The Killing

Thirteen

Five in the morning. Brix was in his office.

Lund waited by a window in the circling corridor outside, staring down into the yard in front of the prison cells that now held Theis Birk Larsen on a charge of manslaughter.

Soon it would be daylight, and with it a need for explanations. Press conferences. The case of Nanna Birk Larsen would be closed for good.

Brix looked at the lonely woman by the glass, lost in her thoughts. Lost in everything except herself. He wished, against his own instincts, he’d got to work with her more. Not know her better. That was a challenge beyond him. Beyond most, he felt.

‘Lund!’ he called, and beckoned her in.

She was still in her blue anorak and woollen jumper, caked with mud from the Kalvebod Fælled.

‘Did you find the photo?’

‘No. Take a seat.’

‘Leon Frevert…’

‘Lund.’

He tried to smile.

‘Forensics have matched residue on Skærbæk’s sweatshirt. We know he was the one who shot Meyer.’

She stared at him with those large, all-seeing eyes.

‘Bülow still wants your blood. He’ll complete his report. You can expect consequences. Especially for what you did in the car.’

‘Svendsen wouldn’t listen.’

‘You pulled a gun on him.’

She repeated, very slowly, ‘He wouldn’t listen.’

Brix waited for a moment.

‘Bülow isn’t the only one involved. I have some say. They’ll take into consideration the nature of the case. And the investigation.’

She was looking round the office, eyeing the evidence bags.

‘Your situation’s very serious.’

He noticed the door was still ajar. Brix got up and closed it.

Came and stood over her.

‘I can present you with an opportunity. It won’t stay open for long. You need to think about it.’

She stared at her filthy hands.

‘This case has caused a lot of difficulties. Everyone wants them to go away. For good.’

Hands in pockets, speaking confidently.

‘Certain aspects of the investigation will be omitted from the reports. Your allegation that someone was protecting figures in the Rådhus. The idea that there are other missing-person cases connected to Skærbæk.’

He sat down again.

‘The Nanna Birk Larsen case is dead. It’s going to stay that way.’

No answer.

‘In my view this is a good solution for you. For all of us.’

Lund folded her arms, said nothing.

‘I advise you to accept it.’

No answer.

‘Sarah, you solved the case. That’s the only thing that matters. If you agree you can get a job somewhere else. I can give you a reference. You can start—’

She got up, walked to the door, opened it.

‘Lund?’

Carefully, slowly, she brushed some of the muck from the sleeve of her black and white jumper.

‘The people upstairs are waiting for an answer.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ she said, then walked down the black marble corridor, past the office with the toy police car and the basketball net, past Jansen, past the noisy room where the homicide men gathered to tell their dirty jokes.

Out into the dark, cold morning.

At six o’clock Troels Hartmann woke in his office. A winter wind was howling. The tape on the broken window had worked loose. The icy gale was working its way into the room.

Stinking head, stinking breath. The empty brandy decanter on the floor, along with the papers, the speeches, the posters. Pretty much everything he could throw around on that long and bitter night.

Crouched on the floor and aching he pulled out his phone, called Brix.

‘I’m busy,’ the cop said. ‘I’ll get back to you when I genuinely have nothing better to do.’

The tone of his voice rankled.

‘This is important. Don’t hang up on me!’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s about the Nanna case. I tried to get you at home last night. You weren’t there.’

‘Working.’

‘I’ve discovered something. You’re going to have to look into it. The flat—’

‘I’m pleased you’re suddenly so cooperative, Hartmann. But you’re too late. The case is closed. For good this time. We found him. Nothing to do with you or the Rådhus. This was a…’ The cop paused, as he found what he was about to say distasteful. ‘A family affair, you might say.’

Hartmann stopped and found himself staring in shame at the mess around him. The bottles. The rubbish on the floor.

Thick head, sore throat, he went to the desk, sat down.

‘Who—?’

‘You’ll be hearing about it on the news soon enough.’

The photo Weber had found was still there. Nanna, smiling, arm through his. Looking up into his face.

He never did get her name.

‘Hello?’ Brix said.

‘He’s dead?’

‘Didn’t I just say that? Listen, Hartmann. I’ve got a lot to do—’

‘There’s something else.’

He could hear the tall cop sigh down the phone.

‘Make it quick.’

The rich smell of mahogany. The gilt. The frescoes. The warm and comfortable cell that enclosed Troels Hartmann seemed to wrap itself around him, whisper like a seductive siren in his ear.

‘It’s just that…’

His croaky voice died. He couldn’t speak.

‘I’ll send someone over later in the week if you want,’ Brix broke in. ‘Good luck with the election. And by the way. Don’t ever think of trying to lean on us the way your predecessor did. That’s not happening again.’

The line went dead. Hartmann found the remote control. Turned on the TV. Listened to the news.

‘Poul Bremer had another stroke late last night. He’s withdrawn from the election for the next city council. Bremer has been Lord Mayor of Copenhagen for twelve years. Our political editor says his decision to pull out of the race makes the election of Troels Hartmann a certainty…’

A knock on the door. A smiling blonde woman in a green dress came through. She had newspapers in her hand and said, cheerily, ‘Good morning.’

Looked at the mess, the state of him, still smiling. The broken window.

‘We’ll clear this up,’ she said. ‘There’ll be photos later. I’m sending in a man to fix the glass.’

Came to the desk, held out her hand. He took it. Warm and soft.

