The Killing

Ten

Lund got caught in the morning rush-hour traffic on the way to Vesterbro. Meyer sat in the passenger seat giving her an update on Vagn Skærbæk.

‘Only child. Parents are gone. Mother died when he was born. That might indicate an odd relationship with women.’

‘Don’t throw psychology at me. I’ve had enough of that crap for a while.’

‘Fine. At fifteen his father disappeared. Probably went off chasing drugs and hookers in Amsterdam. So little Vagn moved in with his uncle. No education to speak of. I thought he might have done some time but there’s nothing much.’

He flipped the pages he had.

‘The only reason we get to talk to him is when we’re trying to nail Theis.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Theis needs an alibi Vagn’s his man. Three cases where Vagn’s evidence got him off the hook. I spoke to that retired guy who called in. He thought they were part of a team.’

‘What about kids? A wife? Ex-wife?’

‘Nope. Lives on his own in a cheap studio half a kilometre from the Birk Larsens. We went through it. Nothing that puts him in Vestamager or anywhere else of interest.’

‘There has to be something.’

‘He’s godfather to the Birk Larsen boys. Seems very close to the family. Sometimes he’s lived with them for a while. Maybe he was abusing Nanna behind their back.’

Lund just looked at him.

‘OK. I withdraw that remark. Theis or Pernille would surely have known and he’d be the one feeding the eels. Also…’

He stopped.

‘Also what?’

‘Nanna looked happy. Didn’t she? I did a couple of abuse cases. Those kids… you can see it in their eyes. Years after. That Lonstrup woman with the pigtails and the grey hair—’

‘No one abused Nanna,’ Lund said as she came off the motorway and looked for the care home. ‘She wrapped Jens Holck round her little finger and kept it secret. Nanna was Theis and Pernille all in one.’

It was a modern place, two storeys, red-brick.

‘There’s a scary thought,’ Meyer said.

The manager of the care home was a jolly, plump woman with dyed blonde hair and a perpetual smile. She loved Vagn Skærbæk.

‘I wish we had more like him. Vagn visits his uncle every Friday.’

‘You’re sure about the thirty-first?’ Lund asked as they walked down the long white corridor, past elderly men and women playing cards.

‘Yes. I’m sure. The nurse on duty always enters visitors in the guest book.’

She had it with her and showed Meyer the page.

‘Vagn checked in at eight fifteen.’

‘It doesn’t say when he left.’

‘He didn’t. He fell asleep in a chair. His uncle wasn’t feeling well. Vagn came in to say goodbye when he left the next morning. Eight o’clock or so.’

Lund asked, ‘So he told you he was here all night? No one saw him?’

The woman didn’t like that.

‘Vagn’s stayed before. He was here.’

‘But no one saw him?’

‘He put his uncle to bed. He does that for us. Why are you asking these questions? Vagn’s a diamond. I wish we—’

‘Had more like him,’ Meyer said. ‘Got that message. Where’s his uncle?’

A small room with a small, old man in it. He walked with a stick and looked frail.

They sat and had coffee, listened to his stories. Looked at the pencil drawings of windmills and fields that Vagn drew when he was a child. His uncle seemed to carry part of Skærbæk’s childhood with him. One last link to the life that went before.

‘Did Vagn ever talk about girlfriends?’ Lund asked.

‘No.’ The old man laughed. ‘Vagn’s a shy boy. He keeps things to himself. They used to bully him when he was a kid in Vesterbro. If it wasn’t for a few nice friends they’d have picked on him all the time. You see…’

They waited.

‘See what?’ Meyer prompted.

‘Vagn’s a gentle soul. It’s a hard world out there. I don’t think it’s been easy for him.’

His kindly face turned miserable for a moment.

‘I did what I could. But I couldn’t be there all the time.’

‘Does the name Mette Hauge mean anything?’

His face brightened.

‘There’s a lovely girl here called Mette. Is it her?’

‘What about Nanna Birk Larsen?’

The smile was gone.

‘Vagn took that poor girl’s death very hard.’

Lund looked at the photos on the walls. A black and white portrait of a woman she took to be his late wife. Vagn when he was younger.

‘How’s that?’ she asked.

‘They’re the family he never had. I was just me. My wife died young. It was selfishness that made me take him in. I was lonely, you see. I never regretted it.’ He looked round the little room. ‘All those years later, and still he comes to see me. There’s miserable old bastards here who don’t get a minute from their own son once a year. I see Vagn every week. Every week.’

‘He was here the night you felt poorly?’ Meyer said. ‘Two weeks ago? How did he seem?’

‘We watched TV. We always do.’

The programme guide was on the table. Meyer picked it up. Lund got out of her chair and started to walk round the room, looking at the photos, the uncle’s belongings.

‘That night,’ Meyer said, ‘Columbo was on. And a gardening show. And then Star Search. What did you watch?’

‘I remember the detective with the raincoat. But I didn’t feel well.’ He scowled. ‘I’m getting old. Try to avoid it if you can. But Vagn got me my pills and I was better after that.’

Lund glanced at Meyer.

‘What kind of pills?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Ask the nurses. I take what they give me.’

She came back with a wedding photo. A couple from years ago, stiff and unsmiling in a black and white portrait.

‘Who are these people?’

‘Vagn’s parents. That’s my brother.’ A pause. ‘The layabout.’

‘What did they do?’

‘I think she was pregnant already. Not that you talked about things like that back then.’

He was laughing at his own joke.

‘What did they do?’

‘They worked in a hospital. Not good people, I have to say.’

The old man took a deep breath.

‘He had such a rotten start in life. These kids…’ His voice was rising. ‘They need discipline. They need an example. They need to be shown the way to behave. And when they step outside then…’

He stopped, as if surprised by his own sudden outburst.

‘Then what?’ Meyer said.

‘Then they need to know there’ll be consequences. I never had to do that. Not with Vagn. But some of the youngsters you see…’

They checked the nursing notes on the way out. Skærbæk had given his uncle phenobarbital, a strong sedative.

Lund was driving again.

‘How many?’

‘Just one. It’s enough to knock out a horse. He’d still have to pass the nurse’s office to get out. You saw the security…’

Lund shook her head.

‘I looked upstairs when you were talking to the nurses. There are other exits. He could have got out if he wanted.’

‘Then he’s smarter than he looks.’

‘I told you. He is.’

Meyer went quiet.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘You heard that old man. You heard the manager. They all love Vagn.’

‘Doesn’t mean a thing, Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t mean a thing!’

‘He goes and sits with his old uncle most Friday nights? When the average Copenhagen working-class male can’t wait to hit the beer? That—’

‘It. doesn’t… mean… a… thing.’

‘If it wasn’t for Skærbæk Theis Birk Larsen wouldn’t have a business from what I’ve seen.’

Lund was thinking.

‘Weak kid, bullied at school. Parents gone. Brought up by an uncle.’

The rain came on suddenly. The windscreen turned opaque. Meyer reached over and turned on the wipers.

‘I wish you’d let me drive.’

‘We’ll do a line-up. See if Amir can identify him.’

‘You’re clutching at straws. Any news in the woods?’

She turned the wipers up to double speed. Watched the sheets of rain envelop the car.

‘If we don’t find anything on Vagn then Brix will shut down the Hauge case,’ Meyer said. ‘We need more than a few pills and an old photo.’

‘I know that, thanks.’

Theis and Pernille Birk Larsen talked to the lawyer, Lis Gamborg, in the kitchen, around the decorated table. Complained about the police, about the constant visits, the ceaseless questioning.

The woman listened then said, ‘I sympathize but there’s really nothing you can do. It’s a criminal investigation. A murder case.’

‘But they’re not doing anything,’ Pernille said. ‘Nothing useful. They keep saying it’s solved. Closed. And then the next day they come back and it starts all over again.’

‘The police usually have good reasons, Pernille. Even as Nanna’s parents you’ve no right to know.’

‘No right?’

