by David Hewson
‘Amateurs,’ Morten Weber scoffed. ‘Why do I work with amateurs?’
Hartmann waited.
‘Gert Stokke’s gone missing,’ Weber said. ‘I got a call a couple of minutes ago. The police came for him but he wasn’t there. Stokke lives on his own. No one’s seen him since yesterday’s hearing.’
He let it sink in.
‘Your key witness just went walkabout, Troels. Now what do we do?’
‘Find him,’ said Hartmann.
Skovgaard walked out of the office, went to her desk, started making some calls.
‘Not easy finding a man who doesn’t want to be found,’ Weber said.
‘The surveillance tape.’
‘What about it?’
‘Find out who gave it to the police.’
He got his jacket, came over, tapped Morten Weber in the chest.
‘You do that. No one else.’
Lund and Meyer went to Humleby. Skærbæk was out at a roofing suppliers. They looked at the house. New window frames, new doors. Scaffolding and fresh paint. Timber and glass waiting to be fitted.
‘Is Birk Larsen inside?’ Lund asked one of the men in red overalls in the street.
She left Meyer checking on the progress of the ID line-up, walked through the open, half-finished door, over the tarpaulins, carefully picking a path among the plasterboard and the buckets, the tools and drill cases.
He was in what would one day be the living room. Big windows. It would be full of light once the plastic was replaced with glass.
Birk Larsen was by a stepladder, working on the ceiling.
‘The doorbell doesn’t work,’ Lund said, chewing on Nicotinell.
She took a look around.
‘I’ve got some questions about Vagn.’
He took a deep breath, picked up a bucket, walked to the other side of the room.
Lund followed.
‘What exactly did he do that weekend, Theis? When he was minding the business?’
Birk Larsen moved some chipboard to the wall, took out a retractable knife, popped up the blade.
‘You left Friday night, right after Nanna went to the school party. Did you plan all that in advance?’
‘No. Why do you keep asking the same questions?’
‘Because people keep giving us the same answers. When did you know you were going away?’
‘The night before. Pernille’s mother called to offer us the cottage.’
‘Did you talk to Vagn during the weekend?’
‘I didn’t want any calls on Saturday. It was a holiday. There was a problem with a hydraulic lift on Sunday. We talked.’
‘How many times?’
He didn’t answer, just shifted some more chipboard.
‘Did his relationship with Nanna ever strike you as odd?’
That struck home.
He came over, stood in front of her.
‘I’ve known Vagn for more than twenty years. His father abandoned him. His mother drank herself to death. He’s always been our friend. It doesn’t matter what ridiculous stories you come up with. I don’t give a shit. Is that clear?’
He marched to the door, held it open.
Lund followed, stopped at the threshold.
‘One of your people saw Nanna and Amir together that day. He’s the only one who knew she was running away. I need to know if it was Vagn.’
‘Get out,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the dull day outside. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’
She walked to the front steps.
Turned. Looked at his stony, stubbled face.
‘Vagn’s mother didn’t drink herself to death. She died giving birth. To him.’
‘Get lost—’
‘Theis!’
The half-finished door slammed in her face.
Lund went to the hole for the letterbox, yelled through it, ‘He lied to you. Think about it.’
Down the curving corridor on the eastern wing. The line-up room had floor-length one-way glass. A platform on the suspects’ side. Chairs and tables on the other. The lawyer Birk Larsen had hired stood with Lund and Meyer watching as Amir went up and down the line of six men, all in identical khaki uniforms, each with a number round the neck.
‘Do you recognize anyone?’ Lund asked.
‘I don’t know. I only saw him for a second.’
‘Take your time. Take a good look. Think about what you saw. Try to remember a face.’
Amir adjusted his heavy spectacles, went closer to the glass.
‘No one can see you,’ Meyer said. ‘You don’t need to worry.’
Amir shook his head.
‘Did you see him face on or in profile? Think about it.’
He looked.
‘It might be him. Number three.’
‘Number three?’ Lund repeated.
Skærbæk.
‘Maybe.’
‘Is it him or not?’ Meyer wanted to know.
‘Or maybe number five.’
The lawyer let loose a long, pained sigh.
‘I don’t know.’
Lund put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Amir?’ the lawyer said. ‘How far’s your flat from the Birk Larsen garage?’
‘Two streets.’
‘You’ve walked past the place most of your life. You used to go there as a kid, to play with Nanna?’
He said nothing.
‘So,’ the woman added, ‘you could just be recognizing a face you know.’
Lund nodded to one of the uniform men to take him back to the office.
The lawyer looked at both of them.
‘I can’t believe you did this. Number five’s one of your detectives, isn’t he? Even if he’d picked Vagn . . . Of course he’s seen him. In the garage.’
She looked at her watch.
‘We’re going now.’
‘No,’ Lund said. ‘You’re not.’
Back in the office, Skærbæk in his scarlet overalls, hat on, scowling, bored.
‘No one saw you in the nursing home from ten at night until eight in the morning,’ Meyer said.
‘Why would they? I was asleep in a chair. In my uncle’s room.’
