The Killing

Nine

The Electoral Commission met in emergency session at nine in the morning and revoked its decision of the previous night. Troels Hartmann was back in the race, exonerated, a victim of circumstances. No one knew of the suicide attempt. Not even, Hartmann hoped, Poul Bremer.

Two hours later, in the Liberals’ office, Morten Weber was trying to instil some hope in the troops.

‘We’ve got a job to do. We have to explain to the voters that Troels is innocent. We know that. So do the police. But the voters have to understand.’

Eight campaign people there and Hartmann.

‘Many of our financial backers have pulled out,’ Weber went on. ‘Without money there’s no campaign. So we need to get them back onside.’

‘What about the alliance?’ Elisabet Hedegaard asked.

‘Forget the alliance,’ Hartmann said. ‘If we get the votes they’ll come. Where else can they go?’

Hedegaard looked unconvinced.

‘We go to the polls a week on Tuesday. We all know what that means. By next Saturday people have made up their minds. There isn’t time.’

Morten Weber grimaced and looked down the table.

Hartmann stood up, looking the part. Meeting their eyes, making each of them feel special.

‘What Elisabet says is true. Time’s against us. The media too. Maybe Bremer’s got more tricks up his sleeve.’ Hartmann shrugged. ‘All I know is this. If we don’t try we will lose. So why not give it our all? Why not fight? Why not dream?’

He laughed. Enjoyed this small stage, this tiny audience.

‘I don’t recommend a jail cell for political meditation. But it works, in a way. When I sat there…’

His eyes drifted off to the distance. All of them, Weber even, were caught by the moment.

‘In my blue prison suit I thought of who we were.’ He nodded at them. ‘Of you. Of what we’re fighting for. None of that’s changed. Our ideas, our ambitions are the same. Do we want them any less today than we did yesterday?’

His fist thumped the table.

‘No. I want them more, with a passion. I want a City Hall that can’t play fast and loose with the police just because someone here feels like it.’

A murmur of approval. A lighter mood. One that swung his way.

‘Do we make the best of it? Or do we give Poul Bremer what he and his henchmen have been angling for all along? Another four wasted years?’

Weber clapped. So did Elisabet Hedegaard. Then all of them.

Hartmann smiled, gazed at each in turn, remembered every name. Almost all had been ready to ditch him. Every one he would now thank personally, in fulsome tones, with a private phone call later, for the support they’d shown.

‘Let’s get moving. I’ll see you out there.’

He watched them go.

‘Have you talked to Rie?’ Weber asked. ‘There’s a lot we have to do.’

‘I know, I know. I’ve left a thousand messages. She doesn’t call me back.’

Someone rapping at the door. Poul Bremer, winter coat, scarlet scarf and beaming smile, looking as if he was about to audition for the job of Santa Claus.

‘Troels!’ A loud and cheery voice. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt. I had to come by to say…’

He came in, took off the scarf. The smile fell.

Sincerity.

‘To say welcome back.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

Weber muttered something dark and wandered off to his desk. Bremer walked into Hartmann’s private office, helped himself to some coffee then sat on the sofa, shaking his head.

‘Holck, Holck. He was always a solitary soul. But this. I don’t understand. Why? We went to Latvia together. He was a bit down in the mouth but…’

He took a biscuit and picked at it.

‘A capable man if unimaginative. The Moderates will fare better without him in the end. Not this time round. As far as this election’s concerned they’re lost. As are Kirsten’s troops and all the other fleas that hang on the backs of others wishing to feed off them.’

That broad grin again.

‘One way or another you’ve left them all in ruins. It’s you and me now. I’d congratulate you if I thought it was intentional.’

‘Do you have something to say?’

Another sip of the coffee then his intense grey eyes turned on Hartmann.

‘I do. I’m very sorry about what’s happened. Believe me. Last night I thought we were doing the right thing in the circumstances. Mistaken circumstances but they were the only ones we knew.’

He waited. A political moment, one Hartmann recognized.

‘And I’m sorry, Poul, if I accused you unfairly in the heat of the moment.’

Bremer shrugged.

‘No need. Don’t give it another thought. I won’t. Now we must look forward. We’ve all been touched by this. Not just you.’

Hartmann took the chair opposite.

‘And?’

‘There’s a common consensus. A rare consensus. I talked to the others after we reversed the decision to exclude you. An easy decision, I might add. We all agree this is a time to bury our differences and turn around the public sentiment. The cynicism. The shock. The perception of chaos. It’s understandable but it’s wrong, as you well know. Our most crucial task is to win back the confidence of the voters. That’s the legacy Jens Holck has bequeathed us. We have to renew our contract with the people. Convince them of our worth. Are you with me?’

‘You always make a good speech.’

‘This isn’t about me. Or you. It’s about…’ He waved a hand at the elegant room, the mosaics, the sculptures, the paintings. ‘… this place. Our castle. Our natural home. The Rådhus. Tonight we hold a press conference. I’ll talk about a new desire on the part of all the parties to work together for the common good and clean up the mess Holck left us. Are you with me?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘We’ve agreed to a borg fred. A truce. We put a halt to these personal attacks. The frenetic nature of the debate. The hostile climate. A gentlemen’s agreement. We behave ourselves.’

‘A borg fred…’

‘Peace in the castle. It’s happened in extraordinary circumstances before. The election goes on. We simply mind our manners. Bring down the temperature.’

The grey eyes were on him.

‘Talk about policies not individuals. I’m sure you can agree to that.’

Bremer got up from the sofa.

‘That’s how things stand. I suggest you throw your weight behind us. I’m being generous, Troels. You’re in no fit state to fight anything. Not now.’

The smile, the outstretched hand.

‘Can I count on you?’

Hartmann hesitated.

‘Let me think about it.’

‘What’s there to think about? There’s a consensus. Call them if you like. I’m giving you a chance to come back into the fold. You’ll look a fool if you stay outside. But if that’s what you want…’

‘Whatever’s best,’ Hartmann answered.

Poul Bremer glared at him.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. The joint press conference is at eight. We’ll expect to see you there.’

By late morning Svendsen’s team had got hold of Holck’s bank and credit card statements. They showed a string of purchases at expensive fashion stores and jewellery companies.

‘We can trace her boots directly,’ Meyer said.

Lennart Brix sat in the office looking at the photos, no expression, no emotion on his face.

‘What about the necklace?’ Lund asked. ‘The one with the black heart?’

Meyer shoved the photo from the lab in front of Brix.

‘She had this in her hand when she was found,’ he said. ‘We think he made her wear it. Nanna ripped it from her neck when she was drowning.’

Lund persisted.

‘Did Holck buy her the necklace?’

‘It probably wouldn’t show on the records. If he did he must have paid cash down on one of the junk stalls in Christiania or somewhere.’

‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.

Meyer shuffled uncomfortably on his chair. He looked pale, exhausted. It was rare for anyone to die at the hands of a Danish police officer. The media were fascinated. An internal inquiry was inevitable.

‘From what we can gather the necklace is old. Twenty years or more. It’s hand-made. Cheap gilt chain. Glass…’

He was staring at her and she knew that look now. It said: why do you keep pressing? Why can’t you just accept there are things we’ll never know?

‘What does a black heart mean, Meyer?’

‘The hippies in Christiania… they had a fashion for them back then. It was kind of a badge for the drug gangs. Now they just get bought and sold on junk stalls.’

Brix spoke for the first time.

‘We can’t waste time going back two decades.’

Lund reached over and sifted through the evidence pile. The necklace was there in a plastic bag. She picked it up. Looked at the gilt chain. Unmarked. Not tarnished.

‘This hasn’t been worn for twenty years. If Holck bought it…’

Meyer carried on.

‘Jens Holck transferred money personally to Olav’s account. Not just the five thousand he was giving him through City Hall. Blackmail. We found his prints in Store Kongensgade too. We got these in his home.’

Meyer spread out some photos on the table. Lund shuffled her chair closer. Holck with Nanna somewhere in the country. Happy, loving. Holck was smiling. Barely recognizable.

‘It’s obvious they were having an affair. His wife confirmed it. She didn’t know who he was seeing. Just that he was obsessed with her. And she was young.’

Meyer scratched his head.

‘They always mention that, don’t they? I guess he was proud.’

‘And happy,’ Lund added.

Brix looked bored.

‘What do we know about his movements that Friday?’

‘He was at the poster party. Nanna went to the Rådhus later. Probably to pick up the keys so she could let herself into the flat.’

Lund went back to Holck’s photos. Another set. It was colder. Both of them in winter coats. Laughing. Nanna too old for her years. Holck a different man, holding her. In love. It was so obvious.

A memory from the night before.

That filthy little whore.

‘Did anyone see Holck that weekend?’ Brix asked.

‘No. His ex-wife had the kids and was blocking access. She was giving him a hard time over everything. We don’t have anyone who saw him at all.’

Brix nodded.

‘And the car we found at Holck’s?’

‘No doubt about that,’ Meyer said. ‘It was the car that killed Olav.’

Lund kept flicking through the photos. Holck and Nanna, a couple. Twenty years apart. Happy as could be.

‘What do you think, Lund?’

Brix’s question took her by surprise. She threw the pictures on the table.

‘Sounds like a good case,’ she said without much conviction.

‘Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.’

She said nothing.

‘Well done,’ Brix declared, got up, patted Meyer on the shoulder, left the room.

Not long after Lund was packing her things again. It was Meyer’s office now.

He was watching her. He looked concerned.

‘What are you going to do?’

She had a cardboard box, was putting things into it.

‘I don’t know. Bengt and I have to talk. Mark too. We’ll work something out.’

Meyer started playing with his toy police car. Gave up on that and began pacing the office, cigarette in hand.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘Me. There’ll be an investigation of the shooting. Bound to take weeks.’

‘You don’t have to worry. You did the right thing—’

‘Why the hell didn’t that idiot just drop the gun? God knows I tried—’

‘Meyer—’

‘What the hell could I do?’

He looked shocked and scared and defenceless. And young, with his big ears and guileless face.

Lund stopped packing, came and stood in front of him.

‘You couldn’t do anything else. You didn’t have any choice.’

Close up his eyes were glistening. She wondered if he’d been crying.

Meyer sucked on his cigarette, glanced nervously around the office.

She remembered finding him in the Memorial Yard, staring at the name of his dead colleague. Meyer was marked by that event. Couldn’t shake it off.

‘I’m glad you did it. How could I not be? You saved my life.’

He picked up the little car again, ran the wheels along the desk. Didn’t laugh when the blue light fired.

‘So now what?’ he asked. ‘The case is closed, right?’

An ashtray and a commendation plaque went into her cardboard box.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh please. I can see what you’re thinking. I can read you by now.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m just tired. Like you. That’s all.’

Brix came back. The legal department had ruled. There was sufficient evidence to prove Holck was Nanna Birk Larsen’s murderer. Meyer agreed to tell the parents.

‘What about Sweden, Lund?’ he asked. ‘Any news?’

She picked up the box.

‘Not yet.’

Brix scratched his ear, seemed uncomfortable.

‘I’ve got a bottle of a very good malt whisky in my room. If you’re willing. We ought to celebrate, you and all the others. It’s been a long and difficult road. For you two especially. Maybe…’

He coughed. Looked at them. Smiled without the slightest side or hint of sarcasm.

‘Perhaps I didn’t make it easy sometimes. Life’s never going to be simple when politics comes into play…’

‘I’ll have a drink,’ Meyer said and left the room.

‘In a minute,’ Lund told him.

Brix headed off down the corridor. She could hear laughter there. No voices she recognized.

Alone, Lund went to her files. Pulled out the folder of missing women. Ten years. A handful. Nothing promising. The man she’d set to work on this was an old cop, not well. Once a fit officer, good in the field. Now confined to hunting through old papers, looking for lost gold.

Ten years was not enough. So he’d gone back further. Twenty-three by the time Brix had dragged him off the job.

Thirteen missing women. Young. No link to City Hall or politics. Nothing to connect any of them with a man called Holck. Nothing to link them to a single, serial killer either. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

She turned to the last, the oldest. Twenty-one years before.

The colours in the photograph had faded. Mette Hauge. Student. Twenty-two. Long brown hair. Vacant, friendly smile. Big white earrings.

Lund looked at the cold case sheets and sat down.

The phone never stopped and there was only Vagn Skærbæk there to answer it. Lotte hung around him in a low, half-revealing top. He knew why.

‘I don’t give a shit about your deadline,’ he yelled then slammed down the phone. ‘Fucking reporters.’

He scowled at her.

‘Don’t you get cold going round like that?’

Then he went back to work on one of the engines.

‘Have you heard from Theis?’ she asked.

‘He’s on his way in. God knows where he’s been.’

Lotte smiled at him, fluttered her eyelashes. As if he’d fall for that by now.

‘Vagn. We don’t have to tell Theis about yesterday. It wouldn’t help. We could keep it between us.’

‘You want me to lie now? Jesus. I’m working Sunday. Trying to keep the vans on the road. Is there anything I’m not supposed to do round here?’

Footsteps at the garage door. Theis Birk Larsen turned up. Black jacket, black hat. Cuts on his face. Unshaven.

Lotte found a nervous smile.

‘Hi, Theis. Did you hear they found him? The police say they’ll be here in an hour.’

He didn’t look at either of them. Just walked to the office, started to look at the week’s schedules.

‘I heard. Where’s Pernille?’

‘Where the hell do you think?’ Skærbæk shrieked.

Lotte looked at her feet. Birk Larsen turned his narrow, cold eyes on the small man in the red suit, twitching nervously a couple of strides away from him.

‘What?’

Skærbæk’s temper broke.

‘Don’t give me that shit.’ He jabbed a finger at the stairs. ‘She’s where you should be. Here. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

Birk Larsen turned to him, big head to one side, fixed him with a stare, said nothing.

‘You didn’t bother coming to the cemetery, did you? Too busy, huh, you pisshead? We ran round everywhere looking. We were there with Pernille and the boys. Where the fuck were you?’

Lotte stepped back, ready for the explosion.

Skærbæk took one stride forward, looked up at the huge man in the black jacket.

‘You’ve lost it, you worthless piece of shit. Everything round here’s fucked and I’m not holding it together for you. Not any more.’

He took off his work gloves, slapped them on the engine of the van.

‘Fix this stinking mess yourself.’

Swept the tools and the cans from the workbench. Stormed out, kicking an oilcan on the way.

Birk Larsen watched, looked at Lotte.

‘What’s gone on?’

She was quiet. Scared.

His big hand fell on her shoulder.

‘I want you to tell me what’s happened, Lotte. I need to hear it now.’

In the kitchen, winter sun streaming through the windows. Pot plants. Pictures. School schedules on the wall. The door to Nanna’s room was open. Everything back the way it was.

Pernille sat at the table, staring at the surface. Her back to him as he came through the door.

He walked to the stove and got himself a cup of coffee.

Didn’t look at her as he said, ‘I was in the house in Humleby last night. It doesn’t look too bad. I’d got further than I thought.’

At the table. The morning paper. Nothing on the front page but a huge photo of Jens Holck and a smaller one of Nanna.