‘In law, no. I can talk to headquarters. Ask that they don’t turn up without warning.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ Birk Larsen broke in. ‘We won’t have anything to do with them. We’re finished. We won’t hand over the videotape either.’

‘They can get a warrant.’

‘I don’t want them here. I don’t want them in my home…’

‘I’ll talk to them. See what I can do.’

‘One more thing. They’re harassing one of our drivers. A close friend.’

Pernille stared at him.

‘This is about us, Theis.’

‘I won’t let them pick on Vagn. He always stood up for me. I do the same for him.’

‘Theis—’

‘The bastards took him in for questioning. If it happens again I’d like you to help.’

The lawyer made some notes.

‘I can do that, of course. But the police wouldn’t question him without a reason.’

He tapped the table.

‘I want you to help him.’

‘Of course.’

Lis Gamborg took out a business card, passed it over.

‘Give him my number. Tell him to call any time.’

Vagn Skærbæk had been complaining to anyone who’d listen. Most of them had now gone out on jobs. He was left with Leon Frevert, the two of them shifting a pile of household belongings into one of the smaller scarlet vans.

‘Being questioned like a criminal sucks. It’s like I did something wrong. Like somebody grassed on you.’

Frevert had ditched the black wool hat for a baseball cap. The peak was turned round to the back now. He looked ridiculous.

‘And there you are, these idiots throwing the same things at you hour after hour.’

He watched Frevert lug out some carpet to the van.

Anton and Emil were kicking a football around the yard.

Frevert returned and picked up a box of crockery.

Skærbæk came up close, looked him in the face.

‘Someone put them up to this. Was it you?’

Frevert was taller but skinny, older.

‘What do you mean, Vagn? What would I have to tell them?’

‘Some bastard did…’

Frevert laughed.

‘You’re getting paranoid. They’re just hitting on anyone they can.’

A young voice crying, ‘Vagn, Vagn.’

‘Are you playing with my football?’ Skærbæk cried. ‘I told you that was my football. How dare…?’

He made a gorilla shape, face furious, wandered outside on comic legs.

The boys squealed, ran around. Skærbæk caught them both, got Anton under his right arm, Emil under his left.

Was lugging them around like that, listening to them scream happily, when Birk Larsen came down with Pernille and a woman in a business suit.

Skærbæk let the boys go.

‘My ball,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

Then they were off, giggling, kicking it round the yard again.

The woman went to her car. Birk Larsen gave Skærbæk a business card, said to call the number if the police were round again.

Skærbæk said thanks, put it in his pocket.

‘We’re going to get some guttering, Theis. Leon can come. I’ll fix it.’

‘Yeah. I’m going to let a squirt like you put up guttering. Leon can stay here. I’ll show you how it’s done.’

The boys were on Vagn again, tugging at his red overalls.

‘These kids need a trip to the toy store, Pernille. I’ll come back later and pick them up. OK?’

She stood and watched him.

It took a long while but eventually she said, ‘OK.’

In the mahogany office, from the shadows by the window, Hartmann told them about the meeting with Lund.

‘Wonderful,’ Weber said. ‘If it wasn’t Holck, who did it?’

‘Damned if I know.’

‘Does this mean we’re back in the frame?’ Skovgaard asked. ‘They’ll be looking at the flat? At us?’

Hartmann shrugged.

Weber leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and said, ‘You were supposed to have the police on Bremer by now. What happened to the report you filed?’

‘He’s guilty. They’ll get round to it.’

‘When, Troels? A month or two after we lose the election? I warned you not to play that old bastard’s game.’

‘The police will question Stokke. He can’t lie to them. Bremer’s running out of time.’

‘So are we,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Bremer’s still in for the debate tonight.’

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

She looked at him as if the question were idiotic.

‘If we were in that position I wouldn’t let you out in public. What’s the point? I don’t get it…’

‘Amateurs,’ Morten Weber scoffed. ‘Why do I work with amateurs?’

Hartmann waited.

‘Gert Stokke’s gone missing,’ Weber said. ‘I got a call a couple of minutes ago. The police came for him but he wasn’t there. Stokke lives on his own. No one’s seen him since yesterday’s hearing.’

He let it sink in.

‘Your key witness just went walkabout, Troels. Now what do we do?’

‘Find him,’ said Hartmann.

Skovgaard walked out of the office, went to her desk, started making some calls.

‘Not easy finding a man who doesn’t want to be found,’ Weber said.

‘The surveillance tape.’

‘What about it?’

‘Find out who gave it to the police.’

He got his jacket, came over, tapped Morten Weber in the chest.

‘You do that. No one else.’

Lund and Meyer went to Humleby. Skærbæk was out at a roofing suppliers. They looked at the house. New window frames, new doors. Scaffolding and fresh paint. Timber and glass waiting to be fitted.

‘Is Birk Larsen inside?’ Lund asked one of the men in red overalls in the street.

She left Meyer checking on the progress of the ID line-up, walked through the open, half-finished door, over the tarpaulins, carefully picking a path among the plasterboard and the buckets, the tools and drill cases.

He was in what would one day be the living room. Big windows. It would be full of light once the plastic was replaced with glass.

Birk Larsen was by a stepladder, working on the ceiling.

‘The doorbell doesn’t work,’ Lund said, chewing on Nicotinell.

She took a look around.

‘I’ve got some questions about Vagn.’

He took a deep breath, picked up a bucket, walked to the other side of the room.

Lund followed.

‘What exactly did he do that weekend, Theis? When he was minding the business?’

Birk Larsen moved some chipboard to the wall, took out a retractable knife, popped up the blade.

‘You left Friday night, right after Nanna went to the school party. Did you plan all that in advance?’

‘No. Why do you keep asking the same questions?’

‘Because people keep giving us the same answers. When did you know you were going away?’

‘The night before. Pernille’s mother called to offer us the cottage.’

‘Did you talk to Vagn during the weekend?’

‘I didn’t want any calls on Saturday. It was a holiday. There was a problem with a hydraulic lift on Sunday. We talked.’

‘How many times?’

He didn’t answer, just shifted some more chipboard.

‘Did his relationship with Nanna ever strike you as odd?’

That struck home.

He came over, stood in front of her.

‘I’ve known Vagn for more than twenty years. His father abandoned him. His mother drank herself to death. He’s always been our friend. It doesn’t matter what ridiculous stories you come up with. I don’t give a shit. Is that clear?’

He marched to the door, held it open.

Lund followed, stopped at the threshold.

‘One of your people saw Nanna and Amir together that day. He’s the only one who knew she was running away. I need to know if it was Vagn.’

‘Get out,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the dull day outside. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’

She walked to the front steps.

Turned. Looked at his stony, stubbled face.

‘Vagn’s mother didn’t drink herself to death. She died giving birth. To him.’

‘Get lost—’

‘Theis!’

The half-finished door slammed in her face.

Lund went to the hole for the letterbox, yelled through it, ‘He lied to you. Think about it.’

Down the curving corridor on the eastern wing. The line-up room had floor-length one-way glass. A platform on the suspects’ side. Chairs and tables on the other. The lawyer Birk Larsen had hired stood with Lund and Meyer watching as Amir went up and down the line of six men, all in identical khaki uniforms, each with a number round the neck.

‘Do you recognize anyone?’ Lund asked.

‘I don’t know. I only saw him for a second.’

‘Take your time. Take a good look. Think about what you saw. Try to remember a face.’

Amir adjusted his heavy spectacles, went closer to the glass.

‘No one can see you,’ Meyer said. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

Amir shook his head.

‘Did you see him face on or in profile? Think about it.’

He looked.

‘It might be him. Number three.’

‘Number three?’ Lund repeated.

Skærbæk.

‘Maybe.’

‘Is it him or not?’ Meyer wanted to know.

‘Or maybe number five.’

The lawyer let loose a long, pained sigh.

‘I don’t know.’

Lund put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Amir?’ the lawyer said. ‘How far’s your flat from the Birk Larsen garage?’

‘Two streets.’

