The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘Hey! Hey! Bin Laden!’ Skærbæk screamed. ‘This is Denmark. Speak Danish. Don’t you understand?’

  Birk Larsen snatched the phone, put it to his ear.

  Said, ‘Hello? Hello?’

  Looked at the dead phone. Looked at Kemal, eyes bright in the gloom.

  One moment.

  One decision.

  The teacher ran behind the door. Skærbæk screamed and went for him. Hand on the scarlet metal, Kemal rammed it back into his face, grabbed his pickaxe handle, punched it hard into Birk Larsen’s chest as the big man came for him.

  Ran for his life.

  Panting.

  Pigeons flapping frightened overhead.

  Felt something take his legs from under him.

  Down on the ground, chest heaving. Above him in the pale fluorescent light Birk Larsen raised the sledgehammer, swinging the head in a slow and certain arc.

  She sat opposite Meyer in the low light of the office.

  ‘Pernille,’ he said. ‘You have to help us. Kemal didn’t kill your daughter. He had nothing to do with it. Theis has kidnapped him. Do you understand—?’

  ‘No,’ she cried. ‘I don’t! First it was that kid Scharndorff. Then the teacher. I don’t!’

  ‘If Theis hurts Kemal he’ll go to prison. Do you understand that?’

  She was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Theis wouldn’t hurt him.’

  ‘Really?’ Meyer asked.

  He picked up the file photos on the desk. The bloodied corpse in Christiania.

  ‘Twenty years ago a drug dealer was murdered.’

  She looked at the grim pictures, didn’t flinch.

  ‘They thought Theis did it.’ Meyer looked at her. ‘I guess that was around the time the two of you got together. Did you not suspect—?’

  ‘We’re all different when we’re young. Then we leave it behind.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. But this is now and he’s making a big mistake.’

  She picked up the photos, looked at them, turned them over.

  ‘I told you. He’d never do that.’

  ‘I always thought it was Vagn who came up with the alibis.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Vagn’s with him too. They won’t run from this.’ He leaned forward in the dim light. ‘Help me. Help Theis.’

  Slowly, ‘He wouldn’t do it.’

  Sirens outside. Cars setting off into the night.

  ‘I know you lost your daughter. But Kemal’s innocent. His wife’s about to have a baby. He’s a good man. Don’t make it worse. You have to help me. I need to know where Theis is.’

  Meyer watched her.

  Silence.

  ‘We can stay here all night,’ he said. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world. Have you?’

  She glowered at him. They hated you even when you tried to help, he thought.

  ‘Pern—’

  ‘There’s a place he uses sometimes. I don’t know why. An abandoned warehouse.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s out on Teglholmen. Somewhere.’

  Lund drove up and down, looking, looking.

  Finally, in the darkness close to the end of the road, she saw a red sign half-hidden behind a wire fence.

  Birk Larsen Removals.

  The phone rang.

  ‘We’re on our way to Teglholmen,’ Meyer said. ‘He’s there somewhere. I’ve got an armed response unit on the way.’

  ‘There already,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Birk Larsen’s got a lock-up on the industrial estate. The lights are on.’

  She gave him the number and a street cross reference.

  ‘I’ve got Pernille with me,’ Meyer said. ‘We’ll be there in two minutes. Wait for us. Lund? Lund?’

  She put the phone in her pocket, got out of the car, shone her torch on the security gates.

  Open.

  Walked in.

  Cold dark night. Thin clouds. Half moon. No wind. No sound or sign of life.

  Except for the lights all round the building.

  There was a side door covered in graffiti. Open. She went through, shining the torch ahead.

  A short corridor. Lights at the end.

  A man screamed, the cry loud and liquid, full of agony and fear.

  Lund began to run.

  He didn’t want to kill him. Yet. He wanted to hear. The sledgehammer was gone. Now he had Skærbæk’s pickaxe handle, kept swinging it into Kemal’s guts and chest and limbs.

  There was blood on the floor. One of the man’s arms hung crazily broken at the elbow. Birk Larsen swung again, caught him in that dark and handsome face.

