by David Hewson
Four years before. She dimly remembered the case. An undercover narcotics cop in Aarhus was murdered by one of the gangs. Meyer was his partner. Sick on the day he was killed. His career had been shaky ever since.
‘He was an idiot,’ Meyer said. ‘Went off on his own. If he’d waited a day I’d have been back on duty.’
She nodded at the wall.
‘Then maybe there’d be two names there instead.’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘What is?’
‘We were a team. We did things together. Looked out for each other. That was part of the deal. He broke it.’
She said nothing.
‘Like me forgetting to buy you a hot dog. For which I apologize.’
‘Not quite the same.’
‘Yes, it is.’
He pulled a half-eaten banana from his pocket, bit at it between pulls on the cigarette.
‘Buchard wants to see us,’ she said.
Back in their office. An empty packet of crisps sat on the desk. Along with a sceptical Buchard.
‘Kemal leaves his wife to go and meet the girl. They have an argument in the flat,’ Meyer said.
Lund was on the phone.
‘He ties her up and drugs her. And drives home.’
Buchard propped his chin on his fist, stared at Meyer with his round, beady eyes. Said nothing.
‘On Saturday morning he claims the workman has cancelled. But really Kemal has cancelled him.’
Buchard made to say something.
‘The workman confirmed that,’ Meyer said quickly. ‘I tracked him down.’
Lund’s voice rose from the other side of the office.
‘There’s time, Mum. Stop panicking. I said I’d be there. Why won’t you believe me? OK?’
The call ended. She pulled a pack of Nicotinell out of her packet, eyed the cigarettes on the desk.
‘So,’ Meyer went on. ‘He returns to the flat and the girl. He waits for it to get dark. Then he picks up the car at the school, drives back, carries the girl to the car and goes off to the woods.’
Lund came over, sat down, listened.
Meyer was warming to his idea.
‘On Sunday he removes any traces, sands the floor and puts up tiles.’
‘I’m going,’ Lund said to Buchard. ‘Talk to you soon.’
Meyer waved a hand in the air.
‘Wait, wait,’ he cried. ‘What’s wrong with it? Share the secret with dumb little Jan. Please.’
The two of them watched him.
‘Please,’ he repeated.
‘How could he have driven Hartmann’s car?’ Lund asked.
Meyer struggled.
‘He probably found the keys at the school on Friday night.’
Meyer watched Lund, waiting. So did Buchard.
‘I don’t think he’s that stupid,’ she said. ‘In fact I think he’s very clever.’
‘Exactly,’ Meyer agreed.
‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t drag him in until you get some hard evidence.’
She smiled.
‘But it’s your case.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thanks for everything. It’s been really . . .’
The word seemed to elude her.
‘Really educational.’
He took her hand, shook it vigorously.
‘You can say that again.’
‘I’ve left my number. If . . .’
He stared at her.
‘I’m sure you won’t need it. But . . .’
Buchard sat on the desk looking miserable. Before he could say a word she shook his hand too, said goodbye.
Then walked out of the Copenhagen Police Headquarters. Career over. Job gone.
Case still open.
The cab had a dropdown TV. Mark one side, Vibeke the other, Lund watched the nightly news. A debate between Hartmann and Bremer. All the polls said the fight for City Hall was a battle between these two. One misstep might give the other the game.
‘We haven’t bought any beer or brandy,’ Vibeke complained.
‘There’s plenty of time.’
‘And chocolates to go with the coffee.’
‘They sell chocolates in Sweden I believe.’
‘Not our chocolates!’
Lund’s phone rang. She looked at the number.
Skov. The detective she’d sent chasing information about Theis Birk Larsen after Buchard’s tip-off from the retired cop.
Waited. Thought about leaving it. Answered anyway.
‘What took you so long?’ He sounded excited. ‘I got the file from the retired DCI.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you want to know what’s in it?’
‘Give it to Meyer.’
He hesitated.
