The Vanished

CHAPTER 10

‘Can you please take me to people who know something about Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen?’

Simonsen’s voice was firm if somewhat weary. He was seated in a conference room he’d borrowed at Aalborg’s Hotel Budolfi, from where he could see out over the waters of the Limfjord through the window on one side, while on his other sat two officers of the Aalborg Politi. The policemen had gone on for half an hour about the city’s nightlife, a matter with which they seemed very familiar, though without their seemingly encyclopaedic knowledge encompassing even the smallest crumb of information on what interested Simonsen, which was the Mikkelsen couple. Next to him, lounging in an armchair, was Pauline Berg, who now chipped in.

‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to get sent over to us, and you can’t help it if you’ve never heard of the couple we want to know about. But the thing is we’ve been promised we could speak to some people who have, and obviously they sent us the wrong ones.’

She could have added that it was no wonder Aalborg, the country’s fourth-largest city, comprising some 125,000 inhabitants, was having a hard time trying to combat problems of violence, drugs and prostitution, but she refrained. Instead, she paused before she painted them a very unflattering picture.

‘So, basically, I think it would be a good idea if you got back to your station and told your superiors you’re a non-starter. And then you can say from us that if someone doesn’t get their finger out sharpish, they can look forward to a word of encouragement from the National Police Commissioner who I’m sure…’

Simonsen intervened.

‘Thanks, Pauline, that’ll do. I think we’ve all got the idea.’

He thanked the two officers half-heartedly for their time and showed them the door. As they were leaving, one of them hesi-tated.

‘If you’re out on the town questioning, it’d be a good idea to take some back-up along. Were you thinking of going tonight?’

‘Yes, we were, as a matter of fact, and thanks for the offer. If we need any help we’ll get in touch. What we want for the moment, though, is some background on Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen.’

‘If you want us to organise a raid on Rainbow Six, it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest, maybe Saturday. The place’ll be heaving then, though. Thursday tends to be fairly quiet.’

Pauline Berg removed her legs from the armrest of her chair and sighed heavily.

‘There’s no need for a raid for what we want. Can’t you get it into your heads, the only thing we need from you lot is some reliable information?’

The officers left. Simonsen found himself thinking he’d gone about this all the wrong way. Willing co-operation and support from local police was crucial. No one cared much for arrogant Copenhageners thinking they ran the country. He put it down to being tired and promised himself to phone the duty sergeant at Aalborg East where the two officers were from and apologise for his behaviour. He looked at Pauline and corrected himself: he would apologise for his colleague’s behaviour. He studied her for a second.

‘How are you feeling anyway?’

He’d meant to ask her on the plane over, had decided even before leaving that it would be a good opportunity. But as things turned out they’d ended up sitting several rows apart. Now would be as good a time as any, he thought. It would still be a while before Klavs Arnold got there. He was on his way from Esbjerg by car and surely wouldn’t arrive until after lunch.

Pauline lifted her head and looked at Simonsen, and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she spoke, and when she did her words were measured.

‘Not that good, I’m afraid. But thanks for asking.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. He stared out of the window. On the dock, a crane was unloading a container from a ship. A man in a hi-vis jacket waved his arms, though Simonsen couldn’t see what for. After a moment she spoke again.

‘At night I keep dreaming she’s calling out to me.’

He froze and shook his head imperceptibly.

‘I wish you’d let that… case… go.’

‘I’d like to. At least, sometimes I would. Other times I’m convinced there’s something not right. Something that’s never come to light, never been investigated.’

Neither of them uttered the name, as if both of them wished to avoid it. And yet they knew what they were talking about: the Juli Denissen case, that wasn’t a case at all. The dead woman Pauline Berg still couldn’t put out of her mind.

Simonsen wished he hadn’t asked. Pauline went on, despondently:

‘That case is going to haunt me for a long time to come, I can feel it. I can’t let go of it, even though I want to. But if it’s any consolation to you, I’m on my own with it now. Nobody else sees the point any more.’

‘I was thinking more about how you we were feeling generally.’

‘I know. And the answer is: not good a lot of the time. The last few weeks at work I’ve been scared stiff I’m going to burst out crying any minute. Just like that, for no reason. I feel like crying now.’

‘It wouldn’t matter if you did.’

She laughed, but her eyes were serious.

‘Hypocrite. You can’t stand women crying.’

It was true. He smiled at her and thought the exact opposite of what he’d thought two seconds before: that now and again they understood each other.

‘I’m reading a lot of stuff from the sixties,’ she said, ‘and watching films from the era. I was at the library on Saturday going through newspapers from nineteen sixty-nine on the microfiche down in the basement. There was this striplight that kept flickering all the time, it was annoying the shit out of me.’

‘Is that because I took you off Helena Brage Hansen’s problem pages?’

‘No, not really.’

She stared into space before going on.

‘When I do a thing, I tend to go all the way. Sometimes I take things to extremes. It’s the same with men, but you wouldn’t want to hear about that, would you?’

‘Yes, I would.’

What the hell else was he supposed to say? Of course he didn’t.

‘I know I’m being a pain. But I’m going to tell you now, my life’s like some terrible dream, a dark and heavy storm, and I can’t wake up from it. I can never sleep at night, a few minutes at a time is all I can manage unless I take pills, and the more I take, the more I need. I can’t concentrate either. I can’t remember things. And then there’s the feeling of being scared, it’s there all the time. Sometimes I can cope with it, other times it’s bad. I don’t think it’s ever going to leave me again.’

She paused, adding without self-pity:

‘I can’t help it.’

‘No, of course not. No one gets scared on purpose.’

She seemed not to hear him.

‘I think sometime… I mean, all that nostalgia you’re piling up inside yourself… but what about me, two thousand and eight, here and now?’

Simonsen folded his arms and considered her, cursing himself inside.

She began to cry. Nonetheless, her voice remained quite calm.

‘Leave me alone for a bit. I just need to sit here on my own. I’ll see you at lunch.’

As he closed the door behind him he wondered if he should take her some tissues. But on the other hand… she’d said she wanted to be on her own. He felt in need of a cigarette, and spineless because of it, but at the same time invigorated. It was an odd combination. No one gets scared on purpose. That’s what the cheesemonger had said at the Department of Forensic Medicine. Now, suddenly, he knew what it meant.

‘We can take Helena’s fear away, Lucy. It’s been there, eating away at her for almost forty years. She’ll welcome us with open arms when we come for her. You and I are going to Norway. That’s what we’ll do. It’s where you’ve been wanting to go all along. I should have listened to you before, my lovely diamond girl.’

It was the first time he had spoken to her. It felt good.

