The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘So we did,’ he said, and carried on.

  In the cab from the airport Lund read over the details to the control room. Red van number plate UE 93 682. From Birk Larsen’s removals company. A general call to stop and wait for orders.

  Vibeke sat in the back scolding Mark.

  ‘Of course you’re going to Sweden. You don’t think some silly trick of your mother’s will stop that, do you?’

  When Lund came off the phone Vibeke said in a long, low voice, ‘Poor Bengt. Whatever must that nice man think?’

  ‘Bengt doesn’t just think of himself. He understands me better than you do.’

  Her mother scowled at her.

  ‘I hope so. For your sake.’ A long, judgemental stare. ‘So shouldn’t you call him? Tell him there’s no point in waiting at the airport any more?’

  Lund nodded.

  ‘I was about to. Thanks.’

  Svendsen was outside the teacher’s home by the time Meyer got there. Kemal still hadn’t arrived. His wife had heard nothing. Theis Birk Larsen was missing. Not answering his phone.

  ‘Where’s Kemal’s car?’

  ‘Still in the garage.’

  ‘OK. Go drive the route from Birk Larsen’s house to here again.’

  The detective bridled.

  ‘We did that already.’

  ‘You know that word I just used? Again?’

  Svendsen didn’t move.

  ‘Shall I report Kemal missing?’

  ‘What for?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Lund talked to Skov before she left. Birk Larsen was dangerous.’

  Meyer popped some gum into his mouth, came up to the man, looked around, started calling, ‘Lund! Lund!’

  Shrugged. Looked at the cop and asked, ‘Do you see Lund here?’

  The man looked at him, said nothing.

  ‘From now on we do things my way. Understand? Lund’s away with the fairies. Milking cows or something.’

  The radio was squawking. A message about Birk Larsen’s van.

  Meyer called the control room and said, ‘This is 80–15. I didn’t put out a search for anything. What gives?’

  ‘Vicekriminalkommissær Lund requested the search.’

  Meyer tried to laugh.

  ‘Lund’s in Sweden. Cut the jokes.’

  ‘Lund called five minutes ago and requested a search.’ A pause. ‘We don’t do jokes.’

  Then hung up.

  ‘This is Theis Birk Larsen. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.’

  Pernille held out the phone while the message played. Lund listened. The cab had gone on to take Vibeke and Mark home. She was alone with the Birk Larsen woman amidst the dirty plates, dirty cups, dirty glasses, uncleared tables of Nanna’s wake.

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he is?’ Lund asked.

  ‘He drove Rama home.’

  Pernille looked pale, drained. And curious.

  ‘What’s so important?’

  ‘Did anything happen before they left? Between the two of them?’

  ‘I was talking to the teacher. Theis came over. He wanted some more coffee made.’ She scanned the remains of the wake, the empty garage. ‘So I went and made some. For the guests. What’s this about?’

  ‘Did your husband seem angry or upset. Or—?’

  ‘Upset?’

  Pernille Birk Larsen glowered at her. A strong woman, Lund thought. A match for her husband in some ways.

  ‘How do you think Theis feels today? How do you think I feel? Take a look around. You’ve been everywhere anyway, haven’t you?’

  ‘Pernille.’

  ‘Everywhere . . .’

  There was a noise from the office. The man who seemed to be here all the time, one of the workers, was there.

  She knew his name. They’d run some checks. Minor crimes. Just like Birk Larsen.

  Vagn Skærbæk.

  ‘Your husband may be about to do something stupid,’ she said, watching the woman very carefully. ‘It’s important I find him.’

  ‘Why? What would he do that’s stupid?’

  There was a young voice from the stairs. One of the boys, calling for her.

  ‘My son needs me,’ Pernille said then left.

  Lund walked straight into the office, showed the man her card.

  ‘You’re a friend of his?’

  He was dealing with some papers. Didn’t look at her directly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  Straight out, ‘I don’t know.’

  More papers. She walked over, took them from his hands.

