The Killing 3 (7 page)

The call had been made through the Internet and was untraceable. A stolen white van had been recovered near the docks. Emilie’s other pink wellington boot was in there and her prints, no
one else’s. There was no new significant evidence from the ship. Every sign the kidnapping was the work of a lone operator who had prepared the abduction thoroughly in advance.

Around eleven the previous night she’d left Robert and Maja Zeuthen bickering and snarling at each other. Lund doubted either had slept. When she looked at the phone log she knew it.
Constant calls, to Brix, to his superior Ruth Hedeby. To the Ministry of Justice and the Prime Minister’s office too. Hartmann had issued a statement of sympathy along with a declaration of
gratitude to Zeuthen for supporting the government. Then turned his terriers on the police demanding a quick solution.

As if we’d be looking for a slow one, Lund thought as Hedeby passed on the news.

When Nanna Birk Larsen went missing her parents, an ordinary working-class couple from Vesterbro, had no one to turn to. The Zeuthens seemed spoiled for choice. Not that it helped.

One slim piece of evidence: tyre tracks near the abandoned van suggested the kidnapper had moved Emilie into a larger vehicle.

‘He could be three hundred kilometres away by now,’ Juncker grumbled.

‘It’s a kidnapping, Asbjørn,’ Lund said patiently. ‘He’s asking for money. Even if the girl’s dead he’ll still want to collect.’

Brix asked, ‘What do we know about the van he left?’

‘It belongs to a bunch of Serbian crooks,’ Lund said. ‘They run a prostitution ring. We pulled in the ones we could find. And some of their girls.’

He looked interested.

‘It’s not them,’ she added. ‘There’s no trace of her anywhere near their brothel. They say the van was stolen three nights ago. They never reported it of course but
. . . they wouldn’t.’

They had four Serbs in custody and a line of trafficked women being steadily interviewed a few doors down. Lund had spent half an hour with the men already.

‘The pimp kept a set of keys in the van,’ she said. ‘Places he used to house women when he brought them into the country. We’re going through them.’

She’d been reading some background material on the Zeuthens. Divorce about to come through. Plenty of bitterness between the two of them. They had fifty-fifty custody of the children. She
was living with a doctor from the university hospital, Carsten Lassen. No one else involved in the break-up. The cause seemed to lie principally with Robert Zeuthen’s workload at Zeeland.

‘No love lost between Zeuthen and his wife, is there?’ she noted. ‘Did you hear what she was screaming at him when we left?’

If you’d let her come home with me like I asked
.

‘People blame each other sometimes,’ Borch said. ‘It’s a way of not blaming yourself. Fools no one.’

Lund closed her eyes for a second, wishing they could see this the way she did.

‘It was an organized kidnapping. If he hadn’t taken Emilie last night . . .’

Brix gave her a caustic glance.

‘You should have checked out that ship when you first saw it.’

‘That was my decision too,’ Borch lied.

She wasn’t listening. Just staring at the school photograph of Emilie Zeuthen on the desk, the one that seemed to be everywhere now – in the papers, on T V. Blonde-haired, smiling,
staring straight at the camera with an intelligent, studied candour. Next to the picture were forensic shots of the men on the boat. Half-naked, like the victim found in pieces at the dock.

‘Why did he torture these men?’ she asked. ‘What did he want from them?’

No one answered.

Borch threw some more photos on the table. Shots of a kitten. Emilie holding the creature in her arms, smiling for the camera.

‘He must have groomed her well. Sarah . . .’

Lund barely heard. The tortured men bothered her.

‘Sarah! You’ve got to keep that phone charged and with you all the time. We don’t know when he’ll call. Just agree with whatever he says. Keep him talking. We can
trace—’

‘We already know he’s using the Internet,’ she pointed out. ‘He was smart enough to take down the entire Zeeland security network. Do you think he’s going to give
himself away with a phone call?’

‘Better hope so,’ Juncker grumbled. ‘We’ve got bugger all otherwise.’

Sometimes she wanted to scream.

‘Think about what he said. He never used the word ransom. He wanted an offer. A debt paid. What’s he talking about? Who do Zeeland owe money?’

Borch seemed to take the point.

‘They’ve got a turnover of three hundred billion kroner. Maybe they’re arguing the toss over a heating bill somewhere. How are we supposed to—?’

