The Killing - 01 - The Killing

by David Hewson

  She hesitated. He seemed fragile. Upset by her presence.

  ‘They let him out at seven the next morning. We’ve got the logs. Vagn called the agency that employed him not long after. Birk Larsen used them too. So we never thought much of it. The agency gave him Lynge’s mobile. Vagn talked to him. He was trying to avoid trouble. For Nanna’s sake—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Vagn shot you. Vagn killed Leon Frevert. Killed John Lynge.’

  This much was clear.

  ‘You saw for yourself. He loved that family. Loved the boys. Loved . . .’ Thinking, imagining. ‘Loved what the Birk Larsens became. Something he could never find for himself.’

  ‘Lund . . .’

  She peeled the nearest banana, took a bite, liking the way the images formed in her head as she spoke.

  ‘Vagn didn’t have the black heart tattoo. That part of the wood he took Theis wasn’t where Nanna was attacked. There’s no evidence she was ever there. Vagn didn’t know. Because he didn’t kill her.’

  Meyer had his head in his hands, looked ready to weep.

  Saturday morning, the day after Halloween, outside the house in Humleby. Bright and sunny. Paper monster masks from the night before blowing up and down the street.

  Vagn Skærbæk paced around the plastic sheets and scaffolding, turning to stop and yell at an angry face in the blue glass windows of the basement.

  Someone was walking towards him from the green patch of Enghaven park. One day soon Anton and Emil would play there on the new bikes Skærbæk had reserved in the toy shop in Strøget, paying for them with some smuggled alcohol he’d got on the side. Soon. . .

  The man who was approaching was tall and muscular. He stopped at the house, checked the number, looked at the Ford then said, ‘Hi. I’m John. You called about the car.’

  One more glance at the black vehicle.

  ‘It doesn’t look damaged.’

  ‘It isn’t. There’s nothing wrong with it.’

  A pause.

  ‘Did you look inside?’

  ‘It was a misunderstanding, OK? A mistake.’

  The two men stood in silence for a moment, eyeing each other.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ Skærbæk asked, feeling a sudden and puzzling sense of recognition.

  ‘If there’s no damage . . .’ the man began.

  ‘I do know you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Does it matter? You’ve got it back. There’s no damage. Can’t we leave it there?’

  Pasty face, sick maybe. Cheap clothes. Grey hippie moustache. Scar on right cheek. A memory swam through Skærbæk’s head, teasing him, refusing to surface.

  It had been a long and difficult night. The argument with Nanna at the flat where he found her after Frevert’s call still rankled. Trying to find some truth among the lies she’d thrown at him, spitting, scratching with her nails.

  ‘You’re not going to the police, are you? She’s a good kid really. She didn’t steal it. There was an Indian boy who was messing with her. God, if I get my hands on him. I found your agency ID on the floor. Here . . .’

  The man with the scar took the card and keys.

  ‘I don’t like the police,’ he said. ‘The car looks fine. Let’s forget about it. No harm done.’

  ‘I do know you,’ Skærbæk said again. ‘Maybe the agency. We use them sometimes . . .’

  The bright morning felt confusing and strange. He’d scarcely slept in the Humleby house, listening to her cries and pleas locked in the basement, one floor below.

  Now the young voice beyond the scaffolding and sheeting was back to high and shrill and getting louder.

  Temper rising, Vagn Skærbæk went to the front door, bent down, looked at the blue glass and the shrieking face there.

  ‘Nanna! For fuck’s sake shut up! You’re staying there till I get your dad. I’ll be back here at twelve whatever. At least I’ll know where you are.’

  Eyes to the window, blonde hair bobbing, she yelled, ‘Vagn, you creep—’

  ‘Just wait, for God’s sake! They’re supposed to be on a break, you know. Having a weekend away. From you for one thing.’

  She went silent then.

  ‘Think about what your dad’s going to say when he hears, huh? Jesus. Ripping off a car—’

  ‘I didn’t steal the fucking car!’

  ‘Your raghead boyfriend then. Christ, you’re Theis’s daughter. Aren’t you just?’

