The Vanished

CHAPTER 11

Konrad Simonsen set up a meeting with the priest on the Saturday, the day after he arrived home from Norway, prompting the Countess to comment:

‘Don’t you think you should relax a bit? Surely it can wait until next week? You’ve got a drive ahead of you, remember.’

She was right. Of course it could wait. It probably wasn’t even necessary. The meeting had no real bearing on the investigation, or anything at all, most likely. And yet, much to his bemusement, he had found himself calling the man and arranging an appointment. The priest, for his part, didn’t seem in the slightest bit surprised. He hadn’t asked what it was about, had simply fitted Simonsen in, if not in so many words.

‘What do you want to talk to him about anyway?’ the Countess wanted to know.

She had an unerring ability to pinpoint the matters on which he himself was uncertain. Sometimes it was good, clarifying things for him; other times it was annoying and he felt himself oddly laid bare. Like now. He tried to be honest.

‘I don’t know, really. I just want to talk to him, perhaps tell him how far I’ve got with Lucy. That we’re going over to dig up her remains tomorrow.’

After they’d landed at Copenhagen, Helena Brage Hansen had booked herself into a hotel in Christianshavn. They had parted company for a few hours, after which she had contacted him again and briefly informed him that she and the others would be arriving at the Vesterhavsgården camp the following day. The others – Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen and Hanne Brummersted – he hadn’t even contacted, merely asking if they’d be there without the presence of solicitors or any other third party, which Helena assured him would be the case. He got Klavs Arnold activated right away, clearing the place of any children’s groups that might have been booked in.

‘You sound very confident about it,’ the Countess said.

He was. Tomorrow Lucy would be found. After nearly forty years in the sand. The thought was so full of pathos he hastened to continue:

‘I’m going to tell the priest I’ve nicked one of his posters. Or whoever it is who’s going to own them now.’

There was something else he wanted to talk to the priest about. Something he wanted to confess. That was the word he used in his mind: confess. It was the way he felt obliged to think about it, if he could think about it at all. And yet this confession had no bearing on his investigation. Truth be told, it was hardly a matter for a priest at all. But he was a person Konrad Simonsen was comfortable talking to, even about difficult matters.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ the Countess said.

It was indeed, he thought. She let the matter drop. If he was quick about it he could go for his run before dinner.

The Countess had made an effort in the kitchen, which he appreciated even if her culinary skills were rather limited. Prawn cocktail with avocado and a homemade thousand island dressing, followed by veal with sautéed vegetables and four consciously apportioned small potatoes each. Unusually, she’d bought a non-alcoholic wine to go with it. They raised their glasses and tasted the grape like a pair of master sommeliers, Simonsen electing not to comment adversely: it was the thought that mattered. The Countess, however, passed judgement herself.

‘It tastes like stale fruit juice. I’ll open a proper bottle, you’ll just have to jog an extra kilometre tomorrow. How’s it going with that anyway? Did you run the whole way today?’

He shook his head. He still had a bit to go, but he was getting there. Then, as they sat with their wine, he said:

‘I should never have looked Rita up like that. It was a mistake, a big mistake.’

He drank another sip, before explaining.

‘When I think about her now, it’s all negative. The time before we broke up was… weird. I’m annoyed about that multi-storey, as well. I mean, if she really needed to invest in something, couldn’t she have put her money in…’

His voice trailed away, then he added pensively:

‘Perhaps I’m just angry with her for getting older.’

‘You’re older yourself.’

‘Which is why I can’t afford to have all my dreams falling apart on me. And if everything goes according to plan I’ll be seeing Lucy, too… the way she is today. It can’t be helped. Has she gone, by the way?’

He nodded towards the annexe. The Countess confirmed it. The posters had been removed while he was away.

The priest had given him an address on a side street in Valby, not far from the Søndermarken park. He took the S-train and walked from Valby station. The place turned out to be a coffee bar, the old-fashioned kind where a cup of coffee cost five kroner, a refill three, sugar and cream at no extra cost. It was about the only thing they sold in the place, tiny premises with just enough room for a few tables and the counter itself, behind which a woman who looked to be about the same age as the building served his beverage from a classic Madam Blå coffee pot, guaranteed freshly brewed. She took his money and he sat down at the nearest table and sipped what for the sake of his dodgy heart ought to have been tea, though he sensed it would have been sacrilege to have asked for such a thing here. He was the only customer, and having brought nothing with him to read he simply sat and stared out of the window. The sun was out, though it was windy: the street looked pleasant and quiet. His mind was empty of thought, but after a bit he began to wonder if he’d got the time wrong.

Eventually, however, the priest came hurrying in, apologising for the delay and sitting down at the table. The old woman brought him a cup of coffee without being asked. Simonsen surmised he was probably a regular. He asked, by way of conversation:

‘Do you come here often?’