After lunch a new officer arrived from the Aalborg police, one considerably better informed about Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen than her two predecessors. She was attached to a special unit charged with various supervisory tasks relating to young people at risk, in the the city of Aalborg as well as the police district as a whole. As such, she had a good grasp of what was going on in the city’s nightlife, in particular the bars, nightclubs and discos of Jomfru Ane Gade, the city-centre street on which most of Aalborg’s carousing took place, among them Rainbow Six, the club owned in part by Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen. Moreover, she had done her homework and came well prepared.

The Mikkelsens had married in 1973, moving to Aalborg in 1978, the same year they opened their second-hand record shop. In 1986 they had purchased a villa in the affluent suburb of Hasseris, where they still lived, and in 1993 had furthermore bought themselves a small, but exclusive holiday home at Gammel Skagen, a summer playground for the jet set and other well-to-do people at the country’s northernmost tip. Neither of the Mikkelsens had any sort of criminal record, and apart from the occasional domestic disturbance that had never resulted in any charges being brought, the couple had had no dealings with police whatsoever. In 1994 they had acquired a fifty per cent share in the Rainbow Six nightclub, as well as a flat above the premises, in which Jesper Mikkelsen had made an office for himself, the rest being used as storage for the couple’s record business. In their private as well as commercial affairs, the couple appeared to keep their individual finances apart, likewise filing separately to the tax authorities.

Pia Mikkelsen returned often to the capital, visiting her brother or his grown-up children. Apparently, she was fond of the Austrian singer and entertainer Hansi Hinterseer, and liked to catch him in concert at least twice a year. Jesper Mikkelsen had no hobbies to speak of, or at least none known to police. However, he was seen often, usually on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, at his club or elsewhere in the city’s nightlife, not infrequently in the company of young girls of somewhat tender age. Whether anything illegal was going on in that respect was hard to tell, and would be even harder to prove, so Mikkelsen was by no means an object of special interest to the police, who had no shortage of other, more important things to be getting on with.

Most of this information was known to the Homicide Department already, and yet Konrad Simonsen had allowed the female officer to find her stride. At her latter remark, however, Pauline bristled.

‘If the guy’s abusing young girls, it’s hardly unimportant.’

Klavs Arnold agreed. He was facing front on a chair he’d turned backwards, his head leaning against the wall, and had looked like he was falling asleep. The officer clarified:

‘No, of course not, if that were the case. But there’s nothing at all to indicate any abuse defined by criminal law. Nothing in the slightest. I’m not even sure there’s a sexual motive to his hanging around with these girls. If there is, though, they’re all above age and either consenting or, more likely, procured. But like I said, we’ve got plenty of other things to allocate resources to.’

Simonsen noted a slight hesitation in the officer’s description of Jesper Mikkelsen’s escapades – if that was the word.

‘So you don’t think he’s exploiting these girls in any way?’

Her reply was indirect.

‘I hear all sorts of stories about all kinds of depravity. They come in all the time. A lot of them are horrendous, and terrifyingly similar. But I’ve never once heard anything like that in connection with Jesper Mikkelsen and I’ve been on the scene getting on seven years. I’d be surprised if word hadn’t reached me he was…’

Her voice trailed off.

‘Are there drugs in this club of his?’

‘Bound to be, like everywhere else. But the place has CCTV and the manager and staff aren’t turning any blind eyes. I don’t think either of them’s involved in drugs, definitely not. But there were rumours at one point, probably based on the fact that Jesper Mikkelsen goes round with a minder, preferably two, whenever he’s on the town at night. In the daytime as well, sometimes.’

Klavs Arnold woke up.

‘Minders? How do you mean?’

‘Gorillas. Big blokes with muscle. Biker types, only without the bikes.’

‘Professionals?’

‘Nothing like.’

‘Are they armed?’

‘I don’t think so. Or rather, no, they’re not. Knuckledusters at most, maybe.’

Their discussion continued for another half-hour or so without leading anywhere in particular. Afterwards, Klavs Arnold went up to his room for a lie-down.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Pauline asked her boss.

Simonsen didn’t know yet. Perhaps go for a little drive to begin with. Pauline said she’d go with him. Much to his an-noyance.

Rainbow Six was in the centre of town on Gabrielsgade, leading off Jomfru Ane Gade. Simonsen, Pauline Berg and Klavs Arnold stared across the street at the frontage. It was just past eleven at night, and the weather was cold. Pauline Berg shivered. She’d already uttered a succession of mildly impatient noises, all of which Simonsen had ignored. He looked across at the discotheque’s entrance. A vulgar portal had at some point been erected, jutting halfway out on to the pavement and incorporating a neon sign in the shape of a rainbow, each colour flashing in turn with a fraction of a second in between. It was hideous, but no doubt did its job of catching the eye. Somewhat further back was the entrance door itself, in front of it two bouncers bathed in a bluish light akin to that of an emergency vehicle. It lent the men a sickly, almost poisonous appearance. Both of them were dressd in black, the word Security printed in large white letters on the back of their t-shirts.

Youngsters were arriving in clusters, patiently joining the queue and waiting for the bouncers to let them in. Simonsen noted how the occasional guest would be waved past the line and into the club without being checked. Everyone else had their bags searched and their ID carefully inspected before being allowed in. Twice, guests were turned away, the first time when two girls tried to jump the queue, only to be promptly dismissed by a gesticulating doorman. The second instance was more serious and might easily have led to unpleasantness. Three lads were turned away, part of a group of eight or ten young men Simonsen had immediately spotted as potential troublemakers. The club enforced a dress code, and hoodies, baseball caps and tracksuit bottoms were apparently banned. A raucous argument ensued, the two bouncers on the door quickly being aided by four colleagues from inside, prompting the lads to beat a retreat and head off somewhere else instead.

‘They’re young, aren’t they?’ asked Arnold.

Pauline Berg explained: the club’s clientele differed depending on whether it was Thursday, Friday or Saturday. There was an age limit that varied: on Thursdays it was seventeen, on Fridays twenty and on Saturdays twenty-three. Since most clubbers wanted to party with people their own age or older, not many of this evening’s guests would be older than seventeen.

‘Can’t I join the queue now? My feet are absolutely freezing,’ she said by way of conclusion.

Simonsen accepted: she may as well go in now. After she left them he commented drily to Klavs Arnold:

‘I thought you said she’d blend in? She no more blends in than we do.’

‘How was I to know it was teenage night?’

‘All right, I’ll let you off this time. Are you armed, by the way?’

‘Yeah.’

‘If the muscle at the door wants to frisk you, flash them your ID and make yourself known. I don’t want any trouble. We stick out like a sore thumb as it is, so it’s hardly going to matter much if we tell them where we’re from.’

Simonsen’s idea had been for them discreetly to gain an impression of the place before going upstairs and confronting Jesper Mikkelsen. If he was in the club, that is, which they had no way of knowing. However, that part of the plan had pretty much gone down the drain now. He stuck to his running order nonetheless, and ten minutes after Pauline had been let in, he crossed the street and prepared for his first visit to a discotheque in thirty years. Klavs Arnold followed on behind.

