The Vanished

CHAPTER 9

The venue for the concert was a delight. The Gjethuset in Frederiksværk looked a treat in the pale autumnal sun that Sunday afternoon. Originally, the three-winged building had been an ordnance foundry, and the concert hall of today was an intriguing blend of raw eighteenth-century factory floor and modern arts venue with acoustics that were no less than fabulous.

Konrad Simonsen and Klavs Arnold had made the trip together. Once the concert was over they were heading off to Esbjerg, which would give them all day Monday to study the grounds of the Vesterhavsgården camp. They hung about in the car outside the concert hall and watched people as they arrived.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ Simonsen asked for about the third time.

But Klavs Arnold didn’t. As a father of five, three of whom were of school age, he had long since grown averse to performing children, shunning everything in the way of school plays, nativity scenes, kids’ circuses, or just plain music and song. Simonsen felt guilty about making him wait.

‘What are you going to do in the meantime?’

Arnold laughed.

‘Off you go, Simon. See you in a couple of hours.’

The concert had attracted a good-sized audience, the venue was packed, mostly with parents coming to see their musical offspring. Even as he made his way towards the doors, Simonsen had realised he would be more than fortunate to see Rita in all the crowds if indeed she were there at all, and if he would recognise her if he did bump into her. Whatever the circumstances, he had resolved not to go looking for her. Small steps, one at a time. If he didn’t see her here today, the chance would surely come again somewhere else.

He found his seat, far back to the left of the stage, and felt comfortably anonymous in the throng.

The programme was introduced by the mayor of Halsnæs Kommune, Helge Friis. He was a balding man in his fifties with an unforced, casual manner, as though he was well used to appearing on stage, and an assurance in his voice that immediately put Simonsen at his ease. He’d been expecting the usual stiff and under-rehearsed official welcome. The mayor waxed lyrical about the building, the foundry in which generations of workers had grafted forging cannons and guns, today a place of culture, community and music, a language understood by all.

The well-thought-out speech met with resounding applause, an enthusiastic and genuine response from an audience who clearly weren’t clapping just because they were supposed to. Simonsen joined in; the man deserved it. With the scene suitably set, the concert could begin.

The running order had Teresa Metz Andersen appearing second with her ‘Songs for a Grandmother’. Simonsen was almost catapulted back into his seat when she stepped on to the stage, a reaction so violent and unexpected that for the first time in months he worried about his heart. To begin with he even had to look away. Whether it was his memory adapting to the sight of her or whether she really did resemble her grandmother to an astonishing extent was hard for him to say, but the likeness between Rita of the early 1970s and the girl onstage now was unnerving.

Not until well into her first song did Simonsen regain sufficient composure to listen. She sang in a clear, ringing soprano, accompanying herself on the twelve-stringed acoustic guitar, an instrument she played with great skill. ‘Sweet Sir Galahad’ once again climbed in through the window of Joan Baez’s younger sister, this time in an excellent, albeit rather frail, interpretation that met with deservedly enthusiastic applause from her audience. According to the programme, her following two songs would also be Joan Baez, though this proved to be a slight misrepresentation. Nevertheless, her next song sent Simonsen on a journey back into his past. Teresa Metz Andersen dreamed of Joe Hill; Simonsen dreamed of Rita. The young girl’s version of the judicial murder of the workers’ rights activist was skilful and accomplished. But also bloodless and tame, a far cry altogether from her grandmother’s. And then, abruptly, the memories came flooding back, as they had done so many times before in the past months.

In 1972 he and Rita had braved the cold of February and biked up to the Reprise Teatret in Holte to see a double bill of Bo Widerberg films. First up was Ådalen 31 about the Swedish workers’ strike in the communities of Sandviken and Utansjö in the Ådalen district in 1931, a conflict that ended tragically with the deaths of five workers when Swedish troops opened fire on a demonstration. Already in the interval between the two films they had argued, Rita conveniently leapfrogging the forty intervening years to claim brashly that such an incident could easily occur in the Denmark of their day. Subjugation of the Danish trade unions by the military was a scenario for which they had to be prepared. For his part Simonsen had found the film quite excellent, though hardly topical. He reminded her that representatives of the Danish trade unions regularly met and co-ordinated with the government and were hardly likely to be shot, even in the event of a general election tipping the balance of power in the opposite direction. They bought four grilled sausages with bread, ketchup and mustard, of which she devoured three. Because he was so stupid. He protested. Would starving make him any more intelligent? She finished chewing and gave him a kiss in reply. He found this preferable to the sausage.

After the second film, however, it all went wrong. Widerberg’s Joe Hill was a gripping portrayal of the Swedish-American union agitator, syndicalist, social critic and satirical songwriter, executed in Utah in 1915 following a politically motivated show trial. When it was over, Rita’s blood was boiling. It was as if she wanted them to disagree, to direct her indignation at a tangible target: him. Simonsen was annoyed with her. She and her left-wing friends had no monopoly on justice, and he had no desire whatsoever to defend judicial murder. What’s more he felt in no way responsible for Joe Hill’s execution, regardless of whether he was a policeman or not.

And so they had been at each other’s throats all the way home, and in Sorgenfri she had seized the opportunity to let the air out of his front tyre, mean-spiritedly exploiting his need to stop and answer a minor call of nature. When they continued on their way, she cycled slowly, dawdling on the opposite bike path, singing the words of ‘Joe Hill’ to him as he trudged along, wheeling his own bike:

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,

alive as you and me.

Says I: ‘But Joe, you’re ten years dead.’

‘I never died,’ said he,

‘I never died,’ said he.

Rita’s arrestingly beautiful voice cut through the winter night and he would gladly have arrested her for disturbing the peace if only he had been able to keep up with her. An angry voice demanded quiet from a window, prompting her only to sing even louder. It had begun to snow. She biked off, leaving him to walk the rest of the way on his own, furious with her for her senseless vandalism and yet missing her dreadfully. At the same time he envied her social conscience, though he would never admit the fact. Then suddenly she reappeared. As he passed through Lyngby a snowball struck him in the back of the neck. She was hiding in a bus shelter and had decided to feel sorry for him. He was an unenlightened pig who couldn’t help being deluded. He could come back to her place, seeing as how it was so cold out.

They wheeled their bikes together, hand in hand, little clouds of frosty breath illuminated by the street lamps, and forgot all about the cold. When they got to Klampenborg they free-wheeled down the long hill on Rita’s bike, he in the saddle, she seated on the pannier rack, while he steered his own bike alongside them with his free hand, hoping none of his colleagues was patrolling in the area. It had to go wrong, and it did. They had almost reached the bottom when the rear wheel skidded out from under them on a bend. They slid across the road in a cascade of snow. Neither of them was in the slightest bit hurt and they lay there for a while, surrounded by the woods, laughing.