  Another scream and not a word.

  ‘Theis,’ Skærbæk said.

  He stood there shuffling from foot to foot, hadn’t done a thing except watch and grumble.

  Birk Larsen walked around the bloody heap on the floor, thinking of somewhere new to hurt. Kicked Kemal in the head.

  ‘OK, Theis,’ Skærbæk said.

  Another thrashing blow with the wooden stick, another scream.

  ‘Theis, for God’s sake! He’s had enough. Maybe . . .’

  Birk Larsen glared at him, a fierce and frightening animal expression.

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth.’

  Birk Larsen cursed, swung the handle again, struck Kemal on the ribs.

  Went for the sledgehammer.

  ‘Theis!’ Skærbæk pleaded.

  A voice from the darkness.

  ‘Theis Birk Larsen. This is Sarah Lund.’

  Skærbæk found his spine, got between Birk Larsen and the man, said, ‘Come on. We’re done here.’

  ‘You go running, Vagn,’ the big man roared, and with one huge hand tossed him aside like a rag doll, sending him crashing against the van.

  The sledgehammer came up, caressed Skærbæk’s neck, drew back for a moment.

  And then Vagn Skærbæk was gone.

  A hand around a bloody neck, dragging Kemal from the ground.

  ‘Sit up,’ Birk Larsen ordered. ‘Sit up! On your knees.’

  The way they were on TV. In the videos of executions. Blindfolded men in faraway places. Waiting for death.

  ‘Theis!’ The voice was louder, nearer, higher. ‘Stop. Stop now.’

  But the heat was in him and the rage. They never abated easily.

  He could hear her running across the concrete floor. Looked. In the harsh fluorescent light blue jeans and that black and white jumper.

  ‘Kemal’s innocent!’ she yelled at him. ‘Listen to me. He’s nothing to do with it.’

  The teacher was on all fours, bloody mouth dripping gore on the ground. Birk Larsen kicked him hard in the ribs, grabbed his hair.

  ‘I said get up,’ he barked, and looked into the bruised and bleeding face.

  The head of the hammer stroked Kemal’s neck. A single blow. To a kneeling man. Justice.

  ‘Sit up!’ he screamed.

  In the van’s headlights, shadows silhouetted against the wall. This was the right place, the right position. This was the point where the pain came to an end.

  Another figure racing from the door.

  ‘Theis! Put down the weapon. He didn’t do it.’

  The mouthy bug-eyed cop with the big ears.

  The hammer. One long, strong swing.

  He heard a gun cock, saw out of the corner of his eye the cop called Meyer had a weapon on him now, pointed, ready to go.

  A shot. The sound echoed round the empty warehouse like a burst balloon. Birk Larsen blinked, hesitated. Was lost.

  Then a third shape. A fawn raincoat. Long hair. A face, the precious face.

  Pernille stood next to them, staring at him open-mouthed.

  This is me, Birk Larsen thought. The me you knew existed even if you never dared ask.

  This is me.

  The hammer came back one more t
ime.

  ‘Theis!’ Meyer yelled, gun out, barrel at him. ‘Listen to me. Put the weapon down. I’ll shoot you before you touch him. I swear to God.’

  Pernille walked past them, straight towards Birk Larsen and the bloody heap on the grimy floor.

  ‘Put it down!’ the cop screamed. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  He hesitated and that was time enough. When he was ready again there were three more of them, black pistols pointed at his face.

  As if that was enough . . .

  But there was Pernille too, a stride away, her pale, pained face caught in the hard light of the bright strips. Pernille gazing at him as if to say: I knew but I never wanted to.

  ‘Theis,’ she said. ‘Put it down.’

  And so he did.

  Rie Skovgaard and Morten Weber finished working the phones. Hartmann called a few more people himself. Spoke to police headquarters then, at eight exactly, walked into the meeting.

  Knud Padde began.