He indicated the priest’s coffee cup, suddenly feeling intrusive.

‘I know two people who live in the area and visit whenever I’ve got the time. I usually come in here for a coffee. It’s the only place I actually drink coffee, usually I’m a tea-drinker, but this has become something of a tradition.’

‘I see.’

Simonsen found the situation awkward and the lull that followed all too prolonged. The priest seemed to sense his unease and began to tell him about the people he’d been to see. Lonely people, people who’d been left behind somehow and who now lived their lives in the past. What did you want to see me about? – the perfectly natural question that would make Simonsen feel self-conscious – never arose. When the priest finished talking, Simonsen took over. He told him about Helmer Hammer, the executive from the Prime Minister’s Office, carefully avoiding any mention of the man’s name. The priest listened with interest, clearly enjoying their conversation. Simonsen went on:

‘Anyway, when this top civil servant told us your church wished to purchase Lucy’s posters, we in the Homicide Department of course began to look for an explanation. We could imagine all sorts, to be honest, growing increasingly more sinister. That’s what my job’s like, you see. Everything, no matter what, has to be viewed with a certain amount of scepticism. It’s ingrained in us, I’m afraid.’

The priest nodded his understanding. Obviously, the police couldn’t just accept any old story. Simonsen told him how Pauline Berg – he referred to her as one of my junior staff – had tired of all their theorising and simply grabbed the phone and called this officialis from the British diocese who was trying to obtain the pictures of Lucy Davison. She asked the man straight out for an explanation, which was promptly provided. The priest responded with a smile.

‘Our organisation Missing Children in Liverpool will be inheriting one and a half million kroner from Jørgen, as you know. That’s a considerable sum of money, which will do a world of good. At the moment, Missing Children’s Liverpool branch has its premises in a dilapidated building off Romer Road in the city’s Kensington area. What’s more, they’ve been very short of space. Now, however, they’ve bought themselves some roomier offices on Rydal Avenue in Formby, which at present they’re doing up. I thought it would be the ideal place for Lucy’s pictures, so I phoned our officialis, as you refer to him. We know each other personally, he used to be in charge of Missing Children in Liverpool himself, as a matter of fact, and… well, I managed to persuade him.’

Simonsen put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

‘Lucy…’

The priest followed his example, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. His eyes were kind, his gaze firm.

‘Lucy, indeed.’

‘Tomorrow we’ll finally discover what happened to her. In Esbjerg, all those years ago.’

‘I hope so. Tell me, do you like onion soup?’

Simonsen laughed.

‘That’s the most elegant change of subject I’ve heard in a very long time. And yes, I love onion soup.’

The priest led the way. It wasn’t far, he said. They turned down a quiet residential street, then took a right up a long driveway. The priest explained:

‘My brother’s a chef and works in a canteen here. Smashing place, don’t you think?’

Simonsen glanced around at what looked like storage halls, a number of nicely renovated old buildings and modern modular prefabs – an oddly harmonious cluster. It was like stepping into a village. A busy village, with people scuttling about between the various buildings, on their own or several at a time, despite its being the weekend. They passed a coachload of tourists being shown around by a guide rattling off information in English. Simonsen took hold of the priest’s sleeve and held him back.

‘What on earth is this place?’

‘Nordisk Film. Didn’t you see the sign?’

Simonsen shook his head.

‘And I thought I knew this city. I even used to live here in Valby. And yet I’ve never been here, ever.’

‘It is tucked a bit out of the way. Perhaps that’s what makes the place so charming. Did you know Nordisk Film is the world’s oldest surviving film company? I’ll tell you the history in a minute, but let’s have our soup first, shall we? Just wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.’

He went through a door, returning shortly afterwards carrying two precariously balanced bowls of soup. He handed one to Simonsen and the two men proceeded slowly through a narrow passage between two buildings, the priest still leading the way. Emerging, they came to a lawn on which three small huts had been erected in a row. They reminded Simonsen of children’s playhouses, the kind that came with their own sandpit. Each hut had its own name, etched into a wooden nameplate above the door: Faith, Hope and Charity. Simonsen was allowed to choose and pointed to the one in the middle.

‘Let’s take Hope. What are they used for anyway?’

‘Mostly they’re for scriptwriters, if they need a couple of hours to themselves.’

The two men edged their way inside and found room in the cramped space, Simonsen seating himself on the only chair, the priest on a bench next to him. They slurped their onion soup while the priest told him about Ole Olsen, the film company’s founder – businessman, entrepreneur, art collector and all-round character.

Simonsen listened with interest. Then without warning he said:

‘I’ve kept one of the Lucy posters. Missing Children in Liverpool will have to make do with seventeen, but there were eighteen in all.’

