The Killing - 01 - The Killing
Page 66
He took an envelope out of his jacket. Threw it in front of her.
‘Good. Where are you meeting him?’
‘Listen. Leon’s a bit weird. But he didn’t kill that girl. He couldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘You’ve no idea how often I hear that. Where are you meeting him?’
Silence.
‘My partner was shot last night,’ Lund said. ‘If you want to help your brother you should make sure I find him before . . .’ Her finger went to the window. ‘. . . anyone out there.’
‘It’s not you he’s scared of.’
‘Who is it then?’
‘I don’t know. Leon’s mixed up in something. He’s not the brightest guy. If he sees an opportunity—’
‘What’s he mixed up in?’
‘I think there was some smuggling going on. When I talked to him I thought he was scared about that.’
‘Not about us?’
‘No.’ He said that emphatically. ‘Leon said he tried to help you. But you kept doing a shit job.’
‘Where are you meeting him? And when?’
‘He’s my brother. I don’t want him hurt.’
‘Me neither. Where is he?’
Martin Frevert stared at the envelope on the table.
Lund looked at her watch.
The house in Humleby was in darkness. It looked too big, too cold, too dusty and bare for a seven-year-old with an active imagination.
Anton walked through the door, stepped carefully over the sheets.
Listening.
They were talking about all the things that weren’t there. Toys and furniture. Beds and cookers, toilets and fridges.
Grown-up things.
It was a grey cold place and he hated it.
‘This house sucks,’ Anton said.
His father’s face went red and angry, the way it often did.
‘Is that so?’
‘I don’t want to live here.’
‘Well, you’re going to.’
The boy walked to the stairs, found a light switch, looked down.
A basement.
That was new.
A voice from behind.
‘Leave him alone, Theis.’
He went down the steps. Looked around.
His mother cried, ‘Emil! Come and look at your bedroom. It’s nice.’
Footsteps on the wooden boards above.
Three floors and a cellar. One and a garage was enough in his real home.
Dim light from a street lamp fell through a couple of small blue-tinted windows. Enough to see the place was full of junk and dust. Rats too probably. Other things that lurked in the shadows.
A barbecue. He ran his finger along the lid. Looked at the mark it left in the dust. A football, white with black spots, tucked inside a box.
Anton took it out, booted it. Watched it bounce off the bare grey walls.
Aimed it at the tools, kicked it again from side to side.
A loud metallic clatter.
His eyes went up to the ceiling. He could see the look on his father’s angry face already.
Don’t touch. Don’t mess. Don’t fiddle. Don’t interfere.
Don’t do anything because it’s bound to be wrong.
He went to get the ball, stepping softly so no one could hear.
The sound had come from a piece of rusty tin that had fallen off the wall. The blue light from the little window fell straight on it. Pipes and stopcocks and the bottom of a piece of equipment. A boiler maybe.
Something else. Small, made out of card. Maroon with a gold crest.
He picked it up, opened the pages.
Nanna smiling.
Shook a little when he saw the blood, dried, like a red puddle in the corner.
Thought of his father just above him. What he’d say. What, in his fury, he might do.
Stared at the photo.
Nanna smiling.
‘Anton!’
The deep voice was loud. On the edge of angry.
‘We’re going for pizza. Are you hungry or not?’
Don’t mess. Don’t look. Don’t do anything.
It was Nanna’s passport. He knew what they looked like because once, not long ago, she’d shown him the thing that now sat grubby and bloodstained in his trembling fingers. Made him swear it was a secret, would tell no one, not even blabbermouth Emil.
‘Anton!’
On the very edge of angry.
He placed the passport beneath the old pipes, carefully picked up the tin door and pushed it back where it was, all without making a sound.
Then he walked upstairs, looked at his father stamping his feet, getting mad.
‘This house sucks,’ Anton said again.
Martin Frevert arranged to meet his brother on a Russian coaster moored by one of the distant piers in the sprawling commercial port area to the north of the city.
Lund had Svendsen drive her there, issuing orders all the way. Don’t approach until she’s arrived. Have boats in the water close by.
The pier was in darkness and deserted. One vessel at the end of the jetty. Old, red, decrepit. The name Alexa on the bows.
Three unmarked cars there when she arrived. No lights. Nothing to draw attention.
The SWAT team leader, in black with a sub-machine gun tucked beneath his arm, met her.
‘We’ve got the rental car,’ he said. ‘It’s behind one of the containers. Nothing in it. We’ve seen a light on board. He must still be there.’
Lund looked round.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I don’t want this to turn into a shooting match. I need to talk to this man.’
With all the gear the man looked ready for war.
‘I mean that,’ Lund said.
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I’m going in alone to try and speak to him.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. If he tries to run take him into custody. He can’t get far from here.’
She looked around. Dark and silent. The SWAT guy sounded sensible. They had this under control.
Lund stepped out, started walking towards the metal staircase to the coaster.
Lights behind. A car coming straight towards her.
Closer.
Closer still.
