The Killing - 01 - The Killing (14 page)

The wedding dress was still on the mannequin, needles and thread in the sleeves and collars.

They were the only things her mother ever made. It was like a one-woman campaign to marry off the female population of the world.

She left the jumper by the sewing box anyway. Her mother came yawning, grumbling out of her room.

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Yes.’

Vibeke glowered at the table.

‘Please don’t throw your clothes everywhere. No wonder Mark’s such a messy boy.’

She saw the cut, naturally. Came, bent down, looked.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There’s a cut on your arm.’

Meat stew and potatoes on the cooker. The gravy had congealed. The potato was dry. Lund spooned some of each onto a plate and shoved it in the microwave.

‘A cat scratched me.’

‘Don’t tell me a cat did that.’

‘It was a stray cat.’

They looked at each other. A kind of truce was called. On this anyway.

‘Why do you insist on going to work?’ Vibeke asked. ‘Now you can have a proper life?’

The microwave beeped. The food was lukewarm. Enough. She was hungry. Lund sat down, picked up a fork, began to eat.

‘I told you this morning. It’s just till Friday. If it’s a problem we can stay in a hotel.’

Her mother came to the table, a glass of water in her hand.

‘Why should it be a problem? Why . . .?’

Her mouth full, Lund said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s not argue.’

‘We never argue. You always walk away.’

Lund smiled, picked up another forkful of meat and potato. She’d been eating this since she was a child. Nothing special. Sustenance. It never changed.

‘It’s delicious,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’

Her mother watched her.

‘Bengt asked if you’d come to the house-warming party on Saturday. We’re fixing up the spare room.’

She was watching the food, following how much got eaten, what got left.

‘Bengt called here,’ Vibeke said. ‘This afternoon. He was wondering where you were.’

Lund’s head fell. She swore.

‘You didn’t say I was here till Friday, did you?’

‘Of course I did! Am I supposed to lie?’

Lund pushed away the food, got a beer from the fridge, went into her bedroom and called.

Bengt Rosling didn’t get angry. Ever. It was beyond him. Or beneath. She never quite knew.

They spoke about parties and polar pine, made small talk, acted as if nothing had happened. Nothing was wrong.

He didn’t know she was watching the news on her computer as they talked. She kept the sound low. It was all about Hartmann.

Come Friday she’d be in Sweden. With Mark, with her mother too for a little while. The new life would start. The past would slip away. Copenhagen and Carsten. The Vicekriminalkommissær’s badge.

She felt better for speaking to him, put down the phone happy. Remembered straight away what she’d forgotten to say.

Before she could call back it rang.

Bengt, she knew. So she picked it up and, with a deliberate effort, found herself saying, ‘I love you.’

‘Wow! That just made my day.’

Meyer. The sound of him driving. She could picture the car going too fast through the black rain. Cheese crisps on the passenger seat. Chewing gum and tobacco.

‘What do you want?’

‘You told me to call about the hospital!’ He was playing hurt. ‘Lynge went in on Friday.’

‘For how long?’

‘He was there till seven the next morning. The idiot’s a heroin addict. He screwed up his methadone or something.’

Troels Hartmann was on TV. Almost swinging a punch at a mouthy reporter.

He’d lost it over a simple question: Do you deny withholding information for the sake of the election?

She’d thought Hartmann a calm and reasonable man.

‘Could Lynge have sneaked out?’

A noisy, chomping pause.

‘Not a chance. They had him in a public ward. Medicated. Was there all night.’

‘Will you leave those crisps alone? If they’re all over the car . . .’

‘I haven’t had anything to eat all day.’

‘Did you find Nanna’s bike?’

‘No.’

‘What about her mobile phone?’

That was in Hartmann’s car too. Which seemed odd.

‘The lab got it working,’ Meyer said. ‘Her last call was on Friday. Maybe made from school. They’re not sure.’

‘OK. We go back there in the morning.’

‘No, Lund. You’re not coming.’

He was still eating crisps. She could hear him crunching them in that frantic way he had, as if there’d never be another packet in the world.

‘Why not?’

‘I ran into Buchard. Hartmann wants a meeting. It’s about you.’

She thought about that.

‘Get some sleep. Write your report.’

‘Thank you. Sleep tight too, sweetheart.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Lund? Think about it. Hartmann didn’t call you asking for that meeting. He called Buchard. Or maybe someone above Buchard. Or maybe . . .’ The crunching could drive her crazy. ‘Someone above him. We’ve got politicians on our backs now. My bet is every last one of them’s calling upstairs trying to dump shit on our heads. Sleep on that.’

In the tiny bedroom, listening to her mother trawl around the kitchen tidying things, sweeping things, Sarah Lund followed the news on her computer. Watched Troels Hartmann carefully, second by second.

Wednesday, 5th November

Hartmann arrived at headquarters just after nine, came straight to Lund’s office. Sat in the bright winter sun streaming through the narrow window opposite her and Buchard. The sharp, severe Rie Skovgaard was next to him, following every word.

‘I could have avoided all this shit last night,’ he said. ‘If I’d done the right thing and put out a statement straight away. Before you people leaked.’

This was politics, a world Lund had managed to avoid before the Birk Larsen case. She felt out of her depth. But interested.

The chief bent forward, caught Hartmann’s eye, said, ‘There was no leak from here. I guarantee it.’

‘Has the driver confessed?’ Hartmann asked.

Lund shook her head.

‘No, and he won’t. He’s innocent.’

The face from the poster, handsome, thoughtful, benevolent, was gone. Now Troels Hartmann was getting mad.

