by David Hewson
Brix was briefing a meeting next door. She sat alone for a minute then walked in and listened.
‘We’re lucky Meyer’s still alive,’ Brix said. ‘I want Leon Frevert. Assume he’s armed and dangerous. We don’t let this one go. We’ve got our own reasons now. Any questions?’
None.
‘Good. Let’s get to it.’
He watched them leave.
‘Whoever was in that building knew about Mette’s things,’ Lund said when they were alone. ‘He read about us dragging the canals.’
Dark, open-necked shirt. She couldn’t quite picture him in evening dress any more. Brix was sending out a message. In charge, wanting results.
‘I’ve put a new team leader on the case.’
‘Why?’
‘Go home. Stay there. We’ll need to interview you.’
‘Brix. I know more—’
‘You can’t possibly lead this investigation now.’
‘Why not?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you serious? You went in that building on your own. Meyer was shot with your weapon.’
‘I didn’t have the gun with me, for God’s sake. Meyer must have taken it out of the car.’
He winced.
‘Do I have to hear this? You can tell that to the investigations board.’
‘We have to find Leon Frevert!’
Silence. That hard, merciless stare again.
‘We’ll leave that to the Germans now. Frevert’s car was found near the ferry port. We think he sailed to Hamburg last night.’
‘Why?’ she asked straight off.
Brix walked out of the room. Lund followed.
‘He didn’t go to Germany. He doesn’t have his passport. We found it in his flat. He doesn’t have any money. Frevert had changed just about everything he had into Vietnamese currency. If he was going to flee anywhere—’
‘Well that’s what he’s done.’
‘Whoever shot Meyer isn’t stupid!’
‘He got the money before he saw the newspaper. Isn’t it obvious?’
He made for his office. She stood in the door, blocking the way.
‘No. It’s not.’
Brix folded his arms.
‘Give me two hours,’ she begged. ‘I just want to make some calls. If I’ve got nothing I’ll do whatever you tell me.’
‘That would be a first.’
Svendsen was marching down the corridor. He had a sheet of paper in his hand.
‘Leon Frevert was seen at Høje Taastrup Station two hours ago. We’ve got CCTV. It’s him. A uniform guy went after him but he ran off.’
A suburb on the western edge of the city. Easy access to motorways. Frevert could get anywhere from there.
‘Do we have any patrol cars in the area?’ Lund asked.
‘I’ll check.’
‘Lund—’ Brix began.
‘He’s on foot,’ she said to Svendsen. ‘He’ll need a vehicle. Contact the banks. He doesn’t have any money. Watch the brother.’
‘Lund!’ Brix shouted.
She looked at him. Svendsen looked at him.
‘Keep me posted,’ he said.
Vagn Skærbæk arrived at the garage just after eight. His red overalls were in a bag. The black fisherman’s hat he kept.
Got out of the removals van, gave Theis Birk Larsen the key to it.
‘The keys to the garage, the gate and the flat are in the bag.’
He looked miserable and weary.
Birk Larsen nodded. Old jeans. Black sweatshirt. Silver chain. Black windcheater.
‘Right,’ he said.
Skærbæk went back to the van, took out another bag. Bright yellow. The name of the toy store on the side.
‘This is for the boys,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Do whatever you want with it.’
‘Vagn,’ Birk Larsen said as he walked off towards the gate. ‘Vagn!’
Skærbæk stopped, hands in pockets. Stopped and looked.
‘Let’s go upstairs and sort this out, can we?’
‘What’s there to sort?’
‘Lots.’ He took Skærbæk’s arm. ‘Come on.’
In the kitchen, light streaming through the plants at the window. They’d picked up since Pernille watered them. The place looked almost normal.
She sat next to Birk Larsen, served coffee and bread and cheese.
Skærbæk smoked, didn’t eat.
‘Leon told us some things about you,’ Pernille said. ‘They sounded strange.’
He sucked on the cigarette.
‘We should have talked to you first, I know. But . . .’
Her eyes were glistening again.
‘We’ve all been crazy.’
‘You can say that again.’
She looked at him.
‘But they still sound strange. To me . . .’
No answer.
Birk Larsen said, ‘Leon told us you cancelled a big customer that Saturday.’
Skærbæk laughed.
‘Oh yeah. That guy. He wanted to pay cash. I only do that when you ask for it, Theis. Not on my own . . .’
They watched him.
‘So I said we could either put it through the books or he does it himself. Maybe I was wrong . . .’
‘The police said you lied about your mother,’ Pernille told him.
‘Yeah. They said that to me too. My uncle always told me she drank herself to death. Then last year he told me the truth. God knows why he made that one up. But what . . .’
The cigarette got stubbed out in the saucer.
‘What’s this got to do with anybody?’
Amidst the smoke, the anxiety, the embarrassment, she said, ‘Nothing.’
‘Those bastards have had us jumping through hoops from the beginning.’ Birk Larsen shook his grizzled head. ‘You just bore the brunt of it this time round.’
He looked across the table.
‘We’re really sorry, Vagn.’
‘We are,’ Pernille added softly.
Skærbæk sat unsmiling, playing with the packet of cigarettes.
