The Killing 3 (54 page)

‘She’s alive,’ Borch said as they stood next to one another, watching Robert Zeuthen alone on the quay, weeping with relief, lost to the stark, bare landscape
around him.

Lund looked at her phone, wondered if this was the right time to call.

‘You did it, Sarah.’

Mathias Borch wore a broad smile. Seemed young again, the way he had when they first met. The puppy look. She’d fallen so heavily for that.

‘We did it together,’ she insisted.

He laughed. Kissed her cheek, would have come back for more if she hadn’t retreated.

‘No. You did it. You were always so much better than me.’

She nodded.

‘At some things anyway.’

Reinhardt strode over. She steeled herself to deal with him.

He broke into a diplomatic smile and said, ‘Robert’s aware he broke the law by bringing along that gun. He’s deeply sorry. He would never have killed Rantzau . . .’

‘Loke’s still dead,’ Lund said.

Reinhardt nodded at the local police.

‘They shot him.’ He didn’t look in the least sorry. ‘Blame the Norwegians. What I suggest is this. We call in a helicopter for Robert. It’s important he gets back
to his family as soon as possible. I’ll stay and deal with any formalities.’

He looked at them.

‘Is that acceptable?’

Lund stayed quiet. Borch said OK.

Reinhardt strode back to Zeuthen, slapped him on the shoulder, got nothing in return. The younger man walked off towards the end of the jetty alone.

‘It can’t be him,’ Borch said. ‘We checked him out. It’s impossible.’

Lund didn’t take her eyes off Reinhardt and he knew it.

‘I want him checked out again. Everything from the hotel to the watch to . . .’

Borch shook his head.

‘Dyhring won’t wear that. They won’t let Brix get involved either. We’ve spent a lot of time on this. Emilie Zeuthen’s safe. Rantzau’s dead . . .’

She glared at him. The moment between them was gone.

‘Niels Reinhardt travelled the world for Zeeland’s charity. He’s been doing this for years.’

‘Sarah,’ Borch said with a pained, worn expression. ‘Stop this. You’re just guessing.’

‘And he’s still doing it,’ she added. ‘Loke Rantzau realized that. Why didn’t we?’

The polls didn’t close until eight in the evening. Long before then it was clear Emilie Zeuthen’s rescue had transformed the election. Mogens Rank was left to make
the announcement of her safe release. It was being replayed on the giant TV screen in the Parliament building when Hartmann arrived for the victory party.

For once Rank was full of praise for PET and the police. Their steadfast work had brought the case to a satisfactory conclusion. Emilie was now being treated in hospital and would be allowed
home to her family later that night.

There was no more talk about Zeeland withdrawing from Denmark. All the indications were that Hartmann would be free to choose the coalition partners he wanted, and decide how lowly or otherwise
their ministerial positions might be.

None of this mattered to him at that moment. He was intent on tracking down Morten Weber in the crush.

It took ten minutes, dodging handshakes and congratulatory pats on the back. Then he found Weber amidst a throng of party workers by the window over the square.

The little man raised his glass as Hartmann approached.

‘We’re headed for a dream result, Troels. The best we’ve ever achieved thanks to you.’ The others toasted him on cue. ‘Rosa Lebech’s been on the phone.
She’d like to talk. I said . . . when we have the time. When the hangovers have receded.’

That got a laugh, but not from Hartmann.

He grabbed Weber by the collar and dragged him into the corridor.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Troels. What is it now?’

‘You were at that lock-up of Benjamin’s around the time he died. Someone recognized you.’

Weber leaned back against the wall, folded his arms. Didn’t look concerned.

‘And?’

‘What were you doing out there?’

A shrug.

‘What I’m paid for. Watching your back. Someone tipped me off Benjamin had been taking pictures of Reinhardt and Karen. I just wanted a word with him. That was all.’

‘Who told you?’

Weber put down his glass.

‘Look. This is a great night for us. Let’s not spoil it. I explained to Benjamin it was pointless publishing those photos. He didn’t want to know. He told me to get lost and
that was it. I didn’t steal any pictures from him—’

‘Who tipped you off?’ Hartmann repeated.

Weber shook his head.

‘We’re not going there again.’

Hartmann grabbed his jacket with both hands, pinned him against the wall.

‘People are starting to look,’ Weber whispered. ‘This is no way to start your second term . . .’

