The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘Troels?’

  Weber had walked in and he’d barely noticed.

  ‘The hearing’s soon. We need a plan.’

  No answer.

  ‘Hello?’ Weber called. ‘Anyone in?’

  ‘I’m in,’ Hartmann said. ‘Here’s a plan. Tell Bremer we’ll work out a denial afterwards.’

  Weber squinted at him.

  ‘You’re going to withdraw the accusation?’

  ‘Afterwards.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Weber said.

  She walked through the garage, ignored the hard stares of the men in their red uniforms, went up the stairs, rang the bell.

  ‘Hi, Pernille.’

  Lund smiled, tried to appear friendly.

  ‘Is it a bad time?’

  ‘We’re moving. I’m going to see the house.’

  ‘We need to number the evidence in the case. It’s just a formality.’

  ‘What?’

  A gap. An opportunity. Lund walked in, stood in the kitchen. So many things. Little vases and plants, animal silhouettes in the window, dishes on the side. She could never create a home like this.

  ‘I need to go through Nanna’s belongings again. The last time, I promise.’

  ‘Meyer said you were off the case.’

  ‘Tomorrow. It’s my last day. Didn’t he mention it?’

  She didn’t know whether Pernille believed that or not.

  ‘It’s just a detail. Is this a bad time? You don’t need to be here. If you have to go . . .’

  ‘I do have to go. Most of her things are in boxes. Will you lock the door behind you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Lund looked around the lovely kitchen.

  ‘Your new place is bigger?’

  ‘It’s a house.’

  ‘It’s going to be beautiful.’

  Pernille stared at her.

  ‘Just remember to lock up,’ she said and left.

  Lund listened to her footsteps down the stairs.

  When she was gone Lund took off her jacket and went to the first box. Emptied trinket boxes and books and homework diaries onto the threadbare carpet.

  Went through everything. Six boxes in all.

  An hour and a half later she sat desolate in Nanna’s bedroom, belongings everywhere, as if an angry child had thrown a tantrum.

  Nothing. No sign of a secret assignation. No mention of a trip.

  Lund buried her head in her hands, wanted to scream.

  Then she looked up, looked around with those big eyes again.

  Think.

  Think like Nanna.

  Look.

  Imagine.

  There was a blue plastic globe in the corner. She’d seen it earlier. The cross marks on famous cities. Places Nanna surely wanted to visit.

  It was a lamp too. An electric cable ran out of the back. Lund took the globe from the box, placed it on the desk, found a socket, turned it on.

  The bulb lit up all the bright colours of the countries and continents. Slowly she moved it around on its base. America, Australia, Asia, Africa . . .

  Between the tips of the two capes, in the South Atlantic at the base, something darkened the blue of the sea.

  Paper. Letters. Documents.

  A secret place for a kid who wanted to go somewhere.

  Lund shook the globe.

  Took out the plug, sought the way in. Nanna must have had one. She knew how to take this thing apart and put it back together without a sign.

  But Nanna was nineteen, with nimbler fingers. Getting cross Lund gave up, picked it up, crashed the thing on the desk, shattered the base and the light fitting, smashed it with her fist.

  The plastic gave. The world divided at the equator. Two equal halves, the southern hemisphere with a secret cache of documents.

  Last pair of forensic gloves on. She turned the contents on the floor, sat down, legs splayed, went through everything piece by piece.

  Letters and cards. A Valentine’s heart. A flower. A photo. So old.

  A blonde-haired girl, little more than four or five. Next to a dark-haired kid shyly holding her hand. A playground behind. Sand and a slide. The two of them together in the box of a Christiania trike.

  Lund stared.

  Didn’t notice the footsteps behind. Didn’t see Pernille Birk Larsen looking over her shoulder at first.

  When she did she asked, ‘Who’s this in the picture?’

  Lund got up, showed the photo to her.

  ‘This is Nanna, isn’t it?’

  The mess, the upturned boxes. The chaos returned.

  ‘Who’s the boy, Pernille?’

