The Killing 3 by David Hewson Page A

won’t get in the way.’
    ‘You can be close by,’ Lund said, looking at her phone. A glance across the table. ‘If that’s OK.’
    Brix grunted then took the Zeuthens outside into the corridor. For a briefing Lund assumed.
    ‘He didn’t like that, Sarah,’ Borch said.
    ‘When this is over I’m warm and comfy in OPA. Should I care? That deputy prosecutor. Schultz. He knows more than he’s letting on. And he still won’t return my
calls.’
    ‘Maybe he’s . . . busy?’ Borch suggested.
    ‘I’m telling you there’s something wrong. This man wants a debt paid. We still don’t know what that is.’
    ‘Let’s just get the girl out of there. Then take a look at Peter Schultz.’
    She thought about that.
    ‘Did I mention his first name?’
    ‘Yes,’ Borch said quickly. ‘You did. Have you talked to your son?’
    ‘Not now.’
    She looked at the bag on the table. Ten million kroner. It was going to be heavy.
    ‘You know what always brought me round when I had an argument with my folks? They used to bring me a pizza. And some beer. Always worked.’
    ‘I remember,’ Lund said.
    In the TV studio, behind the stage for the coming debate, Anders Ussing was pacing among the monitors and crew. Yelling for Hartmann. So loud Karen Nebel fetched him, left the
two men alone.
    ‘You need a tie, Anders,’ Hartmann said. ‘Some make-up too.’
    ‘To hell with the make-up!’ Ussing had a couple of sheets of paper in his hand. ‘This nonsense you sent me . . .’
    Hartmann picked up the papers. He hadn’t seen the report on the previous day’s incident at the docks but he knew what it contained. Not much.
    ‘You said you wanted a report. I told them to get you one. And still you keep coming up with something . . .’
    ‘You can forget your truce.’
    Hartmann glared at him.
    ‘Let’s talk frankly. You’re pissed off you tried to turn Rosa Lebech’s head and failed. Don’t bring the Zeuthen family into this.’
    ‘Bullshit! I want a report that details everything. Not just the pieces that suit you.’
    Hartmann screwed up his eyes and said, ‘What?’
    ‘There’s a memo about this. Goes back a week. I know . . .’
    ‘Listen.’ He prodded the burly Socialist Party man in the chest. ‘I don’t have to give you a damned thing. You already know more than you should. Let’s go and
debate the real issues and leave this to the police.’
    Ussing didn’t move.
    Then he grinned.
    ‘The real issues? Yes, Troels. You’re right. Let’s do that.’
    The station sat in the middle of a busy road: buses came and went either side. Long steps leading down to the underground Metro lines. Lund had the money on her back in a heavy
rucksack. The place was busy. Commuters going home. People out for the night.
    The train turned up on time. Lund got on board. Mathias Borch stepped in one door along. Glanced at his phone. They worked on the Metro. Wi-Fi too. They could stay in touch. So could the
kidnapper.
    One minute out of the station he called.
    ‘Get off at Sjælør station and take line E north.’
    ‘I need to talk to Emilie.’
    But he was gone.
    Brix had sent Robert and Maja Zeuthen to the central station, positioned them over the main hallway with three officers kept in constant touch by radio. Zeuthen knew this was a
blind. They’d no reason to think the kidnapper would come to the busiest transport hub in the city. The Politigården wanted them out of the way, somewhere they didn’t interfere
with things. The rational side of him saw the logic. But Maja didn’t. Nor, in his heart, did he. They both felt responsible, guilty over her disappearance. There was an urgent, pressing,
stupid need to do something, even though in truth both knew there was nothing they could achieve beyond the obvious.
    Find the money.
    Give it to Lund.
    Pray this would work.
    Now they stood side-by-side watching the crowds move steadily through the station hall.
    And all he could think about was the previous night. The