  ‘It’s undesirable but necessary that we take a vote of no confidence against Troels Hartmann. May I—?’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Henrik Bigum said wearily. He looked as if the result had already been declared. ‘We all know where this is going.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Henrik,’ Hartmann said. ‘A vote won’t be necessary.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Troels. It will. We’ve decided to do this.’

  ‘If you want I’ll withdraw. You don’t need to vote. Except for . . .’ He smiled at Bigum. ‘Whoever takes my place.’

  ‘No, Troels!’ Elisabet Hedegaard protested. ‘Why? Why do this? Henrik speaks for himself, always . . .’

  ‘Withdrawal’s also an option,’ Bigum agreed. ‘If that’s your choice.’

  He took a pen out of his jacket. Offered it to Hartmann.

  ‘You haven’t checked your phone, Henrik? No private messages? No tips from Bremer’s office? Not even the news?’

  Bigum laughed, shook his head.

  ‘I thought you might have done this with a little dignity. Resign and have done with it.’

  ‘I just spoke to the police chief in charge of the Birk Larsen case,’ Hartmann said. ‘There’s new evidence that proves beyond any doubt the teacher’s innocent. He’s going on TV in a few minutes. If you want to ditch me for defending an innocent man that’s your prerogative. What it’s going to do for the prospects of my successor—’

  ‘Over to you, Knud,’ Bigum bellowed.

  Padde sat open-mouthed, unable to decide which way to turn.

  ‘Maybe we should think about this,’ he said eventually. ‘Not vote now after all. If what Troels says is true we need to know the facts.’

  ‘The facts!’ Bigum was furious. ‘The facts are Hartmann screwed this up from beginning to end. If you fall for a trick like this . . .’

  Hartmann was nursing a cup of coffee. He looked at it. Made them wait.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we should all sleep on it and talk again in the morning. What’s a few hours? Agreed?’

  A long silence. Broken only when Henrik Bigum swore, got up, stormed out of the room. Then Elisabet Hedegaard squeezed Hartmann’s hand, beamed at him, leaned over, whispered, ‘Well done.’

  Ten minutes later, alone in his office, in front of the TV.

  ‘It’s now evident that Hartmann’s role model has been cleared of all suspicion,’ the newscaster said.

  A reporter was chasing Poul Bremer down a City Hall corridor, shoving a microphone in the mayor’s face.

  ‘I’m pleased the case has turned out this way for Hartmann’s sake,’ Bremer said with no conviction. ‘But you saw the way he behaved. He was paralysed by indecision. Troels Hartmann isn’t fit to be Lord Mayor. Not up to the job.’

  Weber walked in, all smiles for once.

  ‘Lots of people calling, Troels. The press would love to talk to you. Everyone’s happy with the outcome.’

  Skovgaard was behind him.

  ‘Even in Parliament,’ she added. ‘People like a winner.’

  Kirsten Eller came on the screen, smug outside her office.

  ‘This is a happy moment,’ she said. ‘It proves Troels Hartmann is a trustworthy alternative to Bremer. That’s why we placed our faith in him from the very beginning.’

  Hartmann rolled back his head and laughed at the ceiling.

  Then he turned off the TV.

  ‘The press,’ Skovgaard said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to them till tomorrow. Put out a statement saying I’m glad justice has been done. Morten?’

  Weber got out his notepad.

  ‘Step up the poster campaign. Let’s focus on our integration policy. Make a point of mentioning the role models. What a success they’ve been. Oh . . .’

  He got his coat, put it on.

  ‘I want another group meeting tomorrow. Don’t call anyone till the morning. Tell them then. Say everyone who was here today needs to be there.’

  ‘Short notice,’ Weber said.

  ‘Same as they gave me.’

  Weber wandered off.

  Troels Hartmann got Rie Skovgaard’s coat, brought it to her. She looked happier than she had in days. Beautiful too, though exhausted. He worked everyone too hard.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘And we need to talk.’

  Theis Birk Larsen sat in a room with two uniformed officers going through the paperwork. Lund watched from outside with Pernille.

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We charge him,’ Lund said.

  ‘Where will he go?’

  ‘A holding cell.’

