The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  ‘What floor are you on?’

  ‘The sixth. The top one.’

  Silence. Then Meyer said, ‘OK. I can see your torch now. You’re at the window.’

  Lund tucked her hands in her pockets, tried to think.

  ‘What window? I’m not using a torch.’

  The silence again.

  ‘Stay where you are, Lund. You’re not alone. I’m coming in.’

  She walked to the corner of the cold, dry room. Stood in the darkness. Turned her phone to vibrate, not ring.

  Someone was out there. She could hear their footsteps. Up and down. Searching.

  Something silver glittered in a nearby box. Lund looked. A heavy metal candlestick. She picked it up and walked back into the corridor, looking right, looking left in the waxy low security lights, walked on, seeing nothing but concrete and chipboard and dust.

  Jan Meyer ran back to Lund’s car, cursing Brix for taking his weapon. Hunted through the Nicotinell packets and the tissues in the glovebox until he found the Glock.

  Full magazine. Chewing gum on the grip.

  He put it on the roof of the car, plugged in his headset, called her again.

  ‘Lund, are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘Good. I’m on my way.’

  He climbed through the broken window, lowered himself gently onto the floor inside. Yellow chipboard doors. Concrete floor. Nothing.

  Hit the call button.

  ‘Lund? Can you hear me? Hello?’

  No answer.

  ‘Lund!’

  A noise. A reluctant mechanical growl. Cables moving, wheels turning.

  A voice in his ear.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Lund!’

  ‘Meyer. He’s got the lift and he’s coming down. I’m on the stairs. The lift!’

  It sounded like a rusty metal animal stirring from a long sleep. Meyer walked the concrete corridor. Found the place. Buttons on the wall. Folding metal door. Cables falling and rising beyond.

  Got out the Glock. Fell against the wall.

  ‘I’m by the lift,’ he said.

  He could hear footsteps on the stairs, rapid and anxious. Drowned out by the approaching squeals of the tin cage falling from above.

  A light. A clank. The lift stopped beside him.

  Gun out. Waiting for the folding doors to slide. To move.

  Nothing.

  Waited.

  Nothing.

  Barrel pointing, turned the corner, aimed it straight ahead.

  Nothing but an empty cage, a single bare bulb bright in the ceiling.

  Meyer looked around him, saw blank space.

  Confused.

  ‘The lift’s empty,’ he said.

  Footsteps racing down the stairs. Getting closer.

  ‘I’m coming up for you.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s here.’

  Her voice sounded shrill and scared in his head.

  ‘He’s gone down. He’s with you—’

  ‘I’m coming . . .’

  Walked for the stairs. Saw the chipboard door come flying out to meet him.

  Wood slammed into his face, hard metal bolt and padlock smashed against his waist.

  A shout. A cry. His?

  Meyer was on the floor, stunned and hurting.

  Angry, swearing too.

  Fingers reaching for the gun.

  The gun.

  The lost gun.

  He rolled, he groaned. Looked up. Saw the black Glock.

  Eyes widening.

  A roar as big as the world. A flash of flame.

  Jan Meyer bucked back against the impact, felt a bright sharp spear of pain grip his body.

  Frozen on the cold floor, limbs wouldn’t move. Saw the gun over him again.

  Said . . .

  Nothing.

  What words were there?

  He thought of his daughter, crying at home. Thought of his wife and their last few angry words.

  The second roar was bigger and behind it was nothing but blood and pain.

  One word in it. His, spoken in a voice that died the moment it was uttered.

  ‘Sarah . . .’ Meyer said, and then was gone.

  Lund flew down the stairs, stumbling, shrieking, thinking but not thinking, flailing at the dead space ahead with her arms.

  The floors lost their numbers. When she got to the last she kept running, round and round, as if there were more. As if the cold, dry staircase led somewhere for ever.

  But it didn’t. She was there. And just a few steps away was Meyer. A still shape on the ground. Noises. Someone running.

  Lund knelt by him.

