The Vanished

CHAPTER 8

The autumn had so far been unpleasant. Unemployment had risen, the property market had collapsed and the price of basic foodstuffs had plunged millions of people all over the world into poverty. Watching the news was a form of torment.

The Countess turned off the TV in the living room in Søllerød and went out into the kitchen to make her partner some iced tea. She’d seen a recipe in a lifestyle magazine: quince tea, organic elderflower cordial, freshly squeezed lemon and orange juice. She measured out the amounts, filling three tall glasses and topping them off with sliced strawberries and a scattering of blueberries for effect. Three long, silvery straws and she was good to go.

In the garden room, Konrad Simonsen was in difficulty. Again.

He rocked his head slowly from side to side as he struggled to find an escape. He was down to two pawns with no way of defending his rook line. An imaginative, highly incisive attack on his king had ripped apart his position and left him with a lost endgame. He pondered his limited options once again, finding the situation to be utterly without hope. Eventually he leaned back in his chair.

‘I do love chess. It’s as if one’s inner thoughts join up with the external world and unite in this love of the game. I don’t mind calling it that,’ he said, rather seriously.

Arne Pedersen laughed as Simonsen continued to wax lyrical.

‘It makes me think of people who hide behind a wall of illusion, never glimpsing the truth before it’s far too late. We must share here in life. Share with others. Make sure everyone wins and everyone loses. Unless we do, we’re never going to find peace in our minds. That’s what chess is about. That’s the very essence of it.’

The Countess came in with her tray and put it down next to the board.

‘What on earth are you waffling about now?’ she asked him.

Pedersen explained:

‘He’s trying to talk his way to a draw, but he’ll have to do better than that.’

‘If you want to find peace with yourself, it’s no use winning the world if you lose your soul. Do you want that to happen, Arne? No, I think not…’

‘All right, I can’t take it any more. You’ve got your draw. I won a free game last time I was here, this can be the payback.’

They shook hands and Simonsen quickly packed the game away, then found himself staring in disbelief at the drinks on the Countess’s tray.

‘What’s this? Mud with strawberries?’

‘Cold quince tea. It’s good and healthy.’

‘I was afraid you’d say that. I don’t even know what quince is.’

Pedersen took a sip, while Simonsen watched inquisitively. The Countess picked up her own glass.

‘This is really delicious,’ said Pedersen. ‘Try it, Simon. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Is there any precedent here? I mean, have people like us ever before imbibed this quince, whatever it may be?’

Despite his words he took a sip, and then another. Arne was right, it was actually rather good. He glanced at the Countess and noted her prompt. He took another sip, put down his glass and turned to Arne Pedersen.

‘I was at the hospital yesterday, Arne. They say if all goes well I can be back in charge after Christmas, or at least start taking over again.’

‘Oh, that’s great news. I’m happy you’re feeling up to it again.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

Simonsen had discussed the matter at length with the Countess and given it a great deal of thought on his own. The conclusion was that he actually wouldn’t mind at all if Arne Pedersen carried on heading up the department. Naturally, it was a decision that had its drawbacks as well as its benefits. The loss of prestige, in particular, was a bit hard to swallow, but on the other hand it would relieve him of a great deal of work he had never cared for at all. Budgets, HR management, representation and the National Police Commissioner’s e-mails, at the very least. And this was why he and the Countess had invited Pedersen round in the first place, the chess game in this instance merely providing the pretext.

‘I’ve decided I like things the way they are at the moment, so if you want you can carry on in charge, provided we can get the go-ahead from upstairs, of course, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’

Arne Pedersen fell silent. Simonsen and the Countess gave him room to think. Eventually, he spoke.

‘I won’t pretend I’m not flattered, because I am. Are you sure?’

‘We’re sure. Both of us.’

Again, Pedersen hesitated.

‘To be honest, I do feel I’ve got the measure of the job now, but all in all I’m going to pass. It’s too early, I’d rather wait until you retire. Which, if you don’t mind my saying so, isn’t that far off.’

That was it. Pedersen’s mind was made up and there was nothing more to be said.

Simonsen picked up the thread:

‘I’m packing it in as soon as I get to sixty-four, no reason for that to be kept a secret. I was twenty-five when I started at HS, moved on to Homicide when that was set up, at which time I was thirty-six, and then took charge when I was forty-nine.’

Pedersen looked relieved. His decision had been far from easy and he had been sorely tempted.

‘I had no idea you were into numerology. Let’s say I ascend the throne once you step down, if they’ll have me. That sounds a lot better to me. Truth is, I’m enjoying myself the most while working for you on that postman case. Those are the good days at the moment. I’m actually looking forward to our meeting tomorrow, which is a bit weird. Three months ago that would have been a day like any other, but now I’m almost excited about it. What that tells me is it’d do me good to wait a few years before heading up anything at all.’

The Countess finished her iced tea and put the glass down on the tray next to Simonsen’s. He’d finished his a while ago.

‘Now that we’re talking shop, Arne,’ she said, ‘how do you feel about Klavs Arnold? And just so you know, Simon and I have been talking about him, and we’re both in agreement.’

‘You mean, if we should take him on?’

‘Yes. What do you think?’

Pedersen squinted at Simonsen.

‘And not just take him on but bring him into the inner circle, is that what you mean?’

‘That’s the idea, yes.’

‘I think it’s a good one. No two ways about it. He’ll have to learn Danish, though.’

‘Well, there are certain issues about his dialect, I’ll admit.’

The Countess interrupted:

‘Listen to you, whatever happened to diversity? Anyway, you’re OK with it, Arne, is that right?’

‘He’s easy to get along with, methodical and industrious, intelligent and not overly afraid of authority. So, yes, I’m positive. I’m not sure what Pauline thinks, though. Does she even have a say?’

Simonsen was rather abrupt in his reply.

‘Yes, she has a say. As big a say as the rest of us. No more, no less. That’s how it is. I was thinking she and someone else could go over to Esbjerg soon, just a quick trip there and back to see how Klavs is getting on looking for that summer house. It won’t help things there, but just to show him and everyone else who’s on that job that we take the matter seriously…’

‘We’re with you, Simon. Sending the right signals and all that. I’ll go over,’ offered the Countess. ‘I’m sure Arne hasn’t got time. Besides, it’s been a while since I spoke to Pauline on my own. But if Klavs is doing a proper job, as everything would seem to indicate, I think we should let him know we’re done with his trial period.’

Simonsen agreed, it sounded reasonable enough. And then he asked:

‘Have you got any more of that quince juice?’

