The Killing 3 (9 page)

The phone rang. She pulled it out. Looked at it. Dead screen.

Swore. Realized it was a different, more juvenile ringtone. Got Emilie’s.

‘Good day, Lund,’ he said in the same flat, polite voice from the night before. ‘I’d like your offer.’

‘You’re early.’

‘And you’re wasting time. You can’t trace the call. I’m not an idiot.’

She walked outside, blinked in the unexpected hard winter sun breaking through the clouds.

‘Zeuthen’s willing to give you ten million kroner. Unmarked bills. Untraceable.’

Silence.

‘How does that sound?’

Still he said nothing.

She moved away from the road and the traffic noise.

‘We’ll guarantee you safe passage. You tell us what to do. The family just want Emilie home. That’s all. Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Is it enough?’

He laughed.

‘You’re asking me whether this sum corresponds to the debt I’m collecting?’

Lund looked up and down the row of units. The place was decrepit. Most of the tenants probably bankrupt.

There was something about the way this man spoke. He sounded cultured, educated. And quite detached.

‘Since I don’t know what the debt is I can’t ask that, can I?’

‘What do you reckon the girl’s worth?’

‘I think you’re pushing your luck. We’re not stupid and if you hesitate we will find you. This is the best you can do. Take the offer. Give us the girl. Then get the hell out
of Denmark.’

She thought he was laughing again. Then he said, ‘OK.’

‘So how do we do it? Where do we bring the money?’

‘There’s a train from Nørreport station at 5.23. Line A towards Hundige. I want you to deliver the money. If I see anyone else she dies.’

That was it.

Juncker came up and asked, ‘Are we on?’

The campaign coach had been flitting from photo-op to photo-op around the city. Then Rosa Lebech called and asked for an urgent meeting somewhere discreet. Hartmann picked a
quiet spot near the beach in Amager. On the way Karen Nebel took a call from Dyhring, the head of PET. Hartmann sat opposite, watched, listened to the tone of her voice.

‘Good news?’ he asked when she was done.

‘PET say a handover’s been fixed. Zeuthen’s putting ten million kroner into the pot. The kidnapper said yes.’

‘Let’s hope it works.’

There was a beep from her iPad on the table. She looked at her email.

‘Ussing says he’s fine with the truce for now.’

‘For now?’ Hartmann asked.

‘We don’t expect any favours, do we?’

‘I suppose not. When does the exchange take place?’

‘Some time after five. You don’t expect them to give me the details, do you?’

‘I want to know the minute this is done.’

Nebel came round and took the seat next to him. Blue suit. Blonde hair tight behind her neck. Make-up perfect. She looked just like she had on the TV.

‘A word of advice,’ she said in a low voice so no one else could hear. ‘Be careful with Rosa Lebech. She has her own agenda . . .’

‘We all do. Has Birgit Eggert got to you too?’

‘Rosa’s got nothing to gain by coming out for you right now. If I was her I wouldn’t.’ She gazed at him, made sure he was looking, briefly touched the sleeve of his
shirt. ‘However I felt about you.’

Hartmann had wondered about Nebel a few times. She was attractive. Had a nervous hunger that made him think. Her marriage had fallen to pieces under the strain of government work. There’d
been moments, late at night, when it so nearly happened. But she was staff. Like Rie Skovgaard when Hartmann was fighting to become mayor. And that hadn’t worked out well at all. Office
affairs were close, difficult to untangle. And Karen Nebel wasn’t the type who’d take the inevitable gentle rejection easily. That last thought had finally stopped him. But only
just.

‘Why does she need another meeting?’ Nebel asked.

The long, empty beach was approaching.

‘Best I find out,’ Hartmann said.

A couple of minutes later he was walking with Rosa Lebech, both wrapped up against the biting wind. In summer it was hard to find a space here. The hard November meant they were quite alone.

‘If we keep meeting like this I need to buy one of those camper vans,’ Hartmann said. ‘Gas cooker and a pull-down bed. In fact that might not be a bad idea anyway.’

She wore a fashionable fawn coat, a red silk scarf round her neck. Looked tired, he thought. They probably all did.

‘Ussing’s fine with the truce.’

Lebech nodded. Perhaps knew this already.

‘That’s good news.’

‘So when do you make the announcement?’