He had feared the reaction. The priest would be well within his rights to report him for theft, but there was no cause for concern:

‘Well, nine plus nine is usually eighteen, I can see that. But I think seventeen will suffice in this case, don’t you?’

He’d known, of course. Nine posters on one wall, nine on the other. He’d told Simonsen himself that he’d stood on top of the ladder staring into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mirror room. Simonsen told him about his trip to Hammerfest and the new home the poster had found in Kaare’s study up on the fell. The priest found it to be an excellent choice and asked him about the trip in general. He’d once been to Tromsø in his younger days. The conversation moved on and the missing picture was relegated to the past. Hesitantly Simonsen told him about Rita, to see how it felt. The priest listened with few comments.

‘There’s a story from that time that I’d like to tell you,’ said Simonsen.

‘By all means. Go ahead.’

‘I think I’d like to wait, if you don’t mind. I’m… not quite ready yet. I think that’s what they say, isn’t it? But some other time, if you’re still up for it?’

‘Certainly, no problem.’

They parted on the street outside the film studios. Simonsen, who had not asked a single question relating to his investigation, angled at the last minute:

‘I’d actually brought along four photographs of the students Lucy and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen were with in Esbjerg. I didn’t get round to showing them to you.’

‘No matter. I don’t know any of them.’

‘One of them killed Jørgen.’

‘You’re an extremely capable investigator. I trust and rely on your judgement.’

They shook hands. On his way back to the station, Simonsen found himself in good spirits. He was glad he’d taken the time out, even more so for what he’d been told. He was so immersed in thought he walked straight past the station, stopping only when the squeal of an incoming S-train prompted him to turn back. Jesper Mikkelsen, Pia Mikkelsen, Hanne Brummersted, Helena Brage Hansen. I trust and rely on your judgement. Rather an odd thing to say, if complimentary. He crossed the street to the steps leading down to the trains and felt confident he would live up to that judgement. He had already made significant progress, he thought, and… well, yes, he was an extremely capable investigator.

The time was just over half-past eight in the morning. It was Sunday 16 November and a punchy wind battered the spruce and hastened ragged clouds across the sky from the west. The day had hardly started and it was freezing cold. Simonsen shivered and glanced at Pauline by his side. She wasn’t wrapped up, but didn’t seem overly bothered by the fact either.

‘How come you chose me and Arne to come with you?’ she asked.

The day before, as they’d driven over to Esbjerg, she’d asked the same question, and again that afternoon at the hotel. On both occasions he’d fobbed her off: No reason in particular, he’d said, then changed the subject. Later, when Pauline had gone to bed and he and Arne Pedersen had adjourned to the bar, each with a fizzing glass of mineral water, Pedersen had put the question to him again, only for Simonsen to sidestep the matter once more.

He answered Pauline with a touch of annoyance.

‘That’s the third time. It doesn’t matter, surely?’

‘It does to me, Simon.’

She wormed her hand under his arm, but he shook her off.

‘The Countess is disqualified because of her poor relationship with Hanne Brummersted, even if she would have been my first choice.’

‘Was she miffed?’

‘I can’t allow personal considerations to sway my professional judgement, so she’ll have to live with it. Anyway it’s not an issue, she’s a professional too. You’re here because I wanted a woman involved.’

None of which was true. He’d passed over the Countess for personal reasons. It was unprofessional, he readily conceded, but that was how it was. He didn’t want her there when he found Lucy. In fact, he had seriously considered coming over on his own, though had eventually dismissed the idea. He needed someone besides himself to study the reactions of the four individuals who in a short time would once more be assembled after almost forty years apart. Not their reactions to Lucy Davison, but to Jørgen Kramer Nielsen.

‘And why Arne and not Klavs?’ Pauline wanted to know next.

‘Because Klavs is moving to Copenhagen today. Among other things.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

He wasn’t sure quite what she was pleased to hear, but he mumbled a reply nevertheless and gazed out at the surroundings. They were sheltering behind a woodshed next to the main entrance to the Scout hut, gusts of wind tugging at the smaller construction’s roofing felt and whistling around its eaves. The weather had worsened, he thought, despite the forecast predicting a calm spell. Pauline stamped her feet a few times on the sandy earth.

‘I thought it was to give me and Arne the chance to work together again,’ she said after a bit.

‘Well, it wasn’t.’

‘I think Arne thinks that too.’

He turned his head to look at her.

‘Can’t you just concentrate on something other than yourself, for the next few hours at least?’

Sometimes he forgot how needy she could be. Especially if she’d been normal for a while, back to the way she’d been a year and a half ago. When she regressed her voice changed. It sounded as if she were quoting from a book, a passage she didn’t care for but had been asked to read aloud.

