The Killing - 01 - The Killing by David Hewson Read Free Book Online

a call for any kids nearby,’ Meyer said, lifting the fox by its back legs. ‘Animal cruelty’s a shocking thing.’
    ‘No,’ Lund told Buchard. ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Pack up, come home and give me a full report. Maybe there’s time for a beer before you catch your plane.’
    Meyer was watching her, the stiff dead animal beneath his arm. Its eyes were black and glazed, its fur streaked with mud.
    ‘Meet my new friend Foxy,’ he said with a quick sharp grin. ‘You’ll like him.’
    One more reception among so many. Part of the political calendar. A chance to meet, to negotiate, to forge alliances, confirm enmities.
    The food came from an oil corporation, the drink from a transport magnate. A string quartet played Vivaldi. Morten Weber talked policy while Rie Skovgaard spoke spin.
    Hartmann smiled and chatted, shook hands, made small talk. Then when his phone rang he excused himself and walked back to his office.
    Therese Kruse was waiting for him. A couple of years younger than him. Married to a boring banker. A serious, well-connected, attractive woman, tougher than she looked.
    ‘You’re doing well in the polls. People in government are noticing.’
    ‘So they should. We worked for this.’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Did you get the reporter’s name?’
    She handed him a piece of paper. Erik Salin.
    ‘Never heard of him,’ Hartmann said.
    ‘I made some enquiries. He used to work as a private investigator. Now he’s a freelance selling dirt for the highest fee. Newspapers. Magazines. Websites. Anyone who pays.’
    He pocketed the note.
    ‘And?’
    ‘Salin wanted to know if you paid your hotel bills with your own credit card or the office’s. If you buy lots of presents. Stuff like that. I didn’t say anything, naturally . . .’
    Hartmann took a sip of wine.
    ‘He wanted to know about us,’ she added.
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I laughed off the whole idea, of course. After all . . .’ The smile was brief and bitter. ‘It’s not as if it was anything important. Was it?’
    ‘We agreed it was best, Therese. I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . .’
    He stopped.
    ‘Couldn’t what, Troels? Take the risk?’
    ‘What did he know?’
    ‘About us? Nothing. He was guessing.’ The caustic smile again. ‘Perhaps he thinks if he asks enough women he’s bound to strike gold. I think he’s got something else though. I don’t know how.’
    Hartmann glanced at the door, made sure they were alone.
    ‘Such as what?’
    ‘He seems to have seen your diary. He was checking dates. He knew where you’d been and when.’
    Hartmann looked at the name again, wondered if he’d heard it somewhere.
    ‘No one sees my diary outside this office.’
    She shrugged. Got up. The door opened. Rie Skovgaard looked at the pair of them.
    With that stiff suspicious smile she said, ‘Troels. I didn’t know you had company. There are people in reception you need to meet.’
    The two women stared at each other. Thinking. Judging. No need for words.
    ‘I’m coming,’ Troels Hartmann said.
    Oliver Schandorff was a skinny kid of nineteen with a head of curly ginger hair and a sour unsmiling face. He was puffing on his third smoke of the day when Theis Birk Larsen burst through the front door.
    Schandorff leapt out of his chair and retreated as the big and angry man marched towards him.
    ‘Call her now,’ Birk Larsen bellowed. ‘She’s leaving.’
    ‘Hello!’ Schandorff cried, skipping into the hall. ‘There’s a bell here. Private house.’
    ‘Don’t mess with me, sonny. I want Nanna.’
    ‘Nanna isn’t here.’
    Birk Larsen began marching round the ground floor, opening doors, yelling her name.
    Schandorff followed, at a safe distance.
    ‘Mr Birk Larsen. I’m telling you. She isn’t here.’
    Birk Larsen went back to the hall. There were clothes on a chair by the sofa. A pink T-shirt. A bra. Jeans.
    He swore at Schandorff and made for the stairs.
    The kid lost it, raced in front, punched Birk Larsen’s chest, yelled, ‘Do you