by David Hewson
He always spoke and moved like a younger man. That was part of the image.
‘Rome liked Cicero, appreciated his ideas. Ideas make pretty rhetoric. Not much more. Caesar was a dictator but a rogue the Romans knew and loved. Cicero was impatient. Pushy. An upstart. You know what happened to him?’
‘He went into TV?’
‘Very funny. They slaughtered him. Put his hands and head on show in the Forum for everyone to laugh at. We serve an ungrateful bunch of bastards sometimes.’
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I saw the polls. Did you?’
‘I did.’
‘You’ll make a fine Lord Mayor. You’ll run this city well.’ Bremer smoothed down the sleeves of his black silk jacket, pulled out the cuffs of his smart white shirt, took off his glasses and checked they were clean, ran a hand through his silver hair. ‘Just not this time around.’
Hartmann sighed and looked at his silver Rolex.
‘I retire in four years. What’s the hurry?’
‘I believe it’s called an election. Third Tuesday in November. Every four years.’
‘I’ve an offer for you. A seat around my table. Running more than schools. There are seven mayors. Lord Mayor and six for the departments. You’ll get any of the six you want. You’ll learn how this city runs. When the time comes you’ll be ready for the job and I’ll happily hand it on.’
Bremer turned that swift smile on him.
‘I guarantee no one will stand against you. But you can’t have it now. You’re not ready.’
‘That’s not your decision, is it?’
The smile was gone.
‘I’m just trying to be friendly. There’s no need for us to be enemies . . .’
Hartmann got up to leave. Poul Bremer strode in front, stopped him with an outstretched hand. He was a burly man, still fit. There were stories about how he’d strong-arm for support when he was young. No one knew whether they were true. No one had the courage to ask.
‘Troels.’
‘You’ve outstayed your welcome,’ Hartmann said curtly. ‘Go quietly. With dignity. Maybe I could find you a job somewhere.’
The suave old man stared at him, amused.
‘Does one tiny promise from the Centre Party inspire such confidence? Oh please. They’re the house pets. That fat bitch Eller will suck the cock of anyone then let you piss on her. So long as she gets a subcommittee after. Still . . .’ He straightened his gold cufflinks.
‘They know their place. A wise politician does.’
Bremer picked up the book, held it out to him and said, ‘Read about Cicero. You might learn something. No one wants to end up torn to pieces for the public to gloat over. It’s best these transitions are managed. Quietly. Efficiently. With some—’
‘You’re going to lose,’ Hartmann cut in.
The old man chuckled.
‘Poor Troels. You look so impressive on the posters. But in the flesh . . .’
He reached out and touched the collar of Hartmann’s silk suit.
‘What’s under here, I wonder? Do you even know yourself?’
Meyer was out before she’d time to kill the engine, flashing his ID at a woman packing the boot of an estate car.
Red.
Everything here seemed a vivid shade of scarlet. The workmen in their bib overalls. The vans. Even a shiny Christiania trike with a box on the front for taking kids to school, bringing back the shopping, riding a lazy dog around town.
All the same colour, all with the name Birk Larsen on them.
Lund walked over, half-listening to Meyer, mostly looking around.
Two sliding doors opened to a depot-cum-garage. Beyond the crates and cases and machinery she could see an office behind glass windows in the corner, stairs at the back with a sign that read ‘Private’. This was Birk Larsen’s home address. He had to live above the job.
‘Where’s Theis Birk Larsen?’ Meyer asked.
‘My husband’s working. And I’m going to the accountants.’
A woman in her forties, smart, good-looking with chestnut hair just a touch better tended than Lund’s own. She wore a fawn gaberdine coat and a harassed, preoccupied air. Kids, Lund thought. She owned the badge. And she didn’t like the police. Who did?
‘You live here?’ Lund asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is he upstairs?’
The woman walked back into the garage.
‘Is this about the vans again? We’re a transport company. We get in the way.’
