The Killing 3 (47 page)

When he left she went upstairs, sat on the bed in the guest room. The passport was on the pillow.

Zeuthen came in, sat next to her.

‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘The plane’s ready. I heard from Hamburg. There was nothing there. Maybe St Petersburg. Reinhardt was supposed to go . . .’

She stiffened at the name.

‘If something had gone wrong in the company I would have known about it,’ he said.

No answer.

‘I’ll go to the office and see what I can do. When you decide where . . .’

Her hand crept out, took his.

‘Stay here. Stay with me. And Carl.’

He saw now. On her lap was one of Emilie’s scrapbooks. Drawings of the family. A photo of a kitten.

‘We’ll get her back,’ he said. ‘When she comes home everything will be different. That’s a promise. If—’

‘They don’t tell you everything in the company. I can see it in Kornerup’s eyes. You’re a figurehead, Robert. Your father’s son. They do what they like behind your
back. They—’

‘I don’t care about Zeeland! I just want the four of us, together again. We can go somewhere. Stay away for as long you like. As long as the kids can bear looking at us.’

She laughed a little at that, held his hand more tightly, moved her head towards his, whispered, ‘Did I leave you? Or you leave me? I don’t remember.’

‘Bit of both I guess.’

This was how it was before. Close. Full of a simple, unquestioning love.

‘How stupid could we be?’ she said. Then kissed him.

He was a shy man. Not passionate yet full of emotion.

She smiled, felt the tears prick at her eyes.

Put a hand to his head, pulled him close.

‘It’s your turn now. Remember?’

Eva was sleeping. The doctor was talking in low, concerned tones about something called meconium aspiration syndrome. Lund looked blank.

‘The baby’s amniotic fluid is contaminated,’ the woman explained. ‘If it gets any worse we may have to induce labour.’

She looked at Lund.

‘To be honest she didn’t want me to call you. But you’re the only relative I could find.’

They’d given her a room of her own in the maternity ward. Gentle cries down the corridor. White figures scuttling around with bundles held in careful arms.

‘Is the baby OK?’

A pause then, ‘We’re keeping an eye on it.’

No direct answer. Never a good thing.

‘Does your son know about Eva’s condition?’

Lund had brought a bunch of flowers. They seemed pointless now.

‘I’ve tried to get hold of him. I don’t know where he is.’

A nod. One that said: nothing new.

‘She needs support. She’s scared. Can’t blame her.’

With that the woman walked off.

Lund found a vase, put the flowers next to the bed. The sound made Eva stir. She rolled on the sheets, young face flushed with the hospital heat, the drugs perhaps.

Big belly in a white gown. Shuffling, wriggling. Uncomfortable. Lund remembered that. And the fear.

A nurse came in and said, ‘Excuse me. You left a bag in the corridor. It’s not allowed—’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘It says Eva Lauersen,’ the woman added. ‘I’ll leave it here anyway. If you . . .’

Lund rushed past her, looked down the corridor. A tall figure in a worn parka heading for the exit. She caught up with him just before the door.

‘Mark?’

He looked worn out.

‘Don’t start, Mum . . .’

‘I won’t. I think Eva’s going to be OK. But there could be a problem with the baby. She needs you here.’

He had his hood pulled low over his brow. The way they looked on the street.

‘I told her the two of you can stay at my place. For as long as you want . . .’

‘Yeah. Like the last couple of nights. And look what shit we’re in now . . .’

All the apologies. All the pleas. And still he could throw this nonsense at her.

‘You can’t blame me for everything. A lot. But not . . .’

A teenage sneer and for a moment he was young again.

‘I know I failed you,’ she added. ‘I don’t need reminding of that. If I had the chance to do it all again—’

‘No!’ he cried. ‘Don’t say that. You never wanted me. I never interested you. There was always the work. Some . . . dead girl or something. Never me. I was alive and that
bored you.’

She wanted to argue, couldn’t find the words.

‘And now you’ve got a little house and a little garden. A little job behind a desk. So you’ve finally earned the right to tell me how to live.’ He shook his head.
‘You don’t know who you are. And you want to—’

‘You live your own life!’ she cried. ‘I don’t want to tell you how. Mark . . . you’re smarter than me. Stronger. God knows you had to be.’

She was crying and that held him.