The doormen were apparently already clued up and they were immediately waved forward before they got a chance to join the queue.

‘What do you want?’ the youngest of them asked Klavs Arnold.

‘In.’

The man conferred with his colleague, who turned to give them the once over before jerking a thumb towards the door and letting them pass.

They stepped into a dimly lit space with a tall black counter on the left-hand side, behind which a woman took entrance money: eighty kroner a head, Simonsen noted. Once a person had paid, he or she was given a stamp on the wrist. He paid for them both, but declined the stamp with a shake of his head. Klavs Arnold checked their coats into the cloakroom while Simonsen studied a framed certificate from the fire services that hung on the wall. The premises was approved for a maximum of 150 persons. The cloakroom attendant squinted at him with concern, more so when Simonsen held Arnold back and they stood for a moment leaning against the black-painted counter while studying the kids as they went up and down a broad but short flight of steps leading to the toilets. Mainly these were girls wanting to freshen up their lip gloss or mascara.

They moved on, stepping through an arched opening into a large space half-filled with revelling kids. The girls were in super-short skirts over bare legs, their feet planted in high-heeled shoes most of them had difficulty walking in. The lads had wax in their hair and were wearing jeans and button-down shirts, preferably with some cheap bling glittering about their chests. The interior was drab: brown wallpaper with a golden floral pattern, soft lighting from a number of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. One side of the space was a lounge area with leather-covered furniture and heavy wooden tables. Klavs Arnold made a beeline and found them a sofa that was free at the far end of the room. They sat down and soon had the table to themselves, a pair of teenage lads quickly leaving them to it. The dance floor loomed in front of them like the darkest of caverns. A DJ they couldn’t see, but whose inane patter between records they had no difficulty hearing, made sure the music was almost continuous, though the noise level was thankfully a lot lower than Simonsen had feared, tolerable even. A handful of youngsters writhed about on the dance floor, some with partners, some without. Every now and again they were enveloped in white smoke that had a peculiar, rather sickly smell Simonsen was unable to put his finger on.

A bouncer the size of a barn came over to them. He was wearing a white tuxedo and was polite enough, even if the look of animosity in his eyes was plain to see.

‘Is there anything you gentlemen would like?’

Everyone else it seemed had to get their own drinks at the bar over at the opposite side if they wanted anything, but the two older men were apparently worthy of better service. Arnold waved him away.

‘Yeah, we’d like to be left alone, if that’s all right?’

The man withdrew, his expression stony.

‘Can you see any door that might lead upstairs?’ Simonsen asked.

Klavs Arnold jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. The door was wallpapered and the join barely visible. Simonsen smiled, picking up a drinks menu, a laminated sheet of black paper with white lettering that lay next to the lamp lit by an artificial candle. He wanted to see if they served anything non-alcoholic. At least half the kids there looked like they were under eighteen. He ran his eyes down the list, without a clue as to what sort of beverage the various exotic names might denote. Klavs Arnold came to his aid.

‘None of these teenagers will be forking out a hundred kroner for a Mai Tai or Caipirinha when they can get a Tequila Sunrise or a Sex on the Beach for half that. They won’t drink anything if it isn’t fancy and colourful and hasn’t got a funny name…’

Simonsen stopped him by nodding towards the entrance, where Jesper Mikkelsen had just come in. With a young girl for company. Arnold fell silent and they watched the club owner lead his partner to the bar before they both came towards the lounge area, she with a garish blue drink in a tall glass with a straw in it, he with a small draught beer. Simonsen thought the man looked older than he had been expecting, older and wearier. The oddly matched couple passed through the room. Klavs Arnold took out his mobile phone and filmed them without concealing what he was doing. Mikkelsen sent him a brief look of puzzlement, but otherwise ignored them. The couple stopped at the door in the wall immediately behind where Simonsen and Arnold were seated. The girl received a peck on the cheek before Mikkelsen went out through the door with his beer in hand.

The girl was left on her own and stood there looking almost forlorn. Simonsen studied her. Her short-sleeved dress was black and short without being vulgar. It was loose-fitting, with big pockets at the front that gave the garment volume. Her hair, too, hung loose, though thick with hairspray. She was barely more than sixteen. Simonsen watched her as she went back to the bar. Her heels were too high, and she wobbled as she walked. Or perhaps she was intoxicated, it was hard to tell. She sat down on a bar stool at the counter, and Konrad Simonsen nodded to himself as he noted how Pauline slid in and settled beside her.

‘Smoky eyes, glitter on the cheeks, the trashy bimbo look,’ said Arnold.

Simonsen replied distractedly:

‘I’m beginning to find you a bit suspect, you sound like you’re used to places like this.’

‘I worked a brief spell as a doorman in Esbjerg once. It’s almost like coming home again.’

‘Policeman, doorman, fitness instructor. How many jobs have you had all at once anyway?’

The answer never came. The bouncer who had approached them before returned with a colleague of much the same proportions. Their previous politeness had evaporated, though the animosity in the eyes remained.

‘Right, you come with us. Now!’

The second man opened the door in the wall and stood aside until Simonsen and Klavs Arnold had been ushered through, then followed on behind, giving Simonsen a brutal shove between the shoulder blades and grunting something incomprehensible in the process. The two policemen were prodded up a flight of stairs wide enough for only one person at a time, the first man leading the way, the second bringing up the rear. The stairs opened on to a short corridor, at the end of which they were bundled through a door.

The room in which they found themselves was not large, comparable to a small living room at best. It was without windows, lit only by two bright strip lights on the ceiling. The walls on three sides were lined with a metal shelving system that was stuffed with ring binders in various colours. Behind a desk at the opposite end sat Jesper Mikkelsen. He looked at his guests with disdain. In front of him, his beer remained untouched.

Simonsen hardly registered the five seconds that followed. Klavs Arnold stepped forward, enquiringly almost, as if he hadn’t really grasped what was going on, and was immediately flanked by the two security men. Then, in one swift movement he swivelled round and smashed a fist into the face of the man on his left, audibly fracturing his nose, at the same time seamlessly delivering a backwards kick to the groin of the man on his right. He slumped to the floor and rolled over in pain. Before Simonsen could emit even a gasp of surprise, Arnold delivered a second kick that swept the legs from under the first man, whose hands had yet to be lifted to the bloody mess that was his nose before he too lay in a heap on the floor.

‘You sit still. Don’t move.’

Arnold had his gun out now, as though it had somehow been conjured into his hand, as Simonsen later recalled. The barrel was pointing at Jesper Mikkelsen’s chest and the tiny metallic click as he unlocked the safety catch rang in Simonsen’s ears. Klavs Arnold repeated his command, calmly, ominously, left hand supporting his extended right arm:

‘Just relax, no sudden movements. And get that hand out of the drawer. Slowly!’

