The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘Vagn. We don’t have to tell Theis about yesterday. It wouldn’t help. We could keep it between us.’

  ‘You want me to lie now? Jesus. I’m working Sunday. Trying to keep the vans on the road. Is there anything I’m not supposed to do round here?’

  Footsteps at the garage door. Theis Birk Larsen turned up. Black jacket, black hat. Cuts on his face. Unshaven.

  Lotte found a nervous smile.

  ‘Hi, Theis. Did you hear they found him? The police say they’ll be here in an hour.’

  He didn’t look at either of them. Just walked to the office, started to look at the week’s schedules.

  ‘I heard. Where’s Pernille?’

  ‘Where the hell do you think?’ Skærbæk shrieked.

  Lotte looked at her feet. Birk Larsen turned his narrow, cold eyes on the small man in the red suit, twitching nervously a couple of strides away from him.

  ‘What?’

  Skærbæk’s temper broke.

  ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ He jabbed a finger at the stairs. ‘She’s where you should be. Here. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  Birk Larsen turned to him, big head to one side, fixed him with a stare, said nothing.

  ‘You didn’t bother coming to the cemetery, did you? Too busy, huh, you pisshead? We ran round everywhere looking. We were there with Pernille and the boys. Where the fuck were you?’

  Lotte stepped back, ready for the explosion.

  Skærbæk took one stride forward, looked up at the huge man in the black jacket.

  ‘You’ve lost it, you worthless piece of shit. Everything round here’s fucked and I’m not holding it together for you. Not any more.’

  He took off his work gloves, slapped them on the engine of the van.

  ‘Fix this stinking mess yourself.’

  Swept the tools and the cans from the workbench. Stormed out, kicking an oilcan on the way.

  Birk Larsen watched, looked at Lotte.

  ‘What’s gone on?’

  She was quiet. Scared.

  His big hand fell on her shoulder.

  ‘I want you to tell me what’s happened, Lotte. I need to hear it now.’

  In the kitchen, winter sun streaming through the windows. Pot plants. Pictures. School schedules on the wall. The door to Nanna’s room was open. Everything back the way it was.

  Pernille sat at the table, staring at the surface. Her back to him as he came through the door.

  He walked to the stove and got himself a cup of coffee.

  Didn’t look at her as he said, ‘I was in the house in Humleby last night. It doesn’t look too bad. I’d got further than I thought.’

  At the table. The morning paper. Nothing on the front page but a huge photo of Jens Holck and a smaller one of Nanna.

  Pernille looked pale. Hungover. Ashamed maybe. He didn’t want to think about it. Wouldn’t.

  He picked up the paper, his long, stubbly face held by the page.

  Holck’s photo was a politician’s portrait. He looked decent, friendly, reliable. A pillar of Copenhagen society. A loving family man.

  ‘They say he’s dead,’ Birk Larsen murmured.

  Her eyes were as wide as he’d ever seen. Glistening with the coming tears.

  ‘Theis. There’s something I have to—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  A single heavy teardrop ran down her right cheek.

  With his big, rough hand Theis Birk Larsen reached out and brushed it away.

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

  More tears. He wondered why he couldn’t join her. Why he owned the feelings but not the words.

  ‘God I missed you,’ he said. ‘One day and it felt like for ever.’

  She laughed then and two gleaming rivers appeared, so free and flowing he couldn’t staunch them even if he wanted.

  Her hand reached out, touched his chin, his brown beard going grey. Stroked his cheek, the wounds, the bruises. Then she leaned over and kissed him.

  Her lips were warm and damp, and so was her skin. Over the table, with its mosaic of frozen faces he held her and she held him.

  The way it was supposed to be.

  Hartmann didn’t break the news until the afternoon. It still left Weber furious.

  ‘A borg fred? I can’t believe you agreed to this, Troels. A truce benefits no one but Bremer. It’s a way of silencing you. He’s treating us all like naughty schoolchildren. If you go along to that meeting we’re finished.’

  Hartmann nursed his coffee, looked out of the office window, thought about a few days outside the small enclosed world of City Hall. With Rie somewhere. Alone.

  ‘We don’t have any choice.’

  ‘Oh! So now it’s fine Bremer stays in office.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. But he’s backed us into a corner.’

  Hartmann swore under his breath.

  ‘God that man’s got timing. If I do what he wants I can’t criticize him. If I don’t I look like the solitary troublemaker with a questionable past. We’re screwed. Aren’t we?’

  No answer.

  ‘Aren’t we, Morten? Unless you’ve got some ideas?’

  Weber took a deep breath. Was still out of words when the door opened and Rie Skovgaard came in with a face so pale and furious he beat a rapid retreat next door.

  ‘I tried to phone you,’ Hartmann said. ‘You weren’t home.’

  ‘No.’ She threw her bag on the desk, sat down. ‘I was at a friend’s house.’

  ‘I’m sorry I never told you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I was . . . I said I’m sorry.’

  She came and stood in front him.

  ‘Three days after your lost weekend you were asking me to move in with you.’

  ‘I meant it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because . . . I was drunk. It was stupid.’