‘Right. And the rest of the weekend you were in the depot.’
‘Correct.’
‘But no one saw you there either, Vagn.’
‘I was on my own. The hydraulic lift wasn’t working. I stayed in the garage. I like working on things. Why should Theis pay for a mechanic if I can fix it?’
‘Your phone was turned off.’
‘I was fixing the lift. People could leave messages if they wanted.’
‘But no one can confirm you were there.’
‘Theis and Pernille can.’
Lund stood at the door, watching him answer, thinking about the way he spoke.
‘You’re forty-one years old, Vagn. Why don’t you have a wife and kids?’
‘I never met the right girl.’
‘Maybe women don’t like you,’ Meyer said.
‘And you still spend time with Anton and Emil,’ Lund added.
‘Sure. I’m their godfather. There’s nothing wrong with spending time with your family.’
Lund shook her head.
‘But they’re not your family.’
He met her eyes.
‘You don’t understand. I feel sorry for you.’
‘You and Pernille,’ Meyer cut in. ‘Did you maybe have a little fling when Theis was inside one time? Is there some history . . .?’
Skærbæk turned to the lawyer.
‘Do I have to answer that crap?’
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
‘No.’
Meyer lit a cigarette.
‘So what the hell’s in it for you? I don’t get it. All the time. All the investment. What do you get out of it?’
‘Mutual respect.’
‘Mutual respect? For what? You’re a sad old loner hanging round the family.’ Meyer pointed across the table. ‘With that stupid silver necklace?
I mean . . . what kind of forty-one-yearold weirdo—?’
‘Were you envious of Theis?’ Lund asked.
‘You haven’t seen Pernille when she gets mad.’
She came and sat next to him.
‘You and Theis were friends as kids. He grew up and got everything. A business. A family. The good life.’
‘And you just go to work each day and hang grinning off their coat-tails,’ Meyer said. ‘You spend your day dealing with shit. Then watch Theis go home to his wife and kids.’
‘Is this your life you’re talking about?’ Skærbæk asked with a stupid, childish grin.
‘You’re a loser,’ Meyer snarled. ‘No future. No family. A dead-end job. And then the boss’s beautiful daughter starts hanging out with a raghead . . .’
‘You’ve got a filthy mouth for a policeman.’
The lawyer put her notebook on the table.
‘My client’s happy to answer relevant questions. If you have any. If not . . .’
‘Do you know what phenobarbital is?’ Lund asked.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Why do you hang around them?’ Meyer wouldn’t let this go. ‘You’re always there. When Theis goes out to beat up the teacher you’ve got to tag along. Why?’
‘Because I owe him! OK?’
They’d touched something and Lund had no idea what.
‘Why do you owe him, Vagn?’
‘Go look it up. You’re idiots. You know that? You drag me here . . . throw names at me. Do you think I don’t know what that’s like?’
Vagn Skærbæk got to his feet.
‘Idiots. I want to go now.’
‘Stay here,’ Lund said.
Svendsen was lurking outside.
‘They’ve found something out in Vestamager,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘They’re not sure. They’re working on it now. It’s not easy.’
‘Let’s go,’ Lund said.
Svendsen nodded at the figure in the scarlet suit in the interview room.
‘What about him?’
‘Get his passport if he has one,’ Lund ordered. ‘Tell him he can’t leave Copenhagen.’
A thought.
‘Go back to the records. We’re missing something here.’
Svendsen hated being asked to do things twice.
‘What am I supposed to be looking for this time?’
‘Something to do with Vagn and Theis Birk Larsen. Something . . .’
Skærbæk was slumped at the desk, picking pieces off his plastic cup again. Playing the fool.
‘Something that connects,’ she said.
Three full days of campaigning left before the weekend. The dead lull of the following Monday. Then the election. The meetings went on and on, this time at the Black Diamond, the Royal Library by the water. A room full of supporters, a handful of media. Wan winter light through the massive windows.
Hartmann smiled and nodded as the audience made for the exit.
He strode to the door, dealing with the faithful.
Smiles and handshakes. Shoulders patted. Thanks exchanged.
Outside the black glass shone in the rain. Hartmann stared at the bleak grey water. Waited for Skovgaard and the car.
Alone for once he felt strangely free. He knew the long battle to topple Bremer would be exhausting. But not this much. He felt drained. Surrounded on all sides by inimical and invisible enemies. Lacking the weapons to fight them.
Rie Skovgaard was the first to him from the car.
‘Stokke . . .’ Hartmann began.
‘We can’t find him. You’re going to have to think about withdrawing your allegations.’
‘If I do that I may as well pull out of the election. What are the police doing?’
Her hair was always up now. Not free around her shoulders, the way he preferred.
‘I’ve no idea. I’ll get us some food. God knows when we’ll get the chance to eat again.’
He watched her walk off. Stood on the steps, battered by the wind and drizzle. Not caring much.
Alone.
A man emerged from the shadows. He wore a black coat and sunglasses in spite of the dismal day.
