by David Hewson
‘Don’t act bored, Jens,’ Hartmann said. ‘We’re looking at the difference between victory and defeat. Bremer knows it. Why do you think he’s playing these games with me on TV?’
‘Because you keep inviting it, Troels.’
‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘I didn’t. What happened to me could happen to any of us if he felt you threatened him. That’s the state the Rådhus is in. That’s why we need a broad alliance that gets Bremer out for good.’
Mai Juhl was a small, intense woman who’d created the Environment Party out of nothing. She carried plenty of respect and little goodwill. Politics was everything for her, which seemed odd to Hartmann since she’d achieved precious little in her time in office.
‘That’s all very well but what do we have in common?’ she asked. ‘How could we—?’
‘We’ve plenty, Mai. Education, housing, integration. The environment too. You’re not the only one to care, you know. We’ve more common ground among us than you think.’
‘And the role models?’ On most conventional issues Juhl swung to the right. ‘You’d do anything to keep them.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would.’
‘We’re a million miles apart there.’
Someone else agreed.
He looked at each of them, picking the subject carefully from the research Morten Weber had provided.
‘Leif. Last time round Bremer promised you he’d reduce CO2 levels? Never happened. What’s he done for the elderly? Isn’t that a key issue for you too? Bistrup? Did he create jobs like he promised? Jens? You used to say the city needed to attract families with children. What happened to all that?’
They didn’t answer.
‘Bremer took your well-meant commitments when he needed your support then threw them in the bin afterwards.’
He pushed their own election material across the table.
‘If we were sitting round a TV studio now I’d tear you apart for this. You’re asking for votes yet you never deliver on your promises. Because Bremer never delivers to you. It doesn’t have to be that way. We can work together. We can compromise.’
He raised his shoulders in a gesture of indifference.
‘We’ve all got issues we’ll sacrifice. Me too.’ Hartmann held up his own manifesto. ‘This is a piece of paper, not the Bible. What matters is we win something. With Bremer you’ll come away empty-handed and you know it.’
Hartmann got up, distributed Morten Weber’s document around the table.
‘I’ve drafted a collaboration between the five of us. Obviously it’s only a beginning. Everything’s up for discussion. You’ll want changes. I welcome that.’
He went back to his seat, watched as they picked up the paper.
‘I know it’s a big step. But between us we have the talent and the energy and the ideas to make this city better. If we don’t do something now he’s back again. An administration stuck in the doldrums. No imagination. No fresh blood—’
‘I think Bremer’s done a good job,’ Jens Holck broke in.
‘So do I!’ Hartmann said. ‘Twelve years ago he was the right man. Now—’
‘This is Copenhagen. Not paradise. I haven’t seen anything from you that suggests you can be as good a Lord Mayor. Lately, more the opposite.’
‘Fair enough. We should talk frankly. Let’s see what the voters think.’
‘And,’ Holck added, ‘you’re on bad terms with Parliament. The Lord Mayor’s there to negotiate the city’s budget. If Parliament hates you they starve us. I really don’t see this—’
‘The way we deal with Parliament is through strength. If we have a broad alliance…’ His hand swept the table. ‘Then we can do better than Bremer. If they piss us off they piss off everyone. Don’t you see?’
Jens Holck got to his feet.
‘No. I don’t. I’m sorry, Troels. I don’t believe in you.’
‘Won’t you even look at the proposal?’
‘I already did. Goodnight.’
Mai Juhl was leaving too.
‘We couldn’t do this without Jens,’ she said.
The other three followed.
Alone in the office, in the blue light of the Palace Hotel’s neon sign, Hartmann wondered whether he’d jumped the gun.
There’d never been a broad coalition like this before. Maybe it was madness. But madness had its place in politics sometimes. When the old order gave way a little chaos was only to be expected. That was when the bold would strike.
And he wasn’t the only bold one around.
Morten Weber predicted Holck would reject the offer outright and the others follow. He rarely read the situation poorly. He also said they’d think about it offline. That before long someone would call.
Hartmann poured himself a brandy.
It took exactly seven minutes.
He looked at the name flashing on the phone and laughed.
Jens Holck was in the garden courtyard hidden in the heart of City Hall, smoking among the Russian vines and ivy next to the fountain.
‘You’re back in bad habits,’ Hartmann said, looking at the cigarette. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Holck was a couple of years short of Hartmann’s age, about the same height and build, a one-time student leader, young-looking at first glance but worn down by underachievement. He had dark hair and black fashionable glasses, a bleak schoolmasterly face. He hadn’t smiled much of late. Or shaved either. He looked a mess.
‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’ Holck asked.
‘Very. So why did you call?’
Holck’s head went from side to side.
‘In case I could make myself a little clearer.’
‘Jens. We’ve got to do something. The city’s drifting. Bremer’s administration is disorganized. The finances are a mess. He only listens to himself.’
Holck took a draw on the cigarette, blew smoke over the fountain.