The next morning the Countess and Simonsen had an early breakfast. The evening before, the Countess had hastily arranged her trip to Esbjerg with Pauline, and if they were going to get over there and back the same day she needed an early start.

She sat leafing through yesterday’s paper: it was still too early for today’s to have come. Simonsen himself was preoccupied with breakfast and casually asked about Pauline. Did the Countess have to go into town and pick her up first? It was mostly for the sake of conversation and to display some sort of interest. Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. She sounded hostile when she replied, and folded the paper and put it down.

‘When you were in Rødby, it was to look up Rita’s name that you couldn’t remember, wasn’t it? It’s Rita Metz Andersen, in case you didn’t find out.’

He admitted it was true, though without comprehending what exactly was happening here. Only in the pause that followed did he realise she knew things she couldn’t possibly know unless…

‘Have you been checking up on me behind my back? How come you know Rita’s surname?’

The Countess persisted in what he now felt was an ominous inquisition.

‘You’re thinking of looking her up, I know you are. What’s all this about.’

Contemptuously, she tossed a printed folder down in front of him. He picked it up and stared at it with puzzlement. Then he remembered. It was the folder he’d been given at the tourist office in Frederiksværk when he’d been on his way from Frederikssund to Melby Overdrev to meet Pauline Berg. In the middle was a map he’d used to find his way. He’d stuffed the folder away in the glove compartment and would have thrown it out next time he cleaned the car. Now there it was, staring him in the face, an accusation.

‘“Songs for a Grandmother”, page three.’

There’d been nothing wrong yesterday, she’d been sweetness and light, cooked dinner and made that lovely tea, and now all of a sudden… he failed to understand women sometimes and had no idea at all why she’d chucked this folder at him. He ignored it and instead tried to talk some sense into her. She simply had to trust him if their relationship was going to work. She had to – he savoured the words and felt oddly adult. What’s more, he didn’t want to know where she’d got her information on him. Or on Rita, for that matter. He loved the Countess, he loved living with her and he quite understood how it felt to be afraid of losing someone. He didn’t mention in as many words her once having lost a child, speaking instead more indirectly about her history, her background. He understood all too well, she would have to take his word for it about that, but… His words ran on in a loop, repeated with increasing intensity and frustrated gesticulations.

The Countess waited until he was finished, then spoke serenely, melodically, almost with tenderness, as if he were the one with the problem.

‘Yes, you’re right. We both know.’

What it was they both knew was not elaborated upon, nor did he ask, and after a brief pause she concluded:

‘You can do as you please. Suit yourself.’

With that, she got to her feet, drank the rest of her tea standing and kissed him goodbye as if nothing had happened. The front door shut behind her with rather more of a slam than usual, he thought.

And there he sat, with a cup of tepid tea and a feeling of not being able to count to four.

Later, on his way in to Police HQ, he plugged in the satnav, regardless of the fact that he could find his way there in his sleep. The tinny female voice drilled into his ears. Right turn ahead. Bossy, authoritative, in command. In six hundred metres, turn left. He burst out: ‘Shut your mouth, woman!’ It felt good to be so vulgar. ‘Shut it now, I don’t want to know.’ He savoured being loutish for a few kilometres until eventually tiring of it. He muted the satnav and forced his thoughts back in time. He could decide for himself who and what to think about. Or meet up with.

‘Why don’t we just go to Vordingborg?’

He remembered the question so vividly. It was a Sunday, a dismal early morning on the seventh floor of the Grønjordskollegium student halls in April 1973. He’d thought Rita was asleep. Or at least, he had striven not to make a sound as he got out of bed to put on his clothes. There was no reason to wake her. He had to go to work and wanted to stop by his own flat first and had therefore set the alarm for five o’clock, only to wake up before it went off. He’d

just got his socks on when he lay back next to her again, relishing her warmth for a moment, however brief.

‘For May the first, you mean?’

She did.

Her suggestion came as a surprise. He asked her again, to make sure. The previous evening they had talked about what to do on the day. Not an argument, but a joint consideration of the matter, which in itself was new. The year before, he hadn’t been invited. The first of May, International Workers’ Day, was usually celebrated with a demo in the Fælledparken together with Rita’s friends, not him. But this year was different. Her enthusiasm for demonstrating had fallen off dramatically. Maybe they could sit and enjoy a beer, just the two of them, somewhere in the centre of Copenhagen, away from the demonstrators.

But now she didn’t even fancy that. She wanted to go to Vordingborg.

It was an odd time for them, the six months or so that passed between her terminated pregnancy at the hospital in Køge and her emigrating and his losing touch with her. In some respects it was all bad, or rather: it felt frightening. In others they seemed to pull closer together. Their ideological differences weren’t as divisive as before. They seldom argued, and when they did it rarely seemed to be about politics. His barbed comments and questions no longer found their mark:

‘Rita, what’s actually going to happen to me when the revolution comes?’

A year previously he would have been lucky to have escaped a bullet through his brain in exchange for being put in a rehabilitation camp. At that time his questions could trigger lengthy dialogues in which Rita was wholly unaware that he was having a dig at her.

‘How long does that kind of rehabilitation actually take?’

It varied, and she was unable to provide him with any exact answer.

‘I’d like you to be in charge of it, if that’d be possible?’

She doubted it, but could not entirely rule out the possibility.

Humour wasn’t on the cards for the serious subjugators of capitalism.

But if he asked her now, all she would say would be that she had no idea, seeming listless and without any apparent enthusiasm for her revolution. As if she could hardly be bothered thinking about it.

They’d found a little bolt-hole close to Vordingborg, eleven kilometres outside the town, halfway out on the slender tongue of land called Knudshoved Odde, in a commune whose members had chipped together to buy up a former smallholding. He and Rita – and anyone else, for that matter – were free to come and go as they pleased. To begin with, Rita had known one of the people who lived there, but even though he had since moved out they kept coming back and were accepted as friends of the household. Konrad Simonsen loved the place. It was a hippie refuge that remained stuck in time, an anarchistic shanty without any structure, without a plan, and yet undeniably pleasant. New arrivals deposited whatever money they could spare in the communal kitty, a battered old coffee tin kept on the shelf above the dining table. The tin had the Cirkel logo on it, an African woman in profile. And if you had nothing to spare, that was all right, too. Anyone had the right to eat whatever was in the fridge whenever they happened to be hungry, and in the morning to put on a pair of clean socks from the communal sock basket in which it was impossible ever to find two that were alike, not to mention the same size.