Then Rita took his head in her hands and began to sing again. This time gently, her pretty voice only for him:

From San Diego up to Maine,

in every mine and mill,

Where working men defend their rights,

it’s there you’ll find Joe Hill,

it’s there you’ll find Joe Hill!

And now her granddaughter sang the same song, flawlessly, and not a single music teacher in the land would surely have a word of criticism to say whereas for Konrad Simonsen, with his own memories and associations, it evoked an unsettling blend of suppressed emotion and grim reality. For a brief moment, Bo Widerberg’s striking American and Swedish landscapes once again filled his mind, only to be superseded by a very recent photograph of sandy spruce plantations on Denmark’s west coast, sent to him by Klavs Arnold after they’d located the holiday camp. Simonsen found himself gripped by a feeling of rage, not knowing where it came from, perhaps directed towards the girl onstage whose voice was so full, or her grandmother who had let the air out of his bicycle tyre, or Lucy Davison whose body lay in that sandy earth. Perhaps even towards them all.

Teresa Metz Andersen’s final song, ‘We Shall Overcome’, disqualified her once and for all from the role of protest singer. Her performance was exquisite, demonstrating all too clearly that the closest she’d ever been to a cotton field was her well-fitting Patrizia Pepe tunic. She bowed demurely when she had finished, relinquishing the stage to the next young genius in line.

In the interval he thought about leaving and yet decided to stay, drinking a cup of weak coffee in a quiet corner of the foyer on his own, from where he could survey the crowd. Now and then his eyes darted this way or that, but mostly he felt calm and settled.

Returning inside, he discovered someone had opened his programme and placed it face down on his seat. He picked it up and stared at the hastily scribbled though clearly legible address, the date and time written in the top right corner, and with that he changed his mind and left, taking the programme with him.

On Monday morning Konrad Simonsen and Klavs Arnold commenced the search for Lucy Davison’s body at Esbjerg’s town hall, where an accommodating, albeit unexpressive deputy chief executive of the local authority provided them with two bespoke environmental maps from the planning department and permitted them to inspect the grounds of the former Vesterhavsgården with a view to isolating possible sources of pollution – a pretext Klavs Arnold found utterly superfluous, but for which Konrad Simonsen was grateful. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to have the tabloids tugging at his coat tails, and he knew from bitter experience how little it took before reporters suddenly materialised with their barrages of awkward, time-consuming questions.

For three hours they trudged round grounds that were criss-crossed with paths wide and narrow, trampled by the feet of countless children and maintained throughout generations. There was a group booked in at the camp, and now and again an inquisitive little face would pop up in the most unexpected of places, until eventually tiring of spying and deciding to let them get on with it.

Occasionally, when Klavs Arnold felt inclined, they chatted; otherwise they exchanged few words.

Simonsen’s mind had turned inwards. He concentrated solely on the ground as if the girl in her grave might reveal herself to him if only he stared at it with sufficient intensity. His partner was evidently more used to being outdoors and consistently knew exactly where they were in relation to the main cabin and the gravel tracks surrounding the area. As time progressed and they found themselves retracing their footsteps for the third or fourth time, Simonsen gradually began to recognise various parts of the grounds.

‘We can rule out anywhere near the bigger pines. The roots would have made it impossible to dig there, so we’d be wasting our time,’ said Arnold.

‘How much does a pine tree grow in forty years?’

‘It depends what sort it is, but ten centimetres a year in general.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I looked it up on the internet this morning while you were still snoring.’

Simonsen had slept in the spare room at Arnold’s place and been woken for breakfast with the children, the object of curious looks from two boys, aged about seven or eight, who quizzed him with all sorts of questions when they weren’t feeling too shy. Their dad was busy doing their packed lunches for school. Is it true you’ve been on TV? Do you decide over our daddy? Haven’t you got your own car? Klavs Arnold returned to the table and chased them off to their school bags and bikes. Only then did Simonsen settle down to eat.

Later, after another half-hour of studying the ground, Arnold spoke again.

‘Open, sandy areas less than fifty metres from the main cabin. That’s my guess.’

‘That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.’

‘True.’

Simonsen had his own suggestion.

‘How about underneath one of the cabins? They’re all built on posts, so it could be done without that much difficulty, unless you wanted to creep all the way in.’

‘No, it’d be visible far too long. Open sandy earth is much, much better.’

They sat down under a pair of pine trees and devoured the packed lunches Arnold had made for them. The sun was out, but each passing cloud turned the air cold. Simonsen peered above the trees in search of the next patch of blue. High up in the sky, flocks of migrating birds flew south, long formations that changed shape unpredictably while always perfectly co-ordinated, as though steered by a single brain.

He got to his feet and they carried on.

And then, all at once, three hours of more or less random searching paid off. It was Klavs Arnold who noticed it first. Almost at the far corner of the grounds, by the drystone wall next to the track leading off to the main road, he stopped suddenly, like a predatory animal sensing its prey, and there, among the crowberries, peat and moss, above a little cluster of bell heather whose sad, lilac flowers, swayed this way and that in the breeze, Konrad Simonsen saw it, too: the stone in the wall, jutting out irregularly, reflecting the light mattly and in a way that seemed all too wrong. Both men bent down, and Klavs Arnold scraped at the stone with his finger.

‘Candle wax.’

It didn’t take them long before they found the bag, wrapped up in a clear, heavy-duty plastic sack and stuffed into a cavity in the wall, only a few metres from the stone covered in candle wax. They put on gloves and Klavs Arnold took photos.

‘Do we need forensics?’

Simonsen shook his head.

‘No, just be careful, that’s all.’

‘I always am, with this kind of thing.’

And so he was. It took a while before the bag was opened and its contents consigned one by one to evidence bags: a box of tea lights, three glass cylinders to protect the flames against the wind, a roll of plastic bags, a bible and a small cushion. Some twenty metres away, in a thicket of raspberry bushes, they came upon a bundle of flower stalks held together by a red elastic band. Klavs Arnold commented expertly:

‘They’d be more than a year old, probably two or three. My guess is we’ll find more if we search through the thicket here. The wind’s always in the west here. It’ll have blown his flowers in this direction.’

Simonsen jabbed a finger at the ground in front of the candle-wax stone.

‘Do you think this is where she is?’

‘No, I think this is as far as he dared to go. He could kneel down here and pray and not be seen from the cabins or the track. But have we got a choice?’

‘Not as far as I can see.’

