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

Even the drone of the helicopter had disappeared. Pernille was with him every aching second, her shrill scared voice chanting through the phone clamped to his left ear.
    ‘Where is she?’
    How many times had she asked that? How many times had he?
    ‘I’m looking.’
    ‘Where?’
    The Kalvebod Fælled he wanted to say. The place Anton came on a school nature trip once, and talked about bugs and eels for the best part of a day before forgetting the whole damned thing.
    There were lights ahead. One of them was blue.
    ‘Everywhere.’
    The narrow lane stood above the slender canal, built from the earth that created it. Lund stared at the tracks, the lifting truck, the chain. The car emerging from the sullen water.
    Look, think, imagine.
    Someone parked on the lane, front wheels turned towards the water at the top of the slope. Then got out, pushed it. Gravity did the rest.
    Meyer was next to her, watching as the car rose against the sky. Water poured from all four doors. The paint was black, the colour of the canal, but very shiny as if it was cleaned yesterday.
    Ford hatchback. Brand new.
    ‘Look up the registration,’ Lund said the moment the number plate was clear.
    The truck was parked on the bank, long crane arm extending over the canal. It turned the vehicle away from the water, dangled it over the grassy lane. Then three officers guided the Ford slowly down to the ground until it sat there, unremarkable except for the torrents of foul-smelling liquid gushing from beneath each door.
    Meyer was off the phone. The two of them walked over and looked through the windows. Empty.
    The divider was down on the boot hiding anything inside.
    He walked to the back and tried the rear door. Locked.
    ‘I’ll get a crowbar,’ Meyer said.
    There were lights behind. Lund turned and looked. Not car lights. A van, she thought. It looked red in the beams of the police vehicles.
    Birk Larsen was still on the phone when he reached the line of Don’t Cross tape. So close he couldn’t count the blue lights beyond it. They’d set up high portable floodlights, the kind they used at sports events.
    His head didn’t feel right. His heart was beating so hard it banged against his ribs.
    ‘Hang on a second,’ he said and didn’t hear her reply.
    Got out. Walked on.
    ‘Where are you?’ Pernille asked.
    ‘On the marshes in Vestamager.’
    A pause then she asked, ‘Are the police still out there?’
    Two cops came up and tried to stop him. Birk Larsen brushed them aside with a sweep of his huge arm, kept walking towards a low metal bridge across the narrow canal.
    ‘I’ll sort this out. I told you.’
    ‘Theis.’
    More cops now. They swarmed on him like angry bees as he kept walking forwards, batting away their clutching hands, phone locked to his head.
    He could still hear her voice above the commotion.
    ‘What’s there, Theis? What’s there? ’
    A sound ahead.
    Water rushing.
    Water rushing. It cascaded out of the rear compartment after Meyer levered it open. Gallons and gallons pouring onto the muddy ground.
    The smell was worse.
    Lund popped another Nicotinell in her mouth and waited.
    After the water a pair of naked legs fell onto the shiny rear bumper. She shone her torch there. Naked ankles bound tightly with plastic fasteners.
    Then movement. A snaking dark shape wound its way round and round the dead pale limbs, clinging to the skin, slithering down to the feet, over the bumper onto the ground.
    One of the uniform cops started to puke into the yellow grass.
    ‘What’s the noise?’ Lund asked, taking a step towards the car.
    Meyer nodded at the retching man.
    ‘Not him,’ she said.
    It was a loud coarse voice and it was furious.
    Lund watched the last of the water drain from the rear, two more eels sliding their way to freedom, then walked forward and put her head inside. The blonde hair didn’t look the way it had in the photos any more.
    But the face . . .
    The angry voice was bawling a name.
    ‘Oh Christ,’