‘To Meyer?’
‘That’s what I said.’
The weather report. Lund picked up the remote, turned it off.
‘What does it say?’
‘It’s a case from twenty years ago. Some kind of vendetta between dope dealers. It never went to court.’
Mark looked around the car, mumbled, ‘I’ve forgotten my cap. Left it at Gran’s . . .’
‘It looks to me as if . . .’
‘Mum?’
‘I’ll buy you a new one.’
The cop droned on, ‘It’s about a . . .’
‘I don’t want a Swedish cap.’
‘We’re not turning back now, Mark.’
Silence on the phone.
‘I’m listening,’ Lund insisted.
‘Really?’ Skov said. ‘It involved a pusher from Christianshavn. Got beaten up. Almost killed. They never found who was responsible. Theis Birk Larsen was the main suspect. They questioned him.’
‘Mark!’
He was rootling round the footwell, looking for something else.
‘I forgot—’
‘I don’t care what you forgot,’ she snapped. ‘We’re going.’
‘Brandy and beer and cigarettes,’ her mother murmured from the other side.
‘Birk Larsen had a motive,’ the cop said. ‘The drug dealer had threatened to reveal something involving him. Was going to talk to us.’
‘About what?’
‘Don’t know. He kept quiet after that. Real scared of Birk Larsen it seems. The man’s got a reputation. Violence. Bad temper. Wait . . . I’m still reading this. There’s a second file underneath.’
Then, so loud she took the phone from her ear, ‘Christ!’
Mark was fidgeting, her mother still moaning.
‘What is it?’
Silence.
‘What is it?’
‘They went back a month later to see if the pusher had changed his mind. Intelligence asked for it. They really wanted Birk Larsen.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. They found him dead. I’ve got the pictures here. Jesus . . .’
‘What?’
‘This is worse than the first time. The guy looks like a piece of meat.’
‘OK,’ she cut in. ‘You need to tell Meyer.’
‘Meyer’s busy.’
‘Tell him to call me right away.’
‘OK. Bye.’
The garage was full, the wake quiet. No speeches. No songs. Only tables covered with white cloths and flowers, portable chairs, simple food.
Theis Birk Larsen wandered among their guests, nodding, saying little. Watching the boys, Emil and Anton, grow puzzled and bored.
Pernille flitted from table to table. Listening, speaking rarely. Letting the gentle murmur of so many voices dull her pained, bruised mind.
This was a business. People still called. Customers. They had no idea.
By the door, on the extension, Vagn Skærbæk fielded them all, watching, sad-eyed in his black jumper, black jeans.
Coffee and water. Sandwiches and cake.
Birk Larsen walked like a ghost between tables, making sure cups were full, plates never empty. A waiter with nothing to say.
Then,
in the office, by the hot silver urn, Skærbæk cornered him.
‘Theis. I just had a call.’
‘No business today, Vagn. I’m making coffee.’
‘I just spoke to Jannik’s wife. The woman at the school.’
Birk Larsen turned off the tap, put the half-filled cup on the table.
Walked into the shadows, away from the people outside.
‘Now’s not the time—’
‘No,’ Skærbæk insisted. ‘Now is the time.’
‘I told you. It can wait.’
‘I’ve got something.’
Birk Larsen looked at him. That plain thuggish face he’d known since childhood. More lined. The hair receding. Still a little scared. A little stupid.
‘I told you, Vagn. I’m making coffee.’
Skærbæk stared at him. Defiant. Angry even.
‘He’s here,’ he said.
Birk Larsen shook his head, stroked his chin, his cheek, wondered why he couldn’t shave well on a day like this.
Asked, ‘Who is?’
‘The man they think did it.’ Skærbæk’s dark, tricky eyes were shining. ‘He’s here.’
A name. Said with that savage distaste Skærbæk saved for the foreigners.
Through the glass Birk Larsen stared.