‘You’ve walked past the place most of your life. You used to go there as a kid, to play with Nanna?’

He said nothing.

‘So,’ the woman added, ‘you could just be recognizing a face you know.’

Lund nodded to one of the uniform men to take him back to the office.

The lawyer looked at both of them.

‘I can’t believe you did this. Number five’s one of your detectives, isn’t he? Even if he’d picked Vagn… Of course he’s seen him. In the garage.’

She looked at her watch.

‘We’re going now.’

‘No,’ Lund said. ‘You’re not.’

Back in the office, Skærbæk in his scarlet overalls, hat on, scowling, bored.

‘No one saw you in the nursing home from ten at night until eight in the morning,’ Meyer said.

‘Why would they? I was asleep in a chair. In my uncle’s room.’

‘Right. And the rest of the weekend you were in the depot.’

‘Correct.’

‘But no one saw you there either, Vagn.’

‘I was on my own. The hydraulic lift wasn’t working. I stayed in the garage. I like working on things. Why should Theis pay for a mechanic if I can fix it?’

‘Your phone was turned off.’

‘I was fixing the lift. People could leave messages if they wanted.’

‘But no one can confirm you were there.’

‘Theis and Pernille can.’

Lund stood at the door, watching him answer, thinking about the way he spoke.

‘You’re forty-one years old, Vagn. Why don’t you have a wife and kids?’

‘I never met the right girl.’

‘Maybe women don’t like you,’ Meyer said.

‘And you still spend time with Anton and Emil,’ Lund added.

‘Sure. I’m their godfather. There’s nothing wrong with spending time with your family.’

Lund shook her head.

‘But they’re not your family.’

He met her eyes.

‘You don’t understand. I feel sorry for you.’

‘You and Pernille,’ Meyer cut in. ‘Did you maybe have a little fling when Theis was inside one time? Is there some history…?’

Skærbæk turned to the lawyer.

‘Do I have to answer that crap?’

‘Go ahead,’ she said.

‘No.’

Meyer lit a cigarette.

‘So what the hell’s in it for you? I don’t get it. All the time. All the investment. What do you get out of it?’

‘Mutual respect.’

‘Mutual respect? For what? You’re a sad old loner hanging round the family.’ Meyer pointed across the table. ‘With that stupid silver necklace? I mean… what kind of forty-one-yearold weirdo—?’

‘Were you envious of Theis?’ Lund asked.

‘You haven’t seen Pernille when she gets mad.’

She came and sat next to him.

‘You and Theis were friends as kids. He grew up and got everything. A business. A family. The good life.’

‘And you just go to work each day and hang grinning off their coat-tails,’ Meyer said. ‘You spend your day dealing with shit. Then watch Theis go home to his wife and kids.’

‘Is this your life you’re talking about?’ Skærbæk asked with a stupid, childish grin.

‘You’re a loser,’ Meyer snarled. ‘No future. No family. A dead-end job. And then the boss’s beautiful daughter starts hanging out with a raghead…’

‘You’ve got a filthy mouth for a policeman.’

The lawyer put her notebook on the table.

‘My client’s happy to answer relevant questions. If you have any. If not…’

‘Do you know what phenobarbital is?’ Lund asked.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Why do you hang around them?’ Meyer wouldn’t let this go. ‘You’re always there. When Theis goes out to beat up the teacher you’ve got to tag along. Why?’

‘Because I owe him! OK?’

They’d touched something and Lund had no idea what.

‘Why do you owe him, Vagn?’

‘Go look it up. You’re idiots. You know that? You drag me here… throw names at me. Do you think I don’t know what that’s like?’

Vagn Skærbæk got to his feet.

‘Idiots. I want to go now.’

‘Stay here,’ Lund said.

Svendsen was lurking outside.

‘They’ve found something out in Vestamager,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘They’re not sure. They’re working on it now. It’s not easy.’

‘Let’s go,’ Lund said.

Svendsen nodded at the figure in the scarlet suit in the interview room.

‘What about him?’

‘Get his passport if he has one,’ Lund ordered. ‘Tell him he can’t leave Copenhagen.’

A thought.

‘Go back to the records. We’re missing something here.’

Svendsen hated being asked to do things twice.

‘What am I supposed to be looking for this time?’

‘Something to do with Vagn and Theis Birk Larsen. Something…’

Skærbæk was slumped at the desk, picking pieces off his plastic cup again. Playing the fool.

‘Something that connects,’ she said.

Three full days of campaigning left before the weekend. The dead lull of the following Monday. Then the election. The meetings went on and on, this time at the Black Diamond, the Royal Library by the water. A room full of supporters, a handful of media. Wan winter light through the massive windows.

Hartmann smiled and nodded as the audience made for the exit.

He strode to the door, dealing with the faithful.

Smiles and handshakes. Shoulders patted. Thanks exchanged.

Outside the black glass shone in the rain. Hartmann stared at the bleak grey water. Waited for Skovgaard and the car.

Alone for once he felt strangely free. He knew the long battle to topple Bremer would be exhausting. But not this much. He felt drained. Surrounded on all sides by inimical and invisible enemies. Lacking the weapons to fight them.

Rie Skovgaard was the first to him from the car.

‘Stokke…’ Hartmann began.

‘We can’t find him. You’re going to have to think about withdrawing your allegations.’

‘If I do that I may as well pull out of the election. What are the police doing?’

Her hair was always up now. Not free around her shoulders, the way he preferred.

‘I’ve no idea. I’ll get us some food. God knows when we’ll get the chance to eat again.’

He watched her walk off. Stood on the steps, battered by the wind and drizzle. Not caring much.

Alone.

A man emerged from the shadows. He wore a black coat and sunglasses in spite of the dismal day.

Closer, then he stopped by one of the campaign posters against the glass. Troels Hartmann smiling for the world, confident, modest, youthful. Energetic and fresh.

Ten strides and Hartmann was with him.

‘You run a good campaign,’ Gert Stokke said.

In the half-light Hartmann turned, checked the pavement around them. Empty.

‘The old king’s dying. The new king waits by his bed. Long live Troels Hartmann.’

Stokke saluted.

‘They’re looking for you, Gert.’

Mouth downturned, balding head greasy from the rain, Stokke said, ‘Why the hell did I get mixed up in all this? I should have stuck to filing minutes. Letting Holck and Bremer get away with it.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘I do my job and I try to do it responsibly.’

‘I know that.’

He laughed.

‘Do you really? Is that why you threw my name into the ring? Without even warning me?’

Hartmann leaned against the black glass, stared at his own reflection.

‘Sometimes events have a life of their own. There’s nothing we can do to control them. I know that better than most by now.’

That dry laugh again.

‘You’ve got a fine turn of speech. But civil servants don’t trade in rhetoric. It’s wasted. Sorry.’

‘You lied to me. You said there were no minutes.’

‘What else could I do?’

‘You’ve got to go to the police.’

‘How can I? You know that’s impossible.’

Hartmann waited, then said, ‘What about your career?’

‘What career? I’ll be lucky to get out of this with a pension. I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I don’t why I came…’

He started to walk off. Hartmann caught up with him.

‘You’ve got a career if I win.’

The car was waiting.

Stokke stopped, took off the sunglasses, looked at him warily.

‘A civil servant learns before anyone else never to trust a politician’s promises.’

‘You can believe mine. After the election we need good, honest loyal people. I don’t doubt you fit that bill. You wouldn’t have noted that minute otherwise.’

‘Ah, the words. They come so easily.’

‘If we win, Gert, I’ll find a good position for you. Better than the job you have now. Better-paid too.’

He held out his hand.

‘If I win.’

Stokke was laughing again, more freely this time.

‘What’s so funny?’ Hartmann asked.

‘I got a message from Bremer’s people. They said the same.’

Hartmann walked to the car, opened the back door, looked at him.

Stokke rubbed his chin with his hand. Thinking.

‘You’ve got to ask yourself, Gert. Who do you trust the most?’

‘No.’

