind us. The polls continue to look good. You don’t need to be downcast.’

Another evening in Copenhagen. Traffic. People struggling through the rain.

‘Is that all there is? Polls?’

‘No,’ she answered, trying not to get cross. ‘There’s an election the day after tomorrow. A weekend forming a government. The chance to start again. You’ve got the
public behind you. Zeeland. Your team—’

‘That time in Jutland . . . did you know? Did Morten mention it at all?’

‘For God’s sake . . . can’t we leave that behind? The police understand it’s nothing—’

‘Did you know?’

‘He never mentioned it. I’d no idea Benjamin was out there. Why?’

He turned off the TV.

‘Lund was right. He did change. I don’t know why I never noticed. It’s clear to me now.’

‘It’s called hindsight, Troels. No great mysteries there. Don’t let that woman get to you. Morten’s made a statement. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A dry laugh.

‘This is politics, Karen. There’s always something unpicking itself in the background. It’s just that we can’t see it yet.’

Ten minutes later. A reception in one of the city halls. String quartet playing, waiters with champagne and canapés. Donors to be thanked. Supporters to be greeted.

First face when he came through the door: Weber in a dinner suit, black bow tie, untidy hair, taking him to the line of guests.

Small talk. A speech, off the cuff. He could do that so easily now.

Then Weber got him in a corner, raised his glass.

‘I watched you on TV with Ussing. You wiped the floor with him.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Weber caught something in his answer, didn’t speak.

‘What I meant was,’ Hartmann added, ‘don’t mention the argument we had last night. The fight. The reason. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Bury yesterday, just
think about today and then tomorrow.’

‘Seems to work.’

They were alone. No one could hear.

‘What really happened in Jutland?’ Hartmann asked.

Weber hesitated.

‘Haven’t we done this one to death?’

‘No. Something changed. Benjamin was different. I’d like to know what that was.’

A waiter came up. Weber grabbed for a fresh glass.

‘Just leave this alone, will you?’

Hartmann bent down, stared into his face.

‘What happened, damn it? I want to know.’

Weber looked round, guided him out to the lobby.

No one there. Just polished stone and the dead faces of august statues.

‘He called me from the bus station. He was really upset.’

‘You mean he did see the girl?’

‘Forget the girl. Benjamin was in a mood. He’d been driving round taking pictures for one of those stupid websites. They wanted him to cause some trouble in front of the
press.’

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘He wasn’t like that.’

Weber nodded.

‘He wasn’t. Which is why he felt so bad that he nearly did it. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been hanging round with all those lunatics and swallowed their propaganda. About
how we were brown-nosing big business by reaching an accord with Zeeland. I’d talked to him about this before. Told him it was crap—’

‘You?’ Hartmann jabbed a finger in his face. ‘He was my brother. He should have had that conversation with me.’

‘Yeah, well. You weren’t there. And I needed you to focus on the campaign. He could have screwed things up for us. We worked too hard for that election for Benjamin to ruin
it.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I told him to shut his trap and drove him back to Copenhagen. He was hysterical. Going on about how they were planning to run to the press with this story he’d given them. Honestly,
he was as mad as a—’

It happened without a second thought. Hartmann slapped him hard in the face, bent down, said, ‘Tell me what he saw.’

Weber didn’t step back. A quarter-century of friendship, of struggle between them. It seemed distant at that moment.

‘He thought Karen was in Zeeland’s pockets. She was organizing meetings behind your back. Cutting deals . . .’

‘What meetings?’

Weber shrugged.

‘I wasn’t a part of this. Don’t ask me. Benjamin said someone came down from Zeeland HQ and had a chat with her. He saw them. He didn’t know who he was scared of the
most. Those nutters from the website who wanted to run the story. Or you if you found he’d been spying on us. So I took him home and I told him to shut up and forget about the whole
thing.’