The Killing 3 (45 page)

‘See this now, Reinhardt,’ he said. ‘Live it again. She was tired from walking. She knew you from the home. So she said yes. You put her bike in the boot . . .’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’

The arm flew back, a punch, then another.

‘Was she scared when you turned down the wrong road? When you threw her into that workshop?’

Lund rolled round, got a clearer look, yelled, ‘You don’t know it’s him! You killed three innocent sailors. Do you want another . . . ?’

A face turned to look at her. Ski mask: two holes for the eyes, one for the mouth.

‘You can’t know for sure,’ she said weakly. ‘Think about it.’

‘I’ve done nothing but think about it, Lund. Nothing . . .’

He kicked Reinhardt in the gut. Waited for the groans to end.

‘Then you took her to the harbour. Threw her in the water. Like a piece of rubbish.’

He walked close to Lund, found a chain, a lump of concrete.

Looked down at her, said, ‘What’s justice, Lund? Do you know? Have you ever—’

‘It’s not stealing an innocent girl from her parents,’ she cut in. ‘Or killing a man . . .’

The ropes were loosening. The gun getting closer.

‘You don’t
know
!’

He walked away from the chain and the concrete. Threw something in front of her.

The photograph. Majgården. Louise Hjelby looking glumly at the camera. Reinhardt behind. In control. Triumphant.

‘Do you think she was the only one? Where’s your justice there?’

Back to the stricken man on the pier, dragging the chain and the heavy lump behind. He tied them round Reinhardt’s ankles, started yelling again.

‘Was it like this?’ he demanded. ‘Was she alive when you threw her in the harbour?’

A punch. A kick. A wave of the gun.

‘No answer?’ A wry laugh. ‘Then you go in the same way. Think of it. The water . . .’

The block was attached now. When he pulled it Reinhardt moved with the thing, closer to the edge. To the cold sea and oblivion.

‘Think . . .’

‘This has to stop,’ Lund said and her voice made him look.

It took a while but she’d shrugged off the ropes. They weren’t that tight. He was in a hurry, careless. Now she was standing on the small pier, gun in hand, sights straight at
him.

‘Put your weapon down. Move away from him. Do this now . . .’

In the dim beam of the jetty light she could see the look in his eyes: surprise.

He stood upright, straight-backed like a soldier. Walked through the shadows, away from the bloody Reinhardt.

‘Stop there now,’ she ordered. ‘In the light.’

He was. Just.

‘Hands on your head. Down on your knees.’

A shake of the masked head.

‘Oh, Lund. So much single-minded dedication. Yet so little attention to detail.’

The gun shook in her hands. She edged round until she was between the man and the stricken, panting Reinhardt.

He watched then said, ‘I emptied the magazine when I took it from you.’

The smell of marine fuel and the ocean. A bone-chilling breeze coming in off the water.

His right hand went to his pocket. Scattered shells on concrete, rattling like toy bells.

Reached into his other pocket, took out the gun again. Held it straight at her.

‘Get out of my way,’ he said.

Lund pulled. The trigger clicked on empty.

‘Move,’ he said. ‘I’m tired of you now.’

Reinhardt whimpered behind. She tried to focus. To think of the right words.

But there was nothing.

Just two shots out of the darkness, tearing the night apart.

Lund stood. Lund shook. Looked ahead.

The man was down. Another shape behind. She could just make out Mathias Borch.

‘Deal with him,’ Lund ordered and ran to the edge of the pier, dragged the bleeding Reinhardt back from the edge.

A thought as she did so. Body armour.

Turned, saw two legs kick up from the floor, take Borch in the shin.

Not quick enough. The PET man kept his balance, crashed the weapon hard on his skull. Got him down again, knees over his chest, right arm flailing.

‘Don’t kill him!’ she shouted.

Raced across, yelled it again, caught Borch’s hand as it came back.

Removed the gun.

Something shiny protruded from the top of the green jacket. Plastic. Like a military vest.

‘Get up, Mathias,’ she said and helped him.

Breathless, speechless, he stood there, knuckles bleeding from the blows.

Sarah Lund bent down, removed the black ski mask they seemed to have been chasing, staring at for a week now.

An ordinary face. Bloody. Eyes closed. Everyman, sleeping. No clues what might lie in his head.

The Agricultural Council was boring. When the news came through of an arrest Hartmann cut it short and went back to Christiansborg where Mogens Rank was waiting, looking
happy.