‘The only good thing I gave you was a lesson in what not to do. You can use that. You and Eva . . .’

Something new in his eyes. Maybe it was hatred.

He turned, started to walk away, down the tiled corridor into a sea of bodies in gowns, white and blue and green.

‘Mark,’ she whispered and knew he couldn’t hear.

Her phone rang.

‘I’ve been checking up on Reinhardt,’ Borch said. ‘He used his credit card at a newsagent’s. Half an hour before she disappeared. Two kilometres from the
school.’

She thought she saw a tall hooded figure disappearing through the distant doors.

‘Sarah?’ Borch asked.

Her son didn’t look back. Maybe never would.

Thursday 17th November

An early start. Lund was in the office just before seven. Brix looked as if he’d never left. Zeeland’s lawyers had been on the phone already, screaming
Reinhardt’s innocence from the rooftops.

‘You need to find something more incriminating than a man buying chocolate frogs at a newsagent’s,’ he said as they went down to the forensic garage.

‘There’s a picture of him with the girl in his study,’ Borch noted, sipping at a coffee by a black Mercedes on the ramp.

‘More than that too.’ Brix nodded at the car. ‘Well?’

‘It gets regular cleans and valets,’ Borch said. ‘Executive car. Executive treatment.’

He went round to the boot. Pointed out an area in the interior ringed by forensic marks.

‘There are scratches in the paint that match Louise’s bike. It’s a common form of paint. And white too. They can’t say conclusively the two are linked.’

The bike was next to the Mercedes. Brix looked ready to kick it.

Lund went to the photos on a desk. They were the ones from Lis Vissenbjerg’s original, hidden autopsy. There was a new report there.

‘Forensics have taken a new look at the pictures of the body. She fought. Injuries prior to death. He would have had blood on him.’

‘And is there any in the car?’ Brix asked.

‘I said.’ Borch was getting tetchy. ‘It gets valeted and cleaned constantly. The fact we can’t find it doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.’

Lund kept going through the latest findings.

‘She had some broken teeth. They seem to think they could have come from a watch.’

Picture in hand – dead mouth open, blood, shattered teeth – she came over and showed him.

Brix nodded at one of the forensic team.

‘We saw that three hours ago. We’ve got Reinhardt’s watch.’ The scene of crime man held up an evidence bag. ‘Hasn’t got a scratch on it.’

Borch tried to argue. No one had seen Reinhardt after his morning meetings in Esbjerg. Or at the hotel.

‘Not much use is it?’ Brix commented.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Lund barked. ‘There’s a whole day missing in his life. He leaves Esbjerg in the morning. Twenty-four hours later he picks up his wife after a
flight from Paris at Kastrup. No one goes off the radar that long . . .’

‘Where did he change his clothes?’ Brix asked. ‘If he’d killed her he’d want the car cleaned straight after. Where did he do that?’

‘We’re looking! It’s not easy—’

‘Emilie Zeuthen’s trapped in a tank somewhere and time’s running out. We need—’

Borch’s phone rang. They kept arguing. When they were done he said, ‘Annette Reinhardt’s upstairs. Let’s ask her.’

A blonde woman in an expensive silk dress, a smiling, confident face. She was happy to sit in an interview room, saw the camera straight away, smiled at it and said,
‘This is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in my life. My husband nearly got killed last night. And now you’re putting him through hell.’

‘Emilie Zeuthen’s missing,’ Lund said. ‘We need to find her.’

The smile vanished.

‘Do you think Niels wouldn’t help if he could?’

Details. They asked about the birthday party. She said it was a surprise. The family had gathered at the house and leapt out from the shadows when she came home.

‘Our two girls and all our dearest friends,’ she said. ‘Typical of him to keep it quiet like that.’

‘He picked you up in his own car?’ Lund asked. ‘The black Mercedes.’

‘Of course he did.’

‘And you put your suitcase in the boot.’

A shake of the head.

‘Where else?’

Borch asked, ‘How was he?’

‘Wonderful. He made the most beautiful speech.’

Lund shuffled some papers.

‘He wasn’t stressed? Or tired?’

‘No. He’d gone to bed early the night before. Niels has high blood pressure. I told him to stay in Jutland. Go to a hotel.’

Juncker’s team had come back from the house with some photos of the party. Reinhardt in evening dress, bow tie, glass of champagne. Making the speech. The sleeves covered his wrists.