  The man by the black Ford shifted on his big feet.

  Skærbæk barely noticed. He was thinking about what Nanna was wearing.

  ‘And take that bloody necklace off before your dad gets back. If he sees that . . .’

  He left it there. Went to the road, to the man who was checking out the boot of the car.

  ‘There’s nothing missing, is there?’ Skærbæk asked.

  The lid went down quickly.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Damned kids,’ Vagn Skærbæk grumbled. ‘She can stay in that hole and rot for all I care. If her old man hears . . .’

  The stranger was listening.

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Skærbæk took out his phone. Tried to call again. Got voicemail. ‘Come on, Theis. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Best leave her there,’ the stranger said. ‘Kids need a lesson.’

  A bleat from behind.

  ‘She’d have to listen for that,’ Skærbæk muttered, then yelled some more abuse at the blue window.

  It was pointless. She’d never taken any notice of him. Of anyone really.

  So he left the car with the man who looked vaguely familiar then stomped off back to the depot, cursing under his breath, juggling phone calls and schedules, callbacks and deliveries. Wondering how he might make everything fit, run along in one piece the way it should.

  Twenty minutes later Vagn Skærbæk fell fast asleep on the chair in the office. Didn’t stir for three hours. And then a sharp, cruel nightmare woke him with a startling memory. Too real, it felt. Too real.

  A bright day. An empty day.

  John Lynge looked at the black Ford. Couldn’t stop listening to the high-pitched voice coming from the house, through the blue glass windows.

  A girl’s voice. Strong and weak at the same time. Young and knowing too.

  A girl’s voice.

  He looked along the empty street of grey houses. Walked up to the window. Could see her through the stained glass. Bubbly hair. Beautiful face. Pleading eyes.

  ‘Get me out of here, mister.’

  One more careful sweep of the deserted road in Humleby. Up. Down.

  ‘Get me out of here before that bastard comes back.’

  Just after ten. A good hour to spare.

  ‘Please. I’ll give you something.’ She paused. ‘Some money.’

  November. The month he always chose. He hadn’t expected the opportunity to come so soon. The very first day. But it would come. It always had since that first time set the wheels in motion, turning like clockwork once a year.

  ‘OK,’ he said, then went back to the Ford and found the briefcase he had left in the boot the previous night.

  Opened it.

  Scissors and a bottle of ether. A gag. Two knives, two rolls of duct tape. A screwdriver and chisel. A bottle of liquid soap, a sponge and some medical wipes. Two packs of condoms and a tube of lubricating jelly. He was a careful man and always came prepared.

  ‘Mister! Hey!’ squealed the young voice from the basement.

  Lynge closed the briefcase, walked to the door. They’d left their tools there anyway. A crowbar, waiting, begging.

  That was easy.

  At the foot of the stairs the door was locked and bolted. Her glittery handbag lay outside, left there he guessed for when she decided to be good.

  He picked it up. Tissues, a purse, a phone. A pack of condoms with a happy couple on it. Naked. Smiling.

  Lynge lifted it to his lips and kissed the picture there. Laughed to himself.


  The girl called out through the door.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Lund fidgeted in her chair, blinking at the washed-out sun. There were more photos in Jansen’s file. He’d done a good job. Risked a lot to help her.

  ‘Vagn told Theis he got the call from Nanna. We’d worked that out. He locked her in the basement in Humleby overnight. But it was Lynge who attacked her there. Got her out the next morning. Took her somewhere else.’

  ‘Why didn’t Vagn go to the police?’

  His voice was tetchy, hurt.

  ‘He didn’t realize who it was till Nanna was gone. He called the agency Birk Larsen used again. Vagn was checking. He’d remembered.’

  ‘Remembered what?’

  ‘Vagn loved Nanna. Loved them all—’

  ‘Then why did he say he killed her? Why didn’t he talk to us?’

  She ate some more banana. Said nothing.

  ‘You need help,’ Meyer told her. ‘You should be in here. Not me. You break lives, you know that?’