She spun on her heels. The car kept coming. Lund leapt in front, listened in fury to the squeal of brakes. Banged on the bonnet, yelling, ‘Hey! Hey!’
The SWAT man was with her, some of his men too.
Lund walked round to the driver’s door.
‘Police,’ she started to say.
A tall man in a long raincoat got out of the back, waving ID.
He thrust the card in her face.
‘We’re from the prosecutor’s office.’
‘I don’t give a damn. This is a live operation. Turn off those headlights now.’
‘Lund?’
‘That’s me.’
‘We’re launching an investigation—’
‘I’m so impressed. We’re taking in a murder suspect so get in your car and get going. I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning.’
Another one joined him. Shorter, heavier, bearded, full of his own importance.
She vaguely recognized this one. Bülow. Once a cop. Now with the prosecutor’s people.
‘No you won’t, Lund,’ he said, holding the door open. ‘You’ll come with us now.’
‘You’ve got my report.’
‘In the car—’
‘Speak to Meyer,’ she said without thinking.
Bülow came and stood in front of her. Cold eyes, rimless glasses.
‘That would be difficult.’
‘I talked to the surgeon. He should be coming round by now. Listen . . .’ She pointed back to the coaster. ‘We’ve got the prime suspect for the Nanna Birk Larsen murder cornered in there. Will you kindly fuck off out of here?’
‘Assign command to someone else. You—’
‘Call Brix!’ she bellowed.
‘Talk to him yourself.’
‘Brix?’
A long silence.
‘What’s going on?’ Lund demanded.
‘Meyer went back into surgery forty-five minutes ago. It wasn’t as simple as they thought.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s in a coma. On life support. His family’s here. There are . . .’
She looked at the coaster, the black night.
‘Decisions to be made.’
Lund remembered now. They used Bülow to prosecute police officers.
She wondered what they’d do. Take her arms. Push her head into the back like anyone else.
‘You’ve got to go with them.’
‘Meyer—’
‘Meyer’s no use to you now. I’m sorry. It’s . . .’ She thought she heard his voice breaking. ‘It’s not good. None of this.’
Her fingers went loose. The phone tumbled from her hand, clattered on the damp cobblestones of the pier.
‘Get in the car, Lund,’ someone said.
Bülow marched round the room asking the questions. The other one made notes.
‘Let’s hear this again. You were in the warehouse on the phone. You heard a shot and then another.’
They were in her office. Meyer’s office. The toy patrol car sat on the desk. The basketball net was still on the wall.
‘You find Meyer wounded on the ground floor.’
Lund was crying very slowly, wiping her eyes with the rough sleeve of the black and white woollen jumper. Thinking of Meyer, the sad wife Hanne. Forks in the road.
‘How is he?’
Cold eyes. Rimless glasses. They never left her.
‘The surgeon doesn’t expect him to regain consciousness. Which means all we have is you. Your side of the story, Lund. Nothing else.’
The tall man said, ‘We just want some answers. Then you’re free to go.’
The heavy one scowled at him, sat down, scowled at her.
‘It was your idea to go out there? Did you tell Brix?’
‘No. He was off duty. There was no reason.’
She looked at them.
‘The doctor seemed confident.’
Or she thought he did. Maybe . . .
Bülow ignored the question, began again.
‘You left your gun in the glove compartment? Why wasn’t it locked?’
‘Meyer was in the car.’
‘How did he know it was there?’
‘Because we worked together.’
‘So he took your pistol. And someone you didn’t see took it from him. Shot him.’
Lund couldn’t lose the memory of him, bleeding, eyes wide open and terrified, leaping with the shocks in the ambulance.
‘You didn’t see him?’
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘I heard footsteps. When I got to the ground floor there was a car driving off outside.’
‘Did Meyer see him?’
‘I don’t know. How would I? Maybe.’
‘But you’re sure it was Frevert?’
She closed her eyes, squeezed the lids tight shut. Tried to stop the tears.
‘I didn’t see him, Bülow. Who else could it be?’
‘Don’t get smart. If you didn’t see anyone you don’t know whether Meyer took your gun. Or the man who shot him.’
Lund looked at him. None of this touched Bülow. He was distant from her, from Meyer. How it was supposed to be. How she was meant to feel about Nanna Birk Larsen but couldn’t.
‘Why don’t you ask Leon Frevert? I’d like to leave now.’
Brix was outside the glass, on the phone, gesturing to the pair from the prosecutor’s office.
Bülow went out and talked to him.
The tall one glanced at the door, took the opportunity.
‘I know it’s hard to talk about this. But we’ve got a job to do. You appreciate that.’
‘I’m done here. You know where to get me.’
She stood up, got her bag, found herself crying again. Bülow was coming through the door.
‘So you’re sticking to your statement, Lund?’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Of course I’m sticking to it. I told you the truth.’
‘Right. Get your coat. We’re leaving.’
They drove back to the pier. Dismal sheets of black gusting rain. Twice as many police vehicles as before. Floodlights. Don’t Cross tapes. Forensic officers.