The papers were starting to call the result of the election. Ussing, never a popular figure with women voters, was losing ground. If Emilie were found alive Hartmann could expect a landslide in
which he might pick his coalition partners with ease.

‘What’s he saying about the Zeuthen girl?’ Hartmann asked as Rank walked with him into the palace.

‘Nothing yet. He was shot during the arrest.’

Hartmann looked alarmed.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Rank added. ‘He was wearing some kind of bulletproof vest. They’re taking him to the Politigården from hospital . . .’

‘I want to know everything. Who he is. How he was arrested. What his motives were . . .’

Rank was silent.

‘Any clues?’ Hartmann asked, wide-eyed.

‘His name’s Loke Rantzau. Forty-three. He was in Navy special forces for a while. Then left to become a security consultant. Zeeland used him on a freelance basis for several
years—’

‘Why the hell didn’t they give his name to the police?’

‘Like I said he was freelance, not staff. Apparently it was . . . delicate. He was involved in ransom negotiations for a couple of hijackings in Somalia. It seems on the last one . .
.’ Rank opened the door to Hartmann’s office, looked round, made sure no one was listening. ‘He became a hostage himself. Hans Zeuthen handled the situation personally I gather.
Even we weren’t involved.’

‘You’re saying we had Danish nationals held hostage and the government didn’t even know?’

‘It’s still a little unclear, Troels. I’m working on it. Rantzau was the father of the murdered girl in Jutland. He was captive for nearly four years before he got himself out
of that hole. When he came back to Denmark . . .’ A shrug. ‘It’s not a pretty tale any way you look at things.’

Weber came dashing in from the outer office.

‘I just heard. Has he said anything? When will they get the girl?’

‘Talk to Karen, not me,’ Hartmann muttered, then walked into his room and slammed the door behind him.

Mogens Rank straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses.

‘I thought he’d be a bit happier than that.’

Weber nodded, told him he could go. Then followed Hartmann into the office.

He was on the phone, talking to someone about the Zeuthen case. When he came off Weber said, ‘This has to stop, Troels. I know you can’t accept Benjamin took his own life but
you’ve no right to blame me. I tried to help him. More than you know.’

‘Fuck you! He was having a breakdown. Instead of telling me back then you whipped up some cock-and-bull story about Karen and Zeeland to save your own hide.’

Weber waited a moment then said, ‘Our hide, Troels. Our hide.’

A knock on the door. Mogens Rank hadn’t left.

‘This is dreadful,’ he said. ‘Rantzau claims Zeuthen’s personal assistant Reinhardt had something to do with killing the girl. I’ve met the man. I’ve had
dinner with him. Rantzau nearly killed him apparently. I—’

‘Was he in Jutland?’ Hartmann asked.

‘Rantzau? Well we know—’

‘No!’ Weber yelled. ‘Reinhardt?’

‘I’ve no idea. Why?’

Morten Weber sat down, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. Didn’t look at Hartmann. Didn’t look at anything.

‘Best get Karen in here, Mogens,’ he said. ‘We need to work out how we’re going to handle this.’

They kept him in a secure interview room, guarded constantly. No windows. Lund for the interview, Borch by her side. Brix had insisted on it. Without him Lund would be dead,
and Reinhardt too.

Cameras. Brix watching from the observation window on the other side.

A few details had emerged already, from the Navy where he served until the age of thirty after gaining a degree in electrical engineering from Copenhagen University. From Zeeland’s
accounts department, not that the records there were complete. As far as they could work out Rantzau had spent the last thirteen years working as a freelance security consultant. A mercenary of a
kind, rarely in Denmark, no family that anyone knew of. He’d helped develop and commission Zeeland’s own security networks. Trained guard teams for company ships travelling through
dangerous shipping lanes. Negotiated ransom deals with Somalian pirates. And been a hostage himself.

Not that any of the recent details were certain. The man himself was saying nothing.

‘Are you in pain?’ Lund asked after all the other questions failed.

The hospital had examined him. Impact bruises from the body armour. A cut on the leg. He’d told a nurse he’d caught it on some rusty metal in Jutland. Probably when Lund shot at him
she guessed. A shoulder flesh wound from Borch’s gun.

No answer.

‘We’re getting there, Loke,’ Borch said. ‘According to your Navy records you’re fluent in four languages. Just one will do right now.’