The JCB was frustratingly slow, consuming the sandy earth shovel by shovel, one load after another drawn a few metres back, then meticulously swung out and deposited on the heap mounting behind them. Each time the blade of the shovel scraped another ten centimetres of soil away, the two men peered into the ground and held their breath for a moment, heads bowed at the edge of the hole, hoping and not hoping that the remains of Lucy Davison would emerge in front of them. The taxing experience lasted almost a couple of hours, without any other result than fraying their nerves. Eventually, they halted the work and left the operator to fill up the hole again on his own.

Simonsen was sufficiently realistic to acknowledge that his options were ebbing away. The discovery of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s shrine was in no way earth-shattering. The holiday camp’s guestbook from 1969, on his desk that Tuesday morning when he clocked in at Police HQ, without him having the faintest idea how it had got there, wasn’t exactly a huge step forward either. True, the Gang of Six had dutifully written in their names, on Sunday 15 June 1969, and further investigation did reveal that no other guests had stayed at the place during the same week, but none of this information brought him the slightest bit closer to finding Lucy Davison’s last resting place. Therefore it did not provide him with any basis on which he could justifiably put off confronting the four suspects. Moreover, there were three compelling arguments for going ahead with that procedure: the Countess, Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. He had solemnly given his word to Arne Pedersen that he would commence questioning with the minimum of delay, and it seemed to him that the time had come to make good on his promise.

However, support for continuing along the same track came suddenly from unexpected quarters. Simonsen had called yet another meeting and had this time skipped the introductory status report, reasoning that it wasn’t going to tell anyone anything they didn’t already know. Reluctantly, he announced that he had reached the decision they had been waiting for.

‘We’re going to bring them in now. First Hanne Brummersted, then Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen. One at a time, if possible. Finally Helena Brage Hansen, providing we can get her to Denmark. I spoke to her brother yesterday and asked him to call and have a word with her.’

Pedersen’s voiced the general reaction.

‘About time, but better late than never.’

The Countess and Pauline Berg gave their agreement. Klavs Arnold, however, begged to differ.

‘Big mistake, if you ask me. Where’s Plan B? What do we do when they refuse to come in?’

The man from Jutland looked like someone who could do with a week’s holiday. Not only had he been criss-crossing the country for meetings and searches, he was also in the middle of moving house, not to mention having to look after all his kids.

The Countess responded:

‘What makes you think they’d do that?’

‘What makes you think they wouldn’t? They’d be wasting their money on a good solicitor, because even a bad one’s going to tear us to pieces. We’ve got nothing… nothing at all.’

There was something refreshingly direct about Klavs Arnold, Simonsen thought to himself. Despite his being new to the group, what he had to say was given full weight by the other members.

The Countess, however, wasn’t convinced.

‘If we’re supposed to hold off on questioning suspects until sufficient evidence is gathered, we’d never get anyone put away, would we? What do you all reckon? Not you, Simon, we know where you stand. It’s wide open again now, isn’t it?’

Pauline Berg sighed.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, can’t we agree on anything?’

Simonsen stared at her wearily. Her changing moods were getting to be a pain, though by now he’d at least learned to decode how she was feeling: if she swore a lot, it was a pretty good indication she was either in one of her… phases… or else well on her way to one. Earlier in the day he’d made an agreement with her and the woman from her annoying group – he couldn’t remember her name offhand – to meet with Arthur Elvang the following day over at the Department of Forensic Medicine, as he had promised them that day in the rain out at Melby Overdrev. Truth be told, he’d been hoping she’d lose interest by now, but his hopes were dashed. And here she was, swearing her head off, when she wasn’t in a sulk. He wondered if the two things might be connected – the appointment with Elvang and her sour mood. It seemed unlikely, but then again you never knew with Pauline. He glanced round the room and cut in authoritatively:

‘We’re bringing them in.’

Klavs Arnold accepted the decision without adverse comment. He wasn’t the moaning kind. The choice was made, for better or worse, and only time would tell.

What Simonsen had to do now was decide who was going to conduct the interviews. Pedersen would have to be ruled out, having too much on his plate as it was. That left the Countess, Pauline Berg and Klavs Arnold, unless he wanted to bring in others from beyond the inner circle, something he was rarely inclined to do.

Had he been obliged to choose between them a month ago the matter would have been simple, but word had begun to circulate around HQ that Homicide’s convalescent man-in-charge had a double killing on his hands. What had started out as a light-duty job wrapping up a report about a postman falling down the stairs had gradually morphed into every ambitious crime investigator’s dream. Getting to be a part of clearing up a forty-year-old murder case wasn’t the sort of thing that came round more than once in a blue moon. The Countess had even given him a couple of hints as to who she’d like to be brought in once they got round to questioning, mentioning the matter casually on several occasions without his needing to respond, even though her intentions were clear. Arne Pedersen had tried to rearrange his commitments in an effort to clear himself some space, albeit in vain.

It was not without excitement, then, that Simonsen’s audience awaited his word. For his own part, it was something to which he’d given a good deal of thought already, striving to use solely his professional judgement. His decision was not for discussion.

‘The Countess and I will deal with Hanne Brummersted and Helena Brage Hansen, if we can get her down here from Norway. Klavs and I are going to Aalborg the day after tomorrow, we need more of a hold on Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen. If we can question the two of them separately, the Countess and I will take care of Pia Mikkelsen and I’ll handle Jesper Mikkelsen on my own, unless Arne finds the time.’

Pauline protested vociferously:

‘That’s not fair! I’ve been on this investigation from day one, and what do I get when the fun starts? Sod all, is what. And I’m slogging away at home reading all sorts of books on the dreary sixties.’

Simonsen endeavoured to calm her down.

‘Pauline, it’s not like that at all. It’s crucial you keep yourself one hundred per cent abreast of the investigation in case anything untoward happens and one of us has to be pulled out. What’s more, if there’s going to be a second round I may want to switch you and the Countess. You could even step in for me.’

Pauline’s obscene gesture told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of that. Klavs Arnold brought her back to earth.

‘Calm down and hold your horses, Pauline. Simon’s got a point, the way he’s suggesting we do this, so let’s discuss it like adults, shall we?’

The Countess grinned, though Simonsen himself stared at the man in bewilderment. Suggesting? Discuss? There was nothing more to talk about, he’d already told them how it was going to be.

‘Er, Klavs, you’ve not been a part of these deliberations. As yet, I know nothing about your interview techniques, and this isn’t a case where I want to experiment. What’s more, you still don’t know any of us well enough to understand how best to play off each other in an interview situation.’

Again, Arnold took this on the chin.