Next door to the place lived the co-op manager and the district midwife, a couple in their forties who held each other’s hand when they went for a walk and called each other embarrassing pet names. Their place was a former farmhouse fully renovated from cellar to chimney stack. He was a cheerful, happy-go-lucky sort who almost daily brought the young people of the commune perfectly good food just past its sell-by date. Good neighbourliness was what it was all about, and it was a shame for things to go to waste, he would say as he dumped his crates in the kitchen with a thunderous laugh and poorly concealed expectations of a cup of tea. She was rather more reserved, a woman of strong limbs and a peculiar kindliness that often took people by surprise. Only when the hippies, as she consistently called them, sunbathed in the nude in the commune’s front garden did she take offence, marching up the driveway with long, unco-ordinated strides. What kind of behaviour was that, naked bodies lounging around in full view, when Arnold had to whitewash the house? They could at least go round the back.

Konrad Simonsen loved that couple. He could sit for hours staring across at their marvellous property while Rita lay beside him reading. He would imagine Rita and himself living like that. Peace and quiet, in lovely surroundings. She could get a job teaching at the Vordingborg Gymnasium, work her way up into something secure. And he could be… well, a policeman, that was good enough, surely? What else could he do? They would have three children, three happy kids, one after another, running barefoot about the place and spreading joy with their laughter. In time he might learn to sail and they could have a little boat and visit the islands of the Smålandshavet at weekends.

Rita looked up from her book.

‘What are you thinking about, Konrad? You’re gawping.’

He told her. She let out a sigh.

‘Yes, that’d be nice. It really would.’

She sighed again, perhaps wiped away a tear she thought he hadn’t seen, and tried to regain her composure.

If the weather was good they went for long walks along the spit. Here they spent what might have been their best times together, ambling slowly through the hilly moraine landscape with its low-lying outwash plains. They saw ospreys and red kites, and heard the croak of the fire-bellied toad in the wetlands as the hawthorn blossomed all around. Copenhagen was far, far away.

Unlike Konrad Simonsen, who was full of energy, Arne Pedersen was bleary-eyed when the two men met in Pedersen’s office. The Homicide Department’s temporary head had been up balancing the books half the night and kicked off proceedings in somewhat manic mood.

‘Right, let’s get to work, Simon.’

Hardly had the words left his lips before Malte Borup barged in, heaving to regain his breath and apologising at the same time.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt, only you said it was urgent.’

Pedersen reached up to fidget with the knot of his tie and replied in a resigned tone:

‘I’d been hoping you’d make it before Simon got here.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been as quick as I could. The thing was I had to do the dishes first or else Anita will go ballistic when she gets home. I promised, you see.’

‘All right. So now both of you can see how I’ve made a mess of this bloody smartboard…’

Arne got to his feet and removed the cloth he had hung over the board.

‘I used an ordinary felt-pen and it won’t rub off.’

Simonsen gazed at it with interest, There were three bullet points:

• Problem page = correspondence column / where?

• Father’s uniform, what sort?

• Simon flying off at a tangent?

He recognised the first two as his own from the report he had drawn up a couple of days before.

Pedersen continued to bemoan his own ineptitude.

‘I’ve tried everything I could get my hands on, but nothing works.’

‘Everything you could get your hands on? What would that be? Water?’ Simonsen enquired snidely.

‘And washing-up liquid. All right, I know meths probably does the job, and I’m sorry, Malte, I just thought it was urgent. I take it you didn’t have time to buy Coca-cola?’

‘You’re right, I didn’t.’

‘Do it now, and get hold of some meths while you’re at it. When Simon and I are finished you can clean the board and show him that clip you found of Mouritz Malmborg, are you with me?’

Malte went off and Pedersen speeded up.

‘You weren’t supposed to see that last point, obviously, but done is done, so let’s pick up on that once we’ve talked about one and two. I’ve read your notes about the hypnosis in Nykøbing Falster, and Helena Brage Hansen having her own, quote, “problem page”, which I’m sure you’ve realised, too. Besides that, her father wore a uniform, according to what transpired during your seance. We don’t know what kind of uniform, and I’m pretty sure it’s not that relevant either, but I did come up with one thing that might be. Helena Brage Hansen has an older brother, and I know you’re thinking we don’t want her to know we’re checking up on her, but… well, you know him, as it happens. It’s Finn B. Hansen.’

‘One and the same?’

‘Senior deputy judge of the court at Næstved, yes. Of course, I’ve no idea how he gets on with his sister, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t let on to her if we asked him a few questions. On the other hand, he might not tell us anything. That’s a different matter.’

Simonsen agreed.

‘It’s worth a try. Do you want to come with me?’

‘I’d like to, but I’m pressed for time. If you want me with you we need to get this out of the way sharpish.’

‘Right you are. What’s this about me flying off at a tangent?’

Pedersen explained frankly. It had long since been confirmed that the six students involved had all been on the periphery with respect to the rest of their class.

‘At the moment it seems like no detail is too small. A parent in uniform and a problem page. Why don’t you just bring the surviving gang members in for an interview?’

‘What if none of them can remember anything? Collective memory loss. What do we do then?’

‘We do as we always do in that situation, we play them off against each other. Find the cracks in their stories, niggle away until they start caving in, threaten them, fool them, lure them into a trap. The way we do, and do well.’

‘When did you last investigate a crime that took place forty years ago?’

Pedersen hesitated for a second, but stood his ground.

Maybe Simonsen had a point in that respect, and that was what in the first instance had prompted them to uncover all they could by way of background. But they’d done that now, more or less. Some would say more.

‘There comes a point where you have to say: all right, we’ve got the overview, this is as good as it gets. But you’re still picking away. And what’s worse, you’ve got no way of knowing the murder of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen has anything at all to do with Lucy Davison going missing. That’s supposition, and not even well founded. Get them in for interview instead of dallying about in the sixties, or all of a sudden you’ll look up and it’ll be time to retire.’

Simonsen acquiesced without argument. He’d already heard the same advice from the Countess, albeit phrased rather more elegantly.

‘All right, let’s go to Næstved and see Finn B. Hansen. I’ll try to set up an appointment with him today. After that we’ll confront the lot of them, unless something earth-shattering turns up in the meantime. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, as long as I’m deciding what’s earth-shattering,’ Arne insisted.

‘Done. Let me pop back and check my e-mail. Call me once you’ve got your smartboard sorted so I can watch that film.’

