The Killing

Eleven

Seven thirty. A misty morning. Traffic gridlocked on the wet city 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 doing. 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.

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!’

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.’

The first one handed over his phone.

‘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.’

He reached and took the car. Skærbæk didn’t try to stop him. Then Anton walked upstairs.

The boys were in bed. The three of them sat round the kitchen table, in front of the dirty plates and cutlery.

Birk Larsen was smoking. Face like a basilisk.

‘What else did Anton say?’ Pernille asked.

‘Nothing,’ Skærbæk told her. ‘Just that he saw Nanna’s passport there.’

‘Bloody kids,’ Birk Larsen grumbled. ‘I’ve been there hundreds of times and I haven’t seen it. Have you?’

‘He’s just jumpy, Theis. It’s all got to him. God knows… it got to all of us, didn’t it?’

‘Where?’ Pernille asked.

‘He said it was in the basement. There was nothing there to begin with. Just some rubbish I cleared out the other day.’

‘Why would her passport be in the basement?’ Birk Larsen asked. ‘Nanna didn’t even know about Humleby.’

‘I can go and take a look if you like.’

‘There’s nothing there, Vagn.’

Pernille’s fingers worked at her temples. The smell of bread was gone from the kitchen. Now it was just cigarette smoke and sweat.

‘Then why,’ she asked, trying not to get mad, ‘did he say there was?’

‘It’s Anton! He can say what he wants. I’m not having him making up shit like this. I’ll talk to him in the morning.’

She wasn’t going to stop.

‘The police never found her passport. They asked us time and time again.’

He stared at her. The other Theis. The cold one saying: don’t ask, don’t come near.

‘I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t talk to Anton about it,’ Skærbæk said. ‘I promised…’

Pernille was on him in an instant.

‘Of course we’re going to talk to the boy. We’ll go over there tomorrow and take a look. I want to know—’

‘It’s not there!’ Birk Larsen roared.

She closed her eyes for a moment, fought the anger.

‘It’s not there,’ he said more quietly. ‘And tomorrow’s his birthday.’

‘Theis…’

His big hands cut the air above the table.

‘That,’ Birk Larsen said, ‘is it.’

Out in the main TV studios in Amager, minutes to go before the last broadcast debate of the election, Poul Bremer was arguing minutiae with the production team.

‘I’m the biggest party. I go last,’ Bremer said.

The producer didn’t look ready for a fight.

‘The agreement was,’ Rie Skovgaard said, ‘we draw lots.’

‘I didn’t sign up for that. We do things the way we’ve always done them. The leading party has the final say. That’s what’s going to—’

His phone rang. Bremer walked away to take it.

‘Maybe we should drop the idea about drawing lots,’ the producer said. ‘If it’s going to cause trouble.’

‘We had an agreement.’

Bremer was listening intently to the call, looking directly at Skovgaard.

‘We’re on air in ten minutes,’ the producer said.

Poul Bremer walked over, all smiles, all pleasantness.

‘Let’s draw lots after all. I’m feeling lucky.’

Grey eyes on Skovgaard.

‘When we’re done here there’ll be nothing left to play for any way.’

Hartmann was still in the dressing room, on the line to Morten Weber in City Hall.

‘Why was Bressau fired, Morten? I want the truth.’

‘He messed up big time, I guess. Aren’t you supposed to be on TV soon?’

‘Why was he fired?’

Weber hesitated.

‘This place is always swimming with rumours. If you believe every one of them—’

‘Tell me the truth, dammit! I just got another call from that bastard Salin. Crowing that he’s nailed me. He won’t say what. Bremer’s got it and planning to hand it over after the debate. I need to know. What is it?’

‘He’s just trying to get to you. Succeeding by the sound of it.’

‘Where did Rie send that package? To Lund?’

‘I don’t know and frankly I’m not going looking. I’ve got better things to do.’

‘Could Rie have kept people out of the flat?’

‘Of course she could. Anyone in the office could.’

‘Did you check what she did that Friday night?’

‘I’m not here to spy on people.’

‘I asked—’

‘No, Troels. I’m not playing this game. That’s final.’

The line went dead. When he turned Rie Skovgaard was in the door.

‘Is everything OK?’ she said. ‘It’s time now.’

He didn’t answer.

‘This is the last TV debate of the campaign.’ She was back to being professional, looking him in the eye. ‘Whatever impression the people get today they’ll take with them into the voting booth.’

One more product to be sold. A puppet for her father to manipulate from Parliament.

‘All the polls say this is between you and Bremer. The minorities convince no one. It’s the two of you.’

He nodded.

‘If they mention the murder case stick to what we agreed. You’ll do whatever you can to help the investigation. You’re the new broom. You stand for candour and clarity. Bremer’s the one with skeletons in the cupboard. Don’t go anywhere else… dammit, Troels, are you even listening?’