Hartmann struggled for something else, some other lure.

Then Stokke walked to join him at the car.

‘What I have to ask myself,’ the civil servant said, ‘is who I mistrust the least.’

He climbed in the back. Rie Skovgaard came round the corner with some sandwiches.

‘We’re giving Gert a lift,’ Hartmann told her. ‘So he doesn’t get lost again.’

Pernille stayed in the garage to talk to Leon Frevert.

‘That weekend when…’

He heaved some cardboard boxes onto a stack, looked embarrassed by her questions.

‘Were you around, Leon?’

‘No. Vagn called and said he didn’t need me after all.’

He went back to the boxes. A hard worker. Strong in spite of his slight build.

‘But you were supposed to work?’

‘Yeah. Saturday and Sunday. It didn’t matter. I’ve always got the taxis.’

He went outside and got more cases. She followed.

‘Vagn said there was no point in coming in. We only had one customer and they’d cancelled. So I went back to the cab. No problem. It was fine.’

She looked around the garage, thinking. Wondering about Lund. The questions the odd and persistent policewoman asked. The repetitive way she went about them.

‘So a job had been cancelled?’ Pernille asked.

Frevert took off his baseball cap and scratched his balding scalp.

‘It was funny really.’

Pernille’s breath turned shallow and rapid. She couldn’t stop looking at this pallid, thin man who wouldn’t meet her eyes.

‘What was funny?’

‘We were supposed to move for an office supply store. Couple of days later I ran into the owner. He was ranting and raving at me for cancelling on them. I thought Vagn said they cancelled on us. But he said Vagn had phoned to say we couldn’t do it.’

Frevert picked up another crate.

‘I’m sure he had a good reason.’

He lugged the load to the van, closed the doors.

‘That’s the lot then?’

She couldn’t move. Could barely stand at that moment.

‘Vagn wants the van in the morning, Pernille. I’ll drop the keys off at his place tonight when I’m done.’

He looked round the garage.

‘I’m taking a holiday soon. You won’t see me for a while. Is that OK?’

She went back upstairs, sat at the table for a long time doing nothing. Then she listened to the messages on the answering machine.

It had to be him first.

Cocky as ever.

‘Hi, it’s me. I’m on my way back. I think the police get it finally. They’ll keep their distance from now on.’

Pernille had her chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail. Like Lund. She wore a thin sweater over a white shirt. Summer clothes for some reason.

‘I’d still like to take the boys to the toy store. I saw the coolest water pistols. They’ll love them.’

As if nothing had happened, she thought.

‘They’ve got some new ones. Three different kinds. See you soon. Bye.’

Theis Birk Larsen came up the stairs. She looked at him, saw his face, knew at that moment.

Almost said it.

Back in the nightmare. Trapped in limbo.

‘Are the boys ready to go out?’ Birk Larsen asked.

‘If we want them to.’

Anton and Emil’s young voices drifted through from their room. They were playing well together for once.

Birk Larsen looked at their coats on the table. Put them on the hooks.

‘Maybe we should eat together tonight. We can watch TV with them.’

He was staring at her, wanting her approval.

‘Good idea,’ Pernille said and it was almost a whisper.

Not long after they heard the sliding garage door. A bright voice that seemed to be a part of the place calling, ‘Hello? Hello?’

Birk Larsen walked down the stairs first. Pernille followed.

Red suit, silver chain. Cheeky grin.

‘Hi, Theis. Did you get my message?’

Birk Larsen stayed at the foot of the stairs, said nothing.

‘What about the boys? Are they ready?’

Pernille joined her husband. The two of them stood together.

‘They can’t go today,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘Anton’s got a cold.’

Skærbæk’s face turned suspicious.

‘What do you mean he’s got a cold? He was fine this morning.’

‘Yeah, well…’

Pernille was silent.

Skærbæk stood there.

‘You always got me to lie for you, Theis. You’re so bad at it yourself.’

‘Vagn,’ Birk Larsen groaned. ‘Not now.’

‘This is ridiculous. I love the boys. I was really looking forward to picking them up.’

He looked ready to cry. Or lose his temper.

‘Yes,’ Birk Larsen said.

‘Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? They’re trying to break us up. They can’t find the bastard who did it so they turn on us.’

‘Did you lie to us, Vagn?’

A long pause.

‘What did they say? Tell me.’

Together they stood there in silence.

‘Jesus…’

He turned to go.

‘Vagn,’ Birk Larsen said.

Skærbæk turned, pointed an accusing finger.

‘I always stood up for you, Theis. And you, Pernille. You know that.’

‘Vagn!’

The door went up.

‘Always!’ Vagn Skærbæk shrieked, then walked off into the rain.

The TV studio was in Islands Brygge, brand new, low blue lights everywhere. Bremer turned up just before they were due to go on air, apologizing, looking flustered.

They sat at the interview desk, Hartmann making notes, Bremer fidgeting nervously. The cameras were dead and silent. The circus had yet to begin.

‘I have to tell you, Troels,’ Bremer said in a low, spiteful voice, ‘I find your conduct appalling.’

Hartmann glanced at him then went back to writing.

‘Instead of jumping to conclusions you could have come to me and checked these ridiculous accusations.’

‘Shall we begin the debate with that?’

A make-up woman came over and started to put powder on Bremer’s sweating forehead. Someone called four minutes to go. The lights went down.

‘Or with you fleeing to the police to file stupid reports?’ Bremer retorted.

‘You lead, I’ll follow.’

Bremer laughed. Caught him with a sly look.

‘You can no longer accuse me of covering for a murderer. The police know Holck didn’t do it. I’ve told his wife.’

‘Have you spoken to Olav Christensen’s mother? Asked her opinion?’

‘You don’t know a thing. To think I once believed you worthy—’

‘Save your breath. Save it for the police.’

Bremer grasped at the glass of water in front of him, gulped some down.

‘There won’t be any charges. Unless they go for Gert Stokke.’ He brightened. ‘Oh, look. Here comes Rie Skovgaard. She’ll probably bring you the same news.’

Hartmann got up to speak to her.

‘I talked to the police,’ she whispered. ‘Bremer has witnesses who’ll say he never spoke about Holck at the meeting with Stokke.’

‘There were no witnesses. The minutes make that clear.’

‘There are now. It’s going to be Stokke’s word against the Lord Mayor’s. Troels?’

Hartmann walked back to the table. Sat down in the interviewer’s seat, close to Bremer.

‘Stokke’s going to be fired,’ Bremer said, eyeing the camera. ‘That’ll be the end of it. And the end of you.’

Hartmann leaned over, whispered, ‘Can you feel the world crumbling beneath you, old man?’ Looked into his hooded grey eyes. ‘You’re like a decrepit actor who doesn’t know it’s time to leave the stage. The only one who doesn’t see it. Tragic in a way.’

A pause.

‘And when it’s over, Poul, people will try to forget about you. What you were. What you stood for. You’ll just be one grubby little detail in the history of this city. No plaques. No streets named after you. No monuments. No flowers on your grave. Just a dirty sense of shame.’

Bremer stared at him, mouth gaping, shocked, speechless.

‘Do you think you can save yourself by conjuring up witnesses?’ Hartmann asked with a smile. ‘It’s pathetic.’

Someone called one minute. The lights went up.

‘Your house is built on lies and it’s starting to burn all round you. Before long you won’t see the world for flames. And then you’re just ash and cinders. You’re gone.’

He got up, went back to his own seat.

Bremer gazed at him with such bitterness and hatred.

‘And what about you? Are you any better?’

‘Yes,’ Hartmann said. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘So tell me how you think the surveillance tape disappeared. How could the party’s flat be connected to this poor child’s murder and no one notices, not one of you?’

Hartmann stared at the notepad, scribbled doodles on it.

‘Who stole that tape, Troels, and kept it secret even though it seems to exonerate you? How come Skovgaard suddenly gets a tip about Gert Stokke?’

No answer.

