The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘Let’s hope he confesses then. Shall we go?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  Meyer stood in the way.

  ‘I’m doing the questioning.’

  ‘Don’t make me talk to Buchard, Meyer.’

  He bristled.

  ‘I’m being nice here. You can sit in if you like.’

  Kemal was at the table, black tie pulled down. Exhausted. Nervous.

  Meyer sat on his left. Lund opposite.

  ‘Want a coffee or a tea?’ Meyer asked, throwing his files on the table.

  He did all the policeman voices. Threatening. Sympathetic. Neutral now and calm.

  The teacher poured himself a glass of water. Lund leaned over, shook his hand, said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘You’re not under arrest,’ Meyer recited from memory, ‘but you have the same rights as someone who has been accused. You have the right to a lawyer.’

  ‘I don’t need a lawyer. I’ll answer your questions.’

  The teacher looked at Lund.

  ‘There’s something you should know.’

  They watched him. Sweating. Trying to find the courage to say something. This didn’t happen often, Lund thought.

  ‘Last Friday I was supervising the Halloween party at school. My shift ended at eight thirty. I drove home to pick up my wife.’

  She wondered what had happened in the van with Birk Larsen. What difference that might have made.

  ‘We went to our house on the allotment. About nine thirty I realized we had forgotten to bring coffee. So I drove to the petrol station.’

  Making it up, she thought. You are making this up.

  ‘On the way back I remembered the workman was coming on Saturday. I drove back to the flat to clear things out of the way.’

  Meyer shuffled forward on the table.

  ‘Just after ten the doorbell rang. It was Nanna.’

  They waited.

  ‘She wanted to return some books I’d lent her. She was only there for two minutes.’

  Meyer leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head.

  ‘That’s it,’ Kemal said and finished the glass of water.

  ‘She came round to return some books?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘School books?’ Lund wondered.

  ‘No, my own books. Karen Blixen. She seemed to want to give them back to me right then. I don’t know why. I was surprised.’ He shrugged. ‘I just took them.’

  ‘On a Friday night?’ Meyer asked. ‘At ten o’clock?’

  ‘She was always looking for something to read.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I know I should have told you this before.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ Lund demanded.

  He looked at his hands, not at them.

  ‘There was an incident with another student. A few years ago. A false accusation. I was scared you’d think—’

  ‘Think what?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Think I’d had some kind of relationship with Nanna.’

  Dark eyes met hers.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘That’s it?’ Lund asked.

  ‘That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say.’

  Hartmann’s car roamed the bars for a while, him in the back, phone off, radio off.

  ‘It’s got to be around here somewhere,’ he told the driver.

  A sign he remembered. A name.

  ‘There! There!’

  It was an old pub. Noisy. Busy. Full of men who’d taken on too much beer. Bottles on the table. Clouds of cigarette smoke in the air.

  Hartmann strolled through the dark bar. Found Morten Weber finally, head back on his shoulders, curly hair grubby, all over the place.

  There were six men around the table. Working steadily at their drinks. Saying nothing.

  Hartmann stood in front of them, held up the plastic bag. Weber groaned, got up, came over.

  The insulin was delivered to the campaign office. The place where Weber seemed to live.

  ‘I saw you on TV,’ he said, taking it.

  The glass in his hand was whisky. Hartmann could smell it. The last in a long line he thought.

  ‘You don’t have time to play doctor, Troels.’

  ‘Rie thinks you’re sick. She doesn’t know you so well. Yet.’

  Bleary-eyed, Morten Weber tried to smile.

  ‘I’m allowed one drunk day a month. It’s in my contract, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why this one?’

  ‘Because you yelled at me.’

  ‘You asked for it.’

  ‘Because I needed some time out of that marble prison. To think without you or her or some damned minion getting in my face. Besides . . .’

  There was an expression he didn’t recognize on Weber’s sad, lined face. Bitterness, Hartmann realized.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t listen to me any more. Does she know you’re here? Your new consort?’

  He knocked back the drink. Went to sit at an empty table cuddling his glass. Hartmann took the bench opposite.

  ‘You haven’t even suspended the teacher yet, have you?’ Weber said. ‘From what I’ve heard you’re right. But what does Kirsten Eller think?’

  Hartmann said nothing.

  ‘Has she dumped you yet, Troels? Or is she waiting till tomorrow? What’s Rie’s advice there? Go running to her? Go begging? Give her what she wants? That teacher’s head on a plate?’

  ‘I need you two to work together.’

  ‘Oh do you? Just because you brought me some insulin it doesn’t . . .’ His speech was slurred. His thoughts seemed clear. ‘It doesn’t make everything all right.’

  Hartmann pulled his coat around him, ready to leave.

  ‘I was trying to make amends. I’m sorry if I wasted your time.’

  ‘Poor Troels. Always wants to do the right thing. But he listens to the wrong people. Poor . . .’

  ‘I need you back in the office tomorrow. I need you to cut out these binges until this election’s over. And get along with Rie.’

  Weber nodded.

  ‘Yes. I imagine you do. Now you’re in the shit.’

  A short, drunken laugh.

