by David Hewson
‘Why in God’s name not?’ she whispered.
On the TV Hartmann answered.
‘Rahman Al Kemal has been neither charged nor convicted. I won’t take part in an act of character assassination. Bremer may be hell-bent on that. Let him square it with what passes as his conscience.’
His right hand rose, a gesture of politicians everywhere.
‘Only if there’s concrete evidence will there be a suspension.’
He leaned forward, an earnest face for the camera.
‘It’s the job of the police to convict criminals. Not politicians. We should stay out of their way except to offer every possible assistance we can. And that I will do. Thank you.’
A crowd of bodies rose, flinging questions. Lund watched, wished she’d got this on the recorder, could play back every word, catch every inflection, every expression on Hartmann’s face.
‘What if he murdered the girl?’ yelled a reporter.
‘As far as I know,’ Hartmann replied, ‘in this country a man is innocent until he’s proven guilty. That’s all…’
‘That’s all?’ Lund murmured.
Then it was over. On to other news. The Middle East. The economy. She turned off the TV. Realized the room was dark and empty. Vibeke had gone off to bed without a word.
She was alone.
Sunday, 9th November
Dull morning. Lund walked into headquarters and was briefed by the leader of the overnight team. A security camera at the petrol station showed Kemal buying coffee at twenty to ten on the Friday night Nanna disappeared. He received a call from a launderette payphone around the same time. A place near his flat in the city. Twenty minutes before Nanna visited.
There was still nothing of use from the home. But if they could prove he’d arranged to meet her that broke his story. A lie.
The only other call he made was to the workman cancelling him.
Lund was thinking about this when she glanced into her office. Bengt was sitting there.
A quick smile. She closed the door, got some coffee from the flask.
‘How’d you get here?’ Lund asked.
‘I drove last night.’
She handed him a cup, still wondering about the phone calls. Why would Nanna be in a launderette? Why wouldn’t she use her own mobile?
‘How did the house-warming party go?’
‘Fine.’ He looked tired and a little grubby from the drive. For once there was a touch of anger in his calm grey eyes. ‘I sent people home at nine.’
She was wearing the black and white Faroese jumper from the day before. If she’d known Bengt was going to be there… She ran a hand through her untidy hair and thought: I’d still have worn it.
He came and put his hands on her shoulders. Professional face. Very serious. Fatherly.
‘Listen, Sarah. It’s not hard. Just walk out of that door, get in the car and we’ll go home. You don’t know those people. What about your family? What about Mark? He’s supposed to be starting school.’
Lund walked to her desk, grabbed a folder.
‘I want you to read the case. Here’s the coroner’s report. Here’s what we found by the canal—’
‘No!’
It was as close to a shout as she’d ever heard.
‘I need your help,’ she said calmly.
‘You need? What about everyone else?’
She wasn’t listening.
‘He bathed her and clipped her nails. What kind of person does that? He removed every trace, carefully. Or there’s some other reason I haven’t guessed yet. Look…’
She got some of the morgue shots. Injuries. Bruises. Blood.
‘The coroner thinks he’s probably done this before. But I can’t find anything similar.’
‘I’m not interested in your case. I’m interested in you.’
He pointed to the door.
‘The car’s out there.’
There was a knock. Meyer came in. Sailor shirt, open-necked jerkin. Looking brighter and tidier than usual.
‘I’m going to see Birk Larsen,’ he said. ‘But you don’t need to—’
‘I’ll be right there.’
She grabbed her coat.
Bengt Rosling was a handsome man. That wasn’t why she liked him. Loved him. He was placid, intelligent, patient.
‘Please stay, Bengt.’ She came and took his hand, smiled, looked into his eyes. ‘It would mean a lot to me.’
He was wavering.
She picked up the folders, thrust them at him.
Then she quickly kissed him and went out to meet Meyer.
Rie Skovgaard had been through the vehicle files. The role models didn’t use the cars.
‘That’s good news,’ Hartmann said.
‘We need a new campaign manager. If Morten isn’t coming back.’
‘He won’t be.’
‘I’ll find someone. Knud Padde’s here. He wants to talk to you. Alone. He’s in your office.’
Padde held the assembly group chair, a mid-ranking party hack. Influential, important even at times. Tedious.
‘Can’t you—?’
‘No. Go and talk to him.’
A trade union official, Padde was a bear-like shambling man with a bad suit, big spectacles and wild, uncombed hair.
‘Have you seen the papers?’ he complained the moment Hartmann walked in.
‘Of course I’ve seen them.’
‘The constituency’s worried, Troels. The group wants a meeting. Today. One o’clock.’
‘Knud. Not now. Kirsten Eller will be here in two minutes.’
‘Why didn’t you suspend the teacher? It looks as if you’re covering for him.’
Hartmann looked him in the eye.
‘According to the police the teacher’s probably innocent.’
‘That’s not what the papers say.’
Padde was feeling unusually brave, Hartmann thought.
‘I’m not sure we can take this pressure, Troels.’
Hartmann thought of his conversation the previous night with Weber.
‘I’ll deal with this. We don’t need a meeting at one…’
‘But there is a meeting. It’s fixed,’ Padde said. ‘Best you be there.’