The room began to empty. The wake was coming to an end. After a long time he walked out of the office, crossed the room with slow, ponderous steps, trying to think of the right words to say. The proper thing to do.
Pernille was thanking the teacher for the wreath.
Rama, smart and handsome in a dark suit, prepared and presentable in a way Birk Larsen knew he could never hope to emulate, said, ‘It was from the school. From all of us. Students and staff.’
The man looked at Birk Larsen, expecting something.
Words.
‘We need some coffee.’
Pernille stared at him, affronted by his rudeness.
‘You want me to make some coffee?’
A nod.
She left.
Words.
‘Thank you for welcoming us into your home,’ the teacher said.
Birk Larsen looked at the table. The cups, the glasses, the plates with half-eaten food.
Lit a cigarette.
‘It means a lot to her classmates.’
His voice was slick and sweet. Just a touch of the exotic there. Not like most of them, inarticulate. Strangers. Foreign.
‘It means a lot to me,’ Rama said and reached out to touch his arm.
Something in Birk Larsen’s eyes stopped him.
Parks and recreation. Clean technology and environmental jobs. The interview was going well. Hartmann knew it. So did the studio. He could tell from the tone of the questions, the nodding heads behind the cameras in the dark.
From Poul Bremer’s stiff responses too.
‘You must be happy with all these ideas, Lord Mayor?’
The interviewer was a woman Hartmann had met before. Smart and attractive.
A nod of that grey magisterial head.
‘Of course. But let’s talk about something different. Immigration. Role models especially.’
He looked at the camera, then at Hartmann.
‘Really, Troels. They’re just a gimmick.’
Hartmann stiffened.
‘Try saying that in your ghettoes.’
A genial laugh.
‘We built good affordable housing for people who mostly arrived here uninvited. They seem grateful. We can’t tell them where to live.’
Hartmann’s temper stirred.
‘You can try to address social inequality—’
‘Let’s go back to role models,’ Bremer broke in. ‘You seem so fascinated by them. Your personal invention. Why is this? Why are they so important?’
‘Social inequality—’
‘Why treat immigrants differently? I won’t tolerate discrimination against minorities. But you wish to give the minorities rights that are denied to the rest of us. To people born here. Why not treat them like everyone else?’
Troels Hartmann took a deep breath, studied the man across the table. He’d heard these sly gambits so many times . . .
‘That’s not the point and you know it.’
‘No I don’t,’ Bremer retorted. ‘Enlighten me. What is the point?’
Hartmann fumbled for the words. Bremer sensed something.
‘You don’t seem very proud of your role models right now. Why is that?’
Poul Bremer knew something. It was written in that smirk.
Hartmann’s hands performed contortions. His mouth opened. Said nothing.
In the darkness he heard a faint instruction.
‘Stay on him. Camera one.’
A politician’s career could disappear in an instant. With a single thoughtless action. A solitary careless word.
‘I’m very proud of them.’
‘Are you?’ Bremer asked amiably.
‘These people work unpaid to make Copenhagen a better place. We should thank them. Not dismiss them as third-class citizens—’
‘This is wonderful.’
‘Let me answer!’
‘No. No. It’s wonderful.’
A glance at the camera. Then Bremer’s cold eyes fell on the man across the table.
‘But isn’t it true some of your role models are criminals themselves?’
‘That’s nonsense—’
‘Be honest with us. One of them’s involved in a murder case.’
The interviewer broke in.
‘What murder case?’
‘Ask Troels Hartmann,’ Bremer said. ‘He knows.’
‘An actual case?’ the woman asked.
‘As I said. A murder. But . . .’ Bremer frowned as if unwilling to elaborate for reasons of taste. The point was made. The bomb was dropped. ‘Hartmann’s the Mayor of Education. Ask him.’
‘No.’ The interviewer was cross now. ‘This is unacceptable, Bremer. If you won’t be specific you must drop this subject.’
‘Unacceptable?’ He raised his hands. ‘What’s unacceptable is—’
‘Stop this!’
