The Killing - 01 - The Killing by David Hewson Page A

window. His right arm was flailing, right and left, up and down.
    Another flash of agony.
    Lund yelled, ‘Get back! Police! Get back.’
    Fumbling like a fool for her gun.
    The wall stopped her. He lunged forward. And now the light caught him. In his hand she saw a box cutter, short blade, sharp. Threatening.
    He swore, slashed at her, so close she could feel the air move past her cheek.
    A furious, insane face, mouth opening, yellow teeth grinning. He roared. One more cutting, sweeping slash . . .
    Her fingers tightened on the gun butt. She raised it, pointed the barrel dead in his face.
    John Lynge’s eyes narrowed. He was sweating. Looked sick. Looked mad.
    ‘Calm down, John. I won’t hurt you.’ No sound from Meyer. She knew what he’d be doing.
    Lynge retreated a step. Her eyes were getting used to this light. She saw his shoulders, his arms.
    Kept the gun straight on him.
    ‘I didn’t do anything!’
    Frightened, she thought. That was good.
    ‘I didn’t say you did, John.’
    Keep using the name. Keep turning down the heat.
    He started rocking backwards, forwards, sobbing, hands to his face.
    The blade was still there. Did he know that?
    ‘You don’t believe me,’ Lynge grunted.
    ‘I’m listening. Put down the knife.’
    He flashed the box cutter at her. Didn’t flinch at the gun.
    ‘You’re not putting me back in jail!’
    Crazy voice. A man in agony.
    ‘We’re just talking, John. Let’s do that. OK? The school . . .’
    Stiff and furious, shaking, close to the edge, Lynge bellowed, ‘I felt sick. I went to the hospital. I got back. The car was gone. Maybe, maybe . . .’
    ‘Maybe what?’
    ‘Maybe I dropped the keys when I was throwing up. I don’t know.’
    ‘What keys?’
    ‘The car keys! You’re not listening.’
    He was getting madder all the time.
    ‘You were sick. I hear you, John.’
    He moved a step to the left. She could see him in the orange light from the street.
    ‘You felt ill and you left the car. Put down the knife. Let’s talk.’
    ‘I’m not going back to that place. They’ll know—’
    ‘You won’t—’
    ‘John!’
    A hard male voice from the hallway. Lund took a deep breath. Looked. Meyer was there. Gun up. Pointed straight at John Lynge’s head. Ready.
    ‘Drop the knife,’ he said in a slow threatening tone.
    ‘I have this, Meyer,’ she said. ‘It’s under control . . .’
    Lynge was running already. Meyer after him. Two dark shapes crossing the floor.
    A scream and shattering glass. A tumult of bitter curses. Then a hideous crash outside. The sickening sound of flesh and bone on pavement.
    ‘Meyer?’ she said.
    There was a figure at the window.
    Lund walked to it.
    ‘Meyer?’ she said again.
    John Lynge was unconscious, strapped to a trolley, tubes and apparatus everywhere, getting rushed down a hospital corridor. It was ten in the evening. Lund asked, for the third time, ‘When can I speak to him?’
    The surgeon didn’t break his pace, just stared at her then said, ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘Is he going to live?’ she asked when they got to the operating theatre doors.
    Lund stopped, repeated the question at twice the volume.
    No answer. Then John Lynge was gone.
    ‘We’ve got prints,’ Meyer told her. ‘Forensics have got his boots.’
    ‘And nothing to match them with. He says he went to the hospital!’
    ‘Puh!’
    ‘Have you ever heard someone say that, Meyer? Not I was screwing my girlfriend. I was in a bar. But I went to hospital?’
    Nothing.
    ‘He told me he left the keys at the school. When he came back the car was gone.’
    ‘He was lying!’
    Meyer looked at her and shook his head.
    ‘He cut you, Lund. He’d have cut you again.’ He came close. ‘Cut your face to ribbons. Doesn’t that bother you?’
    ‘It doesn’t mean he killed Nanna Birk Larsen. Check the hospital records.’
    ‘Oh come on. Do you really think—’
    ‘If he’s got an alibi I want to know. Find out.’
    She shouted that last order. Which