Pernille looked pale. Hungover. Ashamed maybe. He didn’t want to think about it. Wouldn’t.

He picked up the paper, his long, stubbly face held by the page.

Holck’s photo was a politician’s portrait. He looked decent, friendly, reliable. A pillar of Copenhagen society. A loving family man.

‘They say he’s dead,’ Birk Larsen murmured.

Her eyes were as wide as he’d ever seen. Glistening with the coming tears.

‘Theis. There’s something I have to—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

A single heavy teardrop ran down her right cheek.

With his big, rough hand Theis Birk Larsen reached out and brushed it away.

‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

More tears. He wondered why he couldn’t join her. Why he owned the feelings but not the words.

‘God I missed you,’ he said. ‘One day and it felt like for ever.’

She laughed then and two gleaming rivers appeared, so free and flowing he couldn’t staunch them even if he wanted.

Her hand reached out, touched his chin, his brown beard going grey. Stroked his cheek, the wounds, the bruises. Then she leaned over and kissed him.

Her lips were warm and damp, and so was her skin. Over the table, with its mosaic of frozen faces he held her and she held him.

The way it was supposed to be.

Hartmann didn’t break the news until the afternoon. It still left Weber furious.

‘A borg fred? I can’t believe you agreed to this, Troels. A truce benefits no one but Bremer. It’s a way of silencing you. He’s treating us all like naughty schoolchildren. If you go along to that meeting we’re finished.’

Hartmann nursed his coffee, looked out of the office window, thought about a few days outside the small enclosed world of City Hall. With Rie somewhere. Alone.

‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘Oh! So now it’s fine Bremer stays in office.’

‘No. It isn’t. But he’s backed us into a corner.’

Hartmann swore under his breath.

‘God that man’s got timing. If I do what he wants I can’t criticize him. If I don’t I look like the solitary troublemaker with a questionable past. We’re screwed. Aren’t we?’

No answer.

‘Aren’t we, Morten? Unless you’ve got some ideas?’

Weber took a deep breath. Was still out of words when the door opened and Rie Skovgaard came in with a face so pale and furious he beat a rapid retreat next door.

‘I tried to phone you,’ Hartmann said. ‘You weren’t home.’

‘No.’ She threw her bag on the desk, sat down. ‘I was at a friend’s house.’

‘I’m sorry I never told you.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I was… I said I’m sorry.’

She came and stood in front him.

‘Three days after your lost weekend you were asking me to move in with you.’

‘I meant it.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because… I was drunk. It was stupid.’

‘You could tell Morten. But you couldn’t tell me. Is it going to make the papers?’

‘No,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘Brix gave me his word.’

‘That means a lot.’

‘I think it does this time around. They won’t look good if the truth comes out either. Forget the police, Rie. I didn’t want to make things worse with you. Sometimes… I don’t know what you want. I’m the one saying we should get a house somewhere. Have kids.’

‘Now it’s my fault?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Then why say it? Oh screw it. I don’t give a shit anyway.’

She got some papers out of her case, started to go through them.

‘At least let me try to explain.’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

She looked at him. No expression. It might have been a glance over the table at a committee meeting.

‘Troels, it’s over. We’re still in the campaign. I’ve worked my heart out for that. I’m not quitting now. Tell me truthfully. Did you really agree to a truce with Bremer? You know what that means?’

‘I told him I’d do what was best. He didn’t leave me any options.’

‘Well you’ve got them now. There won’t be a truce.’

‘That’s my decision. Not yours.’

Rie Skovgaard reached over and took his diary off the desk.

‘While you were pissing off everyone you could find and playing the martyr with the police I was working. You’ve got an extra appointment today. Tell me you still want to be Poul Bremer’s poodle after that.’

Mette Hauge’s father lived on a farm on the city outskirts near Køge. Lund drove out there alone. The place was mostly derelict from what she could see. The commercial greenhouse was empty with cracked windows and missing panels. There was no car, only a cheap motorbike parked by the back door.

It took a while for Jorgen Hauge to answer. He was a fit-looking grey-haired man in a blue boiler suit, not unlike the one Theis Birk Larsen had worn recently. Perhaps seventy.

He seemed puzzled when she showed him her police ID and asked about his daughter Mette.

‘Why do you want to know? After all this time?’

‘Just a few questions,’ Lund said. ‘It won’t take long.’

Hauge lived on his own with a few chickens and an ancient sheepdog. The house was tidy and clean. He seemed a punctilious, careful man.

While he made coffee she walked round, looking. A photo of a young girl playing on the beach. Then a few years later posing on a couch. Prizes for cattle and pigs at shows.

‘It was twenty-one years ago,’ Hauge said when he came back. ‘She disappeared on the seventh of November. A Wednesday.’

He looked at her.

‘It was raining. I was worried about the drains.’

He brought more photos to the table.

‘She’d just moved to Christianshavn. First place she had after leaving home. They said she was on her way back from handball. We called the police.’

News cuttings from the time. The same photo of Mette everywhere. Pretty.

‘Two, three weeks later there were only a couple of officers on the case. They never found her.’

Another cutting. Wreaths. A headstone.

‘So we buried a casket without a body.’

‘Is it possible she committed suicide?’

He didn’t seem to mind the question.

‘Mette got depressed sometimes. She was a student. A bit naive. I think she hung around with some of the hippies for a while. Christiania and that. Not that she ever told us.’

‘Was there any kind of note?’

‘No. She didn’t kill herself. I know…’ He ran a finger across the cuttings. ‘Your people told me a father always says that. But she didn’t kill herself.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

‘Not that we knew of. Like I said, she’d just moved to the city.’ Hauge looked around the room. ‘This place is a bit boring when you’re young, I guess. It’s a long time ago. I don’t recall. She had a life…’

‘Did anything puzzle you at the time?’

He bridled at that.

‘Oh yes. One day you’ve got a daughter you love more than anything in the world. The next she’s gone for ever. That puzzled me.’

She got up, said, ‘I’m sorry I bothered you.’

‘Here’s another thing. After all this time how come I get a visit from you people twice in one week?’

Lund stopped.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I had an officer here asking the same questions.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I wrote it down somewhere. He spoke funny. Didn’t really hear all he said.’

Hauge sifted through some papers on an old desk by the window.

‘Maybe I left it in the living room. I’ll get it for you.’

She followed him, looking at the walls.

Photos and paintings everywhere. Family and landscapes.

Then one of Mette. It was black and white. Looked like student days. Hair dishevelled. Cheap T-shirt.

Necklace with a black heart.

She stood in front of the photo, unable to breathe for a moment.

Looked again.

Hand-made by hippies in Christiania, Meyer said. Not many of them around.

It was the same necklace. She knew that as certainly as she knew her own name.

Hauge came back.

‘Where did she get that necklace?’ Lund asked.

‘I don’t know. She was in the city by then. A gift maybe.’

‘Who gave it to her?’

‘Do you think she’d tell her father? Why?’

‘Did you ever see it again? In her belongings after she died?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He gave her the name of the man he’d spoken to. She wondered why she was surprised.

‘Do you mind if I take this photograph with me?’ Lund asked. ‘You’ll get it back. I promise.’

Meyer went to talk to the family. Sat around their odd kitchen table. Told them what he knew. Holck met Nanna through the dating site. He used Hartmann’s identity to conceal what they were doing. The affair ended.

‘Why did he do it?’ Pernille Birk Larsen asked.

The two of them clasped hands together like teenagers.

‘It looks like he was in love with her. Crazy. She broke it off. Holck persuaded Nanna to meet him one last time in the Liberals’ flat. After that… we don’t really know.’

Birk Larsen kept his eyes on Meyer and said, ‘How exactly did he die?’

‘He…’

Close to a stammer, Meyer struggled.

‘He threatened the life of a colleague. So we had no alternative. He was shot.’

‘Did he say anything?’ she asked.

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘And you’re sure it’s him?’

‘We’re sure.’

The couple’s fingers worked together, entwined. A glance between them. A nod. A flicker of a smile.

‘We’d like Nanna’s things back now,’ Pernille said.

‘Of course. My colleague Sarah Lund’s no longer on the case. If there’s anything you need, call me from now on.’

Meyer placed his card on the table.

‘Any time. About anything at all.’

He got up. So did Theis Birk Larsen.

The big man stuck his hand out. Meyer took it.

‘Thank you,’ Birk Larsen said.

A glance at his wife.

‘From both of us. Thanks.’

Bengt Rosling was in the kitchen, cooking with his one good arm, Vibeke watching, smiling.

‘When we get away from here things will be fine,’ he said.

A bottle of Amarone. Pasta and sauce.

Vibeke toasted him.

‘I need the place to myself again. Sarah…’

The door went. Her voice lowered.

‘She needs someone to keep her in check.’

Lund walked in. Anorak damp from the drizzle outside. Hair a mess.

‘Hi!’ Bengt said, getting a third glass, pouring some wine.

‘Can we talk?’ she said.

‘Now? We’re making lunch. Your mother’s helping me.’

Lund waited, said nothing.

‘Here we go again,’ Vibeke grumbled and walked into the living room, closing the door behind her.

Lund took the files out of her bag. Threw them on the table. Trying to control her temper, but not much.

‘Well…?’ he asked.

‘You talked to the father of one of the missing women.’

He sat down, gulped at the wine.

‘You pretended you were a police officer. I could pull you in for that right now.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because your boss Brix called me three days ago. He’d heard about my ideas. That maybe the man had killed before.’

He picked up the Mette Hauge folder, opened the first page.

Pretty girl. Dishevelled hair. It was a mugshot. Lund had checked. Mette had been cautioned over soft drugs.

‘I told Brix what I thought. He brushed it to one side. He seemed determined to get Hartmann in the frame.’

‘Really?’

‘He was very arrogant in the way he dealt with me. I found that irritating.’

‘I never realized your ego was so fragile.’

‘That was uncalled for. I wanted to prove I was right. The Hauge file was old but it looked the most promising. They found her bike not far from where Nanna was dumped. So I went and called on the father.’

More wine.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘And what did you find out?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘What did you find out, Bengt?’

He held out the second glass. She didn’t take it.

‘Last night you told me you were wrong. There was no connection to any of the old cases. But you went out there. You know that wasn’t true.’

‘One case. Tentative.’

‘Tentative?’

She pulled the black and white photo out of her bag.

‘Look me in the face and say you never saw it. I want to know what it’s like when you’re lying. I never looked for that before.’

He glanced at the photo, frowned.

‘It’s probably just a coincidence. There might be thousands of those necklaces.’

‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now I know what it’s like.’

She went and stood over the sink, trying to think, trying to calm down.

‘Sarah…’

He was behind her. Touched her shoulder briefly. Thought better of it.

‘I love you. I’m worried about you. I didn’t want this hanging around us for ever…’

She turned and faced him.

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘I took some notes and gave them to Brix.’

She closed her eyes briefly.

‘You gave them to Brix? Not me?’

‘We weren’t speaking. I was pissed off with you. How could I?’

Lund nodded.

‘How could you?’

She picked up the folder and the photograph, stuffed them back in her bag.

‘Sarah…’

Lund left him bleating in the kitchen, with his wine and his pasta and her mother.

Hartmann’s unscheduled appointment proved to be with Gert Stokke, the head of Holck’s council department. Skovgaard stayed to listen.

Stokke was a tall man approaching sixty. Civil servant’s suit. Subtle, intelligent face. Bald as a coot and slippery.

He sat down, looked at Skovgaard first then Hartmann, and said, ‘This had better be in confidence. I don’t like coming in on Sundays. People talk.’

‘Thanks for being here, Gert,’ she said, and ushered him to the sofa.

‘You realize the risk I’m taking?’

‘Yes.’ She glanced at Hartmann. ‘We do. And we appreciate it.’

‘Well…’

Stokke had worked in City Hall for more than twenty years. Three years before he was appointed to run the department Holck headed.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I had access to all the accounts and budgets. This is public money. It’s a very important job, and much under-appreciated if I might say so.’

Hartmann checked his watch and glared at Skovgaard.

‘Am I keeping you?’ Stokke asked.

‘Tell us about Holck,’ she said.

‘Cold man. During the summer he changed. He was always so conscientious. Not likeable. But he was on top of his job.’ A shrug. ‘Then things started to slide.’

‘How?’ Hartmann asked.

‘He took a day off and told me his child was sick. Then his wife called and asked me where he was. Men have affairs. It’s none of my business.’

‘Why am I listening to this, Rie?’ Hartmann asked. ‘None of it’s new. Holck’s dead. I’ve got a press conference.’

He got up from the chair.

‘Gert,’ she said. ‘You knew Holck had an affair and that he used our flat?’

Hartmann stopped at the door.

‘I knew about the affair,’ Stokke agreed. ‘I wasn’t sure about the flat. Not entirely. I heard rumours about it. Once I wanted to send him some papers and he said that I should send them by taxi to Store Kongensgade.’

‘Jesus,’ Hartmann muttered.

‘It could have been for a meeting with you.’

‘You knew he used our flat?’ Hartmann shook his head. ‘Do you understand what you could have spared me? Why the hell didn’t you say so? They threw me in jail—’

‘I told Bremer,’ Stokke said quickly. ‘He knew all about it. He’s Lord Mayor. If it’s for anyone to speak out surely—’

‘What?’

‘Months ago. When I first knew about it. I asked for a meeting. Bremer said he was going to take care of it. He’d have a word with Holck.’

‘When was all this?’

‘May, June. He’s Bremer! The Lord Mayor. If he says he’s in control of something who am I to argue? Don’t look at me like that, Hartmann. I’m here, aren’t I?’

A sound at the door. Morten Weber bustled in.

‘Troels. You’re late for your castration. The press conference is assembling. Bremer wants to meet everyone beforehand.’

Weber caught the atmosphere.

‘Gert?’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Jan Meyer was in the office with his wife. The kids. Three girls. Seven and five and two. They’d brought him two new toy police cars. Went vroom vroom with them on the desk top.

‘Let’s go out for a Sunday meal,’ his wife said.

He had the eldest on his knee, arms around her waist.

‘I’d really like to go home if that’s OK.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Home.’

‘We do have food at home, don’t we?’

His voice grew big and bold, like a cartoon giant.

‘I want big steaks and lots of ice cream. And candy and Coke. And then… more big steaks!’

‘We can pick up some pizza…’

A shape beyond the glass. Lund stern-faced and anxious. She’d stopped at the door.

‘Wait here,’ Meyer said. ‘I’ve got to talk to someone. It won’t take a moment.’

Out in the corridor.

‘What’s up, Lund?’

‘I don’t know.’

She touched her head. He looked at her fingers.

‘You’re bleeding. The doctor said you’d need that restitched if they came out.’

‘We’ve to go back to the canal. I think there’s more out there.’

‘Lund…’

The kids were waving at him from the office. They were making eating gestures. His wife didn’t look happy.

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘No. Tell me now.’

‘I’m not crazy, Meyer.’

He didn’t speak.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Shall we go?’