When Simonsen saw the clip he had to admit the interviewer was not without charm. Behind the long-haired exterior and the wire-framed glasses a subtle wit sparkled, and it was hard not to be carried along by it, despite the fact that the man in question was making the two teenagers he had selected to be his victims suffer quite without mercy. In front of him stood Mouritz Malmborg and a girl whose identity as yet remained unknown. The interviewer’s introduction was deadpan:

‘We on children’s TV are often accused of not caring about the ordinary kids of today, only for hippies, potheads, peace activists and other dregs of society. So today we’ve come here to Hvidovre Station in the capital’s hinterland, and lo and behold… what have we here but two absolutely ordinary kids of today. One absolutely ordinary boy and one absolutely ordinary girl. And the most ordinary of them would seem to be you. What’s your name?’

‘Susanne.’

‘OK, Susanne. And you can run all the way round the station building in a very short time, and twice around the station building in a bit longer. Is that right?’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘And your dream is one day to be as good as all those women athletes from East Germany. Is the reason they’re so much faster than you… because the East German state, unlike Denmark, makes sure its young people get the very best training facilities and a healthy social upbringing? Or is it because the running tracks in East Germany are shorter?’

‘I don’t know… are the tracks shorter in other countries?’

‘All right, so there we have it. What about you, Mouritz? What’s your name?’

‘Mouritz.’

‘I thought it might be. Now, you’re a jablin thrower, right? How about showing the viewers how to throw a jablin? No, hang on. Pretend you’ve got a jablin in your hand and now you’re going to throw it.’

Mouritz Malmborg did as he was instructed. It looked like he was hammering nails into a ceiling.

‘A bit faster, we’ve got to get these jablins away, you know.’

He increased his speed and was left to repeat the movement for a while before the interviewer eventually moved on:

‘Thank you, Mouritz. Well done, that was very, very ordinary indeed. Susanne, would you like to gave Mouritz a round of applause while I say something to the viewers?’

The girl clapped and the interviewer wrapped things up.

Simonsen was impressed, and said so to Malte Borup.

‘Nice work, Malte. You turned up one of public broadcasting’s genuine red hirelings, as they said in the day. When’s it from?’

‘Tenth of April nineteen sixty-nine. It came up on Google. Is it any use?’

‘Definitely, thanks a lot.’

‘Why was he so unpleasant? He knew perfectly well it’s called a javelin. And making them look stupid like that… it was cruel.’

‘I don’t know why. Perhaps he was cruel, or maybe he was doing it just because he could. Times were different then, Malte.’

It was Simonsen’s standard comment whenever he wanted to close a discussion about the past: times were different then. And it was true enough, but when weren’t they different? In this instance, however, his evasion didn’t work. Malte Borup pondered for a second, still unable to get his head round it, in spite of times being different.

‘Was it funny then? Picking on people, I mean?’

What was Simonsen to say to that? In a way it was. It was hard to explain.

In the car on the way to Næstved, Arne Pedersen buried his nose in a stack of spreadsheets and statements of accounts, poring his way through them with the aid of a pocket calculator and a biro. Occasionally he expelled a sigh, but said nothing. Simonsen, too, immersed himself in thought, transporting himself back into the past as he had done that morning. In his mind he lingered on his final meeting with Rita. She had disappeared for days on end. He had no idea where she went, and often her leaving came as a surprise to him. On her return she would refuse to answer his many questions, and it took a long time for him to discover that she was working as a courier, running cash from Denmark to Germany or France, money collected in Scandinavia with the aim of supporting Palestinian liberation. He never found out for certain which organisation had recruited her. Most likely it was the PFLP, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, though he had no clear indication, then or now. There were so many different groups and so many gullible idealists willing to do the dirty work, who at the end of the day had no idea at all who they were working for. Rita was a tiny pawn in a very big game that was becoming increasingly nasty. Hijackings, killings and kidnappings were the order of the day. The use of terror was accelerating, but the reactions to it were often equally violent: Mossad, the Israeli security agency, tracked down and liquidated the perpetrators of the Olympic Games massacre in Munich, one by one.

In the spring of 1973, Rita was away for almost two weeks. When she got back she looked tanned yet depressed. As usual, she wouldn’t say what she’d been doing. It couldn’t go on, and they paused their relationship, as they had done several times before, only to pick things up again after a short time. The crux of the matter, so they thought, was that they couldn’t do without each other.

But then came the shock: staring him in the face in black and white, revealing to him just how far gone she was. As he remembered it, they were at a workers’ festival in the Fælledparken, an event that had drawn tens of thousands, a perfectly orchestrated display of organisational talent and logistics. But maybe he was mistaken, perhaps the festival came later, and now he came to think about it he was unsure as to the time of year, too. But whatever, he had been put on duty to keep the peace at some event or other organised by the Danish communists. It was a cushy job. Regardless of his disdain for the party, he had to admit they kept their cadres in order. The communists were never any trouble: never a jeer was issued in his direction, the police were mostly ignored and he’d even on occasion been offered a cup of coffee.

He’d been approached by two men, middle-aged activists of the easy-going kind. They’d sat down on a bench by a table, in a tent, as he recalled. The tablecloth was the only thing he remembered vividly, red and white checks, as in the cheaper restaurants of the capital. The men had placed two almost identical photographs in front of him. Both showed Rita climbing the steps to board a plane. She carried crutches, and one of her legs was in plaster. The plane was an El Al flight to Tel Aviv.

The men had been friendly, though neither wished to reveal where the photos came from or how they knew about his connection to Rita. Their gentle advice to him was to get his girlfriend out of the mess she’d landed herself in. He never found out if the two men had been sent by the party – if they were even communists at all – or whether they’d approached him off their own bat as a matter of simple decency.

For two days and nights he pored over the problem. And then he went to PET, police intelligence. PET’s headquarters was at that time on the first floor of the Bellahøj Politistation. He was interviewed by three colleagues. They took down his explanations and enquired in detail about his relationship with Rita. He was given a list of further questions to think about and answer to the best of his ability. Before leaving, he paradoxically received the same piece of advice the communists had issued. Get her out of this mess and do it now. Those were their parting words. Afterwards, he adjourned to a bar and felt miserable. The interview with PET had been unpleasant and he felt like a traitor: he’d betrayed Rita, no matter how many times he told himself he’d done the only thing he could have done and that it was right. Presumably, they were no longer in a relationship at all.

Senior Deputy Judge Finn B. Hansen had for a number of years been in charge of Department 14 of the High Court of Western Denmark with responsibility for preparing all civil cases to be tried by the court. Some ten years ago he had been moved down the ladder to the district court at Næstved, having completed an enforced sabbatical of six months on account of a somewhat far-reaching drink problem. Subsequently he had managed to get a grip on himself, but his career had suffered irreparably and he had been compelled to accept the fact that he would never rise to the echelons of magistrate.