‘You’re no better than me,’ Bremer snarled. ‘You just don’t know it.’

The interviewer strode past them, took her seat, said, ‘We’re nearly on.’

More lights. The cameras closed in, lenses hunting.

Poul Bremer smiled.

So did Troels Hartmann.

Two scuba divers in the dank and muddy waters of the canal on the Kalvebod Fælled, dark shiny shapes in the floodlights. Lund and Meyer watched as a portable gurney was lowered down to them on ropes.

The men above pulled something to the surface. It looked like a chrysalis the size of a man. Blue plastic. Shiny and held with tape.

Four forensic officers got it to the bank. The duty pathologist waited in a white bunny suit, medical case by his side.

Gloves on, he took a scalpel, ran it down the plastic. Opened up a flap, got ready to wind it back.

‘All sensitive souls retire now,’ the man said and no one moved.

It stank of rotten flesh and rotten water.

Torches ran over it, caught yellow bone. Ribs and a skull.

Brix waited on the upper bank. Lund stayed as close as the pathologist allowed.

‘There,’ she said, spotting something. ‘What’s that? Try scraping it.’

‘It’s not the body.’

‘I can see it’s not the body.’

With the back of his scalpel he wiped the grime and mud from the tape that bound her.

A word emerged. Blocked blue letters. MERKUR, with a flying wing to the left.

Lund started walking to the car.

Driving through the dark night Meyer got a call from headquarters.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I think they found what Vagn was talking about. Twenty-one years ago there was an incident in Christiania. Probably down to selling dope or something. Vagn got badly beaten up. Might have been killed.’

‘Theis stopped them,’ Lund said.

‘I sometimes wonder why you ask questions.’

It wasn’t far to Vesterbro. Skærbæk lived in a public housing project near the meat-packing district.

‘There had to be something tying them together.’

‘So why would Vagn kill his daughter?’

‘Let’s ask him,’ she said.

It was an ugly white block, three storeys with a supermarket in the basement. At the end of the road the hookers were out for the night. Jaded girls trying to look pretty, showing their legs to the cars streaming towards them over the Dybbølsbro bridge.

They were some of the cheapest flats around. Long lines of small units joined by an exterior walkway with an iron grille fence at the front. Skærbæk lived on the first floor. Svendsen was outside the door already. The apartment was empty. No one had been home all day. He’d left the Birk Larsens. He wasn’t at the nursing home.

Svendsen started for the stairs. Lund and Meyer paced the walkway.

‘Let’s add this up,’ she said. ‘Vagn gave his uncle the medication at ten. Nanna arrived at the flat in Store Kongensgade one hour later.’

‘The timing works for me.’

‘But how did Vagn know where she was?’

There was someone up ahead walking past the pale grey doors.

Tall figure, skinny. Baseball cap. He pulled the peak over his face as soon as he saw them.

‘Maybe he kept an eye on her,’ Meyer suggested. ‘He knew where to go.’

‘How? She just happened to go to the flat to get her passport. It’s not a routine.’

The man in the baseball cap had gone back to the lift. Pressed the button.

Lund and Meyer got there behind him. He turned away from them, took a phone out of his pocket, looked ready to make a call.

‘We questioned him twice!’ Meyer said. ‘We should have arrested him.’

Whoever he was calling hadn’t answered.

‘Let’s take the stairs, Lund. We could wait for ever.’

She followed back the way they came.

Then stopped, looked back.

The man in the baseball cap never made the call. But he couldn’t stop himself turning. And then she saw.

‘Hey,’ Lund cried. ‘Hey!’

He was starting to run, dashing down the narrow corridor towards a distant stairwell.

‘Meyer!’

Lund turned to follow, found herself in darkness, struggling to get her bearings.

Fast footsteps on metal. Iron railing, iron steps below. She’d got halfway down when she saw it.

White Mercedes. Taxi sign on the top.

Leon Frevert. The last man to see Nanna alive.

Meyer was running for it too, trying to leap on the bonnet.

He didn’t have a gun, she thought. Thanks to Brix.

‘Meyer!’

Didn’t matter anyway. The Mercedes wheeled out of the parking area, tyres squealing and smoking.

Lund got to their car first. Passenger seat. Blue light out of the glovebox, popped flashing onto the roof.

‘This time, Meyer, you drive.’

‘Who the hell was that?’ he asked, falling into the seat.

She didn’t answer. Just called headquarters.

‘I want a search for Leon Frevert. White Mercedes. Taxi sign. Registration HZ 98050. Approach with caution. Frevert’s a suspect in the Birk Larsen case.’

Meyer took the car out so quickly she had to catch her breath.

Maybe he turned right into Vesterbro. Or over the Dybbølsbro bridge, back to the city, or out to Amager, to the bridge to Malmö.

He slammed on the brakes, sending the flock of mini-skirted hookers scattering onto the pavement.

‘Which way?’ Meyer asked. ‘Which way, Lund?’

To the woods, she thought. To the dead trees of the Pentecost Forest. In the end it always goes there.

‘Lund! Which way?’

The wet shining roads led everywhere.

‘I don’t know.’

Leon Frevert had a brother. Svendsen brought the man to Frevert’s dismal studio apartment off Vesterbrogade.

He was called Martin. An accountant with his own company in Østerbro. Dark suit and tie. Younger than his brother, not so skinny or so grey. More money, Lund thought. More brains.

Meyer looked round the place.

‘Doesn’t your brother believe in furniture?’

Martin Frevert sat on the single chair. There was a sofa, a single bed. Nothing else.

‘Last time I was here the place was fully furnished. Three weeks ago,’ he added before either of them could ask.

Lund asked, ‘What’s missing?’

Frevert looked around the place.

‘The table. All his CDs. His stuff.’

‘So you didn’t know he’d given notice?’

‘He never told me. Leon always said he liked this place. His choice.’

They’d found a ticket to Ho Chi Minh City via Frankfurt. Due to leave the following Monday. Bought two days before.

Meyer said, ‘He didn’t tell you he was going to Vietnam?’

‘No. He went there on holiday a year or so ago.’

Martin Frevert scowled, looked guilty.

‘He used to go to Thailand too. It was the girls, I think—’

‘Oh come on,’ Meyer said. ‘He’d got tickets. Got money. He’d packed his bags. Sold everything. And he didn’t tell his baby brother?’

Frevert looked incensed.

‘He didn’t tell me! What do you want me to say? Why would I lie to you?’

‘What about girlfriends?’ Lund asked.

‘Not recently. He used to be married.’

‘Kids?’ said Meyer.

‘No. It didn’t end well.’

‘Friends then?’

Martin Frevert glanced at his watch.

‘Leon doesn’t have many friends. We’d have him round for dinner now and then. But really…’ He shrugged. ‘What was there to talk about? He drove a taxi. He humped cardboard boxes around the place.’

Lund ordered Svendsen to take Frevert to headquarters to make a formal statement. Then she walked to the plain wall at the end of the room.

It was covered with newspaper front pages from the very beginning of the Nanna case. Photos of Hartmann. Of Jens Holck and Kemal. But most of all pictures of Nanna, smiling.

‘The brother didn’t know,’ Meyer said. ‘This creep kept it all to himself.’

‘We had him.’ Lund stared at the front pages, the felt-tip pen marks around Nanna’s photo on every one. ‘We had him and we let him go.’

She walked out, went down the stairs to the car park. Blue lights flashing. Cars everywhere marked and unmarked. Forensics turning up.

Svendsen was smoking by the metal steps.

‘He dumped the cab near Birk Larsen’s place then picked up his own car,’ Svendsen said. ‘We’ve got an alert out for it. His phone’s off. We’ll get a trace the moment it comes back on.’

‘Why didn’t we know Frevert worked for Birk Larsen? You interviewed him.’

Svendsen looked at her, said, ‘What?’

‘You interviewed him. Why didn’t we know?’

‘He came in as a witness. Not a suspect. You never asked us to check him out.’

‘Lund…’ Meyer began.