  ‘Meyer—’

  ‘You broke your own. You broke mine. You break everyone’s and you don’t even notice enough to care—’

  ‘I care!’

  A nurse appeared in the corridor, looking through the glass, checking out the sound of angry voices.

  ‘I care,’ she said more quietly.

  ‘No. You just think you do. If you care you’ve got connections. Relationships. You depend on other people and other people depend on you. You don’t connect, Lund. Not to me, not your mother, not your son. Any more than that bastard Hartmann connects. Or Brix . . .’

  His eyes were shining. She thought he might cry.

  ‘I’ve got a family. Theis and Pernille had one too until this black fucking thing came along and ripped them apart. With a little help from us. Don’t forget that—’

  ‘I care,’ she whispered, feeling the tears begin to cloud her own eyes.

  He wasn’t a cruel man. A hard man even. She’d judged him badly at the start. Meyer didn’t want to hurt her. He simply didn’t understand.

  ‘Vagn didn’t do it. When you’re feeling better. When you’re out of here, back at work. You can go and find the records. I’m so close. For God’s sake. You’ve got to help me—’

  Jan Meyer threw back his head and howled.

  Twenty years before, mobile phones cost a fortune so a run-down, near-bankrupt outfit like Merkur had just two. Aage Lonstrup was drunk in the office, no idea one of them was missing. No clue where the temps who made up the day’s staff had gone. No work on the schedules. No future ahead.

  Vagn Skærbæk went through the diary, trying to keep things afloat. Worrying. About money. About friendship. About the future.

  The big black mobile on the desk rang. So crackly it was barely audible.

  Skærbæk listened.

  An inarticulate, scared plea for help.

  Looked at Lonstrup snoring at his desk.

  Took a Merkur van out to Vestamager, down the narrow roads, past the fencing that marked what would one day be new houses and a metro line running out into the wilds by the grey Øresund, past the warning signs of the dead firing range, into the wilderness.

  Heart thumping, mind racing.

  Found two motorbikes by the side of a black canal. One, the Triumph, he recognized. The other, a cheaper, smaller Honda, he didn’t.

  Thought for a moment. Opened the back doors, ran down the ramp, strained and heaved to get both machines inside.

  November. Light falling. No sound except the jets going in and out of Kastrup.

  He could have turned back. Gone home to his little flat. Taken out the books again, the training guides on becoming a teacher. Tried to pick up the threads of a life that had never truly started.

  But debts were owed. Lives were saved. A conscience was like a wound. Once pricked it kept bleeding until something, some balancing deed, came along and staunched the flow.

  So he took a torch out of the back and headed off into the wilderness, calling out one name over and over again.

  ‘Thanks,’ the girl said when Lynge broke open the downstairs door.

  Pretty. Blonde. Tired. Angry.

  Not frightened. Not yet.

  He turned and closed the basement door behind him.

  An hour and then they’d be somewhere else. Out in the wetlands. A hunter’s hide. A log store. He knew the Pentecost Forest well. Could always find a place there. Could wash her in the cold black water, trim her nails, make her his.

  ‘I’m going now,’ she said.

  He leaned against the wall. Looked.

  Two decades, one girl each November, like a Christmas present come early. Hookers and drifters mainly. Dregs on the edge of the world, like him. So many over the years they all got blurred after a while.

  But this one was different. This one was beautiful and young and pure.

  He opened the case, retrieved the bottle of ether and the gag, placed them on the floor. Removed his belt, took out a roll of duct tape and ran out a length, cut it free.

  Was on her the instant she started to scream. Strong arms round her golden head, strong fingers turning the tape around her pretty mouth, one hard blow to the skull dashing her to the floor.

  Easy, he thought.

  It was always easy. They begged for it anyway.

  John Lynge checked his watch. Then began.

  ‘Why would Vagn do that?’

  ‘I need to be sure. I don’t want to screw up again. To cause more pain.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  He blinked. Picked up the knife, returned to peeling the apple, not noticing the exposed flesh had turned brown.

  The transparent line in his arm bobbed up and down beneath the bag and the silver pole.