  ‘You know it’s only just started, don’t you? All those hangers on who think they saw the spark of opportunity. They’ll come for you, Troels. Once they think you’ve disappointed them. Watch out for the civil servants. Watch out for your own people. Bigum.’

  Henrik Bigum, one of the senior party figures, a dour academic from the university.

  ‘What about Bigum?’

  ‘He loathes you and trouble’s in his nature. He’s the one who’ll wield the dagger. But he’ll get someone else to make the first move, naturally. You’ve no idea . . .’

  He’d never seen such bleak fury in Morten Weber’s face. Not directed at him anyway.

  ‘When your wife died, Troels’ – Weber banged his fist on the table – ‘you were sitting here. And I was sitting there. Remember?’

  Hartmann didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t want to think about it.

  Cheap, stupid pop music playing in the background. Loud voices. Men working through the prelude to a fight.

  ‘You should listen to me, Troels. I deserve that. What else do I have?’

  A last hateful look then Weber left the table and stumbled back to the bunch of drunks.

  Hartmann had missed a call. Rie Skovgaard. He phoned her back.

  ‘They found the girl’s bike,’ she said. ‘It was at her teacher’s flat the night she went missing.’

  The music got louder. The fight was just a word, a push away.

  ‘It’s in the press already. Front page tomorrow. Pictures of you and Kemal. He’s named as a suspect.’

  Silence.

  ‘Troels,’ she said. ‘I’m drafting the suspension papers now. I’m calling a press conference in an hour. I need you there.’

  Buchard stormed into the office.

  ‘How come our suspect’s name’s on television? Lund?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Meyer c
ut in. He nodded at the figure in the interview room beyond the glass. ‘He’s sitting right in there. We have him.’

  ‘When the commissioner calls me it’s a problem. Lund’s gone from here for an hour or two and see what happens.’

  ‘It’s not Meyer’s fault,’ she said.

  ‘What does the teacher say?’ Buchard wanted to know.

  Meyer sneered.

  ‘Some crap about meeting the girl at his flat. She wanted to bring back some books.’

  Buchard’s lined face screwed up in bafflement.

  ‘Books?’

  Lund barely listened, kept running through the latest files on the PC.

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ Meyer said. ‘He sanded the floors. Removed everything.’

  ‘They’re renovating the flat,’ Lund pointed out. ‘That part’s true.’

  ‘Give me two hours with him, chief,’ Meyer begged. ‘I’ll find out.’

  Buchard looked unconvinced.

  ‘The way you did with those boys?’

  ‘I’ll question him as a witness. I can—’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Lund said and that stopped them.

  Buchard folded his arms, looked at her.

  ‘He’s lying,’ she said again.

  ‘Search the flat,’ Buchard ordered. ‘Basement, the allotment in Dragør, everything. Locate the building waste. Tap his phone.’

  Meyer didn’t seem to be part of the conversation. Buchard was watching Lund scribble this down.

  ‘Tell Hartmann what we’re doing. And don’t screw up with the press again.’

  He was leaving. Meyer said, ‘Talking about screwing up I need to talk to you in private.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Buchard snapped. ‘Right now I want you working not whining.’

  ‘So what do we do with him?’ Meyer asked.

  Buchard waited for Lund.

  ‘We make him stay at his wife’s house. Or a hotel,’ she said. ‘He’s got to keep away from his flat and the place on the allotments. We ’re searching them. We need his passport. We need him watched.’

  Something nagged at her and Lund couldn’t begin to guess what it was.

  ‘He says he used his own car on Friday. We need to connect him to Hartmann’s vehicle. He was a role model, wasn’t he?’

  The press conference was fifteen minutes away. Skovgaard was laying down the line.

  ‘The suspension’s effective immediately. I’ve got the paperwork. I’ve informed the administration.’

  Hartmann looked at the documents she’d placed in front of him.

  ‘You need to distance yourself from the whole thing. Say you regret your error of judgement. You support the police’s efforts.’

  He scanned through the statement, the apologetic, self-serving language.

  ‘When they ask about role models, say you can’t comment. If anyone . . .’

  Hartmann got up from the desk and prowled the office, hands thrust deep in his pockets, blue shirt stained with sweat.

  ‘If you’re in the public eye and make a mistake it’s important to apologize immediately. Put the whole thing to bed and move on. There are some fresh clothes in the wardrobe. You need them.’

  He looked at the early edition of the newspaper on his desk. The teacher, Kemal, shaking his hand at the basketball match. Both of them smiling.

  ‘I don’t get this. He seemed a nice guy. No one has a bad word to say about him. I checked some of the records. There’s a kid out there, straight and decent now. Would have been in jail if it wasn’t for him.’

  The first three pages were dedicated to the story.

  ‘So I played basketball with him.’

  Skovgaard was watching him with tired, worried eyes.

  ‘And the weekend before he’s supposed to have raped and murdered one of his own students.’

  She looked deeply bored with this conversation.

  ‘They’re waiting for you, Troels. We need to sort out the lighting. The way you look.’

  ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. What I care about is saving you. I never realized it was going to be so hard.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  Lund stood there, waiting.

  ‘What?’ Skovgaard barked at her.