‘It’s not about the vans,’ Lund said as she followed a couple of steps behind. More scarlet and uniforms. Hefty men heaving around crates, checking clipboards, looking her up and down. ‘We just want to know what he did at the weekend.’
‘We went to the seaside. With our two boys. Friday to Sunday. Took a cottage. Why?’
Tarpaulins and ropes. Wooden chests and commercial pallets. Lund wondered what she’d meet as a not-quite-cop in Sweden. She’d never really asked herself that question. Bengt wanted to go. She wanted to follow.
‘Maybe he came back to town on business?’ Meyer said.
The woman picked up an accounts ledger. She was getting sick of this.
‘But he didn’t. First weekend off we’ve had in two years. Why would he?’
Untidy office. Papers everywhere. Big companies didn’t work this way. They had systems. Organization. Money.
Lund walked outside and looked in the woman’s boot. Papers and folders. Kids’ toys. A small football, much like the one Meyer had left in the office. A battered Nintendo. She wandered back into the office.
‘What did he do when you got home?’ Meyer was saying.
‘We went to bed.’
‘You’re sure.’
She laughed at him.
‘I’m sure.’
While they talked Lund strolled around the office, looking at the mess, searching for something personal in all the bills and receipts and invoices.
‘I don’t know what you think he did . . . and I don’t care either,’ the woman was saying. ‘We were at the seaside. Then we came home. That’s it.’
Meyer sniffed, looked in Lund’s direction.
‘Maybe we’ll come back another time.’
Then he went outside, lit a cigarette, leaned against one of the scarlet trucks and stared at the starkly pallid sky.
At the back of the office, behind some rickety, old-fashioned filing trays, was a set of photographs. A beautiful teenage girl smiling with her arms round two young boys. The same girl close up, bubbly blonde hair, bright eyes, a little too much make-up. Trying to look older than she was.
Lund took out her packet of nicotine gum and popped a piece in her mouth.
‘You’ve got a daughter?’ she asked, still looking at the girl, the fetching smile. Both photos, alone, too old, and with the young boys when she played big sister.
The mother was walking out of the office. She stopped. Turned, looked at her and said, her voice quiet and small, ‘Yes. And two boys. Six and seven.’
‘Does she borrow her dad’s video rental card sometimes?’
The Birk Larsen woman was changing as Lund watched. Face falling, getting older. Mouth open. Eyelids twitching as if they had a life of their own.
‘Maybe. Why?’
‘Was she here last night?’
Meyer was back inside, listening.
The woman put down the papers. She looked troubled now, and scared.
‘Nanna spent the weekend at a friend’s house. Lisa. I thought . . .’ Her hand went up to her chestnut hair for no real reason. ‘I thought she might phone us. But she hasn’t.’
Lund couldn’t take her eyes off the photographs, the face there, happy, staring out at the camera without a care.
‘I think you should ring her now.’
Frederiksholm High School in the city centre. Where the money was. Not Vesterbro. Morning break. Lisa Rasmussen phoned again.
‘This is Nanna. I’m doing my homework. Leave
me a message. Bye!’
Lisa Rasmussen took a deep breath and said, ‘Nanna. Please call me.’
Stupid, she thought. Third time that morning she’d left the same message. Now she was sitting in school, listening to Rama the teacher talk about citizenship and the coming election. No one knew where Nanna was. No one had seen her since the Halloween party downstairs in the school hall the previous Friday.
‘Today,’ Rama said, ‘you’ll have the opportunity to decide who to vote for.’
There was a photo on the whiteboard. The semicircle of seats in the Rådhus. Three politicians, one good-looking, an old man, a smug fat-faced woman. She couldn’t care less.
Out came the phone again and she typed one more message. Nanna, where the hell are you?
‘We’re lucky to live in a country where we have the right to vote,’ the teacher went on. ‘To decide our own future. To control our destiny.’