‘Wait a minute. Yesterday you said—’

‘Yesterday I said he was a suspect. He was. He isn’t now. That’s the way it works. That’s why we asked you to keep quiet.’

‘But you’re still saying someone used our car?’

‘They did.’

‘Maybe it was stolen,’ Buchard added.

‘Stolen?’ He didn’t seem happy with that idea. ‘When are you making this public?’

‘Not yet,’ Lund said. ‘We need to wait.’

‘Wait for what?’ Skovgaard wanted to know.

Lund shrugged.

‘The driver was injured. We’ll talk to him today. See what he has to say—’

‘If our car was stolen,’ Skovgaard said, ‘the press must be told. The damage this is doing . . .’

Lund folded her arms, looked straight at Hartmann, not the woman.

‘It could help us if the man we’re looking for thinks we suspect someone else.’

‘We can’t keep playing this game,’ Hartmann said. ‘Rie can draft a release.’ He turned to Buchard. ‘You’ll see a copy. It’s going out. As soon as . . .’

Lund pulled her chair across the office, sat straight in front of him.

‘I would really appreciate it if you waited.’

‘I can’t help that.’

‘The damage this could do us . . .’

Hartmann’s eyes lit up.

‘What about the damage to me? It’s done already. It’s getting worse. Buchard . . .’

The chief nodded.

‘You’ll see a copy,’ Hartmann promised. ‘If you find an error tell us. I don’t want to hear about anything else.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘That’s it.’ Hartmann got to his feet. ‘We’re done here. Goodbye.’

Lund wasn’t done at all. She got up and went into the corridor. Caught up with Hartmann and the Skovgaard woman as they walked towards the spiral stairs.

‘Hartmann! Hartmann!’

He stopped. No smile.

‘If you’ll just listen to me—’

‘The press are behaving as if I’m a suspect.’ Hartmann stabbed his chest with a finger. ‘As if I killed that kid.’

‘On TV you said you’d cooperate.’

‘We have cooperated,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Look where it got us.’

Lund stood in front of Hartmann, bright eyes shining, insistent.

‘I need your help.’

Skovgaard said, ‘We have to go.’

‘Lund?’

Svendsen, one of the homicide team, came out of the incident room, beckoned to her.

‘Your visitors are here.’

She touched Troels Hartmann’s arm.

‘Just a minute, please. We haven’t finished. One minute. Spare me that.’

Two figures at the end of the long corridor. A giant of a man, grizzled features, long sideburns, black leather jacket. A woman in a fawn gaberdine raincoat, chestnut hair, an attractive face that looked lost and afraid. He held a black hat in his fidgeting hands. Waiting, in anticipation of something they didn’t want to see. She stared at the shining black marble walls and clung on to his arm.

Lund strode towards them, businesslike, animated. Spoke briefly then they walked down the corridor, past Hartmann and Rie Skovgaard who stood to one side.

No words spoken. No words needed.

Briefly the woman turned and stared then walked on.

‘We’re late,’ Skovgaard told him. ‘Troels. We have to go.’

Lund watched. Hartmann was trapped by the sight of them.

‘Troels?’

Hartmann said, ‘Was that . . .?’

Lund nodded, looked at him, waited.

‘Will it make a difference?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that?’ Skovgaard snarled.

‘I know that if you put out a statement we’ve lost an opportunity. An advantage maybe.’

Lund sighed, shrugged.

‘We’ve got so few. I’ll fight to keep any I can.’

‘OK.’ He didn’t look at Skovgaard glaring at him stony-eyed. ‘Only till tomorrow. Then . . . Lund . . .’

She listened.

‘Tomorrow,’ Hartmann said, ‘we make our position clear. Whatever you say.’

In Lund’s room, coffee sitting on the desk, untouched, Theis and Pernille Birk Larsen listening.

‘We’ve got a preliminary medical examiner’s report,’ Lund said. ‘But he’s not quite finished. A funeral—’

‘We need to get away,’ Birk Larsen broke in. ‘We’re going to the seaside this afternoon. All these damned reporters. The boys.’ He looked into her face. ‘You people coming round the apartment all the time. You can do what you like when we’re not there.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘What are they doing to her?’ Pernille asked.

‘Some more tests. I don’t know exactly.’ A lie, one she always used. ‘We’ll let you know when her body can be released.’

The mother was somewhere else, Lund thought. Lost in her memories. Or imagination.

The father again.

‘Where will Nanna go?’

‘Normally to a funeral director. It’s your choice.’

Pernille woke.

‘What happened to her?’ She sniffed. ‘What did he do?’

Lund opened her hands.

‘I have to wait for the full report. I understand you want to know. It’s . . .’

Theis Birk Larsen looked ready to put his big hands over his ears.

There was a knock at the door. An officer from the team. Said sorry, started asking for documents from her desk.

So many, and they said so little. Lund helped him. Got involved. Got lost for a moment. Never noticed the door was open.

But Pernille Birk Larsen did, and saw a chink, a brief shocking glimpse of the room beyond. The case office.

Photos on the wall. A pair of ankles bound with black plastic. Bruised legs on a silver table. A dead face, Nanna’s, covered in wounds, eyes closed, lips purple and swollen. A bloodied eye. A broken nail. The slip with a stab mark. A top ripped and torn.

Arrows pointed to details, to bloodstains and slashes. Circles marked stains, notes described lesions.

Her body, side on, hands tied, legs bound. Lying on a table still as could be.

Pernille rises.

Breath pumping, heart racing, Theis beside her, walking to the door.