by David Hewson
She was crying again. Tears streaming down both cheeks, making the night seem blurry. The wheel felt too heavy to drive. The car stank of kids and petrol and Theis’s cigarettes.
‘Mum? Mum?’
Theis Birk Larsen was cooking supper when the boys came through the door.
‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘I picked up the boys. I told you.’
‘I know, but the time. I was ringing round. I called Lotte . . .’
‘I told you.’
He didn’t push it.
‘I made spaghetti bolognese.’
She didn’t look right.
‘I called the journalist who came this morning,’ she said.
He stopped stirring the sauce.
‘I set up a meeting. He’ll be here soon.’
‘Why the hell did you do that? Without talking to me? The police say I’m not supposed to go near the case.’
She laughed at him.
‘The police? You’re doing what they tell you now?’
‘Pernille—’
‘We need help. We need to get things moving. Someone must have seen something. They’ll offer a reward.’
He had his eyes closed, his head up to the ceiling.
‘If it’s not Troels Hartmann then it’s someone else.’
He went back to the stove, stirred the sauce.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Well that’s the way it’s going to be.’
‘Pernille—’
‘I’ve agreed and that’s that!’ she cried. ‘Stay here and do the cooking if you like. I’ll deal with it.’
Meyer kept running over the same points with Rie Skovgaard, again and again.
‘So none of the sponsors saw Hartmann until Sunday?’
‘As I’ve told you a million times, he was ill.’
Meyer shrugged.
‘But he told me his speech went down well. I don’t get it. Why are you covering for him? Your father’s an MP. How’s he going to feel when we drag you into court for aiding and abetting?’
She looked as if she’d changed for the interview. Smart pin-striped shirt. Glossy, well-brushed hair. A pretty woman. Beautiful even when she chose to smile.
‘Is a man like Hartmann more important than your own career?’
‘You don’t know Troels Hartmann. And I’m not covering for him.’
‘Do you know him, Rie? He didn’t tell you he called himself Faust. He didn’t tell you he was screwing around through that dating site.’
She smiled.
‘Water under the bridge. Everyone does things they regret. Didn’t you?’
‘I always tell my wife. That’s safest. That’s the right thing to do.’
‘Nothing’s happened since we’ve been together.’
He got up, sat on the desk beside her. Read one of the emails.
‘ “I want you. I can’t hold back. I need to touch you. To feel you.” ’
Another page.
‘“I’m going to the flat now. Wait for me. Don’t get dressed.” ’
He placed them in front of her.
‘Every one signed F for Faust. How do you know he didn’t write to Nanna Birk Larsen too?’
She sighed, kept smiling.
‘How, Rie?’ Meyer said. ‘Please tell.’
No answer. He went back to the conference.
‘What was wrong with Hartmann? Why did he have to stay in his room?’
He lit a cigarette.
‘Flu. The same flu as before.’
‘Man flu? It’s not the real thing, is it? Real flu means you’re stuck in bed, sweating like a pig, coughing, wheezing. Was that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lots of snot I guess.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Messy, huh?’
‘Messy.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He looked at his pad. ‘I spoke to the maid who cleaned the room. She said it looked like there’d only been one person in there, not two. No snotty tissues. Nothing.’
‘She must have the wrong room.’
‘No. She didn’t. You’re covering for a murder suspect. That makes you an accomplice.’
He took a long drag.
‘Will Daddy come and visit you in jail? Do you think he can get you privileges?’
Nothing.
‘Is that how it works? One rule for you? Another for the dregs who pay your wages?’
‘You’re a man with a lot of hang-ups.’
Meyer waved a hand through the smoke.
‘And where do they come from I wonder.’
‘If that’s all I’d like to leave now.’
One of the night team was at the door with a note.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said.
A message from his wife. Shopping list. Cucumber, milk, bread, sugar, olives, feta. And bananas.
She had her bag, her coat.
‘So you were with Hartmann all weekend?’
‘A million times . . .’
Meyer stared at her.
‘Then why did you call his mobile phone on Saturday? When it was turned off?’
She stood there.
‘You were with him, Rie? Wouldn’t you know? Do people do phone sex when they’re sharing the same bed?’
‘I don’t remember—’
‘No, no. Don’t think you can wriggle out of this.’
He waved the shopping list at her, keeping the writing to himself.
‘I’ve got a call log from the phone company. You tried to phone him. Several times. Never got through.’
For the first time she looked vulnerable.
‘It’s as if you were worried about him. Which I don’t think would be the case if you were in the same hotel room.’ Meyer shook his head. ‘I can’t see that. Any way I look at it.’
He walked up to her.
‘This is the last time I ask. You’ve lied and lied and I’m willing to let that go. But not for ever. Once more and you’re an accomplice. Not a witness.’
He beckoned to the chair.
‘Your choice either way.’
She didn’t move.
‘Did Hartmann come over to your place on Friday night? Think about it.’
She walked to the door.
‘Last chance, Rie . . .’
