The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  There was a sound from the far side. A door opening and closing on a floor below. Lund dashed over to look, Meyer followed. A second set of stairs ran down the building. He’d come here to lose them. Managed it too.

  They watched a figure reach the ground floor then flee into the night and the vast dark city.

  Meyer in his fury leapt up like an animal, swearing, shrieking so loud she covered her ears.

  They slept in their clothes, wrapped in each other, his grief in hers, hers in his.

  Waking. Theis Birk Larsen unwound his arms without disturbing her, sat by the bed, quietly got up.

  Washed his face, ate some bread, sipped coffee as the boys and Pernille slept. Then went down to face the men.

  Twelve on that shift. Vagn Skærbæk, pale-faced, damp-eyed, among them. Vagn. Part of the family. The first person he’d called at two that morning, holding a conversation Birk Larsen could scarcely recall so punctuated was it by tears and cries and fury.

  Vagn was a good man for hard times. Times Birk Larsen thought would never come again. He had a family. A rock to lean on, as he was a rock to them.

  Sometimes the rock shifted on unseen sand.

  He went into the office, took his black coat off the hook, put it on carefully, as he’d done for years. Then went out and stood before them, the boss as always, laying down the orders for the day.

  Most of these men had worked for him for years. They knew his family, watched the kids grow. Brought them birthday presents. Read their homework. Wiped their tears sometimes when he or Pernille weren’t there.

  A couple were close to crying. Only Skærbæk could look him in the face.

  Birk Larsen tried to speak but stood there saying nothing.

  Work.

  There was a clipboard. A list of jobs that defined the way the hours would pass. He took it, walked into the office. Went looking for something to do.

  A long moment’s silence. Vagn Skærbæk called to the men by the vans, ‘Let’s get a move on, huh? I’m not your babysitter.’

  Then he came and sat opposite Birk Larsen. A small, insignificant man. Stronger than his puny frame suggested. Face not much changed from when they were in their teens. Dark hair, blank eyes, cheap silver chain round his neck.

  ‘You do what you need to, Theis. I’ll deal with the rest.’

  Birk Larsen lit a cigarette, looked at the office walls. Photos everywhere. Pernille. Nanna. The boys.

  ‘Some reporters called. I hung up on them. If they call back you give those bastards to me.’

  Slowly the depot came to life. Cardboard cases moved beyond the window. Pallets got shifted. Vans went out into the street.

  ‘Theis, I don’t know what to say.’ Same woollen hat, same red bib overall. Big brother, little brother. ‘I want to help. Tell me . . .’

  Birk Larsen looked at him, said nothing.

  ‘Do they have a clue who did it?’

  Birk Larsen shook his head, drew on his cigarette, tried to think about the schedule, nothing else.

  ‘Let me know if there’s anything . . .’ Skærbæk began.

  ‘The delivery on Sturlasgade,’ Birk Larsen said, the first words he uttered that morning.

  The man with him waited.

  ‘I promised them a cherry-picker.’

  ‘It’s done,’ Vagn Skærbæk told him.

  Meyer waved a mugshot at the plain-clothes team in the briefing room. It was of an unremarkable man in a black T-shirt holding up a prison number. Balding, bruised, stubbly face, droopy grey hippie moustache. The long slash of what looked like an old knife wound scarring his right cheek. Staring at the camera, looking bored.

  ‘His name is John Lynge from Nørrebro. He’s not at home. He’s a known criminal and we . . .’ He pinned the photo to the notice-board. ‘. . . are going to put this bastard in jail. Talk to neighbours. People he worked with. Bars. Pawnshops. Dope dealers. Anyone who knows him. He’s forty-three. Sad, solitary bastard . . .’

  Lund listened from the adjoining office, sipping at a coffee in between talking to her son. She’d caught three hours’ sleep in a spare room. Didn’t feel too bad.

  ‘He’s got no plan,’ Meyer announced as if this were a given. ‘No bolt-hole. Sometime he’s going to come up for air. And then . . .’