He placed a photograph on the table. A younger man, shorter hair, no lines on his face. A Navy uniform. Smiling.

‘Hans Zeuthen dumped you, didn’t he?’ Lund said. ‘You were negotiating a ransom for him. Somalia. It went wrong. The men got out. You stayed.’

He sat up stiffly, like a soldier, looked straight ahead. Saluted. Kept quiet.

The door opened. Dyhring marched in. Brix furious behind him.

‘I didn’t authorize this,’ the PET man moaned.

‘You didn’t need to,’ Brix said. ‘He’s our prisoner. And besides . . .’ He nodded at Borch. ‘You’re represented.’

‘This is a PET case,’ Dyhring yelled. ‘I want this interview ended now. I want Borch out of here. I want—’

‘Out,’ Brix said, jerking a thumb at the door.

The burly PET man’s eyes narrowed.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Very,’ Brix barked. ‘If you like I can tell the Ministry of Justice you’ve been putting road blocks in the way ever since this began.’ He nodded at the battered,
silent man at the table. ‘Which is why he’s still got Emilie Zeuthen hidden somewhere. I’m not handing that task over to you—’

‘Borch!’ Dyhring barked. ‘Come with me.’

‘He’s with us now,’ Brix said. ‘If you want to fire him I’ll pick up his wages. Now . . .’

Madsen was at the door looking ready for an argument.

‘I’ve got Robert Zeuthen on the way here to talk about his daughter,’ Brix added. ‘I don’t want you spoiling the atmosphere.’ A nod at the burly detective.
‘Either Dyhring walks or we remove him.’

The PET chief took one look at the grinning detective then disappeared down the endless corridor.

Brix went back to the one-way glass. Listened, watched, checked the cameras were still working.

Borch throwing container numbers on the table. Shipping schedules. Photographs.

Still Rantzau stared forward at nothing.

‘Loke,’ Lund said. ‘We need to find Emilie. The longer we spend looking for her the harder it gets to nail the man who killed your daughter. I want to see him in front of a
judge. I want to put him there. Watch him go to jail. Don’t you?’

Something changed. His head turned. His dark, troubled, intelligent eyes focused on her.

Not a word. Just an expression and it was one of contempt.

Borch broke, was on him, yelling, fists up. Grabbing his neck. Forcing him to look at photographs, the documents.

‘Which ship is it, Loke? Which container?’

‘Stop it!’ Lund yelled and dragged him off.

Grumping, Borch went back to his seat. The three of them sat in silence. Then she said, ‘I know what she went through, Loke. I know you see it in your head all the time. Day and night. I
can’t take it from there. But I can find him. I will . . .’

He looked straight at her. Amused almost. She stopped. Listened.

‘They’ll never let you, Lund. Don’t you understand that? You’ve already made sure he’ll go free.’

‘What if I prove it was Reinhardt? If he’s arrested . . . charged?’

Rantzau looked at his hand, dabbed at the blood there. Shrugged.

‘Then you’ll have to get a move on. Time’s short. It always was. It gets shorter by the minute.’

He went quiet.

‘Meaning what?’ she asked. ‘Loke?
Loke?
’

Later, in a room along the way, Lund saw Robert and Maja Zeuthen. For the first time there was a glimpse of hope in their eyes.

That didn’t cheer her.

‘He’s the man,’ she said. ‘He’s adamant Emilie’s still alive but he won’t say where she is. We’ll continue to talk to him. If I can convince him
we’re working on his daughter’s case . . .’

‘Let us see him,’ Maja pleaded. ‘We can . . .’

Lund shook her head.

‘It won’t help. He seems to have reason to hate Zeeland. He believes you covered up his daughter’s death.’ She watched Zeuthen as she spoke. ‘He worked for your
company. There were some hostage negotiations in Somalia. They went wrong. Rantzau ended up being held there. When he came out . . . that’s when he found out about his daughter.’

‘We know nothing about this,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Why should he take it out on us?’

‘Trust me,’ Lund insisted, ‘you can’t ask for his sympathy. It’s not there. We need to investigate your assistant, Niels Reinhardt.’

‘Reinhardt?’ the mother asked.

‘He’d met the murdered girl. His car was in the vicinity. There are questions we need answered . . .’

Zeuthen was getting mad.

‘This is ridiculous. Niels has been like a member of the family for as long as I can remember. You’ve got this man. Surely—’