‘Are you an intern or something, Svendsen?’ she barked. ‘Do I need to tell you your job?’

‘He was a witness!’ the burly cop yelled at her.

Meyer retreated.

She stabbed a finger towards Svendsen’s face.

‘If we’d known he worked for Birk Larsen we wouldn’t be standing here looking like idiots. We’d have Leon Frevert in a cell.’

‘Don’t blame me for your fuck-ups.’

‘You,’ she said, waving a finger in his bull face, ‘are a lazy man. And there’s nothing I hate more than laziness.’

She walked back towards her car. Meyer was making conciliatory noises behind her.

‘We’ve been working round the clock!’ Svendsen shouted. ‘I’m not having that bitch call me lazy. You hear that!’

She got behind the wheel.

‘They’re doing their best,’ Meyer said through the window. ‘Give them a break.’

‘Find Leon Frevert and I might even buy them a beer. Get his description out to the media. Bring in Vagn Skærbæk for questioning again.’

‘Lund…’

She started the car and edged out into the road.

‘Lund?’ Meyer said, running at the window. ‘What the hell do we want Vagn for again?’

‘Company,’ she answered and drove off.

Morten Weber was listening to the radio news, grim-faced, weary. A couple of reporters and photographers had ambushed Hartmann on the way into the Rådhus, following him up the stairs until Skovgaard turned on them.

Weber turned up the volume as Hartmann took off his coat.

‘Sources in police headquarters indicate the killer of Nanna Birk Larsen has still to be found. There is new speculation about the coming elections. The case continues to haunt Troels Hartmann since the Liberal Party flat is known to be connected to the crime. The basis for the police report filed by Hartmann against the Lord Mayor appears to be crumbling. New witnesses have stated that Bremer was not privy to the conversation…’

‘Turn it off,’ Hartmann ordered.

The office was strewn with papers. Committee minutes and constitutional documents.

‘Let’s go back to the police and get an update. Rie?’

She nodded, looking glum.

‘Send out a press release stating that we maintain our position on Bremer. Emphasize that I’ve been cleared of all suspicion.’

‘I hope the public believe that,’ Weber grumbled.

Skovgaard asked, ‘What did Bremer say to you, Troels?’

‘He accused me of covering up details in the case.’

‘What details?’

‘The surveillance tape. The party flat. He seems to think we got the information on Gert Stokke deceitfully somehow.’

Skovgaard said nothing.

Weber checked his phone.

‘I hate to make a bad day worse,’ he said, ‘but that slimy bastard Erik Salin’s waiting outside for you. He says he has to talk to you. It’s important.’

‘To him or me?’

‘I’d guess him. Ignore it…’

Hartmann went into the main office. Erik Salin was on the sofa, helping himself to a glass of wine. He’d started working on special projects for one of the dailies, or so he said.

‘What does that mean?’ Hartmann asked.

‘Right now that means you.’

Hartmann sat back on the leather sofa and waited.

‘Thing is,’ Salin said, taking out his notebook, ‘I don’t get some of this story. The surveillance tape, say.’

‘Been talking to Bremer?’

‘I talk to lots of people. It’s my job. I just want to get this straight. Wasn’t it really convenient for you that the tape disappeared? It’s got you on there taking the car keys.’

‘It’s also got Holck with the girl. So it suited him more than me, don’t you think?’

‘I guess. But Holck was dead by the time the tape showed up.’ A thin, sarcastic smile. ‘Didn’t help him much then, did it?’

‘Erik…’

‘So the party flat was left untouched for more than a week? Is that right?’

‘Seems to be. I’m running an election campaign. Not an accommodation agency.’

Salin looked surprised.

‘You’re running the Liberal group, aren’t you? There were lots of meetings during that time. And you never used the flat. Don’t you find that strange?’

‘Not really. We hold meetings here. In the campaign office.’

‘I guess.’ Salin smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry to pester you with all this. New editor. You get all the pressure.’

‘You are aware, Erik, that the police have cleared me of all suspicion?’

‘I do know that. I have to ask. What with stuff flying around. Like all these rumours about Rie Skovgaard.’

Hartmann said nothing.

‘You must have heard them, Troels? It’s everywhere. Supposedly she got the tip on Stokke by spreading her legs for Bremer’s press guy Bressau.’

He picked up one of the papers, found a photo of Bressau with Bremer. Put it in front of Hartmann.

‘Can’t blame the guy. Skovgaard’s hot in a kind of…’ He scratched his bald head. ‘A cold kind of way.’

Salin was grinning.

‘Word is she took him to a hotel the night they let you out of jail. Worked a little pillow talk on him. Got favours in return. If it’s true Bressau’s finished, of course. I guess we’ll have to see. People always say I’m in a shitty business. But it’s not much different to yours, is it?’

Hartmann waited, thinking.

Then he said, ‘I know you people think you own my private life. But if you’re going to stoop to playing Peeping Tom with my staff you’ve crossed the line.’

He got to his feet.

‘I don’t want to see you here again.’

Salin scooped up his notebook and his pen.

‘You put yourself in the public eye, Troels. You’ve got to expect some scrutiny.’ That snide grin again. ‘People have the right to know who they’re voting for. The real person. Not the pretty face on the posters. Not the bullshit they’re fed from your publicity machine.’

‘Goodnight.’

‘Still, I guess if she’s willing to go that far for her man you have to wonder.’ Erik Salin came close, looked into Hartmann’s eyes. ‘What else would she do? And here you are accusing Bremer of impeding the investigation. It’s a bit rich, don’t you think?’

‘Isn’t there an opening on a gossip column somewhere, Erik? Sounds more up your street.’

‘Ouch! That hurt.’ He nudged Hartmann gently in the ribs. ‘Just kidding. I will need to get back to you, Troels. With some more questions. Don’t freeze me out.’

‘Erik—’

‘You won’t kill this by not talking to me. That’s a promise.’

Vagn Skærbæk was in Lund’s office demanding his lawyer.

‘No one’s charging you,’ Meyer said. ‘We just want to know what Leon Frevert was doing round your place.’

Red overalls, black hat. He looked as if he never climbed out of them.

‘So that means I’m not a suspect any more?’

‘Where’s Frevert likely to hang out?’

‘That’s an apology? Jesus. You people…’

Lund looked at him.

‘You want us to find out what happened, don’t you, Vagn? You’re one of the family.’

‘Leon was bringing back the keys for the van. He did a job. He’s not working tomorrow. I’m closer to him than the garage. He was going to drop them through my door.’

Lund wrote that down.

Meyer got up from the desk, started looking at the one photo they had of Frevert. Not a good one.

‘How well do you know him?’

Skærbæk frowned.

‘Leon’s been hanging round the removals business for years.’ He took off his black cap. ‘If he’d been a bit more reliable we might have given him a job. But I don’t know. You never got friends with the guy. There was always something…’

He stopped.

‘Something what?’ Lund prompted.

‘He was married for a while. When that went tits up he turned a bit weird. You think I’m a loner? I’m not. Leon…’ He frowned. ‘Definitely.’

‘Where do you think he might go?’

‘God knows.’

‘Was he working for Birk Larsen when Nanna went missing?’ she asked.

Skærbæk took off his hat, played with it, said nothing.

‘Well?’ Meyer asked.

‘I don’t think he’s been around for a few weeks. I don’t carry a job list in my head. He worked a lot during the summer, off and on.’

‘How did he get the job there?’

‘Through me. There’s an agency we use for casual work when we need people. He was looking for some cash on the side.’

‘When did you first get to know him?’

Skærbæk’s dark and beady eyes were on her.

‘Through Aage Lonstrup. He was a casual when I worked there.’

Lund sat back, thought about it.

‘You’re saying twenty years ago Leon Frevert worked for Merkur?’

Skærbæk’s face was still unreadable.

‘Did he do it?’

She didn’t answer.

‘People in your business see a lot of empty buildings and warehouses.’

Lund passed him a notepad and a pen, placed it next to Meyer’s toy police car.