He was thirty or so, from the Middle East somewhere, not that it showed in his voice. Some of the girls fancied him. Tall and handsome. Nice body, cool smart clothes. Always helpful. Always had time for them.
Lisa didn’t like foreigners much. Even when they smiled and looked good.
‘So let’s hear the questions you’ve prepared for the debate,’ Rama said.
Class full, the rest of them seemed interested.
‘Lisa.’ He had to pick her. ‘Your three questions. Are they on your phone?’
‘No.’
She sounded like a petulant kid and knew it. Rama cocked his head and waited.
‘I can’t remember them. I can’t . . .’
The door opened and Rektor Koch walked in. Scary Koch, the stocky middle-aged woman who used to teach German before she rose to run the school.
‘Excuse me,’ Koch said. ‘Is Nanna Birk Larsen here?’
No answer.
Koch walked to the front of the class.
‘Has anyone seen Nanna today?’
Nothing. She walked over to talk to the teacher. Lisa Rasmussen knew what was coming next.
One minute later Lisa was outside with the pair of them, Koch glaring at her with those fierce black eyes and asking, ‘Where’s Nanna? The police are looking for her.’
‘I haven’t seen Nanna since Friday. Why ask me?’
Koch gave her that ‘you’re lying’ look.
‘Her mother told the police she spent the weekend at your house.’
Lisa Rasmussen laughed. People used to think she and Nanna were sisters sometimes. Same height, same clothes, blonde hair too though Nanna’s looked better. And Lisa was always heavier around the middle.
‘What? She didn’t stay with me.’
‘You don’t know where she is?’ Rama asked a little more gently.
‘No! How could I?’
‘If she calls tell her to ring home,’ Koch said. ‘It’s important.’ She glanced at Rama. ‘They need your classroom for the debate. Be out of there by eleven.’
When she was gone Rama turned, took Lisa Rasmussen’s arm and said, ‘If you’ve any idea where she is you must say so.’
‘You’re not supposed to touch me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He took his hand away. ‘If you know—’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Lisa said. ‘Leave me alone.’
Lund and Meyer were upstairs in the Birk Larsen flat. It was as cluttered as the office but in a pleasant way. Photos, paintings, plants and flowers. Vases and mementoes from holidays. Decorated, Lund thought. She never got round to that herself. The woman she now knew to be Pernille Birk Larsen worked at being a mother. Seemed good at it. As far as Lund could judge.
‘She’s not at school,’ Lund said.
Pernille still wore her raincoat as if none of this was happening.
‘She must be at Lisa’s. They’re friends. Lisa rents a flat with a couple of boys. Nanna’s always there.’
‘Lisa’s at school. She says Nanna never stayed with her.’
Pernille’s mouth hung half open. Her eyes were wide and blank. On the kitchen wall Lund saw the same two photos from the office: Nanna with the boys, Nanna on her own looking beautiful and too old for nineteen. Fixed to a corkboard alongside a timetable for school sports events. The easy, casual air of domesticity hung around this place. Like the smell of a dog, unnoticed by the owner, apparent to a stranger from the outset.
‘What’s happened to her? Where is she?’ Pernille asked.
‘Probably nothing. We’ll do our best to find her.’
Lund walked into the tiny hall and phoned headquarters.
Meyer took Pernille out of earshot and began asking about photos.
Through to Buchard, Lund said, ‘I need everyone we can spare on this.’ The old man didn’t even ask a question, just listened. ‘Tell them we’re looking for nineteen-year-old Nanna Birk Larsen. Missing since Friday. Send someone here for the photos.’
‘And you?’
‘We’re going to her school.’
Hartmann and Rie Skovgaard had an empty classroom to prepare. She went through the numbers about the education allocation again. He paced round nervously. Finally she closed the laptop, came and checked his clothes. No tie, blue shirt. He looked good. But still she fiddled with his collar, came close enough so he had to hold her.
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 wa
lking 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.’