Lund stood outside Hartmann’s house. There were lights in the long windows on the first floor. A well-kept front garden. What looked like an extensive lawn at the back. The place was on an open well-lit street in Svanemøllevej, northern Østerbro, near the embassies. A detached villa. Ten million kroner at least.
There was money in politics.
She prowled around the gardens looking for signs of activity. Something buried. Something fresh. Walked across the long, dense grass, checked the back. There was a basement, the door old with peeling white paint. Leaves stacked up against it, a couple of feet high. Unused in ages. She looked at the single light inside the ground floor. This was a house for a family. A dynasty even. And all it had was the sad and handsome figure of Troels Hartmann.
She walked all the way round, saw nothing. Went through a side gate, found herself back at the foot of the stone stairs to the street.
No sound from inside. No TV. No music.
Lund rang the bell.
Rang again and knocked five times, loudly.
A woman answered. Foreign. Filipino maybe.
‘Hi. Sarah Lund. Police. Is Troels Hartmann home?’
Without an argument she was in.
The kitchen was modern, immaculate. Expensive oven. Fancy central table. Spotless.
Cleaners, Lund thought.
A pizza was cooking in the see-through oven.
She stood in her raincoat and white and black sweater, rocking on her feet.
He could be anywhere in the house. So she waited, trying to be patient.
Hartmann came down the stairs, blue shirt, suit trousers, drying his hair.
Looked at her, open-mouthed.
> He threw the towel on the table.
‘I’ve answered your questions, Lund. I won’t speak to you again without my lawyer present.’
‘You said you didn’t take any calls in the flat.’
He closed his eyes, shook his head.
‘Do you ever listen to what people say to you?’
‘All the time. You told me you didn’t take any calls.’
He looked at the pizza. Slapped his forehead.
‘OK. Nethe Stjernfeldt.’
‘She told me.’
‘We spoke for thirty seconds. No more. I made it absolutely clear I wasn’t interested.’
He got some oven gloves, took out the pizza, slipped it onto a plate.
Lund watched. A man used to living on his own.
‘She kept ringing me. Sending messages. It got tedious.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘For the last time. I’m sure. I wrote the damned speech. I drank too much booze. Then I went to Rie’s around ten thirty. I’ve told you that all along. I can’t keep repeating it.’
He opened the back door.
‘I have to eat now. Please.’
‘Let’s say someone else used your computer. Your car. Your flat. Who might know your password?’
‘I’ve told you before. Someone got into our network.’
The housekeeper came back, picked up the rubbish, told Hartmann she’d see him the following week, then left, closing the door behind her.
‘I want to help,’ Lund said. His fair eyebrows rose. ‘Honestly. I do.’
‘Talk to Rie. She found something on the system. Anyone could have got the passwords. I use the same one for everything anyway. Rie’s made a list for you. People we think you should look at. There’s a civil servant—’
‘I’d like that list.’
‘There’s a copy upstairs. I’ll get it.’
On the staircase Hartmann stopped.
‘Help yourself to pizza if you like. It’s too much for me.’
‘Just the list. But thanks.’
Lund watched him go.
It was an old house. She could hear the floorboards creak as he walked around, trying to find something.
Lund went into the adjoining room. A study overlooking the garden. She headed for the bookcase. Mostly they were political. Bill Clinton’s autobiography. A couple of titles about JFK. There was a photo of the doomed president and Jackie. She was struck by the resemblance. Rie Skovgaard had the same cold beauty. Hartmann looked nothing like Jack. But he was handsome, gazed into the camera with a certain cocksure confidence.
Kennedy was, in Meyer’s words, a serial philanderer too. A weakness he couldn’t abandon. And Clinton . . .
She browsed the shelf. Pulled out the one piece of fiction she could find. A translation into Danish of Goethe’s Faust.
Everything here was ordered and quiet and personal. So unlike the office in the Rådhus where he seemed to be under constant bombardment, from his own staff, from Bremer’s machinations. And from her.
A diary sat on the desk by the garden window. She walked over, began to flick through the pages. There were a few curt, oneline entries. Nothing interesting. She was about to turn to that Friday when her phone rang.
Quickly she closed the pages.
‘Lund.’
‘It’s Meyer.’
She could hear Hartmann walking down the stairs.
‘I can’t talk right now. I’ll ring you back.’
‘He doesn’t have an alibi.’
She walked into the kitchen. He was there, carving up the pizza. Opening a bottle of wine.
Troels Hartmann smiled at her.
Politicians and women. They went together. He was a striking, interesting, intelligent man. She could see why. Could almost imagine . . .
‘I got Rie Skovgaard to talk,’ Meyer said proudly. ‘She’s no idea where he was the whole weekend. None whatsoever. She lied to the sponsors. She made up the story about him being ill.’
Hartmann was wrapping a napkin round the neck of the wine bottle. Then he poured himself a glass.
‘What’s going on, Lund? Where the hell are you?’
‘That’s fine,’ she said brightly and ended the call.
‘Anything wrong?’ Hartmann asked.
‘No. Did you bring me the list?’