  Breathing, gasping. Blood from his throat. Blood on his chest.

  ‘Jan. Jan. Look at me.’

  Hand to his face. Warm red gore.

  Chest, she thought.

  Ripped at the vest. Saw flesh. Saw the gaping wound.

  Got the phone with her bloody fingers.

  Called.

  Outside an engine gunning.

  Waited.

  Waited.

  Waited.

  An ambulance. Lights, sirens, noise.

  Inside now. Medics in green uniform working, screaming, hands flying, pushing her out of the way.

  A mask over his face.

  Cries.

  ‘More fluid.’

  Machines beep. Tyres squeal. The world turns.

  ‘Oxygen saturation low. Pulse high.’

  A line in his arm. Big eyes wide and scared.

  Lund sat on the bench, watching, beyond tears.

  ‘He’s going,’ someone said. ‘Paddles!’

  ‘Keep ventilating. More fluid.’

  Meyer rocking and twitching, wires through the blood.

  ‘OK. Charging.’

  A machine on the wall.

  ‘Clear!’

  Meyer leapt.

  ‘Again.’

  Meyer leapt.

  Hands on chest. Massaging.

  Words in her head.

  ‘Will he? Will he?’

  No one hears.

  One hour later. She sat on a bench in the corridor, close to the theatre. Still sticky from his blood. Still lost in what happened.

  Forks in the road. Choices made.

  If she’d let him go home to his sick kid with earache.

  If they’d gone in together, as every rulebook said.

  If . . .

  Brix marched towards her. Evening suit. White bow tie, fancy dress shirt.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ he said.

  Down the corridor men in green smocks talked in low voices behind masks.

  ‘Any news?’ Brix asked.

  A nurse ran into the theatre carrying a plastic sac of fluid.

  ‘They’re operating.’

  She watched the people come and go through the swinging doors. Wondered what they were thinking.

  ‘What were you doing in the warehouse?’

  ‘What?’

  He repeated the question.

  ‘We thought there might be some evidence in Mette Hauge’s belongings. Someone had the same idea.’

  Brix said, ‘Leave this to me. And this time you really will do what I say.’

  Meyer’s wife Hanne was coming towards them. Face immobile, bloodless. Blonde hair tied back. Walking in a daze.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘In the theatre,’ Lund said. ‘I’ll come with you to the office.’

  ‘No.’

  Brix glared at her.

  A tall man, dignified in his evening dress.

  This was what they did. Times like these belonged to them.

  He put an arm round Hanne Meyer’s shoulder, walked her down the corridor to the place next to the theatre.

  Lund stood there alone and watched them.

  Stood there and didn’t, couldn’t move.

  Eleven

  Wednesday, 19th November

  Seven thirty. A misty morning. Traffic gridlocked on the wet c
ity streets. Hartmann and Bremer locked in an ill-tempered live debate in a radio studio not far from the Christianborg Palace.

  Environmental policy and industrial regeneration. Hartmann pushing his green credentials.

  ‘We need to make the city attractive to eco-friendly companies—’

  ‘You can’t pander to industry for the sake of the environment,’ Bremer broke in.

  He looked tired and crotchety. Hartmann was following Rie Skovgaard’s advice. Playing up the charm. The new young face of Copenhagen politics. Mild, listening, reasonable, caring.

  ‘No one’s talking about pandering—’

  ‘But what about some common ground?’ the interviewer cut in. ‘One way or another the two of you will have to work with each other after the election. Can you do that now?’

  ‘I can work with anyone,’ Bremer declared. ‘The issue is Hartmann’s credibility.’

  ‘The needle’s stuck, Poul. We’re here to talk about the environment.’

  ‘No, no, no. Everything hangs around the murder case. The unanswered questions . . .’

  Hartmann smiled at the woman chairing the interview.

  ‘We’ve been through this a million times. I’ve been cleared. My office has been cleared. The police themselves have said this—’

  ‘Credibility. It goes to the heart of the matter,’ Bremer insisted. ‘How can we work with a man about whom we all have so many doubts?’