Up the gangway. The coaster looked so old it barely seemed seaworthy. Over the wooden deck. The ship smelled of spilled fuel and recent paint.
‘The coastguard have had this vessel under surveillance for eighteen months,’ Bülow said as they walked inside. ‘People smuggling. Drugs. The crew cut loose somewhere. We’re looking for them.’
‘What about their contacts here?’
‘All in good time.’
He opened a heavy metal door, smiled at her. She couldn’t work out why he’d suddenly turned friendly.
‘It looks like you were right about Leon Frevert.’
There were officers in what looked like a map room, poring over charts.
‘They were going to sail for St Petersburg tomorrow. The crew were on shore getting shit-faced for the occasion. These people . . .’
‘So . . .?’
They walked through another door, down stairs. Open this time. An old computer. A fire extinguisher from the ark. Radios. Signs in Russian.
The bright sparks of camera flashes.
They were two floors below the deck, next to a hatch that opened to black sky. From the opening something dangled.
Feet down. Body swaying gently with the movement of the ship.
Lund walked round, thinking, looking.
Grey suit, grey face. Leon Frevert wasn’t much changed in death, even with a noose round his skinny neck.
The rope ran from the floor above. Bright blue. Nautical. Two officers were struggling to pull the body into the side for recovery.
‘Maybe he thought the crew weren’t coming,’ Bülow said. ‘Too many things here he didn’t want to face.’
He had a piece of paper in a plastic evidence bag.
‘This is the closest we’ll get to a confession.’
She took it. One word in a childish scrawl, all capital letters.
UNDSKYLD.
‘Sorry,’ Lund said.
She stared at Bülow.
‘Sorry? Is that it?’
‘What do you want? Chapter and verse?’
‘More than this . . .’
‘He had a receipt in his pocket.’
Another plastic bag.
‘Leon Frevert filled up his car about thirty kilometres from the warehouse where Meyer was shot. Twelve minutes before you called for an ambulance.’
She peered at the piece of paper.
‘No one drives that fast, Lund.’
‘The receipt could be wrong.’
‘We’ve got him on video there. With the car.’
Too many ideas, too many possibilities crowding her head.
‘This can’t be right.’
She looked at the body swinging above them. They’d got hold of it. Gripped Frevert by his jacket, started pulling him in.
‘I’m asking you for the last time,’ Bülow said. ‘Do you want to revise your statement?’
Pernille was making bread, happy working in the kitchen while Birk Larsen stomped around the room, making plans.
‘If everything goes OK we could move in next weekend. I need to work on the heating . . .’
She rolled the soft dough.
‘Anton’s really upset.’
‘That’s new,’ Birk Larsen grumbled. ‘He’ll come round.’
‘Getting a dog’s a good idea.’
‘I thought that was for Emil?’
‘It’s a dog, Theis. They’ll both love him. Anton can have it as a birthday present.’
He winked.
‘Well in that case, maybe you’d better lower your
voice.’
‘They’re down in the garage, playing. They can’t hear.’
He came and stood in front of her. Picked a chunk of raw dough from her fingers. Put it in his mouth.
She peered into his narrow eyes. Looked into his badly shaven face. Theis was still a boy in some ways. Rough and unfinished. In need of something. Her usually.
Pernille came and hugged him, kissed his bristly cheek, whispered, ‘We’ll never be the way we were. Will we? Not again?’
He touched her chestnut hair with his right hand, stealing some more of the dough with his left.
‘We’ll be who we were. I promise.’
She held him tightly, face against his broad chest, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, feeling the life in him, the strength.
Downstairs Vagn Skærbæk was playing with the latest toy. A black battery car, radio-controlled. It ran around the garage between packing cases and trucks.
Anton had the control. Skærbæk was the target.
Backwards and forwards it leapt across the concrete. He jumped and squealed trying to get out of the way.
Finally it bounced against his white trainers.
‘Got me!’ Skærbæk cried. ‘Dead!’
Stood there, eyes wide open, tongue lolling from his mouth.
Anton didn’t laugh.
‘It’s cool, huh?’ Skærbæk said. ‘You can race it round the yard at the new house.’
‘Can I take it upstairs, Uncle Vagn?’
Skærbæk picked the thing off the floor and held it out for him.
‘It’s yours. You can do with it what you like.’
Anton snatched for it. The man above him in the red suit jerked it from his fingers.
‘When you get to the new house.’ He crouched down, looked the boy in the eyes. ‘Everyone gets nervous about something new.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah. If you don’t know what’s going to happen. But it’s fun to change. You should . . .’
‘There’s something in the basement.’
Silence.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nanna’s passport’s there. With blood on it.’ Anton looked scared. ‘Don’t tell Dad. I’ll get into trouble.’
Skærbæk laughed, shook his head.
‘What makes you say things like that?’
The boy snatched for the car again. Skærbæk kept it from him.
‘Anton . . . it’s because you’re afraid of moving. You don’t need to be afraid. You should always tell the truth. Not lies.’
The boy folded his arms.
‘I’m not lying. I saw it in the basement.’