Jesper Mikkelsen did as he was told. His raised his arm’s and placed both hands on his head, as if anticipating Arnold’s next instruction. Klavs Arnold stepped up to his side, dragging him out from behind the desk by his tie, frisking him quickly for any concealed weapon, then forcing him to get down between his two groaning minders. Arnold secured his service pistol and slid it back into its shoulder holster.

Simonsen stepped behind the desk and looked into the open drawer. In it was a mobile phone. He checked the display: Jesper Mikkelsen had managed to press the number of the Aalborg police. At the same moment, there was a knock on the door. Arnold opened it and Pauline came in, followed by the young girl from the bar. She stared in dismay as she saw Mikkelsen on the floor. She got down beside him and began to cry. Pauline Berg surveyed the scene before summing things up:

‘Well, this looks like trouble.’

Simonsen sorted things out. The two injured men were quickly dealt with, he and Jesper Mikkelsen agreeing that mistakes had been made on both sides and it would be in everyone’s best interest if the episode were dismissed. The minders hobbled from the room, Simonsen scowling at Klavs Arnold as they went. The man from Jutland looked at the floor, realising he was in for a serious dressing-down on account of his overreaction. Pauline encouraged the girl to talk. Hesitantly, she put them in the picture.

Eighteen months previously she’d been in dire straits, dropping out of school after Year 8 and then running away from home. After a couple of brief sojourns abroad she’d ended up in Aalborg, moving in with her boyfriend, a drug abuser. From there it all spiralled out of control. The boyfriend’s habit was expensive, and before long she was picking up trade a couple of times a week on Gøglergade and surrounding streets, as well as taking the odd shift at a massage parlour in Nørresundby when she wasn’t out of her head on dope. In November she’d been admitted to Aalborg Sygehus with alcohol poisoning, and it was here she first came into contact with Jesper Mikkelsen, albeit to begin with turning down his offer of support. Three weeks later she was back in the hospital, this time following a half-hearted suicide bid. Mikkelsen came to see her, and after a long talk she had accepted the couple’s help.

Two ring binders on the shelf supported the girl’s story. She hadn’t been the first, by any means. Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen had come to the aid of many more besides her. Simonsen and Klavs Arnold each leafed through the contents. Young girls, mostly from the region’s smaller towns, who’d hit bottom in Aalborg or else were well on their way. Where necessary, the couple got them admitted to a private rehab centre in Viborg, subsequently finding them somewhere decent to live and getting them started back at school or working, often going back to square one and beginning from scratch when the girls fell back into their former ways. But once they’d picked a girl out, the couple were apparently prepared to go to any lengths to ensure that they made a difference, and no expense seemed to be spared to that end. Klavs Arnold put down his ring binder. A moment later, Simonsen did likewise, turning at once to Jesper Mikkelsen.

‘I’m impressed.’

The nightclub owner said nothing. Simonsen went on:

‘The Vesterhavsgården holiday cabin. June 1969. Revising for the exams.’

Mikkelsen returned Simonsen’s gaze without a sign of apprehension.

‘Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Here, in my office, with my wife and solicitor.’

‘Lucy Davison. I’ve got photographs of you and your wife with Lucy Davison.’

Jesper Mikkelsen said nothing. Simonsen changed the venue for their meeting to Aalborg Politistation and told Mikkelsen they’d find their own way out.

Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen arrived for questioning at eight the next morning as agreed, bringing with them a solicitor who kicked off by announcing that he wished to make a statement on his clients’ behalf. Simonsen and the Countess waited with keen anticipation. Perhaps the Countess’s early-morning flight had not been in vain, but in that respect they were disappointed. The solicitor produced a sheet of paper and began to read from it.

‘“Pia Mikkelsen and Jesper Mikkelsen wish not to make any statement to police. Should they at any subsequent point in time be detained – either individually or together – in connection with this matter, it is their clear wish that I, their solicitor, be contacted immediately and be present before any questions are put to them.”’

Simonsen responded with astonishment:

‘But we haven’t even told them what this is about yet.’

His protest was ignored, the solicitor continuing in a lifeless monotone:

‘“My clients wish to inform the police that Lucy Davison, the English girl they met on their revision trip in nineteen sixty-nine, continued her journey by bus to Varde on the afternoon of Wednesday the eighteenth of June of the same year. Since that time they have not seen her, and they have no further comment to make on the matter.” Are my clients detained?’

The Countess shook her head.

‘No, but we’d very much like to…’

The solicitor got to his feet. The Mikkelsen couple followed suit.

‘In that case we shall leave.’

As indeed they did.

Pauline was glad to be asked if she’d like to see the posters again, and they’d driven straight from the airport to Søllerød. Praising his officers wasn’t something Konrad Simonsen found easy to do. He always felt like an actor having to speak a line he’d forgotten. He gave up trying and followed Pauline as she walked slowly round the exhibition. She was silent, allowing herself plenty of time to study each poster in turn, like a buyer at a proper gallery.

In some odd way Simonsen felt the images belonged to him and was stricken by modesty, a feeling he immediately tried to suppress.

‘You said yesterday you were reading up on the sixties. What have you discovered?’ he asked.

‘Nothing hard and fast, but a lot of stuff I didn’t know before.’

‘Such as?’

‘Like how brilliant your music was. Your books were boring, though.’

Your music, your books. Simonsen accepted ownership, thinking to himself that he probably wouldn’t have done only a month ago. Pauline Berg lingered at the poster she’d just been looking at, staring down at the spot where ten days ago she had suffered a panic attack. After a while she spoke.

‘When I felt my throat tightening here, I thought it was Juli Denissen being strangled. But now I know it was Lucy Davison.’

She sounded serene, as if presenting some banal, albeit relevant fact. Simonsen said nothing. He didn’t know what to say and responded to her only with a shrug, causing her to look away and proceed to the next image, commenting as she went:

‘I know what poster you had on your bedroom wall when you were young.’

‘No, you don’t.’

He tried without success to make eye contact with her again.

‘Marilyn Monroe with flaxen hair, purple mouth and blue eyeshadow. Andy Warhol, nineteen sixty-seven.’

Simonsen flinched. Not only did he remember the poster well, he vividly recalled wanting to buy it, though for some reason, probably lack of funds, he never did.

‘Very close indeed, I must say.’

‘You thought I was going to say Che Guevara, didn’t you? The doctor who ended up an inept guerrilla.’

‘That’s what I guessed.’

‘What poster did you have, then?’

‘Nothing typical of the age, I’m afraid. Not that I recall… or, wait a minute, I did have one at the time of the Common Market referendum. It wasn’t exactly art, though. It just said EF NEJ TAK in big red letters.’