His eyes were on the studio outside. Bremer there. Confident. Beaming.

‘Troels. This is important.’

She went quiet, looked nervous. A studio assistant came to the door and asked him to take his seat.

Hartmann stepped out towards the bright lights, turned and looked at her in the shadows.

‘I know what you did.’

‘What…?’

‘I know all about it. Bremer knows too.’

No answer.

‘About Bressau. About the surveillance tape.’

She stood rigid, face emotionless, eyes fixed on him. Saying nothing.

‘About how you tried to keep people out of the flat.’

‘No, no. This isn’t what you think.’

The studio man was back.

‘We’re on the air now, Hartmann. If you want to be part of this you’d better get in here.’

‘Troels!’

He walked towards the bright lights and took his seat.

Ten minutes into the live debate, they were throwing around the case for higher taxes. Hartmann couldn’t take his eyes off the old man two seats away. He looked as if he’d won already. Couldn’t wait to walk into the council chamber, smiling, triumphant. Four more years on his shining throne.

Then it came.

‘Taxes are important,’ Bremer said with that calm, magisterial air he’d mastered over three decades of working Copenhagen’s political circles. ‘But just as important is the character of those we choose to represent us.’

He looked directly into the camera.

‘The murder of Nanna Birk Larsen—’

‘Wait,’ the interviewer cut in. ‘We’re here to talk politics—’

‘Politics is about ethics and morals, first and foremost,’ Bremer said, glancing at Hartmann across from him before returning to the lens. ‘The voters have a right to know…’

Hartmann sat back, listened.

Bremer’s face now wore a look of resigned indignation.

‘I’ve been accused of withholding information. I’ve even been reported to the police. All at the instigation of Troels Hartmann. The very man who deliberately withheld information himself, impeded the progress of a criminal investigation…’

Hartmann raised a finger, lacked the energy to interrupt. Found himself looking back at Rie Skovgaard by the studio door.

‘How can it be that his party flat was left untouched until the homicide team found it?’ Bremer demanded. ‘How could a surveillance tape suddenly disappear and then just as suddenly turn up? How?’

Finally, Hartmann found his voice.

‘The police have given me their word that Bremer’s accusations are unfounded. These are the desperate efforts of a man who’ll do anything to cling to power.’

‘Power?’ Bremer’s voice had risen above its natural register. His face was flushed. He was loosening his tie. ‘Then they’ve been misinformed. When they see the proof I have…’

The interviewer was getting flustered.

‘Briefly—’

‘This goes to the very heart of the matter!’ Bremer shrieked.

Hartmann wondered at his temperament. His state of mind.

‘If you’re so convinced of your own fantasies, Poul, go to the police. I’ve nothing to fear from the truth. Unlike you—’

‘You sanctimonious little shit,’ Bremer spat at him.

Silence.

Then Hartmann said, ‘Copenhagen deserves policies, not personal abuse. If the police want to talk to me they know where to find me.’

‘When I’m done you’ll be back in a cell again, Hartmann. Where you belong—’

‘Excuse me! Excuse me! I’ve been cleared.’

A shouting match now. The interviewer had lost control.

‘Before I came on air—’ Bremer began.

‘This is what twelve years in power does to you,’ Hartmann barked at him.

Bremer’s eyes were down on the studio floor. His face was red. His breathing agitated.

‘I have information—’

‘No, no,’ Hartmann shouted over him. ‘All you can do is come here and try to sling mud. Not talk politics. This is unworthy of the Lord Mayor of Copenhagen. You’re unfit to hold the office.’

‘Unfit?’ Bremer’s voice was close to falsetto. ‘I have information—’

‘The system’s in a rut,’ Hartmann interrupted. ‘We live under a despotism ruled by one wretched old man who instead of engaging in debate treats political colleagues as pawns then vents his arrogance on the voters.’

Hand at his neck, jerking at his shirt, gasping for breath. Bremer said, ‘I have proof that—’

Hartmann was on him.

‘You’ve nothing. You’re just trying to sidetrack the debate from your own failings. This is what you always do. Try to turn the spotlight on others to hide your own corruption and lack of vision.’

Bremer stared at him, lost for words. Lost for breath.

‘Corruption, Poul,’ Hartmann added, in a clear, confident voice. ‘There I said it. The worm of corruption eats you as we watch—’

‘I have proof—’ Bremer bleated.

‘You’ve nothing.’

He looked at the old man in the grey striped suit. Bremer was clutching his right arm. His mouth was open and working.

‘I…’

Poul Bremer let out a low, frightened moan and rolled off the studio chair, onto the floor.

