The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  Two teams. One with a gap for him.

  Hartmann tied his laces, looked at the opposition, said: ‘Ready to be thrashed?’

  For ten precious minutes this was all there was. Racing around the polished floor, throwing the ball. Passing it. Physical exertion. No thoughts. No strategies. No plans. Even the flash of the cameras didn’t bother him. The Rådhus. The Liberal Party. Poul Bremer. Kirsten Eller. Even Rie Skovgaard. All of them were gone.

  A break in play. The throw came to him. Hartmann dashed, dummied, bounced, launched.

  Watched the ball turn slowly through the air, descend to the net, fall through.

  A roar. He punched the air. Pure emotion. No thought in his head.

  The cameras burst like lightning. Smiling he turned, high-fived the nearest player.

  Captured for ever: two men grinning happily at one another. Troels Hartmann in a blue shirt, victorious. The teacher called Rama, clasping his hand.

  ‘She walks down the corridor and finds the right hotel room. She’s about to knock. She wonders if this is wrong. Should she have come? It’s so different being with him. So different from everything at home. The garage she played in as a little girl with its smell of petrol. Her room and all her things. Far too many things because she can’t throw anything out. The kitchen where she spent hours with her mum, dad and two brothers, where they celebrated birthdays, Christmas and Easter. At home she will always be a little girl. But now . . . here in the hotel corridor . . . she’s a woman. She knocks. He answers.’

  Feet up on her desk in her office Lund was reading Nanna’s story. Meyer walked in, arms full of food.

  ‘For your sake there’d better be a hot dog for me.’

  ‘No. Kebab.’

  ‘What kind?’

  A shrug.

  ‘The meat kind. It’s a kebab, Lund.’

  He placed a white plastic box on her desk, then a couple of pots of sauce.

  ‘No name,’ she said. ‘No description. Just a secret man she meets at various hotels.’

  They flipped up the boxes and started to eat.

  ‘All we have,’ she went on, ‘is a pair of boots, an old essay and some gossip among the teachers.’

  ‘It’s not just gossip.’ He pulled out his notebook. ‘I spoke to Rektor Koch. Rama . . . or rather Rahman Al Kemal was involved in something a few years ago. A third-year student said he groped her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She withdrew the complaint. Koch thinks the kid had a crush on him. Made it up when he didn’t play.’

  Lund emptied the entire pot of hot sauce on her kebab and took a bite. Meyer watched in horror.

  ‘Go careful with that stuff.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my stomach. Why tell us about the essay if it was him?’

  ‘We’d have found it anyway. Let’s talk to him. He said he was at home with his wife. We can check that.’

  Lund sifted through the personnel records.

  ‘That incident should have been written up in his file.’

  ‘Dead right,’ he agreed.

  She was rifling through the papers.

  ‘Don’t waste your time, Lund. We never got his file. Hartmann’s people sent over all the rest. Not his.’

  She was thinking.

  ‘We did ask for them all, didn’t we?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Of course we did.’

  Lund picked up the remains of her kebab and got her jacket.

  ‘Well?’

  Outside Rama’s block in Østerbro she called home, got Mark. Spoke to him in the cobbled street, Meyer listening, not discreetly either.

  There was a party. She issued instructions. Go straight home afterwards. Call if he needed her.

  ‘We’re leaving tomorrow,’ Lund said. ‘Saturday night. I’ll book the tickets.’

  She looked at the phone.

  ‘Mark? Mark?’

  Put it in her pocket.

  Meyer said, ‘How old’s your boy?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Want some advice?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You need to listen to him. A kid of that age has got a lot on his plate. What with girls and all the rest. His brain . . .’ Meyer’s voice took on a different tone, one she didn’t recognize. ‘It’s at a certain stage of development. Just listen to him.’

  Lund strode ahead of him, trying not to get angry.

  ‘He says I’m only interested in dead people.’

  Meyer stopped, stuttered some words she didn’t hear.