Lund drove, Meyer read her files. The radio news was on. Holck’s death. A police officer held hostage. Brix saying the Nanna Birk Larsen case was closed. A truce rumoured at City Hall as the politicians drew in their horns and tried to ride out the blaze that had suddenly burst into life in their midst.

He was looking at the photo of the necklace. In Nanna’s hand. Around the throat of Mette Hauge twenty-one years before.

‘It’s the same,’ Lund said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Looks like. Why does this girl stand out?’

‘They found her bike. You can read it at the end of the report.’

Meyer got the page.

‘Frieslandsvej?’

‘Runs through the Kalvebod Fælled. By the main canal. Close to the Pentecost Forest. You cross the canal and you’re in the woods. The bike was about seven hundred metres from where we found the car.’

There was a map of the area provided by the local nature foundation. Meyer pored over it.

‘There’s little canals criss-crossing this all the way to the coast. You could dump half of Copenhagen out there and we’d never find them.’

‘Holck was studying in America when Mette Hauge went missing.’

She passed him a photocopy of a bachelor’s degree certificate from the University of California in Santa Cruz.

‘He never came back all year. It couldn’t be him.’

‘All you’ve got is the necklace.’

‘And the bike. I know it’s the same man. It has to be.’

‘We’ve already searched the canal.’

‘He wouldn’t go back to the same place.’

Meyer waved the map at her.

‘This could take years.’

They passed Vestamager Station, the last on the metro line. Then the road ran straight, south to the Øresund.

Low, flat land. Nothing but the outline of dead woodland on the right.

‘We just need some help,’ Lund said. ‘Don’t worry.’

There was a pumping station. Two night-duty officers from headquarters. They followed Lund and Meyer through a door, down some stairs, into a dark interior of clanking machines and pumps. The water company had sent an engineer. He was used to visitors. Liked to tell the history. When the Germans invaded Denmark they were looking for any excuse they could find to ship out the local men and put them to work in Nazi labour camps.

So the Copenhagen government invented phoney schemes to keep them at home. One was land reclamation. The project had no practical purpose. But it kept hundreds of Danes out of the hands of the Germans for a while.

‘And now,’ he said over the sound of the machinery, ‘we keep pumping. Eighty per cent of the ground round here is below sea level. If we didn’t the Øresund would want it back.’

He had a better map. Meyer looked at it and sighed. The drainage network was even more complex than it first looked, spanning the entire area like a watery nervous system on a haphazard path to the sea.

‘Here’s the bridge where we found Nanna,’ she said, pointing to the spot on the map. ‘Where does the canal go?’

‘All of the canals take drainage water to the seawater reservoir. That’s why they’re there.’

Her finger traced back from the point of Nanna’s death to the ditch where Mette Hauge’s bike was left.

‘This is impossible, Lund,’ Meyer grumbled. ‘Where the hell do we start?’

She stared at him, puzzled. It seemed an uncharacteristically oblique question.

‘We start by thinking like he did.’ She was showing the company man the map again. ‘What’s this?’

‘A drain line that flowed onto the old road.’

‘What road?’

‘The old road,’ he said as if she was supposed to know. ‘We closed it down twenty years or so ago. We didn’t need it. No one went there. Why would they?’

‘This is where we look,’ Lund said, tapping her finger on the map. ‘Get divers out to all the canals and ditches that lead off it. We need to drag the lake.’

‘Oh no,’ the engineer said, laughing nervously. ‘You can’t do that. We’d have to close down everything if people know you’re looking for a body.’

‘Shutting it down’s the best thing to do,’ Lund said. ‘Let’s say forty-eight hours.’

She looked at the night men.

‘Bring more people in.’

‘You can’t! There’s a hundred and fifty thousand homes on the system. Hospitals. Old people’s homes.’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’

There was a tall figure at the top of the steps. Long coat, long face.

Brix came clunking down the metal stairs.

Lund walked straight to him.

‘They never found Mette Hauge’s body,’ she said quickly. ‘Her bike was close to where Nanna was left. The black necklace was Mette’s. We’ve got to search the canals. It’s the same man.’

‘OK,’ Brix said. ‘Send in the divers.’

She couldn’t believe how easy this was.

‘I’ll get onto the air force for some F-16s,’ he added. ‘Alert NATO. Anything else? Can we get a submarine in here?’

‘Listen. Holck wasn’t in the country then.’

‘So he didn’t kill Mette Hauge. There’s a surprise. But he did murder Nanna. That’s what matters. I read your boyfriend’s memo. It’s just theory. The case is solved. Holck had an affair with Nanna. His prints were all over the flat.’

‘They could be old. Where did Holck take her? We still don’t know. It wasn’t that warehouse he was staying in. There’s nothing there—’

‘Just go home, will you? Work things out with your boyfriend. Then catch a plane to Sweden. Please.’

He started walking off.

She was getting mad and wished she wasn’t.

‘That’s what you want, is it? For me to shut up. Did Bremer ask for that too? Is that part of the deal?’

Brix turned and looked at her.

‘I’m a patient man, you know. But everything runs out in the end. Didn’t you notice?’

‘I’m telling you, Brix.’

He held out his hand.

‘I want your police ID.’

She tried to argue. He wouldn’t listen. Lund handed it over.

‘And the car keys.’

Meyer had seen something, was walking over.

‘You need all the help you can get, Lund,’ Brix said. ‘Thank God you’re off my budget so I don’t have to pay for it.’

He threw the car keys. Meyer caught them.

‘Cancel everything she asked for. She’s someone else’s problem now.’

Meyer drove her home, trying in his own way to offer some comfort.

‘We could have pissed around there for the rest of our lives and never found a thing. Come on.’

Her head was bleeding again. She dabbed at it with a tissue. In the end left the bloody stump of paper stuck to the back of her scalp.

‘And anyway the water guy said they checked the bacteria level daily. The bit you were talking about was near the water supply. They’d have picked up something.’

‘It was twenty-one years ago. Forget the canal for now. Why did Nanna go to the flat? She was looking forward to something, remember? Those pictures of her at school. She was happy.’

‘She liked Holck. That’s why she was happy.’

Lund looked at him and blinked.

‘OK. Maybe that doesn’t work,’ Meyer confessed. ‘But you never know everything.’

‘Why didn’t they go to the flat together?’

‘Because he’s a politician. He can’t be seen in public with a nineteen-year-old girl. And maybe—’

‘Oh for pity’s sake. Do you think I’m crazy too?’

‘Of course I don’t. I’m driving you home, aren’t I?’

‘You always make a joke of things when they turn awkward.’

‘I don’t think you’re crazy, Lund. OK?’

‘You need to check the Mette Hauge file. It was a big case back then. They conducted seventeen hundred interviews. There has to be someone who links into Nanna.’

Meyer groaned.

‘I need to do it?’

‘Yes. Brix has my ID. I can’t get into the archives. Do it tonight. Look for recurring names. Locations.’

‘No.’

‘See if there are any—’

‘No!’ Meyer roared.

Silence.

‘This has to stop,’ he said finally. ‘It’s turned into an obsession.’

She looked out of the window and said, ‘I understand you’ll feel bad if it wasn’t Holck.’

His hands came off the wheel. Clapped them, then went back to driving.

‘In case you didn’t notice, I shot Holck for your sake. Not Nanna’s. She was already dead.’

Silence.

‘Why is it you’re so aware of everything around you? But not yourself?’

He hesitated.

‘Not even your own family.’

‘You did the right thing, Meyer.’

‘I know I did the right thing. It’s not about that. The case is closed. Done.’

She wouldn’t look at him.

‘You’re the only one who can’t understand that. You need to talk to a psychologist or something.’

‘So I am crazy?’

‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘There’s another way?’

‘Oh for the love of God…’

She undid her seat belt, grabbed her coat.

‘Stop the car. Let me out here.’

‘Don’t be so childish.’

The folders went into her bag. She put a hand on the door, started to open it even as the car was moving.

‘Calm down!’ Meyer yelled.

‘Stop this thing and let me out.’

‘Do you even know where you are?’

Lund looked at the street lights. Somewhere near Vesterbro. The wrong side of town for her mother’s place.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’

Hartmann walked into the press conference, Skovgaard by his side.

‘Why are we even here?’ she said in a cold, hard whisper. ‘You heard what Stokke said. Bremer could have cleared you from the outset…’

Another wood-panelled room. Paintings, old and new on the walls. Reporters assembling. Cameramen adjusting their gear. The party leaders in a huddle by the podium.

Weber was with her for once.

‘You can’t ignore the facts,’ he said. ‘This is a travesty.’

Mai Juhl came and shook his hand.

‘It’s good of you to come, Troels. After all you’ve been through.’

‘All he’s been put through,’ Weber muttered.

‘No problem, Mai,’ Hartmann said. ‘Will you give me a minute?’

Poul Bremer had just walked in, was reading some documents. He saw Hartmann approaching.

‘I’m glad you came. Let’s get on with it.’

‘We need to talk.’

The reporters were taking their seats.

‘No, Troels. Not now.’

‘You knew Holck transferred that money to Olav Christensen.’

Bremer thrust his fists into his trouser pockets, looked at him, mouth open, eyes narrow.

‘Did I? Says who?’

Hartmann didn’t answer.

‘Ah. Let me guess. One of the civil servants?’ Bremer smiled. ‘Makes sense. They always watch their own backs first.’

‘You knew,’ Hartmann told him. ‘Don’t try to wriggle out of it.’

‘Of course I didn’t know!’ He patted Hartmann’s shoulder. ‘Troels… you’ve been through a lot. It shows. You really must learn to control that temper of yours.’

Hartmann didn’t rise to the bait.

‘Listen,’ Bremer went on. ‘Holck’s civil servants are squabbling among themselves. They know I’m going to conduct a closed hearing into this mess. They’ll invent any nonsense they can to dodge the blame.’

The genial smile, the twinkling eyes.

‘You’ve been through hell. I can see why you’re suspicious. Holck and maybe some of his people deceived all of us. We need to clean up this mess together. We will. Agreed?’

No answer.

‘Or would you rather believe them than me?’ Poul Bremer asked. Another pat. Another smile. ‘Good. Let’s get started.’

More reporters through the door. Bremer beaming from the podium. A well-prepared speech about how Holck’s exposure had come as a shock to all. How one city councillor above all others had unfairly borne the brunt of the fallout.

‘We’ve all witnessed the unreasonable accusations Troels Hartmann has been subjected to,’ Bremer said, putting a hand on Hartmann’s shoulder. ‘Never for one moment did I believe them. But politicians must respond to events and we did, in good faith but mistakenly. Now, in City Hall, we declare a borg fred, a truce. We bury our differences for the benefit of Copenhagen…’

Hartmann turned to him and said, his voice caught by the microphone, ‘You’re the head of the finance committee.’

The old man stopped, glared.

‘What?’

‘You’re the head of the finance committee.’

No smile. No warmth now.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Bremer said in a low, hard voice.

Hartmann wouldn’t be silenced.

‘How could the committee not know that Holck authorized the money, not me? How’s that possible? You lied to me…’

Bremer was stuttering, caught between the audience and Hartmann.

‘As… as we’ve already agreed—’

Hartmann took the microphone from him.

‘The Liberal group will not be a part of this farce,’ he said, watching the reporters start to scribble furiously. ‘If we do what Poul Bremer wishes we’ll never know the full truth of Holck’s actions, and who was party to them.’

One of the TV political hacks cried out, ‘What do you mean, Hartmann? Say it.’

‘I mean that the Lord Mayor knows more about this case than he’s told any of us. And the police.’

Bremer stared at Hartmann, at the other leaders, furious.

‘I’ve no further comments for the moment,’ Hartmann added. ‘As far as the Liberals are concerned this election’s like any other. We fight every seat and we fight to win.’

He left the podium. The press divided, half to him, half to Bremer demanding answers.

Back in his office Hartmann told them to speak to all the financial backers who’d dropped out. Brief them on the situation. Find new ones.

Skovgaard was on the phone. Weber was tugging at his unruly head of hair.

‘We’re going to have the media down our throats demanding an explanation, Troels. What am I supposed to say?’

‘When I’ve clarified things with Stokke we’ll put out a statement. Fix a meeting with him.’

‘Stokke’s a civil servant. He won’t come forward. He’s not going to put his career on the line for us.’

‘It’s his duty to tell the truth,’ Hartmann insisted. ‘I’ll meet with him. We’ll work this out. Oh for Christ’s sake, Morten. Don’t look so worried. You wanted out of the truce, didn’t you?’

‘I did. But you haven’t learned yet, have you? Throw a stone at Bremer and you get a boulder back. I’ll try…’

He wandered off into the main room.

Hartmann was alone with Skovgaard. Hands in pockets. Tongue-tied.

She’d come off the phone.

‘Did I remember to thank you?’ he said. ‘For all the work?’

‘It’s what I’m paid for.’

Hair back. Attractive face tired and lined. But she thrived on pressure. Liked the tension. The race.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess, Rie.’

‘Me too.’

She didn’t leave then and she might have.

The briefest of laughs.

‘Still, that was quite a performance. Stealing the limelight from Bremer in front of everyone. I forgot you had that in you.’

‘What else could I do? Bremer knew. It was written in his face. He knew and I don’t think he even minded if I saw it.’ A glance outside the window. The Copenhagen night. The blue hotel sign. ‘He really thinks this all belongs to him.’

‘Morten’s got a point. He’ll come back at us somehow.’

Hartmann took a step towards her.

‘Do you think there’s any chance… maybe we could go out for a meal tonight? I’m still trying to get the taste of that jail food out of my mouth.’

He wore a self-deprecating smile. Didn’t mind begging.

‘Not tonight. I’ll start drafting a press release.’

‘Maybe tomorrow—’

‘You really need to think about what you’re going to say to Stokke. If he won’t play this game we’re done for.’

Theis Birk Larsen made some calls. People he hadn’t talked to for a long time. People he hoped never to have to deal with again.

But life changed.

He said what was needed then put down the phone.

Pernille was at the kitchen table, out of earshot he hoped, reading the paper.

He took the chair opposite. Pernille looked at the photo on the front page. Jens Holck.

‘They say he was a family man,’ she said. ‘Our age.’

He pushed the paper to one side.

‘I’m glad he’s dead. I suppose it’s wrong of me, Theis, but I am. We’re supposed to forgive.’

She looked at him, as if seeking some answer.

‘How can you forgive? How?’ A pause. ‘Why?’

He grimaced, stared out of the window for a moment.

‘I’ve made some calls about the house. The estate agents say they’re almost done with the paperwork. I’m going to see her tomorrow.’

He lit a cigarette and waited. She was still looking at the paper. Finally she put her hands on his arm, smiled, said, ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘The sooner we sell the house the better.’

‘By Christmas maybe?’

‘I’ve got to get a good price. Those bastards at the bank are at our throats…’

She ran her hand down his strong arm. Put her fingers to his stubbly cheek.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You never thought you were marrying a millionaire, did you?’

She laughed at that, the first time he’d seen her laugh since the blackness fell upon them out on the Kalvebod Fælled, that dark damp night a lifetime before.

