The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘What does that mean?’ Hartmann asked.

  ‘Right now that means you.’

  Hartmann sat back on the leather sofa and waited.

  ‘Thing is,’ Salin said, taking out his notebook, ‘I don’t get some of this story. The surveillance tape, say.’

  ‘Been talking to Bremer?’

  ‘I talk to lots of people. It’s my job. I just want to get this straight. Wasn’t it really convenient for you that the tape disappeared? It’s got you on there taking the car keys.’

  ‘It’s also got Holck with the girl. So it suited him more than me, don’t you think?’

  ‘I guess. But Holck was dead by the time the tape showed up.’ A thin, sarcastic smile. ‘Didn’t help him much then, did it?’

  ‘Erik . . .’

  ‘So the party flat was left untouched for more than a week? Is that right?’

  ‘Seems to be. I’m running an election campaign. Not an accommodation agency.’

  Salin looked surprised.

  ‘You’re running the Liberal group, aren’t you? There were lots of meetings during that time. And you never used the flat. Don’t you find that strange?’

  ‘Not really. We hold meetings here. In the campaign office.’

  ‘I guess.’ Salin smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry to pester you with all this. New editor. You get all the pressure.’

  ‘You are aware, Erik, that the police have cleared me of all suspicion?’

  ‘I do know that. I have to ask. What with stuff flying around. Like all these rumours about Rie Skovgaard.’

  Hartmann said nothing.

  ‘You must have heard them, Troels? It’s everywhere. Supposedly she got the tip on Stokke by spreading her legs for Bremer’s press guy Bressau.’

  He picked up one of the papers, found a photo of Bressau with Bremer. Put it in front of Hartmann.

  ‘Can’t blame the guy. Skovgaard’s hot in a kind of . . .’ He scratched his bald head. ‘A cold kind of way.’

  Salin was grinning.

  ‘Word is she took him to a hotel the night they let you out of jail. Worked a little pillow talk on him. Got favours in return. If it’s true Bressau’s finished, of course. I guess we’ll have to see. People always say I’m in a shitty business. But it’s not much different to yours, is it?’

  Hartmann waited, thinking.

  Then he said, ‘I know you people think you own my private life. But if you’re going to stoop to playing Peeping Tom with my staff you’ve crossed the line.’

  He got to his feet.

  ‘I don’t want to see you here again.’

  Salin scooped up his notebook and his pen.

  ‘You put yourself in the public eye, Troels. You’ve got to expect some scrutiny.’ That snide grin again. ‘People have the right to know who they’re voting for. The real person. Not the pretty face on the posters. Not the bullshit they’re fed from your publicity machine.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Still, I guess if she’s willing to go that far for her man you have to wonder.’ Erik Salin came close, looked into Hartmann’s eyes. ‘What else would she do? And here you are accusing Bremer of impeding the investigation. It’s a bit rich, don’t you think?’

  ‘Isn’t there an opening on a gossip column somewhere, Erik? Sounds more up your street.’

  ‘Ouch! That hurt.’ He nudged Hartmann gently in the ribs. ‘Just kidding. I will need to get back to you, Troels. With some more questions. Don’t freeze me out.’

  ‘Erik—’

  ‘You won’t kill this by not talking to me. That’s a promise.’

  Vagn Skærbæk was in Lund’s office demanding his lawyer.

  ‘No one’s charging you,’ Meyer said. ‘We just want to know what Leon Frevert was doing round your place.’

  Red overalls, black hat. He looked as if he never climbed out of them.

  ‘So that means I’m not a suspect any more?’

  ‘Where’s Frevert likely to hang out?’

  ‘That’s an apology? Jesus. You people . . .’

  Lund looked at him.

  ‘You want us to find out what happened, don’t you, Vagn? You’re one of the family.’

  ‘Leon was bringing back the keys for the van. He did a job. He’s not working tomorrow. I’m closer to him than the garage. He was going to drop them through my door.’