He was a corpulent man with thin white hair and a fleshy face. He welcomed Simonsen and Pedersen and ushered them to the two Bauhaus chairs that had been drawn up in front of his desk. Simonsen hesitated. He found the furniture aesthetically pleasing, but was always reluctant actually to sit down on such an item, and whenever he did so it was always with a measure of scepticism as to the spindly steel tubing and the two missing legs.

‘So, what can I do for you gentlemen? I was intrigued to hear from you, I must admit.’

Simonsen threw caution to the wind and sat down before explaining why they had come. Many years ago, Hansen’s younger sister had spent some days revising for exams over on the west coast together with some classmates from her gymnasium. There they had been visited by a young English girl who had later disappeared. He showed the man a couple of photos, though not the one in which the youngsters were partially naked.

Hansen’s expression turned from cheery to reticent. He studied the photos for some time, though all they required was a glance.

‘And you think this English girl is dead, am I right?’ he eventually asked.

The inference was reasonable: after all, they were from Homicide. Simonsen confirmed the suspicion that Lucy Davison most likely was dead. Finn B. Hansen nodded solemnly before responding:

‘It’s a long time ago. I’m sorry, can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water?’

It was obvious the deputy judge needed time to digest the matter. Pedersen declined on behalf of them both, whereupon he explained as tactfully as possible Hansen’s sister’s possible involvement in the case, before briefly outlining the killing of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. As soon as he was finished, Simonsen took over.

‘We fully understand if you don’t want to help us. I’m not sure how I’d react in the situation myself. Nevertheless, we’d like you to know that regardless of whatever you may decide to do, no record of this will ever be made, neither publically nor internally within the department. That said, we would indeed be very grateful if you were to refrain from informing your sister that we have spoken.’

Hansen shook his white head vigorously. It looked more like a shudder. After a moment’s pause he spoke again.

‘Two people died?’

‘Hardly any doubt.’

‘And worst case is my sister being charged with murder?’

‘Worst case, yes. But it’s not particularly on the cards as regards Esbjerg. We don’t consider first-degree murder to be at all likely in that case, and anything else would be time-barred by now as you’d know better than anyone. As for the postman, it seems clear that…’

‘Helena could never have broken anyone’s neck. You know she lives in the north of Norway, I take it?’

‘We’re aware of that, yes.’

‘Do you think I could have a minute to think this over? Perhaps you could go for a little walk or something?’

Hansen got to his feet, indicating they didn’t have much choice in the matter.

‘No need to worry I’ll get in touch with her, because I won’t,’ he assured them as he showed them out.

They left the office and Pedersen returned to his accounts. The advantage of being overworked was always having something to do while waiting for something else to arrive. Simonsen chose to amble up and down the corridors of the courts building. The place was relatively new and the red-brick walls were lined with paintings, presumably at the instigation of the staff art society. The canvasses were hard to get a handle on and moreover rather dull.

Half an hour later Finn B. Hansen had come to a decision.

‘I’d like to help you if I can. At the end of the day it would be the best thing for Helena. At least, I hope so. What would you like to know?’

Pedersen kicked off.

‘Your father appeared in uniform at Brøndbyøster Gymnasium at one point, so we’ve been led to believe. Does that ring a bell, or would it be completely out of the question?’

‘No, he may well have done. He was top dog, field master general or whatever, in the Scouts. Don’t ask me what group it was, all I remember is he seemed to wear that uniform continually for a while. He was quite unabashed by it. The arguments we had in those days! I was studying law at university and my father went ballistic when we boycotted lectures and occupied the offices, not to mention the time we smoked pot on the stairs of the main building.’

Simonsen delivered a discreet kick to Pedersen’s shin, pre-empting his colleague’s interruption. Having already abandoned himself to recollections of the sixties as seen from class Three Y of Brøndbyøster Gymnasium, he was well aware that most who’d been around then had partaken of one substance or another at some point. It made fact a rather fluid concept, events being inclined to shift back and forth in recollection, one year or two, to accord with this or another reminiscence, and often suitably modified to fit the bill.

‘Basically, I think the uniform was his reaction to the times. Today I consider that to be rather courageous. But at the time I thought he was a fool.’

‘Was your sister in the Scouting movement?’

Hansen thought for a while before answering.

‘I don’t recall her being involved, but she may well have been. She and I were very different. Perhaps because of being boy and girl, but also because I rebelled against my parents while she rebelled against me. Had she been older than me it might have been the other way round. It’s often such slight differences in circumstance that dictate where you end up, isn’t it?’

‘But you can’t definitely say if she was?’

‘I’m afraid not. She was my younger sister, so I wasn’t that interested in the things that occupied her or who she hung around with.’

‘While she was at the gymnasium she edited a problem page. Could that have been something to do with Scouting?’

‘It could, certainly. I’ve got some stuff of my parents’… documents, papers… I’m sure I’d be able to find out what branch of the movement my father was involved in. You could take it from there.’

‘We’d be grateful if you would. What happened to your sister after school?’

‘She became ill with psychiatric problems. Whether it was following on from the gymnasium or later, I don’t recall, but certainly around about that time. It took quite some years before she began to function reasonably again, if one can put it like that. Thinking back, what I remember most about her then is how ill she was. She was in and out of hospital all the time, and of course it took its toll on the family, though especially on my mother and father. And Helena herself, naturally.’

Again he paused and they waited patiently. Simonsen found himself wondering. Until now their enquiries in to Helena Brage Hansen’s background had given them no indication at all that there had been mental health issues. He would have to chase that up himself.

Finn B. Hansen continued:

‘I know what you’re dying to ask, but I’ve no idea at all if her psychiatric problems can be linked to anything that happened in Esbjerg. Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid. All I can say is that her condition stabilised with time, I think probably due to advances in drug treatment. The psychiatrists found her a pill that could keep the demons at bay. In the eighties she lived in a farming commune. I went to see her there a couple of times, though it was quite a hike to Bornholm. Then when our parents died – that’d be, what, nineteen eighty-four and eighty-six – we inherited quite a sum of money. She spent hers relocating to Norway and establishing herself there. First in Bergen, then all the way up north in Hammerfest. She works as a nature warden and tourist guide there. At some point she became a Norwegian citizen, I don’t recall when exactly.’

‘And there’s no family there, no children?’

‘None. I believe she sees someone, though.’