‘I was young. I never knew what I was marrying.’ Fingers on his skin again. ‘Just that I wanted him.’

The agency details for the house were on the table. She looked at the plans. Three floors. A garden.

‘Humleby,’ she said.

Theis Birk Larsen watched her, felt a warm rush of hope and love run though him.

A sound downstairs. The big door opening.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said.

The garage seemed empty. Just the goods they fetched and carried. Valuable goods.

Birk Larsen called, got no answer.

Thought about burglars and how much he relied on the little man called Skærbæk. An old friend he treated so badly at times.

He picked up a wrench and walked round to the office, turned on the light.

A figure emerged from the dark. Slight and young.

An Indian man, with scholarly glasses and a fetching round face that looked ready to burst into tears.

‘Hello,’ he said, and came and shook Birk Larsen’s hand. ‘The door was open. You don’t recognize me, do you?’

Birk Larsen shrugged.

‘No. I don’t. It’s late. We’re closed. Can I—’

‘I’m Amir. Amir El’ Namen.’

He pointed to the door.

‘You remember my dad? With the restaurant?’

A flash of memory, a sudden pang of pain.

Two children, no more than six, riding to school hand in hand, tight in the scarlet box of the Christiania trike. Little Nanna and the Indian boy, Pernille at the pedals, happy and beautiful. Vagn Skærbæk never approved. Birk Larsen wasn’t sure either. Pernille thought it was sweet, so sweet she’d invite Amir in for parties, make him Western clothes. Ride him and Nanna around and around giggling as it bounced and crashed across the cobbled streets.

That was one of the photos captured on the table.

They’d half-watched as Amir turned from a foreigner who spoke no Danish into one more local kid. Different skin but not different.

And besides, Birk Larsen remembered, Nanna loved him. Amir was her first boyfriend. For two years, maybe three. And then…

‘You’re Karim’s youngest,’ he said, and found the memories contained more smiles than pain, and one of them sprang to his face.

‘I’ve been in London. Studying.’

‘I remember. Karim told me. You’re getting married, right?’

He had a bag over his shoulder, a fashionable khaki jacket. A student with money. He didn’t find it easy to speak. He seemed — and this was ridiculous, surely — scared.

‘Amir. What can I do for you?’

‘Will you move some things for me? Tomorrow?’

‘Move what?’

A pause.

‘Things for the wedding. Some tables and chairs.’

‘Tomorrow? No. It’s the middle of Sunday night. You can’t expect us to drop everything. I mean…’

Amir’s face fell. He looked ashamed.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just… It’s OK. I’ll make some other arrangement.’

Birk Larsen breathed a deep sigh, walked to the desk, got the schedule.

‘Look. I’ll try to find someone for you.’

‘Mr Birk Larsen…’

‘What?’

He walked up, looked hopeful.

‘I really need it to be you.’

‘Me? What difference does it make?’

‘I need it to be you. Please.’

Two little kids in the box of the Christiania trike. Nanna’s first boyfriend. So sweet, so meek, so deferential. No different now.

‘I’ll pick you up at lunchtime,’ Birk Larsen said. ‘One o’clock in the restaurant. You’ll have to help me.’

‘Of course.’

He held out his hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Amir said.

Lund’s mother was seething that Bengt had left.

‘What in God’s name did you say to him? To make him run out like that?’

Lund had taken over her work desk. Covered it with reports taken from headquarters. Removed the white, half-finished wedding dress from her mannequin and pinned photos of Nanna and Mette Hauge to the headless shape instead.

‘I told him he had to stay in a hotel.’

The TV news was on. She heard Hartmann’s name. Turned to see the story about the conflict with Bremer, and the promise of revelations about Holck.

Vibeke was in her blue dressing gown, skinny arms folded, staring at her like a judge from an ancient drama.

‘Hartmann accused Bremer of failing to disclose his knowledge of Holck’s actions,’ the news said.

‘You told me the case was over.’

Lund watched the TV closely, took in Hartmann’s words.

‘Mark’s moved in with his father, Sarah. You’ve kicked out Bengt. You treat me as if I’m just here for your convenience.’

Lund turned up the volume on the TV.

‘I want an explanation!’ Vibeke cried. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s important, for Christ’s sake! Important. You know what that word means?’

That unforgiving basilisk stare. Then Vibeke said, ‘I talked to your Aunt Birgit. I’m going to stay with her for a few days.’

The news got less interesting.

‘Are you taking the train? Because I’ll need your car.’

Vibeke closed her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling.

The doorbell rang. Her mother wasn’t moving so Lund left the TV and walked out briskly to answer it.

No one there. She walked out into the hall, looked up the stairs, down them. Heard the door slam far below.

Gone. And — this was her first thought — no CCTV in Vibeke’s damned building.

She walked back to the apartment, caught something with her foot, looked down.

There was a padded envelope on the doormat. No name. She picked it up. Knew the shape straight away.

A video cassette.

Her mother went to bed. Lund cut the envelope carefully. She didn’t have gloves so she used a remnant of Vibeke’s satin to handle it.

An old tape, the label scratched off. The way some were in City Hall security.

She slotted it into the TV and watched.

Picked up her phone.

‘Meyer?’ she said.

Thirty minutes later he arrived, red-faced and cursing.

‘Will you ever leave me alone?’

‘You came didn’t you? Sit down.’

‘This is like a bad affair. All the danger and none of the sex.’

Lund got the remote.

‘Not that I’m asking,’ he added quickly.

‘You’ve never had an affair, Meyer. You wouldn’t know how.’

After that he sat down like an obedient little boy.

The video came on.

‘So why am I here?’

‘It’s the missing tape. From the CCTV system at City Hall.’

The security office came on screen. People leaving for the evening.

Meyer pulled at his right ear.

‘How the hell did you get this?’

‘Someone left it on my doormat.’

She passed him the padded envelope. It was now in a freezer bag from the kitchen.

Then Nanna walked on the screen, still beautiful in black and white. Hair a little untidy. Not a teenager. That seemed impossible. She was smiling, nervously but affectionately too.

Looking up. Looking around. An expression on her face that seemed to say: farewell.

A man walked in from the left. Jens Holck. Took something from his pocket. A key ring it looked like. Nanna came to him, embraced him.

Lund pushed out another stub of Nicotinell and began to chew.

‘Is Holck seen leaving the Rådhus?’ Meyer asked.

‘Half an hour later.’

‘There’s nothing there we didn’t know already.’

‘You’ve got to learn to look, Meyer. How many times do I have to say this?’

She started rolling back the tape.

‘I did! We see him give her the keys. They make a date. And then she goes to the flat.’

‘I know you can’t help the fact you’re a man. But really. They don’t make a date. Look!’

Meyer’s bug eyes fixed on the screen.

‘Can’t you see? Holck’s face. He’s not happy. If Nanna had come back to him why would he look so miserable?’

A final hug, a kiss that was friendship not passion. Holck looked like a man who’d lost everything. And Nanna as happy as the child she dreamed she no longer was.

Meyer nodded.

‘OK. It still doesn’t mean he didn’t meet her at the flat.’

He got up and started nosing around. Looking at the reports on the work desk. The photos on the mannequin.

‘Where’s your mother?’

Lund froze the video.

‘Meyer. You have to help me.’

Nothing.

‘If you have the slightest doubt…’ she started.

He waved the freezer bag and the envelope at her.

‘I don’t like this. Someone delivers a tape and we’re back in all that shit at City Hall again.’

‘It doesn’t matter where it is.’

‘You only get stuff like this if they’ve something to gain.’

‘You’re very cynical sometimes. Maybe they just want to help.’

Meyer looked mournfully at the frozen picture. A miserable Holck kissing a joyful Nanna.

‘Oh crap,’ he said.

First thing that morning Hartmann had Gert Stokke in his office. The civil servant looked shifty.

‘All I’m asking is you tell the truth. That you say you told Bremer about Holck using our flat.’

‘You don’t want much, do you?’

Stokke had a long grey bloodhound face and pink, watery eyes.

‘I can’t get involved with you and Bremer.’

‘You already are,’ Rie Skovgaard said.

Morten Weber leapt in.

‘Do you think he’ll reward you for keeping quiet, Gert? You know him. You’re a civil servant. He can’t dump this on Holck any more. So he’ll pick on the department. You’ll be the first to go.’

Stokke scowled at the three of them. A smart man, cornered.

‘And you’re on my side? My friends now, huh? Go stab one another. Leave me out of it.’

‘If Bremer survives this you’re gone,’ Weber said.

The civil servant shook his head.

‘Bremer’s never going to admit we had that conversation.’

‘There must be minutes,’ Skovgaard said.

A moment’s hesitation. Then he said, ‘Bremer didn’t want it minuted. He said he’d have a quiet word with Holck. Then it would be over with.’

Weber swore and slammed his papers on the table.

‘I’m sorry. If I come forward I’m finished. I always thought you’d make a good Lord Mayor, Hartmann. Maybe next time round.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ Hartmann grumbled. ‘We need you, Gert.’

‘Who’d hire me if I spoke out? I’m fifty-eight. What about my pension?’

Skovgaard was livid.

‘So Troels should pay the price instead? When he did nothing?’

‘Leave it, leave it,’ Hartmann cut in. ‘Let’s not pressure Gert any more. If he won’t do it, he won’t do it. It’s up to him.’

He held out his hand. Stokke took it.

‘Thanks for coming anyway,’ Hartmann said, and watched the civil servant button his jacket and leave.

Weber had a copy of Stokke’s minutes from the original meeting.

‘Is it there?’ Hartmann asked.

‘No. Look for yourself.’

He passed over the sheets.

‘We should have leaned on him more,’ Skovgaard said.

Morten Weber shook his head.

‘Pointless. He’s terrified of Bremer. Won’t work.’

Hartmann stopped on the second page.

‘It says here there’s an appendix. Where is it?’

‘Probably technical documentation,’ Weber suggested.

Hartmann wasn’t convinced.

‘Stokke’s a good civil servant. I can’t believe he wouldn’t set down something. It’s financial impropriety for God’s sake. He’d want to cover his back.’

‘He’s terrified of Bremer. I told you.’

‘Maybe. Are we friendly with anyone in Holck’s department? That big woman—’

‘You mean Rita?’ Skovgaard asked.

‘If that’s what she’s called.’

‘Yes. I know Rita.’

‘Well,’ he said, throwing the minutes at her, ‘you know what to do.’

Then she started bickering about a media strategy. Hartmann didn’t listen. Weber was on the phone again. Getting heated.

‘What is it?’ Hartmann asked when he was done.

‘You’re going to have to talk to that lawyer of yours again, Troels.’

‘Oh for God’s sake. Not Lund.’

‘Not Lund. Bremer wants to sue for libel.’

Vibeke’s car was a ten-year-old green Beetle. Lund didn’t feel minded to drive it very carefully.

The laundry was in Islands Brygge. She’d used it once before when the police couldn’t find the right person.

A charity. Sponsored by the city. Most of the people working there were disabled in some way. A few deaf from birth.

The manager remembered her.

‘Why does everybody think that because someone’s deaf they can lip-read?’ he moaned when she turned up. ‘It’s not true. Even if they can they probably only pick up a third of what they see.’

The place handled many of the big city hotels. She walked past industrial washing machines, piles of sheets and pillows. The air was hot and humid, and sickly with the smell of ironing and detergent.

‘I’ll take a third,’ she said.

‘You need to know the subject matter, the context.’

‘I can do that.’

He stopped.

‘I imagine you can. If anyone can help it’s Ditte. She’s a smart little thing. Deaf and dumb. Bright as they come.’

She looked about twenty, long fair hair, immobile face. Working a commercial ironing machine with a steady, practised ease.

Lund spoke, the manager signed. The girl watched Lund mostly.

Bright as they come.

Ditte’s fingers flew.

‘She wants to see your badge.’

Lund fumbled in her pockets. The girl’s eyes never left her.

‘I forgot it. It’s supposed to be my day off. I must have left it at home.’ She smiled at the manager. ‘I’ve been here before. He knows me.’

Nothing.

‘I can give you my card.’

Brix hadn’t taken those.

Ditte read the card carefully and then they went and sat in a storeroom.

The video was on her laptop. Lund took her through it slowly, rewinding when necessary. That wasn’t often.

The girl signed, the man talked.

‘She came because he promised to give her some keys.’

Frozen on a frame. Nanna looking at Jens Holck. Begging.

‘She wants to pick up something she forgot.’

Ditte’s fingers twisted and turned.

‘She doesn’t want him to come with her.’

The girl stopped, eyes locked to the screen.

‘What is it?’ Lund asked.

The man’s hands gestured. Ditte responded, slowly.

‘She says this is very sad. The girl’s saying she told him it was over.’

‘Does she say what she forgot?’

‘She came to get her…’

The hands stopped.

‘Her what?’

Nothing.

‘Do you want me to rewind it?’

Ditte made a soft, meaningless noise, not vowel, not consonant.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Let it play.’

‘They went away somewhere for the weekend.’

Ditte nodded. Happy with something. She turned and looked at Lund. Fingers very certain.

‘She says she left her passport in a drawer in the flat afterwards.’

Lund took a deep breath.

‘Her passport? Are you sure about that?’

Ditte was back, trapped by the screen.

‘Her plane leaves tonight,’ the manager said.

‘Her plane? Where to?’

The laundry girl looked puzzled. Lund halted the video. Let her catch her breath.

‘Take this slowly. There’s no rush.’

‘She wants you to play the video,’ the man said.

So Lund did.

‘The man asks her where she’s going to. But she just asks for the keys. She says she’s met someone else. Someone she loves very much. Someone she’s going away with.’

Two faces on the screen, love and hate in the same moment. Both dead.

‘He asks her where she’s going again.’

Lund closed her eyes.

‘And she says Paris. But Paris…’

Ditte stopped. She looked cross.

‘What about Paris?’

The hands again.

‘It isn’t Paris. She’s lying.’

‘How do you know?’

She pointed to the video.

‘When the girl speaks she won’t look him in the eye.’

Lund nodded. The hands flew again.

‘Just like you, when you said you’d forgotten your badge. And it was your day off.’

The laundry girl sat at the laptop smiling at Lund. Proud of herself.

‘I won’t get into trouble for this, will I?’ the manager asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

Outside, in the hard seat of Vibeke’s green Beetle, travelling back into the city, she called Meyer.

‘Nanna’s plane was leaving that night. She lied about the destination.’

She could hear the sound of papers getting slammed on the desk. Meyer had her on speakerphone. He was probably making rude gestures at the handset as she spoke.

‘We never came across anything to suggest she was going on a trip.’

‘She said goodbye to her parents. Goodbye to her friends at school. To Kemal. To Holck. You saw that too.’

‘Did I? Who was she going away with?’

‘Get all the passenger lists. Talk to the airlines.’

‘No problem. I’ve got nothing else to do.’

‘Did you check the old cases?’

‘I’m looking at them now. I can’t see any link. Except for Mette Hauge’s bike and really—’

‘Check the departures and find out who she was travelling with. The Hauge girl—’

The phone clicked.

