The Killing 3 (44 page)

‘That’s it?’ Hartmann whispered.

He could see her in the hall. Smiling, glad-handing the crowd.

‘That’s . . . it.’ Weber raised a finger. ‘Apart from one thing.’

Hartmann waited.

‘We were a week away from the election and running out of budget when we went to Jutland. When I got back to the office there was cash in the bank.’

It took an hour and a half to make arrangements for the money. Zeuthen waited in his office. Got a message from Reinhardt saying he’d persuaded Kornerup to back off on
company issues for a while. Then he called Maja, told her, and she was there straight away, demanding to see the yachtsman.

‘There’s no point,’ Zeuthen said. ‘He won’t talk until we give him something.’

‘What kind of man is he?’

‘We think he saw her,’ Zeuthen said. ‘His description . . .’

The head of security walked in, didn’t look at him, said, ‘The police are here to interview the witness.’

Asbjørn Juncker stood behind him.

‘I didn’t call them!’ Zeuthen yelled.

The man didn’t budge.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I had no choice.’

‘We’re here to help you get Emilie back,’ Juncker added. ‘It’s up to you where you throw your money. We can verify his story . . .’

‘He described her blonde hair, blue raincoat . . . He knew . . .’

Juncker took a deep breath.

‘He couldn’t have seen her in a blue raincoat. We found those clothes at the place he’d kept her. I saw her at the window when he was taking her out of that factory down the
docks. Saturday. The same day. She was wearing something dark.’

Zeuthen swore, dashed down the corridor. Into the room. Empty.

Juncker went to the receptionist. The yachtsman had asked how to get down to the basement.

‘He said he had to pick up something from his car,’ she added. ‘I saw him using the computer. Was that OK?’

Juncker checked by the chair. There were a few splashes of blood.

He looked at the security man and said, ‘Close off the building.’

Over to the lifts: Zeuthen, Maja, Juncker together.

It seemed to take for ever to get to the basement. Bare parking area, half full of shiny cars, mostly black.

Juncker was running, gun in one hand, phone in the other, trying to get Brix.

Maja stood and stared at Zeuthen, scanning the rows.

‘Why’s he here, Robert? What does he want?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

The place looked empty. He’d vanished again.

Arms folded, she leaned back against a pillar, looked at him.

‘I don’t know!’ Zeuthen said, half-shouted, again.

Half a kilometre away in a low building by the waterfront Lund was pushing a doorbell. Odd place. Half office, half home by the looks of it. Tidy flowers and shrubs maintained
around the front door. Computers and a large desk in a room behind. And just a few steps away the harbour, a short pier, black water, waves rippling in the moonlight.

An answer finally. The tall, erect figure of Niels Reinhardt came to the door. He seemed surprised to see her.

‘Your PA said you were here.’

‘I usually am. What more do you want, Lund? We’ve sent you all the personnel records we could find.’

She looked behind him. Waited. A polite man.

‘Come in,’ Reinhardt said, opening the door. ‘But please be brief. I have to go to Kastrup.’

It wasn’t what she expected. More modern. More stylish. Reinhardt had the outward appearance of a genial, elderly uncle. But there were abstract paintings on the walls, wooden statues that
looked as if they came from Africa. A personal touch that seemed somewhat against the grain.

She wondered about his age. Sixty? Sixty-five? Not as old as she first thought. And he moved easily, briskly.

‘It’s about the Zeeland Children’s Fund. I gather you’re involved . . .’

He walked into the office, turned on more lights.

‘The fund? Why do you want to know about that?’

‘It’s probably just a dead lead. I want to rule it out.’

He looked at her for a moment then pulled open a filing cabinet and took out some brochures.

‘Robert’s father was a good Christian. He believed in charity, helping the weak. Zeeland developed a corporate social responsibility long before such things became
fashionable.’

He fanned out the brochures.

‘We’ve got clinics and homes for children. In Denmark, of course. But also in Africa, the Middle East. Asia. It’s quite an investment. One we’ve had to prune a little
lately but . . .’

They stopped by a long window with a view back to the pier and the sea beyond.

‘Why’s this relevant?’

‘Louise Hjelby was in one of your homes for a while. It was called Majgården.’

He nodded.

‘I remember the name.’