‘Are you in touch with her at all?’

‘Not much. We e-mail once in a while, but months can easily go by.’

‘So you don’t get together much?’

‘She did come to my sixtieth birthday, and my youngest son went to stay with her when he was in Lapland a couple of years ago. If I remember, I’ll give her a call at Christmas, but that’s about it really.’

Neither Simonsen nor Pedersen had anything more to ask, apart from one thing that potentially might make a difference to their inquiry. The agreement between them had been that the one Hansen hit it off best with during the interview was to give it a go. There was no doubt this was Simonsen’s call.

‘As I’m sure you understand, we’re going to need to have a word with your sister. If that interview could take place in Denmark it would be in the best interests of all parties. We wouldn’t be able to go to Norway and question a citizen without the involvement of the Norwegian police. But you’ll be fully aware of that, of course.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. When were you thinking of?’

‘We’ll give you a call. It’ll probably be a week or two yet. We’re starting off by interviewing her classmates. It might not even be necessary to talk to Helena.’

‘Let’s hope that’s the case.’

The two policemen had only just left the court building when Konrad Simonsen halted and stood there like a pillar of salt. Pedersen was immediately alarmed.

‘What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?’

‘No, just slow on the uptake, that’s all. Come on, we’ve got to go back in.’

Finn B. Hansen accepted the interruption gracefully as they came barging back into his office.

‘We forgot something,’ said Simonsen, slightly out of breath. ‘The scout group your father was with. Would they have had a hut or a cabin in the Esbjerg area, for summer camps and the like?’

‘Yes, the Vesterhavsgården. A children’s holiday camp. I remember the sea there, and that we went to stay sometimes when we were kids, but I honestly can’t remember if it was Esbjerg, or Blokhus, or somewhere else.’

Simonsen thanked him. Hansen shrank visibly as he realised how significant the information might be, and then added gently:

‘I’m afraid, as I recall, the grounds were rather extensive.’

The Vesterhavsgården turned out to be exactly right, though the place was now owned by Esbjerg’s local authority and had since been renamed. Looking at Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s photos no one could tell one way or the other if their Gang of Six had been staying at a holiday camp or not. Officers investigating in the area had been instructed to look for a summer house. The holiday camp was therefore duly passed by, until Simonsen called Klavs Arnold.

The photos matched. Arnold took some pictures on the spot and e-mailed one to Simonsen right away. There was no doubt about it: the same wooden cladding on the outside walls; the corner of the building and the slope in the background, exactly as they’d been forty years before. The end of the bargeboard was carved in the shape of a dragon’s head, presumably with a sheath knife, and the monster had been there in 1969, too, albeit rather grainy in Kramer Nielsen’s black-and-white images. Moreover, the man with Down’s had been traced. He had lived on the neighbouring farm until his death in 1991, but older people in the area remembered Daft Troels well – a harmless, happy soul, now sadly long-since gone. The only fly in the ointment was that Senior Deputy Judge Finn B. Hansen had in no way overestimated the extent of the grounds: thirty hectares, at least, of broken landscape comprising grass, scrub, heather, pine, fir and impenetrable thickets of brambles.

Konrad Simonsen and Pauline Berg zoomed in on the area on Google Earth. It wasn’t the most encouraging sight for anyone wanting to find a body there.

Pauline shook her head.

‘No way we can dig through all that without some idea of where she might be. They could have buried her anywhere, the place is surrounded by spruce plantations.’

‘I shouldn’t think they’ll have lugged her around more than absolutely necessary,’ said Simonsen.

‘Maybe not, but if we don’t know where they got rid of her she could be ten metres from the front door and we still wouldn’t have a chance.’

‘You’re right. At the moment we haven’t got a look in.’

‘Isn’t there some kind of scanner we can use that can find bones and stuff? I’m sure I heard something about that not long ago. Like a metal detector, only for bodies. Hasn’t Kurt Melsing got one?’

‘It would be almost impossible after such a long time.’

‘What a pain. How are we going to go about it, then?’

‘We’re going to read.’

He had laid his hands on three volumes of Scouting Youth spanning 1967 to 1969. They were on his desk. Helena Brage Hansen had edited the problem page, and Konrad Simonsen thought the magazines would give them a window on her personality.

Pauline grudgingly indulged him. She didn’t feel much like ploughing through forty-year-old Scouting mags, but for once she did as she was asked.

Only later did Simonsen realise he’d got his young colleague started on an impossible job. It was a realisation that came to him when, after an hour and a half of reading, she suddenly said:

‘I’m not sure I understand what I’m looking for.’

He looked up from his own magazine.

‘What you need to do is look at the advice Helena gives her readers and on that basis form an impression of what she’s like as a person. What kind of opinions has she, what does she believe in, what are her morals, visions and dreams? That sort of thing. As far as I can see she often uses herself as a point of reference in her replies.’

‘She was young, too.’

‘True. And?’

‘I think it’s weird her giving all this advice. Usually agony aunts are older, aren’t they? She’s a good writer, though.’

‘She wanted to be a journalist.’

‘How do you know?’

‘From the reply I just read. The same one you read ten minutes ago.’

Pauline rubbed her eyes.

‘I don’t think I’m very good at this. Can’t you give me an example?’

‘Like what?’

‘Something you’ve found yourself that’s important.’

Simonsen looked at his notepad and flicked through the pages.

‘All right, how’s this? She’s replying to a girl who can’t find a boyfriend and feels left out by the others in her class. “Stay true to yourself. It can be hard, I know that. But it’s not worth being admitted to any group if the price of entry is to stop being the person you are. That price is too high, even if sometimes you might be tempted.”’

‘Yeah, all right. But what’s so special about that?’

He put it aside and moved on to another example.

‘This one’s to a boy who’s been admonished by his Scoutmaster for saying he’s against the war in Vietnam.’

‘Nobody likes war.’

‘He means the USA’s involvement in Vietnam. Listen to what she tells him. “You’re entitled to your opinion. It’s your right, and you should tell that to your Scoutmaster. But think about this, too: North Korea is a dictatorship, South Vietnam is a dictatorship, China is a dictatorship, the Soviet Union is a dictatorship. Saying so may not be popular, but it’s the case nevertheless. Try imagining that the USA was a dictatorship, too. That may be difficult, but try as hard as you can and then tell me how that would affect life in Denmark. It doesn’t take much courage to spit on a fortress when you know it’ll remain standing.”’

‘Sounds reasonable enough to me. Don’t you agree with her?’

‘My opinion, whatever it might be, is irrelevant. The point is what her classmates thought about her.’

