The Killing 3 by David Hewson Page B

chances he’d had to change things. To steer away from the unseen monster waiting outside in the wild ground beyond the bare trees
and the failed high fence.
    ‘Sometimes she’d come back and her shoes were wet,’ he said, and hardly dared to look at her. ‘I could have asked why. I should have known she’d been somewhere she
shouldn’t.’
    Maja Zeuthen didn’t look at him. Kept staring at the crowd below them. Ordinary people, bored, tired, disgruntled, heading home, knowing that nothing would happen to them that day.
    ‘If I’d just let you take them with you . . .’
    She sighed. Gave him a look he couldn’t interpret.
    Then she said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Robert. I know you did the best you could.’
    ‘It wasn’t enough, was it?’
    ‘We’ll find a way through this.’ She was looking at him then, and for the first time in months he saw no hatred, no resentment in her eyes. ‘We’ve got to. For
Emilie’s sake. For Carl’s.’ A pause. ‘For ours.’
    He looked into her clear blue eyes and wondered. She reached out and for one too-short moment touched his hand, squeezed it.
    ‘We’re rehearsing being divorced, aren’t we?’ she said. ‘We need to get better at this.’
    Zeuthen nodded. Felt more miserable than ever and was determined not to show it.
    One of the officers with them was on the radio. He saw he was being watched. Ended the call. Shook his head: nothing.
    The train rattled through the interior veins of Copenhagen, beneath the main station, rolling and grumbling.
    Lund scanned every face. Focused on two in particular. A young man in black who sat down opposite, smiled, an obvious come-on. An older, shambling figure in an anorak one bench along, eyes on
the floor.
    Didn’t look at Mathias Borch perched near the end of the carriage.
    I thought he was the one.
    Her mother had no right to think that. It wasn’t her decision. But she did. And must have had a reason.
    Pizza. Beer.
    That wasn’t such a bad idea either. A peace offering. A pathetic way to say: sorry for all these years of neglect.
    The young man opposite kept smiling. Lund looked straight at him.
    The phone rang.
    ‘Get off at Vesterport,’ the voice said. ‘Go to the opposite platform.’
    She looked at the red station indicator in the carriage.
    ‘We’re nearly there.’
    ‘I know. The train leaves straight away. If you want to save this kid you’d better get a move on.’
    Lund stood by the door. Waited. A shriek of brakes. She walked out onto the platform. On the other side the train was there already. Doors opening, beckoning. Borch was behind her. She looked
down the platform. Didn’t move.
    Mark was there. Tall Mark. Eighteen pushing nineteen now though in her head he was still the lovely little boy she’d taken to the Faroe Islands once, tried to spoil, to convince he’d
always be loved, the perfect, adored son, however much her parents loathed one another.
    You’re only interested in dead people.
    That wasn’t true. Or if it was the change came later, with the Birk Larsen case. Unwanted, unsought, or so she’d like to think.
    He wore a scruffy parka. She wanted to buy him a new one the moment she saw it. But he was smiling, talking to a pretty young woman, fair hair, perky, happy face. Older than him. Lund saw that
straight away.
    Then she turned and Lund saw her huge belly. The way her hands curved round it, loving the child inside.
    That was why he never came of late. Lund knew it in an instant. Understood too.
    A voice from somewhere, now and long ago.
    ‘Sarah! Hey!’
    Borch was on the train, leaning back against the door to stop it closing.
    Mark and his girlfriend got on. Puzzled, Borch stepped towards her.
    The doors began to close. Lund leapt for them. Stabbed at the button. Watched as the train started to move, picked up speed. Saw Mark and his girlfriend flash past, eyes locked on one
another.
    Felt the ground start to slip beneath her feet.
    Borch’s hand stopped her