  ‘You could tell Morten. But you couldn’t tell me. Is it going to make the papers?’

  ‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Brix gave me his word.’

  ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘I think it does this time around. They won’t look good if the truth comes out either. Forget the police, Rie. I didn’t want to make things worse with you. Sometimes . . . I don’t know what you want. I’m the one saying we should get a house somewhere. Have kids.’

  ‘Now it’s my fault?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Then why say it? Oh screw it. I don’t give a shit anyway.’

  She got some papers out of her case, started to go through them.

  ‘At least let me try to explain.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  She looked at him. No expression. It might have been a glance over the table at a committee meeting.

  ‘Troels, it’s over. We’re still in the campaign. I’ve worked my heart out for that. I’m not quitting now. Tell me truthfully. Did you really agree to a truce with Bremer? You know what that means?’

  ‘I told him I’d do what was best. He didn’t leave me any options.’

  ‘Well you’ve got them now. There won’t be a truce.’

  ‘That’s my decision. Not yours.’

  Rie Skovgaard reached over and took his diary off the desk.

  ‘While you were pissing off everyone you could find and playing the martyr with the police I was working. You’ve got an extra appointment today. Tell me you still want to be Poul Bremer’s poodle after that.’

  Mette Hauge’s father lived on a farm on the city outskirts near Køge. Lund drove out there alone. The place was mostly derelict from what she could see. The commercial greenhouse was empty with cracked windows and missing panels. There was no car, only a cheap motorbike parked by the back door.

  It took a while for Jorgen Hauge to answer. He was a fit-looking grey-haired man in a blue boiler suit, not unlike the one Theis Birk Larsen had worn recently. Perhaps seventy.

  He seemed puzzled when she showed him her police
ID and asked about his daughter Mette.

  ‘Why do you want to know? After all this time?’

  ‘Just a few questions,’ Lund said. ‘It won’t take long.’

  Hauge lived on his own with a few chickens and an ancient sheepdog. The house was tidy and clean. He seemed a punctilious, careful man.

  While he made coffee she walked round, looking. A photo of a young girl playing on the beach. Then a few years later posing on a couch. Prizes for cattle and pigs at shows.

  ‘It was twenty-one years ago,’ Hauge said when he came back. ‘She disappeared on the seventh of November. A Wednesday.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘It was raining. I was worried about the drains.’

  He brought more photos to the table.

  ‘She’d just moved to Christianshavn. First place she had after leaving home. They said she was on her way back from handball. We called the police.’

  News cuttings from the time. The same photo of Mette everywhere. Pretty.

  ‘Two, three weeks later there were only a couple of officers on the case. They never found her.’

  Another cutting. Wreaths. A headstone.

  ‘So we buried a casket without a body.’

  ‘Is it possible she committed suicide?’

  He didn’t seem to mind the question.

  ‘Mette got depressed sometimes. She was a student. A bit naive. I think she hung around with some of the hippies for a while. Christiania and that. Not that she ever told us.’

  ‘Was there any kind of note?’

  ‘No. She didn’t kill herself. I know . . .’ He ran a finger across the cuttings. ‘Your people told me a father always says that. But she didn’t kill herself.’

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Not that we knew of. Like I said, she’d just moved to the city.’ Hauge looked around the room. ‘This place is a bit boring when you’re young, I guess. It’s a long time ago. I don’t recall. She had a life . . .’

  ‘Did anything puzzle you at the time?’

  He bridled at that.

  ‘Oh yes. One day you’ve got a daughter you love more than anything in the world. The next she’s gone for ever. That puzzled me.’

  She got up, said, ‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’

  ‘Here’s another thing. After all this time how come I get a visit from you people twice in one week?’

  Lund stopped.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had an officer here asking the same questions.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I wrote it down somewhere. He spoke funny. Didn’t really hear all he said.’

  Hauge sifted through some papers on an old desk by the window.

  ‘Maybe I left it in the living room. I’ll get it for you.’

  She followed him, looking at the walls.

  Photos and paintings everywhere. Family and landscapes.

  Then one of Mette. It was black and white. Looked like student days. Hair dishevelled. Cheap T-shirt.

  Necklace with a black heart.

  She stood in front of the photo, unable to breathe for a moment.

  Looked again.

  Hand-made by hippies in Christiania, Meyer said. Not many of them around.

  It was the same necklace. She knew that as certainly as she knew her own name.

  Hauge came back.

  ‘Where did she get that necklace?’ Lund asked.

  ‘I don’t know. She was in the city by then. A gift maybe.’

  ‘Who gave it to her?’

  ‘Do you think she’d tell her father? Why?’

  ‘Did you ever see it again? In her belongings after she died?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He gave her the name of the man he’d spoken to. She wondered why she was surprised.

  ‘Do you mind if I take this photograph with me?’ Lund asked. ‘You’ll get it back. I promise.’

  Meyer went to talk to the family. Sat around their odd kitchen table. Told them what he knew. Holck met Nanna through the dating site. He used Hartmann’s identity to conceal what they were doing. The affair ended.

  ‘Why did he do it?’ Pernille Birk Larsen asked.