‘When you sat with me that night at my flat and I was asleep, didn’t you want to get into bed with me?’

‘For crying out loud, Pauline! No, and you know perfectly well I didn’t. But right now I’d like to send you home.’

He snorted with contempt and instantly regretted his reaction. It was obvious she was trying to provoke, and he shouldn’t have bothered answering her at all, that would have been by far the best thing to do. He channelled his annoyance elsewhere.

‘Where the hell’s Arne got to anyway?’

‘He had to go for a whizz.’

‘I know what he said. And I also know we’re surrounded by about ten thousand pine trees he could have gone behind, if that was what it was.’

Again, Pauline slipped her hand under his arm. A conciliatory gesture, accompanied by a comment about not being a man herself and not knowing. She gave his arm a little squeeze, then removed her hand before he did it for her. The conversation died as soon as they heard the car.

A blue Citroën came up the driveway and pulled up in the car park, the gravel crunching beneath its tyres. It was Hanne Brummersted. The agreement had been for Arne Pedersen to receive her. Simonsen nudged Pauline forward.

‘If Arne’s not here, you’ll have to…’

At the same moment, Pedersen came round the corner of the main cabin. Simonsen stopped talking and watched as Pedersen led the woman inside and into the communal living room, where Helena Brage Hansen was already seated. It was the room she and her classmates had used most back in 1969. After a short while, Pedersen came out.

‘She seems relaxed about it. We won’t be having any problems with her.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean, relaxed about it?’

Pedersen muttered a few brief words of explanation without Simonsen being any the wiser.

‘How did the reunion go off?’

‘Cautious, non-committal.’

‘Are they talking?’

‘How would I know? You never taught me to look through walls.’

‘What I meant, obviously, was do you think they’re talking?’

Arne Pedersen hesitated. Pauline Berg shook her head as if dismissing the bickering of two errant schoolboys. Then she walked the ten metres or so over to the window and peered in for a second before returning.

‘No, they’re not talking. The doctor one’s just sitting staring into space. The little thin one’s typing something on her phone.’

Pedersen was infuriated.

‘Don’t you even know their names?’

Pauline clenched her fists, almost as if she was about to strike out. Of course she knew their names. Perhaps he wanted to test her? Was that it? She paused and growled the two women’s names. Simonsen’s phone vibrated in his inside pocket. With difficulty he opened the text message. It was from Helena Brage Hansen. He read it, informing Berg and Pedersen of its content:

‘The Mikkelsen couple won’t be here for another half-hour. They’re running late.’

Arne Pedersen had found a back room they could access from the main cabin’s rear entrance, a room with heating. He went off, rolling his eyes at Simonsen as he did, with a telling nod in Pauline’s direction. She watched him go, turning to Simonsen once he was gone, suddenly with sweetness in her voice:

‘Let’s take a walk round the grounds.’

He dragged his feet while she chatted gaily.

‘I was out on the town on Friday and met this guy in a bar. Do you know what he said? He said I’d got child-bearing hips. What do you reckon? Is that any way to score a girl? Child-bearing hips!’

Simonsen didn’t reckon anything at all and could only muster an inkling of a polite smile in response to her incredulous laughter. Then, abruptly, she changed the subject.

‘What did Kramer Nielsen’s priest say when you interviewed him yesterday?’

‘It wasn’t an interview. Have you been talking to the Countess?’

‘I phoned when you were out with him. If it wasn’t an interview, what was it?’

Simonsen’s own view was that it might best be described as a prologue, preparing him to reveal something he had kept secret for many years. If the opportunity even arose.

‘Can’t you go back to Arne?’ he said. ‘I’d like to be on my own for a minute.’

She left him alone, without protest and without taking offence. The woman was clearly frustrated. He stared after her, disappearing into his own thoughts.

He didn’t remember exactly when it was, but it must have been around midsummer, because when the film ended and they left the cinema it was still light. Maybe it was the Grand Teatret on Mikkel Bryggers Gade, but he wasn’t sure about that either. And yet he recalled the film so vividly: Easy Rider. Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper crossing America from West to East.

On their way out she’d stopped at an amusement machine, one of those where you steer a claw to grab a prize. It was as if she ground to a halt, standing there amid the throng of filmgoers, feeding the machine with coins, coming up with three cuddly toys for herself. But her success left her strangely unmoved. Then all at once it came pouring out.

She wanted to go away. To America. They should leave immediately, start afresh, just the two of them. That was what they’d do – go to America, far away from Denmark. She could play music, sing. He could… get a job somewhere. They’d be transformed, and life would be good, she felt sure of it. In America, not Denmark.

Thinking back on it now, it seemed to him she’d been quite unflappable and rational about it, and yet exalted and manic at the same time. She couldn’t have been, but that’s how he remembered it.