‘What did you tell the boys?’
‘Nothing,’ Birk Larsen said.
‘Jesus.’ He took off the black woollen hat, began kneading it in his fingers. ‘What a fuck-up this is. I’m the one who should apologize. I brought that bastard Leon in here. The agency . . .’
Birk Larsen coughed, looked at his hands.
‘Did they tell you where he is?’ Skærbæk asked.
‘No. I don’t want to think about it. We’re going to finish the house. Get out of this flat. Right?’
Pernille said, ‘We’re going over there today with the boys. Anton doesn’t like the idea of moving. So we want to make it as easy as possible.’
The phone rang. She went to answer it. The bag with Skærbæk’s red overalls sat in the middle of the table.
He put a hand on it.
‘Aren’t we supposed to be on a job in fifteen minutes?’ Vagn Skærbæk asked.
‘Yeah,’ Birk Larsen said with the slightest of smiles.
Pernille came back.
‘It’s the lawyer. The police want to come round and check the flat. They want to see if Leon’s been in here.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Birk Larsen’s huge fist thumped the table, the photos, the faces there. ‘I’m sick of having these people on our backs. Don’t let them in. Vagn!’
Skærbæk gulped at his coffee, picked up the bag. Followed him down the stairs.
Frevert was on the move, tracking back into the city. They had a report of him trying to use a cash machine in Toftegaards Plads in Valby.
‘We were there two minutes later,’ Svendsen told the team in the briefing room. ‘Gone . . .’
‘Keep an eye on the parks,’ Lund ordered. ‘Look out for hostels. Look out for—’
The phone on the desk rang. She picked it up. Switchboard with someone asking for her by name.
‘Is that Lund?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Leon Frevert.’
Lund stopped, looked round at the officers in the room, silently gestured with her hand, mouthed the word, ‘Trace.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Never mind that. I just heard all this bullshit on the radio.’
Svendsen ran to the closest laptop, started hammering at the keys, grabbing for a headset.
‘I didn’t kill that girl. Are you serious?’
‘We need to talk to you, Leon.’
‘You’re talking to me now. I didn’t kill her. Understand?’
‘OK. Let’s meet somewhere.’
‘I didn’t shoot anyone either.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘First time for everything they say.’ He was mad. ‘I told you I let her out of the cab that night. I told you about the station.’
‘You didn’t tell us you knew her, Leon.’
Svendsen was getting somewhere. Signalling with his hands.
‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’
‘No. So tell me. Where are you? I’ll come and get you. Just me. We can talk. All we want’s the truth.’
Silence. Then a click.
‘Leon? Hello?’
Svendsen hit the keys again, tore off the headset.
‘He’s on Roskildevej. Couple of kilometres out of the city. Don’t ask for any more. He just turned off the phone.’
Lund sat down.
‘Why did he talk for so long?’ she asked.
‘He doesn’t know we were tracking him,’ Svendsen said.
‘Then why did he turn off his phone?’
Svendsen scowled at her.
‘What is it now?’
‘Roskildevej . . .’ Svendsen began.
‘Roskildevej’s three kilometres long, we don’t have a clue where he is or what kind of car he’s driving. Get me the brother.’
‘OK! OK!’
Svendsen stormed out of the room, shaking his head.
Lund stayed at the desk. Looked at the photos on the walls. Nanna and Mette Hauge.
Leon Frevert. A thin grey solitary man.
The scarlet van was full of the boys’ things. Model aeroplanes, plastic dinosaurs. Mobiles and posters for the walls. The job before ran late. The road was blocked by a broken-down car into Humleby. Vagn Skærbæk was yelling at the driver in front to clear the road when Birk Larsen’s phone went.
Looked at the number. Pernille.
‘Where’s that dinosaur shop?’ he said straight away. ‘We haven’t got enough stuff for Anton’s room. We wanted to put a few surprises in there.’
‘You can’t take the boys to the house, Theis.’
‘Why not?’
‘The police are searching it.’
‘What?’
‘They’re looking everywhere Leon’s been working.’
‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘That’s our house.’
‘Theis—’
He cut the call.
‘Problems?’ Skærbæk asked.
The car ahead was moving.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’
It took another ten minutes to get there. Three plain-clothes detectives he’d never seen before were in the downstairs living room, going through the bags of belongings, emptying black plastic sacks of building material onto the floor.
Birk Larsen marched in, stood, hands in pockets, face like thunder.
The cops looked at him.
‘You can’t be in here.’ A flash of the ID. ‘We’re working.’
‘This is my house.’
‘Your wife gave us the key.’
Birk Larsen jerked a thumb at the door, looked at all three of them, said, ‘Out.’
‘We have to search the place,’ one cop said.
‘Get out!’ Skærbæk yelled.
The cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. He was young and slight. They all were.
‘We’ve got a warrant.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about your warrant.’
Two steps forward. The three of them retreated.
‘You have to leave,’ a cop said gingerly.
‘You found Leon yet?’ Skærbæk shouted. ‘You found anything? It’s a house, you bastards! You have no respect. No decency . . .’
Another cop rushed up from the basement.
‘There’s no one here.’
