The Killing 3 (52 page)

‘Where’s the girl, Loke?’ she asked.

He shot a glance at Borch.

‘You can tell your boyfriend if he does that one more time we may as well all go home.’

‘He won’t,’ she promised, pushing Borch back. ‘You’ve had us running all round Norway on a wild goose chase. You said time was running out.’

Rantzau looked at the water, coughed.

‘He had it picked up by a truck,’ Borch said, thrusting some paperwork in front of her. ‘There’s no record of where it went.’

‘Loke.’ She stood closer until he looked at her. ‘We’ve got a deal. Copenhagen won’t keep chasing Louise’s case if you won’t help us.’

He nodded.

‘The truth is I arranged for it to go somewhere quieter than this. I didn’t know they’d pick it up yesterday.’

Borch pushed his way in.

‘Who did you use for the transport? Give me a name or I swear to God I’ll slap you again, and it’s going to be harder this time.’

Rantzau looked at him, looked away. At Lund.

‘We’re going up the fjord,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a boat.’

A commotion behind. Zeuthen was there, hands in his pockets, trying to barge in.

Lund yelled until two Norwegian officers intervened, keeping him back.

‘Loke. This has to be for real,’ she said.

‘Everything I do’s for real, Lund. What’s the point otherwise?’

He nodded at a small white pleasure cruiser, moored by the pier.

‘That’ll do.’

Half an hour later they’d chartered the boat and were heading up the bare fjord. There was snow on the slopes, breaks of sunshine between heavy, threatening cloud.
Rantzau stood in the lee of the cabin, out of the icy wind, handcuffed to the metalwork, smoking as many cigarettes as he could beg.

After an hour their generosity ran out.

She joined Borch, Reinhardt and Zeuthen at the stern where they were poring over charts.

‘We used to have small boatyards up here,’ Reinhardt said. ‘Rantzau visited quite a few setting up their IT systems. He must know the area very well.’

Borch looked dubious. The fjord seemed empty.

‘Where the hell could you put a container ashore here?’

Reinhardt thought it was possible. There were several small harbours, a few of them with roads linking back to the coast.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Zeuthen said and tapped his wrist.

She left them and called Juncker. They’d come up with nothing new on the foreign cars.

‘We can’t find any driver who’s been near a watch shop,’ he added. ‘Except for Niels Reinhardt. He bought a new one in Fisketorvet, first thing in the morning after
Louise Hjelby was killed. Except it can’t be him, can it? He wasn’t in Copenhagen. He was at that hotel in Esbjerg.’

Lund looked at the tall man standing alongside Zeuthen at the back of the boat, patiently going over the charts.

‘You’re sure it was Reinhardt?’

‘Looks like it. I called the shop. It was a very expensive watch. They don’t sell many like that. There’s a credit card slip. The man he described sounds like
Reinhardt.’

It looked as if Rantzau was saying something.

‘Also,’ Juncker added. ‘Brix caught me checking that old Birk Larsen stuff which didn’t go down too well, I can tell you.’

‘You have to keep looking, Asbjørn. Nothing happens if you stop.’

‘I’ll try to remember that. Where are you headed? Don’t even think of hanging up on me . . .’

She cut the call. Borch was coming.

‘The latest fairy story is we’re heading for an empty pumping station. I’m going to get the Norwegians to bring in more men. You can talk to Loke if you like. I swear I’m
going to kill the bastard if he jerks us around one more time.’

‘The hotel . . .’ she said, ‘did you check the lock-system data?’

‘What hotel?’

‘Reinhardt bought his new watch the day after Louise was killed. In Copenhagen. First thing in the morning. When he was supposed to be in the hotel in Esbjerg. Are we sure he’s got
an alibi?’

Borch shrugged.

‘Dyhring had someone on it. They said the lock-system records showed he went into the room that afternoon and stayed there till the following morning. PET went over his alibi really
closely. Maybe the watch man got the date wrong.’

‘It’s on his credit card.’

‘He couldn’t have changed the hotel lock records. It’s not possible . . .’

The boat turned into a small bay. Rantzau was pointing. There was a jetty, bigger than she’d expected. A series of low grey buildings nestled in a rocky inlet, a narrow winding road
behind. The place looked deserted, abandoned. Empty.

‘If she’s not there,’ Borch said, ‘I swear . . .’

‘Yes,’ she said and briefly patted his arm. ‘I’ve got the message, thank you.’