‘That wasn’t the sixties, though. Wasn’t it in nineteen seventy-two, that referendum?’

‘I was a late starter.’

The conversation faded as she concentrated on the picture in front of her, Simonsen finding himself unable to think of something to say to fill the void. The pause, however, was short-lived.

‘Nej tak was typical, though. Everything was Nej tak. Nej tak to this, Nej tak to that. Anyway, I’d have thought you’d vote yes to joining Europe.’

‘I did, as a matter of fact. But I was against for a while. And the poster was put up by a girl I knew then.’

‘Rita?’

He couldn’t recall having mentioned her name, but supposed he must have done. Unless Pauline had been talking to the Countess. He decided not to worry about it, it didn’t matter.

‘That’s right.’

‘And she voted no?’

‘She didn’t vote.’

They fell silent again. By now Pauline only needed to look at three more posters and the tour would soon be over. When she was finished, she returned to one of the first images.

‘There’s something I can’t stand. It’s the way you all brag about it. As if in your view no other generation’s worth tuppence. Everything else gets weighed and measured against your hallowed nineteen sixties and nothing else ever comes up to scratch.’

She spoke without aggression, a simple statement of fact. Simonsen grinned.

‘In three hundred years’ time we’ll be the only generation remembered, unless some major upheaval occurs in the next twenty. And note, I said the only one. We were out on our own, and quite without precedent.’

If he’d been hoping to provoke her, it didn’t work. Pauline’s reply sounded resigned.

‘That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t stand it.’

‘We were the first generation in the history of Denmark never to have experienced war or hunger. I really hope others will follow on, but I’m not optimistic it’ll happen.’

At last she turned to face him, and he saw there were tears in her eyes. For a brief moment he was afraid she was about to have one of her attacks. But then he realised she was simply moved by what she’d been looking at and apparently had no desire to hide her emotion as she spoke:

‘I understand why you want to find her, and I’m glad you let me stop by. It feels good seeing it all again, and of course especially because… because I didn’t get scared.’

‘Did you think you would?’

It was a stupid question, and she didn’t answer.

They sat down on a pair of chairs Simonsen had pinched from one of the Countess’s many rooms. He stared absently at the exercise bike next to them and distractedly batted the nearest pedal with his hand, causing it to spin seamlessly round while Pauline dried her eyes.

‘A colleague from Aalborg phoned and confirmed Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen’s story, so there seems to be little doubt now,’ he said after a while.

‘They pick up young girls in trouble and help them get back on their feet again, is that it?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘What about Jesper Mikkelsen’s minders?’

‘A simple matter of protection. Not everyone thinks the girls he and his wife come to the aid of deserve a new start in life.’

Pauline nodded. It was just about what she’d worked out for herself.

‘But they won’t talk about Lucy. Do you think they killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen?’

‘Maybe,’ Simonsen said. ‘I don’t know. But one of the four did, I’m certain of it.’

‘We need to talk to the woman in Norway.’

‘Helena Brage Hansen. Yes, we do.’

Their second interview with Hanne Brummersted took place at Copenhagen’s Police HQ on Friday 7 November 2008 at five in the afternoon, this time without the kid gloves. Both the Countess and Simonsen himself were curious to find out if she’d come on her own or with a solicitor. Simonsen guessed the latter, the Countess the former, and she it was who came out on top: Brummersted was alone. Tight-lipped, she took a seat and awaited their questions. While by no means looking like she was enjoying the situation, she certainly didn’t seem to be on the verge of breakdown either. Simonsen began by holding up a clear plastic evidence bag in front of her.

‘Can you guess what this is?’

‘A cigarette end.’

‘Exactly. More specifically, your cigarette end.’

It didn’t take her many seconds to work out where he was going.

‘You’ve no right! That cigarette end belongs to me. It’s against the law.’

‘You’re wrong. And what’s more, you’re too late. This is the analysis of the DNA we’ve taken from your cigarette end, and here’s the corresponding analysis of the saliva extracted from the stamp on Lucy Davison’s postcard to her parents, sent by you in ninteen sixty-nine.’

‘Do you really think you can scare me with this? You’ve no permission to extract my DNA profile. Can you show me a warrant?’

‘We haven’t got one. But you can see the results of the analyses. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you know something about these things.’

He placed two documents in front of her.

‘I’ve no wish to see them. You’ve got no permission, and in that case they’re as good as non-existent.’

‘Oh, but they most certainly do exist. Perhaps you’d care to note where the analyses were conducted?’

She glanced down and exclaimed with surprise:

‘Sweden!’

‘That’s right. More exactly, Lund University, which has an excellent laboratory, as good as any we have here, and now the Swedes would very much like to have a word with you. The legal experts are discussing the matter as we speak, but all indications are that our neighbours will be wanting you extradited. Murder cases, as I’m sure you’re aware, are exempted from any time-ban.’

Hanne Brummersted said nothing. They could see she was digesting the information, most of which was complete fabrication, trying to work out a suitable move. Unfortunately for them, she found one.

‘I’m willing to go to Sweden, and if it can be proved I licked that stamp, then I suppose I must have done. I can think of all sorts of perfectly natural explanations, but then I’m not the investigator here, am I? As I told you last time we met, I can’t remember anything. That’s what I’m saying to you now, and it’s what I’ll tell the Swedes.’

‘Orsa post office is a five-hundred-kilometre drive from here. Not exactly a trip you’re likely to forget.’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions. My DNA links me to the stamp, not to Orsa, unless I licked something there as well.’

‘Would you care to enlighten us with some of your perfectly natural explanations as to how this might have occurred? We can only think of one, you see.’

‘No, I wouldn’t. That would be highly speculative, and speculation is your department, not mine.’

Simonsen sensed his arsenal rapidly depleting, without Brummersted in any way as yet having been hit. Twice he had bent the truth, now he resorted to another lie.

‘The UK police took fingerprints off that postcard at the time. There were quite a number, as was to be expected, but all of them could be accounted for. Apart from one. We’d like to take your fingerprints now, if you don’t mind.’

Again, Hanne Brummersted gave the matter some consideration before answering.

‘Of course. Anything to oblige.’

‘There are also some prints on the staircase at Johannes Lindevej in Hvidovre we’re unable to identify.’

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

‘Are you quite sure about that? Doesn’t it ring a bell? Jørgen Kramer Nielsen lived at that address until February this year, when you killed him.’

‘That’s not true. I’ve never killed anyone.’

‘You’re a strong woman, and a woman with a knowledge of anatomy. A headlock from behind, a quick snap, and you could shove his body down the stairs.’

‘I never killed anyone, and my fingerprints are neither on that postcard nor that staircase.’

She raised her hand to pre-empt interruption before continuing:

‘And before you start getting your hopes up that I contradicted myself saying my fingerprints aren’t on the postcard when I already said I can’t remember, I’d like to remind you of the fact that you just accused me of murder. Anyone can make a slip-up in that situation.’

