The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  Eyes still open. All the arrogance gone. Just fear now, sharp and real.

  He was looking at her as she bent over him.

  ‘Take nice slow breaths,’ the ambulance man said.

  ‘What is it, Olav?’ Lund asked.

  He was convulsing in tortured rhythmic throes. Gouts of gore came with each breath. No words.

  ‘Olav. Tell me.’

  Someone called for oxygen.

  ‘Olav . . .’

  In one moment his eyes glazed over then closed. The tension in his neck relaxed. The clinical mask went on. His head turned to one side.

  ‘Olav?’

  The medics pushed her away. She watched the familiar dance around a dying man. Walked to the side of the road. Begged a cigarette from one of the uniforms. Smoked it in the shadow of the Rådhus, beneath the golden statue of Absalon.

  There were lights on inside. It always seemed that way. But no one walked out to see Olav Christensen die on the black wet cobblestones of Vester Voldgade. They were all too busy with themselves.

  The car that killed Olav Christensen was a white estate. They knew no more than that. Lund put out a bulletin straight away. The savage injuries to Christensen indicated it had been travelling at speed when it hit him. There had to be damage.

  The best witness she had, an off-duty parking attendant from the City Hall garage, was adamant the collision was deliberate. Christensen had been crossing the empty road when the car pulled out of the side and went straight for him.

  Meyer was there with Svendsen and some night men.

  ‘I want Christensen’s computer taken into forensics,’ she said. ‘I want his office searched and everyone in his department questioned. See if anyone close to him drives a white estate car.’

  Svendsen went off to City Hall.

  ‘You’re sure this was deliberate?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘Where are the skid marks? He was accelerating straight at Christensen. He wanted to kill him.’

  Lund looked at the Rådhus.

  ‘The parking attendant was finishing work. He said he saw Christensen before. He was in the garage. He spoke to Poul Bremer.’

  Meyer stopped in the street.

  ‘Bremer?’

  ‘Bremer,’ Lund said. ‘Come on. Let’s talk to the Lord Mayor.’

  City Hall was abuzz with rumour. Skovgaard had confirmed what she could to the police. On the way to the meeting she briefed Hartmann.

  ‘He died in the street.’

  ‘They’re sure it was him?’

  ‘Absolutely. Lund was there. She tried to talk to him.’

  She put a hand to his arm.

  ‘You have to tell them where you were.’

  They were at the top of the main staircase. Lund and Meyer were walking up.

  Hartmann pounced.

  ‘Not now,’ Lund said. ‘I don’t have the time.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Lund kept walking.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Morten overheard a conversation. Olav was talking to someone about the money.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  Down the long corridor, beneath the tiles and mosaics.

  ‘Stop this!’ Hartmann barked at her. ‘You know I’m not involved. Why not say it?’

  Lund and Meyer walked a touch more quickly.

  ‘We don’t have time,’ Meyer said.

  Skovgaard’s temper was fighting its short rein.

  ‘Troels could lose his seat because of this crap!’

  Meyer stopped and stared at both of them.

  ‘You lied to us, Hartmann. And you . . .’ He stabbed a finger in Skovgaard’s face. ‘You gave him a fake alibi. Don’t pretend we owe you a damned thing.’

  ‘Am I above suspicion?’ Hartman pressed him. ‘You’re investigating Olav. Not me. That’s all I need to know.’

  Lund started walking again. Meyer stayed for a moment.

  ‘You know what? I’ve worked out what you guys do here. You talk and talk and talk. But never listen.’

  Then he walked on.

  The two cops were disappearing down the corridor, towards Bremer’s department.

  ‘I’ll remember this,’ Hartmann shouted after them.

  Poul Bremer looked relaxed, confident. Baffled.

  ‘You had a meeting with Olav Christensen before his accident?’ Lund asked.

  ‘I’ve never met the man as far as I know. He hung around the garage and just leapt out and started haranguing me.’

  Meyer had his feet up on the polished coffee table, making notes.