‘I want a list of all the places Frevert would know from the business.’

He laughed.

‘All of them? You’re kidding. I mean… there’s a million places.’

‘Get started,’ Meyer said. ‘When you’re finished you can go.’

Skærbæk nodded.

‘So…’ His voice was cracking. ‘I brought this bastard into their home.’

He closed his eyes, let out a low moan.

‘Vagn…’ Meyer began.

An accusing arm, thrust at both of them.

‘Thanks to you Theis and Pernille think I killed Nanna. Now I’ve got to go back and tell them… maybe… maybe…’ The volume and the anger fell, turned inwards. ‘Maybe I did in a way.’

Lund watched him.

‘Just write the list,’ she said.

She listened as Meyer talked to the night team in the briefing room. Next to the map of the city on the wall were some fresh photos of Frevert, pictures of Nanna and Mette Hauge, some of the other women from the missing persons files.

All the standard procedures. Background to Frevert’s activities over the previous two decades. Tracking down girlfriends, the former wife, workmates, neighbours. Staff from the closed Merkur. Something that might link him to Mette Hauge.

‘I want to know where his cab went after he let Nanna out,’ Meyer said. ‘Let’s get his phone records. Every call he made that weekend. OK?’

Lund watched them go. Svendsen came into the room, didn’t look at her.

He had an evidence bag and some old file records.

‘What’s that?’ Lund asked, making him look at her.

‘I tracked down some storage space Merkur used to rent. The tax people impounded everything over unpaid bills. Pile of crap so they’ve never got round to selling what they took. From what I can gather some of Mette’s stuff may be still there. The tax people have given me an entry card and some keys. Whether anything’s still there…’

‘Good,’ Lund said.

Svendsen looked at her.

‘Good,’ she repeated.

Meyer watched him leave.

‘You never did the teamwork course, did you, Lund?’

‘Depends on the team. The body we found is Mette Hauge. How many more are out there?’

‘We’ve got enough on our hands already. No time to look for more. Did he tie her up too?’

‘Mette was long dead when she was bound. Fractured skull. Fractured clavicle, forearm, femur and shoulder.’

He looked at the photos in front of her.

‘He wasn’t kidding, was he?’

‘What are we missing, Meyer? Nanna was kept for the weekend. Raped repeatedly. Thrown alive into the boot of a car. Drowned. Mette was beaten to death, wrapped up in plastic sheeting, bound with Merkur tape, dumped in the water.’

There was more information about Mette Hauge on the desk. She was wrapped in the sheeting wearing a torn cotton dress. No bra. No underwear.

‘It says she was taking self-defence classes. Judo. She was a fit, muscular girl.’

‘She’d fight,’ Lund said. ‘If someone came at her. She’d fight for her life, fight well I guess. How can these be the same but different?’

‘You mean it’s not our guy?’

‘I don’t know what I mean. Maybe he had some sort of relationship with Mette. It went wrong. That made him mad. Nanna was different.’

She picked up the evidence bag with the entry card and the key to the warehouse.

‘If there was a relationship we could pick up something from her things.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Meyer said.

‘No. Now.’

Meyer got his jacket.

‘Look, Lund. Maybe you don’t have a life but I do. My youngest’s got an ear infection. I promised I’d be home.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’

‘Oh for pity’s sake. You’re not going on your own.’

She read through the file record.

‘OK,’ Meyer said. ‘That’s it. Time for a little frank speaking.’

His hand slammed on the papers she was shuffling.

‘Lund. I’ve been watching you for two weeks. You’re falling apart.’

She looked at him.

Meyer folded his arms.

‘I’m saying this as your friend. You need sleep. You need to get this case out of your head for a while. I’m driving you home now. No arguments. No…’

She smiled, patted him on the chest, got her jacket, walked down the corridor.

Footsteps behind her. Lund didn’t look back.

‘This better not take long,’ Meyer yelled.

She drove. The warehouse was in a deserted part of the docks. Two fluorescent tubes outside.

Meyer got a call from home. Apologies. Baby talk to a child.

‘Poor darling. Does it hurt?’

‘If it’s an ear infection…’ Lund said lightly.

She got out of the car, looked at the place, left the door open. Meyer didn’t move.

‘I’ll stop at the chemist on the way home. I won’t be late, I promise. Hang on a minute…’

Lund was at the door. It was a security card system.

‘Hey!’ Meyer cried. ‘The chances of that thing working are about equal to me making the next Pope. Just wait will you?’

She popped in the card, heard the lock clank. Opened the door. Turned, waved the card at him and walked in.

Meyer was screaming at her.

‘Lund! Goddammit! Lund!’

Just heard him say, in a voice more sympathetic than angry, ‘I’m sorry, love. It’s just that she’s really crazy right now. I’ve got to keep an eye out—’

The red metal door was on a massive spring. It slammed shut behind her, its iron voice booming through the darkness ahead.

Theis Birk Larsen refused to talk to the two detectives who came round demanding access to their records. Pernille was less reticent. She stood in the office with the two of them, fielding their questions. Asking some of her own.

They were asking about staff and when they worked.

‘Of course we make a note of who goes on each job,’ she said.

The two of them were hunting through calendars, worksheets, ledgers. Didn’t ask permission for anything.

‘What’s this about? What are you looking for?’

One of them found a financial ledger, started flicking through the pages.

‘We want to know when Leon Frevert worked here.’

‘Why?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Those are our accounts. They’re private. Nothing to do with you—’

‘We’ve got a warrant. We’ll take what we like.’

‘They’re the accounts!’

He grinned at her.

‘Everything goes through the books, does it? We work with the tax people too, Pernille. I can pass this on—’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see the paperwork that lists who’s worked here and when. Every day for the last year.’

She marched to the filing cabinets. Got what they wanted. Threw it on the desk.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said and went upstairs.

Theis was washing up at the sink. The basil plant and the parsley were dying on the windowsill. She hadn’t watered them. Never thought of it.

Pernille stood next to him, trying to catch his eyes.

‘They’re looking for Leon Frevert. They’re asking where he’s been. How long he’s worked for us. They want to—’

‘There’s no point in getting involved,’ he cut in angrily.

‘Yes but—’

‘There’s no point! Every day they point the finger at someone new. This morning it’s Vagn. Now it’s Leon. Tomorrow it’s probably me—’

‘Theis—’

‘I can’t believe we did that to Vagn. We were stupid enough to think there was something in it.’

‘Theis—’

‘If it wasn’t for Vagn we wouldn’t have this place. If it wasn’t for Vagn…’

His voice drifted into silence.

‘Maybe you should call him,’ she said.

‘I tried. He didn’t answer.’

A small, scared voice from the shadows.

‘Did something happen to Uncle Vagn?’

Anton walked out in his blue pyjamas, sat on the step, looked wide awake.

‘Were the police here again, Dad?’

‘Yes… I lost something. They came to return it.’

Folded arms, bright face. Always the one with questions.

‘What did you lose?’

Theis Birk Larsen looked at Pernille.

‘Well, it was supposed to be a surprise. But…’

He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket.

‘It’s these. We’re moving. We’ve got a house.’

Pernille smiled, at Theis, at Anton.

‘You get your own room,’ she said. ‘We can sit outside in the summer. You can have a slide in the garden.’

The boy got up, frowned.

‘I like it here.’

‘You’ll like it there better.’

‘I like it here.’

‘You’ll like it there better.’

The hard tone in Theis Birk Larsen’s voice silenced the boy.

‘Go to bed, Anton,’ he ordered and the child went straight away.

Lund was on the sixth floor, poking round the storage spaces, when Meyer called.

‘What the hell are you doing in there?’

‘I found the floor where Merkur’s stuff’s kept.’

The building was still used regularly. The lights worked. The concrete was swept. Each floor was allotted to a company. Everything was stored behind chipboard doors.

‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

The key Svendsen found had the number 555 scrawled on the label in pencil. Lund looked at the nearest door. Five hundred and thirty.