Simonsen ventured a number of other questions, all of which were likewise skilfully parried. The Countess took over.

‘We’re playing a game, aren’t we, Hanne? You’re lying; you know you’re lying; we know you’re lying; and you know that we know you’re lying. And don’t pretend you don’t understand, because you do.’

‘I understand perfectly well, and I’m not lying. There are great chunks of my life about which I have absolutely no recollection, I admit that. But I did not kill anyone. And don’t get chummy with me. It’s Doctor Brummersted to you.’

‘What kind of upbringing are you giving your children, Doctor Brummersted?’

‘My children aren’t relevant to this.’

‘My guess is as normal as possible. Nice and secure, lots of love, decent, healthy values: don’t tell lies, be good to other people, be responsible for your own actions, recognise your mistakes and learn from them. Would I be right?’

‘Like I said, my children aren’t relevant to this discussion.’

‘And yet all the time here you are, lugging your terrible secret around with you, unable to unburden yourself, no matter what. You’re the exact opposite of what you’re teaching your children. Every single day is a lie. Your morals, your ethics, your common sense, even the feelings you’re gradually beginning to share with your eldest, all of it’s a great big lie.’

‘My children aren’t relevant here.’

Her voice trembled: all three of them were aware of it. The Countess pressed on.

‘You’ll never be able to explain to them, and when the truth gets out, as it will, the price you’ll pay will be unbearable. You’ll lose them and the only chance you still have to right the wrongs of the past is passing you by at this very moment.’

The Countess allowed a long and pregnant pause. Without result.

‘The choice is simple. Either you tell us now what happened on that revision trip or else you can let us drag it out of you, then later you can try and make your children understand why you chose to remain silent.’

A muscle beneath one of Hanne Brummersted’s eyes began to twitch, but apart from that she failed to react.

‘Hell is getting used to hell.’

Brummersted collected herself.

‘You’ve been wanting to say that for a while, haven’t you? I must admit, it does sound rather good, but the reality of the matter is, it’s nonsense. Absolute values can’t be compared, I’d have thought you’d have known that.’

‘I’m not doubting your intelligence, only your morals.’

‘If you’re not doubting my intelligence, then why on earth do you think I’d be here without a solicitor if I did kill Jørgen Kramer Nielsen?’

‘We’ll ask the questions. We told you that last time, too. Now, you were telling us about your morals.’

‘No, I wasn’t as a matter of fact, but let me do so anyway. All through my adult life I’ve worked hard, every single day, without a let-up. And you’re asking me how I bring up my children? Well, I tell them people should keep their promises… that I’ve sworn an oath…’

At last, a crack in her voice. A little hiccup, then another, and finally tears, rolling down her cheeks. Her mascara followed suit. Simonsen prepared himself to take over. Promises – he wanted to know more about those. But before he had the chance she’d already got the better of them and left them floundering like a pair of novices. She turned her tearful face to the video camera Simonsen had ostentatiously rigged up to put pressure on her, and then said to the Countess:

‘Last time we met you threatened me by saying you’d leak this story to the press unless I admitted certain things I couldn’t remember. Regrettably, that didn’t make it on to your tape recording, did it? You also promised that you would make me cry. Well, you’ve succeeded. Are we finished now?’

The address Konrad Simonsen had been given at the concert in Frederiksværk turned out to belong to a multi-storey car park. The man at the gate was friendly enough. He checked Simonsen’s name and business and said:

‘She’s expecting you. Hang on a minute, I’ll see if I can find her.’

He studied a bank of flickering monitors to his left.

‘She’s up on level four. Let me try and give her a call. Can’t promise anything, though. We’ve been having all sorts of trouble with the signal, it disappears all the time after they pulled the building next door down. Work that one out if you can.’

Simonsen stopped him.

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll just go up.’

The man hesitated, seeming rather sceptical for a moment, then replied:

‘If you can’t find her, come back down again. We’ve been told to help you if you ever turn up. Orders, you could say.’

‘She gives the orders around here, does she?’

‘I’ll say. She owns the place. The lift’s over to your right, just follow the signs.’

‘I think I’ll walk. Get the exercise.’

‘Fine by me. But mind the cars, now. People tend to forget.’

Much to his satisfaction, Konrad Simonsen walked up to level four keeping a decent pace and without losing his breath. Reaching the landing, he ventured forward into the parking area proper, finding the place apparently empty and gradually beginning to feel somewhat at odds with himself. He stopped and glanced around. Daylight slanted in through the openings in the outer walls, flooding the barren structure, lending the prefabricated concrete elements a grainy, almost surreal quality. Here and there, a zinc pipe broke the visual monotony, and the cars and other vehicles that were dotted about the place sparkled like jewels in a forsaken, silent world. Rita was nowhere to be seen. Only after a depressingly long wander around the level, during which he began to consider going back down to the security guard at the gate, did he finally catch sight of her, standing behind a black Passat, filling in a ticket in a little white book, like a conscientious meter maid. He had all the time in the world simply to look at her.

Time had not been kind to her. She looked gaunt, tight-lipped as though to demonstrate to the world that she wasn’t complaining. The once rebellious curls of her hair had been tamed and hung tired and listless. Not even her eyes had aged with grace. They’d seen what there was to see and didn’t care to strain themselves for what could only be a pale imitation. Her army-green poncho, reaching to her ankles, made her look older than she was, and combined with the grey bag slung across her shoulder made her resemble a rather shabby army officer.

Simonsen felt his heart sink. The girl of his youth was gone. She had existed only inside him, frozen in time, a precious illusion now cancelled out by a woman he no longer know. Cautiously, he stepped back and glanced around in search of the exit. Immediately, she looked up and saw him. And when she did, the miracle happened: her smile swept away the years as though they had never passed, and Rita was suddenly there in front of him.

‘Hi, Konrad, I’m so glad you came.’

The same husky, sensual voice he remembered from the past. Words from his youth abruptly tumbled out.

‘Hi, Lovely Rita. Are you free to take tea with me?’

They laughed, not realising how tight they held each other until a car came past and the driver sent them a smile. Simonsen asked her out for dinner.

‘If you’ve got time, that is?’

‘I’ve got lots of time. To be honest, I don’t do much, I just like to go about and savour the feel of this place, smell the petrol fumes, write out tickets, little things of no importance. I could get other people to do it.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard the place is all yours.’

‘Half of it’s yours, Konrad. I realise that.’

He put his hand to her mouth and pressed a finger to his own lips, silencing her gently, but firmly.

‘Are you sure? I’ve already spoken to my accountant, and it’s…’

He repeated the gesture, and she acquiesced. After a moment she asked:

‘Haven’t you ever told anyone about what happened back then?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither, but there have been times when I’ve really wanted to. How about you?’