‘Meyer?’ Lund said into the neck mike. ‘Meyer?’

Nanna’s room looked different again. Pernille had relented. Got some Birk Larsen boxes. Carefully started stashing her belongings.

Moving things. Changing things.

There was a globe on Nanna’s desk. Marked with ink stars for all the cities she wanted to visit one day. London and Rome. New York and Beijing.

Pernille looked at it. A simple piece of plastic. Placed it in the cardboard box and walked back into the living room. Looked around.

All their life had been here, from Nanna to the boys. All the love and squabbles. All the pain and joy.

On the door in crayon were the height marks. Red for Nanna, green for Anton, blue for Emil. The junk the police had posted was gone. She could see the place again without being reminded of the world outside and what it contained.

Lives were never still. They shifted always. Or they weren’t lives at all. She’d forgotten this in the dreadful limbo that had consumed them. Forgotten it before, perhaps, in the comfort of their cramped apartment above the grubby, busy depot. Bringing up kids. Feeding Theis. Enjoying his strong arms around her when they were alone.

Never still. You either moved with time or it flowed past heedless. Left you stranded in the bare, cold sand.

She walked downstairs. The woman from the agency had called. Theis was talking to her. Knuckles still raw from whatever happened two nights before. Face grim and dark.

Pernille knocked on the door, went in, sat down.

The woman said, ‘I really think you should take the offer. I know it’s not wonderful. But the market’s not very good. With your finances the bank expect the money.’

‘The bank,’ he muttered.

She smiled, and said to Pernille, ‘Now that it’s all over a clean break might be nice.’

Pernille froze.

Quickly, the estate agent added, ‘I don’t mean over with, of course, but—’

‘When would they move in?’ he asked.

‘Very soon. The money—’

Pernille said, ‘We’d like to talk about this. Can you wait outside?’

She seemed shocked, but went.

‘Stinking banks,’ he muttered.

The plans were on the desk. Some drawings. The agency photos.

‘I never had the time to look at it.’

‘No…’

‘What’s it like? Is it nice? Is there a garden?’

‘It’s Humleby. Three floors…’

‘Would the boys like it, Theis?’

‘Their own rooms? They could have a train set. Of course they’d like it.’

‘And the school’s not far…’

‘Pernille.’ He eyed the woman beyond the glass. ‘The dragon out there just told me she’s found a buyer. The price is lousy but…’

She didn’t speak.

‘The bank would love it.’

Her fingers were running across the photos. Grey Humleby brickwork. A garden.

‘But if you’ve changed your mind—’

‘No, no. Take the offer.’

She looked at him.

‘We need the money, don’t we?’

‘Money,’ he said.

Lund found the taxi driver, Leon Frevert, polishing his Mercedes on a rank by the tourist ferry stop in Nyhavn.

He didn’t want to talk.

After three monosyllabic answers Frevert said, ‘I told you everything I knew. I picked up a fare. I took her somewhere. What else is there to say?’

‘Did she have a bag?’

He started on the windscreen. She thought of Ditte. Frevert wouldn’t look her in the eye.

‘It’s been almost three weeks. This is ridiculous.’

‘Did she have a bag?’

He put down the cloth, glanced in her direction.

‘Maybe she had her wallet in a bag. I don’t know.’

‘I meant a travel bag. A suitcase. A rucksack.’

‘No. She didn’t.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘If she had I would have put it in the boot.’

The car ahead moved off. That left him second in line. She felt sure Frevert would have driven off given half the chance.

‘Did she tell you where she was going afterwards?’

He looked thinner than she recalled. More careworn.

‘What I said before. City Hall and Grønningen. That’s all I know.’

The first car left. Frevert was next.

‘She didn’t mention the airport?’

‘Definitely not. I would have driven her there. A good ride that.’ He scratched his thinning hair. ‘Now you mention it though—’

‘What?’

‘She asked me to wait.’

‘To wait?’

‘Yeah. I remember now. She said she had to go round the corner and then she’d be straight back. So could I wait?’

He laughed.

‘On a Friday night? I was nice to the kid when we went to City Hall. But there were plenty of customers. I couldn’t hang around there.’

For a moment he looked bleak and ashamed.

‘Jesus. What if I had?’

‘Where did Nanna want to go next?’

Frevert was thinking.

‘I think she said Central Station.’

The station was opposite Tivoli. Lund could think of only one reason why Nanna would want to go there.

She went straight to the left luggage department. There was an officious-looking youth in a blue uniform behind the counter. He said that after three days every box got emptied and any uncollected contents taken into store.

‘If you give me a key I’ll find it,’ he added. ‘There’ll be a charge.’

‘I don’t have a key.’

‘What’s the number?’

‘I don’t have the number.’

‘In that case,’ he said very brightly, ‘you don’t get any luggage.’

‘It’s a travel bag. Handed in around October the thirty-first.’

He looked about eighteen. She could see the storage area behind the counter. Rows and rows of bags.

‘Is this bag yours by any chance?’

‘If you let me behind and tell me where to look I’ll find it.’

He folded his arms.

‘Anything else you’d like? A free ticket, first class, to Helsingør? A cheeseburger?’

She pulled out her police business card, gave it to him.

‘Sarah Lund. You called us about a suspicious suitcase.’

He read it, put it in his pocket.

‘Let’s see some ID.’

She started climbing over the steel gate beside him.

‘I can find the bag myself.’

Lund marched past him, ignoring his shouts, got to the back, dragged a bag off the shelf. The date was recent. Nanna’s had to be somewhere else.

‘You stop this now! I’m an official of the railroad.’

‘I’m trying to help,’ Lund said, running quickly down the lines of shelves.

‘I’m getting mad now.’

He stood there, thin arms folded.

‘You’re getting mad?’ she yelled at him. ‘I came in on my day off as a favour to someone in transport. And I’ve got a spotty teenager on my case. Fuck off over the road and take a fairground ride, sonny. Grown-ups have got work to do.’

Face red, he started bleating, arms flapping.

‘You… oh… You!’

‘Mickey Mouse is waiting,’ she said, pointing out to Tivoli.

‘You stay here!’ he shrieked. ‘I’m fetching my boss.’

Lund moved quickly.

So many bags. Most of them black. The kind men bought.

Nanna was pretty and liked pretty things.

Voices at the end of the room. Someone getting loud.

Lund half-ran until she saw it. Pink and fashionable. A brand name. The kind Jens Holck might have bought on City Hall expenses.

She looked at the name tag. Frederiksholm High School on one side. Vesterbrogade 95, Lotte’s address on the other.

Of course Nanna kept it there. She’d never want Pernille and Theis to know.

Lund picked up the bag and rushed out with it, ignoring the flapping, screeching teenager at the counter.

Meyer didn’t put the phone down on her.

‘Do you have the passenger lists?’ she asked.

‘No.’

He sounded reluctant to speak.

‘You’re driving somewhere, Meyer.’

‘SAS are on strike. I’m going to the airport. OK?’

‘Good. I’ve got her bag.’

She was back in the green Beetle, going through Nanna’s belongings, the suitcase open on the passenger’s seat.

‘Any indication where she was going?’ he asked.

A sketchpad. Trainers. Swimsuit. Warm clothes. Price tags on most of the things. She reeled them off to Meyer.

‘Anything to suggest who she was going with?’

‘No.’

Lund had a spare pair of forensic gloves from home. Bit the pack open with her teeth, snapped them on.

‘I’m going to ask the Birk Larsens,’ Lund said.

‘For God’s sake, don’t do that. Yesterday I told them we’d closed the case. Those two need a break.’

‘Yes, well… I’ll work something out.’

‘Lund!’

Birk Larsen turned up outside the Indian restaurant on the dot. Pernille called.

‘The bank won’t help us, Theis.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘They won’t help us with the house. Maybe we could take out a loan against the company?’

‘The company’s got enough loans. We’re selling the house, aren’t we?’

She sounded calm. Happy almost.

‘I’m there now. In Humleby. You haven’t put up any curtains.’

‘Curtains! Why do women always think of curtains! There’s plumbing and wiring and—’

‘Even without the curtains it looks beautiful.’

Birk Larsen stopped in the street. Broke into a broad smile. Laughed at the gloomy winter sky.

‘Women,’ he said.

He heard her happy voice down the line. Could see her face in his head.

‘Baby?’

He hadn’t called her that in ages.

‘Baby?’ Pernille echoed. ‘Do I answer to baby?’

‘You used to. Why not? What I’m going to do, baby, is call the estate agency. Tell them the sale’s cancelled. And they can shove their commission up their tight backside.’

Silence.

‘If that’s OK.’

Silence.

‘If,’ he said again, ‘that’s OK.’

‘It’s a house, Theis. We never had a house. What about the money?’

‘I’ll find a way to make it work.’

‘Where do we get the money?’

‘You never asked before. Why start now?’

‘Can I bring the boys over this afternoon? Can you come? We can show them the place together.’

He saw Amir in the window of the restaurant. Gloomy and anxious, just like the previous night. He was with his father, who looked no happier.

‘You bet,’ Birk Larsen said.

Phone in pocket. He clapped his big hands. Beamed at strangers. Felt… whole.

There were places for the money. It wasn’t the first time he’d steered through stormy waters to keep things afloat. The calls he’d been making would be all the more useful now.

Across the road Amir and his father were outside the restaurant, arguing. The old man pointing an accusing finger, shouting so loudly Birk Larsen could hear him. The babble of another tongue.

The father had his hand on Amir’s arm. The young man broke free with a ferocious burst of Danish curses.

Two little kids in the box of a red Christiania trike. Off to school. Trapped for ever in a photograph on a table.

They all grew up. They all went somewhere, a few into an endless night.

Amir walked over the road, came to him.

‘Is something wrong?’ Birk Larsen asked.

‘Let’s just get out of here.’

Then he walked to the scarlet van.

Skovgaard was on the phone chasing the missing document from Stokke’s minutes. Morten Weber had spent an hour with Bremer’s people trying to clear the air. Mai Juhl waited in Hartmann’s office, getting impatient on her own.

‘What does the old man have to say?’

‘Bremer’s about to start the hearing into Holck’s department. You’re expected. Either you issue a correction and withdraw what you said or he’ll sue you.’

Hartmann waved to Juhl. Got the faintest of smiles in return.

‘So I’m supposed to retract it and look like a complete fool?’

Weber shook his head.

‘There are ways around these things, Troels. We could say you’d been under a lot of pressure after the false arrest. Bremer will put out a sympathetic message if you give him what he wants.’

‘Forget it.’

Mai Juhl had much the same idea. That probably came from Bremer too.

‘Don’t paint yourself into a corner, Troels.’

‘Bremer knew I was innocent. He let me sit in a jail cell, face a charge of murder. When all along he could have picked up the phone and—’

‘So you say. But can you prove it?’

‘He thinks he owns us, Mai. Maybe he does.’

‘Be practical. We’re all sorry about what happened. But you need friends. Don’t cut yourself off—’

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

Skovgaard walked in.

‘Not now,’ Hartmann said, barely looking at her.

‘Yes, now.’

She was smiling. There were some printouts in her hand. Something in her eyes…

‘Go on, Mai.’

‘If you change your mind we can stop the libel suit. Word won’t get out.’

Hartmann took the papers and started to read.

‘There are six mayors and Bremer,’ Juhl went on. ‘He won’t leave you education. He wants me for that. But you’ll get one of them. Maybe… environment now.’

‘The last man in that job prospered, didn’t he?’ Hartmann said, still going through the documents.

‘I’m trying to help. There are people out there who don’t think you’re worth it. Prove me right. Prove them wrong. Let’s do this the proper way. Draft the letter. OK?’

He barely moved. It wasn’t a nod, not really.

But Mai Juhl snatched at it. Picked up her jacket, said cheerily, ‘Thank God for that. See you shortly.’

Then left.

Hartmann stared at the world beyond the window. Thought about possibilities and directions. Choices to be made.

‘Troels?’

Weber had walked in and he’d barely noticed.

‘The hearing’s soon. We need a plan.’

No answer.

‘Hello?’ Weber called. ‘Anyone in?’

‘I’m in,’ Hartmann said. ‘Here’s a plan. Tell Bremer we’ll work out a denial afterwards.’

Weber squinted at him.

‘You’re going to withdraw the accusation?’

‘Afterwards.’

‘Right…’ Weber said.

She walked through the garage, ignored the hard stares of the men in their red uniforms, went up the stairs, rang the bell.

‘Hi, Pernille.’

Lund smiled, tried to appear friendly.

‘Is it a bad time?’

‘We’re moving. I’m going to see the house.’

‘We need to number the evidence in the case. It’s just a formality.’

‘What?’

A gap. An opportunity. Lund walked in, stood in the kitchen. So many things. Little vases and plants, animal silhouettes in the window, dishes on the side. She could never create a home like this.

‘I need to go through Nanna’s belongings again. The last time, I promise.’

‘Meyer said you were off the case.’

‘Tomorrow. It’s my last day. Didn’t he mention it?’

She didn’t know whether Pernille believed that or not.

‘It’s just a detail. Is this a bad time? You don’t need to be here. If you have to go…’

‘I do have to go. Most of her things are in boxes. Will you lock the door behind you?’

‘Sure.’

Lund looked around the lovely kitchen.

‘Your new place is bigger?’

‘It’s a house.’

‘It’s going to be beautiful.’

Pernille stared at her.

‘Just remember to lock up,’ she said and left.

Lund listened to her footsteps down the stairs.

When she was gone Lund took off her jacket and went to the first box. Emptied trinket boxes and books and homework diaries onto the threadbare carpet.

Went through everything. Six boxes in all.

An hour and a half later she sat desolate in Nanna’s bedroom, belongings everywhere, as if an angry child had thrown a tantrum.

Nothing. No sign of a secret assignation. No mention of a trip.

Lund buried her head in her hands, wanted to scream.

Then she looked up, looked around with those big eyes again.

Think.

Think like Nanna.

Look.

Imagine.

There was a blue plastic globe in the corner. She’d seen it earlier. The cross marks on famous cities. Places Nanna surely wanted to visit.

It was a lamp too. An electric cable ran out of the back. Lund took the globe from the box, placed it on the desk, found a socket, turned it on.

The bulb lit up all the bright colours of the countries and continents. Slowly she moved it around on its base. America, Australia, Asia, Africa…

Between the tips of the two capes, in the South Atlantic at the base, something darkened the blue of the sea.

Paper. Letters. Documents.

A secret place for a kid who wanted to go somewhere.

Lund shook the globe.

Took out the plug, sought the way in. Nanna must have had one. She knew how to take this thing apart and put it back together without a sign.

But Nanna was nineteen, with nimbler fingers. Getting cross Lund gave up, picked it up, crashed the thing on the desk, shattered the base and the light fitting, smashed it with her fist.

The plastic gave. The world divided at the equator. Two equal halves, the southern hemisphere with a secret cache of documents.

Last pair of forensic gloves on. She turned the contents on the floor, sat down, legs splayed, went through everything piece by piece.