‘You never told me he was a nut doctor,’ Meyer said.
She was letting him drive again. It stopped him stuffing crisps and sweets and hot dogs into his mouth. Most of the time.
Lund didn’t answer.
‘Not that there’s anything wrong in going out with your therapist.’
She sighed.
‘He’s a criminal psychologist.’
Meyer raised an eyebrow as if to say: does that matter?
‘He’s the cleverest man I know.’
‘Met him through work, eh?’
Silence.
‘Am I right in thinking your ex-husband was a cop too?’
Silence.
‘You’re not the only one who can run background checks, Lund.’
Meyer shook his head. Stared at her as he took the corner.
‘Watch the road,’ she ordered.
‘Do you know anyone outside the police?’
‘Of course I do! Bengt—’
‘Is a criminal psychologist.’
‘I know lots of people.’
‘Of course you do. I’ve asked Buchard for a meeting. About us.’
She looked at him. Big ears. Bulbous eyes. Stubble and that cocky haircut.
Meyer started to whistle. Then he turned the corner into Birk Larsen’s street.
‘Where’s your husband?’ Lund asked.
Pernille Birk Larsen was wiping down the kitchen table. The place looked too clean. As if the woman was trying to scrub away the memory of her lost child.
The tablecloth was unusual. Photographs and school reports were lacquered into the surface. Faces and words. A young Nanna, on her own, in the box of the red Christiania trike with a tiny Indian boy. The sons as toddlers.
A sweep of the tablecloth which was spot
less already.
‘He works weekends too.’
‘We need information,’ Lund said. ‘We need to understand whether Nanna knew her murderer or not. Would you mind…?’
The obsessive sweep of the hand, the cloth that removed nothing because there was nothing to remove.
‘Would you mind doing that later please?’ Lund said.
Pernille Birk Larsen didn’t look at her. Just kept rubbing at the table.
Meyer rolled his eyes.
‘It could be something she said,’ Lund went on. ‘Times she wasn’t at home. Anything. Presents, books she borrowed…’
Pernille Birk Larsen stopped working with the cloth, leaned on both hands, glowered at both of them.
‘You knew that teacher was a suspect. And you let him come to the funeral. Let me welcome him into my home.’
Meyer was shaking his head.
‘He held my hand. And you said nothing!’
Lund shrugged, got up, looked around.
‘And now you come asking questions!’ Pernille shouted at them. ‘It’s too late.’
They didn’t say a word.
‘What are you doing about him?’
‘We’re searching his home,’ Meyer broke in. ‘As soon as we know something I’ll call you.’
A look of bewilderment in the woman’s intelligent, searching eyes. A connection she’d never made.
‘Nanna was there?’
No answer.
‘She was at his home that night?’
Lund shook her head, started to say, ‘We can’t go into details…’
‘Yes,’ Meyer broke in. ‘She was there that night.’
Lund closed her eyes, furious.
‘No one’s seen her since,’ he added.
Still livid, Lund said, ‘This doesn’t prove anything. We need information that links the two of them. We need…’
What? She wasn’t sure either.
‘We need a reason,’ Lund said half to herself.
Pernille Birk Larsen picked up the cloth, wiped the clean table again.
‘All I know is Nanna liked him as a teacher.’ She waved at the girl’s bedroom. ‘Go round the place. Help yourself. There’s nowhere you haven’t poked your noses already.’
She glared at them.
‘But keep me informed. You hear that?’
‘Sure,’ Meyer said.
Theis Birk Larsen and Vagn Skærbæk had picked up some fresh timber beams from the yard. They were in the garage stacking them in the van. There were jobs to be done. But the house in Humleby came first.
‘I’ll help you with the work, Theis,’ Skærbæk promised. ‘Just tell me what you want.’
Birk Larsen heaved some more timber into the truck, said nothing.
Skærbæk dodged a beam.
‘Just as well you didn’t touch him with all those police about.’ He picked up some more planks, threw them in the van. ‘How can an ape like that be a teacher? It’s a sick world.’
Birk Larsen took off his black hat, looked at the wood. Fetched some more.
‘Know what?’ Skærbæk checked around, made sure no one was listening. ‘He’s finished. I promise you. Listen…’
He put a hand on Birk Larsen’s black coat. Stopped him.
‘We wait,’ Skærbæk said. ‘We’ve done this before. We know how.’
A sudden fury gripped Birk Larsen’s stony face. He picked up the smaller man by his overall, threw him towards the back of the van. Grabbed him by the throat.
‘Don’t ever talk like that again. Ever.’
Skærbæk stood still, defiant, almost squared up to him.
‘Theis. It’s me. Remember?’
A shape at the edge of his vision. The lean, gruff cop came into view, phone ringing. Birk Larsen let go.
‘Meyer speaking,’ the cop said.
The Lund woman was with him, walking round the place the way she always did. Eyeing up everything as if she could record it with those unblinking eyes.
Birk Larsen loaded the van and closed the door. Vagn had made himself scarce without a sound. A talent he’d had since the two of them were kids on the street.
Lund came up to Birk Larsen.
