Free The Killing - 01 - The Killing by David Hewson

Still she walked towards it, trying to see.
    ‘Police!’ she called.
    ‘Lund!’
    Meyer emerged from the ramp exit, panting, coughing, barely able to speak.
    There was a sound from the far side. A door opening and closing on a floor below. Lund dashed over to look, Meyer followed. A second set of stairs ran down the building. He’d come here to lose them. Managed it too.
    They watched a figure reach the ground floor then flee into the night and the vast dark city.
    Meyer in his fury leapt up like an animal, swearing, shrieking so loud she covered her ears.
    They slept in their clothes, wrapped in each other, his grief in hers, hers in his.
    Waking. Theis Birk Larsen unwound his arms without disturbing her, sat by the bed, quietly got up.
    Washed his face, ate some bread, sipped coffee as the boys and Pernille slept. Then went down to face the men.
    Twelve on that shift. Vagn Skærbæk, pale-faced, damp-eyed, among them. Vagn. Part of the family. The first person he’d called at two that morning, holding a conversation Birk Larsen could scarcely recall so punctuated was it by tears and cries and fury.
    Vagn was a good man for hard times. Times Birk Larsen thought would never come again. He had a family. A rock to lean on, as he was a rock to them.
    Sometimes the rock shifted on unseen sand.
    He went into the office, took his black coat off the hook, put it on carefully, as he’d done for years. Then went out and stood before them, the boss as always, laying down the orders for the day.
    Most of these men had worked for him for years. They knew his family, watched the kids grow. Brought them birthday presents. Read their homework. Wiped their tears sometimes when he or Pernille weren’t there.
    A couple were close to crying. Only Skærbæk could look him in the face.
    Birk Larsen tried to speak but stood there saying nothing.
    Work.
    There was a clipboard. A list of jobs that defined the way the hours would pass. He took it, walked into the office. Went looking for something to do.
    A long moment’s silence. Vagn Skærbæk called to the men by the vans, ‘Let’s get a move on, huh? I’m not your babysitter.’
    Then he came and sat opposite Birk Larsen. A small, insignificant man. Stronger than his puny frame suggested. Face not much changed from when they were in their teens. Dark hair, blank eyes, cheap silver chain round his neck.
    ‘You do what you need to, Theis. I’ll deal with the rest.’
    Birk Larsen lit a cigarette, looked at the office walls. Photos everywhere. Pernille. Nanna. The boys.
    ‘Some reporters called. I hung up on them. If they call back you give those bastards to me.’
    Slowly the depot came to life. Cardboard cases moved beyond the window. Pallets got shifted. Vans went out into the street.
    ‘Theis, I don’t know what to say.’ Same woollen hat, same red bib overall. Big brother, little brother. ‘I want to help. Tell me . . .’
    Birk Larsen looked at him, said nothing.
    ‘Do they have a clue who did it?’
    Birk Larsen shook his head, drew on his cigarette, tried to think about the schedule, nothing else.
    ‘Let me know if there’s anything . . .’ Skærbæk began.
    ‘The delivery on Sturlasgade,’ Birk Larsen said, the first words he uttered that morning.
    The man with him waited.
    ‘I promised them a cherry-picker.’
    ‘It’s done,’ Vagn Skærbæk told him.
    Meyer waved a mugshot at the plain-clothes team in the briefing room. It was of an unremarkable man in a black T-shirt holding up a prison number. Balding, bruised, stubbly face, droopy grey hippie moustache. The long slash of what looked like an old knife wound scarring his right cheek. Staring at the camera, looking bored.
    ‘His name is John Lynge from Nørrebro. He’s not at home. He’s a known criminal and we . . .’ He pinned the photo to the notice-board. ‘. . . are going to put this bastard in jail. Talk to neighbours. People he worked with. Bars. Pawnshops. Dope dealers. Anyone who knows him. He’s