‘No problem. I’d have made the same selection myself. And it does free up Pauline and me to dig a bit deeper into Hanne Brummersted, if you agree? And of course Pauline’s going to Aalborg, too, you just forgot to say.’

‘Did I? Oh…’

Arnold’s argument was hard to counter. The Aalborg couple, and Jesper Mikkelsen in particular, were heavily involved in the nightclub business centred on the area around Jomfru Ane Gade in the middle of the city. It seemed they owned fifty per cent of the Rainbow Six club, a popular dancing and drinking place for young people from all over northern Jutland, but they were possibly involved in other ways, too, drugs and vice perhaps… that was what they needed to get up there and find out. And in that case they’d be daft not to have Pauline Berg with them, given the fact that she could so easily blend in to the nightclub environment, in rather stark contrast to Simonsen and Arnold himself.

Or that was Klavs Arnold’s take on the matter.

Simonsen climbed down: yes, quite right… he’d forgotten to mention that Pauline would be going to Aalborg, too.

Her attitude was immediately transformed: from sullen to smiles in one second. Simonsen found himself wondering if now and then she took advantage of her illness, or whatever it was, to play the sulky schoolgirl. He resolved to have a word with her once the opportunity arose.

The Countess turned to Klavs Arnold.

‘What was that about digging deeper into Hanne Brummersted? And why her especially?’

‘She was in Sweden with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, and of the four she’s got most to lose.’

The Countess came back at him straight away.

‘How come? The Aalborg couple own a thriving business with a takeover in the millions of kroner.’

‘They can sell their records from their living room without hardly ever needing to get out and meet people. But our consultant doctor’s got her image to think of, not to mention the respect of her daughters, maybe even her job, so she’s hardly going to want to see herself on the front page of the tabloids. The effect it’d have on her two board positions alone would be disastrous.’

‘Perhaps, but I think you’re underestimating what the Mikkelsens have to gain. That is, assuming they weren’t involved in killing either the girl or their former classmate.’

‘Gain? Where’s the gain in this?’

‘Everything so far tells me they’re stuck in a dead-end relationship. What’s keeping them together?’

Klavs Arnold yielded.

‘So you reckon they’d talk if they got the chance? To make amends, clear up in the past and present? It’s not a bad take, I’ll buy that.’

Simonsen probed further:

‘Perhaps Jørgen Kramer Nielsen broke some kind of covenant or pact that the others have upheld. Perhaps they are in touch, all four of them.’

‘Guesswork,’ Klavs Arnold retorted.

Pauline Berg shook her head in resignation, rather than annoyance.

‘If, and perhaps, and a few tentative maybes for good measure! I don’t get why we don’t just send that postcard we got from the UK over to Kurt Melsing and get a DNA-analysis done, see if we get a match to our doctor woman. There’s got to be a fifty per cent chance she licked the stamp.’

They all fell silent and gawped at her as if she’d just flown round the room. Pauline’s former uncertainty bubbled up.

‘What are you looking at me like that for? Was it a stupid thing to say? Can’t they do that after so many years? Or did we do it already? I might not be up-to-date, I’ve not had the chance to catch up the last few days… Anyway, I’m sorry. I can see now we’ve got nothing to compare it with, and Hanne Brummersted’s not going to agree to a test, is she? Apologies, go on.’

The Countess was the one to break their silence. She turned to Klavs Arnold.

‘There’s your Plan B.’

Simonsen beamed.

‘Brilliant, Pauline. Absolutely brilliant.’

Again, however, the Countess said what no one wanted to hear.

‘But is it at all possible to get DNA after forty years?’

Simonsen’s smile became even wider.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Then why are you laughing?’

‘Because if I don’t know, Hanne Brummersted won’t either.’

‘That’s true. As a way of talking her round it might work. It’d be useless in court, though, unless she agreed of her own accord to have a sample taken for comparison.’

‘Wrong, Countess. We get hold of a sample we can prove is from her, preferably without her knowledge, and then we get her DNA. That would stick all the way.’

‘Rubbish. No judge would ever accept that.’

‘Not in this country, no. But what about Sweden or the UK? Inadmissibility of evidence relates to jurisdiction not the organic matter itself.’

‘All right, so we’re being clever. Probably too clever by half.’

‘Perhaps, but if she did lick that stamp, our good doctor could find herself in a rather nasty position. And if she didn’t, there’s still a pretty decent chance she’s forgotten whether she did or not.’

That evening the Countess took up the positive results of their discussion. At least on the personal level, for the professional side of things stayed behind in the office. It was what she preferred in her own home, and Simonsen respected her for it – as well as for the fact that she could easily break her own rule if she found it suited her.

They were standing in the kitchen. Simonsen was chopping cabbage, a discipline at which he now excelled. The Countess was slicing beetroot, while Anna Mia sat on a chair exuding moral support.

‘That was really good of you, giving Pauline that pat on the back today,’ the Countess commented. ‘She was glad of it, I can tell you. It was just what she needed.’

‘She deserved it. Funny no one thought of it before, though, about DNA on the stamp.’

‘I’m glad she was the one who did. It hasn’t been easy for her after Klavs Arnold came in. Quite apart from everything else she’s got to deal with.’

‘Klavs Arnold’s not against her.’

‘I know, and he’s slotted in very easily himself, but I think she feels she’s the weakest link, even if she isn’t the last one in any more.’

‘She is, too,’ retorted Simonsen.

‘Well, I suppose so, but she needed the boost.’

‘Why haven’t you given her one before, then? A pat on the back doesn’t cost much.’

‘Now you’re being stupid, Konrad Simonsen.’

Anna Mia joined forces, munching on her second carrot and jabbing what was left of the vegetable at her father accusingly.

‘Happy workers work better. All the studies agree.’

‘No, they show that workers who work well are happy workers. But that doesn’t fit in with the touchy-feely modern workplace, so instead they changed it round and switched cause and effect. And in so doing created thousands of superfluous administrative positions to weigh and measure and keep on feeding the myth.’

The Countess laid her head on his shoulder.

‘You don’t mean that, and you’re not fooling us for a second. We know you too well. Anyway, how many cubic metres of cabbage do you think we can actually eat?’

‘I enjoy chopping. It runs away with me, that’s all.’

‘Pauline hasn’t been doing too well of late. After you took her off that problem page research she started ploughing through everything she can find about the sixties on the internet, as well as just about every book she can get her hands on. In the evenings, off duty.’

‘So I gathered from what she said. But her being taken off Helena Brage Hansen’s column research had nothing to do with her not knowing about the sixties. It was more a matter of Pauline not being able to glean a thing about someone else’s personality.’

The Countess ignored him and carried on regardless.