  Lund wrote that down.

  Meyer got up from the desk, started looking at the one photo they had of Frevert. Not a good one.

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  Skærbæk frowned.

  ‘Leon’s been hanging round the removals business for years.’ He took off his black cap. ‘If he’d been a bit more reliable we might have given him a job. But I don’t know. You never got friends with the guy. There was always something . . .’

  He stopped.

  ‘Something what?’ Lund prompted.

  ‘He was married for a while. When that went tits up he turned a bit weird. You think I’m a loner? I’m not. Leon . . .’ He frowned. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Where do you think he might go?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Was he working for Birk Larsen when Nanna went missing?’ she asked.

  Skærbæk took off his hat, played with it, said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘I don’t think he’s been around for a few weeks. I don’t carry a job list in my head. He worked a lot during the summer, off and on.’

  ‘How did he get the job there?’

  ‘Through me. There’s an agency we use for casual work when we need people. He was looking for some cash on the side.’

  ‘When did you first get to know him?’

  Skærbæk’s dark and beady eyes were on her.

  ‘Through Aage Lonstrup. He was a casual when I worked there.’

  Lund sat back, thought about it.

  ‘You’re saying twenty years ago Leon Frevert worked for Merkur?’

  Skærbæk’s face was still unreadable.

  ‘Did he do it?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘People in your business see a lot of empty buildings and warehouses.’

  Lund passed him a notepad and a pen, placed it next to Meyer’s toy police car.

  ‘I want a list of all the places Frevert would know from the business.’

  He laughed.

  ‘All of them? You’re kidding. I mean . . . there’s a million places.’

  ‘Get started,’ Meyer said. ‘When you’re finished you can go.’

  Skærbæk nodded.

  ‘So . . .’ His voice was cracking. ‘I brought this bastard into their home.’

  He closed his eyes, let out a low moan.

  ‘Vagn . . .’ Meyer began.

  An accusing arm, thrust at both of them.

  ‘Thanks to you Theis and Pernille think I killed Nanna. Now I’ve got to go back and tell them . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .’ The volume and the anger fell, turned inwards. ‘Maybe I did in a way.’

  Lund watched him.

  ‘Just write the list,’ she said.

  She listened as Meyer talked to the night team in the briefing room. Next to the map of the city on the wall were some fresh photos of Frevert, pictures of Nanna and Mette Hauge, some of the other women from the missing persons files.

  All the standard procedures. Background to Frevert’s activities over the previous two decades. Tracking down girlfriends, the former wife, workmates, neighbours. Staff from the closed Merkur. Something that might link him to Mette Hauge.

  ‘I want to know where his cab went after he let Nanna out,’ Meyer said. ‘Let’s get his phone records. Every call he made that weekend. OK?’

  Lund watched them go. Svendsen came into the room, didn’t look at her.

  He had an evidence bag and some old file records.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lund asked, making him look at her.

  ‘I tracked down some storage space Merkur used to rent. The tax people impounded everythi
ng over unpaid bills. Pile of crap so they’ve never got round to selling what they took. From what I can gather some of Mette’s stuff may be still there. The tax people have given me an entry card and some keys. Whether anything’s still there . . .’

  ‘Good,’ Lund said.

  Svendsen looked at her.

  ‘Good,’ she repeated.

  Meyer watched him leave.

  ‘You never did the teamwork course, did you, Lund?’

  ‘Depends on the team. The body we found is Mette Hauge. How many more are out there?’

  ‘We’ve got enough on our hands already. No time to look for more. Did he tie her up too?’

  ‘Mette was long dead when she was bound. Fractured skull. Fractured clavicle, forearm, femur and shoulder.’

  He looked at the photos in front of her.

  ‘He wasn’t kidding, was he?’

  ‘What are we missing, Meyer? Nanna was kept for the weekend. Raped repeatedly. Thrown alive into the boot of a car. Drowned. Mette was beaten to death, wrapped up in plastic sheeting, bound with Merkur tape, dumped in the water.’