  She walked in. Same old coat. Same black and white sweater. Same ponytail, long straight brown hair tied clumsily at the back.

  This woman seemed to have attached herself to his life like a limpet.

  ‘Hartmann said he wanted to be briefed,’ Lund said, looking puzzled.

  A shrug. Bright eyes boring into him.

  ‘So here I am.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Sweden?’ Hartmann asked.

  She smiled at that.

  ‘Eventually. Kemal admits he met the girl at his flat. He says she left, but no one’s seen her since. We’re—’

  ‘Give us the short version,’ Skovgaard broke in. ‘We’ve got a press conference.’

  That smile again, a little different this time.

  ‘The short version. He might have held her captive somewhere. We won’t be charging him until we’ve searched his place. Maybe not then.’

  ‘We read the papers,’ Skovgaard said. ‘We know all that.’

  ‘I’ll need mileage logs and documentation for any drivers using your cars over the last two years.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Kemal must have taken the car Nanna was found in. There has to be a connection . . .’

  Hartmann stopped.

  ‘He didn’t drive that car.’

  ‘It says in your records,’ Lund insisted. ‘The role models have access to them.’

  ‘Not the campaign fleet. They’re all brand new. Rented for a few weeks. Rie?’

  She was watching him, arms folded, trying not to get drawn in.

  ‘Rie!’

  ‘The campaign cars are bright and shiny,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a point to make. The role models get the junk no one else wants to drive.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Hartmann said. ‘You’re going to charge him?’

  ‘I said if we find more evidence—’

  ‘But if Kemal never drove the car how could he even know it was one of ours?’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ She was lost, and he’d never seen that before. ‘Maybe . . . I don’t know.’

  Hartmann sensed something.

  ‘We’ve only had those cars for two weeks or so. Maybe he’s not guilty at all. We’ve got a press conference called about this in five minutes. What the hell are we supposed to say?’

  ‘I don’t run your press conferences, Hartmann.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t need the damned things! You’ve been wrong before. Who’s to say you’re not wrong this time? You think I should suspend this man when you don’t even have any evidence?’

  ‘I just need some cooperation. You leave me to my job. I’ll leave you to yours.’

  She left with that. Skovgaard was watching him. He could hear the reporters assembling in the room next door.

  Hartmann got the new suit, the clean shirt, started changing.

  ‘Troels?’ Skovgaard said. ‘Don’t even think of backing out. We’ve got the suspension papers. For your sake—’

  ‘Kemal didn’t do it.’ He was grinning as he struggled into clean clothes. ‘It’s not him.’

  Theis at the sink, broad back to her, pulling on a beer. Pernille at the table, watching him, pushing him to talk.

  ‘They suspect the teacher,’ she said. ‘It’s on the news.’

  He sank some more beer and closed his eyes.

  ‘Where did you go? What took you so long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Letters on the table. Bills. Late notices.

  ‘I’ll go to the house tomorrow. Do some work on it.’

  She blinked.

  ‘The house?’

  ‘I’ve got to fix it up. Can’t sell it till I do.’

  He went to the drawer he a
lways kept locked with a key she couldn’t find. A habit from the past. Not the only place like that.

  There were sheets inside. Architect’s drawings.

  ‘These were the plans. I’m sorry. I should have told you.’

  ‘He was here,’ she murmured.

  Pencil projections. Dead dreams.

  ‘We talked about Nanna.’

  He folded out another sheet, smoothed it down with his elbow.

  ‘I thanked him for the flowers in the church.’

  He ran his finger over the drawings, said nothing.

  ‘He touched her coffin.’

  She looked at her fingers. The old wedding ring. The wrinkles. The marks of labour.

  ‘I touched him.’

  A rustle of papers. Nothing more.

  In a calm, pleading tone she said, ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

  His eyes rose from the measurements and angles and drawings of beams.

  ‘We don’t know for sure.’

  ‘You think he did it. Don’t you?’

  A long day. He never shaved well anyway. Now he looked like a miserable bear who’d strayed from the woods.

  ‘Let’s leave this to the police.’

  Her hands flew across the table, swept away the papers of the home they’d never see.

  ‘The police?’

  Tears in her eyes. Fury in her face.

  ‘Yes. The police.’

  Bengt was still on voicemail. Vibeke was back at her sewing machine, running up another perfect dress for another perfect wedding.

  An expression on her face that said: I knew it all along.

  ‘Hi,’ Lund said and threw her bag on the nearest chair.

  Her mother turned off the machine, rolled back the white billowing fabric. Pushed the glasses down to the end of her long sharp nose.

  ‘If you want a family, Sarah, you have to work for it.’

  ‘I tried calling Bengt. He’s not answering. I tried.’

  Her mother said, ‘Huh!’

  ‘It’s because of the party. He can’t hear the phone.’

  Vibeke came and sat next to her. An unexpected, almost apologetic expression on her face.

  ‘I know you think I chased your father away before he died.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know you think that. I may not have been the best example for you . . .’

  ‘We haven’t broken up, Mum.’

  ‘No. But you never let him close, do you? He’s like the rest of us. Outside your life.’

  ‘That’s not true. You don’t know us.’