The Killing 3 Read online

  ‘No,’ Zeuthen said immediately. ‘It’s on the schedule. You get them tomorrow. I can deal with this.’

  Reinhardt and the children were back at the door. He looked as if he needed to talk. Zeuthen went over, listened. Hartmann’s staff were demanding a statement. The board would convene within the hour.

  ‘A body’s been found at the docks, near our facility,’ he added.

  ‘One of our men?’

  ‘There’s no sign of that, Robert.’

  It happened so quickly there was nothing Zeuthen could do. Maja pushed past him, walked up to Emilie, took her hands.

  ‘I want to know about the cat,’ she insisted.

  The girl tried to pull back.

  ‘Emilie!’ Maja shrieked. ‘This is important!’

  Zeuthen bent down, said gently, ‘Mum needs to know. So do I. Whose cat is it? Please?’

  The years fell off her. An uncertain, shifty child again. Emilie said nothing. She struggled as Maja pulled up the sleeves of her blue coat.

  Red skin, puffy and swollen.

  She lifted the girl’s jumper. Her stomach was covered with the same livid marks.

  ‘There’s a cat here,’ Maja barked. ‘What the hell have you been playing at? I’m taking her to hospital now.’

  He’d never seen her temper until their marriage began to falter. Here it was again, loud and vicious.

  Carl put his hands over his ears. Emilie stood stiff and silent and guilty. Reinhardt said something Zeuthen barely heard about postponing the board meeting.

  Responsibilities. They never went away.

  Zeuthen crouched down, looked his daughter in the eye.

  ‘Where was the cat, Emilie?’ he asked. ‘Please—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’ Maja screamed. ‘I’ll deal with that later. She’s going to hospital . . .’

  Emilie Zeuthen began to cry.

  Troels Hartmann liked being on the stump. Especially when his opponent was a left-wing windbag like Anders Ussing. The world of Danish politics was a seething stew of small parties fighting for the right to make peace with their enemies and seize a little power for themselves. In the current climate only Hartmann’s liberals and Ussing’s socialists stood a chance of winning sufficient votes to hold the Prime Minister’s chair.

  The polls were close. One slip-up on either side could tip them easily. But that, he felt sure, was more likely to come from a loudmouth like Ussing than any of his own, carefully shepherded supporters. Morten Weber, the wily campaign organizer who’d won him the mayor’s seat in Copenhagen, had followed into the Christiansborg Palace. He’d recruited Karen Nebel, a slick and telegenic media adviser who’d worked as a political hack for one of the state TV stations. It was as good a team as Hartmann had ever possessed. And he had a few tricks of his own up his sleeve too, though listening to Ussing try to wind up the audience in the run-down Zeeland docks terminal he wondered whether he’d need them.

  It was a typical turnout for an industrial gathering: women from offices, a handful of burly stevedores in hard hats, some seamen, few of them interested in politics but glad of a break from work. The platform was on a pickup truck set by a pair of shiny barrel-like containers in an open building beneath a corrugated roof. The TV crews had been positioned at the front, the news reporters corralled into the seats behind.

  Ussing was trotting out the same lines he’d been spouting up and down Denmark since the election campaign began.

  ‘This government is starving the ordinary citizens of Denmark to fill the pockets of the rich who bankroll them.’

  Hartmann stared straight at the TV cameras, smiled and shook his head.

  ‘And today!’ Ussing roared, like the trade union boss he once was, ‘we see what Hartmann’s weakness has won us.’

  He held up that morning’s paper, with the headline about Zeeland abandoning the country for a new low-tax base in the Far East.

  ‘One of our biggest employers is joining the exodus now. While he sticks us with the bill they ship their jobs to Asia.’

  A murmur of approval, white hats shaking. Hartmann picked up the mike.

  ‘A sound industrial policy works for everyone, Anders. If we can keep Zeeland happy they’ll employ more Danes in return . . .’

  ‘Not any more!’ Ussing yelled, slapping the paper. ‘You’ve turned a blind eye to their monopolies. You’ve sucked up to them with your tax cuts and oil subsidies . . .’