  ‘You said the case was closed?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Pernille took the photo, gazed at it.

  ‘Amir. A little Asian kid from round the corner. He was Nanna’s sweetheart for a while. They were . . .’

  The word eluded her.

  ‘They were tiny.’

  ‘Where’s Amir now?’ Lund asked.

  Meyer called when she was back in the car.

  ‘Nanna wasn’t going from Kastrup, Lund. She was booked on one of the budget airlines from Malmö. Flight to Berlin. Friday at one fifty in the morning. There was another passenger. He didn’t make the flight.’

  ‘Amir,’ she said.

  A long pause.

  ‘I do wish you’d stop doing this to me. He lives two streets from Nanna. But I guess you know that.’

  ‘Amir El’ Namen. He came to see Theis last night. He’s moving and he’s using the Birk Larsens. He asked for Theis to do the job himself.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near the station. Meet me.’

  Meyer looked at the long corridor, the dark marble walls, the lights. He couldn’t get out without passing Brix’s office. It looked empty . . .

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Brix came up behind him, made Meyer jump.

  ‘If it’s about Lund, I haven’t seen her. I swear.’

  ‘The Birk Larsen woman just called. Where is she?’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment right now. Let me call later and explain.’

  Brix blocked his way.

  ‘Explain now.’

  ‘Nanna was headed for Berlin with someone—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about Berlin. The station’s reported some luggage stolen. By Lund. Cut out this misguided loyalty and tell me where she is.’

  Meyer didn’t like that.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with loyalty. It’s to do with the facts. Holck didn’t know Nanna would leave from Malmö. So he went to Kastrup. Here . . .’

  He opened the folder he was taking to Lund.

  ‘These are Kastrup security pictures from that night. Holck’s in them. Perfect quality. Unmistakable.’

  The gloomy politician slumped against an information desk in the departures area. Rubbing his eyes by the ticket desks. Looking old and dejected on a shiny bench seat by the escalators.

  ‘Jens Holck stayed there till two in the morning. He doesn’t meet a soul.’

  Brix gazed at the photos.

  ‘He didn’t kill Nanna,’ Meyer said. ‘I’ll call you later, shall I?’

  No answer. So he left.

  Amir asked Birk Larsen to go to an address on an industrial estate in Amager. He didn’t want to talk. Just clutched his student bag and watched glumly as the low houses and industrial buildings ran past the window.

  Birk Larsen liked conversation when he was in the cab. Was determined to have it.

  ‘You were in London, right? I never went. One day—’

  ‘I was at college. It was my father’s idea.’

  ‘And you just got back?’

  He didn’t understand why Amir had his stuff out here. It seemed an odd place to keep tables and chairs.

  ‘No. I got back during the summer.’

  ‘I never saw you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have come round, Amir. Nanna would have liked that. I remember the two of you pl
aying together.’

  He laughed.

  ‘God she used to give you hell. She hated dolls, you know. I always thought that was because she had you instead.’

  It seemed a good joke. One he could crack now. Didn’t work on Amir.

  ‘Did you talk to her when you got back?’

  He was back at the window, staring at the dead land beyond. Birk Larsen looked at the address Amir had given him, looked at the road sign, the numbers.

  ‘No, well. We’re nearly there.’

  A closed gate, a derelict industrial unit behind it.

  Birk Larsen checked again.

  ‘Number seventy-four. This is it?’

  Amir was frozen in the seat, clutching his bag as if it were the most important thing in all the world.

  ‘Amir? Is this the place? Is this where we pick up the things for your wedding? What . . .’

  He was crying. Just like he did as a little kid when Nanna pushed him too far. Big tears rolling down from underneath his black student glasses.

  ‘There isn’t going to be a wedding. It’s cancelled.’

  Birk Larsen wondered what to do.

  ‘Amir . . . I don’t know why we’re here.’

  He took off the shoulder bag, opened it.

  Mumbled, ‘I wish . . .’

  Nothing else.

  ‘You wish what? What?’