‘Here you go. Christensen. The one at the top. I’d start with him.’
‘Thanks.’
Hartmann sat down, glanced at his watch, started on the pizza.
‘Maybe I’ll have a slice after all,’ Lund said.
It didn’t take long before Hartmann was in full flow, talking politics, talking tactics, talking about anything but himself.
Lund sipped her expensive red wine, wondered if this was a good idea. She stayed to entice him, to trap him. But he was doing the same to her. Had done this to many women, she thought. His personality, his looks, his energy and apparent sincerity . . . he had a magnetism she never encountered in the police.
Bengt Rosling was a good, kind, intelligent man. But Troels Hartmann, now she saw him alone, at his dining table, free of the police and the trappings of City Hall, was different. Charismatic and gripped by a visible passion, one most men she knew in Copenhagen would be reluctant to allow a stranger to see.
‘Bremer . . . It’s outrageous to have a man like that in power. For twelve years! He thinks he owns us.’
‘Politics is about staying in power, isn’t it? Not just getting there.’
Hartmann topped up her glass.
‘You’ve got to get there first. Sure. But the reason we have power is to give it back.’
He looked at Lund.
‘To you. We get everyone to work like fury and take a share of what we create together. Copenhagen doesn’t belong to Poul Bremer. Or the political classes. It belongs to everyone. That’s what politics means.’
He nodded, smiled. Aware, perhaps, that he’d made a speech, seemingly without wishing it.
‘To me anyway. I’m sorry. I sound like I’m asking for your vote.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’ He raised his glass. ‘I need every one I can get. Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘As if I’m . . . odd.’
Lund shrugged.
‘Most people find politics boring. I get the impression you don’t think about much else.’
‘Nothing. We need to change. I want to lead that. I’ve always felt that way. It’s me, I guess.’
‘And your private life?’
‘That comes second,’ he said in a quiet, uncertain tone.
An awkward moment. Lund was smiling, out of embarrassment, out of a lack of anything to say.
‘You think that’s funny?’ Hartmann asked. ‘Why? I’ve dated half of Copenhagen, haven’t I? Or so you seem to think.’
‘Only half?’
He could have taken that badly. Instead Troels Hartmann broke into a broad smile and shook his head.
‘You’re a very unusual police officer.’
‘No I’m not. How did you meet your wife?’
He thought about his answer.
‘In high school. We were in the same class. We couldn’t stand each other at first. Then we agreed we wouldn’t live together. And under absolutely no circumstances . . .’
He held up his left hand, as if wishing to push something away.
‘. . . would we marry.’
A short burst of laughter.
‘But some things you can’t control. Doesn’t matter how hard you try.’
More wine. He looked as if he could drink the whole bottle.
‘It must have been difficult.’
‘It was. If I hadn’t had this job . . . I don’t know . . .’
Hartmann fell silent.
‘Don’t know what?’
‘Sometimes life falls to pieces. You do something idiotic. Something that’s not you. Never was. And still . . .’ The wine was back in
his hand. ‘It’s there.’
‘Like calling yourself Faust on a dating site?’
‘Quite.’ His phone rang. ‘If I’d been thinking straight I’d have called myself Donald Duck instead. Excuse me.’
‘Troels? Where are you?’
It was Morten Weber.
‘I’m at home.’
‘They know your alibi’s bogus.’
Hartmann smiled at Sarah Lund. Got up from the table, walked out into the hall.
‘What do you mean?’
A long pause, then Weber said, ‘Rie’s on her way back from police headquarters. They really turned the screws on her.’
‘Tell me, Morten.’
‘They worked out she’d tried to call you when you were supposed to be together.’
‘How long have they known?’
‘A while. They took in Rie a couple of hours ago. Troels? It’s important you don’t talk to them. Come in here. Let’s get the lawyer. We need to think this through.’
Lund was alone at the table. Same black and white sweater. She’d got make-up on for once, had done something to her hair. She looked good. Had prepared for this.
He felt a fool.
‘Troels?’
Hartmann walked back into the kitchen.
‘What are we going to do, Troels?’
He cut the call and put the phone in his jacket.
‘Where were we?’
‘You were telling me about yourself.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t you have to go?’
‘Not yet. We can talk for a while.’
He gulped at the wine. It spilled down the front of his blue shirt. Lund passed him a napkin.
‘I’ve got a press conference soon. Will anyone notice?’
She laughed.
‘I think so.’
‘I’d better . . . sorry.’
Then he went upstairs and left her alone.
Alone.
He’d gone up two floors from the sound of it.
Lund got to her feet. Strode back into the study. Found the diary she’d been looking through before. Skipped to the end of the previous month.
One entry.
Miss you. Lonely. Can’t sleep.
More pages. Blank.
Then two, covered in an anxious scrawl. Nothing tangible, just disjointed thoughts and cries. Someone in torture shrieking at himself.
‘Shall I turn the lights on?’ Hartmann said just inches from her neck.
Lund jumped, mumbled something, turned.
Saw him in the shirt with the wine stain down the front.
