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

wasn’t like her. This man had got under her skin.
    Lund took off her jacket, checked the sleeve of her black and white jumper. The thing was ruined. Lynge’s blade had slashed a cut through the wool, opened up a flesh wound across the top of her arm just below the shoulder.
    ‘You should get that seen—’
    ‘Yes! I should. What about the old lady?’
    ‘I called while you were yelling at the doctors. She’s going to stay with some relatives.’
    Lund nodded. Calm now. The cut hurt, not that she was going to show it.
    ‘Go and get some sleep,’ she told him. ‘Tell them to let me know if his condition changes.’
    He folded his arms, didn’t move.
    ‘What?’ Lund asked.
    ‘I’m not going anywhere until I see you talk to a nurse.’
    The TV debate was over. A draw at best, Hartmann thought.
    Outside, in the huddle waiting for their cars, he took Rie Skovgaard to one side, asked, ‘Have you heard from Lund?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you call her?’
    ‘I can’t get through.’
    It was raining. There was no sign of their driver.
    ‘We can’t afford to wait any longer. Put a statement together.’
    ‘Finally . . .’
    ‘Give it to the reporter who phoned. He’s legit. Tell him it’s an exclusive. Win us some breathing space . . .’
    Bremer strode up, jacket over shoulder, glanced at the rain, stepped back beneath the shelter of the roof.
    ‘Crisis meeting?’
    The two of them went quiet.
    ‘I thought you were a little rusty tonight,’ Poul Bremer said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’
    ‘Really?’
    No points scored on either side. No balls dropped. But the way Bremer smiled throughout gave Hartmann pause. Every issue, every question he forced round to the question of character. Hartmann’s lack of experience, of proven trust.
    The old bastard knew something. He was waiting for the right moment to say it.
    ‘Rusty,’ Bremer repeated. ‘You’ll need to do better than that.’
    ‘Still three weeks to the election,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Lots of time—’
    ‘Pacing yourself. A wise move from what I hear. Goodnight!’
    Hartmann watched him go.
    ‘One day I will tear that old dinosaur apart,’ he muttered.
    ‘You really have to work on your temper,’ Skovgaard said.
    He turned his icy gaze on her.
    ‘Do I?’
    ‘Yes. It’s good to come across as passionate. Energetic. Commit ted. But not bad-tempered, Troels. People don’t like it.’
    ‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.’
    ‘Bremer’s looking for weak points. Don’t hand him one on a plate. Your temper leaves you vulnerable. He’s not the only one who’s noticed.’
    She didn’t quite meet his eye.
    ‘I need you to work on this.’
    Skovgaard held up her phone.
    ‘Ritzau news agency have heard about the car too. The story’s out there.’
    The black saloon came and parked in front of them. The Rådhus driver got out and opened the doors.
    ‘I told you we needed to get this out early,’ she said. ‘Now we’re racing round trying to clean up something we should have killed at birth.’
    ‘Bremer’s behind this.’
    ‘Someone in the police more likely. How would he know?’
    ‘Twelve years on that burnished throne. Maybe the Politigården works for him too.’
    A long limousine ran past. Bremer wound down the window, grinned at them, waved like a king hailing his subjects.
    ‘He’s got someone,’ Hartmann muttered. ‘We need to know who it is.’
    Ten minutes later the car pulled into the Rådhus. A crowd of reporters and cameramen flocked around them.
    ‘Say what we agreed,’ Skovgaard said. ‘Be calm, be authoritative. Don’t get mad. Don’t go off script.’
    ‘Whose script?’ he said, and then they were in the middle of the mob, hands clawing at the doors to get them open.
    The rain was heavy and constant. Hartmann pushed through the crowd to the steps of the building. Listening to the questions. Thinking about them.
    ‘Hartmann? What’s your connection to Nanna Birk Larsen?’
    ‘Where were you