The Killing 3 (46 page)

‘If we find his daughter’s killer, hopefully we can get to Emilie before it’s too late.’

Silence.

‘Too late?’ Maja Zeuthen saw it straight away. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘We need details of your children’s charity—’

‘Lund! What do you mean . . . too late?’

Tired, confused. Stupid. She felt all those things. It had just slipped out though they had to know anyway.

‘Rantzau says that four nights ago he shipped Emilie out of Copenhagen for a foreign destination. He won’t say where.’

‘And?’ the woman persisted.

‘He claims she’s in an airtight tank inside a container. He showed us . . .’

She opened her notebook, passed the page over.

‘It’s a decompression tank for divers.’

Drawings of a metal tube with a door on the side.

‘We’d know if something like that was on board,’ Zeuthen insisted.

‘That’s what he says.’

‘How long?’ Maja Zeuthen asked.

‘There’s nothing to say any of this is true—’

‘How long?’ Robert Zeuthen repeated.

‘Forty-eight hours. Maybe less. We need all the information you can provide on the charity. Reinhardt is back in his house at Zeeland. He’s not badly hurt. He was lucky
in—’

‘Let me understand this,’ Maja Zeuthen cut in. ‘You think Niels Reinhardt raped and murdered that girl? And if you can prove it this Rantzau man will tell us where Emilie
is?’

‘That’s about it,’ Lund agreed.

Mogens Rank found Nebel in the office. The four of them sat down to listen to his account of the case so far. Reinhardt’s connection with the children’s home. The
fact his car had been seen in the area.

‘Is there anything else that connects him to the girl?’ Weber asked.

‘It seems he met her once. There’s a photograph. He was running the children’s charity. There’s no great surprise there.’

Weber wouldn’t leave it.

‘Is there any suggestion . . . any evidence to show he pressured Peter Schultz into shelving the investigation?’

Rank shook his head.

‘Who’s saying anyone from our side leaned on him? Ussing had reason to. He had the Hjelby girl in the campaign. He was photographed—’

‘Anders Ussing’s in the clear,’ Weber cut in angrily. ‘The Politigården say so. He didn’t know the girl had been murdered. Schultz was doing someone else a
favour there.’

Rank rolled his eyes.

‘It wasn’t us! If I thought someone here did that I’d tell you. Believe me.’

Karen Nebel had sat silent throughout. Hartmann looked directly at her and said, ‘Unless there’s something we don’t know about. What do you think, Karen?’

‘About what?’

‘Do you know Niels Reinhardt?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I’ve met him. We all have. He was our point man when Hans Zeuthen was alive. For his son too.’

‘Did you meet him that day in Jutland?’

She met his gaze.

‘It was election time. I met lots of people. A few from Zeeland. If—’

‘Answer the question,’ Weber begged. ‘Did you meet Reinhardt that day in Jutland?’

She put down her pen, leaned back in the chair, looked round the table.

Yes. I did.’

‘Why?’ Weber wanted to know.

‘Because the party needed it. Because we had no choice . . .’

Hartmann got up, pointed a finger at the adjoining room. Went there. Poured himself a brandy. Waited.

One minute later she came in, sat down opposite. Weber followed, closed the door, stood there, listened.

‘Is this formal, Troels?’

‘If it was we’d be having this conversation in front of Mogens. Do you want him in here? He is the Justice Minister after all.’

A shake of her blonde hair.

‘No. I don’t need Mogens. I was doing my job. We were down in the polls. All the talk of crisis wasn’t helping. We needed Zeeland on our side.’

‘And?’

‘Robert Zeuthen had just taken over after his father’s death. Their CEO Kornerup was trying to steal the company from under his nose. If he’d managed that we’d have had
Zeeland announcing mass redundancies the week of the election.’

She got a glass, poured herself a drink.

‘Reinhardt called and asked if he could come out to Jutland to talk. He said he could keep Kornerup at bay, keep Robert in position, if we promised them a few sweeteners. A freeze on some
taxes. Birgit Eggert was fine with that idea. So were you when she mentioned it. We announced it the next day.’

‘Benjamin saw you,’ Weber said.

‘So what? It wasn’t secret. Wasn’t illegal. They’re one of our biggest companies. Everyone knows they lobby politicians for what they want—’

‘I never asked you to take that meeting,’ Hartmann objected.