Just before midday Hartmann’s Mercedes pulled into a grubby cul-de-sac in Nørrebro, two bodyguards from PET in the car behind. Morten Weber was on the phone
getting a briefing from Mogens Rank.

‘Still no news,’ Rank said. ‘They’ve hired a boat. He’s taking them up a fjord now.’

‘What is this? A holiday?’ Weber demanded.

‘Rantzau says he’s leading them to the girl.’

The PET men came up with umbrellas. Hartmann stepped straight beneath his, looked around. Benjamin had died under a train behind this place. The track wasn’t even fenced. Next to the
buildings was a basketball court, a few youngsters playing on it.

‘No one’s going to touch us with a barge pole if we can’t get the Zeuthen girl out of there alive,’ Weber said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rank insisted. ‘We’re on it. Tell Troels I’ll gladly fill Agger’s boots at the Treasury if he wants. I did economics at
university.’

Weber muttered something caustic and finished the call. Karen Nebel was there already, leaning against the third door of a set of lock-ups.

‘You’ve found it?’ Hartmann asked.

Weber was getting agitated.

‘We don’t have a single coalition partner. Ussing’s ringing round. Can’t we do this another time?’

Nebel had the padlock in her hands.

‘That might not be a bad idea,’ she suggested.

Hartmann shut his eyes for a moment. Then said, ‘I need to see.’

She stood aside and threw open a rusty metal door. There was a storeroom beyond. Nebel found the light switch. An ancient desk. Behind it cuttings from the newspapers. All about Hartmann and the
party. Notes stuck to each story. A big sheet over them that read, ‘Where does the money come from?’

‘I never knew he played,’ Hartmann muttered as he looked at a pair of basketball shoes and some sports gear thrown in the corner.

Pictures of Hans Zeuthen and his son. Weber. Nebel. Hartmann himself.

Weber started to go through them methodically.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here. You’ve got it.’

A photo of Nebel with Reinhardt, next to his car.

‘So Benjamin got a shot of Zeeland promising Karen some cash,’ Weber said. ‘And Karen saying thanks.’

She was looking at the floor. Papers scattered everywhere. A chair turned over.

‘Someone’s searched this place. Then shut it up afterwards. The padlock was on the door when I found it.’

‘Yes, well . . .’ Weber looked at his watch. ‘We’ve seen what there is to see.’

Nebel came and looked at the old photo from Jutland.

‘That can’t be what they were after. If it was they’d have taken it.’

Hartmann walked to the desk. A packet of cigarettes. An old lighter. Papers everywhere. Old bus tickets. An ancient laptop. And a baseball cap. ‘Harvard’ on the front. Something he
must have brought back from America when they kicked him out of college.

‘Benjamin was really screwed up,’ Weber said in as gentle a voice as he could manage. ‘You can see that. We shouldn’t be here.’

Hartmann picked up the cap. Couldn’t remember his brother ever wearing it.

‘He got mixed up in a kind of politics we don’t listen to, Morten. That didn’t kill him.’

A train ran past. Noisy. Fast. So close it shook the room. Hartmann put a hand to his head, couldn’t think straight.

‘I’m really sorry I dragged you out here. It’s up to me to bury my brother. Not you.’ He took one last look round the grimy room. ‘Can you get someone to pack up
his stuff and put it in storage somewhere?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Morten. Get in touch with the party leaders and find out how long they’re willing to wait on news from Norway. You’re right. We need to get moving.’

The cap was still in his hands. Not much worn at all. Hartmann stuffed it into his jacket pocket and walked back to the car.

Maja Zeuthen had gone to the Politigården and made it clear to Brix she wasn’t leaving.

Things were happening, not that they were about to tell her. So she retreated into a corner and waited for him. Listening.

He was on a tense call, to Lund she guessed. Pumping her for information. Getting little back in return. The previous night Robert had told her he’d forgotten his car charger for the
phone. She’d never managed to raise him again or got a message back.

Then, that morning, putting the passport back into the secure cupboard in Drekar, she’d noticed something was missing. The silver handgun she hated. A box of shells too.

‘So what if no one saw Reinhardt in the hotel?’ Brix barked. ‘We packed in looking at him when we knew he had an alibi. Focus on finding the girl . . .’

He caught her listening, grimaced.

‘Maja Zeuthen’s here,’ Brix said. ‘She insists on speaking to her husband. She hasn’t been able to get through herself. Put him on the line.’

