The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  They got to the fourth floor. Lund walked to the flat, showed them how Nanna’s key worked.

  ‘She had one for the front door too?’ Buchard asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Six technicians in bunny suits and blue plastic mob caps were working in the interior. The place was decorated like a luxury hotel suite. Red velvet wallpaper, old, stylish furniture.

  ‘We’ve found her fingerprints already,’ Lund said, handing them forensic gloves and shoe covers to wear.

  When they were ready she led them in.

  Posters of Troels Hartmann were scattered round the room. There was a broken glass table and splinters from what looked like a tumbler on the floor.

  Lund walked to the table, showed them the marks on the carpet.

  ‘The blood’s Nanna’s type. I’ve sent away for confirmation it’s hers. There was some kind of fight.’

  There was a heavy walnut desk by the window.

  ‘We’ve got prints on the paperweight there. Nanna threw it at the mirror for some reason.’

  Lund turned three hundred and sixty degrees on her heels, looking at the room. The broken glass. The disorder.

  ‘She didn’t just fight him. She got mad. Lost her temper I think. This wasn’t random. Unexpected. She knew him. It was an argument. A lovers’ tiff gone wrong.’

  ‘We’ve got lots to send to forensics,’ Meyer broke in. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll have a DNA result by tomorrow afternoon.’

  Lund walked into the bedroom. The door was open, covered in forensic marks and stickers.

  ‘Nanna ran in here and tried to block the door. He kicked it open.’

  The bed sheets were ruffled as if someone had sat on them, nothing more.

  ‘I don’t think he raped her here. Or beat her up. That was to come. Somewhere else.’

  Lund tried to imagine what had happened. An argument. A fight. But Nanna didn’t die for another two days. A big piece of the jigsaw was still missing.

  She walked outside onto the terrace.

  Meyer and Buchard followed.

  Buchard stood still, Lund eyeing him.

  ‘If you went down to forensics and checked the video you know perfectly well Hartmann was on the surveillance tape,’ Meyer added. ‘I got that in two minutes, Buchard. You’re no fool.’

  ‘I want to talk to Lund alone,’ the chief said.

  ‘Enough of that shit!’ Meyer shouted. ‘I’m sick of it.’

  He slammed his hands on the iron railings.

  ‘Buchard! Buchard! Look at me! I want to know what’s going on. You owe us that. Both of us.’

  The old man looked downcast, lost, defeated somehow.

  ‘It’s not what you two think.’

  ‘What is it then?’ Lund asked. ‘You erased a name from her mobile. You deleted a call from the list.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’ It was a weak, pathetic whine. ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘We’re bringing in Hartmann for questioning,’ Lund announced.

  ‘And we want that information,’ Meyer added.

  He stood on the cold terrace, panting. Someone’s servant. Not a happy one.

  ‘Well?’ Lund asked.

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Good,’ she said and then they left him there, pop-eyed and breathless in the dark.

  The three of them were back in Hartmann’s office feeling satisfied. The debate had gone well. Morten Weber said the minority leaders were meeting in the morning to discuss the alliance.

  ‘If we’ve got Holck,’ Skovgaard said, running to her computer, ‘the rest of them will come too. What changed his mind?’

  Hartmann was the only one who looked unhappy.

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. Why was Lund asking about him? What’s all this about the car?’

  Skovgaard waved him away.

  ‘If Holck’s involved I need to know.’

  ‘I left Meyer a message.’

  ‘That’s not good enough.’

  Weber was getting wine from the cupboard, putting out sandwiches he’d brought.

  ‘No surprises, Morten,’ he said. ‘That’s what you want too.’

  ‘No surprises.’ Weber uncorked the wine, poured three glasses, toasted them both. ‘Jens Holck’s just following his nose, Troels. He knows you’re going to win. Don’t complicate things unnecessarily.’

  Skovgaard’s phone rang.