Letters and cards. A Valentine’s heart. A flower. A photo. So old.

A blonde-haired girl, little more than four or five. Next to a dark-haired kid shyly holding her hand. A playground behind. Sand and a slide. The two of them together in the box of a Christiania trike.

Lund stared.

Didn’t notice the footsteps behind. Didn’t see Pernille Birk Larsen looking over her shoulder at first.

When she did she asked, ‘Who’s this in the picture?’

Lund got up, showed the photo to her.

‘This is Nanna, isn’t it?’

The mess, the upturned boxes. The chaos returned.

‘Who’s the boy, Pernille?’

‘You said the case was closed?’

‘Who is it?’

Pernille took the photo, gazed at it.

‘Amir. A little Asian kid from round the corner. He was Nanna’s sweetheart for a while. They were…’

The word eluded her.

‘They were tiny.’

‘Where’s Amir now?’ Lund asked.

Meyer called when she was back in the car.

‘Nanna wasn’t going from Kastrup, Lund. She was booked on one of the budget airlines from Malmö. Flight to Berlin. Friday at one fifty in the morning. There was another passenger. He didn’t make the flight.’

‘Amir,’ she said.

A long pause.

‘I do wish you’d stop doing this to me. He lives two streets from Nanna. But I guess you know that.’

‘Amir El’ Namen. He came to see Theis last night. He’s moving and he’s using the Birk Larsens. He asked for Theis to do the job himself.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Near the station. Meet me.’

Meyer looked at the long corridor, the dark marble walls, the lights. He couldn’t get out without passing Brix’s office. It looked empty…

‘What’s going on?’

Brix came up behind him, made Meyer jump.

‘If it’s about Lund, I haven’t seen her. I swear.’

‘The Birk Larsen woman just called. Where is she?’

‘I’ve got an appointment right now. Let me call later and explain.’

Brix blocked his way.

‘Explain now.’

‘Nanna was headed for Berlin with someone—’

‘I don’t give a shit about Berlin. The station’s reported some luggage stolen. By Lund. Cut out this misguided loyalty and tell me where she is.’

Meyer didn’t like that.

‘It’s nothing to do with loyalty. It’s to do with the facts. Holck didn’t know Nanna would leave from Malmö. So he went to Kastrup. Here…’

He opened the folder he was taking to Lund.

‘These are Kastrup security pictures from that night. Holck’s in them. Perfect quality. Unmistakable.’

The gloomy politician slumped against an information desk in the departures area. Rubbing his eyes by the ticket desks. Looking old and dejected on a shiny bench seat by the escalators.

‘Jens Holck stayed there till two in the morning. He doesn’t meet a soul.’

Brix gazed at the photos.

‘He didn’t kill Nanna,’ Meyer said. ‘I’ll call you later, shall I?’

No answer. So he left.

Amir asked Birk Larsen to go to an address on an industrial estate in Amager. He didn’t want to talk. Just clutched his student bag and watched glumly as the low houses and industrial buildings ran past the window.

Birk Larsen liked conversation when he was in the cab. Was determined to have it.

‘You were in London, right? I never went. One day—’

‘I was at college. It was my father’s idea.’

‘And you just got back?’

He didn’t understand why Amir had his stuff out here. It seemed an odd place to keep tables and chairs.

‘No. I got back during the summer.’

‘I never saw you.’

‘No.’

‘You should have come round, Amir. Nanna would have liked that. I remember the two of you playing together.’

He laughed.

‘God she used to give you hell. She hated dolls, you know. I always thought that was because she had you instead.’

It seemed a good joke. One he could crack now. Didn’t work on Amir.

‘Did you talk to her when you got back?’

He was back at the window, staring at the dead land beyond. Birk Larsen looked at the address Amir had given him, looked at the road sign, the numbers.

‘No, well. We’re nearly there.’

A closed gate, a derelict industrial unit behind it.

Birk Larsen checked again.

‘Number seventy-four. This is it?’

Amir was frozen in the seat, clutching his bag as if it were the most important thing in all the world.

‘Amir? Is this the place? Is this where we pick up the things for your wedding? What…’

He was crying. Just like he did as a little kid when Nanna pushed him too far. Big tears rolling down from underneath his black student glasses.

‘There isn’t going to be a wedding. It’s cancelled.’

Birk Larsen wondered what to do.

‘Amir… I don’t know why we’re here.’

He took off the shoulder bag, opened it.

Mumbled, ‘I wish…’

Nothing else.

‘You wish what? What?’

‘I was always scared of you,’ Amir said. ‘When we were little and Nanna took me to your home. I was scared of you when I came back this summer. Didn’t dare come round, thinking about what you’d say, what you’d do when you… got to know.’

Birk Larsen squinted at him, said, ‘Know what?’

‘Me. Nanna. Us. She always said I didn’t need to. That you’d come round. That you and her mum were just the same once. Stupid. In love. But…’

He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket the way a child would.

‘I was still scared and I thought… it’s just going to make it worse, isn’t it? When you know—’

‘Know what?’

‘It was me she loved. The immigrant kid from round the corner. We were running away. And then…’

He thrust the bag into Birk Larsen’s hands. There was a white padded envelope inside. Something else.

‘Then something… I don’t know…’

He took off his seat belt. Climbed out. Went to stand by the padlocked gate, looking at the derelict factory that meant nothing, was nothing. Birk Larsen understood this somehow now.

The envelope was addressed to him and Pernille. Inside was a small digital video cassette. Birk Larsen looked in the bag. There was a camera. The cassette fitted.

He found the play button.

Hit it.

Felt his heart stop.

A cold day. Not long ago. Nanna in her heavy coat, hair a mess. Not looking nineteen at all.

‘Is it recording?’ she asks.

A voice from somewhere. Amir’s. A little tetchy as he tries to work things out.

‘Yes.’

She says good. Takes a long deep breath, smiles. A woman’s smile.

Looks into the lens and Theis Birk Larsen’s blood runs cold as he listens to a voice he knows he’ll never hear again.

So bright, so sweet, so full of hope it makes him ache with a desperate sense of loss.

The voice says in a laughing, naughty tone, ‘Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad.’

A wink.

‘Hi, Anton and Emil, the world’s best Teletubbies.’

A pause and her face is so serious and old Theis Birk Larsen feels the tears sting his narrow eyes in an instant.

‘When you all watch this it’ll be Monday. You’ll think I’m in school. But I’m not.’

She turns her head to one side, the cheeky way she always does to win an argument.

‘I know you’ll be angry with me. But don’t worry. I love you all so much. And I’m fine. With Amir. Little Amir.’

A shrug.

‘Not now. My first boyfriend. He came back this summer. We met…’

Her eyes drift to the man behind the camera. She looks embarrassed. Laughs it away.

‘Well. We hadn’t seen each other for three years. But it was like yesterday. You always told me, Mum. When it happens you know. It doesn’t matter what people think. Doesn’t matter what the world thinks. When it happens, when you find the right person, nothing can stop you. And you mustn’t let it.’

A low deep moan rises from Birk Larsen’s lungs.

Her blue eyes fix on the camera, on them.

‘We’ve always loved each other really. It just took a while to admit it. Mum, I think you always knew. Amir’s got a friend we can stay with. I don’t know for how long. Till things calm down.’

He holds the camera closer, as if in some irrational part of his mind he believes this is her. Nanna breathing. Nanna alive.

Nanna saying, ‘I want you all to know I’ve never been happier. So please… I hope you can forgive me. I think you can. You ran away, didn’t you? I remember the look in your eyes when you told me, Mum. So much love.’

Her hand reaches out, touches the unseen man behind the lens.

‘If Amir and me can be as happy and as good as you…’

She is crying now and he always hated to see that.

‘See you, Mum and Dad.’

She blows a kiss.

‘Love you, Teletubbies. I’ll call you soon. I’ll love you always.’

Tears and laughter. The camera moves. A wall with graffiti. A line of bikes. Two streets from their home in Vesterbro. He recognizes the bricks.

Then Nanna and Amir. She’s bright and sparked by hope. He’s quiet and bashful and can look at nothing but her.

With shaking fingers Birk Larsen placed the camera on the passenger seat then buried his head in his hands and wept.

Poul Bremer ran the hearing. Jacket off. Blue shirt. No tie. A man at work.

‘Next we’ll hear from the head of Holck’s administration. Gert Stokke. Gert?’

The grey man in the grey suit came into the room, took a seat.

‘You know the form,’ Bremer said. ‘We’re investigating Holck’s department. We need you to shed some light on this case.’

Stokke nodded, looked at each of the leaders round the table.

‘As you can see from the documents I had a conversation with Holck. I tried to get him to understand that something was wrong. But he didn’t want to know. I was unable to convince him.’

‘And then?’ Bremer asked.

Stokke puffed out his cheeks, said eventually, ‘I brought it up at a later date. He was no more cooperative. With hindsight I see I should have informed someone. I apologize for this. We have systems in place now…’

‘And Holck himself…’ Bremer prompted. ‘He had a bullying nature which was not known to most of us, I believe.’

‘He was forthright,’ Stokke agreed. ‘And convincing. He told me he’d deal with the matter directly. I assumed he was telling the truth. What else could I do?’

Bremer put his hands together, like a priest taking confession.

‘I think we’ve all learned lessons from this sad episode. As far as I can see you did what you could. No further questions are needed. So thank you—’

Hartmann put up his left hand.

‘I have a question if you don’t mind.’

Bremer waited for a moment then said, ‘Go ahead, Troels.’

‘Just so we’re absolutely clear, did you tell anyone about Holck’s actions?’

‘No one.’

Hartmann picked up the folder in front of him.

‘I’d like to hand out some documents.’

He walked round, placing the sheets in front of each, Stokke first.

‘These are minutes from a meeting between Gert Stokke and Bremer. They discussed planting trees. There are references to an appendix which wasn’t included with the file copy. It was mislaid, I imagine. Is that right, Gert?’

‘I’d have to check the records—’

‘No need.’ Hartmann picked up another pile of documents. ‘I’ve managed to recover the appendix anyway.’

Stokke blinked.

‘It was in a safe place, hidden there by the head of administration of Holck’s department.’

A wave to Stokke.

‘You, Gert.’

The civil servant’s eyes locked on the document in front of him.

‘Let me refresh your memory,’ Hartmann went on. ‘This is your note of a report you gave to the Lord Mayor about what you call the worrying conditions in Holck’s administration. It cites, for example, the payment of five thousand kroner a month to a civil servant named Olav Christensen, who worked in my department, not that any of my payroll team or my administration were aware of this relationship. Or that there’s any clear indication why Christensen was paid in the first place.’

Bremer sat flushed, speechless.

Hartmann turned to the council members.

‘This appendix was never part of the official minutes. It was Gert Stokke’s secret insurance policy. A way of making sure that if the sky fell he could at least say we were warned.’

Hartmann pointed to the document.

‘And here it is. Proof that the Lord Mayor knew about Holck’s wilful and illegal misconduct in office long before the rest of us. Proof that the Lord Mayor withheld from the police information that could have revealed the real murderer of Nanna Birk Larsen long before they did.’

He looked across at Bremer.

‘Would the Lord Mayor care to comment?’

Nothing.

‘No?’

‘Well,’ Hartmann said, getting up from the table, leaving them with the papers, ‘thanks for listening.’

Lund and Meyer were out looking for Amir. He’d come back to the city after seeing Theis Birk Larsen. Picked up his car. Hadn’t been seen since.

They’d tried the father’s restaurant. The cemetery.

Nothing.

As Meyer cruised through Vesterbro his phone rang.

‘His mobile is registered on a tower near Tårnby. Not far from the airport. Maybe he’s trying to get out…’

He wheeled the car round, headed for the road out to Kastrup.

Lund thought. Remembered the picture. Two little kids and a red Christiania trike.

‘He’s not going to the airport.’

‘The mobile—’

‘I know where he is.’

The traffic was light. It took twenty-five minutes to get there.

Meyer grew more sullen and morose as he realized where they were headed.

Down the narrow lanes, along the ditches and the canals. Past the dark wood where the dead trees gave no shelter.

Their headlights caught the low metal bridge. A shape midway along.

Meyer checked his gun, realized Brix still had it. Lund scowled at him, got out, walked straight towards the figure by the canal.

There was a bouquet of flowers at his back. Amir sat on the edge, looking at the black water, arms through the railings, dangling his legs in the air.

Like a kid.

A second squad car pulled up on the other side, blue lights flashing. Two men raced out. Lund waved them back.

She walked up.

‘Amir El’ Namen?’

She gestured for Meyer to take out his ID then bent down to talk to him.

‘We’re police, Amir. It’s OK. You’re not a suspect.’

He kept looking at the water.

‘Witnesses saw you at the airport in Malmö.’

She went to the edge, leaned on the ironwork, wanting to see the eyes behind his thick black-rimmed spectacles.

‘There’s something I need to know,’ Lund said. ‘Who knew? Who did Nanna tell?’

Finally he looked at her.

‘Who knew, Amir?’

‘No one knew. We weren’t stupid.’

‘Someone must have known. Someone who kept an eye on Nanna… Or saw you together. An ex-boyfriend, maybe. Think.’

He did.

‘Someone saw us. But he couldn’t have known. It’s not possible.’

Lund got closer.

‘Who saw you?’

‘It was when I picked her up to take her luggage to the station. He got out of a car. I didn’t really see him. I don’t know who he was.’

Meyer sighed.

‘So what did you see then?’ he asked wearily.

Amir glared at him.

‘A red uniform. But he couldn’t have known.’

Meyer shook his head.

‘What do you mean a red uniform?’

‘I mean a red uniform. Like they wear.’

‘Who?’ Meyer asked.

‘His people. Their people. The overalls. Birk Larsen’s.’

Thirty minutes later Brix arrived, gave Lund her ID card without a word.

‘The river search team you wanted is on their way. I expect you to find something.’

‘What about the water supply?’ Meyer asked.

‘They’ll close it for twenty-four hours. No more. What did the Indian boy say?’

‘We’re looking for one of the removals men. Someone who works for Birk Larsen. That’s the link.’

Brix was scanning the arriving cars.

‘The link to what?’

‘To Mette Hauge. She’d moved from her dad’s place to the city not long before she disappeared.’

She waited, wanting to get this clear in her own head.

‘When you move home,’ Lund said, ‘you let strangers into your life. Mette did. Nanna…’

Vagn Skærbæk looked at the orders, the schedules, the money owed. They were doing some night work off the books to make ends meet.

It wasn’t easy.

Theis Birk Larsen was back from a cash run out to the docks, looking beat but happier than he had of late.

‘You know I’m calling in extra people,’ Skærbæk said. ‘What with the work, the calls. We don’t have enough.’

‘So long as the jobs cover it.’

Skærbæk nodded.

‘They will. Don’t worry. I can add up.’

‘Good.’

There was a ring at the door.

‘Go upstairs, Theis. You look beat.’

Skærbæk watched him leave.

The man was lean, around their age. Bloodless face. Sick-looking.

‘You could have come earlier.’