‘I don’t bother you with every appointment I make. We were in the middle of a campaign.’

Weber nodded.

‘And he gave you money.’

‘Zeeland made a political contribution, through the usual channels. It wasn’t as if he handed over a bag of cash in a car park.’

‘Benjamin thought we were sucking up to big business already,’ Weber told her. ‘When he caught you two together—’

‘That’s not my fault, Morten. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

He came to the table, grabbed a glass, poured himself a drink.

‘But Reinhardt did. He murdered that kid afterwards. Or so Lund thinks. If it turns out that’s true Ussing’s going to crucify us. Who’s going to believe we didn’t
lean on Schultz to kill it? We had Reinhardt’s money in the bank.’

‘You think I helped Reinhardt cover up a murder?’ she yelled. ‘Just for money?’

‘You could have told us you met him that day,’ Hartmann said.

‘Why? It never crossed my mind. Why would I connect some murdered teenager with an old guy from Zeeland? What am I? Psychic?’

‘You’re paid to be,’ Weber complained. ‘Not to—’

‘Enough,’ Hartmann pleaded.

Head in hands. Fingers kneading his brow. He eyed the drink, nothing else.

‘Do you honestly think I had something to do with burying this case, Troels?’

She waited. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t answer.

Nebel got to her feet, walked straight out.

When she’d left Hartmann turned to Weber.

‘She has to make a full statement to the police. After that find her a desk in the secretariat somewhere. She can photocopy stuff or something—’

‘We need Karen,’ Weber interrupted. ‘Tomorrow’s the last day of campaigning. Your final debate. She’s too well connected . . .’

‘Benjamin must have talked to someone else. Not just you.’

Weber stayed quiet.

‘Tell me, Morten.’

‘He was hanging out with those protest friends of his. That’s why he was taking pictures. They were supposed to be for their website.’

‘What website?’

Weber scowled.

‘It’s called
Frontal
. The usual extremist conspiracy crap. They never ran anything. I kept an eye out.’

He went quiet.

‘And?’

‘He said there was a girl there. He liked her. Sally. I offered to pay for him to take her away for a holiday but . . . that was the capitalist bastard trying to bribe him
again.’

‘Find her,’ Hartmann ordered.

Niels Reinhardt was back from the hospital. Head wounds. Cuts on his face. Bruised ribs. Lund and Borch were in his apartment in the block by the water outside Zeeland,
watching uniform officers and forensic start a search.

‘My phone’s ringing,’ Reinhardt said. ‘It’s probably my wife. She’s coming back from France. Am I allowed to answer—?’

‘You can do that later,’ Lund told him. ‘Your diary says you were in Jutland the day Louise Hjelby disappeared.’

Borch put the book on the desk.

‘Do you remember if you stopped in Gudbjerghavn?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so. We’d shut the port there the year before.’

‘Where were you going?’

‘To Esbjerg. I had a few meetings first thing in the morning.’

‘Who with?’ Borch wanted to know.

‘Politicians. It was during the election. We were lobbying them all to try to gauge what their support for industry truly was. I met with someone from Hartmann’s camp. Ussing’s
too.’

He struggled to do up his tie. Abandoned the idea. It hurt too much.

‘What people say in private differs from their public stance sometimes. We were struggling with the economy. Trying to find some way to help the company . . . help Denmark through the
worst of it.’

‘You remember that?’ Borch asked. ‘Two years on?’

‘Yes, I do, actually. Robert’s father had died not long before. There was a lot of turmoil in the company as a result. Also April the twenty-first was my wife’s sixtieth
birthday. I had a large party to organize.’

Lund looked at the diary. It was blank for the following day.

‘So you had your interviews and left Jutland?’

‘No. I didn’t feel well. My wife insisted I stay at a hotel. I went there in the middle of the afternoon. Didn’t leave.’

Borch asked for the name of the place. Reinhardt shook his head, gave him the name of his PA, said she’d have it.

‘You had access to the charity files,’ Lund said. ‘You knew Louise Hjelby’s address in Gudbjerghavn. You’d met her in the children’s home . . .’

‘I didn’t know she was the girl you were talking about.’ He gestured at the pictures on the shelf. ‘Would I keep a photo of her in my living room if I had something to
hide?’

She looked at the frames lined up next to one another.

‘You might if you wanted a trophy. A souvenir.’

