The Killing by David Hewson

Author:David Hewson [Hewson, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9781447213574
Publisher: Pan Macmillan

Thursday, 13th November

Just after eight, Lund and Meyer were watching the morning news in the office. Rie Skovgaard talking to a forest of microphones.

‘The Mayor for Education spoke to the police last night,’ she said. ‘He cooperated fully and was able to provide them with information they hadn’t previously gathered. I can’t go into details but let me emphasize that Troels Hartmann has no – I repeat no – connection with the murder of Nanna Birk Larsen. He will help . . .’

‘All the usual bullshit,’ Meyer said.

He waved a typed sheet.

‘I checked up on him. Forty-two. Born in Copenhagen. Son of a politician, Regner Hartmann. The father was Poul Bremer’s bitter enemy. Lost every battle. Went to pieces. Died a while back.’

Skovgaard was fielding questions.

‘Speculation made in bad taste by political opponents is deplorable,’ she said.

Lund waved her coffee mug at the screen.

‘So now the son’s taking on his father’s battles?’

‘Been doing that all along,’ Meyer agreed. ‘Joined the Liberal youth branch at nineteen. Elected to the city assembly when he was twenty-four. Served on committees. Became group leader four years ago. Got to run the education department as a result.’

Lund was making the bread, butter and ham sandwiches again. She had one for him. Meyer bit into it.

‘You do realize this man’s never had a real job. He’s spent his entire life playing round in that phoney world of theirs inside the Rådhus. No wonder he turns flaky the moment his little glass palace gets a crack in it.’

‘The alliance will succeed,’ Skovgaard emphasized to the cameras.

‘Hello?’

He waved his sandwich in the air, scattering crumbs across the desk.

‘Are we listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘He married his childhood sweetheart the year he became leader. She died two years ago. Cancer. She was six months pregnant.’

‘That must have felt real enough,’ Lund said. ‘Any criminal record?’

‘Not a thing. Whiter than white. Did you read the emails?’

‘Yes. I don’t buy the idea they were written by two different people. They sound the same. He always signs himself just as F.’

Meyer looked at the printouts.

‘Can you see any differences?’ she asked.

‘No. So what? How many ways can you write . . . meet me in the Hilton at eight thirty, sweetheart? My turn with the condoms. Any preference, darling?’

Svendsen came in and threw some files on her desk.

‘What’s this?’

‘Missing women from the last ten years. You asked for them.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘No. Brix thought it was a waste of time.’

‘Did you look?’

‘Brix says you’re barking up the wrong tree. If you want any more you’re to do it in your own time. Not ours.’

‘How many murdered women?’

Svendsen rapped his knuckles on the blue folder.

‘I’m busy right now,’ he said. ‘Here you go.’

Coffee on the table and pastries, beneath the wan light of the pink artichoke lamps, the group meeting began. The four minority leaders and Hartmann.

Jens Holck looked a little better. He’d shaved. Put on a jacket.

‘What’s going on, Troels?’ he asked. ‘Was the girl in your flat? Yes or no?’

‘Yes. At least that’s what the police say.

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