She dropped her last coin into the machine without success, not even trying. And then she said:

‘I’m taking some cash to Germany next week. I’m going to steal it and take off.’

He said nothing, merely shook his head, realising she meant it. They went back to his flat, leaving her cuddly toys behind on top of the machine.

The next day he called in sick, the only time in his career he’d ever skived off. They holed up together in his home and he spent the entire first day trying to persuade her to give up her hopeless venture. After that he went to a bookshop and bought six exercise books, and for the next four days she wrote it all down: names, people, dates, places, conversations – everything she could recall, down to the minutest detail. The times she’d run cash… How much? Who gave it to her? Where did she deliver it? To whom? Who kept the books? And so on. In hindsight it was his first interrogation. His first and most difficult. When she’d finished he read her statement through carefully, putting additional questions to her and writing down her answers in the exercise books. She co-operated willingly, albeit disillusioned, and without holding back on any fact.

He found it a lesson he would never forget: the importance of the interrogator penetrating into the soul of his witness, understanding and accepting their feelings, ultimately putting himself in their place. Oddly enough, it was Rita who, in one of their occasional breaks, first passed comment on his skills:

‘You’re good at this, Konrad.’

It was an objective statement of fact, yet tinged with sadness. The distance between them when he wasn’t questioning her was marked. They slept apart.

When they were done, he went to Kasper Planck, who had helped them once before and might do so again. Who else was there? He knew no one.

Tremblingly uncertain, he waylaid the man outside the Store Kongensgade Politistation.

They went for a walk on Larsens Plads by the Kvæsthusbroen, back and forth, circling about on the same cobbles while Simonsen explained his predicament. Planck accepted the exercise books with a grunt of annoyance, like a schoolteacher receiving an essay handed in late. Two days later they met up again at the same place, this time seated on a bench in drizzling rain. Planck had brought an umbrella, but only for himself. He began by asking Simonsen a core question:

‘What about you? Are you going to America too?’

‘No.’

He had mulled over the dilemma, lain awake half the night thinking about it, weighing the pros and cons, but now the answer came to him at once. And he knew, as soon as he uttered the word, that it was true.

‘I didn’t think you would be.’

Planck’s assessment was immediately borne out. He gave back the exercise books along with some documents: three typed sheets of additional questions, one – and only one – visa application for the United States, and a form whereby Konrad Simonsen applied to be transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department.

‘I’ll be docking you eight days’ holiday. I won’t have people skiving off,’ was Planck’s only comment.

‘Eight days? I’ve only been away five.’

‘The other three’s to teach you a lesson.’

And that was that. Planck told him what to do, a plan Simonsen followed to the letter. At the bookshop he bought two more exercise books in which Rita wrote down her answers to Planck’s additional questions. She filled in her visa application and gave him her passport. At some point it dawned on her she would be going on her own, but they never discussed the matter.

At the Bellahøj Politistation he handed in half the exercise books and Rita’s documents to PET, represented by an ageing assistant with horn-rimmed glasses and an inscrutable expression. The man spent a couple of minutes leafing through the material. The visa application was passed without comment, warranting merely a near-imperceptible nod, and Simonsen was given another appointment the following week. A bit like going to the dentist’s.

He gave her her passport and visa at the Grønjordskollegium halls one gorgeous summer evening, well suited to melancholy. She cried a little and asked in a tiny voice:

‘Will you sleep with me?’

It was in the air: for the last time. He declined. She asked:

‘What now?’

‘Now we need money.’

He’d been walking about for a bit and found himself at the far end of the parking area, hardly realising how he’d got there. He swivelled round as a BMW swung in and pulled up in front of the Scout cabin. Pia Mikkelsen got out of the back, followed by her husband, who emerged from behind the wheel. The solicitor was not present. Simonsen turned away in the opposite direction without bothering to say hello. After a short detour he returned to the top of the driveway, where Arne and Pauline were waiting for him. Wearily, he looked them both in the eye for a moment before collecting himself and leading the way through the front door.

The four friends of old had seated themselves in armchairs as far apart from each other as possible. Even the Mikkelsen couple were distanced from one another. Helena Brage Hansen sat disinterestedly leafing through a magazine on the table in front of her, while the others stared into space. The air was thick with the solemnity of the occasion. Behind them, a breakfast buffet had been provided, and Konrad Simonsen sent a kind thought to the staff of Esbjerg Kommune. Then he took the floor, bidding them welcome in a breezy tone that seemed almost like a provocation.