‘Fine,’ the young cop said. ‘We’ll come back later.’
Birk Larsen bunched his fist at the man’s face.
‘Don’t come near us again until you’ve talked to the lawyer. Understood?’
They watched the cops go. Then Skærbæk ran downstairs, into the basement. Looked around. Came back up.
‘They didn’t make too much mess, Theis.’
Birk Larsen had barely moved. Frozen with fury, with a sense of his own helplessness.
‘We can get the boys’ room ready for them,’ Skærbæk added. ‘I took out a lot of the crap from the place myself anyway. All that shit in the basement.’
‘What shit?’
‘The blinds. The broken bathroom stuff.’ Skærbæk stuck his hands in his pockets, looked at him. ‘That stinking old mattress. You don’t need the kids to see all that crap.’
Another TV studio. Another round with Poul Bremer.
Hartmann was getting ready in his office, Morten Weber helping him pick the right clothes.
Not young this time. Sober grey suit, immaculate white shirt. Dark tie.
Hartmann looked at himself in the full-length mirror in the office wardrobe. Looked at Weber’s world-weary face.
‘Can we still win on Tuesday, Morten?’
‘Miracles happen. Rumour has it anyway.’
‘How?’
Weber scowled at the tie, told him to wear something brighter.
‘What does Rie think?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘If Bremer stumbles the votes come to you. Sometimes elections aren’t so much won. They’re lost. This is a two-horse race now. The minority parties are squabbling among themselves as usual. No one’s going to turn to them. It’s going to go to the wire, that’s for sure. So . . .’
Nothing more.
‘So what?’
‘So keep your head, play everything straight, and let’s pray the iceberg hits him this time, not us.’ Weber waited. ‘I thought you might at least look a little impressed by my uncharacteristically upbeat assessment of our chances.’
Hartmann laughed.
‘I am. Truly, Morten. That bastard Salin’s still on my back about the damned surveillance tape.’
Weber smiled. Awkwardly.
‘Someone took it from security,’ Hartmann said. ‘Someone sent it. Someone kept people out of Store Kongensgade. Or at least tried to. Ask Lund.’
Weber watched him put on the new tie. Nodded.
‘Why don’t we just let some things ride?’
‘Because we daren’t. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I looked at the logs. The only package that went out of here that day was sent by Rie. It doesn’t say where. I’m sure it was just routine.’
The shirt was brand new. The label was still on a button. Weber got a pair of nail scissors, cut the cotton thread and took it away.
Looked at Hartmann’s hands. Gave him the scissors.
‘You could use those, Troels. People look at everything these days.’
‘Rie sent a package? And she handled the bookings for the flat.’
‘Oh forget it, will you? There were no bookings.’
‘We used other places instead. That was Rie too, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. We’ve better things to think about.’ Morten Weber brightened. ‘Still . . . I do have good news.’
‘What?’
‘Bremer just fired Phillip Bressau.’ Weber shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea why. He’s one of the best men on his team. I wouldn’t want to lose someone like that six days before an election.’
>
Hartmann couldn’t think straight.
‘You look good, Troels,’ Weber said. ‘Smile at the camera, keep your temper. Go wipe the floor with that old bastard.’
Outside in the long corridor, by the brown-tiled steps. The phone rang.
‘Troels! You asked me to call.’
It was Salin.
‘I talked to the lawyers, Erik. We’ll sue you personally if you print any of those lies. And the paper.’
Laughter down the line.
‘I’m actually trying to help. Don’t you get that?’
‘It seems to have escaped me somehow.’
‘You’re no idiot. You know someone’s been working to cover things up. Maybe they did it without your knowledge. I don’t know. But they did it.’
‘Enough. No more calls. No more questions. No more communication. Understood?’
He stopped at the head of the broad staircase, beneath the iron lamps, by the paintings of a naval battle covering most of the long, high wall.
Rie Skovgaard was at the foot of the steps in her coat, ready to leave. So was Phillip Bressau. The two of them stood on the blue carpet with the emblem of Copenhagen, three towers set above waves.
They were arguing. Furiously. As he watched Bressau’s hand came out and grabbed her collar, then her red scarf. She stepped back, yelling abuse into his face.
Angrier than Hartmann had ever seen her.
‘Hartmann?’ Salin said in his ear. ‘Are you still there?’
Skovgaard stormed off. Bressau stayed there, hurling insults as she headed for the security office exit. Then he picked up his briefcase. Looked around.
Looked up the long staircase, saw Hartmann.
Scowled, walked off in the opposite direction, towards the main doors.
‘You heard,’ Hartmann said and cut the call.
Martin Frevert was in Lund’s office, wilting under her questions.
‘We’ve got all the details. You rented a car on the Internet. It was picked up at a petrol station near Valby.’
‘So what? It was for my company.’
‘Where’s your brother?’
‘I told you already. I don’t know.’
Papers on the desk. She pushed them over.
‘You withdrew thirty-two thousand kroner from the bank. Was that for your company as well? I don’t have time for this. I can walk you straight to a cell as an accessory to murder if you like. Save us all some time.’
Silence.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Enough. I’m taking you in.’
‘I didn’t give him the money!’