‘Maja Randrup. I’m Rie Skovgaard’s replacement. Morten asked me to step in.’

She placed some printouts in front of him.

‘He gave me your speech to type up. I read it. Very good.’

With dainty steps she started picking up things from the floor. His jacket. The empty glass. The decanter and the folders. Still smiling.

‘I suggested a few changes after I heard about Bremer,’ she said, setting an overturned chair upright.

‘Morten and I think they set the right tone. Sympathetic but determined to do right by the city. To take the good parts of Bremer’s legacy, build on them, and add to them your own.’

A turn of the room, checking everything. A wave of her hand.

‘There’s a shower here, right? You’ve got shaving things. I’ll bring in fresh clothes.’

Didn’t wait for an answer.

‘We need you fit for purpose in forty-five minutes.’

Grabbed the brandy decanter. Kept it.

‘It’s too bad you had to win this way. But let’s face it, winning’s winning. There’ll be some free time in your calendar after the press conference. Morten says you should take it. Go home. Stay out of public view as much as you can for the next couple of days. The campaign’s over. Now we just wait.’

She opened the windows. The cold November gale grew bolder, making him shiver, teeth chattering, mind locked in blunt, dumb pain.

Sounds of traffic. Still dark. The blue neon of the hotel.

He sat at the desk, head still swimming, looked at her. An attractive woman. Thirty or so. Tight green shiny shirt. Good figure. No ring on her finger. She knew he was checking.

Maja Randrup picked up the picture of him with Nanna.

‘I’ll take this now,’ she said and left the room.

The lawyer met Pernille Birk Larsen in the circling corridor opposite the jail block.

‘He’ll be in court first thing. Afterwards they’ll probably send him to Vestre prison. I won’t waste your money trying to get bail.’

Lis Gamborg. The same woman who’d argued for Theis, for Vagn too when he demanded it. Pernille didn’t know many lawyers. Didn’t want to.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll call when I have a time for the court appearance.’

Then she left.

Pernille stood in the narrow corridor, looked outside. Day was breaking. Bright and clear. In the yard below a group of prison officers marched a big man in a blue prison suit, handcuffed, a bandage on his temple, out towards a van.

She started to run.

Down the winding spiral stairs, feet flying. Pushing cops and guards, lawyers and stumbling drunks out of her way.

Two flights and she found herself in the grey concrete car park. Heads were turning, people starting to shout.

He was halfway across the yard, a uniformed officer on each arm, walking the way he always did. Head upright, eyes ahead. Mouth locked shut. Mute and waiting for whatever the day brought.

‘Theis!’

They’d caught sight of her now.

‘Theis!’

And so had he.

A policewoman raced to her, grabbed her arm.

Pernille fought free, arms flailing. Fought the next one.

Ran and ran.

Two guards holding him, reaching for their truncheons, looking round.

In the light of a rosy winter dawn Pernille Birk Larsen kicked and punched and screamed her away across the narrow yard, flung herself on him, arms round his neck, legs on the massive tree trunk of his frame.

Face against face. Smooth cheek against rough. Words she’d never remember, not that it mattered.

Her strength with his. His with hers.

Briefly locked together. A love unspoken. A commitment reaffirmed.

When they dragged her from him he stood there, too big to move easily.

She never knew what was in his eyes. Never would. Never wanted to. What mattered was in the heart, and there they were one.

Eight thirty. Fresh suit, fresh shirt. Fresh air in the office. An aerosol to mask the overnight stink of brandy. No papers on the floor.

Maja Randrup stood in front of him. Adjusted his tie. Checked his hair. His face.

‘Don’t sound victorious,’ she said. ‘The media may be calling the election. There’s no one else to win it. But a little humility doesn’t go amiss.’

She stood back to consider him, the way a window dresser might judge a mannequin.

Gave him the speech.

Troels Hartmann didn’t look at it. Didn’t need it. He knew every word.

Her smile dropped for a moment. He wondered if he’d disappointed her somehow.

Disappointing people was bad. They remembered. They held it against you.

This was politics. Satisfaction. Delivery. Image. Appearance. These were paramount.

The caustic glance was aimed at his desk, not him. She spoke of the coming photo shoot. Of the need for a visible, consistent personality.

‘We don’t need this,’ Maja Randrup said and tucked the photo of Jack and Jackie beneath her arm. ‘It’s too…’

She screwed up her snub nose. A gesture he liked.

‘Too old.’

In his clean shirt and fresh cologne, feeling light-hearted but not so bad, Troels Hartmann stood and waited. To be told.

A knock on the door. Morten Weber nodding. To her not to him.

‘Is he ready?’ Weber asked.

She speaks. Troels Hartmann doesn’t listen. On Weber’s cue, behind the little man with the wayward curly hair and cheap gold glasses, he walks out of the office, out through the Liberals’ quarters, along the shining walkways, past doors opening, past curious faces.

Close to the great room Morten Weber starts to clap. Maja Randrup does the same. The applause catches like fire on a dry heath.

He walks on to the polished grandeur of the council chamber, a place so bright it dazzles his eyes.

Sees the doors. Halts. Steps through them.

Sees the cameras, the faces, the hands clapping, the hands clapping.

Stands on the podium by the great throne of Copenhagen.

Walks to the polished seat, places a firm hand on the old wood.

Turns to the crowd, the cameras, the expectant faces.

And smiles.

And smiles.

And smiles.