‘If it’s just about money why doesn’t he say how much he wants?’

‘Ask him when he calls,’ Brix suggested. ‘Here . . .’

He passed over an email from Reinhardt at Zeeland.

‘You wanted to know what the crew had been up to. According to the company the only one who’d been ashore in the last week was the mate. He asked for permission to leave because
he’d been called as a witness in a court case. These places you’re checking—’

‘What court case?’

‘I don’t know. He was the one you found in bits in the junkyard. These lock-ups . . .’

Brix took a call. Held up a hand to be quiet. Finished it.

‘Robert and Maja Zeuthen are here,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to brief them.’

‘I’ll deal with it.’

When she got to the door Borch came and stopped her.

‘Sarah?’

He had Emilie’s phone in his hand.

‘Thanks,’ Lund said and took it.

Morning on the island that was Slotsholmen, the seat of government power in Denmark. Breakfast in a quiet room near the Parliament building. Hartmann, Rosa Lebech, Anders
Ussing. Coffee and pastries. One item on the agenda: a truce over Zeeland and Zeuthen.

‘We need to keep them out of the election,’ Hartmann said. ‘For their sake, for the sake of the investigation, I don’t want this to become part of the debate.’

Ussing, a gruff, coarse man who could always find the populist thread, shook his head.

‘You’re telling me I can’t mention Zeeland? Are you mad? This is a major political and economic issue.’

‘There’s a family involved, Anders,’ Lebech broke in. ‘We must condemn the act and show them our support.’

Ussing was bull-necked, with a ruddy face and a sarcastic grin. Once a docker himself.

‘I can see why you want to sweep it under the carpet. Zeuthen’s kid gets snatched while PET spend the whole day nannying you around.’

‘This is irrelevant,’ Hartmann insisted.

‘Prove it. I want a report from PET and the police on what happened yesterday at the dock. Give me that and I’ll keep quiet about Zeeland. For now.’

Hartmann tried to keep a hold on his temper.

‘You don’t have any right to a report—’

‘Maybe not. I still want it. Some justification for this truce.’ A quick, ironic smile. ‘After all we wouldn’t want people thinking Rosa and I were simply dazzled by your
handsome looks and irresistible charm.’

He got up, nodded at them.

‘I’d like that report before the debate tonight,’ Ussing added then left.

Rosa Lebech wouldn’t look Hartmann in the eye.

‘He’s just trying to get between us,’ he said, trying to take her hand across the table.

She pulled her fingers away.

‘We’re going to have to postpone the announcement. I can’t get my people on side if Ussing’s going to entangle you in this case. It happened once before—’

‘The Birk Larsen girl was nothing to do with me! Nothing.’

‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘You washed off that mud. But new mud sticks. It’s never the deed that kills you, Troels. It’s the lie.’

‘What lie?’

‘You’re going to have to work to distance yourself from this. I heard that policewoman Lund’s on the case. Ussing knows that too. Give him his report. Shut him up. Then we can
announce our support.’

Back in the office he broke the news to Karen Nebel. She didn’t seem surprised.

‘The press have been calling already. They’ve got wind of something. They want to know if the deal’s off.’

‘Stall,’ Hartmann said. ‘Just tell them . . .’

There was a newspaper on the desk. Tabloid. Most of the front page was taken up by a school photograph of Emilie Zeuthen. Nine years old. Long blonde hair. Beautiful.

Nanna Birk Larsen was a decade older. Same colour hair. Lovely too. Her picture haunted Hartmann every day for nearly three weeks when he was fighting for control of Copenhagen.

‘Troels,’ Nebel said and came and touched his arm. ‘Don’t let this get to you.’

‘It won’t,’ he promised.

Maja Zeuthen came first, walking wide-eyed through the east European prostitutes the team had brought in for questioning, her estranged husband not far behind. An interesting
couple, Lund thought. She had the damaged beauty of an out-of-work actress, wore casual clothes, not cheap but not smart. Zeuthen looked as if the first thing he put on each morning was a freshly
pressed white shirt and tie then a clean, expensive suit. Not a man to turn heads. Not a man to run one of the country’s biggest corporations if the role hadn’t fallen to him by
birth.

She took them to an interview room where they sat next to each other by the barred window in the wan morning light. Separated or not they were Emilie’s parents. It was important they
approached this problem together.