  Hartmann shrugged, eyes on the interviewer.

  ‘I’m saddened you’re using this tragic case for your own political capital gain. Now we have a good police officer critically ill in hospital. This is surely not the time—’

  ‘You brought that poor man into it. Not me. From what I hear he wasn’t your biggest fan . . .’

  The clock on the wall. Second hand moving. Hartmann timed his interjection.

  ‘We will work with anyone who shows good faith and commitment to a common cause. That rules out the Lord Mayor and his party. I take no pleasure saying this but I’m sure listeners who’ve heard this strange outburst will understand.’

  ‘No . . .!’

  ‘Thank you,’ the interviewer said. ‘That’s all we have time for. And now . . .’

  The news came on. Poul Bremer was up, an artificial smile, handshakes all round. Then he left.

  Rie Skovgaard looked happy.

  Hartmann listened to the news. Meyer was still unconscious in intensive care after surgery.

  Someone was rapping on the glass window of the studio. Erik Salin.

  He blocked the route to the exit. Poul Bremer must have passed him. There was no other way out.

  Hartmann went out, kept walking.

  ‘Got a minute, Troels?’ Salin said, catching up.

  ‘You had more than that yesterday.’

  He headed for the exit, another meeting, another interview.

  ‘I’ve been asking about the envelope your security tape was in. It’s the same type that your office uses.’

  Hartmann stopped, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I took one when I was there yesterday.’

  ‘Really, Erik? Will an envelope get you the Pulitzer Prize?’

  Salin beamed.

  ‘You’re good at this. I’ve got to hand it to you.’

  Hartmann walked off to the toilet.

  ‘Hey,’ Salin said. ‘Don’t mind if I come, do you? Anything for a story, huh?’

  ‘Stop wasting your time.’

  He followed Hartmann, watched him at the wall.

  ‘I talked to the people in your campaign office. They’ve been so busy they had to rent rooms for meetings.’

  Hartmann took a leak, stared at the white tiles.

  ‘This is so interesting.’

  ‘Well, I think it is actually. Why waste money renting rooms when you have an empty flat? In these straitened times?’

  Hartmann went to the sinks, washed his hands, looked at his face in the mirror.

  ‘Your obsession with small details is deeply impressive.’

  ‘The devil’s in the details, they say. And what a devil. Takes your tape. Keeps it for a while even though it . . .’

  He paused, waited for Hartmann to turn and briefly look at him.

  ‘Even though it appears to put you in the clear. Then they stuff it into one of your envelopes and give it to the police. And for more than a week someone makes sure no one – not a soul – goes in the flat where Nanna was just before she died. Would have been even longer probably if the police hadn’t got there first.’

  Salin grinned at Hartmann’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You’re a smart man, Troels. You can see something here stinks. It’s on your shoes. Not Poul Bremer’s.’

  Hartmann walked back up the stairs. Rie Skovgaard was waiting.

  ‘So even if you didn’t do it,’ Salin said, keeping up with him. ‘Someone close to you thought you did. Believed it so much they wanted to cover for you. If your own people don’t trust you, if they think you’re capable of murder, why the hell should . . .?’

  Hartmann broke, had him by the collar of his blue winter coat, hard up against the glass wall of the radio station, Skovgaard bleating at his back.

  ‘Print one word of that you little worm and I’ll make your life a misery.’

  He was bigger than Salin. Hadn’t punched out anyone since he was a student. But it felt right now.

  ‘Troels!’ Skovgaard yapped behind him, tugging at his arm.

  ‘Come on,’ Salin said, staring at the balled fist, grinning into Hartmann’s face. ‘Do it. You’ve got your political adviser balling the opposition to get you secret papers. You’ve got someone close to you who thinks you raped and murdered a teenager. How’s Mr Clean feeling today? Starting to realize it’s a long way to fall?’

  She got Hartmann’s arm before he could strike. Held on to it with all her frail weight.