‘He’s like a dying king,’ Hartmann added. ‘We all know he’s not long for this world. But no one wants to mention it. Or say a word in case the old man hears.’
‘Then maybe we should wait for the funeral. And pick up the pieces from there.’
Hartmann looked around the courtyard. They were alone.
‘Did you hear about his trip to Latvia?’ he asked.
Holck’s head bobbed up. He was on the audit committee. Rie Skovgaard had been fishing there too.
‘What about it?’
‘Officially it was a visit to a company. Inward investment. But the expense account—’
‘Been snooping have we, Troels? I thought you were the good guy.’
‘I don’t mess with public money.’
‘We see the expenses. There wasn’t a thing wrong with them.’
‘What you saw was tampered with. Thousands—’
‘Oh for God’s sake. Is this your new politics? I don’t give a damn if Bremer creams a little here and there. He’s an old man and he’s worked like a dog here. Always has. In spite of the miserable salaries and the godawful hours.’
‘So we just carry on as we are?’
‘Someone has to be Lord Mayor. Do you really think you’re different?’
‘Give me the chance.’
‘And you are on terrible terms with Parliament. That’s the heart of it. They don’t like you, Troels. They don’t like the way you preen yourself for the cameras. The women swooning. Your sanctimonious smugness. The way you think you’re better than everyone else.’
Holck laughed, a short, harsh sound.
‘Not me. I don’t have that problem. I’ve known you long enough to see through the performance. Tell me. Are you running for the sake of Copenhagen? Or the benefit of Troels Hartmann? Which matters most?’
‘You called to tell me this?’
‘Pretty much,’ Holck said, then threw the cigarette into the fountain and walked off.
Ten minutes later.
‘You’re wasting your time on Jens Holck,’ Morten
Weber said. ‘He’s Bremer’s lapdog.’
‘Then let’s throw him the right bone. They were interested, Morten. They were wavering. If I’d got Holck on side they’d all fall in line behind him. In a heartbeat. Do we have any food?’
Weber bowed, said, ‘At your service.’
Then went off to find something.
‘So if we don’t placate Jens Holck we’re sunk?’ Skovgaard said.
She sat on the desk, feet on his chair, chin propped on her hands. She didn’t look unhappy with the idea.
‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘We know who we are. We’re strong.’
Skovgaard held out her arm, flexed her bicep.
‘I’m strong too. Feel.’
Hartmann laughed, came to her, tested her arm with his fingers.
‘Not bad. One more thing.’
He bent down. Her arms went round his neck. They kissed. Fingers though hair. Grey business suit against black business dress.
She stayed in his embrace, said dreamily, ‘It seems a long time since that happened.’
‘When this is over I will take you somewhere with the biggest, softest, warmest bed…’
‘When it’s over?’
‘Or sooner.’
‘Is that a politician’s promise?’
Hartmann pulled away from her, smiling.
‘No. It’s mine. Call your father and get him to talk to the Interior Minister. Tell me what I have to do. Just a word from Parliament. Holck will hear it.’
Morten Weber walked back in with a dinner plate full of sandwiches.
‘The car park’s crawling with policemen,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Skovgaard asked.
Weber frowned.
‘Search me.’
Lotte Holst was eleven years younger than her sister Pernille, pretty enough to hold down a job behind the bar of the Heartbreak Club for five long and eventful years. The place catered to businessmen, young executives, anyone with enough money to pay two hundred kroner for a weak cocktail. It was near Nyhavn, close to the hordes of tourists heading for the canal boats and the restaurants.
She had her hair up, glossy lipstick, a revealing halter dress open at the midriff, and a permanently bored smile as she served up bottles of Krug and vodka to the deafening music.
The money was good. The tips better. And sometimes there were surprises.
Around eleven one of the barmen came over and said she had a visitor.
Lotte walked to reception, saw Pernille there in her fawn raincoat, hair a mess. Put a hand to her own head, felt embarrassed, the way she always did as a kid.
Pernille was pretty. But she was the beautiful one. Everyone said that. No one knew why it was Pernille who got married, even to a rough and inarticulate man like Theis, not her.
Her sister was rocking to and fro. She looked terrible. There was a small storeroom next to the cloakroom. They went there, sat on beer crates. Lotte listened.
‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ Pernille said.
‘Then why… I mean. It doesn’t matter. The boys are round with Mum. They’re OK.’
‘I know. I asked.’
‘I have to work, Pernille.’
‘I know that too.’
‘Have you heard from Theis? When he’s coming home?’
‘No. The lawyer’s doing her best.’
She hugged herself in the stained raincoat even though the little room was stifling.
‘Did Nanna say anything to you about…’
The words died.
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know. You were so close. Like sisters.’ There was something accusing in her eyes. ‘Closer than I got.’
‘You were her mum.’
Pernille was starting to cry.
‘She told you everything! She told me nothing.’
The door was open. One of the security men was watching them.
‘She didn’t…’
‘Nanna had a life I didn’t know about! I’m sure of it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Pernille.’