  ‘You say this was unplanned?’

  Bremer’s grey eyes fixed her.

  ‘I’m the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. I don’t hold meetings in car parks. I told you. I’ve never spoken to him before.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘He started talking rubbish. He said he’d been helping me.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘I didn’t understand. He was talking about the key to a flat.’

  ‘What flat?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I assumed he’d confused me with someone else.’

  ‘You’re the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen,’ Lund said.

  ‘I didn’t know this man. I didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about. Phillip . . .’

  A tall, bearded figure had walked into the room. City Hall suit and tie.

  ‘This is my private secretary, Phillip Bressau,’ Bremer said. ‘Since you seem to think this is important I’d like him to listen.’

  Bremer shook his head.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why all these questions about a traffic accident?’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Bressau said. ‘You two are working on the Nanna case, right?’

  ‘Is this true? He was killed?’

  ‘We’re looking into it,’ Lund said.

  ‘Dammit. I won’t take that kind of evasive nonsense from my staff. I won’t take it from you. What’s going on here?’

  ‘When Christensen spoke to you did he mention any names?’

  ‘No! He realized he’d made a mistake. Then he walked off.’

  Lund waited. Nothing more.

  ‘Every month,’ she said, ‘five thousand kroner were paid into his wages. Above his salary.’

  Bremer turned to Bressau, perplexed.

  ‘No one can tell me what the money was for,’ Lund went on.

  ‘The mayor has nothing to do with this civil servant,’ Bressau broke in. ‘He worked for education—’

  ‘Someone gave him the impression he was doing you favours, Bremer. To do with the flat in Store Kongensgade and the girl.’

  ‘What?’

  The old man sat on his comfy leather chair, rigid, astonished.

  ‘Is this an accusation?’ Bressau asked.

  Meyer was swearing, his head in his hands.

  ‘It’s a question,’ Lund said. ‘I’m trying to find a connection here. We need your help . . .’

  Poul Bremer was thinking.

  ‘Did he mention a name?’ Lund asked again.

  ‘Is this about us or Troels Hartmann?’

  Meyer leaned back in his chair and let out a long howl.

  That shut them up.

  ‘It’s about murder,’ Meyer cried. ‘It’s about a nineteen-year-old girl who was raped and then dumped inside a car and left to drown.’

  Bremer and his civil servant stayed silent.

  ‘It’s about finding out what happened while all you fine and important people . . .’ Meyer’s hand waved around the grand office. ‘. . . do nothing but protect your backs.’

  ‘Help us,’ Lund pleaded.

  Meyer pulled out a cigarette, lit it in the face of Bremer’s furious complaints.

  Then he blew smoke up towards the mosaics and gilt of the ceiling.

  ‘Do what Lund says,’ he added. ‘Or I stay here all night.’

  Poul Bremer wasn’t like his election photos. He seemed older. Skin more florid. Eyes more tired.

/>   ‘Tell Bressau what you want and he’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed on a regular basis. I require that.’

  They didn’t move.

  ‘Is that enough?’ he asked.

  Meyer took his feet off the table, stuck the cigarette between his lips, stood up.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  On her own in the kitchen Pernille Birk Larsen listened to the radio news, keeping it quiet so that the boys in their bedroom couldn’t hear.

  ‘After the mother’s appeal several witnesses have come forward in the Nanna case. The police have searched the Liberals’ office and Troels Hartmann’s home. Hartmann himself has been questioned.’

  Lotte came through the door with some takeaway food from round the corner.

  Pernille watched her start to open the boxes. She didn’t want her sister in the house really. Not after the deceit over the club. But Theis was gone. She couldn’t bear to ask another favour of her parents, who’d never liked him and would wear that told-you-so look for ever.

  ‘Tomorrow we meet the cemetery manager at the grave,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘OK.’

  Lotte got some plates, forks and spoons.

  ‘What about Mum and Dad?’

  ‘It’ll be just us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘You and me. And the boys.’