She looked at the beach. The sand whirling around in the wind.

‘Tonight, during the TV debate would be good,’ Hartmann added.

‘We need to wait. Tonight’s not good. It’ll look better in the morning.’

‘We can’t keep on postponing this, Rosa.’

‘There’s only one story at the moment. The Zeuthen kidnapping. It’s stealing the show.’

‘Hopefully the show, as you call it, will soon be over,’ he said, and tried not to sound too hard.

No answer.

‘Has Ussing got to you?’

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘To the deputy chairman. A few others. He’s good at splitting people.’

‘You can’t seriously allow him to use a dreadful crime like this for his own ends.’ He watched her closely. ‘Can you?’

A moment then she said, ‘You’re right. I’ll put my foot down. We’ll throw our weight behind you after the debate tonight.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

The campaign team were watching from the coach. He wondered whether to care. Then thought better of it. Placed a hand lightly on her waist, smiled. Left it that.

One hour to go. A team had assembled in the Politigården, ready for the handover. Borch was placing the money into a black holdall watched by Robert Zeuthen, his wife and
Brix. Lund sat in the corner of the room, going through files on a computer.

‘We could throw in a GPS,’ Borch said. ‘That way—’

‘No!’ Zeuthen insisted. ‘Just do what he says. I don’t care about the money.’

Lund sensed an argument brewing, came over to the table, looked at Borch. He got the message.

‘How will he hand over Emilie?’ Maja Zeuthen asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Lund told her. ‘He never said.’

Brix explained how the drop would be monitored from the Politigården, by radio, through access to nearby CCTV cameras.

‘You’re welcome to stay and watch,’ he added.

‘No,’ Maja Zeuthen said. ‘I want to come. It’s my daughter. I can’t just sit here, waiting.’

Her husband nodded.

‘We won’t get in the way.’

‘You can be close by,’ Lund said, looking at her phone. A glance across the table. ‘If that’s OK.’

Brix grunted then took the Zeuthens outside into the corridor. For a briefing Lund assumed.

‘He didn’t like that, Sarah,’ Borch said.

‘When this is over I’m warm and comfy in OPA. Should I care? That deputy prosecutor. Schultz. He knows more than he’s letting on. And he still won’t return my
calls.’

‘Maybe he’s . . . busy?’ Borch suggested.

‘I’m telling you there’s something wrong. This man wants a debt paid. We still don’t know what that is.’

‘Let’s just get the girl out of there. Then take a look at Peter Schultz.’

She thought about that.

‘Did I mention his first name?’

‘Yes,’ Borch said quickly. ‘You did. Have you talked to your son?’

‘Not now.’

She looked at the bag on the table. Ten million kroner. It was going to be heavy.

‘You know what always brought me round when I had an argument with my folks? They used to bring me a pizza. And some beer. Always worked.’

‘I remember,’ Lund said.

In the TV studio, behind the stage for the coming debate, Anders Ussing was pacing among the monitors and crew. Yelling for Hartmann. So loud Karen Nebel fetched him, left the
two men alone.

‘You need a tie, Anders,’ Hartmann said. ‘Some make-up too.’

‘To hell with the make-up!’ Ussing had a couple of sheets of paper in his hand. ‘This nonsense you sent me . . .’

Hartmann picked up the papers. He hadn’t seen the report on the previous day’s incident at the docks but he knew what it contained. Not much.

‘You said you wanted a report. I told them to get you one. And still you keep coming up with something . . .’

‘You can forget your truce.’

Hartmann glared at him.

‘Let’s talk frankly. You’re pissed off you tried to turn Rosa Lebech’s head and failed. Don’t bring the Zeuthen family into this.’

‘Bullshit! I want a report that details everything. Not just the pieces that suit you.’

Hartmann screwed up his eyes and said, ‘What?’

‘There’s a memo about this. Goes back a week. I know . . .’

‘Listen.’ He prodded the burly Socialist Party man in the chest. ‘I don’t have to give you a damned thing. You already know more than you should. Let’s go and
debate the real issues and leave this to the police.’

Ussing didn’t move.

Then he grinned.

‘The real issues? Yes, Troels. You’re right. Let’s do that.’