‘If there’s anything I can do…’
‘You know what you can do,’ he said.
Kirsten Eller arrived, a look of mild outrage on her pasty face.
‘This role model of yours is the prime suspect. In a murder case.’
‘He may be innocent.’
‘Not suspending him is madness.’
‘That may be your opinion but it’s not mine. Don’t let this ruin our agreement.’
‘Our agreement?’
He waited. Rie Skovgaard studied her nails.
‘Words on paper,’ Eller said. ‘That’s all they are. Nothing more.’
There was coffee on the table and croissants. Barely touched.
‘You mean you want out?’
‘It’s a question of credibility.’
‘It’s a question of principle.’
‘Your principles. Not ours. I won’t go down with you. I won’t be held accountable. I won’t—’
‘What,’ he cut in, ‘are you saying?’
‘If you don’t make this go away I’ll distance myself from you. We have to—’
A knock on the door. Morten Weber walked in. He looked as if he’d been shopping. Smart new jacket, red sweater, white shirt.
Hartmann and Skovgaard stared at him.
‘Here’s the document you asked me to find,’ Weber said, coming over to Hartmann, a sheet of paper in his hand.
No one spoke.
Weber asked, ‘More coffee?’
When there was no answer he smiled and left.
Hartmann looked at the colour printout. It was a page from Kirsten Eller’s own website.
‘What’s it to be, Troels?’
He read the sheet carefully.
‘OK,’ she went on. ‘I won’t be seen with you. All joint arrangements are cancelled, including tonight’s.’
Eller tidied her papers, dropped them into her briefcase with her pen. Got ready to go.
‘What about your credibility?’
‘What do you mean?’
Hartmann passed the paper across the table.
‘You’ve been taking credit for my role models. It’s here. On your home page.’
She snatched the page, read it.
‘You liked our joint initiative so much you wrote about it.’ Hartmann leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. ‘I’m happy to share the credit, Kirsten. But the trouble is… if there’s blame to be apportioned you have to share that too.’
He leaned forward, smiled at her, added, ‘That’s what being accountable means.’
‘This is blackmail.’
‘No it’s not. It’s your website, not mine. Your responsibility. A matter of public record. Hang me out to dry and you’ll find yourself swinging from the same line. But—’
‘Thank you for the coffee,’ Eller snarled.
‘It was a pleasure. I’ll see you tonight. As arranged.’
They watched her go then went back into the main office.
‘She didn’t like that,’ Skovgaard said.
‘I don’t give a damn whether she liked it or not. I won’t take lectures on accountability from some carpetbagging hack who’ll climb into bed with anyone who’ll have her.’
Morten Weber was at his desk. Hartmann walked over. Weber didn’t take his eyes off his computer screen.
‘I thought you’d deserted us.’
Weber scanned his inbox. Line after line of messages.
‘I get bored on my own.’
Hartmann placed the page from Eller’s website in front of him.
‘How did you know?’
Weber stared at him as if it were obvious.
‘I’d have grabbed the credit if I was running her campaign. You need to think like other people sometimes. It helps.’
‘I’m glad you’
re back, Morten,’ Skovgaard said.
He laughed, looked at her.
‘Me too.’
Kemal’s flat in Østerbro. The forensic team had pored over every inch of every room. All they had were two prints from Nanna Birk Larsen by the front door.
Meyer wanted more.
‘Look,’ the head forensic guy said. ‘We’ve done everything. That’s all there is.’
Lund read through the preliminary reports.
‘What about the boots?’ Meyer demanded.
‘We analysed the mud. It’s not from the crime scene.’
‘What about the ether? Who the hell keeps ether in the house?’
‘People with helicopters.’
One of the team pulled out a model helicopter.
‘Boys’ toys,’ the forensic guy said. ‘He likes them. This thing flies on a mixture of oil, paraffin and ether.’
‘The neighbours?’ Lund asked. ‘What do they say?’
‘There was a party on the third floor. A tenant saw him take out some rubbish at one thirty in the morning. That’s all.’
Lund stared at him. The man wilted.
‘Rubbish? At one thirty?’
‘That’s what he said.’
Twenty minutes later Kemal arrived for the reconstruction. He didn’t look like a man expecting to be arrested. Smart jacket, grey scarf. Schoolteacher even on a Sunday.
‘She never got much beyond the door?’ Lund asked. ‘That’s what you’re saying?’
‘I buzzed her in. She rang the bell.’
‘And then?’
‘She felt guilty about some books I’d lent her.’
‘You didn’t go inside?’
‘No. We talked here. At the door.’
‘So why are her prints on a photo in the living room?’
‘I was going to sand the floor. All the things were out here. It was the class photo. She looked at it before she left.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. She wanted to for some reason.’
‘Then?’
‘Then she left.’
‘Did you see her out of the building?’
‘No. I just closed the door. It’s safe here. No reason…’ He fell silent. ‘I thought it was safe.’
‘Why did you cancel the floor people?’ Meyer asked.
‘It was going to be too expensive. I thought I’d do it myself.’
‘So you phoned him? At one thirty in the morning?’
‘He had an answering machine. Why not?’