  The rabble-rousing was starting to work. He was getting a few cheers and the odd round of applause.

  ‘The only sucking up that’s going on here’s from you,’ Hartmann broke in. ‘Easy words. Irresponsible ones. You’d have us believe you can wish this crisis away with a few sweet words while quietly dipping into the pockets of ordinary Danes and relieving them of what money they have.’

  Hartmann scanned the crowd. They were quiet. They were listening.

  ‘I know it’s hard. For too long we’ve been reading about layoffs and bankruptcies. About private savings disappearing into thin air.’ A long pause. They were waiting. ‘If I had a magic wand do you think I wouldn’t use it? This is the world we have. Not just in Denmark. Everywhere. The choice you face is a simple one. Do we deal with these problems now? Or pass this mess on to our children?’

  He gestured to the stocky, ginger-haired man next to him.

  ‘If you want to duck your responsibilities, vote for Anders Ussing. If you’ve got the guts to face them, choose me.’

  They liked that. Ussing took the mike.

  ‘So when Zeeland bleat to the papers about moving you’ll give them more of our money, Troels? Is that how it works? Another bribe for your friends . . .’

  ‘If we make the climate good for business, the jobs will stay here,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Our industrial policy looks for growth. But there are limits. We’re in this together. Everyone contributes, just as everyone’s affected. That means Zeeland too.’ Hand to his heart, he said it again. ‘That means Zeeland too.’

  They were clapping as he left. Karen Nebel still wasn’t happy as they headed for the car.

  ‘I specifically asked you to steer clear of Zeeland.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? He had me on the spot. I can’t ignore a question like that. Zeeland have to go public and deny the article.’

  She was a tall woman with swept-back fair hair and a tense, lined face bordering on hard. Scheming at times but he could handle that.

  ‘They will deny it, won’t they, Karen?’

  ‘I keep leaving messages everywhere. No one gets back to me. I think something’s up.’

  ‘Get it out of them,’ Hartmann ordered. ‘I’ve just about got a deal with Rosa Lebech’s people sewn up. I don’t want anything to get in the way of that.’

  She scowled at the mention of the woman who ran the Centre Party.

  ‘There’s a homeless camp next door,’ she said. ‘I scheduled a stop there.’

  ‘If I can talk to people, fine. I’m not just doing photo-ops.’

  They got to the car. She held the door open for him.

  ‘Troels. They’re homeless. Pictures are the only reason we’re here.’

  Hartmann’s phone rang. He saw the number, walked away from the car for some privacy.

  ‘I just saw you on TV, honey. If I wasn’t leading another party you’d get my vote.’

  ‘I still want it,’ Hartmann said. ‘We’ve got to close this deal, Rosa. And after that I need to see you. Somewhere quiet.’ He looked round, saw he was alone. ‘With a big brass bed.’

  ‘Oh my God. And your Dylan records too.’

  ‘The deal first.’

  ‘We’ll back you as Prime Minister. So long as we know you’re on top of Zeeland.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You don’t believe Ussing, do you? Or that stupid rag this morning?’

  ‘Let’s talk about this later,’ Rosa Lebech said.

  Then she was gone.

  Before he could think straight Karen Nebel was over, calling off the visit to the homeless camp. One of the security people was with her. He said they’d found a dead body round the corner.

  ‘PET think there might be some kind of threat. The security systems have been compromised or something. They think—’

  ‘I’m not giving Ussing more ammunition,’ Hartmann said. ‘Schedule it for later in the day. Unless PET come up with something concrete.’

  ‘Who was the call from?’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘My dentist. I forgot an appointment.’ A shrug, the charming Hartmann smile. ‘Elections. They do get in the way.’

  The tie was uncomfortable. The shirt had seen better days. Brix had organized the ceremony and for some reason brought in the police brass band. They stood in the corner huffing and puffing at trumpets and euphoniums, making a noise that sounded like a party of drunken elephants.

  She was trying to be polite listening to war stories told by an old officer from the sticks, waiting for the ceremony to begin, when her phone rang.