‘Tell me or I’ll break you. I swear—’

‘Mogens,’ Weber said. ‘Dyhring called him. PET found out Benjamin had uploaded those photos to his web account. They were watching out for us. Mogens wondered if I could have a
quiet chat . . .’

Hartmann let him go. Weber brushed at his jacket.

‘For God’s sake, Troels. Nothing happened. I would have told you but the next day he was dead. You were in a state.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to make
things worse telling you your own brother had been trying to stir the shit behind the scenes. I was looking after your interests—’

‘Not any more you’re not.’

‘No,’ Weber agreed. ‘Not any more. I told you that already, didn’t I? But you know what . . . ?’

He straightened his jacket. Looked across the corridor. Karen Nebel was there, watching them, worried.

‘If it makes you feel better blaming me then do it. If it means you don’t have to look at yourself and ask why Benjamin was falling apart, hanging round with druggies and creeps
while you were too busy to notice—’

The slap came. Weber took it.

‘That’s twice now. We’re done.’

He headed back for the party. Hartmann was about to follow when Nebel stopped him at the door. The IT people had got into the USB key. It was full of photographs.

The crowd was getting bigger, happier with every fresh result going their way. Hartmann wanted to be among them. Drown in their shared pleasure. Wait until he was on his own and get stinking
drunk.

Nebel kept going.

‘I know, I know,’ he said finally. ‘Benjamin took some photos of you and Reinhardt. We’ve been through this, Karen.’

‘He took more than that. He followed Reinhardt after he left me. Look . . .’

She had the pictures from Benjamin’s USB stick on her iPad, skimmed through them with a finger.

Photos of Zeeland’s man filling up his black car. Going into a newsagent’s and coming out with a magazine and some sweets.

‘Then these,’ Nebel said.

Hartmann looked. Couldn’t hear the room any more. Couldn’t care less what was happening in the polls.

Brix was watching the party start up in the Politigården when she called.

‘We need to start again with Reinhardt. Check the garage. The hotel. His watch . . .’

He closed his eyes. Wondered at her persistent ability to ruin his mood.

‘Listen, Lund. As long as he’s got a cast-iron alibi we won’t get a warrant for anything. I won’t ask for one either. Emilie Zeuthen’s safe. Her kidnapper’s
dead. That’s the end of this story.’

Juncker was chatting happily to Ruth Hedeby on the other side of the room. Someone would probably bring in beer soon.

‘We still don’t know who killed Louise Hjelby,’ she said. ‘Reinhardt’s our best suspect. I think he’s done it before. For all we know he’ll do it
again.’

A long, pained sigh.

‘What’s this to you? I thought you were turning up at OPA on Monday?’

‘I promised Rantzau—’

‘That means a lot to me. I’ve got the paperwork here. Reinhardt stayed in room one eighteen. The lock registered when he came. Then when he left the following morning.’

‘I’ll double check that . . .’

‘No! You won’t. You’ll come back here and get a commendation. And on Monday you’ll start at OPA. You know how I tried to stop you?’

‘Reinhardt . . .’ she began.

‘I’m not going to stand in your way any more,’ Brix added. ‘This investigation’s closed. The Hjelby case has run into a dead end. You’ve nothing on Reinhardt.
Even if you’re right we can’t bring him to court. He’s wrapped in Zeeland lawyers. There’s nothing I can do . . .’

Silence then she said, ‘You mean you won’t let me?’

‘If you prefer to put it that way . . .’

He listened for the next objection. But it never came.

‘Lund?’

Someone had opened a bottle. Hedeby on the other side of the office. It was champagne and she was pouring.

The wrong sort, Brix guessed. She was never good with wine. But still . . . he’d drink it.

Lund came off the phone, kicked a rock on the jetty, watched it go over the side, heard a splash as it hit the water. It was getting dark. Robert Zeuthen had been picked up by
helicopter. He’d be back in Copenhagen before his daughter was home in Drekar. Reinhardt had hung around making arrangements. Borch had been . . . nice.

He came over, phone in hand.

‘I don’t know what’s going on in the office. I can’t get hold of Dyhring.’

‘They’re all slapping each other on the back and getting pissed.’

‘Hartmann won the election,’ he added. ‘We won’t hear from him again. Busy day, eh?’ He put a hand to her arm, smiled. ‘A good one too.’