‘Good morning, everyone, and thank you indeed for coming. I can tell by your faces that you’re all aware how serious a matter we have to deal with here today. The good news is that I’m certain once you’ve had the opportunity to relieve your consciences, you’ll all be feeling rather more comfortable. Especially after you’ve decided to take a trip down memory lane back to the old school…’

Helena Brage Hansen interrupted his flow, her words like a well-directed whiplash.

‘Put that magazine away, Hanne, and pay attention.’

The consultant immediately obeyed orders, blushing. Simonsen continued:

‘I see little has changed. For the moment, however, I have nothing more to say. It’s your turn now. I’m sure you’ve lots to talk about, am I right?’

As expected, it was Helena Brage Hansen who spoke first:

‘I think we need ten minutes to ourselves to begin with. I hope you’ll allow us that?’

He didn’t have much choice, and a moment later was once more standing outside with Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg, sheltering from the wind behind the woodshed. The gusts had eased and two military helicopters passed almost directly above their heads. They looked up spontaneously and in unison. When they were gone, Pedersen said:

‘Why did you provoke them like that? Was it wise?’

‘It was quite intentional.’

‘I realise that, but why?’

‘I don’t want them to think I’m their cheerful uncle. We’ve got two killings to clear up. It’s not a holiday.’

Pauline Berg chipped in with support for Pedersen.

‘Why would they think that? You’re running the risk of alienating them and then they won’t talk to us.’

‘No, I’m not. They’ve come all this way knowing full well they can’t go home again before they tell us what happened and where Lucy’s remains are. Psychologically, they wouldn’t be able to cope with that, not after they’ve been struggling to accept the thought for two days. I’m convinced it’ll be a major relief to them, or at least to three of them.’

Pedersen changed tack.

‘I agree with that analysis. But when you say three, is that because you think the one who killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen has other interests?’

‘Yes, and I want it all. The lot. It’s got to come out, today.’

‘Sounds realistic to me. What do you think they’re doing in there?’

Pauline shrugged. Simonsen said:

‘They’re going back on the promise they made each other forty years ago.’

Then, after a pause:

‘Make sure to focus on the two you’ve been assigned. All the time, without interruption.’

The agreement was for Pauline to observe Helena Brage Hansen and, in particular, Hanne Brummersted, while Arne was to watch the Mikkelsen couple. Body language: an involuntary posture, a revealing glance, a suggestive slip of the tongue, a nervous twitch. The postman’s killer would be unable to keep up appearances, Simonsen was convinced of it.

Helena Brage Hansen appeared in the doorway and called them back in.

The mood was heavy. The three women were quietly crying, and Jesper Mikkelsen sat motionless in his chair. He collected himself after a moment and addressed Simonsen directly.

‘We’ll tell you everything, but we need your help, too. We imagine you might start by putting questions to us and then perhaps we can tell you more as we go on. It’s not…’

His voice cracked and he looked away for a second before completing the sentence:

‘… easy for us.’

It sounded reasonable. Simonsen refrained from sitting down and jabbed a finger at the man instead, without so much as attempting to sound accommodating.

‘In that case, we can start with you showing me where you people buried Lucy Davison.’

‘There’s no need to show you. We buried her in the campfire pit.’

‘Now!’

Mikkelsen did as he was told, rising to his feet, while the women remained behind. Simonsen followed him. The man wasn’t weeping, but every now and then he expelled a little sob and was plainly unable to speak. The procession, however, was more than a mere demonstration of Simonsen’s authority: the fire pit had quite conceivably been moved in the years that had passed.

They walked perhaps twenty metres along a path, arriving abruptly at their destination. Mikkelsen pointed to the middle, where ash and charred logs lay in a heap, wreathed by a circle of stones.

‘Is that where she is?’

He nodded.

‘And you’re quite sure? The campfire might have been somewhere else then.’

Mikkelsen looked around and stammered a reply:

‘I – I’m sure.’

‘How far down did you dig?’

He held a hand above his head, and Simonsen estimated two to three metres.

They went back. The women were still sobbing, though both Hanne Brummersted and Helena Brage Hansen had taken a bread roll from the buffet. Jesper Mikkelsen poured himself a glass of orange juice before returning to his chair. Simonsen addressed them all.

‘Right, just so everyone knows: you can turn on the waterworks as much as you want, but you will tell the truth and every little bit of it, so I strongly advise you to pull yourselves together. It’ll make things easier. Now, let’s start at the beginning, shall we? You were all in the same class at the Brøndbyøster Gymnasium from nineteen sixty-seven to sixty-nine, and there you formed a club you called the Lonely Hearts Club. The other students in the class called you the Hearts for short. Did you refer to yourselves in that way, too?’

Helena Brage Hansen answered:

‘Yes, we were the ones who shortened it, as it happens. The long form was a bit unwieldy.’

‘And you, Helena, were the club’s founder, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was in it from your class?’