‘What did she say? Were there problems at home? With me? With Theis?’
‘No…’
‘Sometimes we argued. She never stopped. Always coming and going. Taking things. Wearing my clothes.’
‘She wore my clothes too,’ Lotte said. ‘Never asked.’
‘Did she…?’ The tears again, closed eyes. An agony Lotte Holst didn’t want to see. ‘Did she hate us?’
Lotte put a hand on her sister’s arm.
‘Of course not. She loved you. Both of you. And the boys. She never said anything.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s just me?’
The security man was making signs. She wasn’t supposed to take breaks from work. Not more than five minutes an hour.
‘Something happened last summer,’ Pernille said. ‘Between her and Theis.’
She nodded, as if trying to recall a specific incident.
‘When I look back I can see it. She was always Daddy’s girl. She could wind Theis round her little finger. Then they suddenly stopped doing things together. She didn’t tell me.’
‘Theis thought it was too early for her to move out. She was a bit upset.’ Lotte shrugged. ‘That’s all. She was nineteen. She wasn’t a kid. It was nothing.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘You have to stop thinking about it so much. Theis was a good father. He still is. Even if he did something stupid.’
The barman was at the door, beckoning her.
‘I’ve got to go. I don’t want to get fired. Listen.’
She squeezed her hands.
‘I’ll come round tomorrow and do what I can. Come on. You can get through this.’
She got Pernille to her feet, embraced her, took her to the exit.
Went back, made drinks for rich businessmen, smiled when they leered.
Then waited an hour till the break came again, walked into the toilet, took out the coke, snorted a long, expensive line, trying not to cry.
Tuesday, 11th November
Eight in the morning. Lund was watching the security tapes from the garage. Again. The family, the kids with the balloons getting into the silver Volvo. The black Ford pulling away.
Meyer came in with news. There was no sign of any connection between Nanna Birk Larsen and City Hall. She never worked there as staff or volunteer. Didn’t even seem to have visited on a school trip.
‘I’ve been through her things again,’ he added. ‘That key ring we found.’
He showed her an evidence bag.
‘What about it?’
‘They’re not hers. Not for home.’
Lund had pushed those to the back of her mind.
She took the bag off him. They were Ruko keys. Used everywhere.
‘They don’t look like anything they use at City Hall,’ he said. ‘They have all these old fancy locks. I don’t know…’
‘Later,’ she said. ‘Can we enhance the picture? Zoom in on the driver and see what he looks like?’
‘In theory.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
Meyer hesitated.
‘Buchard says this has all been checked.’
She pointed at the reports.
‘I can’t see anything about it in here.’
‘You heard him. I don’t want any part in this.’
He came and sat down next to her. Looked almost humble.
‘I really don’t want to spell this out. But this…’ He looked round the office. ‘This is my last chance. Things didn’t go too well in a couple of other places.’
‘A couple?’
‘I use that in a broad sense. I’ve got to keep this job. I have to.’
‘Is that why he didn’t kick us off the case?’ she wondered. ‘Because he’s got us where he wants?’
Meyer stared at her with his big, sad eyes.
‘If I was Buchard I would have fired us by now,’ Lund added.
‘They’re big ears. It won’t work.’
‘Thank you. If Buchard says it’s been looked at—’
‘No one’s looked at this. You don’t believe that either.’
He had his hands over his ears.
Quickly he took them away and said, ‘He’s coming.’
The chief marched in.
‘You wanted to talk to me?’
Lund smiled.
‘I wanted to say sorry about yesterday. We were both tired.’
Meyer nodded.
‘Tired,’ he agreed.
‘No problem,’ Buchard said. ‘So long as we’re making progress.’
‘Progress.’ She nodded. ‘We are.’
‘Good.’
He was ready to go.
‘Who checked the contacts and the list of calls on Nanna’s mobile?’ Lund asked.
Buchard froze in the door.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Something might point to one of the guards. Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Look into it.’
Another smile.
‘I will,’ she said.
They watched him go.
‘What would you have been?’ Lund asked. ‘If you weren’t a cop?’
‘A DJ,’ Meyer said. ‘Did it when I was a student. I was very good. Except the face.’
He ran his hand over his bristle and cheeks.
‘I don’t know if I’ve got the looks.’
She laughed.
‘And you?’
‘Nothing,’ Lund said. ‘I’d have been nothing.’
‘I did consider running a hot dog cart once,’ Meyer added. ‘You’re your own boss there. Maybe one day soon. The way we’re going. Lund?’
She was somewhere else.
‘Nothing at all,’ Lund said.
There was nothing to look at in the phone records. But twenty minutes later a detective stuck his head through the door with news. A taxi driver had appeared in the office after one more run by the night team pushing out pictures of Nanna. He said he thought he might have picked her up the night she died.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Meyer said.
‘Believe what?’
‘This is the first time anyone’s volunteered a damned thing about that poor kid. Didn’t you notice, Lund? Everyone else expects us to be mind-readers.’