‘You do realize you locked the door behind you? I can’t get in.’

He sounded anxious. Almost frantic.

‘I’ll be back down in a minute. What are you doing?’

‘Right now? Taking a leak. You did ask.’

Meyer finished peeing into the water by the dock. Called home again. Got ticked off again.

‘I told you. She’s not right in the head. I can’t leave her on her own.’ He listened to the list of complaints. ‘I can’t leave her! You know why.’

Women, he thought after the desultory, angry goodbyes.

He looked at the building. It wasn’t the wreck he was expecting. Graffiti all over the front. From the smell some people weren’t as particular about peeing in the water instead of peeing against the walls. But there were low security lights on every floor, good strong doors. No exterior CCTV. Apart from that…

He pulled the torch out of his anorak pocket, shone it the length of the grey cement facing.

On the right something glittered. He walked over, found his feet scrunching through broken glass.

Looked down.

Fresh.

Shone the light on the window above.

Broken.

A commercial waste bin was pushed up close to the wall. With that someone could climb inside.

He pushed back, shone the torch on the floors above.

Said, ‘Shit.’

She walked along until she reached door 555. Same chipboard slab. Same basic lock mechanism. Sliding bolt with a padlock.

It was half open.

Lund didn’t have any gloves with her. So she pulled her sleeve down until the wool covered her fingers then slowly prised the door back.

The space beyond was half empty. What lay there was stored at the rear.

Cardboard boxes, like the ones in Birk Larsen’s garage. But these had white tape with blue lettering. The name Merkur with the flying wing to the left. The same tape that bound Mette Hauge.

It looked mostly junk.

The phone rang.

She looked at the ID.

‘I said a minute, Meyer. One of my minutes. OK?’

‘There’s a broken window at the front. Someone’s been here.’

‘Makes sense. The door was forced when I got to the Hauge unit.’

‘What floor are you on?’

‘The sixth. The top one.’

Silence. Then Meyer said, ‘OK. I can see your torch now. You’re at the window.’

Lund tucked her hands in her pockets, tried to think.

‘What window? I’m not using a torch.’

The silence again.

‘Stay where you are, Lund. You’re not alone. I’m coming in.’

She walked to the corner of the cold, dry room. Stood in the darkness. Turned her phone to vibrate, not ring.

Someone was out there. She could hear their footsteps. Up and down. Searching.

Something silver glittered in a nearby box. Lund looked. A heavy metal candlestick. She picked it up and walked back into the corridor, looking right, looking left in the waxy low security lights, walked on, seeing nothing but concrete and chipboard and dust.

Jan Meyer ran back to Lund’s car, cursing Brix for taking his weapon. Hunted through the Nicotinell packets and the tissues in the glovebox until he found the Glock.

Full magazine. Chewing gum on the grip.

He put it on the roof of the car, plugged in his headset, called her again.

‘Lund, are you there?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.

‘Good. I’m on my way.’

He climbed through the broken window, lowered himself gently onto the floor inside. Yellow chipboard doors. Concrete floor. Nothing.

Hit the call button.

‘Lund? Can you hear me? Hello?’

No answer.

‘Lund!’

A noise. A reluctant mechanical growl. Cables moving, wheels turning.

A voice in his ear.

‘Shit!’

‘Lund!’

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

It sounded like a rusty metal animal stirring from a long sleep. Meyer walked the concrete corridor. Found the place. Buttons on the wall. Folding metal door. Cables falling and rising beyond.

Got out the Glock. Fell against the wall.

‘I’m by the lift,’ he said.

He could hear footsteps on the stairs, rapid and anxious. Drowned out by the approaching squeals of the tin cage falling from above.

A light. A clank. The lift stopped beside him.

Gun out. Waiting for the folding doors to slide. To move.

Nothing.

Waited.

Nothing.

Barrel pointing, turned the corner, aimed it straight ahead.

Nothing but an empty cage, a single bare bulb bright in the ceiling.

Meyer looked around him, saw blank space.

Confused.

‘The lift’s empty,’ he said.

Footsteps racing down the stairs. Getting closer.

‘I’m coming up for you.’

‘I don’t think he’s here.’

Her voice sounded shrill and scared in his head.

‘He’s gone down. He’s with you—’

‘I’m coming…’

Walked for the stairs. Saw the chipboard door come flying out to meet him.

Wood slammed into his face, hard metal bolt and padlock smashed against his waist.

A shout. A cry. His?

Meyer was on the floor, stunned and hurting.

Angry, swearing too.

Fingers reaching for the gun.

The gun.

The lost gun.

He rolled, he groaned. Looked up. Saw the black Glock.

Eyes widening.

A roar as big as the world. A flash of flame.

Jan Meyer bucked back against the impact, felt a bright sharp spear of pain grip his body.

Frozen on the cold floor, limbs wouldn’t move. Saw the gun over him again.

Said…

Nothing.

What words were there?

He thought of his daughter, crying at home. Thought of his wife and their last few angry words.

The second roar was bigger and behind it was nothing but blood and pain.

One word in it. His, spoken in a voice that died the moment it was uttered.

‘Sarah…’ Meyer said, and then was gone.

Lund flew down the stairs, stumbling, shrieking, thinking but not thinking, flailing at the dead space ahead with her arms.

The floors lost their numbers. When she got to the last she kept running, round and round, as if there were more. As if the cold, dry staircase led somewhere for ever.

But it didn’t. She was there. And just a few steps away was Meyer. A still shape on the ground. Noises. Someone running.

Lund knelt by him.

Breathing, gasping. Blood from his throat. Blood on his chest.

‘Jan. Jan. Look at me.’

Hand to his face. Warm red gore.

Chest, she thought.

Ripped at the vest. Saw flesh. Saw the gaping wound.

Got the phone with her bloody fingers.

Called.

Outside an engine gunning.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

An ambulance. Lights, sirens, noise.

Inside now. Medics in green uniform working, screaming, hands flying, pushing her out of the way.

A mask over his face.

Cries.

‘More fluid.’

Machines beep. Tyres squeal. The world turns.

‘Oxygen saturation low. Pulse high.’

A line in his arm. Big eyes wide and scared.

Lund sat on the bench, watching, beyond tears.

‘He’s going,’ someone said. ‘Paddles!’

‘Keep ventilating. More fluid.’

Meyer rocking and twitching, wires through the blood.

‘OK. Charging.’

A machine on the wall.

‘Clear!’

Meyer leapt.

‘Again.’

Meyer leapt.

Hands on chest. Massaging.

Words in her head.

‘Will he? Will he?’

No one hears.

One hour later. She sat on a bench in the corridor, close to the theatre. Still sticky from his blood. Still lost in what happened.

Forks in the road. Choices made.

If she’d let him go home to his sick kid with earache.

If they’d gone in together, as every rulebook said.

If…

Brix marched towards her. Evening suit. White bow tie, fancy dress shirt.

‘I came as soon as I could,’ he said.

Down the corridor men in green smocks talked in low voices behind masks.

‘Any news?’ Brix asked.

A nurse ran into the theatre carrying a plastic sac of fluid.

‘They’re operating.’

She watched the people come and go through the swinging doors. Wondered what they were thinking.

‘What were you doing in the warehouse?’

‘What?’

He repeated the question.

‘We thought there might be some evidence in Mette Hauge’s belongings. Someone had the same idea.’

Brix said, ‘Leave this to me. And this time you really will do what I say.’

Meyer’s wife Hanne was coming towards them. Face immobile, bloodless. Blonde hair tied back. Walking in a daze.

‘Where is he?’ she asked.

‘In the theatre,’ Lund said. ‘I’ll come with you to the office.’

‘No.’

Brix glared at her.

A tall man, dignified in his evening dress.

This was what they did. Times like these belonged to them.

He put an arm round Hanne Meyer’s shoulder, walked her down the corridor to the place next to the theatre.

Lund stood there alone and watched them.

Stood there and didn’t, couldn’t move.