  ‘Listen to me. This is important. If you’re his friend you should help him. Where did they go?’

  He had a silver necklace and a young man’s face growing old. Lund had dealt with a generation of people like this. Not much money. Not many prospects. She knew what to expect.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Sound at the door. Someone chewing, clearing his throat. She recognized his presence by now.

  Lund was on the phone to control by the time she turned to face Meyer.

  ‘I need you to trace two mobiles. Theis Birk Larsen’s and Rahman Al Kemal’s. Here are the numbers.’

  She handed the phone over to Meyer and nodded: do it.

  ‘God, you’ll pay for this, Lund.’

  ‘We don’t have time. Vagn?’

  He was back in the corner, hiding.

  ‘Where are your warehouses?’

  Meyer was on the phone, handling the numbers.

  ‘Vagn?’

  Out by the waterfront, north of the city, the deserted docks in Frihavnen. Rain like tears from an endless black sky.

  The red van sauntered slowly to the end of the road. A line of concrete. A path by the water. No cars. No lights. Not a sign of life.

  Theis Birk Larsen bumped the front tyres against the path, pulled on the brake.

  They’d sat together like this for almost an hour driving through the city. Going north. Going nowhere. Scarcely exchanging a word.

  Now he killed the engine. The headlights. There was just the dim bulb above the mirror between them.

  The phone in Birk Larsen’s suit pocket rang again. He took it out. Turned it off without answering. Put it back. Stared ahead.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the teacher said. ‘What . . .?’

  Birk Larsen reached down, opened his door, climbed out.

  Pulled the jacket of his funeral suit round his big frame. Walked through the blustery wind and freezing rain out to the water’s edge.

  Turned, stared at the van. A dark face at the glass. Worried, grey in the single light.

  Birk Larsen took out a packet of cigarettes, struggled to light one in the downpour. Shielded it with his powerful shoulder. Brought the flame to life.

  Alone in his office Troels Hartmann was locked on to the news again. There was a time when he craved to be the lead item. Not now. Not like this.

  ‘The battle for the mayoral post took a dramatic turn when Bremer accused one of Hartmann’s role models of being involved in a murder case.’

  Rie Skovgaard walked in, chanting the standard no comment at one more reporter looking for an interview. She came off the line, handed Hartmann a sheet of paper.

  ‘The Centre Party want a meeting. I had to promise it.’

  Hartmann turned off the TV. She was walking out.

  ‘What did the police say?’ he asked.

  She stopped at the door.

  ‘I can’t get through to anyone. Troels?’

  She didn’t even look tired. She’d grown up in the brawling world of city politics from which his own father had been excluded. It was as if this all came naturally . . .

  ‘You realize you’ve got to suspend Kemal and issue a statement. Otherwise—’

  ‘Not until I’ve heard from the police. When I get a reason—’

  ‘You have to do this! It’s important we show you’ve got nothing to hide. This is about transparency.’

  ‘
No it’s not. It’s about giving in. Letting the pressure dictate what you do. Not what’s right.’

  He got up from the chair, found his jacket. Felt calm. Content this was the way forward.

  ‘Bremer stirred this up for a reason . . .’

  She leaned back against the door, shifted her head left to right. Dark hair moving. What was it Morten said? The Jackie Kennedy funeral look.

  ‘You should have stuck to the script. No mention of role models. Just because Bremer went there you didn’t have to follow.’

  ‘I did what was right.’

  ‘You fouled up.’

  ‘Is that Daddy speaking?’

  She broke, spat at him, ‘No, it’s me. I want you to win. Not throw away your chances for no good reason.’

  ‘Whose chances, Rie? Mine? Yours? Your father’s?’

  She shook her head, narrowed those bright, piercing eyes.

  ‘Is that how you see it?’

  ‘I asked—’

  ‘You know maybe I’m not the adviser for you. What’s the point? If you ignore every damned thing I say.’

  A turning point.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Hartmann said.