Eyes glassy behind the statesman’s spectacles. Face immobile. Sweat on his brow.

Hartmann was by his side in a moment. Loosening his tie.

‘Bremer?’ he said. ‘Bremer?’

Lund was back in Bülow’s office. On the second floor of headquarters, the opposite side to homicide. Down a long black marble corridor, through places she’d never before seen.

‘Why didn’t Meyer go with you?’

‘He didn’t think it was worth going there.’

‘Did you give him an order?’

‘No. I just wanted a quick look. He called and told me he’d seen a broken window. And that there was a light from a torch on the floor near me. It was Frevert’s, not mine.’

Bülow sat down, looked at her.

‘Frevert’s?’

‘OK. I’m sorry. I’m tired. It was… someone’s torch.’

He looked pleased.

‘So we do agree Frevert wasn’t there, right?’

She’d been thinking about this.

‘He had more to tell us. He just didn’t want anyone to know. Frevert was scared of someone. Maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.’

‘So even though he wrote that note he didn’t murder Mette and Nanna?’ Bülow asked.

‘You don’t know he wrote that note. You don’t know he killed himself.’

‘Your career seems based on wild guesses.’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘It isn’t. Someone got inside the warehouse. He knew we’d be looking for something there. The storage unit for Mette’s belongings was broken into. He must have taken what we were looking for.’

‘You were supposed to go to Sweden, Lund. Did Meyer want the case for himself?’

‘What do you mean? He wanted it to begin with. Then Buchard asked me to take it on—’

‘You argued—’

‘Of course we argued. A case like this. It was nothing.’

‘Did Meyer complain to his superior about nothing? He told his wife you weren’t yourself that evening. You were crazy. He said there was no reason for you to be at the warehouse.’

‘Meyer wouldn’t have come if there was no reason—’

‘He’s not the only one to notice the state you’re in,’ Bülow said. ‘Obsessed. Detached from reality.’

‘Who said that? Brix? Svendsen?’

‘Never mind who said it. Is it correct?’

‘No. And I’ve saved Brix’s arse twice already.’

She leaned over the table, looked at Bülow and the assistant.

‘I need to know what he removed from Mette Hauge’s belongings. If we find that—’

‘If someone was there,’ Bülow cut in. ‘Apart from you and Jan Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘Follow me,’ he ordered.

Three rooms along. A forensic officer she half-recognized. A com puter with speakers.

Bülow stood behind him. Lund sat when he told her to.

He held up an evidence bag with Meyer’s phone in it.

‘When you were inside the warehouse Meyer pressed a shortcut he used for taping interrogations with suspects. Listen.’

The technician hit the keyboard. Meyer’s voice came out of the speakers.

‘Lund? Can you hear me? Hello?’

‘Lund!’

‘Shit!’

‘Lund!’

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

‘I’m by the lift.’

A long pause. A mechanical sound.

‘The lift’s empty. I’m coming up for you.’

‘I don’t think he’s here.’

‘He’s gone down. He’s with you—’

‘I’m coming…’

Her head jerked back in shock with the first explosion. Her mind went blank with the second. She could hear Meyer’s shrieks and groans.

Bülow’s face had changed. She thought he was trying to look sympathetic.

‘You haven’t slept for three days. It’s dark. You hear a sound and you think it’s the man you want, somewhere in the building. You draw your gun. The gun you brought with you into the building. You run down the stairs.’

‘Oh please—’ Lund whispered.

‘You throw open the door and shoot. What else could you do? What else would anyone have done in the circumstances? Someone’s there. He reaches for your gun. You fire. He grabs again. You fire again.’

Lund’s clear, acute eyes turned on him.

‘Then you realize you shot Meyer. You’re distraught. You call an ambulance. In the sixteen minutes before it arrives you fake the breakin. Then you place your pistol at Meyer’s side and wait.’

He paused.

‘What do you think, Lund?’

‘I think that’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘There’s no trace of anyone but you and Meyer in the building.’

‘You’re a failed cop looking for somewhere new to fail again.’

‘We didn’t find anything!’

Still her eyes didn’t leave him.

‘That’s because you don’t know how to look.’

The other one came in.

‘We questioned Meyer’s wife, Lund. He came to just before they took him back into surgery.’

He passed over a statement.

‘The one thing he said to her was your name. Sarah. He said it over and over again.’

‘He thought it was important,’ Bülow added. ‘I guess it could be a declaration of love. But that doesn’t seem likely from what I gather about your relationship.’

He passed over a charge sheet.

‘There’ll be a preliminary hearing tomorrow. You know the procedure. You’ve the right to one phone call.’

Bülow gave her back her mobile then the two of them left the room.

Lund followed.

‘This doesn’t make sense.’

They kept walking. A uniformed man on the door stopped her, pushed her back inside.