‘I doubt Loke Rantzau would have agreed with that.’

‘Rantzau was a murdering bastard.’

The Norwegian police had taken away the body. There was no need for them to stay around.

‘His daughter thought he was a hero,’ she said. ‘In a way he was. Navy special forces. The man Zeeland turned to when they needed some dirty work done. I promised . .
.’

The smile vanished.

‘A promise to a man like that means nothing, Sarah. Besides Reinhardt’s alibi’s unbreakable.’

His hand strayed to her hair. She shook him off.

‘I know you don’t want to let go of this. But honestly . . . it could have been any one of a hundred cars that went down that road. You found Emilie. That’s what this was all
about.’

A tall figure strode over. Reinhardt cheery again.

‘I’m finished here,’ he announced. ‘The Norwegians are content to let us go.’

He looked at Borch, not her.

‘We’re all very grateful to you for finding Emilie. I’ve ordered an air taxi back to Copenhagen. A little airport. It’s just thirty minutes from here.’

Lund kept her eyes on him.

‘You’re welcome to join me,’ Reinhardt added. ‘But we need to leave now.’

She didn’t stop staring, didn’t say a word.

‘That would be good,’ Borch said and watched him walk off to arrange a car.

‘We’re done here, Sarah.’ His hand gripped her, left when she didn’t respond. ‘Let’s go.’

Hedeby called Brix into her office. He was right. The champagne was terrible. Something on his face must have betrayed the fact.

‘God you’re a snob,’ she said.

‘Just picky.’

‘Management are having a celebration later. I’ll let you choose for that. I’ll pay too.’

‘Management?’ Brix asked. ‘Does that by any chance include those shits from PET? Because if it does . . .’

She winced.

‘Be political, Lennart. It’s important we keep in with them. Dyhring won’t be joining us. He rushed off to the Ministry of Justice. Mogens Rank summoned him for some reason. So
. . .’

Her fingers brushed his collar. Then his cheek.

‘You look good. I was wondering whether to send you home to change. But this’ll be fine.’

Brix raised an eyebrow, kept quiet.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit bad-tempered,’ she added. ‘It got a bit heated round here.’

‘Ruth . . . is there something I should know?’

‘Why are you always suspicious?’

‘Because events merit it. What’s up?’

‘Nothing!’ She stroked his close-cropped hair. ‘Except tomorrow the commissioner’s going to announce he’ll be retiring in six months. The board will sit in two
weeks.’

Her fingers left him, went to her own head.

‘Once upon a time I thought maybe I’d stand a chance. But . . .’

A smile.

‘You’d look good in that uniform.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Just a thought.’

They were almost ready to go to the airport. Borch and Reinhardt had gone off to talk to the local police.

Lund phoned the hotel in Esbjerg, asked for the front desk.

‘I’m calling from Zeeland,’ she said. ‘I’m Niels Reinhardt’s new secretary. He’s asked me to make some travel arrangements. I’m not sure . .
.’

‘It’s OK,’ the woman replied. ‘We know Mr Reinhardt well. How can I help?’

She looked round, made sure no one was near.

‘He asked me to book a room but I can’t remember what sort he wanted.’

‘Mr Reinhardt always stays in three twenty-two. It’s a suite. There’s a nice view of the sea. What dates are we talking about?’

They’d be gone in a few minutes.

‘I thought he said one eighteen. I’ve got a booking here from a while back. It says that too.’

‘That can’t be right,’ the woman insisted. ‘He’s been coming here for years. He always has three twenty-two. Let me check.’

Reinhardt came out of the office, shook the hand of one of the Norwegian officers, looked at the rainy night, then went and sat in the front of the car.

The receptionist came back.

‘Actually you’re right. He did stay in one eighteen. That’s odd.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s in the old wing. Not so good. We take care of the owners. We wouldn’t put him in there ordinarily. But if it says so . . .’

Lund closed her eyes for a moment, felt the rain on her face.

‘The owners?’

‘The chain’s part of Zeeland. Didn’t you know? Usually they book straight through the computer system. I mean . . . you run it in Copenhagen.’

She looked at Reinhardt in the passenger seat of the car, eyes closed. At peace.

‘Hello?’

Lund ended the call, phoned Juncker. He sounded happy. Wanted to be congratulated, so she obliged.

When his bubbliness died down a touch she asked if there was anything new.