  ‘Here’s the truth, Troels. That teacher’s guilty. It doesn’t matter whether they convict him or not.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘If that’s what the press say. And they do . . .’

  He grabbed his coat from the stand.

  ‘Talk to the police. If they say something . . . if they arrest this man. If they tell me he’s guilty . . .’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘Then I act.’

  She watched him get ready to leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Skovgaard asked. ‘Troels? Where?’

  ‘Have they traced those phones yet?’

  Meyer didn’t answer. He was still on a call.

  Lund was going through the documents on the wall, tracing the company premises, watched by a silent, surly Skærbæk.

  She read them out to the control room. A warehouse at Sydhavnen. A depot in Valby. A warehouse at Frihavnen with no address.

  ‘Where in Frihavnen?’ she asked Skærbæk.

  ‘I’ve never been to that one.’

  There was a cupboard full of keys. She went through those.

  ‘What about this workshop? Could he be there?’

  ‘I told you. I don’t know a bloody thing.’

  Meyer came off the phone.

  ‘We’ve got a trace off a mobile phone mast. Kemal’s in Frihavnen.’

  Port area. Not much used at night. Easy to hide, Lund thought.

  ‘He’s in Frihavnen,’ she told control. ‘Send out a car.’

  No rain now. Just the Øresund’s black water, Sweden somewhere in the distance. Waves reflected in the lights from across the channel. Birk Larsen stood at the edge, in the headlamps of the van. Back to the world.

  A sound. He turned. The teacher was out now. Not running. Which he could. Younger and fitter. Could race all the way back to the city. Avoid Birk Larsen and the van.

  Instead he walked to the water. Stared at the waves.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  They never lost the accent completely. Never shrugged off who they were.

  ‘My wife’s waiting for me.’

  Words. Where were the words?

  ‘She’s pregnant. I don’t want her to worry. Maybe I should call and tell her . . .’

  Another cigarette in Birk Larsen’s fist. Barely touched. But now he raised it to his lips, dragged the harsh smoke into his lungs. Wished it would spread from there, fill his big body. Make him nothing. Invisible. Gone.

  Words.

  They should be about her. About no one else. Always.

  ‘Nanna was a stargazer. Did you know that?’

  The teacher shook his head.

  ‘That’s what they call it when you look up when you’re born. See your mother’s eyes. See something else. The sky.’

  So many memories. A jumble of images and sounds. A child is a child. Its life flows like a river, never stopping, never fixed.

  ‘We said she’d be an astronaut. Parents say . . .’ He pulled on the cigarette again. ‘We say such stupid things. Make stupid promises we’re never going to keep.’

  The teacher nodded. As if he knew.

  Birk Larsen threw the cigarette into the water. Shrugged. Looked back at the van.

  ‘She liked going to school, didn’t she?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  Stamped his feet in the damp cold.

  ‘I wasn’t any good at school. Got into trouble. But Nanna was . . .’

  Memories.

  ‘Nanna was different. Better than me.’

  There was a look on the teacher’s dark face. The one they show parents.

  ‘She was a very able student.’

  ‘Able?’

  ‘Hard working.’

  ‘And she was fond of you, wasn’t she?’

  Memories. They burned like acid.

  The man was silent.

  ‘She told us about your lessons.’

  Birk Larsen took a step towards him.

  ‘People are talking about you, teacher.’

  He was sweating. It wasn’t rain.

  ‘No matter what you’ve heard . . .’ He shook his head. Didn’t move. ‘I can assure you. Nanna was my student. I would never . . .’

  Birk Larsen waited.

  ‘Never what, teacher?’

  ‘I would never hurt her.’

  Closer. His breath was sweet. Not mints. Something exotic.

  ‘So why are people talking?’

  Quickly, ‘I don’t know.’

  Birk Larsen nodded.

  Waited.

  A long time. Then the teacher said, a touch angry, ‘I didn’t touch her. I never would. This is all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Misunder—’

  ‘I’m going to be a father!’

  Two men by the Øresund’s cold expanse.