  ‘What about Theis?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I know you’re mad at him, Pernille. But you have to talk. You can’t shut him out.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Maybe he shouldn’t have packed her things without asking. But for God’s sake—’

  ‘This is none of your business.’

  ‘He didn’t do it to upset you! He did it because he wanted to help.’

  ‘To help?’

  ‘You’ve got to get past this. Don’t you see? If you let it destroy more than it has already—’

  ‘It . . .’

  ‘I mean—’

  ‘Someone killed Nanna!’ Pernille said as loudly as she dared. ‘It didn’t happen yesterday. Last week. Last year.’

  She stabbed her head with her finger.

  ‘It happens now. Every day. You don’t . . .’

  She didn’t feel hungry, didn’t want any food.

  Lotte said, ‘I know they have to find him. But that’s not more important than you and Theis and the boys.’

  Pernille felt the fury rising inside her and realized she was growing to like it.

  She glared at her sister. Lotte was still beautiful. Lotte never had kids, never had those kinds of cares. Never had a husband or anyone who stayed for long.

  ‘Who are you to lecture me?’ Pernille asked her. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’

  Lotte was starting to cry and it didn’t matter.

  ‘I’m your sister—’

  ‘Nothing’s more important. Not me. Not Theis. Not the boys. Not you—’

  ‘Pernille.’

  ‘If you’d told me what Nanna was up to I could have stopped her!’

  Lotte sat at the table, hunched and tearful, silent, eyes downcast.

  ‘I don’t trust you any more than I trust him. How can I?’

  Giggles from the bedroom. She wondered if Anton would finally have a dry night.

  ‘Anton! Emil!’ Pernille called. ‘We’ve got dinner!’

  The boys yelled gleefully.

  ‘They shouldn’t see you crying, Lotte,’ she said. ‘Either stop it or go.’

  Lotte went to the bathroom, dried her eyes. Wondered about the coke in her handbag. Hated herself for even thinking of it.

  Then she went back and picked at the food, listened to the boys laughing, watched Pernille glued to the TV.

  At eight thirty she walked downstairs to the garage. Vagn Skærbæk was there, calling round anxiously.

  He hadn’t located Theis. Had no idea where he might be.

  ‘Who did you phone?’

  ‘As many as I trusted. I told them not to start any rumours. We don’t want it all over Vesterbro.’

  He and Theis were like brothers. Theis always dominant, but the two of them close. If anyone could find him . . .

  ‘I’ll take a drive round,’ Skærbæk said. ‘I can think of a few places—’

  ‘What did he say when he came round your place?’

  Skærbæk pulled on his jacket. Black, like Theis’s, but cheaper.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He must have said something—’

  ‘He said nothing! I was at home watching TV and he rang the doorbell. He mumbled something about it all being his fault.’

  ‘And you let him go?’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Slap him round the head? Would you try that?’

  ‘Vagn—’

  ‘I didn’t know she’d bitten his balls off. I went to get him a beer and he was gone.’

  It was cold in the garage. Lotte was in the skimpy top she wore to the Heartbreak. She hugged herself and shivered.

  ‘Does he know the urn’s being buried tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. I guess. If Pernille told him.’

  She was out of ideas.

  Vagn Skærbæk took out his car keys.

  ‘I’ll drive around. I’ll find him.’

  Then a bleak aside, to himself more than her.

  ‘I mean . . . it’s not like it’s the first time.’

  Poul Bremer sat in front of the group leaders, the holders of the keys to City Hall, arguing for a formal investigation of Hartmann the following evening.

  ‘I’ve always admired Troels as a hard-working and clever politician. But the evidence is against him and he seems unable to give a credible explanation. This is a sad occasion . . .’

  Bremer looked at each of them, Jens Holck more than the others.

  ‘We’ve no choice. We have to vote for his appearance before the Electoral Commission. He needs to explain himself.’