  ‘Bremer looked worried as hell,’ Weber added. ‘He can feel the ground disappearing beneath him.’

  Skovgaard spoke quietly into the phone, ended the call. Looked at Hartmann.

  ‘That was the police,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They want to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake—’

  ‘Troels. They want you to go to police headquarters. Now.’

  ‘Is this about Holck and the car?’

  ‘It didn’t sound like it.’

  ‘Then what could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know. They said straight away. Either that or they come here for you. I really don’t want that.’

  Hartmann’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He slammed his hand on the table. Dark burgundy spilled over the walnut veneer.

  Then he got his coat. So did Skovgaard. So, after she stared at him stuffing his face, did Morten Weber.

  Ten minutes later they were crossing the open courtyard, heading for the spiral staircase that led to homicide.

  Lund waited with Meyer and Svendsen outside the interview room.

  ‘I only asked for you, Hartmann,’ she said, looking at Skovgaard and Weber.

  ‘I really don’t have time for this.’

  ‘We want to talk to you alone.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  Lund indicated the door.

  ‘Just take a seat.’

  Skovgaard was getting mad.

  ‘If this is an interrogation say so. We’ve taken so much shit from you, Lund.’

  Meyer smiled at her.

  ‘It’s just a few questions. A politician ought to help the police, surely.’

  ‘If he wants a lawyer you can call one,’ Lund added.

  Hartmann glared at her.

  ‘Why in God’s name would I want a lawyer?’

  They didn’t answer.

  Hartmann swore, walked into the room, indicated for Skovgaard and Weber to stay outside.

  Lund and Meyer sat opposite him, showed him the video of the car leaving the parking garage.

  ‘Looks like one of ours,’ Hartmann said. ‘But there are a lot of black cars out there.’

  ‘Any idea who’s driving?’ Lund asked.

  He shrugged.

  ‘No. Why should I? If it’s important I can ask one of our people to check.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Meyer said. ‘We’re police remember.’

  He hit some keys on the computer. Zoomed in. Face on the screen. Just to rub in the point he passed over a printout.

  Hartmann stared at her.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It was after the poster party. I gave my driver the night off. So I borrowed a campaign car.’

  Lund smiled. Svendsen came in with some coffee. Hartmann relaxed a little.

  ‘You left the poster party early?’ she said.

  ‘I had a headache. And a speech to write.’

  Lund poured him a cup.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘We’ve got a flat on Store Kongensgade. I thought I’d go there to finish the speech. Why?’

  ‘Who has a key to the flat?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘I do. There’s a spare key in the office. Some other officers too, I think. I don’t really know.’

  ‘But you use the flat?’

  ‘I told you. What is this?’

  Lund shuffled some photos on the table, let him see them.

  ‘The car you drove is the car Nanna was found in. It was driven back to City Hall that ni
ght. You drove it away.’

  He shook his head, said nothing.

  ‘What happened in the flat?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘It can’t be the same car,’ Hartmann said.

  ‘What happened in the flat?’ Meyer asked again.

  ‘Nothing. I was there for a couple of hours.’

  ‘So was Nanna Birk Larsen,’ Lund said, fetching some new photos. ‘She had a key. She was attacked there. Then driven away in the car you took.’

  Lund pushed the photos from Store Kongensgade across the desk. Broken table, shattered mirror. Glass on the floor. Fingerprint markers.

  ‘In our flat?’ Hartmann asked finally.

  ‘How long did you know her?’ Meyer asked.

  Hartmann couldn’t take his eyes off the pictures. Slowly he flicked through them, mouth open, face frozen.

  ‘I didn’t know her. I never met the girl.’

  Meyer snorted.

  ‘The car. The flat. The fact you never mentioned any of this.’

  ‘There was nothing to mention! I took the car. I went to the flat. I had a couple of beers. Then I decided to walk home.’

  They said nothing.