  One walked to the van. Turned on the engine. Looked back at the tall hunched figure caught in the headlights by the water’s edge.

  Meyer hung on the phone, getting nowhere. Skærbæk was turning ugly in the corner. Pernille Birk Larsen had had enough.

  ‘Do you get a kick out of this?’ the woman stormed at them. ‘You come to my daughter’s funeral. I don’t know what you think but . . .’

  Keen, smart eyes turned on Lund.

  ‘Theis hasn’t done anything.’

  Skærbæk leaned back against the office door, lit a cigarette.

  ‘I believe he has,’ Lund said.

  Meyer came off the phone.

  ‘There’s no one at the harbour. They’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘Try the other warehouses.’

  ‘Done what?’ Pernille Birk Larsen demanded. ‘You people—’

  There was a sound. Lund looked, wondered about Meyer’s weapon. He always had it.

  The sliding door was moving upwards. Meyer was still on the phone.

  Theis Birk Larsen walked in. Sharp black suit. Ironed white shirt. Black tie.

  Looked at them. Cops first. Skærbæk. Then Pernille.

  ‘Are the kids asleep?’ he asked.

  Lund couldn’t stop staring.

  ‘Where’s Kemal?’

  Birk Larsen’s massive head lolled from side to side. There was something in his narrow, sly eyes she couldn’t interpret, hard as she tried.

  ‘I think he took a taxi.’

  Lund glanced at Meyer. Pointed to his phone.

  Birk Larsen walked for the stairs. His wife stopped him, asked, ‘Where’ve you been, Theis? Two hours . . .?’

  ‘It’s not so late.’ He nodded at the apartment. ‘I’d like to read them a story.’

  ‘Wait. Wait!’ Lund called.

  He walked off, out of view.

  Meyer got off the line.

  ‘Kemal just called his wife. He’s on his way home.’

  Pernille Birk Larsen glared at them both, sh
ook her head, swore, stomped off. There was just Skærbæk then. Silver chain at the neck. Giving them the fuck-you punk look of a teenager.

  ‘Call off the search,’ Meyer barked down the phone. ‘Bring Kemal down to the station as soon as you can.’

  He pocketed his mobile. Followed her outside.

  ‘Well,’ Meyer said. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  Lund called Sweden.

  ‘This is Bengt Rosling. I can’t take your call right now. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.’

  Best voice, trying not to sound apologetic because she wasn’t. Not really.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. You must be busy welcoming the guests.’

  All this she said while she was taking off her jacket, throwing it onto a chair in the corner of the office, scanning the documents on the desk.

  Her desk?

  Meyer’s?

  Didn’t know. Didn’t care. The documents mattered. Nothing else.

  ‘I wish I could be there, Bengt.’

  There hadn’t been much new since the afternoon.

  ‘The thing is . . . something came up in the case.’

  Meyer walked in.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry. Give everyone my best . . .’

  She took a seat at the desk. It still felt hers. Rifled for her pens, her papers. Her place here.

  ‘Tell them . . .’

  He’d moved things. Her things. She felt a flicker of annoyance.

  ‘It’s a shame. But well . . .’

  Meyer stood with his hands on the back of the opposite chair. Staring at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’

  Phone down, more sifting through the papers.

  ‘Is he ready for questioning?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Look, look.’ He seemed more amazed than angry. ‘You can’t do this. I don’t know what you think—’

  ‘I think you’re right, Meyer.’

  ‘I am?’ he brightened. ‘Oh great.’

  ‘It isn’t working. So I’ve decided to stay until the case is solved.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense going back and forth between here and Sweden. It’s a mess. The Swedish police say—’

  ‘Stop this, Lund.’

  With his sticky-out ears and bright, hurt eyes Meyer suddenly looked very young.

  ‘This is my case now. You’re not staying here. End of story. We’re done. The girl visited him on Friday night. Once he’s admitted that I’m charging him.’

  Lund took one last look at the files, picked up a couple, stood up.