‘I couldn’t. I was busy. The guy who owns the taxis is giving me a hard time. He wants me to do more shifts.’

‘Yeah well. Theis needs you more. And you owe him. So don’t screw us around again. Get your overall on. We’ve got work to do.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yeah. Cash.’

‘Nothing… you know—’

‘Nothing what?’

‘I don’t want trouble, Vagn.’

Skærbæk shooed him into the room with the lockers.

‘Just do the job. There’s still a uniform with your name on it. Even if you do mess us around. This is a family firm, remember?’

‘Family. I know.’

The scarlet overalls were where the new man left them two weeks before, the last time he’d worked. He picked up the red cotton, checked the name on the tag anyway.

It said: Leon Frevert.

Lund looked up and down the canals, wondered what secrets they hid. Scuba divers had been working for two hours, dropping into the water from inflatable boats. Other officers were scouring the weed banks and bulrushes at the edge. Floodlights everywhere.

Even Jansen, the ginger-haired forensic officer who never seemed to question Lund’s orders, was starting to have doubts.

Around eight, during a break to move the scuba team to a different patch he came up, said, ‘We’ve searched two of the smaller canals. God knows how many there are left.’

‘Try the old drain line. Twenty years ago most of this area was off limits. He’d know that, he’d have made use of it.’

‘All of this was off limits twenty years ago. The army used it as a firing range. No one came here. To dump a car…’

She was barely listening. Lund was trying to imagine what might have happened.

‘Don’t assume she’s in a car.’ She thought of Bengt, going behind her back, tracking down Mette Hauge, convinced he was right. ‘Don’t assume anything.’

Meyer had spoken to Mette’s father again. She’d used a removals firm to take her from her home into a new apartment in the city. He’d no idea which one. But the police report said her belongings went to a warehouse registered to a company called Merkur. It had long since gone out of business.

‘The last person it was registered to was someone called Edel Lonstrup,’ Meyer added. ‘I’ve got an address. Maybe tomorrow…’

It was almost ten.

‘Let’s go now,’ Lund said.

‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ Meyer asked.

‘Yes. Twenty years.’

Lonstrup was in Søborg, on the edge of an industrial zone. It looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a home. The metal gates were unlocked. So were the doors to the run-down metal shack that greeted them at the end of the drive. Meyer pushed in. Boxes everywhere and dusty junk. The name Merkur was stencilled on a few. At the back was a long window with a light on. They could see a kitchen. A few pot plants.

Someone lived here as well.

A bloodless face came to the glass, put a leathery hand to her cheeks, peered out.

In her grey dressing grown, with her lank unwashed hair, she didn’t look as if she got many visitors.

They sat in the kitchen, watching her eat. The place seemed to be made out of the junk she’d collected: unmatched crockery, a rickety stove, an ancient radio. Merkur closed down ten years ago after her husband died. She said she didn’t have a list of staff, any paperwork at all.

‘What happened to it?’ Meyer asked.

‘I threw it all out. Why keep it? If this is about taxes or something go down to the cemetery and talk to him.’

‘Did one of your employees switch to Birk Larsen’s company?’

‘Employees? It’s the moving business. They’re all gypsies. They worked for us one minute. The competition the next. God knows what else they got up to on the side.’

Her face hardened. A memory.

‘That’s why he hung around with them, not his family. For the drink and the women and whatever else was going on.’

‘Birk Larsen?’

‘Who’s Birk Larsen?’

The woman had no TV as far as she could see. No papers on the table. Nothing that linked this place to the world outside.

‘Does the name Mette Hauge mean anything?’ Lund asked.

‘Who?’

‘Mette Hauge. She had some things in storage.’

‘Aage sold everything he could before he went bust. Other people’s belongings too. If he hadn’t died he’d be in prison. All to get drunk and hang around with scum.’

‘So you didn’t keep anything?’

‘Take a look. What you see is ours. No one else’s.’

A voice emerged from the dark behind them, younger, more frail. It said, ‘We’ve still got some things in the garage.’

The woman behind them looked forty but was dressed like a teenager from another time. Long woollen cardigan, a colourful, tatty T-shirt beneath. Jeans. Her hair was in pigtails, turning from brown to grey. She had the face of a child, scared and mutinous at the same moment.

‘Go to your room,’ Edel Lonstrup ordered.

‘What things?’ Lund asked.

‘Dad’s things. Lots of them.’

‘They’re just old boxes!’ the mother bawled. ‘Go back to your room!’

‘We need to take a look,’ Meyer said. ‘Show us.’

Boxes of papers, no order, no logic in the dusty garage full of junk and cobwebs. A few crates had the company logo. The word Merkur in blocked blue type with a wing flying out from the left.

Lund sorted through ancient computer printouts. Meyer emptied box upon box onto the floor.

‘What exactly are we supposed to be looking for?’

‘A man.’

He kicked a crate. More papers flew around the room, more dust.

‘Nope,’ Meyer said. ‘Not there.’

The daughter stayed and watched from the shadows.

‘How old were you twenty-one years ago?’ Lund asked her.

‘Seventeen.’

‘What were they like? The men your father employed.’

‘Rough. Frightening. Big. Strong.’

She clutched her grubby cardigan as she spoke.

‘My mother said to stay away. They weren’t like us. They were…’

The daughter stopped.

‘They were what?’ Meyer asked.

‘They were moving men. All like that.’

‘All?’

Lund left the boxes and walked up to her.

‘The man we’re looking for might have been different. Not much older than you. Twenty, twenty-five. Perhaps he worked here part-time.’

‘They came and went…’

Lund was trying to imagine. If Bengt was right this man was organized, clever, persistent. He didn’t snatch women in the night. He hunted them, wound them in. Charmed them even.

‘He was probably different to the others. Better maybe. Smarter.’

She didn’t speak.

‘He’d like talking to girls. I think he’d talk with more respect than the others. More sympathy.’

A picture was starting to form in Lund’s head.

‘He’d be nice. Not rough. Not nasty. Next to them he’d seem charming, maybe. Was there anyone like that?’

Silence.

Lund took out a photo of the necklace with the black heart.

‘Have you seen this before?’

The woman came out of the darkness, into the light for the first time. She was, Lund thought, extraordinarily pretty, but damaged by something. The isolation. The loneliness.

Nothing.

‘Let’s go, Lund,’ Meyer said. ‘Is there somewhere I can wash this shit off my hands?’

The daughter pointed to the door. Waited till he was gone. Watched Lund.

When he was out of earshot she said, ‘There might be someone.’ Nervous, she turned her head, made sure Meyer wasn’t listening. ‘It won’t come from me, will it? My mother won’t—’

‘No one needs to know.’

‘They only want one thing. Men.’

‘Was he like that?’

She was remembering.

‘No. The others didn’t like him that much. They’d be messing round. Drinking. Smoking. Not doing a damned thing. He worked. He made sure they kept to the schedule if he could. They didn’t like that.’

‘What did he look like?’ Lund asked.

She shrugged.

‘Just ordinary. There was a picture of him with my father. But Mum threw it out. He was supposed to become the manager but I don’t know… something happened.’

‘What?’

‘I said. I don’t know. One day he was here. Then he never came back.’

Lund watched her face.

‘Did you miss him?’

Almost forty, dressed like a teenager, long hair turning grey. A life gone to waste.

Nothing.

‘If that was me,’ Lund added, ‘I wouldn’t have let anyone throw out that picture. I’d have gone back and got it. Kept it somewhere my mother didn’t know. That’s what pictures are for, aren’t they? Memories.’

Lund came closer. The daughter had the same fusty smell as the garage and the living quarters stuck onto the side. Damp and dust and cobwebs.

‘We need that picture…’

The long thin arms in the threadbare cardigan came out and gripped her tightly.

‘You mustn’t tell…’

The daughter glanced at the windows into the kitchen. There was no one there. Then she went to the back of the garage, carefully began to move sets of old shelves to one side.

Found something at the bottom. Began to sort through it.

Meyer had returned. He started towards the woman. Lund’s arm went out to stop him. Her thumb jerked at the door and she mouthed, ‘Out.’

She found the photo so quickly Lund wondered whether she looked at it every day. It was spotless, no dust. A good clear picture.

‘That’s my father. This is the man I was talking about.’

Lund examined the faces.

‘It was twenty years ago,’ the daughter said. ‘Why are you looking for him? What’s he done?’

Lund said nothing.

‘It can’t be anything bad,’ the woman with the greying pigtails added. ‘He wasn’t like that.’

Pernille sat at the kitchen table watching the video on Amir’s camera, trying to blink back the tears.

Theis was next to her, his hand on hers.

‘Was Amir involved?’ she asked after she watched Nanna blow them a farewell kiss.

‘No. The police said he waited for her at the airport in Malmö.’

She brushed her eyes, her cheeks with the sleeves of her shirt.

‘Why didn’t she tell us? Why keep it a secret?’

He kept staring at the last image of Amir and Nanna, frozen in time, all smiles. Couldn’t speak.

‘The Lund woman came and went through all her things again.’

She shook her head. Felt bleak and defeated again, just as she had before.

‘Something’s not right, Theis.’

His fingers left her hand.

‘Don’t start this again. They said the case was closed.’

‘So why did Lund come over?’

No answer.

‘They haven’t found him,’ she whispered. ‘You know that. They haven’t found him.’

A knock on the door. Leon Frevert stood at the threshold in his red overalls and black cap.

‘What?’ Birk Larsen asked.

‘Sorry but… Vagn wants you to come downstairs.’

‘Not now.’

The tall thin man looked scared, but he wasn’t moving.

‘I think you need to come, Theis. Please.’

Birk Larsen grunted and said, ‘OK.’

The men were all there, full-timers, part-timers, some he barely recognized. In their red uniforms, lined up in the office. Talking among themselves, not smiling, not looking at him as he came through the door.

Vagn Skærbæk stood at the front of the group, arms folded, talking and nodding.

The leader, always.

They had rows sometimes. People walked out. Didn’t always come back.

That, Birk Larsen thought, was the business.

His business.

So he walked straight in, said, ‘What the hell is this? Either work or go home, will you?’

Skærbæk turned and faced him. Shifty-looking, glancing at the floor.

‘Theis—’

‘Not now.’

‘Now, Theis. We have a problem.’

Skærbæk met his eyes finally. Silver necklace glittering. Face serious, resigned.

‘What’s that?’

‘This house of yours in Humleby. Don’t get us wrong. We’re glad it’s working out. We really do but…’

He frowned.

‘It’s getting in the way. We come here to work for customers. Instead we keep stopping to move bricks and wood and all that shit to Humleby. This can’t go on…’

Birk Larsen closed his eyes, tried to find the words.

‘Truth is, Theis, you won’t have that place fixed up by Christmas the way things are going. So we’ve decided. Sorry. But this is final…’

That nod of his little head.

‘We’re going to fix it for you.’

A warm roar of laughter, someone slapped his back. Birk Larsen looked at their beaming faces.

‘A couple of us are going to work each evening and a couple more at weekends.’

‘You bastards…’ Birk Larsen muttered, shaking his head, wiping his eyes.

‘The basement’s first. Then the kitchen and the bathroom.’

He pulled out a list of materials.

‘Rudi’s cousin’s a plumber so we get that stuff at cost and a little on the side. He needs moving soon so we can do a deal. The rest will cost you beer.’

He nudged Birk Larsen’s elbow.

‘Best start saving, Theis. These guys drink. And…’

Skærbæk fell silent. They all followed the direction of his puzzled gaze.

Lund and Meyer walked into the garage, were doing what they always did, looking around.

Birk Larsen swore then marched out to meet them.

‘We’ve got new information,’ Meyer said. ‘It changes things.’

Birk Larsen stood in front of his men outside the office.

‘Last time you told us this was done with.’

‘I know. I was wrong. We have to reopen the case.’

‘I want you to leave.’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘If you want to talk to me again, do it through the lawyer.’

‘It’s not you we want to talk to,’ Lund cut in. ‘It’s one of your men. Vagn Skærbæk.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Birk Larsen bellowed. ‘What?’

Lund walked past him, went to the office, noticed one lean figure scuttling to the back of the room, jerking his baseball cap over his face. Thought of what the daughter had said: they’re all footloose. Gypsies.

It wasn’t Skærbæk. He’d stayed where he was, glaring at her.

‘You should leave Theis alone,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t he been through enough?’

‘Can we have a word, Vagn?’

Wide eyes, silver neck chain glittering, he came out, stood next to Birk Larsen.

‘What is it, Theis?’

‘They want to speak to you.’

‘About what?’

Meyer said, ‘You’re coming with us.’

‘Why?’

‘Get in the car or we arrest you. What’s it going to be?’

Skærbæk looked at Birk Larsen, head to one side, bemused.

‘Is this a joke?’

‘No joke,’ Meyer said. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten thirty-seven. You’re under arrest.’

He reached into his back pocket, took out the handcuffs, waved them at Skærbæk.

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Take it easy, for Christ’s sake.’

Pernille was there now.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘Search me.’ Vagn Skærbæk saw the cuffs waved again and said, ‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’

The tall figure at the back of the office was still hiding in the shadows, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes. Lund wanted to look but Meyer was getting impatient.

‘If there’s news,’ she told Pernille Birk Larsen, ‘we’ll call.’

Hartmann was in front of the press conference. Black suit, black shirt and tie.

‘The charge against the Lord Mayor could hardly be more serious. He knew about Jens Holck’s criminal activities. Gert Stokke wrote the minutes of the meeting.’

He held up the papers Skovgaard had found.

‘This is the proof. We’ll distribute copies. Because Bremer never came forward with this knowledge I was discredited. More importantly the city of Copenhagen was deceived by the man elected to lead it. Bremer deliberately misled the police and their inquiries. He wasted their time and our money to cover for a killer. All out of nothing more than his own political gain.’

Hartmann looked round the room.

‘We deserve better than this. We must get better. I’ve reported Poul Bremer to the police.’

‘What did the police say?’ one of the reporters called out.

‘They’ll investigate. I regret the focus of this election has shifted once again.’

‘Will he be charged?’

‘That’s up to the police.’

Erik Salin was in the front row. Bald head. Beaming smirk.

‘Five days left to the election, Hartmann. Aren’t you getting a bit desperate?’

They all waited.

‘I’ll let the people decide that,’ Hartmann said. ‘Thank you.’

Thirty minutes later he was back in his office watching Bremer respond live on the news.

He might have predicted the reaction.

‘This is all a lie,’ the Lord Mayor said. ‘I never had that conversation with Stokke. These so-called minutes are forged. Fabricated for the occasion.’

‘By Troels Hartmann?’ the interviewer asked.

‘I doubt it. I see this as a civil servant’s attempts to wash his hands of a problem of his own making. I’m the victim. Hartmann has chosen, knowingly or not, to be his mouthpiece. I would have hoped for better—’

Weber hit the off button.

‘Bremer’s dumping it in Stokke’s lap. What else do you expect him to do?’

‘Stokke’s a big boy,’ Skovgaard said. ‘You should be too.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. This is going to bring Bremer down.’

Weber dragged on his coat.