‘She’s upset, too, about having to ask if she could be involved when you invited Madame to look at your gallery, which, by the way, will have to go back to Kramer Nielsen’s estate very soon. She felt she was being overlooked. But she’ll be coming back, as it happens. Her therapist has told her she ought to.’

‘Fine by me. But you could have brought her home any time to see my… to look at those posters.’

‘That wouldn’t be the same, would it, silly? Sometimes you’ve got no idea how you affect people, have you?’

Anna Mia stole another carrot and pitched in:

‘Sometimes meaning never. Word is you patted a dog handler on the back. A colleague in Glostrup’s going round bragging about it, did you know?’

The Countess followed up:

‘Even the executives love it when you praise them. Not to mention Arne. He beams like a little kid whenever you get your act together to give him a word of encouragement.’

Simonsen shrugged indifferently, prompting the Countess to throw up her arms in despair, turning to Anna Mia, who shook her head and said:

‘He’ll never learn. Can’t you peel some more carrots? We’re running out.’

‘You can have some cabbage.’

Simonsen looked at the Countess.

‘You’re talking about all the others. What about when I give you a pat on the back?’ He sounded surprisingly serious all of a sudden.

She put her arms round him by way of reply and hugged him tightly. Anna Mia whistled.

‘Did we hear wedding bells?’

‘You mean, is your father going to make an honest woman of me? Well, he hasn’t actually asked yet.’

The Countess sounded cheerful and breezy about it. And yet both women’s antennae were out, and ultra-sensitive to Simonsen’s reaction. His answer, however, was frank and to the point.

‘How about when I retire? Will you still want me then? Lounging about the house while you’re at work?’

She hugged him again.

‘I’d love it. You could do up the basement, mow the lawns and do the weeding. Maybe even find time to mend that socket in the outhouse like you’ve been promising to do for the last fortnight. And don’t forget, I’ll be older too. I want to sit in a rocking chair by the fire and knit you a woolly hat, a nice warm one to cover your ears and hide the fact you’ll have no hair left.’

Anna Mia cheered.

‘All you’ve got to do is say the magic word, Dad, and it looks like you can stay on here for ever.’

The Countess turned her head, though still resting it against Simonsen’s chest. She flashed Anna Mia a playful smile.

‘I could knit a little jumper, too, for your third grandchild.’

Konrad Simonsen spun round and stared at his daughter. Or rather, his daughter’s stomach. The Countess let go of him and followed his gaze. Anna Mia got to her feet, displeased with the turn the conversation had suddenly taken.

‘That’s for me to decide, thank you very much. Let me set the table.’

Finn B. Hansen, Helena Brage Hansen’s elder brother, had come to Copenhagen, more specifically to Konrad Simonsen’s office. The tape recorder he’d brought with him lay on the desk between them, a clumsy, prehistoric monstrosity but nonetheless in full working order.

‘I hope you won’t tell Helena I recorded her on tape. If you ever need to speak to her, that is.’

‘I won’t. It’ll be between the two of us.’

‘I’ll be taking the tape with me when I leave. And I shall destroy it afterwards.’

‘It’s your tape.’

‘Indeed. Just so we’re in agreement.’

‘Why did you record her?’

‘Because I thought that if by some chance she did happen to reveal where that poor girl was buried… in case I forgot…’

‘I understand.’

‘But let’s just start the tape, shall we? The beginning’s private and isn’t relevant to you, so I’ll skip that bit.’

‘All right.’

Hansen repeated himself, rather more firmly than necessary, Simonsen thought:

‘I’m only going to let you hear what’s relevant. No more than that, and I won’t be moved as far as that’s concerned.’

‘Of course.’

He pressed a button and Simonsen listened carefully to the voices on the tape:

‘Helena, there’s something I have to tell you. The criminal department of the Copenhagen police are looking into a trip you and some of your classmates made a long time ago to Esbjerg.’

There was a long pause before she answered.

‘I see.’

Two small words, and yet easily sufficient to hear the tremor in her voice.

‘Do you remember it at all, Helena? A trip to Esbjerg?’

Again, she hesitated.

‘Helena, are you there?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘Esbjerg. I don’t remember that at all.’

‘They’ve got photos of you. Old photos with you in them. You stayed at a Scout camp, a cabin Dad had let you use. You were revising for exams. And you were part of a group.’

‘What group? I’ve never been to any Scout camp. I’ve never even been to Esbjerg. I’m not on any photos, and I certainly didn’t kill anyone!’

‘Kill anyone? Why do you say that?’

‘Because it’s true.’

‘I think it would be a good idea for you to come to Copenhagen, Helena, don’t you?’

‘I don’t want to go to Copenhagen. I’m a Norwegian citizen. No one can make me.’

‘A girl died there. A girl your age at the time. Seventeen.’

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘Helena, you can’t just ignore this.’

‘Yes, I can. Denmark no longer exists for me.’

‘I’m afraid it does. And I think you really must…’

Finn B. Hansen stopped the tape:

‘She hung up on me.’

Simonsen looked at the tape recorder. Hansen followed his gaze.

‘I won’t give it to you.’

‘No, I understand that.’

‘It wouldn’t help you in any case.’

‘Why not?’

‘As evidence it’s completely useless, of course. And if you pressure her, she’ll break down and then you won’t be able to make any contact at all with her after that. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen it lots of times, when we were young. It’s not what any of us wants.’

‘No, that wouldn’t be beneficial, I can see that. So what you’re saying is that I should leave her alone, is that it?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘She said she hadn’t killed anyone before you even mentioned anything about Lucy… Lucy Davison, that is, the missing girl from the UK. You’re aware of what that indicates to us, obviously.’

Hansen nodded solemnly, and when he spoke again he was almost begging.

‘Can’t you try her classmates first?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Will you be seeking extradition?’

‘We’d prefer not to, so only as a last resort.’

‘I hope it won’t be necessary. Her mental health is poor enough as it is.’

Simonsen regretted the matter, but he would have no option if she maintained the stance she had already taken.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to keep your tape, but you realise that, of course?’

‘Of course. I just hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.’

Konrad Simonsen would have preferred to have skipped the visit to the University of Copenhagen’s Department of Forensic Medicine and had avoided thinking about the matter until now.

Annoyed, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out the stack of documents that resided there, proceeding with sighs of displeasure to leaf hastily through some of the pages. As he had expected, Juli Denissen’s unfortunate death out at Melby Overdrev had been twisted and turned in order to look like the result of a conspiracy between the Frederikssund Police and the emergency services, which contradicted all ordinary common sense. It was a shambles of a report, concluded by ten – not nine or eleven, but ten – questions sowing doubt on Juli Denissen’s having died from natural causes. Simonsen ran through the list and found it beyond ridiculous. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and phoned the chief constable in Frederikssund, who with little trouble was able to furnish him with perfectly reasonable answers to most of the questions.