Reinhardt spat out a quiet curse.

‘So no one can confirm what you did after these early morning meetings in Esbjerg?’

‘If that’s what you say . . .’

Borch brandished some phone records.

‘And your mobile was turned off from two in the afternoon. Went dead twelve kilometres from Louise’s home? Didn’t come back on until you were in Copenhagen the next
day?’

‘The battery must have run out! This is absurd. I’m sixty-four years old. Do I look like the kind of man who goes round raping and murdering young girls?’ His voice broke. He
looked ready to weep. ‘I can’t believe you think I could do such a thing!’

Borch told him they’d need DNA and fingerprints. Reinhardt’s car was being taken to the Politigården garage.

‘I want your passport,’ Lund added. ‘You won’t leave Copenhagen without our permission. Breach any of these conditions and we’ll take you into custody.’

Her phone rang. Lund walked to the long double windows to take it. The little jetty where she and Reinhardt had nearly died was now lit up like a miniature seaside pier.

It was the hospital, asking again for Mark. Eva was sick, needed support, needed clothes. She phoned him, got voicemail, left another message.

Borch was listening to Juncker moan again, asking this time why they were searching Reinhardt’s home, not looking for Emilie Zeuthen.

When she came off the phone he asked what was happening.

‘We need to search Reinhardt’s place in France,’ she said. ‘And anywhere else he has. If he killed Louise he must have been abusing other kids in these homes. Maybe he
wasn’t the only one.’

‘Leave this to us, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Go and find Mark.’

‘Have we tried giving this Rantzau bloke a good kicking?’ Juncker asked.

‘There’s work to do here!’ she pleaded.

‘Yes. And we’ll do it,’ Borch replied. ‘Take a break.’

Maja was upstairs in Drekar making phone calls, talking about getting her passport, looking abroad herself. Then Kornerup turned up. Confident. Not quite a smirk on his face.
But it wasn’t far away.

Zeuthen stood in front of him at the foot of the grand staircase.

‘Why are you here? I don’t want you in my home.’

‘I’m sorry, Robert. I understand fully. But we need to discuss the police’s interest in Reinhardt.’

Zeuthen groaned.

‘It’s ridiculous. They’ve fouled up again. Niels has been around for ever. I want—’

‘It’s not just about Reinhardt. The charity’s been a very public venture for Zeeland. If the media get hold of this story—’

‘They said this man Rantzau worked for us,’ Zeuthen broke in. ‘Did Niels know him?’

Nothing.

‘Did you?’

‘I want our best lawyers to help Reinhardt. He’s an innocent man. He’s owed that.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Well?’

Kornerup winced, looked at the study. The two men went and sat down.

‘Your father dealt with ransoms personally. We just did as we were told.’

‘Which was what?’

‘We kept clear of direct negotiations. We used go-betweens. It seems Loke Rantzau was one of them. I didn’t know. I’m sure Reinhardt had no idea. The man was barely on the
books.’

‘He was captured. We did nothing.’

Kornerup frowned.

‘It’s a dangerous business. I gather he has a military background. He’d know the risks.’

Zeuthen was staring at the secure cabinet ahead of him. He knew what was in there. Had thought of it for some time.

‘The point is, Robert, we should be leaning on the Politigården. They have to stop interrogating Reinhardt as if he’s a criminal and focus on this Rantzau creature. Why
aren’t they putting pressure on the man? He knows where Emilie is. No one else.’

Footsteps at the door. Maja was there in a long coat, from her old wardrobe, one she wore when they were together.

‘How can you be so sure Reinhardt’s not involved?’ she demanded.

‘Maja . . .’ Zeuthen began.

‘I know you think he’s an uncle or something. But Lund must have a reason to suspect him.’

He went to the cabinet. They kept the family paperwork there. And a weapon. A silver handgun. Just in case.

Zeuthen got her passport, walked over, handed it to her.

‘You asked Reinhardt to find out if anyone in Zeeland knew about that girl’s death,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t he . . . ?’

Kornerup was on his feet, hand extended. Looking at them both.

‘Everyone at Zeeland wants the best for you both, and Emilie,’ he insisted. ‘If I can help in any way just ask.’

The hand stayed out. Zeuthen took it.

‘We’ve had our differences,’ Kornerup said, ‘but they’re forgotten on my part. You lead this company, Robert. Tell us what to do.’