  ‘I was always scared of you,’ Amir said. ‘When we were little and Nanna took me to your home. I was scared of you when I came back this summer. Didn’t dare come round, thinking about what you’d say, what you’d do when you . . . got to know.’

  Birk Larsen squinted at him, said, ‘Know what?’

  ‘Me. Nanna. Us. She always said I didn’t need to. That you’d come round. That you and her mum were just the same once. Stupid. In love. But . . .’

  He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket the way a child would.

  ‘I was still scared and I thought . . . it’s just going to make it worse, isn’t it? When you know—’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘It was me she loved. The immigrant kid from round the corner. We were running away. And then . . .’

  He thrust the bag into Birk Larsen’s hands. There was a white padded envelope inside. Something else.

  ‘Then something . . . I don’t know . . .’

  He took off his seat belt. Climbed out. Went to stand by the padlocked gate, looking at the derelict factory that meant nothing, was nothing. Birk Larsen understood this somehow now.

  The envelope was addressed to him and Pernille. Inside was a small digital video cassette. Birk Larsen looked in the bag. There was a camera. The cassette fitted.

  He found the play button.

  Hit it.

  Felt his heart stop.

  A cold day. Not long ago. Nanna in her heavy coat, hair a mess. Not looking nineteen at all.

  ‘Is it recording?’ she asks.

  A voice from somewhere. Amir’s. A little tetchy as he tries to work things out.

  ‘Yes.’

  She says good. Takes a long deep breath, smiles. A woman’s smile.

  Looks into the lens and Theis Birk Larsen’s blood runs cold as he listens to a voice he knows he’ll never hear again.

  So bright, so sweet, so full of hope it makes him ache with a desperate sense of loss.

  The voice says in a laughing, naughty tone, ‘Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad.’

  A wink.

  ‘Hi, Anton and Emil, the world’s best Teletubbies.’

  A pause and her face is so serious and old Theis Birk Larsen feels the tears sting his narrow eyes in an instant.

  ‘When you all watch this it’ll be Monday. You’ll think I’m in school. But I’m not.’

  She turns her head to one side, the cheeky way she always does to win an argument.

  ‘I know you’ll be angry with me. But don’t worry. I love you all so much. And I’m fine. With Amir. Little Amir.’

  A shrug.

  ‘Not now. My first boyfriend. He came back this summer. We met . . .’

  Her eyes drift to the man behind the camera. She looks embarrassed. Laughs it away.

  ‘Well. We hadn’t seen each other for three years. But it was like yesterday. You always told me, Mum. When it happens you know. It doesn’t matter what people think. Doesn’t matter what the world thinks. When it happens, when you find the right person, nothing can stop you. And you mustn’t let it.’

  A low deep moan rises from Birk Larsen’s lungs.

  Her blue eyes fix on the camera, on them.

  ‘We’ve always loved each other really. It just took a while to admit it. Mum, I think you always knew. Amir’s got a friend we can stay with. I don’t know for how long. Till things calm down.’

  He holds the camera closer, as if in some irrational part of his mind he believes this is her. Nanna breathing. Nanna alive.

  Nanna saying, ‘I want you all to know I’ve never been happier. So please . . . I hope you can forgive me. I think you can. You ran away, didn’t you? I remember the look in your eyes when you told me, Mum. So much love.’

  Her hand reaches out, touches the unseen man behind the lens.

  ‘If Amir and me can be as happy and as good as you . . .’

  She is crying now and he always hated to see that.

  ‘See you, Mum and Dad.’

  She blows a kiss.

  ‘Love you, Teletubbies. I’ll call you soon. I’ll love you always.’

  Tears and laughter. The camera moves. A wall with graffiti. A line of bikes. Two streets from their home in Vesterbro. He recognizes the bricks.

  Then Nanna and Amir. She’s bright and sparked by hope. He’s quiet and bashful and can look at nothing but her.

  With shaking fingers Birk Larsen placed the camera on the passenger seat then buried his head in his hands and wept.

  Poul Bremer ran the hearing. Jacket off. Blue shirt. No tie. A man at work.