‘I thought we were here to beat him with better ideas. Not by playing his own shitty game more grubbily than he does. Oh to hell with this. I’m sick of the rotten taste of it in my mouth.’

‘What was that?’ Hartmann barked at him.

‘You heard, Troels! I spent years making you what you are.’

‘Did you?’

Weber looked him up and down.

‘Damned right. The new guard. Clean and honest. Frank and fearless. And here you are trying to scrape the barrel like the worst of them. Jesus… You think you’re up to it?’

He pointed a finger at Skovgaard.

‘Do you think she is? The Jack and Jackie show’s falling apart and the two of you can’t even see it.’

‘That’s enough, Morten.’

Weber scowled.

‘I haven’t even started. You’re not supposed to wander onto the dark side, Troels. That’s my job. Leave it to the professionals.’

He was gone before Hartmann could answer. Rie Skovgaard sat fuming in her chair.

Hartmann perched on the desk.

‘I’m sorry. Morten turns brittle under pressure.’

‘That was brittle?’

‘I think so. I’ve known him a long time. That’s how it shows.’

Skovgaard seized her papers. Hair up now, severe. Dark eyes restless. Looking everywhere but him.

‘I was wondering if you’d like a drink.’

Head to one side, eyes examining him, she said nothing.

‘OK,’ Hartmann said with a shrug. ‘Just an idea…’

Weber marched back in. He was holding a gigantic bouquet of lilies.

‘Here.’ He thrust them into her arms. ‘These arrived for you. Maybe you’re supposed to turn them into a wreath or something.’

Then marched out.

‘Flowers,’ Hartmann said.

‘You’re very observant sometimes, Troels.’

‘Someone must appreciate you a lot.’

A smile, finally.

‘Can you call the police now?’ he asked.

There was a constituency meeting next. Weber relented and shared the car with Hartmann. They listened to Bremer’s statement on the radio. Halfway through Weber asked the driver to turn it off.

‘What did you mean, Morten? About the Jack and Jackie show?’

‘Oh come on. You see yourself that way. So does Rie. Don’t you know that was an act too?’

‘I’m not acting.’

‘You’re a politician. Don’t be so stupid.’

Hartmann shook his head.

‘Why do I take this constant abuse from you?’

‘Because we make a good match. Better than you and Rie. More honest anyway.’

Weber patted his knee.

‘Don’t be offended. I want the best for you. Both of you. She’ll make a good sidekick once she learns her limitations.’

‘Same for me, I imagine.’

‘You’re getting there.’

‘Why am I wrong about Bremer? Does it matter? If the end’s right, who cares about the means?’

‘Doesn’t work that way.’

‘I need to know I can rely on you, Morten. I need to know you won’t walk out. Throw a fit about Rie…’

No answer.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Hartmann said.

‘I believe you think you do.’

Hartmann held out his hand.

‘Come on, you grumpy old bastard. We’re in this together.’

Weber took his hand, shook it.

‘We always have been, Troels. And I’m not grumpy by the way. The thing is—’

Hartmann’s phone rang. Skovgaard. He put it on speakerphone so that Weber could hear.

‘I talked to the police,’ she said. ‘They’ll look into the allegations against Bremer.’

‘When?’

‘When they get round to it. They’re reopening the Birk Larsen case.’

Hartmann stretched back into the seat, wanted to scream.

‘What?’

‘They’re looking for someone else. They don’t think Jens Holck killed her after all. Lund and Meyer are back on the investigation. They’re out in Vestamager. They’ve shut down the waterworks and started searching all the canals.’

‘Find out more. We’ve a right to know.’

‘It’s a murder case, Troels. We don’t have the right to know anything.’

‘If Holck’s innocent it’s just a matter of time before they start banging on my door again. Find out what you can.’

A long pause.

‘They ruled you out, didn’t they?’

‘Since when did that mean a damned thing?’

He finished the call, told Weber what was happening.

‘They can’t come for you, Troels. How could they?’

Hartmann watched the city run past beyond the window.

‘Five days. One more punch. One more low blow. That’s all Bremer needs. By the time we get clear he’s back on the throne. You’re the strategist. If you were advising him, what would you do?’

‘If I was his strategist?’

‘Yes.’

Morten Weber laughed.

‘Then you’d be dead already.’

Vagn Skærbæk sat in their office chewing nervously on a plastic cup of coffee. Lund kicked off the questioning.

‘You worked for Merkur twenty years ago?’

‘I worked for lots of people over the years. You go where the money is. So what?’

She showed him the photo Aage Lonstrup’s daughter had found for them.

‘God, I was beautiful back then.’ Skærbæk stroked his chin. ‘I still am, don’t you think?’

‘How long did you work there?’

‘Three or four months. He was a nice guy but some of the others were idiots. A lot of boozing went on. I’m not much of a drinker.’

‘Did you know Mette Hauge?’ Meyer asked.

‘Who?’

‘A young woman called Mette Hauge. Merkur moved her into the city. Dark-haired girl. Early twenties.’

‘Are you kidding? We’d move someone every day. Two sometimes. I don’t remember. How’d you expect—?’

‘How well did you know Nanna?’ Lund cut in.

He stared at her.

‘I first held her when she was a week old. Does that answer your question?’

‘Not really. Did you know about her boyfriends?’

‘Not the politician. There was that rich kid from school who used to come round drooling. She had the sense to get rid of him.’

Lund watched him closely.

‘Did you know she was planning to travel that weekend?’

‘Travel? Where to?’

‘Talk to us about that Friday, Vagn,’ Meyer said. ‘You spent the evening at a nursing home with your uncle. That’s right?’

‘I told you that already.’

‘You’re a single man. You spend Friday night with your uncle?’

‘Yes. Every Friday.’

‘What about the rest of the weekend? Choir practice? Feeding the ducks? Knitting?’

Skærbæk rolled back his head, looked at the ceiling and said, ‘Ha, ha.’

‘You beat up the teacher.’

He glared at them.

‘You should never have told Pernille he did it. Wouldn’t have happened without you idiots.’

‘Where were you?’

‘At work! Like I told you! Theis and Pernille took the boys away for a break. I offered to cover. I’ve known Theis since for ever. They’re like family. I’d do anything for them.’

‘Have you seen this before?’

Lund passed him a photo of the necklace.

‘No. Can I go now? It’s been a long day.’

‘What about the other Merkur movers? Still know them?’

‘Twenty years ago? You’re kidding. Old man Lonstrup died. The rest were clowns, like I said. You know if you can’t work out who killed Nanna maybe it’s time your bosses found someone who can.’

He closed his eyes for a moment, looked as if he was in pain.

‘You’ve got to stop putting Theis and Pernille through all this. Do you people have no feelings? Christ…’

Lund looked at Meyer.

‘Stay there,’ she told Skærbæk.

They updated Brix in the adjoining office, watching Vagn Skærbæk through the glass.

‘He knew Nanna,’ Meyer said. ‘It’s possible he helped Mette Hauge move. He’s agreed to prints and a DNA swab. We’re checking them now.’

Brix got up and took a closer look at the man beyond the glass. Skærbæk was chewing on his empty plastic cup, spitting out the pieces. He looked bored and exhausted.

‘Any news from the woods?’

‘No. But they’ll work through the night.’

‘Check Skærbæk’s alibi again. Take a look at his family, his friends.’

‘We need to see if any other missing women had contact with a removals company,’ Lund suggested. ‘Think about it. You invite these people into your life. They see your home. Your routine. You trust them…’

‘You could say that about a priest. A doctor. A postman…’

‘I’m saying it about Vagn Skærbæk. Merkur—’

‘Wait,’ he broke in. ‘We’re working on the murder of Nanna Birk Larsen. Maybe there’s a connection to a girl who disappeared twenty years ago. I don’t know. All you have is a necklace. I’m not letting you dig up every cold case on the files—’

‘Brix—’

‘Take a look at him!’

Skærbæk had bitten through half the cup, done nothing else all the time they’d left him.

‘That guy can’t even change a light bulb. The idea he’s been running rings round us for twenty years… I don’t believe he’s been doing it for twenty days.’

Lund glanced at Meyer, stayed silent.

‘You’ve got seventeen hours left in the woods. Then the water supply goes back on. If there’s nothing but a necklace to link Nanna to the Hauge girl you drop that line altogether. Understood?’

Meyer gave him a little salute.

‘I want this case under wraps. No leaks. Not even to Hartmann.’

‘When do I get my gun back?’ Meyer asked.

‘When forensics are done with it.’

‘There are other guns, I believe. Sir—’

‘You just shot a man dead, Meyer. Three bullets. No mistake. Maybe it’s best you stay away from firearms for a while. We were wrong about Holck. I don’t want any more screw-ups.’

No answer. Brix left.

‘At least he said we,’ Meyer noted.

Lund was watching Vagn Skærbæk through the glass.

‘He’s not stupid,’ she said.

When they let Skærbæk go he went straight back to the garage in Vesterbro, talked to the Birk Larsens in their kitchen over coffee.

‘They haven’t a clue. You want to know what I think? They’re so desperate they’re going to go through everyone. Every guy who works here, Theis. Same thing. What did you do all weekend? Let’s have your fingerprints. Lick this. Sit there. Jesus—’

‘What did they ask about?’

‘Just that. What did you do all weekend? Why don’t you have a girlfriend? Stupid things.’

‘What sort of things?’ Pernille asked.

‘Like what I knew about Nanna’s boyfriends. Did I know she’d been seeing the politician. All kinds of stuff. It’s a joke.’

Birk Larsen’s narrow eyes turned on him.

‘Did you know about Nanna and Amir?’

Skærbæk squinted, shook his head.

‘The Indian kid? The one she used to hang about with when she was little?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Know what?’

‘They were going out together again.’

Skærbæk thought for a moment.

‘You mean like… now?’

‘Now,’ Birk Larsen snapped.

‘I don’t know jack shit about anything. I haven’t seen that Indian kid in years. What is this? I spent the weekend looking after the business.’

Pernille said to no one in particular, ‘Why do they think it’s one of the men?’

Birk Larsen shook his head.

‘They don’t tell anyone a damned thing,’ Skærbæk said, getting louder. ‘I told them to stop messing you around. They don’t care. They don’t give a fuck about anyone’s feelings. Jesus… Nanna.’

His eyes were getting glassy.

‘They said… how long did I know her? Nanna? Only since she was a baby. It’s disgusting—’

Birk Larsen put a hand on his shoulder,

‘Calm down, Vagn. It’s like you said. They’re just trying it with anyone. I’m getting a lawyer for this. We need some peace and quiet. I’m not having these bastards marching through the door any time they feel like. Pestering…’

‘I appreciate that,’ Skærbæk said.

Lund picked up her voicemail as she arrived back at the empty flat in Østerbro. There was only one message. Bengt.

‘Hi, it’s me. I know it was stupid, but I’d like to explain. I’m still in Copenhagen. Your mother wasn’t at home. I hope everything’s all right.’

She walked up the stairs, thought she heard a noise on her landing. Looked round. Saw nothing.

‘Call me,’ Bengt said.

Then a voice came out of the shadows, and a tall shape.

Lund fell back against the wall, eyes darting, trying to make sense of what was happening.

‘Your neighbour let me in,’ Troels Hartmann said.

‘You surprised me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Why are you here?’

He came out into the light.

‘You know why I’m here.’

‘If it’s about the report you filed with us on Bremer you’ll have to wait. Someone will get back to you.’

He watched her work her key into the lock.

‘They haven’t yet.’

‘We’re busy right now. I can’t help you. I’m not on that case.’

She opened the door. He walked forward and put an arm out to stop her.

‘What are you doing in the woods?’

Lund dodged under his arm, went inside.

‘It’s just an exercise. Nothing. Goodnight.’

Then she slammed the door.

‘Fine!’ Hartmann yelled from the other side. ‘So you won’t mind me telling the media what’s going on in the woods is nothing to do with me? Or Nanna Birk Larsen?’

He was halfway down the stairs when she came to the door and said, ‘Get in here.’

Lund changed her jumper while he watched. Black and white for white and black.

‘I’m on my way out. Make this quick.’

‘Quick as you like. I just want a straight answer.’

Looked in the fridge. Still time for a beer.

‘I’ve only got one, Hartmann. Do you want some?’

He stared at the Carlsberg.

‘That red wine I gave you was five hundred kroner.’

Lund shrugged, cracked open the bottle, swigged from the neck.

‘Tonight I said Bremer was covering for a killer.’

‘I wouldn’t repeat that if I were you.’

He didn’t like that answer.

‘There was Christensen—’

‘Could go down as a road traffic accident. Hard to prove intent in a dead man. Not sure Brix will think it’s worth trying.’

‘How certain are you Holck didn’t kill Nanna?’

The beer tasted good.

‘Pretty certain. Well, as much as anything.’

Lund had bought the last box of sushi in the local store. She didn’t like sushi much but there was nothing else left that was quick and simple.

‘If it wasn’t Holck who was it?’

‘If I knew that would I be sitting here drinking beer from the bottle and eating cold rice and fish?’

He took a chair on the other side of the table.

‘How long before you come back to me? What the hell will people think?’

‘They’ll think the case is closed. Do you want some sushi?’

‘You don’t like it, do you?’

Lund pushed the box away.

‘We’re making progress, Hartmann. Stop worrying.’

‘What kind of progress? How close are you to an arrest? Hours? Days? Weeks?’

‘I’m a police officer. Not a clairvoyant.’

More beer. She looked at him.

‘I haven’t finished the bottle,’ Lund said, waving the Carlsberg at him. ‘You can still have some if you want.’

Hartmann looked briefly disgusted by the idea.

‘They’ll take your report seriously. If Bremer was aware of Holck’s misconduct in office something will happen. In time.’

‘Great.’

He got up to leave.

‘I was wondering, Hartmann.’

‘Wondering what?’

‘The missing tape from City Hall security.’

‘What about it?’

‘We were looking for that all along. We thought we could nail you with it. In fact it clears you. There’s Holck on it, with Nanna.’

Hartmann looked bewildered.

‘Who sent it?’ he asked.

‘I thought you might be able to tell me.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Well…’ She pulled back the box of sushi, ate some more anyway. ‘I guess we can assume someone at City Hall is still interested in you and Nanna anyway.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘They didn’t give us the tape till now. When you’re in the clear. Why is that?’

‘Tell me,’ Hartmann said.

‘If they took it to protect you they can’t have watched it, can they? Otherwise they could have saved you from jail.’

He was struggling with that idea.

‘You need to make connections, Hartmann.’

‘Like what?’

‘Someone steals a videotape to protect you. They make sure we don’t get our hands on it. But they never watch it. Then, when you’re cleared, we get it. Why?’

Nothing.

Lund finished the beer.

‘Here’s what I’d guess. They gave it to us now because they think there’s more shit coming your way.’

‘And why didn’t they watch it?’

She looked at him.

‘Maybe because they couldn’t bear to. Because they thought they’d see you there with Nanna. Guilty as hell.’

His handsome politician’s face was so immobile it might have been chiselled from stone.

‘Just a guess. That’s all.’