Read Online The Killing - 01 - The Killing by David Hewson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Hewson
Tags: thriller
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book.’
‘So I noticed.’
Meyer turned on the radio. A deafening, all-night rock station. Lund leaned forward, switched it off.
She checked the address.
‘Turn here.’
A statue of a figure on horseback, sword raised. A grand illuminated building. A multi-storey parking garage. The place Hartmann’s campaign team assembled before going out to plaster the city with his posters, leaflets, badges, hats and Tshirts.
The cars were on the second level. Identical black Fords, just like the one they’d pulled from the canal. Lund and Meyer walked round, looking at the same photo of Troels Hartmann plastered to the windows. One back door was open. Three hours earlier, in a vehicle identical to this, she’d seen the scarred half-naked corpse of Nanna Birk Larsen frozen in death in a torn, stained slip. Here there were boxes and boxes of leaflets, and the same photo of Hartmann. That uncertain boyish smile, some pain behind his open, honest eyes.
A blonde woman walked round from the back, looked at her uncertainly. Lund showed her ID, asked, ‘Rikke Nielsen?’
She seemed exhausted. Nervous too when Meyer came from the other side of the car, folded his arms, sat in the open boot and watched her.
‘I need the name of a driver from the weekend,’ Lund said.
‘Why?’
‘The number plate is . . .’ Lund fumbled for her notebook.
‘XU 24 919,’ Meyer said unprompted. He got up, came close to the Nielsen woman. ‘Black Ford like this one. We’d like to know who drove it last.’
Then he smiled, in a way he probably thought pleasant.
There were men carrying placards of Hartmann’s beaming face to cars down the line.
‘This is quite an organization you’ve got. You must keep a logbook.’
‘Of course.’
‘Can we see it? Please.’
She nodded, walked off. Meyer winked at Lund. The Nielsen woman came back. ‘That was XU . . .?’
‘XU 24 919.’
Lund left him, watched the men with the placards and posters. It was cold in the parking garage. But not so cold.
One of the volunteers was a lanky figure in a worn and dirty anorak. He had the hood pulled up around his face. Put the posters in the back of the car. Turned. Grey sweatshirt. Face in shadow. Trying to hide.
Meyer’s strained nice-guy act was wearing thin.
‘I’m staying very calm here,’ she heard him say behind her. ‘So you stay calm too. I don’t want to hear any more “ifs” or “buts” or “let me ask Mr Weber”. Just give me the name of the damned driver.’
He was getting loud. The men stuffing the cars with Hartmann posters could hear. They were glancing at Rikke Nielsen. But not the one in the hood.
Lund turned to tell Meyer to cut the volume. When she looked again the figure in the grey sweatshirt and anorak wasn’t there.
A black Ford in the line burst into life, roared out of the parking spot, back door open, scattering the smiling face of Troels Hartmann everywhere.
‘Meyer!’
The driver had to get past her to reach the ramp.
Lund walked into the centre of the lane, stood there, stared through the oncoming windscreen.
Man in his late thirties, forties maybe. Stubbled, angry face, afraid, determined.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Meyer screamed and flew at her, caught her shoulder with one hand, dragged Lund out of the way.
Still accelerating the Ford raced past them, no more than a metre away.
Lund watched it, barely conscious she was in Meyer’s arms and he was peering at her, breathless. Furious probably. She had that effect sometimes. The car turned the corner, headed up towards the roof. Meyer let go, set off for the ramp, arms pumping, handgun out, yelling. Lund went the other way, racing for the stairs, taking the concrete steps three at a time, up, up.
One floor, two. Three and there were no more. The roof was black and gleaming in the night rain. Ahead lay the grand baroque dome of the Marble Church softly lit against the city skyline. The car was parked by the far wall, headlamps blazing.
No gun.
‘So I noticed.’
Meyer turned on the radio. A deafening, all-night rock station. Lund leaned forward, switched it off.
She checked the address.
‘Turn here.’
A statue of a figure on horseback, sword raised. A grand illuminated building. A multi-storey parking garage. The place Hartmann’s campaign team assembled before going out to plaster the city with his posters, leaflets, badges, hats and Tshirts.
The cars were on the second level. Identical black Fords, just like the one they’d pulled from the canal. Lund and Meyer walked round, looking at the same photo of Troels Hartmann plastered to the windows. One back door was open. Three hours earlier, in a vehicle identical to this, she’d seen the scarred half-naked corpse of Nanna Birk Larsen frozen in death in a torn, stained slip. Here there were boxes and boxes of leaflets, and the same photo of Hartmann. That uncertain boyish smile, some pain behind his open, honest eyes.
A blonde woman walked round from the back, looked at her uncertainly. Lund showed her ID, asked, ‘Rikke Nielsen?’
She seemed exhausted. Nervous too when Meyer came from the other side of the car, folded his arms, sat in the open boot and watched her.
‘I need the name of a driver from the weekend,’ Lund said.
‘Why?’
‘The number plate is . . .’ Lund fumbled for her notebook.
‘XU 24 919,’ Meyer said unprompted. He got up, came close to the Nielsen woman. ‘Black Ford like this one. We’d like to know who drove it last.’
Then he smiled, in a way he probably thought pleasant.
There were men carrying placards of Hartmann’s beaming face to cars down the line.
‘This is quite an organization you’ve got. You must keep a logbook.’
‘Of course.’
‘Can we see it? Please.’
She nodded, walked off. Meyer winked at Lund. The Nielsen woman came back. ‘That was XU . . .?’
‘XU 24 919.’
Lund left him, watched the men with the placards and posters. It was cold in the parking garage. But not so cold.
One of the volunteers was a lanky figure in a worn and dirty anorak. He had the hood pulled up around his face. Put the posters in the back of the car. Turned. Grey sweatshirt. Face in shadow. Trying to hide.
Meyer’s strained nice-guy act was wearing thin.
‘I’m staying very calm here,’ she heard him say behind her. ‘So you stay calm too. I don’t want to hear any more “ifs” or “buts” or “let me ask Mr Weber”. Just give me the name of the damned driver.’
He was getting loud. The men stuffing the cars with Hartmann posters could hear. They were glancing at Rikke Nielsen. But not the one in the hood.
Lund turned to tell Meyer to cut the volume. When she looked again the figure in the grey sweatshirt and anorak wasn’t there.
A black Ford in the line burst into life, roared out of the parking spot, back door open, scattering the smiling face of Troels Hartmann everywhere.
‘Meyer!’
The driver had to get past her to reach the ramp.
Lund walked into the centre of the lane, stood there, stared through the oncoming windscreen.
Man in his late thirties, forties maybe. Stubbled, angry face, afraid, determined.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Meyer screamed and flew at her, caught her shoulder with one hand, dragged Lund out of the way.
Still accelerating the Ford raced past them, no more than a metre away.
Lund watched it, barely conscious she was in Meyer’s arms and he was peering at her, breathless. Furious probably. She had that effect sometimes. The car turned the corner, headed up towards the roof. Meyer let go, set off for the ramp, arms pumping, handgun out, yelling. Lund went the other way, racing for the stairs, taking the concrete steps three at a time, up, up.
One floor, two. Three and there were no more. The roof was black and gleaming in the night rain. Ahead lay the grand baroque dome of the Marble Church softly lit against the city skyline. The car was parked by the far wall, headlamps blazing.
No gun.
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