  The uniformed men nodded at the big man in the black jacket. He got up, walked out with them.

  ‘When can he come home?’

  Lund didn’t answer.

  ‘We’ve got two boys. When can he come home?’

  ‘That depends on the charge.’

  ‘Is he going to jail?’

  Lund shrugged.

  ‘This is all your fault, Lund. If it wasn’t for you—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ll have a car drive you home. Someone will be in touch after the hearing.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Pernille . . .’ She wondered if this was worth saying. Whether it might make a difference. ‘We’re not special. We’re just like you. If people lie to us we think ill of it. We don’t know whether their reasons are good or bad. All we know is . . . they’re lying.’

  Pernille Birk Larsen stood in the Politigården office, rigid with fury.

  ‘You think I’m lying now?’

  ‘I think there’s a lot we still don’t know.’

  She waited.

  ‘Fine,’ Pernille said and walked off.

  Meyer was at his desk, going through the latest papers.

  ‘The Muslim girl’s made a statement.’ He looked like a tired schoolboy in his zip-up jerkin and striped T-shirt. ‘She confirmed Kemal’s alibi. She said it was her top we found. I’ve spoken to Kemal.’

  She was listening, just. Mostly Lund was staring at the photographs on the wall. The car. The canal. The Pentecost Forest.

  ‘The doctors say he’ll recover,’ Meyer added. ‘He doesn’t want to press charges.’

  ‘It’s not up to him.’

  ‘Can you not do that again, Lund?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Disappear on your own without telling me.’

  ‘Birk Larsen is going to be charged with false imprisonment and grievous bodily harm. For starters.’

  Meyer lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘We did the right thing,’ Lund insisted.

  ‘We did nothing. The father’s going to prison. Kemal’s in hospital. Jesus . . .’

  Knock on the door. Svendsen. He looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Buchard wants a meeting with you two in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on Birk Larsen,’ Lund shot at him. ‘Like I asked.’

  Sve
ndsen glared at her.

  ‘If you ask for too much, Lund, you get it in alphabetical order. I talked to the chief about that already. He’s straight on things.’

  ‘A meeting about what?’ Meyer asked.

  Svendsen laughed.

  ‘The commissioner’s going to rip him apart tonight. I guess he wants to pass on some of the pain. Goodnight. Sleep tight.’

  He closed the door behind him.

  Meyer sat there looking shocked and worried, his big ears moving backwards and forwards as he chewed on some gum. Any other time it would have looked comical.

  Lund kept peering at the photos on the wall.

  ‘I’m not taking the fall for this,’ Meyer said. He got up, got his jacket. ‘I refuse.’

  She was glad when he was gone. It was easier being alone.

  Back to the photos. Nanna Birk Larsen. Nineteen years old though she could easily pass for twenty-two or -three. Curly blonde hair. Good with her make-up. Smiling at the camera easily, confidently. Not like a teenager at all.

  They still didn’t know this girl. Something was missing.

  Lund went for her things, mumbled goodnight, walked off into the corridor.

  Footsteps behind her. Meyer running, panting, wild-eyed.

  ‘Lund,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘There’s been an accident.’

  Six

  Monday, 10th November

  She slept in a chair by the bed in his hospital room. Bengt had a bandage round his head, a drip in his right arm, a cast on his left.

  He didn’t wake up. Not even when she came close to his face and whispered his name.

  When the morning light began to filter through the dusty windows Lund looked around. They’d brought some of the things he’d had with him in the car when he crashed on the way to the bridge to Malmö.

  A coat. A scarf and sweater.

  A black leather briefcase. Some papers were sticking out of the top. They had the police stamp on them.

  Lund checked him. Still sleeping. Then she began to look through the documents.

  The file was thick, full of official reports. Autopsies and crime details. Photos and forensic material.

  She sat down, spread them out on the floor in front of her, began to go through them one by one.

  A voice broke her concentration.

  ‘You’re right,’ Bengt said in a pained, croaky voice. ‘He’s done it before.’

  Lund put the papers to one side, came and stood over him.