  Meyer clapped his hands together so loudly the noise sounded like a gunshot.

  Lund stifled a laugh.

  ‘You’re not getting out of Swedish lessons,’ she told Mark down the phone. ‘How can you? We’re going to live there. Bengt can explain to the teacher why you’re late. You won’t be in trouble.’

  Meyer held up a new photo of Nanna. Still pretty. No make-up, no forced sexy smile. Not trying too hard.

  ‘We need to know everything about her. Text messages, voicemails, emails. Anything that connects her to Lynge.’

  Mark was getting sulky.

  ‘We’ll fly out tonight,’ Lund said. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve booked the plane.’

  ‘Let’s move,’ Meyer cried and did the handclap again.

  Then, when the team had left, he came through and said, ‘Buchard wants a word before you go.’

  The old man had Lynge’s mugshot in front of him on the desk that was once hers. Meyer was going through what he’d learned from the files.

  ‘Thirteen years ago he was caught flashing children in a playground. One year later he raped a girl. Fourteen.’

  The chief listened. Lund stood in the door with her cold cup of coffee. She didn’t like the look on Buchard’s face.

  ‘Six years after that he was put in a psychiatric prison. Released eighteen months ago.’

  All this Meyer recited from memory, from a single look at the case records. Impressive, she thought. In a way.

  ‘So why’s he out?’ Buchard asked.

  Meyer shrugged.

  ‘Because he was deemed no longer dangerous?’ Lund suggested.

  ‘They always say that.’

  ‘Not always, Meyer,’ Buchard said. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘We have to talk to him.’

  Meyer threw up his hands in mock glee.

  ‘That’s the understatement of the year.’

  He was playing with the toy police car. Running it to make the blue light flash and the siren wail. Just like a kid.

  Buchard said, ‘Cut that out. I’d like to talk to her alone.’

  Meyer put the car back on the desk with exaggerated care.

  ‘If it’s about the case . . .’

  Something in Buchard’s face stopped him. Meyer raised his palms and walked out.

  The moment the door was closed Lund picked up her bag and said, ‘We’ve been through this. You know the answer.’

  ‘Things change.’

  ‘Chief! We don’t have anywhere to live. Bengt’s waiting for me in Sweden. Mark starts school tomorrow.’

  She went for the door.

  Buchard said, ‘I came from the lab. The girl was still alive when she went into the canal. It takes twenty minutes for a car like that to fill up. Add to that the time it takes to drown.’

  He was pulling out a file of photos.

  ‘It’s not my case,’ Lund said, messing with her bag, rearranging the things she’d rearranged once before.

  ‘She was raped repeatedly. In the vagina. In the anus. He wore a condom and took his time.’

  Lund watched him read this from the file and said, ‘Mark’s so excited about moving. No!’

  ‘She was abused like this for hours. All weekend probably. The bruises indicate she was held somewhere else before the woods.’

  Lund got her coat.

  ‘And then there’s this,’ Buchard said, holding up a small plastic evidence bag.

  Lund looked, couldn’t help it.

  ‘Meyer showed it to the mother. She says she’s never seen it before.’

  Buchard cleared his throat.

  ‘The girl was clutching it in her right hand when she died. My guess is he made her wear it. She ripped it from her throa
t when she was drowning. I can’t think of any other explanation.’

  Lund stood by the window, looking out at the bleak courtyard in front of the prison cells.

  ‘This isn’t the usual, Sarah. You know that. Rape a kid then kill her to shut her up.’ She couldn’t avoid those beady bright eyes. ‘Do you think we’d even know she was dead if we’d left it all to . . .’ He nodded at the door. ‘Our new friend Meyer?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘I talked to Stockholm. They’ve agreed you can report there when the case is closed.’

  Then he walked away, left the photos, the files, the small clear evidence bag on the table. Walked out and left Lund on her own.