‘It closed three and a half years ago. There are no records left.’

Reinhardt frowned.

‘As I said these are hard times. We don’t keep records here I’m afraid. You really must excuse me. Robert wants me to take a plane to St Petersburg. There’s a ship there
. . .’

He got his briefcase.

‘Emilie was taken by Louise’s father. For some reason he didn’t know he had a daughter. I think he went to the children’s home to try to find her. Then . . .’

Reinhardt listened, looked interested.

‘How can I help?’

‘If there’s someone he might have talked to. Left a name.’

A shake of the grey head.

‘I need to get to the bottom of this if I’m going to find Emilie. Just a contact for Majgården . . .’

‘Let me see what I can find. I’ll look in the secretary’s room. You wait here.’

When he was gone she started to poke around.

On the desk more wooden statues from Africa. On the sideboard behind a line of souvenirs. Chinese. Indian.

And photographs. She always had to look at those.

There were six in a line. She bent down to look.

The phone went.

‘It’s Borch.’

The first picture was of a group of children. Girls mainly. Black. Africa judging by the dry bush behind. Eight kids, grinning for the camera. Reinhardt stood in their midst, arms around two of
them, holding them tight. Laughing in a way she’d never seen.

‘There’s a reason you couldn’t find the car, Sarah.’

‘What’s that?’

The second photograph. Indian girls. Reinhardt among them. One was sitting on his lap.

‘The numbers were written down by a seven-year-old kid. He made a mistake.’

Next shot. This one had a caption:
Guatemala.
Kids in native dress. A young girl behind Reinhardt, her arms winding round his neck.

‘He reversed the first letter. He wrote a Z when he meant to write an S. That’s why we were chasing a woman who’d never been to Jutland.’

Every photo looked innocent. It was just a kindly old man with orphans in a children’s home his company funded. They all seemed happy. No sign of apprehension. Fear. Concern.

‘Here’s the thing.’ A pause. ‘If you reverse the letter you get a Zeeland car. It’s not hard. If I can see this our man surely can.’

Fourth photo along. Denmark. A sign:
Majgården.
A group of girls, none of them more than twelve. Blue and white smock dresses. Pretty faces. Not quite so happy. But it was a cold,
dull day, and the only smile was the tall, grey-haired man at the back, his hand on a young girl’s shoulder.

Possessive. That was the word. Lund looked more closely. It wasn’t Louise. She was two along, unsmiling, dark-haired, dark-eyed. As if she knew already.

‘I checked the number,’ Borch went on. ‘It’s—’

‘Niels Reinhardt,’ she cut in.

Lund picked up the photo, held it, tried to think.

‘He’s been hiding behind Robert Zeuthen all along,’ Borch said.

A sound from behind. Lund slipped the picture back onto the shelf.

He was there, looking directly into her face. Black suit, black tie. No smile. She wasn’t a child.

A note in his hand.

‘I’ve found you a name and a phone number.’

Borch in her ear asking where she was. Lund cut the call.

‘The head of the fund secretariat,’ Reinhardt added. ‘She may be able to help. I can’t guarantee it, I’m afraid.’

She took the paper.

‘Now I really have to go,’ he said.

A routine. He went to the wall, turned on some kind of security.

‘You knew about Majgården,’ she said. ‘You went there.’

He picked up his briefcase.

‘I’m the chairman of the fund. I don’t have much time. But I always try to get out and wave the flag when I can.’

She retrieved the photo, pointed to the picture of Louise Hjelby.

‘Did you know this girl?’

‘No. I visited all the homes when I could. Who is it?’

‘She’s—’

A siren drowned out her words. The whoop of a burglar alarm. Reinhardt’s eyes went straight to the security panel on the wall. One red light flashing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The basement circuit plays up sometimes. There must be an open window.’

‘Stay here,’ Lund ordered, opened her coat, took out her gun.

Four steps towards the window. The lights went out. Every last one of them. Torch in her hand, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Black water making a pattern beyond the glass.

Lund looked. Heard something. Walked forward, down the steps, into the shadows below.

Hartmann left the reception with Karen Nebel. She’d had a briefing from Brix. The kidnapper had got into the Zeeland building and demanded money, then vanished.

‘Again?’ he asked.