  Lund walked away to take it.

  ‘It’s Juncker here. I’m still at the docks.’

  ‘Hi, Asbjørn.’

  A long pause then he said, ‘Forensics have been taking a look at our bits and pieces. They’re sure it’s homicide. He was dead when the crane grabbed him. He’d been whacked about with a claw hammer. Looks like he got away from a ship and the bloke caught up with him at the yard. Chucked him in the car. We’ve talked to the bums here. They’re clueless. Zeeland don’t know of anyone missing.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Someone saw a speedboat hanging round. They thought it was chasing a seal.’

  ‘Why would someone chase a seal?’ she asked, walking to the window, taking a long look at the weather outside.

  ‘The coastguard said they got an interrupted call around two thirty in the morning. They don’t know who from. The speedboat was cruising round near the junkyard not long after.’

  Lund asked the obvious question. Had any nearby vessels reported a missing sailor? Juncker said no.

  ‘It’s probably left the harbour,’ she said. ‘You need to get all the local movements.’

  ‘What movements? Zeeland have pretty much mothballed this part of the docks. Also . . .’ He stopped for a moment as if trying to find somewhere quiet. ‘There’s all these PET guys here sniffing round. What’s it to do with them?’

  ‘It’s OK, Asbjørn. They’re human too.’

  ‘You’re never going to call me Juncker, are you?’

  ‘Talk to Madsen. Do as he says. I’m busy—’

  ‘The PET bloke wants a word. Man called Borch. Got the impression he knows you already. He’s on his way.’

  Lund didn’t say anything.

  ‘Hello?’ Juncker asked down the line. ‘Anyone there?’

  ‘Talk to Madsen,’ Lund said again, finished the call, looked down the long corridor, wondered how many more ghosts were going to come creeping out of the shadows.

  She’d no idea what Mathias Borch did any more. Something important she guessed. He was bright, had shown that when they first met more than twenty years before at police academy. Now he looked a little broken and worn. Still had all his hair though, uncombed as usual, and the wrinkled face of a boxer pup.

  Puppy.

  She used to call him that. The memory must have been why she was blushing when Borch strode up, didn’t smile, didn’t even look her in the eye much and said, ‘Sarah. We’ve got to talk. This body down the docks. Your kid there said—’

  ‘Stop,’ Lund ordered, hand up. Then she pointed to the door. Brix had started giving his speech. She could hear him talking about the strength of the corps, year after year, and how its integrity was the basis for justice and security in Copenhagen.

  ‘Heard it all a million times,’ Borch grunted. ‘This is important . . .’

  Lund muttered a low curse and took him in the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb your day,’ he said. ‘I mean . . . congratulations and all that.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it.’

  ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Really. Are you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m involved in this case. I need to know what you’ve got.’

  ‘Nothing. We’ve got nothing at all.’

  ‘So you’ve searched the docks? And the ships there?’

  ‘We’re looking. There’s only one ship. Juncker got in touch with them by radio. They haven’t seen a thing.’

  He frowned. The puppy looked his age then.

  ‘I expected more than that . . .’

  ‘Listen! I haven’t spoken to you in years. Then you turn up here, just when I’m about to pick up my long service medal, and start throwing questions at me. I’m going back in there . . .’

  ‘I’m in PET. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘We think there’s more to it. Two weeks ago there was a break-in down at the docks. It looked like the usual burglary. A computer gone, some loose change. Details of Zeeland’s security system . . .’

  ‘Isn’t that their problem?’

  He stared at her. It was a stupid remark. Zeeland was a huge international conglomerate. It carried clout, in government and beyond.

  ‘What’s this got to do with our man in bits?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s no CCTV footage from last night. Two minutes after that failed emergency call to the coastguard every last camera got turned off somehow. He hacked into the system, froze it on old footage, then switched it back on before dawn.’

  Borch grabbed a sandwich from a platter prepared for the get-together and took a bite.

  ‘Burglars are rarely that smart,’ he said, spitting a few crumbs down his front.

  Brix had stopped speaking. Soon the medals and the diplomas would be handed out.