  ‘You should go now,’ he said.

  She kept back the last picture. It wasn’t the right time. Later. When he was better. When he came round.

  ‘You’ll be back in the Politigården before long. Once Brix realizes. Once you go through the files I tell you to—’

  ‘Get out!’ he yelled.

  ‘I need you! I need your help!’

  The nurse was through the door flapping, tugging at her arm.

  ‘Meyer. When you’re back at work . . .’

  He held the knife upright, pushed it in front of her face.

  The blade was so close. Lund went quiet. So did the nurse.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘When you’re back at work,’ she whispered, looking at him properly for the first time. Noting the strange, immobile way he sat. The force with which his left hand gripped the wheel of the chair.

  There were no crutches in the room. None of the signs of recuperation she might have expected.

  Jan Meyer waved the fruit knife in front of her then turned it, gripped the wooden handle hard in his fist, stabbed the sharp point through his blue pyjama leg with a vicious, deliberate force.

  The nurse was screaming. Lund sat on her chair, stiff and cold and frightened.

  He let go. The blade stood firm and upright in his thigh. Blood began to seep through the blue fabric. Meyer stared at her with his sad pop eyes.

  No pain. No feeling at all. She saw this now and wondered why she’d never asked the simple, sensible question when she arrived.

  How are you?

  It wasn’t because she didn’t want to know. There were more pressing ones. That was all.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Meyer pleaded. ‘For God’s sake leave me alone.’

  A doctor and a male nurse were there. Two of them dragging her to the door, one racing to Meyer, yanking the knife out of his flesh.

  Dark blood staining the blue fabric. Spreading slowly. Not a sign of pain on his stubbly face. Not a hint he felt a thing.

  They had Lund’s arms, too strong for her.

  There was something she wanted to say. But couldn’t.

  Something . . .

  Three ye
ars was all Theis Birk Larsen would get. That was the betting in the Politigården.

  Three years, half with parole. Out in eighteen months. Theis and Pernille would survive, perhaps made stronger in some strange, cruel way.

  Outside the sky was darkening. Rain on the way. Snow even.

  Vibeke had taken back her green Beetle. So Lund walked to the station and bought a ticket to Vestamager, sat on the empty train, watched the city disappear out of the windows. After a while there was nothing left but a flat bleak wasteland speeding by as she headed towards the end of the line.

  There were three of them in a shallow, muddy indentation hidden among the yellow grass, not far from a narrow canal. One, the smallest, a half-naked, bloody woman, not moving. The second, a man with a Zapata moustache and scarred cheek, tattoos and long black hair, wild-eyed and cackling, prodding at her from time to time. The other, the biggest, curled up in a foetal ball, eyes vacant and lost, a pool of vomit by his ginger head.

  ‘Theis,’ Skærbæk said.

  The narrow slit eyes looked up at him. Pupils black and glassy, as blank and deep as the water in the canal.

  ‘Jesus. What did you do this time?’

  The guy with the stupid moustache stopped poking at the girl, pulled a bottle out of his pocket. Swilled some beer, passed it to Theis Birk Larsen.

  Skærbæk grabbed the bottle, threw it away, screamed at them.

  For no good reason. The girl was dead. These two were lost in an imaginary world of acid where nothing was real.

  Forks in the road.

  He wanted to turn back, leave them there.

  Wanted to call the police for the first time in his small and irrelevant life.

  But debts were owed. Consciences pricked. They were out on the Kalvebod Fælled, a wasteland no one visited. A place for hiding things. The harsh choice was made.

  So he went to the Merkur van, climbed behind the Triumph and the Honda, took out plastic wrapping and strong tape, returned to the trio in the mud. Kicked the idiot with the moustache out of the way when he objected. Rolled the dead girl round and round, bound her tight like a carpet about to be moved.

  Dumped her in the deep canal. Went back and yelled at them till they stumbled to the van.

  The stranger was called John. He didn’t want to leave at all. Looked ready to stay there, drag the dead body out of the water, unwrap her from the Merkur sheeting and start all over again.