Closer, then he stopped by one of the campaign posters against the glass. Troels Hartmann smiling for the world, confident, modest, youthful. Energetic and fresh.
Ten strides and Hartmann was with him.
‘You run a good campaign,’ Gert Stokke said.
In the half-light Hartmann turned, checked the pavement around them. Empty.
‘The old king’s dying. The new king waits by his bed. Long live Troels Hartmann.’
Stokke saluted.
‘They’re looking for you, Gert.’
Mouth downturned, balding head greasy from the rain, Stokke said, ‘Why the hell did I get mixed up in all this? I should have stuck to filing minutes. Letting Holck and Bremer get away with it.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I do my job and I try to do it responsibly.’
‘I know that.’
He laughed.
‘Do you really? Is that why you threw my name into the ring? Without even warning me?’
Hartmann leaned against the black glass, stared at his own reflection.
‘Sometimes events have a life of their own. There’s nothing we can do to control them. I know that better than most by now.’
That dry laugh again.
‘You’ve got a fine turn of speech. But civil servants don’t trade in rhetoric. It’s wasted. Sorry.’
‘You lied to me. You said there were no minutes.’
‘What else could I do?’
‘You’ve got to go to the police.’
‘How can I? You know that’s impossible.’
Hartmann waited, then said, ‘What about your career?’
‘What career? I’ll be lucky to get out of this with a pension. I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I don’t why I came . . .’
He started to walk off. Hartmann caught up with him.
‘You’ve got a career if I win.’
The car was waiting.
Stokke stopped, took off the sunglasses, looked at him warily.
‘A civil servant learns before anyone else never to trust a politician’s promises.’
‘You can believe mine. After the election we need good, honest loyal people. I don’t doubt you fit that bill. You wouldn’t have noted that minute otherwise.’
‘Ah, the words. They come so easily.’
‘If we win, Gert, I’ll find a good position for you. Better than the job you have now. Better-paid too.’
He held out his hand.
‘If I win.’
Stokke was laughing again, more freely this time.
‘What’s so funny?’ Hartmann asked.
‘I got a message from Bremer’s people. They said the same.’
Hartmann walked to the car, opened the back door, looked at him.
Stokke rubbed his chin with his hand. Thinking.
‘You’ve got to ask yourself, Gert. Who do you trust the most?’
‘No.’
Hartmann struggled for something else, some other lure.
Then Stokke walked to join him at the car.
‘What I have to ask myself,’ the civil servant said, ‘is who I mistrust the least.’
He climbed in the back. Rie Skovgaard came round the corner with some sandwiches.
‘We’re giving Gert a lift,’ Hartmann told her. ‘So he doesn’t get lost again.’
Pernille stayed in the garage to talk to Leon Frevert.
‘That weekend when . . .’
He heaved some cardboard boxes onto a stack, looked embarrassed by her questions.
‘Were you around, Leon?’
‘No. Vagn called and said he didn’t need me after all.’
He went back to the boxes. A hard worker. Strong in spite of his slight build.
‘But you were supposed to work?’
‘Yeah. Sat
urday and Sunday. It didn’t matter. I’ve always got the taxis.’
He went outside and got more cases. She followed.
‘Vagn said there was no point in coming in. We only had one customer and they’d cancelled. So I went back to the cab. No problem. It was fine.’
She looked around the garage, thinking. Wondering about Lund. The questions the odd and persistent policewoman asked. The repetitive way she went about them.
‘So a job had been cancelled?’ Pernille asked.
Frevert took off his baseball cap and scratched his balding scalp.
‘It was funny really.’
Pernille’s breath turned shallow and rapid. She couldn’t stop looking at this pallid, thin man who wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘What was funny?’
‘We were supposed to move for an office supply store. Couple of days later I ran into the owner. He was ranting and raving at me for cancelling on them. I thought Vagn said they cancelled on us. But he said Vagn had phoned to say we couldn’t do it.’
Frevert picked up another crate.
‘I’m sure he had a good reason.’
He lugged the load to the van, closed the doors.
‘That’s the lot then?’
She couldn’t move. Could barely stand at that moment.
‘Vagn wants the van in the morning, Pernille. I’ll drop the keys off at his place tonight when I’m done.’
He looked round the garage.
‘I’m taking a holiday soon. You won’t see me for a while. Is that OK?’
She went back upstairs, sat at the table for a long time doing nothing. Then she listened to the messages on the answering machine.
It had to be him first.
Cocky as ever.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’m on my way back. I think the police get it finally. They’ll keep their distance from now on.’
Pernille had her chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail. Like Lund. She wore a thin sweater over a white shirt. Summer clothes for some reason.
‘I’d still like to take the boys to the toy store. I saw the coolest water pistols. They’ll love them.’
As if nothing had happened, she thought.
‘They’ve got some new ones. Three different kinds. See you soon. Bye.’
Theis Birk Larsen came up the stairs. She looked at him, saw his face, knew at that moment.
Almost said it.
Back in the nightmare. Trapped in limbo.
‘Are the boys ready to go out?’ Birk Larsen asked.
‘If we want them to.’