  She thought about Mark and Bengt. About Sweden and a new civilian job in Stockholm. But mostly about Nanna Birk Larsen, a broken body in the back of a black Ford car dumped in a dank canal.

  Lund picked up the bag, held it to the light.

  It was a pendant on a gold chain. Cheap glass. Tacky. Different.

  A black heart.

  Meyer came back in from the corridor. He looked red-faced. Buchard must have told him.

  ‘This is outrageous.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more. We do things my way until the end of the week. If the case is still alive then you can have it.’

  ‘Fine.’

  It didn’t look fine.

  ‘We go by my rules. We treat people with respect, whether we like them or not. In the car you won’t smoke, you won’t drive at more than thirty miles an hour . . .’

  ‘May I fart?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want cheese crisps or hot dogs everywhere either.’

  ‘Any particular kind of underwear you prefer?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘How about clean?’

  A school was a world in miniature, riven with gossip and rumour. When the teacher called Rama arrived that grey morning he felt the news flitting through the corridors like a mischievous ghost.

  Then Rektor Koch told him, ‘I can do it if you wish.’

  ‘My pupil,’ he said. ‘My class.’

  Five minutes later he walked into the room, no books in his hand, no smile on his face. Looked at them, all of them, not children, not adults. Oliver Schandorff with his wild ginger hair, his dope eyes, his sour face. Lisa Rasmussen, Nanna’s best friend, though never so pretty or smart.

  What did you say except the obvious? What did you offer but the banal?

  His dark face morose, Rama said, ‘It’s just been announced . . .’ He stopped, closed his eyes, heard the words’ harshness even before he spoke them. ‘The police say Nanna’s dead.’

  A quick communal intake of breath. Tears and moans and whispers.

  ‘There’ll be no more lessons today. You’re free to go home. Or stay. The teachers will be here all day. We’ll have counsellors available.’

  A hand went up at the back. Someone asked the inevitable.

  What happened?

  The man they knew as Rama thought of his own family’s journey, the difficult, perilous land they’d left behind. He was only a child then. But still he could sense from them how safe this city seemed by comparison.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Another hand.

  ‘Was she murdered?’

  Lisa Rasmussen’s fingers flew to her face, a cry of grief and pain escaped them.

  ‘You’ve all got questions I know. Me too. There are no . . .’ A teacher was never lost for words. A teacher was always honest. ‘Sometimes there are no quick answers. We have to wait for them.’

  He thought of what Koch had told him. Went straight to Lisa, put an arm round her bent back, tried to meet her eyes.

  ‘They need your help,’ he said. ‘Lisa?’

  No answer.

  ‘The police want to see you.’

  She buried her face in her arms.

  ‘You and Oliver.’

  Rama looked up. He was there a minute ago. But now the seat was empty.

  Lund showed Lisa Rasmussen a photo of the black Ford estate.

  ‘You’ve seen this car?’

  Lisa nodded.

  ‘Maybe. One like it.’

  ‘When?’

  She thought and said, ‘Friday. Before the party. I think they were dropping off some stuff.’

  Lund held up the mugshot of John Lynge.

  ‘And him?’

  The girl stared at the bald man with the staring eyes, the grey moustache and scarred cheek, the police number in front of him.

  ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘Just tell me if you’ve seen him.’

  Lisa peered at the photo and said, ‘I don’t think so. What did he do to Nanna?’

  ‘Maybe he’s been in the school. Or somewhere you and Nanna went together.’

  A long moment, then she shook her head.

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him before.’

  Lund put the photo away.

  ‘Do you have any idea why Nanna said she was staying with you?’

  ‘No.’ The tears were back. She looked fifteen again. ‘I thought maybe she’d gone off with someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Lisa—’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Another tack. They talked about the party.

  ‘How was she?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Happy.’

  ‘In a good mood?’

  ‘Happy.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And she left. I thought it was a bit early. But—’

  ‘Why did she leave early?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Did she leave with someone?’

  ‘I didn’t . . .’

  Her voice trailed off into silence.