  ‘On Monday morning I came to pick up the car but it was gone. I assumed someone from the campaign office had gone in and found the keys. I left them on the table. Someone must have taken them.’

  Meyer sighed.

  ‘Why did you take the surveillance tape? So we couldn’t see it was you in the car?’

  ‘What? I didn’t take any tape.’

  ‘Your number was deleted from Nanna’s mobile,’ Lund added.

  ‘That’s not possible. I didn’t even know the girl.’

  ‘What did you do with the rest of the weekend?’ Meyer asked.

  Hartmann swore and got up.

  Lund strode to the door, blocked it, looked at him. He was agitated and angry.

  ‘Are you going to tell us or not, Hartmann?’

  ‘Why the hell should I? My private life’s my own business. None of yours.’

  ‘This isn’t about your private life . . .’ Meyer began.

  The door got pushed open. In walked Lennart Brix.

  Brix.

  Buchard’s new number two. Fresh from one of the regional forces. A tall and striking man with an angular unsmiling face. He’d arrived two weeks before, kept himself scarce. Now he looked as if he owned the department.

  ‘I’m the deputy chief here,’ Brix said. ‘Good evening.’

  He walked straight over, shook Hartmann’s hand. Stood next to him, turned to Lund and Meyer and Svendsen.

  ‘I understand there’s a problem,’ Brix said.

  Five minutes later. Lund lit her second cigarette of the month as she watched Hartmann leave with Skovgaard and Bremer by his side. Jan Meyer stood next to her chewing gum.

  Brix saw the three of them out then came back to the office.

  Black shirt. Black suit. Shiny black Italian shoes. He looked like a politician himself.

  ‘Hartmann told me he took the car in good faith. He clearly left the flat before the girl arrived. He’s willing to talk about the flat. You can question his employees as much as you need. You don’t even have evidence she was raped there, Lund. She might have just had an argument with someone.’

  ‘We don’t want to talk to his employees,’ Lund said.

  Brix leaned against the door, watching her. A fixed, determined man.

  ‘If you’d asked nicely you’d have discovered he had an alibi. You’re looking for someone who had Nanna Birk Larsen all weekend. Hartmann left the flat around ten thirty and went to Rie Skovgaard’s.’

  ‘He said he went home.’

  ‘His relationship with Skovgaard is a private matter. He wishes to keep it that way.’

  ‘If these damned people told us the truth . . .’ Meyer began.

  ‘The next morning they went to a conference centre where they had meetings all day.’

  ‘Can we check that?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘You don’t need to.’ He pointed at the pair of them. ‘The next time you pull in someone like Hartmann I suggest you do your homework first.’

  They watched him go. Lund passed the half-smoked cigarette to Meyer.

  ‘Let’s check the alibi. See if anyone else from City Hall uses the flat. Everyone in Hartmann’s office comes in for questioning.’

  She looked at Meyer.

  ‘Are you OK with that?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said.

  Svendsen came back in with a message. Pernille Birk Larsen was coming in. She wanted to see Lund urgently.

  ‘We don’t have time. If it’s about her husband being in custody . . .’

  ‘It can’t be that. He got let out.’ Svendsen shook his head, laughed. ‘She didn’t even come to meet him, Lund. You should feel flattered.’

  Theis Birk Larsen walked home to Vesterbro. Twenty minutes in the rain through deserted streets.

  Pernille wasn’t there. Nor were the boys. In the kitchen, by the pot plants and the photographs, he phoned her, got nothing more than voicemail, waited five minutes, phoned again.

  Just after eleven a door slammed downstairs. He ran down into the garage. Lights on. Vagn in his red overalls and black woollen hat, looking at the diary in the office.

  Skærbæk looked surprised to see him.

  ‘Have you seen Pernille, Vagn?’

  ‘When did you get out?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘That’s good. What happened with the teacher—’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  Skærbæk looked baffled.

  ‘Lotte came round to babysit. She wasn’t here long and then they left.’