Hartmann’s voice was so loud a technician near the table ripped off his headphones.
‘Imagine you’re right. Let’s say this is true.’
‘Yes,’ the old man agreed. ‘Let’s say that.’
‘Then what? If one immigrant makes a mistake does that implicate all immigrants? That’s absurd and you know it. If that’s so then what applies to one politician must apply to all of them.’
‘You’re avoiding the point—’
‘No.’ Hartmann no longer cared how this might look. ‘These role models have achieved more for integration in four years than you’ve managed in all your time in office. Unpaid, without thanks. While you did nothing—’
‘Not true—’
‘It’s true!’
Hartmann heard his own furious tones echo back at him from the dark belly of the studio.
Bremer relaxed in his seat, arms folded, smug and satisfied.
‘I’ve got plans for Copenhagen,’ Hartmann began.
‘We’ll hear more of this,’ Bremer broke in. ‘We’ll hear more very soon I think.’
Kastrup. Fifteen minutes to departure. Their seats were halfway along the plane. Mark by the window. Vibeke in between. Lund in the aisle, phone in hand.
Meyer’d called.
‘Did you hear about Birk Larsen?’ she asked, cramming her bag into the overhead locker.
‘No. But we’ve found the girl’s bike. What did you want?’
‘What bike?’
‘A patrol car stopped a girl on a bike for riding without lights. Turned out to be Nanna’s.’
A severe-looking flight attendant came up to Lund and ordered her to turn off the phone.
‘The girl said she stole the bike from outside Kemal’s place. We’re picking him up. Where are you?’
‘On the plane.’
‘Have a nice flight.’
‘Meyer. Keep an eye on Birk Larsen.’
She sat down. The flight attendant was at the front of the plane, haranguing someone else.
‘Why?’
‘Read the old case file like I told you. Don’t let him near Kemal.’
She could hear him pulling on a cigarette.
‘Now you tell me. The two of them just left the wake.’
‘What?’
‘I sent someone to pick up Kemal. He was there after the funeral. Birk Larsen had already offered him a lift. What’s wrong?’
‘Has Kemal arrived home?’
‘Listen.’ Meyer was getting cross. ‘Birk Larsen knows nothing. If he did why would they have let Kemal into their place? Why—’
‘Has he arrived home?’ she repeated.
‘As it happens, no. I don’t have time for this. Go fly away.’
‘Meyer!’
The line went dead.
The attendant came back, ordered her to put on her seat belt.
They were still at the gate, door open. Not for long.
Lund punched at her phone.
‘I’ve already told you once,’ the woman said. ‘Turn off that phone and put on your seat belt. We’re leaving.’
Lund stared at the dial. Hit the off button. Noticed Mark was looking at her. Her mother too. Probably had been for a while.
The pilot came on. Said the usual things.
Welcome on board your flight to Stockholm. Any minute now we’ll push back from the stand. The weather is fine en route. We expect an on-time arrival . . .
Lund thought about Nanna and the teacher. Meyer and Theis Birk Larsen.
The flight attendant had her hand on the door. She was talking to the man outside on the gate. Getting ready to close it. Saying goodbye.
‘Fetch the luggage,’ Lund said, throwing off her seat belt.
‘What?’ her mother roared.
Mark punched the air, cried, ‘Yes!’
Then Lund marched down the plane, waving her police ID in one hand, clutching her phone to her ear with the other.
Through the dark Theis Birk Larsen gunned the van. The teacher in the passenger seat talking.
About school. About Nanna. About families and children.
Words lost on the big man at the wheel.
From Vesterbro into the city. Past Parliament and Nyhavn.
The water. The empty ground around the Kastellet fortress.
Long dark roads becoming narrow and deserted.
The teacher went silent.
Then said, ‘I think we passed the turning a while back.’
Birk Larsen drove and drove, into the black night, trying to think. Wishing he could find the words.