Lund looked at the phone on the table. Called.

‘It’s me,’ Lund said. ‘I need your help.’

Bülow walked round the circling corridors, found Brix in his office in homicide.

‘I want her flat searched,’ he said. ‘Take her clothes and shoes to forensics. I need her records. You’ve got twenty minutes.’

Brix laughed at him.

‘You’ll get it. In good time.’

‘Twenty minutes, Brix. It’s not just her I’m looking at.’

‘According to the record Lund’s never fired her gun. She never wore it on duty. Never took it with her. They all know that.’

‘You took her badge from her a few days ago then gave it back. Why was that?’

‘Because she was right and I was wrong. She saw things…’ He shrugged. ‘Things I didn’t get. No one else did either. She’s not the easiest of people but—’

‘You knew she was unbalanced. Why else would you have done it?’

‘I did it because she pissed me off. She’s good at that and she doesn’t care. But she cares about the case. More about that than anything else, I think. Her family. Herself. I don’t know why—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the short man moaned. ‘Bore me with all that another time. Twenty minutes…’

There were four cells for women. The other three were full of screaming drunks. Lund sat on the solitary chair and looked around. It seemed different on the inside. Smaller. A single mattress. Sheets and a pillow. A sink and a Bible.

She wore a blue prison tracksuit. There was a bowl beneath the bed.

Lund looked at the officer on duty.

Tried to remember his name.

He gave her some soap and a towel. Walked out. Closed the door. Looked through the hatch.

‘Any chance of some food?’

‘It’s not food time,’ he said and closed the shutter.

Hartmann and Skovgaard were back at the Rådhus, alone in his office. Outside the city was starting to sleep. Bremer was in hospital, in a stable condition. There’d been talk of the effect on the election. Nothing about Nanna Birk Larsen on the news. Just the king of Copenhagen looking mortal for the first time in his long life.

‘You lied to me, Troels,’ she said, sitting in front of his desk like a junior come to an interview. ‘To me. You and Morten…’

‘What?’

‘How can you share a secret with him? But not me?’

‘We’ve been there,’ he said and thought to himself: this ended days ago. It died and no one noticed.

‘I was mad at you!’

He waited.

‘That night when everyone thought you were finished I ran into Phillip Bressau. We went to a hotel and sat in the bar. He said you were a lost cause. I should switch sides. There was a job going.’

And if I do fall, Hartmann thought, she’d be there. Alongside Bremer in an instant.

‘I knew something was going on. His phone kept ringing.’

She looked him in the face.

‘He asked me if I wanted a nightcap. In his room.’

Hartmann nodded.

‘Very generous of him.’

‘I could hear he was talking about Stokke. About our apartment. Bressau had had a couple of drinks. He wasn’t…’ She frowned. ‘He wasn’t so discreet. That’s how I knew Stokke was involved.’

‘What happened?’

‘You mean did I go to bed with him?’

Hartmann didn’t answer.

‘Does it matter? At least I know Bressau. I didn’t go on dating sites. I didn’t screw strangers.’

Nothing.

‘What’s it to you anyway?’ she said. ‘I listened. I had a drink. Then I went home.’

He got up, walked around the room.

‘That Friday night. You went looking for me?’

‘Did I?’

‘You went to the flat. You knew something happened there.’

‘No. I didn’t. The next morning I went to the conference centre without you. And lied for you there. What is this? What do you want? Some kind of pure virginal honesty when you feel like it? Then we turn as nasty and as crooked as everyone else if it’s needed—’

‘I never asked for that.’

She laughed.

‘You don’t have to, do you? You just need it to happen but never want to know. Bremer’s the same. Maybe it goes with the job.’

‘I expect certain—’

‘I can’t help what you expect. I didn’t go near the flat. I didn’t touch the stupid surveillance tape. I’d do a lot for you. But I wouldn’t cover up for murder.’

She got up, turned on the smile. Came to him, touched his shoulder, his shirt.

‘Come on. You know that. People have been screwing round with this office for weeks. Olav got into the system…’

He removed her hand from his jacket.

‘Olav’s dead. Would you have taken the job? With Bremer?’

‘I’ve got a job, haven’t I? I gave up a partnership in the ad agency to come here. Took half the pay—’

‘I thought it was commitment.’

‘It is commitment.’

‘Would you have taken the job?’

She closed her eyes. Looked near to breaking. He liked that.

‘I haven’t given it any thought. We’ve got work to do here.’

‘I can do that myself, thanks.’

‘Troels—’

‘I want you to go home. I want you to stay there.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

He looked at her. She met his eyes. She always could.

‘I’m not a piece of meat you can buy and sell. Tell your father, will you?’

‘I never thought you were!’

‘Just go,’ he said.