  Birk Larsen stood by the office, hands in pockets, trying to make sense of this.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Christ, Theis! I don’t know.’

  Birk Larsen glared at him.

  ‘You did talk to her?’

  ‘I thought she went to pick you up.’ Skærbæk hesitated. ‘Didn’t she?’

  Birk Larsen went back upstairs. Called again. Got nowhere.

  Pernille Birk Larsen brought her sister Lotte to headquarters. Dragged her there by the looks of it.

  Lund listened then asked, ‘Tell me about this club, Lotte. The Heartbreak.’

  ‘It’s for members. Private. Invitation only.’

  Meyer sat silent, scribbling notes.

  ‘What did Nanna do?’

  ‘She waited on tables. I always kept an eye on her.’

  ‘Nanna liked the place?’

  ‘Sure. It was exciting. Different.’

  ‘Different?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Different from taking calls for a removals company.’

  Pernille sat in the corridor beyond the glass. She’d refused to leave.

  ‘How did you know she was seeing someone?’

  ‘She missed some shifts and kept asking for time off. It seemed . . .’

  She was a pretty woman, but with a sad and pasty face that spoke of late nights and maybe something else.

  ‘It seemed innocent.’

  ‘Then something happened?’

  ‘One night she didn’t turn up. I called Theis and told him about it. We drove around looking for her. I got a call from a hotel near the station. She gave them my number.’

  Lund watched her, wondering.

  ‘Why did she get a room?’

  ‘She’d had too much to drink. She was upset. I think the guy had dumped her. He wasn’t there. It was just Nanna.’

  ‘Did she do drugs?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did she talk about the man?’

  ‘I think he was married or something. She was really secretive. She wouldn’t tell me his name. Nanna . . .’

  A long pause.

  ‘It was kind of a time when a kid falls in love with someone different every week.’

  ‘But she didn’t,’ Lund said. �
�This went on for months.’

  ‘That time. She always called him Faust.’

  ‘Faust?’ Lund checked, writing this down.

  ‘It’s not his real name.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be. Why did she call him that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Meyer chipped in.

  ‘This was spring and summer. She didn’t talk about him after that?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes strayed to the figure in the corridor. ‘Pernille thought this might be important.’

  ‘She was right,’ Meyer said and left it at that.

  ‘Did she tell you where she and Faust used to meet?’ Lund asked.

  ‘Hotels, I think.’

  ‘Do you know which ones?’

  Lotte Holst was trying to remember something.

  ‘It was hotels in the beginning. Later on I think they went to a flat.’

  ‘A flat?’

  ‘Yeah. I remember she said it was really cool. Old furniture. Very expensive.’

  Lund waited. When there was nothing else she said, ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ One more memory. ‘All she said was it was near the old navy houses. The yellow ones they take you to on a school trip.’

  ‘Nyboder?’ Lund asked, staring at Meyer.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How about Store Kongensgade?’

  Lotte blinked.

  ‘Yes. That was it.’ She looked at them both. ‘How did you know?’

  Lund got back to her mother’s flat just after ten. Meyer called as she was walking up the stairs.

  ‘There’s no one called Faust on the Heartbreak Club’s membership list. Hartmann’s people have been on to say we can only talk to him through a lawyer from now on.’

  ‘Is anyone from his office a member?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  The flat was dark and silent. And empty.

  ‘It’s an alias, Meyer. Remember Faust? The good man who was tempted by the Devil? Go to the club and ask around.’

  ‘Can’t you hear the music? Where the hell do you think I am?’

  There was something in the background. Tinny disco and a million voices.

  Lund kicked off her boots and turned on the kitchen light then opened the fridge.

  Nothing.

  There was a saucepan of stew on the hob.

  ‘I can’t see a politician prancing round this place,’ Meyer said. ‘People would know. But maybe he doesn’t come here.’

  She put the phone on speaker, placed it on a kitchen top and lit a low flame beneath the pan.