‘Only once. Just recently, as a matter of fact.’

‘Your wife or partner? Your children, perhaps?’

It was obvious she was angling.

‘Neither, but let’s not talk about that. There are so many other things to discuss.’

‘No, of course… though I’d like to… talk about that, too, I mean.’

He said nothing.

The Countess probed when he got home. He didn’t want to lie, and she wasn’t the sort to be fobbed off with half-truths.

‘She wanted to give you half her multi-storey? Why would she want to do that?’

‘That was the gist of it, I think, yes. I gave her some money once, so she could go to America. She was in a tight spot. I never knew the exact details.’

‘How much did you give her?’

‘I can’t remember, but a lot.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘I used to do the pools, everyone did.’

‘And you won the famous jackpot, did you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re a very generous and highly fortunate man, Simon. Are you going to be seeing her again?’

‘No, and we’re agreed on it. We realised that during dinner.’

They had laughed a lot while they were out together. And said they had to see each other again, knowing full well it wouldn’t happen.

‘Did you ever get to San Francisco?’ he asked.

‘First I met Ryan in New York. His father was a stockbroker and loaded. He helped me invest my money, most of it in IBM stock. It was a shrewd investment. Later, Ryan and I travelled west. I was pregnant by then. We stayed for a while in Tiburon, an area of San Francisco, living the life on Ryan’s dad’s money while I got bigger. It was a good time. I thought about you a lot, of course, but I couldn’t write, as you know, and then… well, gradually you just faded away. It wasn’t until I came back home to Denmark that you became part of me again. From a distance, I mean, whenever you were in the media.’

‘When did you come back?’

‘Much later, in ninety-three.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘We got involved in the Rainbow Family… you know, the Peoples Temple and Jim Jones?’

He wasn’t sure he did, though the latter name rang a bell.

‘I think so. There was that mass suicide, wasn’t there?’

‘That’s right, but not until later, obviously. Anyway, they had a lot of good things going on when we started. Demos, people working for the cause, a lot of social projects. Racially we were very mixed as well, and in a way it was what I’d always dreamed of. But then gradually I began finding out there were things happening that I didn’t like, religious stuff, sex, misuse of authority. These things kept coming to light and just piling up. I wanted out, but Ryan wanted to stay.’

She fell silent.

‘That can’t have been easy?’

‘My father-in-law, as I called him, even though Ryan and I weren’t married, used to come over to the camp, trying to persuade us to leave. I think he’d probably hired half the bodyguards in California. He hated Peoples Temple. But Jim Jones didn’t keep us there by force. Still, I ended up going back to New York, where I gave birth to our daughter. Unfortunately, Ryan stayed. All the way to Guyana.’

The rest was predictable. Simonsen listened politely as she told him about settling back in Sleepy Hollow under the wing of her father-in-law; her daughter growing up and eventually having a child of her own; the rising value of her own stock investment – tales from a life without drama, rich in American dollars. Only her return home interested him.

‘Why did you come back?’

‘I missed Denmark. I always did. And then… well, there’s this rather negative tradition in my family on the female side. Do you remember how much I adored my grandmother, but didn’t get on with my mother at all?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Well, that’s how my daughter feels, too, and her daughter after her. Teresa’s living with me now. She’s been here for two years and her Danish is already fluent.’

‘I didn’t think it was that easy to get in these days, with all those reunification rules.’

‘My family’s well connected, including in Washington. To start with, she was from a diplomatic family, an embassy child, no questions asked about whose. Now, though, she’s got a regular residence permit. She’s a lovely girl. But you’ve seen her yourself. She’s amazing, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, indeed. Amazing.’

Rita picked up the bill.

It was Sunday, the ninth day of the last month of autumn, and the Countess had gone motherly on him.

‘The roads can be slippery in the mornings in November, all the more so in the north.’

Simonsen was about to protest. The advance into November had completely escaped his attention. He checked the date on his watch and his words caught in his throat. She went on mollycoddling him.

‘I’ve gathered the printouts of all your internet bookings together and put them in the glove compartment, in case there’s any problem at the hotels.’

‘I’m not staying at hotels, it’s hostels, B &Bs and the like. Small places.’

‘Well, at the small places, then. Now, drive carefully, and if you’re feeling tired, pull in.’

‘We’ve been through all this.’

But there was no let-up, not even as he got into the car, ready to go.

‘Have you got your pills?’

‘Yes, I’ve got my pills.’

‘Promise to call me every day?’

‘I promise. Every single day. Just give me a kiss so I can get going before the rush hour starts.’

‘It’s Sunday, there is no rush hour, you know that. Anyway, have a good trip, the two of you.’

He smiled. She was referring to the picture on the back seat. After much deliberation he’d chosen the one that had made Pauline Berg cry, which happened to be one of his favourites, too. He’d had it framed. The picture he’d originally saved for himself was returned to the collection, and now all seventeen would be going back to Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s estate while he was away. The Countess had promised him that she would arrange this.

‘How about that kiss?’ he said.

She gave him a peck and off he went.

Not until he’d crossed the Øresund Bridge did he feel his journey had started. From Malmö, he followed the coast north to Gothenburg, cutting inland and stopping at the Vänern for his jog. After that, he drove along the western shores of the great lake as far as Karlstad, forging on in an easterly direction and eventually checking in to his lodgings in Gävle north of Stockholm in late afternoon. He’d decided to do a relatively long drive the next day. It seemed right to get as many kilometres on the clock as possible to begin with. Besides, he knew the Swedish forests quickly became monotonous when viewed through the windscreen of a car: endless ribbons of road, straight as a die, and nothing but trees on both sides, kilometre upon kilometre without sign of human habitation and only the pinprick of light far ahead at the apex of the road, for ever out of reach, no matter how far one drove. That night, he slept like a log.

The next day he followed the Gulf of Bothnia, passing through Sundsvall and Umeå, the deciduous trees gone, the spruce gradually becoming sparser and more stunted. Twice he saw eagles. The second time, he stopped the car and sat for a long time watching their majestic, soaring flight high above his head. Arriving almost at the head of the gulf, he stopped for the night in a small town where he’d booked himself into a B&B.

He spoke to her frequently. Just the odd word to begin with, breaking the tedium of his journey, then gradually longer utterances about the landscape and how far they’d got. Pulling in for breaks, he would lift her out of the car and put her down next to him. In those situations, especially, he felt they were together.

‘I love you, Lucy. Nothing can change that, it’s no use denying it. We would have met in Copenhagen, I’m sure. Bumped into each other in a shop, or on the street, on the S-train, or maybe in a park. Yes, parks are good, a park would have suited us. You with your rucksack and that shy smile, me with the courage to follow you, without even thinking, no two ways about it. We could have hitchhiked our way here. A week, a fortnight, what difference would it have made? We had so much time to spend, we’d have got here eventually. But they killed you. They took away your future, and mine, too.’