‘The four of us here, Jørgen and Mouritz.’

Her voice sounded frail and pitiful. Simonsen went on without any sympathy:

‘When you went back, did you tell him what had happened?’

‘No, of course not.’

He continued speaking to Helena Brage Hansen.

‘All right, back to the Hearts. Why was this club formed?’

‘So those of us who were left out could enjoy a sense of community, too.’

‘Left out of what?’

‘The class, the parties, the talk… all the movements, however loose they were – the hippies and the provos, the singing and the guitar-playing, the concerts, the general day and age… everything.’

‘So you were bullied?’

‘No one thought of it like that at the time. But suffice to say that while our so-called classmates preached love and togetherness, they could be nasty and mean. We’ve all of us got our own stories and memories, things we’re stuck with the rest of our lives.’

Simonsen wheeled round and pointed at Hanne Brummersted:

‘Tell me yours.’

The shock effect he had hoped for failed to materialise, the consultant merely doing as she was instructed, muttering her story bleakly and without delay.

‘In the first year I was part of the main group for a while. I even came to school without a bra on once. It happened to be the day we had our class photo taken. Someone wrote a letter and complained. Nearly everyone in the class signed it. It was before pornography was made legal, that wasn’t until a couple of years later. They sent it to the Ministry of Justice for a laugh, accusing me of debauchery. They even got a reply they put up on the noticeboard and sent a copy home to my parents. For a time after that they called me Nia. It stood for nipples in agony, but at least then they weren’t calling me Chub, Fat-face or the Virgin Blubber. There was a lot more unpleasantness besides that, but the thing that hurt most was when they gave me a frying pan for my eighteenth birthday. I cried nearly the whole day, even though by then I had the others for support.’

She indicated her three former classmates.

It was hard for Simonsen not to feel pity.

‘So the reason you formed the Hearts was to counter all that?’

Pia Mikkelsen answered without having been asked.

‘The worst thing was that to begin with we used to be in on the teasing, too, trying to make ourselves popular. I actually signed that letter Hanne just mentioned, but then in the third year I finally had the guts to tell the ones who gave her that frying pan what I thought of them. But there’s no doubt the Hearts was a defensive move, a place to go, because no one else wanted us.’

The three others nodded, and even Helena Brage Hansen was in agreement. She added:

‘It wasn’t just appearance that mattered, though that was definitely important. You had to think, do and feel the same as them. Anyone who didn’t was going to have a hard time of it, even from the younger teachers. It was unfair and very… wrong.’

Simonsen believed he’d got the gist. It wasn’t that far from what he’d imagined, though as witnesses they were hardly reliable, having a clear interest in exaggerating and putting themselves forward as victims.

He continued:

‘On Friday, the thirteenth of June nineteen sixty-nine you’d got your last oral exam but one out of the way and would soon graduate. All that was left was Maths the week after, on Friday the twentieth. Who wants to go on?’

Jesper Mikkelsen spoke up.

‘It was a long-standing arrangement that we’d revise together for Maths. Not that any of us was in danger of failing, because we weren’t. But it was our most important subject and the grade meant something in terms of getting on to our favoured courses at university and college. Hanne wanted to be a doctor, so she needed at least eight on the old scale, preferably more…’

Simonsen cut in:

‘You remember that, so many years on?’

‘I remember every minute of that trip. There hasn’t been a day gone by without my thinking about it. I remember what I dreamed at night, and how much our train tickets cost.’

‘All right, go on.’

‘Helena had the use of this place through her dad. The Scouts only used it at weekends and never in holiday seasons. We didn’t even need to pay for it. The idea was for Jørgen to be a kind of teacher to us, he was really good at Maths. He and Pia had worked out this really tight revision schedule, so it was no picnic. We arrived on the Sunday evening, that’d be the fifteenth of June, and from Esbjerg to Nørballe we got the bus.’

He paused.

‘Go on.’

‘Can’t someone else?’

‘I said, go on.’

‘On the Monday we revised as planned for half the day. We were all very concentrated about it and were soon ahead of schedule… so then Jørgen and Mouritz went into Esbjerg to get some shopping in while the rest of us worked on assignments. Integrals, I remember. The Scouts had bikes here, so they borrowed two of them.’

‘What about Mouritz, wasn’t he supposed to be revising, as well?’

‘He didn’t really need the grade. He was going into his dad’s firm, and it didn’t matter much what results he got. Besides, Jørgen needed a hand with the shopping.’

‘There was a grocery store close by. How come they didn’t go there instead?’

‘It was a lot more expensive, Helena knew that, and we didn’t have much money.’

‘OK, so what happened then?’

He let Jesper Mikkelsen off the hook and pointed to Helena Brage Hansen instead. She took a deep breath and carried on in a quiet voice.