  ‘Must be his brain,’ Lund said. ‘Number four, isn’t it?’

  They found the place and rang the bell.

  A blonde woman, very pregnant, very tired, answered the door and let them in without an argument.

  Rama wasn’t there. She said he had an appointment at the local youth club.

  ‘You teach at the school too?’ Meyer asked.

  It was a nice, modern flat, only half-renovated. Stripped walls, naked doors. Barely habitable.

  ‘Yes. Just part-time at the moment. The baby . . .’

  While he talked Lund wandered round, looking. They’d fallen into this routine easily, without talking about it. The pattern seemed to work.

  ‘Did you know Nanna Birk Larsen?’ he asked.

  The slightest hesitation.

  ‘She wasn’t a student of mine.’

  Pots of paint, rolls of carpet waiting to be laid. No photos. Nothing personal at all.

  ‘Were you at the party last Friday?’

  ‘No. I get tired easily.’

  Lund found nothing of interest, wandered back to the main room where Meyer stood with Rama’s wife.

  ‘So you were at home?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Well, I wasn’t actually at home.’

  Nothing more.

  Meyer took a deep breath and said, ‘So you weren’t at home?’

  ‘We’ve got a little cottage on some allotments outside Dragør. We were there all weekend.’

  Dragør. The other side of Kastrup. Not more than ten or fifteen minutes by car from where Nanna was found.

  ‘This place is a mess,’ she added. ‘The floors were being sanded. We couldn’t stay.’

  ‘Ah.’ Meyer nodded. His ears, Lund thought, looked bigger when he was curious. Which seemed impossible. ‘So you were both there?’

  ‘Rama picked me up at half past eight. We drove out there.’

  ‘Let me get this straight . . .’

  A lot bigger, Lund realized.

  ‘You and your husband spent the weekend at your allotment?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. I thought you might know something about the party at school.’

  ‘Nothing, sorry.’

  Lund walked towards the window. Felt her shoe stub against something. A roll of carpet. What looked like some blinds.

  A black circle of plastic was curled on the floor. She bent down, picked it up. Thought of Nanna in the back of her car. Ankles tied. Wrists tied. By something like this.

  Meyer said they used them in gardens. To secure building material too. For lots of things.

  Lund took out an evidence bag, dropped in the tie.

  ‘Do you want to talk to him again?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Meyer said, packing his notebook.

  Lund came back and asked, ‘Can I use the toilet?’

  ‘Through there. I’ll show you—’

  ‘No need. I’ll find it.’

  ‘Your first child?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Lund walked on. Still heard them.

  ‘It’s a girl.’

  Meyer’s voice brightened.

  ‘A girl! Really! That’s great. And you know too. Did you want to? Me, I like surprises . . .’

  Plastic sheeting everywhere. A set of coat hooks. A painting.

  ‘I could give you some good tips if you’re interested.’ Meyer’s voice sounded cheery. ‘The first few months . . . You need to make
him work.’

  Lund heard her laugh.

  ‘You don’t know my husband. He’ll work. I won’t need to ask.’

  Very quietly Lund walked into the bedroom. Clothes. Photos. Rama younger, bare-chested, smiling in what looked like a swimming team. Army insignia behind. A military pool perhaps. Good-looking man. Fit and muscular. A calendar. A school timetable.

  Lund looked in the en suite bathroom. New sink, new toilet. Bare walls. There was another room. The sign on the door said ‘Nursery’.

  It was dark. Just enough light from the street to see. Junk in the corner. Men’s toys. A sports kite. A speedboat.

  By the window a pair of men’s hiking boots. She picked them up, looked at the sole, felt the mud there, rubbed it between her fingers.

  Thought of the canal and the woods. And Dragør close by.

  There was a bottle on an upturned box. White label, brown glass. Lund picked it up, made a note.

  A cross voice behind said, ‘You walked past the toilet.’

  The bottle went back. The bag with the tie she slid into her pocket.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lund said and went straight back to the hall. Then took Meyer outside.