‘How am I supposed to know that? The only ones who write to her are in Scouting.’

‘She was certainly making waves.’

Pauline looked thoughtful and Simonsen concluded he had finally steered her mind on to the right track, an assumption he was shortly afterwards compelled to revise when she spoke again.

‘I think I might know what you mean now. She ought to have made more of an effort with her appearance. She couldn’t help the way she looked, of course, I know that, but she ought to have done herself up some more, sold herself a bit better. It needn’t cost much. But then maybe it was the times… I wouldn’t know about that, would I?’

‘Just forget about it, Pauline, it doesn’t matter.’

‘What about the others? How come you’re so interested in Helena?’

‘Because she’s the only one we know anything about, and because informally, at least, she seems to have been their leader, if you like.’

‘They being the Lonely Hearts Club?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did they get that stupid name anyway?’

Simonsen gave up and let her go.

But not entirely. As Pauline gathered together her magazines and sorted them into chronological order, he asked:

‘What about Klavs Arnold? Does he need doing up as well?’

He’d been meaning to ask her for a while – not about the man’s appearance, but about him joining them on a permanent basis. This seemed as good a time as any. Yet when her answer came he kicked himself for not having asked before.

‘The Countess and I will take care of that once you give him the job.’

‘How do you know I’m giving him a job? Did the Countess tell you? Or Arne?’

‘No, but that’s been the idea all along, hasn’t it? You are going to take him on, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. And very soon, if he’ll agree.’

On Saturday morning Konrad Simonsen and the Countess went shopping in the Lyngby Storcenter precinct. The Countess wasn’t holding back. Her approach to supermarkets was unstructured and governed by impulse: she picked from the shelves whatever took her fancy on her way round the store, albeit with an expression that was supposed to make it look like every selection was a carefully considered choice. This had fooled Simonsen to begin with, but now he saw straight through her. Occasionally he fished an item from the trolley and replaced it on the shelf without its seeming to bother her unduly. Sometimes he would do it without telling her, while at others his action was accompanied by a brief explanation: The cupboard’s full of coffee, what do we need another three packets for? She would shrug and move on. Having passed through the checkout they trundled their trolley into the lift, then to the Countess’s car parked in the underground car park. Here at their leisure they could transfer their shopping into carrier bags before dumping them in the boot. While they were doing so, the Countess said:

‘I know I was unfair about that folder from Frederiksværk and accusing you about your trip to Rødby. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.’

He grunted a reply and she elaborated the way she did, the way with which he had now become familiar. And yet he sensed she had given more thought to the matter this time: she still hadn’t fully come to terms with her own divorce, though it had been nearly five years ago now. Naturally, she was no longer in love with the man, not at all, but she was still jealous of his family life, his children. Sometimes she could hardly go about in public without fearing she was going to bump into them and – worst of all – see them strolling with their pram. She readily admitted to being overstrung, and probably mean-spirited, too, but nevertheless it was the way she felt.

He understood, he told her. He did after all know the background, though he never mentioned it to her. The matter was taboo. A long time ago she had lost a child, her only one. That was all he knew, but it was more than enough. Now the shadow of her dead child fell upon their relationship and what was he to do? Nothing, apart from hope it would pass in time. He spoke again, in a voice he considered firm:

‘How did you know I’d been to the police station in Rødby and asked about Rita?’

She smiled wryly.

‘I worked that out when you were in the bath on Thursday morning and I heard a message on our landline from a sergeant in the Rødby Politi. Apparently, he’d informed you PET had been involved when Rita Metz Andersen was arrested for smuggling cash in nineteen seventy-two, but that wasn’t right. PET didn’t come in until a couple of months later. Something like that, anyway. You can listen to the message yourself.’

It was an explanation that relieved him somewhat. He’d been afraid of something more sinister. The rest of it they could work out, he felt sure.

‘I’d be glad if you could look her up and get it over and done with as soon as possible, Simon,’ said the Countess once they were in the car.

He was in no doubt she was talking about Rita. He promised nothing, nodding pensively in a way that could have been taken to mean just about anything.

As they got closer to home, the tension between them eased. They exchanged small, insignificant comments about the traffic and the weather.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’ve been invited out to the theatre tomorrow. Goethe’s Faust. It’s the Deutsches Theater, they’re the guest company at the Royal.’

Simonsen sensed problems, though not quite as prickly as those of half an hour before.

‘Not me. It says in my calendar I’m staying in that night.’

‘Relax, I wasn’t asking you. I’m going with Stella.’

‘Who’s Stella? I don’t think you’ve mentioned a Stella.’

‘Stella is a very punchy woman. Mother of five – six, if you include Klavs. Upcoming member of the Parliamentary Cultural Affairs Committee. Apparently they get free tickets. Her husband’s probably just as anti-arts as you, so the ticket was offered to me.’

‘I see. What party does she stand for?’

‘No idea, never asked. I’m not bothered one way or the other.’

‘I don’t suppose it matters that much. Are you going to go?’

‘Of course I am. I like Stella.’

‘Now you mention Klavs, how did he get on organising that search for the summer house? Was it competent?’

‘Very, and he was glad we went over, too. Even if Pauline was a bit moody, not to say mute.’

‘So your view is he’s professionally capable? And I don’t mean just yesterday, but previously as well, when the two of you were working together.’

‘He’s excellent to work with, no question. We had a bit of a misunderstanding to begin with, though. He had to get used to the idea that working together means working both ways. Even with women. Once he got that straight, we had no trouble.’

‘That sounds a bit defensive to me. Is that the best you can say about him?’

‘He’s good. Methodical and creative. Is that any better?’

‘Much.’

‘One thing did impress me, I don’t think I’ve told you yet. The first time I was over there I had that touched-up photo of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen with me. It wasn’t like it was poorly done or anything. It was hard to see he was dead, but his eyes were funny, a bit creepy almost.’

‘The photo technician had to add in a pair of open eyes. On top of his eyelids, I mean.’

‘Right, and it was OK, too, in a strictly anatomical way, but in practice it made our job a bit more difficult. All the potential witnesses we asked to look at the photo all looked away again just as quickly. Most probably weren’t even aware they were doing it. But Klavs noticed, so second time around he’d had this drawing done that we used instead. That was what made the hostel manager at the Nørballe Vandrehjem recognise him, which she hadn’t the first time we asked. Anyway, no more talking shop today, Simon. I really can’t be bothered.’

‘All right. I’ll give Klavs a call and ask him if he wants to come over to HS this evening if he can.’