The station sat in the middle of a busy road: buses came and went either side. Long steps leading down to the underground Metro lines. Lund had the money on her back in a heavy
rucksack. The place was busy. Commuters going home. People out for the night.

The train turned up on time. Lund got on board. Mathias Borch stepped in one door along. Glanced at his phone. They worked on the Metro. Wi-Fi too. They could stay in touch. So could the
kidnapper.

One minute out of the station he called.

‘Get off at Sjælør station and take line E north.’

‘I need to talk to Emilie.’

But he was gone.

Brix had sent Robert and Maja Zeuthen to the central station, positioned them over the main hallway with three officers kept in constant touch by radio. Zeuthen knew this was a
blind. They’d no reason to think the kidnapper would come to the busiest transport hub in the city. The Politigården wanted them out of the way, somewhere they didn’t interfere
with things. The rational side of him saw the logic. But Maja didn’t. Nor, in his heart, did he. They both felt responsible, guilty over her disappearance. There was an urgent, pressing,
stupid need to do something, even though in truth both knew there was nothing they could achieve beyond the obvious.

Find the money.

Give it to Lund.

Pray this would work.

Now they stood side-by-side watching the crowds move steadily through the station hall.

And all he could think about was the previous night. The chances he’d had to change things. To steer away from the unseen monster waiting outside in the wild ground beyond the bare trees
and the failed high fence.

‘Sometimes she’d come back and her shoes were wet,’ he said, and hardly dared to look at her. ‘I could have asked why. I should have known she’d been somewhere she
shouldn’t.’

Maja Zeuthen didn’t look at him. Kept staring at the crowd below them. Ordinary people, bored, tired, disgruntled, heading home, knowing that nothing would happen to them that day.

‘If I’d just let you take them with you . . .’

She sighed. Gave him a look he couldn’t interpret.

Then she said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Robert. I know you did the best you could.’

‘It wasn’t enough, was it?’

‘We’ll find a way through this.’ She was looking at him then, and for the first time in months he saw no hatred, no resentment in her eyes. ‘We’ve got to. For
Emilie’s sake. For Carl’s.’ A pause. ‘For ours.’

He looked into her clear blue eyes and wondered. She reached out and for one too-short moment touched his hand, squeezed it.

‘We’re rehearsing being divorced, aren’t we?’ she said. ‘We need to get better at this.’

Zeuthen nodded. Felt more miserable than ever and was determined not to show it.

One of the officers with them was on the radio. He saw he was being watched. Ended the call. Shook his head: nothing.

The train rattled through the interior veins of Copenhagen, beneath the main station, rolling and grumbling.

Lund scanned every face. Focused on two in particular. A young man in black who sat down opposite, smiled, an obvious come-on. An older, shambling figure in an anorak one bench along, eyes on
the floor.

Didn’t look at Mathias Borch perched near the end of the carriage.

I thought he was the one.

Her mother had no right to think that. It wasn’t her decision. But she did. And must have had a reason.

Pizza. Beer.

That wasn’t such a bad idea either. A peace offering. A pathetic way to say: sorry for all these years of neglect.

The young man opposite kept smiling. Lund looked straight at him.

The phone rang.

‘Get off at Vesterport,’ the voice said. ‘Go to the opposite platform.’

She looked at the red station indicator in the carriage.

‘We’re nearly there.’

‘I know. The train leaves straight away. If you want to save this kid you’d better get a move on.’

Lund stood by the door. Waited. A shriek of brakes. She walked out onto the platform. On the other side the train was there already. Doors opening, beckoning. Borch was behind her. She looked
down the platform. Didn’t move.

Mark was there. Tall Mark. Eighteen pushing nineteen now though in her head he was still the lovely little boy she’d taken to the Faroe Islands once, tried to spoil, to convince he’d
always be loved, the perfect, adored son, however much her parents loathed one another.

You’re only interested in dead people.

That wasn’t true. Or if it was the change came later, with the Birk Larsen case. Unwanted, unsought, or so she’d like to think.

He wore a scruffy parka. She wanted to buy him a new one the moment she saw it. But he was smiling, talking to a pretty young woman, fair hair, perky, happy face. Older than him. Lund saw that
straight away.

Then she turned and Lund saw her huge belly. The way her hands curved round it, loving the child inside.

That was why he never came of late. Lund knew it in an instant. Understood too.