  Rektor Koch was in Hartmann’s office, Rie Skovgaard and Morten Weber listening.

  ‘They suspect one of our teachers,’ she said. ‘You need to tell me what to do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hartmann asked.

  ‘They called me just now. Asking questions. They seem to know—’

  ‘Know what? We’ve an agreement with the police. They’ll talk to us first.’

  ‘They seem to know something.’ She squirmed on the seat. ‘I don’t want any damage. We’ve had enough bad publicity as it is. Should I suspend him?’

  ‘Have they taken anyone in for questioning?’

  ‘They’re going to. A particular teacher. There was an old incident.’

  ‘What incident?’ Skovgaard cut in. ‘I checked the files. There was nothing there.’

  ‘It was . . . unproven,’ Koch insisted. ‘But it was on the files. I wrote it myself. Nonsense on the part of a stupid girl. The teacher was innocent I’m sure. The police only started to look at him because he was Nanna’s form tutor.’

  Hartmann asked, ‘So that’s why they’re interested?’

  ‘What other reason could there be?’

  No answer.

  Koch looked at the two of them.

  ‘I’ve explained the situation to you. I’ve done my duty. It’s your responsibility if the police or the newspapers come looking—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Hartmann said with a wave of his hand. ‘Give me his name. I’ll talk to the police. I’m sure this is nothing.’

  He got a pen.

  ‘His name is Rama. We call him that. His full name is Rahman Al Kemal.’

  She spelled it out. Hartmann started writing. Stopped.

  ‘And he’s a teacher at Frederiksholm?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘And they’re asking about him?’

  An impatient sigh.

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’

  He looked at Skovgaard. She frowned, shook her head.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Koch asked.

  ‘No. I just wanted to be sure. Will you . . .?’ He looked at her. ‘Please step outside. Help yourself to a coffee. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  He closed the door. Skovgaard got up.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Morten Weber asked.

  ‘I just shook hands with a role model called Rama,’ Hartmann said. ‘At the youth club.’

  ‘What?’

  Weber glared at Skovgaard.

  ‘He met a teacher from that school? And you didn’t know?’

  ‘I didn’t see a teacher’s name on the list. I went through every file myself. Troels wouldn’t have been in the same room if I thought there was something wrong.’

  ‘But there is something wrong!’ Weber cried.

  ‘Every single file, Morten!’

  Hartmann watched them, torn, not wanting to take sides.

  ‘Who gave you the files?’ Weber asked.

  Skovgaard swore under her breath.

  ‘One of the civil servants in administration.’

  Weber threw up his hands in exasperation.

  ‘I told you!’

  ‘They gave me the files. I looked at them. What else was I supposed to do? What . . .?’

  Weber was on his feet, red-faced, screaming.

  ‘You could come to me, Rie. You could ask a question once in a while. Instead of marching off and doing whatever comes into your vapid little head—’

  ‘Morten,’ Hartmann intervened. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Calm down? Calm down?’ He pointed to the door. ‘I’ve spent twenty years working these corridors. She comes from selling soap powder, spends ten minutes here and thinks she knows it all—’

  ‘Morten!’ Hartmann’s voice silenced him. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Yeah, Troels. It’s enough.’ Weber got hold of his bag. Stuffed in his papers with a shaking hand. ‘Let’s face it. If this election’s going to be run from between your bedsheets there’s not much room for me—’

  Hartmann was on him, furious, fist in his face.

  ‘I don’t care how long I’ve known you. I won’t take that. Get out of here. Go home.’

  Weber did that. No more speeches. No more hurled insults. Picked up his bag and left.

  Rie Skovgaard watched.

  Then when Weber had left said thanks.

  ‘I should have listened to him though,’ Hartmann said. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I guess,’ she agreed.

  The car back from Østerbro.

  ‘We need to check his past,’ Lund said. ‘He hasn’t always been a teacher. Check his allotment and his alibi.’