  ‘Hartmann’s not been charged,’ Holck broke in. ‘Why not leave this to the police?’

  ‘We all know Troels. We all like him . . .’

  ‘The whole council could have been sued if he’d pilloried the teacher the way you wanted,’ Holck added. ‘Should we risk doing the same to him?’

  ‘I’ve known Troels longer than any of you. I understand how you feel.’

  The statesman’s smile.

  ‘Especially since you were about to enter into an alliance with him.’

  He came round and patted Holck on the back.

  ‘Right, Jens? But parties aside, it’s our duty to maintain the public’s confidence in the political system. We have to ask ourselves how long our own credibility can withstand such a prominent member of our assembly being questioned daily as a suspect in a murder case. If we’re to—’

  The doors broke open. Hartmann stormed in.

  ‘I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?’

  ‘You weren’t invited, Troels.’

  ‘No,’ Hartmann snarled. ‘I wouldn’t be. Have you told everyone the police are now investigating the case here? In the Rådhus? Did you tell them they’re looking at the civil servants? That they interviewed you?’

  Bremer stood his ground.

  ‘This is a private meeting. You were the subject. That is why you weren’t invited.’

  Hartmann looked at the group around the table.

  ‘If you’ve got questions ask them! Don’t listen to this devious old bastard. Ask me!’

  Bremer laughed.

  ‘If that’s what people wish. Have your say. While you can . . .’

  Hartmann walked in front of them.

  ‘I know you’re worried about the damage. Reporting me to the Electoral Commission doesn’t solve a thing. I’ve nothing to do with this case . . .’

  ‘You’ll find that out soon enough,’ said Bremer.

  Bremer’s phone rang. He walked away to answer it, then went to the fax machine in the corner of the office.

  ‘Someone bought Olav’s services and his silence,’ Hartm
ann went on. ‘With the help of funds paid for by City Hall. Don’t ask me how. The police are investigating.’

  Bremer was coming back with a sheet of paper from the machine. He was reading it carefully.

  Hartmann was in his stride.

  ‘The Lord Mayor neglected to mention any of this information even though he knew of it. He wants to get rid of me to help his own campaign.’

  ‘Oh, Troels,’ Bremer said. ‘You’re so full of accusations for others, and silent when it comes to answering for yourself.’

  ‘I will not—’

  ‘We’ve traced the money Olav Christensen was receiving.’

  He brandished the paper.

  ‘Phillip Bressau came across it hidden in the accounts. He’s given the records to the police. They’re on their way. There. Are you happy with my recounting of the facts now?’

  He passed the paper round the table.

  ‘It’s true the money came from the pay office,’ he added. ‘It was in connection with environmental reports, supposedly. Reports made for the schools service. Money for so-called consultation, paid for directly from the Mayor of Education’s budget.’

  Hartmann snatched the sheet as Jens Holck read it.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know every damned person who’s on my payroll! Any more than you do. This is one more piece of nonsense.’ Hartmann was floundering. ‘It’s a mistake. The police can clear it up.’

  The people around the table were silent, wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘If I was using this man,’ Hartmann yelled, ‘would I put him on my own payroll? It’s a fabrication . . .’

  Bremer took his seat at the head of the table, watched Hartmann ranting.

  ‘A fabrication,’ Hartmann repeated more quietly. ‘Like everything else. From the beginning. Jens . . .’

  He took Holck’s arm.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t do this.’

  Holck didn’t budge.

  ‘Someone’s changing the damned records. Someone in this place—’

  The door opened. Meyer was there with his big ears and miserable unshaven face.

  They all turned and looked and waited.

  ‘For God’s sake . . .’ Hartmann began.

  Meyer rapped on the shining wood.

  ‘Time for walkies, Troels,’ he said.

  The melee was there already. Flashing cameras, shrieking reporters. Meyer told a cameraman to piss off. Svendsen got his hand on Hartmann’s head as he thrust him into the back of the squad car parked on the cobbled courtyard beneath the golden statue of Absalon.