Why was it never established how the woman and her daughter had got to Melby Overdrev? The answer here was simple: it was. Juli Denissen had borrowed her friend’s car and had moreover been witnessed by two different motorists on account of her overcautious slow driving, attributable to the fact that she had only just passed her driving test a few days previously. How could the jogger in the woods who found the woman’s body call the emergency services when there was no mobile coverage at Melby Overdrev? He could because his own provider’s coverage, as opposed to that of more popular companies, was in fact more than adequate in that location.

Only one question puzzled Simonsen. It was to do with why Juli Denissen had walked almost two kilometres over the grasslands away from the car park. It seemed odd considering the fact she had a two-year-old child with her. Odd, but then no more than that. All he could do was accept that she had done so. And that the question was of little interest in light of her having died of a brain haemorrhage. He glanced at his watch, still feeling annoyed; more annoyed, in fact, than he had done before. He had been thinking he might walk over to the Department of Forensic Medicine, but he hadn’t got time now and would have to take the car. He dumped the pile of documents back in the drawer, kicked it shut and left.

He was lucky to find a parking space on Trepkasgade and arrived at the department ten minutes before the appointed time for his meeting with Arthur Elvang. On the steps of the main entrance, three people were waiting for him. He nodded a greeting to Pauline Berg, who smiled and was visibly glad to see him, then exchanged a rather offish handshake with the woman he had first met out on Melby Overdrev and whose name suddenly came back to him: Linette Krontoft. She looked like someone who ought to have stayed in bed: her face was blotched and bloated, her eyes glassy as if she’d been out all night on a bender. Her handshake was limp. He wiped his hand on his sleeve and hoped he wasn’t going to catch anything. Then, finally, he turned to the man who accompanied Krontoft.

He was in his thirties, slimly built and of average height, with plain features. He put his hand out with exaggerated conviviality.

‘You must be Simon. I’m August and I’m part of the group trying to find out why Juli died.’

Simonsen’s greeting was rather more reserved. He looked the man up and down without speaking. August went on somewhat hectically, as if sensing a question unasked.

‘I live in Helsinge, actually, but I run a cheese shop in Frederiksværk. Just by the station, left-hand side as the train comes in from Hillerød, between the florist’s and the sandwich bar. You can’t miss it.’

The thought occurred to Simonsen that he had indeed missed it, and had been doing quite all right despite that fact, and indeed hoped the happy state of affairs would continue, but he said nothing. His silence prompted the man to explain further:

‘Juli worked in the shop for me a couple of days a week. She only lived three hundred metres down the road, so it was just the jo…’

He pressed a conspiratorial finger to his lips before charmlessly adding:

‘On the sly, of course, so don’t let on to the taxman. But for a time I knew her quite well… I mean, very well, indeed, if you get my drift.’

He winked suggestively, and Simonsen found himself thinking he’d seldom met a person he found so immediately objectionable. He glanced at the wedding ring on the cheesemonger’s finger:

‘Juli and August, how funny. You must have had a good laugh about that the first time you met. Juli and August, such a nice match. I don’t suppose your wife would have thought so, though? Still, there’ll be plenty of opportunities to ask her if the case is reopened – which, however, I doubt.’

The man blushed and stepped back behind Linette Krontoft as though to hide himself. If that was the intention, it wasn’t a bad place to choose. But then all of a sudden Simonsen froze. The cheesemonger’s windcheater was open and the top buttons of his shirt had been left undone, presumably to demonstrate his masculinity to the world by suggesting he didn’t feel the cold. Around his neck was a fish on a silver chain. The cross, the fish and the Chi-Rho christogram, three signs of Christianity… Madame’s words of warning in the gallery about listening to the Christian man he didn’t like rang in his ears. Perhaps his meeting here wouldn’t be a waste of time after all. He smiled to himself, and poked a finger towards Linette Krontoft.

‘The agreement was that two people could attend this meeting, and that’s what I told the professor. Now there’s three of you, so if that doesn’t suit him you’re the one who leaves, and without a fuss. Understood?’

She looked a bit nonplussed, but agreed nevertheless.

The room in which Professor Arthur Elvang received his visitors was bare to the point of emptiness. The walls had just been painted white and the floorboards had obviously very recently been planed and varnished. The place smelled of pinewood and decorating. The furnishings were as sparse as could be and in marked contrast to the newness of the rest of the room. Five classroom desks, the old-fashioned wooden kind with desk and seat all in one, as Simonsen remembered them from his own schooldays, had been arranged in a semi-circle around a larger, more regular desk of recent date. On this latter piece of furniture lay a stack of papers, neatly gathered and placed in meticulous alignment with its foremost edge. Next to them was a seemingly cylindrical object of some thirty centimetres in height covered up by a black cloth that prevented further investigation. Behind the desk sat the professor himself.

He greeted them aloofly in turn and gestured for them to sit down. They edged their way with difficulty on to their seats. Simonsen and Linette Krontoft in particular found it all a bit of a squeeze. He wondered where Elvang had dug up such antiques, but thought a good guess would be the rearmost corner of a storage room in the furthest depths of the department’s basement. Once they were all seated, the professor began.

Simonsen was in no doubt whatsoever that the purpose of all this was to humiliate them: it was the professor’s little joke, a sarcastic comment on the matter at hand. Nonetheless, he had feared Elvang making no effort at all to appear convincing to his select audience. Now, however, he could see this was not the case. On the contrary, the professor introduced himself by rattling off a selection of his many titles, as well as a number of executive positions on company boards of directors. Most of it was new to Simonsen and he found himself thinking that the old man to his credit had never appeared snobbish or so overly pleased with himself as to broadcast unnecessarily his many academic and professional attainments. However, the no-doubt severely abridged curriculum vitae he now outlined certainly had the desired effect, Linette Krontoft raising a respectful finger in the air and dutifully waiting to speak until the professor indicated that she might.

‘Would the professor mind if we recorded his appraisal of the case on a dictaphone? We know some people who would very much appreciate listening to what he has to say.’

Simonsen interrupted immediately in an attempt to avert the danger, but to no avail, the professor putting him in his place by stating that they were free to record as much as they liked. Permission granted, Linette Krontoft extracted herself from behind her seating arrangement and placed her dictaphone on the professor’s desk, whereupon his assessment of Juli Denissen’s autopsy report could begin. Elvang’s tinny voice enunciated:

‘Juli Denissen, twenty-four years old, deceased tenth of July two thousand and eight at Melby Overdrev, district of Halsnæs, post-mortem performed eleventh and twelfth July, Department of Forensic Medicine, Hillerød General Hospital, consultant Hans Arne Tholstrup.’