  There was more information about Mette Hauge on the desk. She was wrapped in the sheeting wearing a torn cotton dress. No bra. No underwear.

  ‘It says she was taking self-defence classes. Judo. She was a fit, muscular girl.’

  ‘She’d fight,’ Lund said. ‘If someone came at her. She’d fight for her life, fight well I guess. How can these be the same but different?’

  ‘You mean it’s not our guy?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean. Maybe he had some sort of relationship with Mette. It went wrong. That made him mad. Nanna was different.’

  She picked up the evidence bag with the entry card and the key to the warehouse.

  ‘If there was a relationship we could pick up something from her things.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Meyer said.

  ‘No. Now.’

  Meyer got his jacket.

  ‘Look, Lund. Maybe you don’t have a life but I do. My youngest’s got an ear infection. I promised I’d be home.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’

  ‘Oh for pity’s sake. You’re not going on your own.’

  She read through the file record.

  ‘OK,’ Meyer said. ‘That’s it. Time for a little frank speaking.’

  His hand slammed on the papers she was shuffling.

  ‘Lund. I’ve been watching you for two weeks. You’re falling apart.’

  She looked at him.

  Meyer folded his arms.

  ‘I’m saying this as your friend. You need sleep. You need to get this case out of your head for a while. I’m driving you home now. No arguments. No . . .’

  She smiled, patted him on the chest, got her jacket, walked down the corridor.

  Footsteps behind her. Lund didn’t look back.

  ‘This better not take long,’ Meyer yelled.

  She drove. The warehouse was in a deserted part of the docks. Two fluorescent tubes outside.

  Meyer got a call from home. Apologies. Baby talk to a child.

  ‘Poor darling. Does it hurt?’

  ‘If it’s an ear infection . . .’ Lund said lightly.

  She got out of the car, looked at the place, left the door open. Meyer didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll stop at the chemist on the way home. I won’t be late, I promise. Hang on a minute . . .’

  Lund was at the door. It was a security card system.

  ‘Hey!’ Meyer cried. ‘The chances of that thing working are about equal to me making the next Pope. Just wait will you?’

  She popped in the card, heard the lock clank. Opened the door. Turned, waved the card at him and walked in.

  Meyer was screaming at her.

  ‘Lund! Goddammit! Lund!’

  Just heard him say, in a voice more sympathetic than angry, ‘I’m sorry, love. It’s just that she’s really crazy right now. I’ve got to keep an eye out—’

  The red metal door was on a massive spring. It slammed shut behind her, its iron voice booming through the darkness ahead.

  Theis Birk Larsen refused to talk to the two detectives who came round demanding access to their records. Pernille was less reticent. She stood in the office with the two of them, fielding their questions. Asking some of her own.

  They were asking about staff and when they worked.

  ‘Of course we make a note of who goes on each job,’ she said.

  The two of them were hunting through calendars, worksheets, ledgers. Didn’t ask permission for anything.

  ‘What’s this about? What are you looking for?’

  One of them found a financial ledger, started flicking through the pages.

  ‘We want to know when Leon Frevert worked here.’

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Those are our accounts. They’re private. Nothing to do with you—’

  ‘We’ve got a warrant. We’ll take what we like.’

  ‘They’re the accounts!’

  He grinned at her.

  ‘Everything goes through the books, does it? We work with the tax people too, Pernille. I can pass this on—’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see the paperwork that lists who’s worked here and when. Every day for the last year.’

  She marched to the filing cabinets. Got what they wanted. Threw it on the desk.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said and went upstairs.

  Theis was washing up at the sink. The basil plant and the parsley were dying on the windowsill. She hadn’t watered them. Never thought of it.

  Pernille stood next to him, trying to catch his eyes.