The more sentimental the better. Tears welled in his eyes, and he revelled in it.

On the third day, they veered north-east, Lapland. Passing the Arctic Circle he said:

‘You made it, Lucy. You’ll have to wait for summer to see your midnight sun, though, and be prepared for a long, dark winter first. I wish I could do something about that, but I can’t.’

At Karesuando they stopped and saw Sweden’s northernmost church before following the road along the border of Finland. The scenery was magnificent and breathtaking: steadfast, slender birch lining rushing rivers; a vast wilderness where no human would be seen for kilometres on end; an immense and humbling sky. They reached Treriksröset before nightfall. Ever the informative tourist guide, he entertained his imaginary passenger:

‘Here you can stand with one leg in Norway, one in Sweden and one in Finland, and all at the same time, as my old geography teacher once told us, though none of us dared to laugh, I might add. Let’s see if he was right, shall we?’

The next day, they got up early and drove the last part of the way, up through Norway, the road winding in and out through splendid fjords. As they turned off and drove the final stretch towards Hammerfest, he tried to scale down her expectations.

‘They’ve pledged an oath never to speak of you. I’m certain of that. None of my colleagues understands how powerful such a pledge can become, but I do. To begin with, you remember every word. Gradually, it becomes a voice inside, with only the meaning recalled. Year by year, it becomes more and more entrenched in the mind. Eventually, it’s become a part of you. Something that can’t be changed. Neither good nor bad, but impossible to break, the same way as you can’t do anything about your name, you’re stuck with it whether you like it or not. Now we must help one of them overcome her fear, so I can find out where they buried you and make sure you get home again. But if we work together, I’m sure things will work out just fine.’

After that, he spoke to her no more.

Helena Brage Hansen looked exactly like she did in the photos Simonsen was familiar with, apart from the fact that her hair was now white and she wore glasses. He waylaid her outside her home on the Thursday. It was mid-morning and she came wheeling her bike up the hill. He got out of the car and waited for her. He introduced himself, and she answered calmly:

‘I’ve been expecting this, but I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing.’

‘It was a lovely drive.’

‘I’m sure. But I’m sorry, we’ve got nothing to talk about.’

‘I’m not just here to talk. I’m also here because I was hoping you’d be able to help me with something else.’

He showed her the poster in its frame. She stood and looked at it for a long time, enough for his arms to tire. Then, after a while, she spoke.

‘Oh, goodness.’

That was all. A tiny, sorrowful exclamation. Simonsen sensed it would be best to avoid mention of the photographer and the additional circumstances. Perhaps she knew already, or perhaps it would spoil this first, tentative opening.

‘Would you help me find a place to hang her up? I don’t know anyone here. Preferably in a room with many windows.’

‘Is that why you’ve come?’

‘Yes, and to speak with you, though I haven’t envisaged you’d be willing to tell me anything.’

‘Wait.’

Shortly afterwards she returned, wearing a jacket and carrying a rucksack. He followed her out of the town, up a winding path that led them on to the hillside and quickly had him panting for breath. They passed a few reindeer along the way, the grazing animals barely pausing to look up, and she exchanged a brief word of greeting with an elderly man at a wooden rack of stockfish. She walked briskly. For a time he struggled to keep up with her, eventually falling back and finding his own pace. He was carrying the framed poster; it was unwieldy and held him up.

‘You’re going too fast,’ he called out.

She slowed down to accommodate him. They hiked through the stunning landscape for perhaps half an hour. Barren, grey-black rock, broken here and there by sparse expanses of moss and lichen, or glistening white snow. Soon, they were high above the town. The view was stupendous and almost hurt his eyes, so much did he stare. Eventually, they came to three crofts settled snuggly in a dip in the hillside. She went to the largest of them, going inside without a knock and leading him up some stairs. The room they entered was bright and pleasant, tastefully decorated. At the far end, a man sat huddled at a computer, writing. He turned abruptly, rose cheerfully to his feet and greeted her with a kiss, whereupon they immediately began to converse in sign language. The man stepped forward and extended his hand silently to Konrad Simonsen. They shook, and Helena Brage Hansen explained:

‘Kaare’s a journalist, financial affairs. He works freelance, specialising in Switzerland. He’s travelled all over the world. These days, though, he’ll hardly bother to go into town.’

‘I can well understand it. This is an amazing place.’

‘Yes, it’s lovely now, but in a month’s time the weather makes it too gloomy for me.’

Together they found a space for Lucy Davison. It took them a while. All three had their opinions, but eventually they agreed on Kaare’s proposal. He fetched some tools and before long the picture was up and hanging on the wall.

‘What’s he saying?’ Simonsen asked as the man signed at him.

‘He wants you to taste his blueberry aquavit.’

‘I’d like to, but just a taste. I had a heart attack not long ago, so there are certain pleasures I have to forego.’

She translated for him.

‘Kaare says blueberry schnapps is good for the heart.’

It was all very cordial, and hours passed. Kaare’s home was a place in which Simonsen quickly felt comfortable. At some point, almost casually, Helena Brage Hansen said:

‘I’ve booked two seats on the plane for Copenhagen at ten-thirty in the morning, but there’ll be a couple of transfers. If you pick me up early I can help you make arrangements to get your car back to Denmark.’

No more was said on the matter, and it was mid-afternoon by the time they made tracks. Simonsen noted her farewell to the man was not the sort that indicated she was expecting to be gone for long.

The next day she was quiet, albeit neither distraught nor nervous. On their way to the airport few words were exchanged between them, and it was only once they were on the plane that he asked her:

‘What are you intending to do when we get to Copenhagen?’

‘Check in to the hotel and sleep, I think.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Speak to the other five.’

‘Mouritz Malmborg and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen are dead.’

‘Oh. Well, I suppose it was only to be expected. Statistically, I mean.’

‘What are you going to say to them?’

‘I’ll arrange a meeting.’

‘Do you know where they live?’

‘No, but you do.’

‘Yes. Where will you meet?’

‘Vesterhavsgården.’

‘You remember the name?’

‘I remember every second, and the others do, too.’

‘You made each other a promise.’

‘Yes, but we shouldn’t have done. We should never have done that. And this is what ought to have happened a very long time ago. If it had, we might have had lives worth living.’

Simonsen refrained from passing comment, but a short while later he said:

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was murdered.’

Her reaction was subdued. He thought she might have taken a sedative.

‘I think one of you four who remain killed him. Or had him killed.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Were you their leader?’

‘You could say. Until Lucy came along. She took over as easy as anything.’

‘Did you and the others kill her?’

‘That’s for you to decide later.’

‘I’m asking you now.’

‘Yes, we did.’