He screwed up his eyes and squinted at the report, to Simonsen’s pleasure explaining that normally in the country’s eastern region all post-mortems were done by the Rigshospitalet in the capital, but in particularly busy periods the hospital at Hillerød would also be used. This was one of the ten concerns the group had raised.

Elvang looked up and endeavoured in vain to focus through the lenses of his glasses on each member of his audience in turn, then solemnly continued:

‘The validity of this autopsy report is beyond question.’

With that he nodded a couple of times as though confirming the fact to himself before going on with his assessment while leafing through his papers.

‘A number of samples were taken. Vaginal, anal, oral. From the pharynx and the cavum oris, which is to say palate and oral cavity. Moreover, biopsies of the skin, liver, kidneys and thyroid, as well as samples of blood and hair, were taken – the simple reason for all this being that two students were involved in the procedure as part of their training. At any rate, we may conclude that the deceased was examined very thoroughly indeed, much more so than would normally be the case. Subsequent analyses, however, reveal no signs whatsoever of poisoning or anything else, shall we say, untoward.’

He peered questioningly at something in the report – at what exactly, Simonsen was unable to see – then shook his head as though in annoyance. It was a sure sign, in Simonsen’s experience, that someone, somewhere along the line, had made an error. None of the others seemed to notice this indication of the professor’s irritation, and his conclusion was emphatic.

‘Quite categorically, then, the woman was not poisoned. Moreover there is no poison or any other chemical substance capable of triggering what she died of, which is to say a severe subarachnoid haemorrhage, that is a bleeding into the space between the brain and its protective membrane.’

He then provided a detailed account of how the haemorrhage in the woman’s brain had caused pressure to build up on her respiratory centre, leading to her being unable to breathe. After that, he spent some time explaining that approximately one per cent of the population was born with such aneurysms – blood-filled bulges in the wall of the brain’s blood vessels – and that these abnormities could rupture due to physical or mental strain, for instance while playing sport or during sexual intercourse.

‘The symptoms are severe headache, a stiff neck, nausea and vomiting, and often subsequent loss of consciousness or death. In this case, death occurred very swiftly, perhaps in the space of a minute, two at most, the reason being that the bleeding was unusually massive, which although not normally the case, is certainly not unusual.’

Again, he looked up and scanned his audience.

‘I asked for autopsy photographs from the hospital in Hillerød, and after the woman’s skull was opened and a portion of her brain removed, the haemorrhage itself is plainly visible. Not knowing if you would be comfortable with these images, I brought along a more anonymous example for you to see instead.’

He indicated the cylinder on the desk with the black cloth over it.

‘Which would you prefer? The original photographs of Juli Denissen, or the specimen here?’

Simonsen smiled to himself. The professor had obviously decided to pay him back for having tidied his lawn for him. When the others were too hesitant to reply, Elvang made the decision on their behalf and pulled the cloth from the specimen with a flourish. The head in the jar was split down the middle, permitting a view of the interior of the brain. Simonsen couldn’t help gloating secretly as he watched the unsavoury cheesemonger pale to the colour of Brie. The women present swallowed visibly. The professor plucked a biro from the pocket of his white coat and used it as a pointer as he explained to them exactly what they were looking at.

‘At the time of his death, this man was twenty years old. He died in 1903, the cause being a massive cerebral haemorrhage which…’

His summary of the process of death took almost fifteen minutes and was pure sensationalism, the sole purpose being to illustrate how Juli Denissen’s death too was due to natural causes.

When he was done he peered wearily at his audience.

‘Any questions?’

His attitude was clearly not inviting, but nonetheless the cheesemonger ventured a query

‘From when this eurysm, or whatever, burst, to when Juli was dead… would she have had time to think or feel anything?’

Professor Arthur Elvang stared at him through thick lenses.

‘How on earth would I know? I’ve never died of a brain haemorrhage, and have no idea what it feels like.’

The old man had a point, they could see that, and for a brief optimistic moment Simonsen thought they were finished. The matter could be closed, the group – or whatever they called themselves – could be dissolved, and, most importantly, Pauline Berg would realise that her private involvement in Juli Denissen’s death had been nothing but a diversion.

He was allowed to content himself with this illusion for about five seconds. Just as he was about to rise and thank the professor, Linette Krontoft raised another point.

‘How do you know Juli was only alive for two minutes after her attack? You said yourself it was very fast.’

‘We can ascertain as much by measuring the adrenalin, both that in the bloodstream and that which accumulated in her brain. Adrenalin leaves the blood rather quickly when oxygenated, but the bleeding in the brain receives no oxygen since it doesn’t circulate in the bloodstream. Tests can be done on it, allowing us to estimate fairly accurately the length of time between haemorrhage and death, and our calculations indicate two minutes at most.’

‘But why did she have adrenalin in her bloodstream at all? Is that normal?’

The question came from Pauline Berg. Elvang replied:

‘Quite normal. Adrenalin is released when a person is afraid, as I’m sure you know. Normally adrenalin content is measured in the urine. Juli Denissen’s result indicates 11.55 micromoles of adrenalin per litre of urine, which is tremendously high, more than seventy-five times greater than the median and as high as anything I’ve seen. We can deduce that she must have suffered a state of extreme alarm. Most conceivably, that’s what triggered the rupture of her aneurysm. That said, however, she would almost certainly have died from the congenital condition sooner or later.’

‘But what made her so afraid?’

The cheesemonger weighed in:

‘She’s right, no one gets scared on purpose.’

Elvang stared wearily at Simonsen, who sensed he had to intervene.

‘Obviously that’s not a medical issue. Besides, there’s no way of saying one way or the other; any number of things could have given her a fright.’

‘But something scared her, we’ve just heard she was in a state of alarm,’ said Pauline Berg, looking animated now.

‘Yes, but it could have been anything, for goodness’ sake. Some thought that suddenly occurred to her and made her upset… perhaps her daughter came across an adder in the grass, or maybe it was a sudden crack of thunder… we’ll never know.’

Simonsen noted the resigned exchange of glances between Linette Krontoft and the cheesemonger, both of them seemingly accepting his point. The professor’s run-through of the facts appeared to have done the job. Only Pauline remained unconvinced. He gave her a look of despair, only for her to meet his gaze without wavering, repeating her objection:

‘There must have been something, Simon. Something frightened the life out of her. But what?’