  ‘They’re looking for Leon Frevert. They’re asking where he’s been. How long he’s worked for us. They want to—’

  ‘There’s no point in getting involved,’ he cut in angrily.

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘There’s no point! Every day they point the finger at someone new. This morning it’s Vagn. Now it’s Leon. Tomorrow it’s probably me—’

  ‘Theis—’

  ‘I can’t believe we did that to Vagn. We were stupid enough to think there was something in it.’

  ‘Theis—’

  ‘If it wasn’t for Vagn we wouldn’t have this place. If it wasn’t for Vagn . . .’

  His voice drifted into silence.

  ‘Maybe you should call him,’ she said.

  ‘I tried. He didn’t answer.’

  A small, scared voice from the shadows.

  ‘Did something happen to Uncle Vagn?’

  Anton walked out in his blue pyjamas, sat on the step, looked wide awake.

  ‘Were the police here again, Dad?’

  ‘Yes . . . I lost something. They came to return it.’

  Folded arms, bright face. Always the one with questions.

  ‘What did you lose?’

  Theis Birk Larsen looked at Pernille.

  ‘Well, it was supposed to be a surprise. But . . .’

  He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket.

  ‘It’s these. We’re moving. We’ve got a house.’

  Pernille smiled, at Theis, at Anton.

  ‘You get your own room,’ she said. ‘We can sit outside in the summer. You can have a slide in the garden.’

  The boy got up, frowned.

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘You’ll like it there better.’

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘You’ll like it there better.’

  The hard tone in Theis Birk Larsen’s voice silenced the boy.

  ‘Go to bed, Anton,’ he ordered and the child went straight away.

  Lund was on the sixth floor, poking round the storage spaces, when Meyer called.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’

  ‘I found the floor where Merkur’s stuff’s kept.’

  The building was still used regularly. The lights worked. The concrete was swept. Each floor was all
otted to a company. Everything was stored behind chipboard doors.

  ‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

  The key Svendsen found had the number 555 scrawled on the label in pencil. Lund looked at the nearest door. Five hundred and thirty.

  ‘You do realize you locked the door behind you? I can’t get in.’

  He sounded anxious. Almost frantic.

  ‘I’ll be back down in a minute. What are you doing?’

  ‘Right now? Taking a leak. You did ask.’

  Meyer finished peeing into the water by the dock. Called home again. Got ticked off again.

  ‘I told you. She’s not right in the head. I can’t leave her on her own.’ He listened to the list of complaints. ‘I can’t leave her! You know why.’

  Women, he thought after the desultory, angry goodbyes.

  He looked at the building. It wasn’t the wreck he was expecting. Graffiti all over the front. From the smell some people weren’t as particular about peeing in the water instead of peeing against the walls. But there were low security lights on every floor, good strong doors. No exterior CCTV. Apart from that . . .

  He pulled the torch out of his anorak pocket, shone it the length of the grey cement facing.

  On the right something glittered. He walked over, found his feet scrunching through broken glass.

  Looked down.

  Fresh.

  Shone the light on the window above.

  Broken.

  A commercial waste bin was pushed up close to the wall. With that someone could climb inside.

  He pushed back, shone the torch on the floors above.

  Said, ‘Shit.’

  She walked along until she reached door 555. Same chipboard slab. Same basic lock mechanism. Sliding bolt with a padlock.

  It was half open.

  Lund didn’t have any gloves with her. So she pulled her sleeve down until the wool covered her fingers then slowly prised the door back.

  The space beyond was half empty. What lay there was stored at the rear.

  Cardboard boxes, like the ones in Birk Larsen’s garage. But these had white tape with blue lettering. The name Merkur with the flying wing to the left. The same tape that bound Mette Hauge.

  It looked mostly junk.

  The phone rang.

  She looked at the ID.

  ‘I said a minute, Meyer. One of my minutes. OK?’

  ‘There’s a broken window at the front. Someone’s been here.’

  ‘Makes sense. The door was forced when I got to the Hauge unit.’