‘Did he wear a watch at the party?’ Lund wondered.

‘I should think so. Niels loves his watch. It was very expensive. I gave it to him when he turned sixty.’

The smile seemed more fragile. Lund noticed the woman fiddling with her wedding ring.

‘Tell me about the children’s charity.’

‘It’s a small part of his time,’ she said. ‘He goes to board meetings. Monitors the finances.’

Borch threw another set of photos on the table. Ones from the homes. Reinhardt with children. Girls mostly.

‘He looks in on them too. Not what you’d expect of a board member really.’

‘You would of Niels. He’s very particular. Very . . . caring.’ A pause. ‘It’s important they get a chance in life. And—’

‘You’ve got two daughters,’ Borch interrupted. ‘How was he with them?’

The smile was gone entirely.

‘When they were small?’ he added. ‘Were you ever . . . concerned?’

Reinhardt’s wife leaned back, folded her arms. Pursed her lips. Stared at the pair of them.

The door opened. Madsen asked for him, urgently. He went out.

Lund stayed.

‘You’ve two summer houses. One in France. One on Anholt.’

‘What of it? Are you going to tear those apart as well?’

‘Not unless we have to. Is there anywhere else you spend time? The place you have near the Zeeland offices . . .’

‘Hans Zeuthen gave that to Niels in his will. It’s ours.’

‘Where else do you go? Country cottages? Boats?’

‘There’s a nice little flat in London but we rent that out. And his gallery.’

‘His what?’

Lund listened. Made notes. Left her there. Borch was back in the office looking lost.

‘Reinhardt’s got a place in the city he never told us about,’ she said. ‘He calls it his art gallery. Let’s go.’

He didn’t move.

‘Get your coat, will you?’

Nothing. She turned. A woman there. Fair hair. Thin, angry face.

The wife.

‘I’m busy,’ Lund said. ‘Not now.’

‘Yes! Now!’

She had a bag over her shoulder. Threw it on the floor. Shirts and pants scattered everywhere.

‘It’s your fault we’re standing here, Lund.’

Borch came over, shook his head.

‘It isn’t, Marie. You know that.’

‘He’s been bleating about moving out. So here . . .’ She kicked the clothes. ‘You can do his dirty washing for him.’

Every officer in the place was scuttling away, trying not to hear.

‘What am I supposed to tell the girls?’ She looked at Borch. At her. ‘Will they see him in a week? A month? Ever?’

Lund kept quiet, took a long deep breath.

‘Say something, you bitch! I’ve a right to know. You two shagging in Jutland . . .’

He put a hand to her shoulder. She threw him off.

‘What the hell are you thinking, Lund? You dumped him years ago. What do you want him for now?’

‘It’s not just about Sarah,’ Borch said. ‘We both know that—’

‘No. I don’t. You . . .’

Little fists flying against his chest. His hands against hers. Curses. Tears.

Lund left them there, crossed the office, went out into the corridor, leaned against the wall.

Then pulled out her phone, got the map, typed in the address for the place Niels Reinhardt forgot to mention.

Underground, his wife said. A funny place for art.

Zeuthen was in the office, couldn’t stop looking at the clocks. Seven more shipping companies had opened up their cargo holds. Not a trace of a tank in any so far.

He sat at the table, casual jacket, white shirt, open at the neck. Maja next to him. Reaching out, touching his hand from time to time.

It helped, a little.

Then the door opened and a tall figure walked in, stiff and in obvious pain.

Zeuthen got up. His wife stayed where she was.

‘Come with me,’ Robert Zeuthen said, taking Reinhardt’s arm.

They went next door, talked alone by the window over the harbour.

‘I’ve explained everything to them,’ Reinhardt said with a shrug. ‘They’re the police. We know what they’re like. Annette’s talked to them too.
I’m afraid I’m one more victim of their incompetence. It’s strange . . .’

A secretary came in, brought them coffee. He took it with the mannered politeness Zeuthen had known since he was a child.

‘They kept throwing all these stupid questions at me and all I could think was . . . why aren’t you looking for Emilie? Why waste time on me? Still, the worst’s
over.’

He put a hand to his neck, winced.

‘I want you to go home and relax,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Don’t even think of the office until this is over.’