‘We’ve got a meeting with the Agricultural Council next. The vote’s a bit weak in that sector. It might be an idea—’

‘I don’t want to be talking about horseshit when Emilie Zeuthen’s life’s on the line.’ He glanced out of the window. A modern hotel was coming up. It looked like
just about every other stop along the way. ‘This election hangs on that girl. Not the Agricultural Council. Get Mogens Rank to bring me up to date.’

‘You don’t need Mogens for that. The man told Zeuthen he was a witness. Said he’d seen Emilie. He checked something on the computer and then he was gone.’

Hartmann looked at her, astonished.

‘Why did he go to Zeeland?’

‘I . . . don’t know . . .’

Her phone rang. The screen said it was Weber. Hartmann saw and told her not to bother.

‘Are you two OK again? Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Get a new round of polls organized.’ A pause. ‘If we’ve got the money.’

‘We’ve got the money. Did Morten say something about Benjamin?’

Hartmann turned to her.

‘He said he saw something.’

‘Where?’

‘In Jutland. Where else?’

She shook her head.

‘Saw what?’

‘Doesn’t matter right now. Get Mogens. I want to know what’s going on at Zeeland.’

Lund walked round the basement, saw nothing but an open window. Found a signal, got a call. Brix.

‘We’re at Zeeland. You should be here.’

‘I’m in the grounds. Reinhardt’s place. It’s near the pier.’

‘The man’s been in the offices. He could still be in the building. He’s looking for someone.’

‘I’m with Reinhardt. The lights went off. The security alarm—’

A dog barked. She could near the noise of a busy team in an echoing room. Garage, she thought, could see it.

‘Tell me later,’ Brix ordered.

‘Borch called. He said one of the car numbers was wrong. The boy made a mistake—’

‘Borch’s off the case.’

‘Listen—’

‘You made a fool of me in front of Hartmann, Lund. Get over here now.’

Then he was gone.

She closed the window. The alarm had stopped already. Walked up the stairs and said, ‘Reinhardt. You need to come back with me to the offices.’

The room was empty. A porcelain statue lay shattered on the floor. The long windows giving out onto the water were open.

Torch to the ground, gun in hand, she went outside, searching. Finally on the pavement near the pier she found a spot of blood. Another.

Took out her phone. Was about to call when she heard a single soft footstep, the sound of a handgun being racked. Felt a cold nose of metal press against her neck.

‘Put it down, Lund,’ said a familiar voice. ‘You don’t need that now.’

Brix was in the executive offices, yelling at the team for more, Zeuthen and his wife following him, nagging constantly.

A single CCTV image suggested the man had got out of the building by a service entrance close to the water. That was all they had.

‘He was looking for one of your staff,’ Brix said. ‘We’ve been telling you this for days—’

‘And we’ve been giving you names!’ Zeuthen cried.

‘Not the right one . . .’

Juncker raced in, clutching a couple of sheets.

‘We’ve something from the PC he used. He went through the vehicle directory looking at registration numbers. The last one he saw was . . .’ He read from the page. ‘ZE 23
574. It’s like one of the numbers in the book the kid had. With just one letter changed.’

Brix blinked, asked Zeuthen a question even though he knew the answer.

‘There are just initials here. Who’s NJR?’

‘Niels Jon Reinhardt. My assistant . . .’

‘Why’s he looking for Reinhardt?’ Maja asked.

‘Where is he?’

‘Getting ready to catch a plane,’ Zeuthen said. ‘He’s got a place in the grounds. Down by the old pier. He . . .’

Brix called Lund.

No answer.

This was a kind of justice so he wanted a witness. Needed someone to see him deliver a verdict, a sentence, carry it out.

Hands tied behind her back, gun two strides away, Lund watched, struggled against the ropes.

Niels Reinhardt was on his knees on the pier getting pistol-whipped slowly, carefully by a burly figure in a green yachtsman’s jacket.

‘What do you want?’ he croaked and then the arm came down, a fist punched into his face, sent him whimpering to the cold concrete.

The water shimmered. An old dock bollard lay next to him, rope curled lazily round the base.

The man crouched, said in a calm, controlled voice, ‘You saw Louise at the school. You pulled up next to her and stopped. You asked if she wanted a lift.’

Her gun wasn’t so far away. If she could slip quietly towards it, free her hands . . .