The phone was on the table. She made sure they knew that.

Then Lund took them through as much as she could. Told them about the van. How the evidence on the
Medea
suggested the kidnapper acted alone and was well prepared.

Zeuthen asked to see pictures of the vehicle. Lund hesitated.

‘I don’t want to have to call your superiors,’ he said.

Brix had made it clear. These two got special treatment. So she pushed across the photos and asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen it before?’

To her surprise Zeuthen nodded.

‘There was one like it in the car park at the hospital yesterday. I saw Emilie. I thought she waved at someone.’

Lund got a time, called in Juncker, told him to go and check it.

Then she showed them photos of the clothes they’d found in the van. The boot. A pair of jeans. A pink sweater. Maja Zeuthen blinked back tears and nodded.

‘These are definitely Emilie’s?’

‘Of course they are,’ Zeuthen replied. ‘So he made her—’

‘You can’t read anything into it,’ Lund interrupted. ‘A kidnapper usually changes the appearance of anyone they abduct.’

She remembered the way Maja Zeuthen had looked at the women outside.

‘There’s no sign anything happened in the van. Nothing violent. Anything else.’

Zeuthen pulled himself together.

‘I need to know the names of these men you’ve arrested. Where they live.’

‘They’re Serbs. They run a prostitution ring. The van was stolen from them. They’re probably not connected.’

The mother got up and stood by the window, biting at her knuckles.

‘I need to know . . .’ Zeuthen started.

‘He said he’d return Emilie in exchange for a ransom,’ Lund cut in. ‘These people aren’t in that kind of business. They’re . . . unpleasant. But
legal.’

‘So what are you doing?’ Maja Zeuthen came and sat down again, stared across the table, at the phone. ‘Just sitting around waiting for him to call?’

Zeuthen reached for her hand. She pulled away.

‘Maja—’

‘Stay out of this, Robert! If Emilie had come home with me!’

Lund let the silence fall between them. Then she said, ‘This man had been planning to kidnap Emilie for some time. If it wasn’t yesterday . . .’

She turned to Zeuthen.

‘When he calls it’s important you have an offer for him. Something. It wouldn’t be wise to try to stall him.’

‘I’m talking to PET,’ Zeuthen said. ‘To my own people.’

‘
We’re
talking to them, Robert,’ Maja Zeuthen snapped. ‘It may be your money but she’s my daughter too.’

That hurt and she didn’t even notice. Zeuthen got up, said thanks, shook Lund’s hand with the diffident grace of a bank manager.

‘The moment I know something we’ll be in touch,’ she said.

He nodded. The mother stared at the ceiling, mouthed a silent curse.

‘This . . . debt he talked about,’ Lund added. ‘Do you have any idea what he might mean?’

‘No,’ Zeuthen said. ‘Do you?’

They walked out through the ranks of waiting hookers. One of the day team came in and said there was no indication the
Medea
’s mate had testified in any court case recently. And
Lund’s mother had been on the phone, asking her to ring back. Something important.

Thirty minutes later she still hadn’t returned the call. Juncker had got CCTV from the hospital car park. It was the kidnapper’s van, watching the Zeuthens. No
clear picture of who was at the wheel.

Mathias Borch came out of interviewing the Serbs and their women, sat down at the facing desk, looked to make sure the phone was next to her. It was almost eleven.

‘Anything?’ Lund asked.

‘Some tips on sex toys. Not much use to me. This isn’t a leap year, is it?’

He was married, two kids. Hadn’t talked about his family much. Didn’t look happy the one time she asked.

‘You?’

‘I talked to the courthouse. The mate didn’t testify that day. He had a meeting with one of the deputy prosecutors. I’ve been leaving messages. He hasn’t got back to me.
So . . .’

She got up, grabbed her bag and coat.

‘What if our man calls?’

The phone was on the desk.

‘He said this afternoon,’ she answered, picking up the handset. ‘I won’t be long.’

A voice from the back of the room cried, ‘Hi, honey!’

Lund closed her eyes for a moment. Turned, saw her mother marching towards them.

‘Honey?’ Lund asked, then realized. Vibeke was heading for a beaming Borch who’d stood up, nodding and saying all the nice things he used to say, then planting kisses on both
cheeks.

‘You never told me Mathias was here! I haven’t seen him in years. Not since . . .’