  The two of them clasped hands together like teenagers.

  ‘It looks like he was in love with her. Crazy. She broke it off. Holck persuaded Nanna to meet him one last time in the Liberals’ flat. After that . . . we don’t really know.’

  Birk Larsen kept his eyes on Meyer and said, ‘How exactly did he die?’

  ‘He . . .’

  Close to a stammer, Meyer struggled.

  ‘He threatened the life of a colleague. So we had no alternative. He was shot.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘We’re sure.’

  The couple’s fingers worked together, entwined. A glance between them. A nod. A flicker of a smile.

  ‘We’d like Nanna’s things back now,’ Pernille said.

  ‘Of course. My colleague Sarah Lund’s no longer on the case. If there’s anything you need, call me from now on.’

  Meyer placed his card on the table.

  ‘Any time. About anything at all.’

  He got up. So did Theis Birk Larsen.

  The big man stuck his hand out. Meyer took it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Birk Larsen said.

  A glance at his wife.

  ‘From both of us. Thanks.’

  Bengt Rosling was in the kitchen, cooking with his one good arm, Vibeke watching, smiling.

  ‘When we get away from here things will be fine,’ he said.

  A bottle of Amarone. Pasta and sauce.

  Vibeke toasted him.

  ‘I need the place to myself again. Sarah . . .’

  The door went. Her voice lowered.

  ‘She needs someone to keep her in check.’

  Lund walked in. Anorak damp from the drizzle outside. Hair a mess.

  ‘Hi!’ Bengt said, getting a third glass, pouring some wine.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she said.

  ‘Now? We’re making lunch. Your mother’s helping me.’

  Lund waited, said nothing.

  ‘Here we go again,’ Vibeke grumbled and walked into the living room, closing the door behind her.

  Lund took the files out of her bag. Threw them on the table. Trying to control her temper, but not much.

  ‘Well . . .?’ he asked.

  ‘You talked to the father of one of the missing women.’

  He sat down, gulped at the wine.

  ‘You pretended you were a police officer. I could pull you in for that right now.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because your boss Brix called me three days ago. He’d heard about my ideas. That maybe the man had killed before.’

  He picked up the Mette Hauge folder, opened the first page.

  Pretty girl. Dishevelled hair. It was a mugshot. Lund had checked. Mette had been cautioned over soft drugs.

  ‘I told Brix what I thought. He brushed it to one side. He seemed determined to get Hartmann in the frame.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was very arrogant in the way he dealt with me. I found that irritating.’

  ‘I never realized your ego was so fragile.’

  ‘That was uncalled for. I wanted to prove I was right. The Hauge file was old but it looked the most promising. They found her bike not far from where Nanna was dumped. So I went and called on the father.’

  More wine.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  ‘And what did you find out?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘What did you find out, Bengt?’

  He held out the second glass. She didn’t take it.

  ‘Last night you told me you were wrong. There was no connection to any of the old cases. But you went out there. You know that wasn’t true.’
>
  ‘One case. Tentative.’

  ‘Tentative?’

  She pulled the black and white photo out of her bag.

  ‘Look me in the face and say you never saw it. I want to know what it’s like when you’re lying. I never looked for that before.’

  He glanced at the photo, frowned.

  ‘It’s probably just a coincidence. There might be thousands of those necklaces.’

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now I know what it’s like.’

  She went and stood over the sink, trying to think, trying to calm down.

  ‘Sarah . . .’

  He was behind her. Touched her shoulder briefly. Thought better of it.

  ‘I love you. I’m worried about you. I didn’t want this hanging around us for ever . . .’

  She turned and faced him.

  ‘What did you do afterwards?’

  ‘I took some notes and gave them to Brix.’

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘You gave them to Brix? Not me?’

  ‘We weren’t speaking. I was pissed off with you. How could I?’

  Lund nodded.

  ‘How could you?’

  She picked up the folder and the photograph, stuffed them back in her bag.

  ‘Sarah . . .’

  Lund left him bleating in the kitchen, with his wine and his pasta and her mother.

  Hartmann’s unscheduled appointment proved to be with Gert Stokke, the head of Holck’s council department. Skovgaard stayed to listen.

  Stokke was a tall man approaching sixty. Civil servant’s suit. Subtle, intelligent face. Bald as a coot and slippery.

  He sat down, looked at Skovgaard first then Hartmann, and said, ‘This had better be in confidence. I don’t like coming in on Sundays. People talk.’

  ‘Thanks for being here, Gert,’ she said, and ushered him to the sofa.

  ‘You realize the risk I’m taking?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced at Hartmann. ‘We do. And we appreciate it.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Stokke had worked in City Hall for more than twenty years. Three years before he was appointed to run the department Holck headed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I had access to all the accounts and budgets. This is public money. It’s a very important job, and much under-appreciated if I might say so.’

  Hartmann checked his watch and glared at Skovgaard.

  ‘Am I keeping you?’ Stokke asked.

  ‘Tell us about Holck,’ she said.

  ‘Cold man. During the summer he changed. He was always so conscientious. Not likeable. But he was on top of his job.’ A shrug. ‘Then things started to slide.’