  She pulled out the plastic evidence bag.

  ‘This goes to the lab. He’s got a bottle of ether. I wrote down the brand name. Find out if it’s the same kind that was found on the girl.’

  Meyer wasn’t happy. For a change.

  ‘With all that evidence why didn’t we wait until he got home? Now he can get rid of everything.’

  Her phone was ringing. Hartmann was in the contacts list by now. She could see it was him.

  Lund passed the mobile to Meyer.

  ‘It’s Poster Boy. You talk to him. He probably wants to complain.’

  ‘Not the only one, Lund. What time’s your plane tomorrow? Do you need a lift to Kastrup?’

  Bedtime stories. Pernille reading. The boys in their pyjamas, chests against the soft duvets, elbows on the bed, waggling their feet.

  ‘Is Nanna in the coffin?’ Anton asked when she closed the book.

  Pernille nodded, tried to smile.

  ‘Is she going to be an angel?’

  A long wait.

  ‘Yes. She is.’

  Bright baffled faces gazed at her.

  ‘Tomorrow we say goodbye to Nanna. Then—’

  ‘Some of the children at school are saying things.’

  Anton’s feet moved a little faster.

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Someone killed her.’

  Emil added, ‘And there was a man who did something bad.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Some children in the class.’

  She took their hands, gently squeezed their small fingers, looked into their sparkling eyes. Could think of nothing to say.

  Five minutes later they were tucked up and quiet. She heard Theis moving, went downstairs. The garage was filled with furniture. Rented tables and chairs. He stacked and moved some, picked up more in one hand than most men could with two.

  ‘The boys wanted to say goodnight.’

  He heaved a table across the room.

  ‘I had to get on with this.’

  ‘They hear things at school.’

  Nothing.

  Pernille’s hand went to her neck.

  ‘
I said it was the bogeyman.’

  A trellis table. More chairs.

  ‘Theis. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to take them to the funeral. I mean . . .’

  He didn’t listen, didn’t turn to look at her.

  ‘They should say goodbye, I know. But there’ll be so many people.’

  A box of plastic plates and cutlery. He wiped his brow.

  ‘I don’t know how you and I will . . .’

  The table he’d moved from right to left he now moved back where it came from.

  ‘Would you please stop doing that?’

  He put it down, looked at her in silence.

  In the pocket of the blue checked shirt his phone trilled.

  Birk Larsen listened.

  ‘I’ll find out more from Jannik tomorrow,’ Vagn Skærbæk said. ‘The woman hasn’t heard anything new. I’ll try.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So you need any help tonight?’

  ‘No. See you tomorrow.’

  When he came off the phone the garage was empty. He watched Pernille walk up the stairs. Then went back to moving tables, stacking chairs.

  Mark seemed animated. As if he saw an opportunity.

  ‘So if we’re not going—’

  ‘We are going,’ Lund insisted. ‘Bengt is having a house-warming party.’

  Her mother was ironing. She was packing clothes, throwing them into an empty suitcase, squashing them down with her palms and elbows, ready to sit on the thing if need be.

  ‘What if—?’

  ‘Mark! There’s no what if. We leave tomorrow. Gran’s coming with us for a few days. That’s it—’

  Her phone rang. Bengt. Sounding anxious.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Lund told him. ‘Under control. We’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ve almost finished packing . . .’

  She covered the mouthpiece, mouthed at Mark, ‘Pack!’

  Then listened, heard a sound at the door. Vibeke answered. Lund looked. Troels Hartmann was standing there in a black winter coat looking every inch the politician.

  Bengt said something she didn’t quite hear.

  ‘Of course I’m listening,’ Lund said.

  She took the call into the other room, watched as Vibeke got Hartmann folding a long tablecloth for the new house.

  In Sweden.

  The new life.

  ‘Bengt,’ Lund said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  When she came back into the room Vibeke was asking him, ‘So are you the coroner?’

  ‘No,’ Hartmann said, holding the long white piece of cotton.