  Lund bent down and tried to catch her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t see! Why do you keep asking me questions? What am I supposed to know?’

  Lund let the outburst die down, bit into a piece of Nicotinell.

  ‘Nanna was your best friend, wasn’t she? I thought you’d want to help.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  The pile of photos was sorted carefully. Nothing physical. Nothing disturbing. Lund took out the last shot and showed it to her.

  ‘Do you recognize this necklace?’

  Black heart on a gold chain.

  Lisa shook her head.

  ‘Looks old,’ she said.

  ‘You never saw Nanna wear it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure, I’m sure, I’m sure, I’m sure!’ the girl screamed. ‘I saw her at the party. I hugged her. I didn’t know it was the last time . . .’

  Lisa Rasmussen stared at the table, not at the photographs, never at Lund.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said again.

  ‘I checked,’ Rie Skovgaard said. ‘Lynge isn’t a party member. He was a temp from an agency we used a couple of times. Could have been working for anyone.’

  They were outside the campaign office, in the corridor, speaking in whispers. Hartmann looked as if he’d hardly slept.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said.

  ‘Only if people know. If we don’t say something and the press get hold of this . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll say we hired a killer and covered for him. If Kirsten Eller hears we can kiss goodbye to your alliance. We’ve got to issue a statement. Make the position clear immediately.’

  Hartmann hesitated.

  ‘I’m supposed to be your adviser, Troels. I’m telling you. We’re standing on the precipice here. You don’t wait until you’re falling . . .’

  ‘Fine, fine. Do it. But let the police know first.’

  ‘Eller and the party?’

  ‘Leave them to me.’

  By midday the school was empty. Lund and Meyer were comparing notes in a deserted corridor, next to the lockers. On one side was a set of government health warnings about drugs and drink and sex. On the other a line
of posters for movies and rock music.

  Meyer had been busy. He had three witnesses who saw Lynge delivering campaign material to the school just after midday.

  ‘And in the evening?’

  ‘The car was here then too. Maybe he heard about the party and returned.’

  ‘Are we certain this was the car?’

  Meyer slapped some photos in her hand and grinned.

  ‘They took pictures for the school website. Party time. Look in the background in the exterior shots. It was the car.’

  His phone rang. While he talked she ran through the pictures. Behind kids in ghoulish costumes, masks and wigs, hideous monster outfits, was the black outline of the Ford.

  Meyer was getting mad.

  ‘I told you before that’s out of the question,’ he barked into the phone.

  An angry Jan Meyer. That was something new. She looked at more photos. They didn’t have Halloween like this when Lund was nineteen. Even if they had . . .

  She wondered what her mother would have said.

  ‘I’m not telling you again,’ Meyer shouted. ‘The answer’s no.’

  He stared at the phone. Swore.

  ‘I don’t believe it. She hung up on me.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Hartmann’s issuing a press statement. Trying to get his scrawny arse off the . . .’

  Lund slapped the photos in his arms.

  ‘We’re going to the Rådhus. You drive.’

  Birk Larsen went out to the job in a daze, got there only to be appalled by his own lack of consideration, came straight home, sat with Pernille in the kitchen, not talking just waiting, for what neither knew.

  Then Lotte arrived, her sister. Eleven years younger, as close to Nanna as she was to Pernille. Birk Larsen sat mute and lethargic in the corner, watched them hug and cry, envying their open emotions.

  ‘What about the boys?’ Lotte asked.

  ‘We haven’t told them yet,’ Pernille said. ‘Theis?’

  ‘What?’

  It was the first word he’d spoken in an hour.

  Lotte sat at the table and sobbed. Pernille checked the school timetable, on the corkboard with the family photos.

  ‘We’ll pick up the boys after art. It ends at two.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lotte was in pieces.

  ‘What was she doing there? Nanna’d never get into a stranger’s car.’

  More black coffee. It stopped him wanting to scream.

  Pernille moved photos around the corkboard for no good reason.