  Hands up, beaming as if he’d won the game, Erik Salin said, ‘They’re just questions, Troels. That’s all. You’re a politician. You’re supposed to deal with them.’

  Hartmann threw some more abuse at him and stormed off towards the door.

  Skovgaard stayed. Confronted the reporter, mad as hell.

  ‘Who the hell put you up to this? As if I can’t guess.’

  ‘The public’s got a right to know.’

  ‘They’ve got the right to know the truth. Don’t let one word of this drivel get into the paper, Erik. Or you’ll be back to taking pictures through bedroom curtains.’

  Salin tut-tutted.

  ‘Ooh. That hurt.’

  ‘I know where you came from, you bloodsucking creep.’

  ‘Same here.’ The smirk. ‘Your media relations suck, Rie. Surprising really. Phillip Bressau’s a slick guy. I thought he might have . . . you know, drilled things into you a bit better.’

  Lost for words, glad Hartmann was gone, Skovgaard stood her ground in front of Erik Salin, shaking with fury.

  ‘Or did I get that wrong too?’ he asked.

  Lund slept in the hospital. At eight the following morning she got some food then took a tray back to the ward. Hanne Meyer sat where she had the night before. She looked ten years older.

  ‘I got something to eat,’ Lund said. ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘They played with magic markers last night.’

  Lund looked at Hanne’s hands. They were covered with childish drawing in blue and red ink.

  Red hands. Bloody fingers. The images wouldn’t go away.

  ‘They drew some pictures to cheer up their sister. She’s got an ear infection.’

  Her voice was high and cracked. One step from a sob.

  ‘Jan told me. How old is Marie?’

  ‘Neel’s the youngest. Marie’s the middle one.’

  ‘So . . .’

  Lund tried to remember the names. She’d heard them often enough.

  ‘Ellie’s the oldest?’

  ‘Ella. She’s ten.’

  Lund wondered about Mark. What he was doi
ng. What he thought of her.

  ‘Tell me what happened?’

  ‘He waited in the car while I went in. And then . . .’

  She wasn’t so sure herself. The night, the blood . . . the guilt. Her head wasn’t right.

  ‘He realized there was someone inside.’

  Hanne Meyer started to dab at her eyes with a screwed-up tissue. Lund thought about putting an arm round her shoulders. But didn’t.

  A surgeon came through the door. Green cotton, mob cap, mask down.

  Meyer’s wife was up in an instant.

  The doctor was giving orders to a nurse.

  He had an X-ray. Put it on a light screen by the door.

  They came and looked.

  ‘The operation went well but he lost a lot of blood. Look here . . .’

  Bones and tissue, tears and dark lines.

  ‘The first bullet went right through him. The second was going for his heart. But he’s got this cigarette lighter . . .?’

  Metal. Shiny. Lund hated that Zippo.

  ‘The bullet hit that. Changed direction. Penetrated his left lung. There’s other damage . . .’

  The wife pointed at the film. Bones and flesh and tears.

  ‘Is he going to live?’

  He looked at the X-ray. Lund closed her eyes.

  ‘He should live. He’s not regained consciousness yet. We’ll have to look at what else has gone on there. It’s not over . . .’

  Hanne Meyer was hugging him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Lund watched, felt awkward. Like an intruder.

  The surgeon pulled something out of his pocket. The silver lighter. Dented. Mangled.

  ‘This is for you. Tell him if he starts smoking after all the trouble we’ve been to he’ll have me to deal with next time.’

  Crying, laughing at the same time, she took it.

  ‘You can see him now.’

  Hanne Meyer half-ran into the room.

  Lund followed the surgeon down the corridor.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘I told you. He’s been unconscious ever since he came in.’

  ‘When can I talk to him?’

  ‘When he wakes up.’

  She folded her arms.

  There was a look in his face she recognized, but rarely saw in hospitals.

  Evasion.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lund asked.

  ‘He’s suffered some serious injuries. We still don’t know how bad. I want to hope. We all do.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Come back tonight. Then we’ll see.’

  The car felt odd without him. The office too.