  ‘Next we’ll hear from the head of Holck’s administration. Gert Stokke. Gert?’

  The grey man in the grey suit came into the room, took a seat.

  ‘You know the form,’ Bremer said. ‘We’re investigating Holck’s department. We need you to shed some light on this case.’

  Stokke nodded, looked at each of the leaders round the table.

  ‘As you can see from the documents I had a conversation with Holck. I tried to get him to understand that something was wrong. But he didn’t want to know. I was unable to convince him.’

  ‘And then?’ Bremer asked.

  Stokke puffed out his cheeks, said eventually, ‘I brought it up at a later date. He was no more cooperative. With hindsight I see I should have informed someone. I apologize for this. We have systems in place now . . .’

  ‘And Holck himself . . .’ Bremer prompted. ‘He had a bullying nature which was not known to most of us, I believe.’

  ‘He was forthright,’ Stokke agreed. ‘And convincing. He told me he’d deal with the matter directly. I assumed he was telling the truth. What else could I do?’

  Bremer put his hands together, like a priest taking confession.

  ‘I think we’ve all learned lessons from this sad episode. As far as I can see you did what you could. No further questions are needed. So thank you—’

  Hartmann put up his left hand.

  ‘I have a question if you don’t mind.’

  Bremer waited for a moment then said, ‘Go ahead, Troels.’

  ‘Just so we’re absolutely clear, did you tell anyone about Holck’s actions?’

  ‘No one.’

  Hartmann picked up the folder in front of him.

  ‘I’d like to hand out some documents.’

  He walked round, placing the sheets in front of each, Stokke first.

  ‘These are minutes from a meeting between Gert Stokke and Bremer. They discussed planting trees. There are references to an appendix which wasn’t included with the file copy. It was mislaid, I imagine. Is that right, Gert?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’d have to check the records—’

  ‘No need.’ Hartmann picked up another pile of documents. ‘I’ve managed to recover the appendix anyway.’

  Stokke blinked.

  ‘It was in a safe place, hidden there by the head of administration of Holck’s department.’

  A wave to Stokke.

  ‘You, Gert.’

  The civil servant’s eyes locked on the document in front of him.

  ‘Let me refresh your memory,’ Hartmann went on. ‘This is your note of a report you gave to the Lord Mayor about what you call the worrying conditions in Holck’s administration. It cites, for example, the payment of five thousand kroner a month to a civil servant named Olav Christensen, who worked in my department, not that any of my payroll team or my administration were aware of this relationship. Or that there’s any clear indication why Christensen was paid in the first place.’

  Bremer sat flushed, speechless.

  Hartmann turned to the council members.

  ‘This appendix was never part of the official minutes. It was Gert Stokke’s secret insurance policy. A way of making sure that if the sky fell he could at least say we were warned.’

  Hartmann pointed to the document.

  ‘And here it is. Proof that the Lord Mayor knew about Holck’s wilful and illegal misconduct in office long before the rest of us. Proof that the Lord Mayor withheld from the police information that could have revealed the real murderer of Nanna Birk Larsen long before they did.’

  He looked across at Bremer.

  ‘Would the Lord Mayor care to comment?’

  Nothing.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well,’ Hartmann said, getting up from the table, leaving them with the papers, ‘thanks for listening.’

  Lund and Meyer were out looking for Amir. He’d come back to the city after seeing Theis Birk Larsen. Picked up his car. Hadn’t been seen since.

  They’d tried the father’s restaurant. The cemetery.

  Nothing.

  As Meyer cruised through Vesterbro his phone rang.

  ‘His mobile is registered on a tower near Tårnby. Not far from the airport. Maybe he’s trying to get out . . .’

  He wheeled the car round, headed for the road out to Kastrup.

  Lund thought. Remembered the picture. Two little kids and a red Christiania trike.

  ‘He’s not going to the airport.’

  ‘The mobile—’

  ‘I know where he is.’

  The traffic was light. It took twenty-five minutes to get there.