The Killing - 01 - The Killing (5 page)

Hartmann’s hands slipped round her back. He pulled Skovgaard to him, kissed her. A sudden passion. Unexpected. She wanted to laugh. He wanted more.

‘Move in with me,’ he said and pushed her against the desk. She fell on it, giggling, wrapped her long legs round him.

‘Aren’t you too busy?’

‘Not for you.’

‘After the election.’

His face changed. The politician returned.

‘Why the big secret?’

‘Because I’ve got a job to do, Troels. And so have you. We want no complications.’ Her voice fell a tone. Smart eyes flashing. ‘And we don’t want Morten jealous.’

‘Morten’s the most experienced political aide we have. He knows what he’s doing.’

‘So I don’t?’

‘I didn’t say that. I don’t want to talk about Morten . . .’

Her hands were on his jacket again.

‘Let’s deal with this when you’ve won, shall we?’

Hartmann was reaching for her again.

The door opened. Rektor Koch was there. She looked embarrassed.

‘The Lord Mayor’s arrived,’ she said. A confidential smile. ‘If you’re ready.’

Hartmann buttoned his jacket and walked out into the corridor.

Poul Bremer was beaming beneath a poster of a half-naked pop singer. Skovgaard left them alone and went to check out the room.

‘I hope the Centre Party likes your ideas, Troels. A lot of them are good. Very like your father’s.’

‘Is that so?’

‘They have his vigorous energy. His optimism.’

‘Conviction,’ Hartmann said. ‘They came from what he believed. Not what he thought might win a few votes.’

Bremer nodded at that.

‘It’s a shame he was never quite good enough to see them through.’

‘I’ll think of him. When I’ve got your job.’

‘I believe you will. One day.’ Bremer pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned his spectacles. ‘You’re more robust than he was. Your father was always . . . How should I put it?’ The glasses went back on, those icy eyes looked him up and down. ‘Fragile. Like porcelain.’

Bremer held up his right hand. A big fist. A fighter’s, in spite of all outward appearances.

‘He was always going to snap.’

The click of his strong fingers was so loud it seemed to echo off the peeling walls.

‘If I hadn’t broken him he’d have broken himself. Believe me. It was a kindness in a way. It’s best not to allow one’s delusions to linger too long.’

‘Let’s get to this debate,’ Hartmann said. ‘It’s time . . .’

When they turned to go Rektor Koch was walking towards them. She looked worried. With her was a woman in a blue cagoule, an odd black and white patterned sweater visible beneath it, hair swept back from her face like a teenager too busy to think about boyfriends.

A woman who thought nothing of her own appearance. Which was odd since she was striking and attractive.

Now she was looking straight ahead, at them, nowhere else. She had very large and staring eyes.

Somehow Hartmann wasn’t surprised when she pulled out a police ID card. It read:
Vicekriminalkommissær Sarah Lund.

Bremer had retreated to the back of the corridor the moment he saw the cop approaching.

‘You have to cancel the debate,’ Lund said.

‘Why?’

‘There’s a missing girl. I need to talk to people here. People in her class. Teachers. I need . . .’

Rektor Koch was ushering them into a side room, out of the corridor. Bremer stayed where he was.

Hartmann listened to the cop.

‘You want me to cancel a debate because a pupil’s skipping school?’

‘It’s important I talk to everyone,’ Lund insisted.

‘Everyone?’

‘Everyone I want to talk to.’

She didn’t move. Didn’t stop looking at him. Nothing else.

‘We could put back the debate an hour,’ Hartmann suggested.

‘Not for me,’ Bremer cut in. ‘I have appointments. This was your invitation, Troels. If you can’t make it . . .’

Hartmann took a step towards Sarah Lund and said, ‘How serious is it?’

‘I hope nothing’s happened.’

‘I asked how serious it was.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ Lund replied then put her hands on her hips and waited for an answer. ‘So . . .’

She looked round, checking the rooms.

‘That’s agreed then,’ Lund added.

Bremer took out his phone, checked some messages.

‘Call my secretary. I’ll try to fit you in. Oh!’ A sudden flash of geniality. ‘I’ve got good news for your inner-city schools. It seems absenteeism is up by twenty per cent.’ He laughed. ‘We can’t have that, can we? So I’ve allocated funds for extra facilities. More computers. Children love those things. That’ll fix it.’

Hartmann stared at him, speechless.

Bremer shrugged.

‘I would have told you in there. But now . . . We’ll put out a release straight away. Good news. I trust you’ll welcome it.’

A long moment of silence.

‘You’re happy, I see,’ Bremer said, then, with a wave, walked off.

Half past three in the afternoon. They were still in the room where the debate was supposed to happen, getting nowhere. Nanna had been to the Halloween party in the school hall the previous Friday, dressed in a black witch’s hat and garish blue wig. No one had seen her since.

Now it was the teacher’s turn.

‘What’s Nanna like?’

They all called him Rama. He stood out and not just because of his dark, striking Middle Eastern looks. He was one of Troels Hartmann’s role models, part of an initiative to bring immigrant groups more closely into the fabric of the community. An articulate, intelligent, convincing man.

‘Nanna’s a clever kid,’ he said. ‘Always full of energy. Always wanting to do something.’

‘I saw the photo. She looks older than nineteen.’

He nodded.

‘They all want that, don’t they? Desperate to grow up. Or to feel they have. Nanna’s top of her class in most things. Bright kid. Doesn’t stop her wanting what the rest do.’

‘Which is?’

The teacher looked at her.

‘They’re teenagers. Are you serious?’

‘What happened at the party?’

‘Fancy dress. A band. Ghosts and pumpkins.’

‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

‘Ask Lisa.’

‘I’m asking you.’

He looked uncomfortable.

‘It’s best a teacher stays out of these things.’

Lund went outside, stopped the first girl she found, sat her down, talked to her until she got an answer.

Then she went back to the teacher.

‘Oliver Schandorff. Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know Oliver was her boyfriend?’

‘I told you. It’s best we keep some distance.’

She waited.

‘I’m their teacher. Not their guardian. Not a parent either.’

Lund looked at her watch. The interviews had run on for more than three hours and this was all they had. All anyone had. Meyer, out in the woods and fields near the airport with a search team, hadn’t found a thing.

‘Shit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the teacher said.

‘Not you.’

Me, she thought. She could surely have got this out of Pernille in a few minutes if she’d tried. Why was it the best questions only came when she had something – people, evidence, crimes – in front of her?

Two hundred and thirty-five three-storey terraced houses made up the place called Humleby, a tiny estate four streets from Birk Larsen’s home. The colour of slate and gunmetal, they were built in the nineteenth century for workers at the nearby shipyard. Then the Carlsberg brewery expanded and the houses fell into the hands of men who made beer. They came onto the market slowly, sought after even if some needed much expensive restoration. Theis Birk Larsen had bought the cheapest he could find. Squatters had been in before, leaving behind their junk, mattresses and cheap furniture. It needed clearing, a lot of repair work. He’d do most of it himself, quietly, without telling Pernille, not until it was close to time to move in and escape the tiny apartment above the garage.

Vagn Skærbæk was helping. The two had known each other since they were teens, gone through a lot together, including a few appearances in court. To Birk Larsen he’d become almost a younger brother, uncle to the kids, steady employee in the transport company. Reliable, trustworthy, kind to Anton and Emil. A solitary man who seemed to have no life of his own once he took off the scarlet uniform.

‘Pernille’s looking for you,’ Skærbæk said coming off the phone.

‘Pernille’s not going to know about this place. I told you. Not a word until I say.’

‘She’s phoning round, asking where you are.’

There was scaffolding on the outside, sheeting against the rotting windows. Birk Larsen was paying his own men to carry in new floorboards, guttering and piping, making them promise to keep quiet about the place when Pernille was around.

‘The boys can have their own rooms,’ he said, looking at the grey stone house. ‘You see that top window?’

Skærbæk nodded.

‘Nanna gets that whole floor, a staircase of her own and some privacy. Pernille a new kitchen. And me . . .’ He laughed. ‘Some peace and quiet.’

‘This is going to cost a fortune, Theis.’

Birk Larsen stuffed his hands into the pockets of his red bib overall.

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Maybe I can help.’

‘Meaning?’

Skærbæk was a slight and fidgety man. He stood there shuffling from foot to foot even more than usual.

‘I know where there’s thirty B&O TVs going cheap. All we’ve got to—’

‘You’re in debt? That’s it?’

‘Listen. I’ve got buyers for half of them . . . We can share . . .’

Birk Larsen pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket, ripped off a few.

‘All I need is to borrow a forklift . . .’

‘Here you go.’ He folded the money in Skærbæk’s hand. ‘Forget the TVs. We’re not teenagers any more, Vagn. I’ve got a family. A business.’ Skærbæk kept hold of the money. ‘You’re part of both. Always will be.’

Skærbæk stared at the cash. Birk Larsen wished he’d lose that stupid silver neck chain.

‘How’d the boys feel if they had to visit their Uncle Vagn in jail?’

‘You don’t have to do this . . .’ Skærbæk started.

Theis Birk Larsen wasn’t listening. Pernille was riding towards him on the Christiania trike, so quickly the shiny scarlet box on the front bumped up and down over the cobblestones.

He forgot all about the secret house, about building work and where the money might come from.

She looked terrible.

Pernille got off, came straight up to him, took the collars of his black leather coat.

‘Nanna’s missing.’ She was breathless, pale, scared. ‘The police found your video rental card out near the airport. They found . . .’

Her hand went to her mouth. Tears started in her eyes.

‘Found what?’

‘Her top. The pink one with the flowers.’

‘Lots of kids wear tops like that. Don’t they?’

She gave him a sharp look.

‘And the video card?’

‘Did they talk to Lisa?’

Vagn Skærbæk was listening. She looked at him and said, ‘Please, Vagn.’

‘You want any help?’

Birk Larsen stared at him. He went away.

‘What about that bastard kid?’

‘She isn’t seeing Oliver any more.’

There was a touch of red anger in his cheeks.

‘Did they talk to him?’

A deep breath then she said, ‘I don’t know.’

He had his keys out, called to Skærbæk, ‘Take Pernille home. And the trike.’

A thought.

‘Why didn’t you drive?’

‘They wouldn’t let me use the car. They said I couldn’t move it.’

Theis Birk Larsen took his wife in his broad arms, held her, kissed her once, touched her cheek, looked her in the eye and said, ‘Nanna’s fine. I’ll find her. Go home and wait for us.’

Then he climbed into the van and left.

‘I’ll drop you off at Gran’s. You’ve got your key?’

The weather was closing in, the day ending in mist and drizzle. Lund was driving out to Østerbro, her twelve-year-old son, Mark, in the passenger seat.

‘You mean we’re not going to Sweden after all?’

‘I’ve got something to do first.’

‘Me too.’

Lund looked at her son. But in truth all she was seeing in her head was the flat yellow grass, a teenager’s bloodstained top. And the photograph of Nanna Birk Larsen, smiling like an older sister proud of her little brothers. Looking too grown-up with all that make-up.