Then he handed over the call.

She went out into the corridor to take it. Robert’s voice was tired and anxious.

‘We haven’t found her yet,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. This man Rantzau . . . I don’t know . . . I have to go.’

‘Robert,’ she whispered. ‘I know what you’ve got there. I saw what you took from the cupboard.’

Silence then, sounding a little cross, he said, ‘I really have to hang up.’

‘What good’s that going to do us?’ She blinked, realized the tears were coming. ‘We’ve enough hurt already without . . .’

A click. The line went dead. Brix was behind her.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

A tall man. Polite mostly. But forbidding when he wanted to be.

‘I asked you a question, Maja. What the hell’s going on?’

It took fifteen minutes to check the jetty and the storage sheds. There wasn’t a single container at the pumping station.

‘He’s been stringing us along from the start,’ Borch said.

Rantzau stood by the dockside, handcuffed, trying to beg a cigarette from anyone who passed.

She watched him and said, ‘There must be somewhere we haven’t tried—’

‘Sarah, Sarah! Stop this. He’s screwed us over. We’re going to have to get the bastard back to Copenhagen right—’

‘Lund!’ Rantzau cried, trying to point with his cuffed hands. ‘There it is.’ He smiled at Borch. ‘I told you.’

An articulated truck rounded the headland travelling slowly down the narrow, winding road. There was a green container on the back.

Zeuthen came out from behind the warehouses with Reinhardt.

‘I didn’t deal with details,’ Rantzau added. ‘I’d no idea they’d bring it here by road.’

It took another ten minutes for the truck to reach them. Then the Norwegians got the driver to unload the container onto the pier and took him in for questioning.

The heavy doors were locked and chained. They had to find cutters and that took time. All the while Zeuthen got more frantic. Calling to the girl inside. Shouting they were nearly there.

Just before one thirty the last chain was broken and the sliding retainers pushed up.

‘Emilie!’ Zeuthen shouted and pushed his way to the front, stared at the blackness ahead.

Walked inside.

Borch pulled out his torch. Something at the back against the corrugated steel wall.

Zeuthen dashed to it, pulled at the dark shape. It moved. Flew beneath a flurry of kicks.

An industrial plastic bag. Empty. That was all.

The Norwegians had taken Rantzau into one of the warehouses. She left the container, found him sitting on a bench in front of a young and nervous Norwegian uniformed cop.

Lund bent down, looked into his bruised and battered face.

‘You lied to me, Loke. You promised me Emilie.’

‘Everyone lies, Lund,’ he said with a shrug.

Borch wasn’t far behind.

‘What was the point of this?’ he demanded.

Rantzau shook his head, puzzled.

‘The point? Isn’t that obvious? I had to do it.’ Settled, relaxed. He grinned. ‘If I hadn’t you might have found her.’

Lund shrieked. The scream echoed round the building.

His manacled hand came up. A bandaged finger jabbed at her.

‘You don’t want to find the bastard who murdered my daughter—’

‘I’m trying,’ she cried. ‘I will. I promise . . .’

Rantzau shot to his feet, wild and bellowing.

‘Then why did you let him go? Why’s he sitting out there laughing at me every time I look?’

The watch. The hotel. The black car. But most of all the sly way Reinhardt had of evading Zeuthen’s gaze whenever the subject of Emilie – not Louise Hjelby – came up. She
couldn’t speak.

‘You had him,’ Rantzau said more calmly. ‘Then you set him free and brought him here. To watch.’ He leaned towards her. ‘You owe me, Lund. Much more than I owe you.
I’m the cheated party. No one else.’

Footsteps. Zeuthen, Reinhardt, two more Norwegian cops.

For the first time Loke Rantzau looked Emilie’s father in the face.

‘There’s still time to save her. But you have to tell me the truth.’

‘What truth?’ Zeuthen screeched. ‘I don’t know anything.’

Rantzau nodded at Reinhardt.

‘He does. Get your man to tell me how he killed my daughter. How your people managed to bury the case. Like you buried me . . .’

Zeuthen stared at him. Rantzau’s head went to one side, a look of amazement.

‘You really are a fool, aren’t you? Just a dupe like the rest of them? Have they—?’

‘If it’s Reinhardt he’ll be punished,’ Lund said.

He laughed.

‘Why should I believe that? Do you ever listen, Lund? They won’t let you—’