‘This evening? Can’t it wait? And surely you can talk to him on the phone without dragging him out there?’

‘Yes, it could wait, and yes, we could do it over the phone, of course we could. Only I don’t want to do it like that. You can come in with me if you want.’

She accepted grudgingly, and being in the mood to do it he called Klavs Arnold right away. Disagreeing with her wasn’t easy today.

Not even when the opportunity arose a couple of hours later. He was hoovering the car and she’d sat down on a folding chair outside with a book. He turned off the hoover and the Countess instantly took her chance to speak.

‘Since you’re going to be looking this Rita up…’

He cut her off:

‘I told you, I’m not sure I want to.’

‘And I’ve told you, you might as well get it out of your system.’

‘She might not even be in Denmark. In fact, I’ve a feeling she isn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘She went to America. It was a dream of hers to go to San Francisco.’

‘And get away from Denmark?’

‘That as well.’

He had confronted Rita with what he knew about her having gone to Israel. With an apparently broken leg. And he had been ruthless. Hijackings in which innocent people were slaughtered simply because they were Jews or Americans, on account of politics in the Middle East over which they had absolutely no control – was that the kind of despicable business she was involved in? She could cry all she liked, it cut no ice with him. Did she really want to be responsible for the death of innocent individuals, random passengers on an aeroplane who’d never done her or anyone else any harm whatsoever? He had hit her, too. The flat of his hand against the back of her skull while she sat with her head in her hands weeping. Not once, but several times, and hard. He demanded answers. Eventually, she gave him a few. She had no idea who she was working for. There were two men, one a Dane, the other foreign – Syrian, she thought. They met up at various cafés where they told her what to do. On the trip to Israel she was to observe airport security measures. It was important for them to know if her ‘broken’ leg would be checked.

He pressed her for information, firing questions at her, scribbling down her answers without caring what she might think of him. Eventually he had no more to ask and she stopped crying, sitting there as though paralysed, staring into space with empty eyes. Then suddenly she spoke:

‘You can’t get out again. That’s not the way it works.’

He couldn’t remember what he said in reply, nor did he recall his response when a moment later she added:

‘Let’s get away from it all, Konrad. We can go to America and start again. They won’t find me there.’

The next day he called PET and phoned in his report. They thanked him for the information, but wanted more. He turned them down.

The emotionless voice of the Countess plucked him back into the present.

‘I think she came back.’

He emptied the car ashtray into a plastic bag. The cigarette ends were from the time when he still smoked.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve done a search.’

‘Relax, I haven’t. Anyway, you make it sound so hard. It could be all you need to do is look her up in the phone book.’

‘Perhaps, but I’m not sure I want to. What makes you think she might still be in Denmark?’

‘She had no brothers or sisters, is that right?’

‘Yes. And?’

‘Did you ever actually look at that folder you brought back with you from Frederiksværk?’

He shook his head. He had tossed it away in annoyance and never given it a thought. She went and got it and opened it in front of him.

‘I think her grandchild’s playing tomorrow afternoon in the Gjethuset there. The music schools are giving their annual concert and on the bill there’s a Teresa Metz Andersen with “Songs for a Grandmother”, three interpretations of songs by Joan Baez. The grandmother might very well be your Rita.’

Konrad Simonsen stared at the page, then said very slowly, almost lingering over every word:

‘Yes, I suppose it might.’

Klavs Arnold’s appointment was made official on the Saturday afternoon. Simonsen had talked the man from Jutland into stopping by Police HQ on the pretext of wanting to discuss strategy on the search of the holiday-camp grounds. Arnold’s strategy, fully in keeping with where he was from, was simply to get on with it, but Simonsen the Copenhagener was insistent. They met at eight, as that was as early as Arnold could make it. Arne Pedersen had protested about going in to work on a Saturday evening for something that could just as well have been dealt with during normal working hours after the weekend. Simonsen, though, was adamant. He might well have called them in on impulse, but he wasn’t forcing anyone to attend. He just felt they needed to get Arnold’s appointment settled as soon as possible. Felt. A new word in his vocabulary, perhaps, but that’s how it was, and his colleagues would just have to take it or leave it.

Pauline Berg arrived all dressed up to go out and looked amazing. Apparently, she had an appointment straight afterwards, though what kind of appointment and with whom she wouldn’t say. It was good to see her like that again, outgoing and bubbling over with enthusiasm, however long it lasted.

It was dark before Arnold arrived. The days had grown shorter and the depressing blanket of heavy grey cloud that had lingered over the city for a week did the rest.

When the man they were all waiting for finally arrived, Simonsen went directly to the issue at hand. Klavs Arnold had hardly sat down before Simonsen put it to him straight:

‘What would you say to joining us here permanently rather than going to Helsinge?’

They all thought he’d been waiting to be asked. Only when Arnold’s jaw dropped and he sat gaping for a moment, visibly gobsmacked, did they realise he hadn’t. Unless he was a born actor.

‘Seriously?’

Pauline Berg replied promptly:

‘No, it’s just something we say to everyone, and we’re only here because we couldn’t think of anything else to do on a Saturday night.’

She mellowed again when Arnold faced up to her and responded to her barbs with a compliment.

‘You’re looking gorgeous tonight. Who’s the lucky bloke?’

‘Oh, thanks. Just someone I know.’

‘Well, he’s very fortunate. And yes, I’d very much like to carry on here, if you’ll have me.’

After that, there wasn’t much more to say. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg battled to be the first one out of the door, and the Countess, too, quickly made her excuses: she had a couple of things to do while she was here. Simonsen waited for her. It struck him that when, or if, Arne Pedersen was to head up the department at some later stage, the inner circle he himself favoured would no longer exist. After a minute, Pauline came back.

‘I didn’t actually say before because of all sorts of other stuff in my head but I’m really glad you’re going to be with us, Klavs. Very glad indeed.’

And then she left again.

The two men exchanged glances without saying a word, before Simonsen spoke.

‘How long are you staying in town?’

‘Until tomorrow. I thought we were going to be talking strategy about that search, even if there isn’t much to talk about.’

‘Because we won’t find her?’

‘I’ve only been out there for an hour. The wife’s got so much on at the moment, and I’ve got to help out with the kids. One of the girls was off colour yesterday and I had to stay home half the day. Never done that before.’

‘What do you think?’

‘What I think is, we don’t stand a chance without knowing where to look.’

‘That’s twice in a very short space of time someone’s said that to me. I’m going back with you to Esbjerg tomorrow. I need to see the place for myself.’