He shook his head and thought to himself that at least they’d got rid of her group. Then he considered what the cheesemonger had said. No one gets scared on purpose. It was the only intelligent thing he had uttered, if indeed it could be called intelligent. No one gets scared on purpose. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

Hanne Brummersted, consultant of the Department of Clinical Genetics, Herlev Hospital, greeted the Countess and Simonsen at her place of work, in a meeting room not unlike the one Simonsen was familiar with from the Rigshospitalet. Here the two officers ran into a wall of memory loss.

Hanne Brummersted couldn’t recall ever having been to Esbjerg. She didn’t remember any of her classmates, and had no memory of any girl from the UK. She didn’t know if she’d been to Sweden, but even if she had, she certainly had no recollection of any tent, nor of any postcard for that matter. She’d also completely forgotten that she’d had to resit her maths exam in her final year of gymnasium school, and similarly couldn’t think of why she might have missed the exam proper. She had no idea if she’d ever been in touch with any of her former classmates after they went their separate ways, but she believed not. She didn’t know who Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was, and hadn’t the foggiest notion of why he, too, might have failed to turn up for the same exam.

Thus, she rattled off her list of everything she couldn’t remember, a long and well-rehearsed monologue that indicated quite clearly that she’d been prepared for this very situation for a good many years indeed. And when asked by the Countess if there was anything else she’d forgotten, she merely replied, without a hint of irony, that she couldn’t remember.

Simonsen placed the four photos from the Vesterhavsgården on the table in front of her.

‘You’re in all of these. Does that jog your memory in any way?’

‘I can’t deny I was there. I just don’t remember it, that’s all.’

She spoke to him as if explaining something difficult to a child.

‘If you’d care to look at these photographs, perhaps you might recall.’

‘That won’t be necessary. It won’t help.’

‘Does the name Lucy Davison mean anything to you? Lucy Selma Davison?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘That’s the name of the English girl you’re with in the photos.’

‘If you say so. I have no recollection of any English girl.’

‘That’s funny, because you and your friends killed her and buried her body.’

‘I have no recollection of that, and what’s more I don’t believe you.’

‘You killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, too. You broke his neck.’

‘I did not kill Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, whoever he may be.’

Simonsen pointed out the discrepancy between her not remembering if she’d killed Lucy Davison, and yet being perfectly adamant that she had not killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. To which she calmly and with detachment replied that memory was a highly complex phenomenon. And what did he think he was trying to achieve?

‘Tell me about your childhood.’

‘I most certainly will not.’

The Countess stepped in, visibly seething.

‘You most certainly will. Unless you want us to call a patrol car and have a couple of uniformed officers drag you out of here in handcuffs.’

Simonsen and the Countess both noted the momentary tremor in the woman’s upper lip before she turned back to Simonsen.

‘My childhood was quite ordinary. I grew up in Vallensbæk. My father was a baker and my mother helped out in the shop. We lived in a flat. Two children, me and my older brother.’

‘What school did you go to?’

‘Gammel Vallensbæk Skole.’

‘What was the name of your class teacher?’

‘We had two. Miss Juncker from Years 1 to 6, then after that Miss Guldbrandsen.’

‘Were you bright at school?’

‘Fairly.’

‘After Year 9 you went on to the gymnasium school, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Brøndbyøster Gymnasium, maths and science stream.’

‘Yes, but I don’t remember anything from that time.’

‘Only from your comprehensive school?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So when does your memory kick in again?’

‘At medical school.’

‘And the gymnasium is a blank?’

‘That’s very accurately put, yes.’

‘You were involved in a group calling yourselves the Lonely Hearts Club, popularly referred to as the Hearts for short.’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘But you do realise how unlikely it sounds that you should remember nothing at all from that time?’

‘It can’t be helped. I remember nothing. I think I smoked a lot of cannabis in those days. But my memory’s rather vague about that, too, I’m afraid.’

Simonsen got to his feet in frustration.

‘Very convenient. You’ve done a good job thinking all this through, and now you’re sitting there wondering what I’m going to do about it, isn’t that right?’

He went over to the window and looked out, pretending to be giving the matter some thought. He opened the window and lit a cigarette. It tasted like soap, strong and unpleasant. Brummersted protested immediately.

‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here.’

‘Too late, I already am.’

He saw her suddenly thrown into turmoil by his refusal to co-operate, then after a moment she decided she didn’t want any unnecessary confrontation. She opened a drawer, took out an ashtray and placed it in front of her before lighting a cigarette of her own. Simonsen sat down again.

‘We’ll smoke one only, after that you’ll have to wait,’ said Brummersted.

‘I’ll smoke as many as I like,’ Simonsen replied. ‘Now look at this photo.’

She did as he said.

‘So what’s your question?’ she asked after a moment.

The Countess answered.

‘There is no question.’

‘So we’re finished, are we?’

‘Not by a long chalk. I think you’re scared.’

The woman said nothing. The Countess continued:

‘Deep down, you know perfectly well it doesn’t matter how much prestige you’ve got, how fancy your education and your job, how many scholarly associations you’re a member of, how many friends you’ve got in high places – because none of it’s going to help you with this one iota. The only thing you’ve got to cling to is the flimsy claim that you can’t remember.’

‘I’m not scared in the slightest.’

‘And I don’t believe you. I think you’re very scared indeed that word of your convenient loss of memory is going to get out and people are going to know.’

‘And how would that happen? You’ve no right to…’

‘Ah, touched on a soft spot, did we? Your voice is trembling. But just like we can’t do much about your not being able to remember, you’ve got no influence on what the papers say.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

This time it was the Countess who got to her feet. She picked up the ashtray and dropped it out of the window.

‘What a stink. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes. You think we’re nice, decent people who’d never dream of tipping off our friends in the gutter press about a juicy little scandal involving a well-respected consultant. Well, I’m telling you, we’re not. The question is, of course, whether it might jog your memory a bit?’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

Hanne Brummersted clenched her teeth and stared into space. Eventually, she spoke.

‘I don’t remember.’

The Countess altered tack.

‘Lucy Davison was seventeen years old. Doesn’t that affect you in any way?’

‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’

‘Both her parents are still alive. They live in Liverpool. For years they travelled around Scandinavia trying to find their daughter. Praying to God and saving up so they could come back and search for her again. Now they’re too old, and their only hope is that their daughter’s remains can be returned home before they die.’

‘Someone ought to tell them God apparently decided to leave their daughter somewhere other than where it suited them.’

The Countess’s eyes flashed with rage. She leaned close to the other woman’s face, stared her in the eye and said in a voice as quiet and as cold as ice:

‘I’m going to make you cry for that. I’ll make sure of it.’