  ‘Leave me your number,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’

  He stopped her as she tried to walk off.

  ‘Someone’s taken down one of the most sophisticated security systems in the country. There’s a dead man in the harbour when it comes back online. On the very day the Prime Minister’s due to spend some time around there. The financial crisis. Afghanistan . . .’ He laughed. ‘Irate husbands. Hartmann’s got as many people who hate him as love him.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘I don’t want you to pass it on. I want you on the case. Brix has already agreed . . .’

  ‘I bet he has.’

  ‘You’re better than OPA.’

  ‘Listen! There’s no one reported missing. The chances are he was a foreign sailor from a foreign ship and it’s out of our waters.’

  ‘I still want you on the case. And so does Brix.’

  Applause from the next room, laughter too. The presentations had started. She couldn’t just blunder in now.

  ‘You do look good,’ he said, and seemed a little embarrassed. ‘Me . . .’ A shrug, and she could picture him back in the academy, with all his grim humour and bad jokes. ‘I just got old.’

  She wanted to shout at him. To scream something.

  Instead Lund said, ‘I’m not getting this uniform dirty. I’m supposed to have an interview later.’

  The Zeeland headquarters sat on the waterfront near the harbour. A modern black glass monolith with the company dragon stencilled across the top six floors, it was now surrounded by little more than construction sites turning the dockside into cheap housing. One of the few commodities that still sold.

  Robert Zeuthen parked his shiny new Range Rover outside. Reinhardt was waiting in the lobby with news about the body in the docks. It was now a murder case but there were no indications Zeeland were involved. PET were working on it alongside the police. Troels Hartmann’s presence in the area made their interest inevitable.

  ‘Where did that cat come from?’ Zeuthen asked.

  ‘Not the house,’ Reinhardt insisted. ‘I’m still checking. This incident at the docks looks bad. It seems the security system was breached somehow. We’ve got a team looking into it. PET want to talk to them.’ He frowned. ‘Hartmann’s more concerned about the newspaper report. He’s waiting to hear us deny it.’

  ‘I want you there when PET talk to our security people,’ Zeuthen said. ‘If there’s a breach maybe it’s not the only one.’

  ‘I should be with you for the board,’ Reinhardt said.

  Zeuthen went to the lift, shook his head.

  ‘I can handle that. Find out what’s going on with PET. Keep looking for Emilie’s cat. Maja’s going to kill me for that. We both knew Emilie has that allergy.’

  ‘Robert.’ Reinhardt’s hand was on his arm. ‘I’ve reason to believe the board could be difficult. You may need me there.’

  Zeuthen smiled.

  ‘Not this time, old friend.’

  Back in Christiansborg Karen Nebel was worried.

  ‘People are starting to talk,’ she said as they sat down in his office. ‘They don’t understand why Zeeland haven’t denied the newspaper report.’ Her phone rang. ‘Maybe this is it . . .’

  Hartmann watched her go out into the corridor to take the call then muttered, ‘Are we supposed to jump up and down every time the press publish a lie?’

  Morten Weber folded his arms, leaned back in the chair by the window.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Weber had been there throughout Hartmann’s career. A diminutive, modest, somewhat shabby man with wayward curly black hair, he’d steered Hartmann into the mayor’s chair against all the odds. Then seized the chance to do the same with the Prime Minister’s office when the opportunity arose. His knowledge of the Danish political landscape was unrivalled, and at times underpinned by a quiet, frank ruthlessness. No one dared speak to Hartmann the way Weber did. Even then there were explosions.

  ‘We’re dealing with Zeeland,’ Hartmann said. ‘Karen’s on to it.’

  ‘Good. I’ve cancelled this insane visit to the docks. PET aren’t happy with what’s going on there. And they don’t want us to talk about it either.’

  ‘Uncancel it,’ Hartmann ordered. ‘Ussing will say I don’t care about the homeless.’

  ‘Screw Ussing.’

  ‘We’re on the back foot here, Morten! Ussing’s using Zeeland to say I’m stealing from the poor to give to the rich.’