depot, while Pernille quietly wept, Theis Birk Larsen sat with Anton and Emil, one on each huge knee, telling more stories about angels and forests, watching their faces, hating his lies.
Sarah Lund bit on another piece of Nicotinell, thought about Jan Meyer, thought about the dead girl who came out of the water.
Then she pulled open the glove compartment by the wheel, sorted through the packs of gum, the dead lighter, the tissues, the tampons and took out her gun.
Halfway up the dark dank staircase she heard the sound of breaking glass.
Lund ran the rest of the way, took hold of Meyer’s arm as he smashed at the panel in the door with the grip of his gun.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I told you to wait.’
He broke more glass, opened up the hole with his elbow, put a hand through, looked at her and winked.
‘You go left,’ Meyer said. ‘I go right.’
Hand through, searching. There was the sound of an old key turning an old lock. Then the door moved. Inside was as black as the night they’d just left. Meyer scuttled through and was gone in a stride. She went to the wall, edged forward, the Glock an unfamiliar shape in her right hand.
The place stank of mothballs and liniment, cat and washing.
Three steps and she bumped into a sideboard, nudged something with her arm, just managed to catch it before the thing fell to the floor. Lund could just see what she’d touched: a porcelain figurine, a country milkmaid grinning beneath her burden of buckets. Placed it back without a sound. Moved forward, stepped on something, heard a tinny mechanical voice break the silence.
‘Your weight is fifty-seven point two kilograms.’
She got off the scales wondering what Meyer was saying to himself.
‘Fifty-seven point two kilograms,’ the thing said again.
There was a pained sigh from somewhere ahead. Then footsteps. A silhouette. Meyer, trudging in front of her, gun out.
No other sound. Three more steps. A door on the right, ajar. Laboured, arrhythmic breathing. She pocketed the weapon, walked through, fumbled her fingers against the wall, found a light switch. Turned it on.
In the dim yellow bulb of a single wall-light the old woman struggled, trussed like a farmyard bird, wrists and ankles, a cloth rag round her mouth.
Lund got down, put a hand to her shoulder, pulled off the gag.
A long high wail of terror and pain burst from the old woman’s lips.
Meyer was close by, cursing.
‘Where is he?’ Lund asked. ‘Mrs Villadsen?’
‘What did she say?’ Meyer snapped.
The woman was panting, gasping for breath. Terrified.
‘What did she say?’
Lund looked at him. Listened. He got the message. Went back out in the dark apartment, feet tapping on the tiles.
She waited.
You take the left. I’ll take the right .
Did that still apply? Yes, she guessed. Meyer was a little like her in some ways. There was one plan and one plan only. You stuck with it until something changed. He didn’t like working with someone else either.
She undid the woman’s ankles and wrists, told her to stay there, stay still.
A pair of scrawny hands clawed at her.
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I’ll be right back. We’re here. You’re safe.’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’
Still the wrinkled fingers clutched at her.
‘I need my cane.’
‘Where is it?’
She gasped, thought, said, ‘In the hallway.’
‘OK.’ Voice calm, steady. Which was how Lund felt. ‘Stay here.’
She got to the door, bore left.
Kitchen smells. Drains, food. The cat. Another old lamp, frilly shade, faded yellow. A chair, a small desk. Striped curtains running to the floor. Gently moving as if the window behind was open.
In November.
Lund folded her arms, thought, moved forward, gently pushed the fabric aside.
The pain bit at her arm like a wasp sting, rapid and savage.
There was a figure coming from behind the stripes, silhouetted against the faint lights behind the
Sarah Lund bit on another piece of Nicotinell, thought about Jan Meyer, thought about the dead girl who came out of the water.
Then she pulled open the glove compartment by the wheel, sorted through the packs of gum, the dead lighter, the tissues, the tampons and took out her gun.
Halfway up the dark dank staircase she heard the sound of breaking glass.
Lund ran the rest of the way, took hold of Meyer’s arm as he smashed at the panel in the door with the grip of his gun.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I told you to wait.’
He broke more glass, opened up the hole with his elbow, put a hand through, looked at her and winked.
‘You go left,’ Meyer said. ‘I go right.’
Hand through, searching. There was the sound of an old key turning an old lock. Then the door moved. Inside was as black as the night they’d just left. Meyer scuttled through and was gone in a stride. She went to the wall, edged forward, the Glock an unfamiliar shape in her right hand.
The place stank of mothballs and liniment, cat and washing.
Three steps and she bumped into a sideboard, nudged something with her arm, just managed to catch it before the thing fell to the floor. Lund could just see what she’d touched: a porcelain figurine, a country milkmaid grinning beneath her burden of buckets. Placed it back without a sound. Moved forward, stepped on something, heard a tinny mechanical voice break the silence.
‘Your weight is fifty-seven point two kilograms.’
She got off the scales wondering what Meyer was saying to himself.
‘Fifty-seven point two kilograms,’ the thing said again.
There was a pained sigh from somewhere ahead. Then footsteps. A silhouette. Meyer, trudging in front of her, gun out.
No other sound. Three more steps. A door on the right, ajar. Laboured, arrhythmic breathing. She pocketed the weapon, walked through, fumbled her fingers against the wall, found a light switch. Turned it on.
In the dim yellow bulb of a single wall-light the old woman struggled, trussed like a farmyard bird, wrists and ankles, a cloth rag round her mouth.
Lund got down, put a hand to her shoulder, pulled off the gag.
A long high wail of terror and pain burst from the old woman’s lips.
Meyer was close by, cursing.
‘Where is he?’ Lund asked. ‘Mrs Villadsen?’
‘What did she say?’ Meyer snapped.
The woman was panting, gasping for breath. Terrified.
‘What did she say?’
Lund looked at him. Listened. He got the message. Went back out in the dark apartment, feet tapping on the tiles.
She waited.
You take the left. I’ll take the right .
Did that still apply? Yes, she guessed. Meyer was a little like her in some ways. There was one plan and one plan only. You stuck with it until something changed. He didn’t like working with someone else either.
She undid the woman’s ankles and wrists, told her to stay there, stay still.
A pair of scrawny hands clawed at her.
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I’ll be right back. We’re here. You’re safe.’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’
Still the wrinkled fingers clutched at her.
‘I need my cane.’
‘Where is it?’
She gasped, thought, said, ‘In the hallway.’
‘OK.’ Voice calm, steady. Which was how Lund felt. ‘Stay here.’
She got to the door, bore left.
Kitchen smells. Drains, food. The cat. Another old lamp, frilly shade, faded yellow. A chair, a small desk. Striped curtains running to the floor. Gently moving as if the window behind was open.
In November.
Lund folded her arms, thought, moved forward, gently pushed the fabric aside.
The pain bit at her arm like a wasp sting, rapid and savage.
There was a figure coming from behind the stripes, silhouetted against the faint lights behind the
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