‘They got back just after three with an English girl they’d met in Esbjerg. Jørgen had given her a ride on the back of his bike. It was Lucy.’

‘Lucy Selma Davison?’

‘Lucy Selma Davison, that’s right. But of course we just knew her as Lucy.’

‘Of course,’ Simonsen echoed. No one else spoke.

‘Does anyone feel the need for a break?’

They’d only been going for ten minutes, and yet everyone wanted the pause. Pauline and Arne each sent him a look of surprise. He ignored their silent protests and indicated that he wanted them to stay put. He himself stepped outside.

The weather had changed, it was calmer now, the layer of cloud breaking up from the east. It looked like the sun was coming out. He ambled down to the campfire site and stood for a minute with his hands folded, annoyed with himself for not being able to remember a single prayer. He lingered nonetheless.

Back at the cabin he chose Pia Mikkelsen to carry on. She hadn’t said much up to then and he wanted everyone to contribute.

It took her a while to get started, but there was no help to be had, either from Simonsen or any of the others, and her looks of appeal were in vain. Eventually, she collected herself.

‘We were all of us in awe of her, that was obvious from the start. She was everything we weren’t. Pretty, beautiful you could say, free and impulsive, English – from Liverpool, even – but most importantly she wanted to be with us. She was kind, and interested in all of us. It wasn’t what we were used to. Mouritz, for example, could hardly utter a word to her, he was so nervous. All he did was blush. Having to speak English didn’t make things any easier for him, especially having to speak to her… with her looks… if you understand what I mean?’

Simonsen nodded.

‘We sat out on the lawn. Or rather, not all of us, I don’t think…’

‘Jørgen and Helena were making dinner. Fried pork with parsley sauce and potatoes.’

Jesper Mikkelsen and his memory for detail.

‘That’s right, yes. But then he started talking about his dad’s firm, and what he was going to do after the holidays – as far as he was able in English, of course. He kept grinding to a halt, it was embarrassing, even more so than usual. But then Lucy laid her head in his lap, just like that, without saying anything. That didn’t help him one bit. I think he gave up after that. But it was like, exactly what he needed. He was so happy about it.’

Helena Brage Hansen took over.

‘Before we knew it, everything was revolving around her. No one was bothered about Maths any more, the exam didn’t seem to matter, only Lucy. It was almost as if she’d consumed us. Not because she wanted to, but because we did. It wasn’t like we had any formal arrangement or anything, but it tended to be me who had the deciding opinion if we couldn’t agree, only now we were all following this English girl who’d suddenly appeared out of the blue. She suggested we go for a walk before dinner and so we did, all of us together. We held hands. That was new to us. I know it sounds very innocent, but for us it was… I don’t know… exciting. A lot more interesting than fried pork and parsley sauce.’

Simonsen asked:

‘Did you talk about how long she was going to stay?’

‘Not as far as I remember. But she did put her tent up, so it was obvious she was staying the night, at least.’

‘Why didn’t she sleep inside? You had lots of room.’

Helena Brage Hansen shook her head. Everyone looked at Jesper Mikkelsen.

‘She wanted to sleep outside, it was the fresh air.’

Rather surprisingly for Simonsen, Hanne Brummersted continued of her own accord.

‘Obviously, we didn’t get any more revision done that day. In the evening she played the mouth organ and sang for us round the campfire. Now and then we sang together, all of us, and she taught us a couple of songs we didn’t know, lullabies, I think. At some point, not that late, she went off to bed. I think she was tired after the crossing. We tried to do a bit of revision afterwards, but no one could concentrate, so instead we decided to call it a day and get up early the next morning. I don’t recall anyone saying as much, but I think we all realised we weren’t going to get much done. Not once Lucy woke up anyway.’

Pia Mikkelsen cut in:

‘I much preferred to be with Lucy than to do Maths, and I’m sure the boys felt that way, too. It was pretty obvious to everyone.’

‘We all felt like that,’ Hanne Brummersted added, somewhat curtly, Simonsen thought, after having been interrupted.

‘Did you talk about her after she turned in for the night? Does anyone remember that?’ he asked.

They shook their heads. Even Jesper Mikkelsen had to pass, but couldn’t stop himself from firing back:

‘Why are you asking us that? It can’t be important, surely?’

Simonsen’s reply was sharp.

‘I ask, you answer. And why I ask is no concern of yours. You concentrate on telling the truth as best you can. Now it’s the next day, or so I assume. Tuesday the seventeenth of June. It might jog your memories to know that the weather in Esbjerg that day was typical Danish summer: occasional cloud, scattered showers in between the sunshine, nineteen degrees Celsius, a bit lower at the coasts. All in all, not the kind of weather to run around half-naked in. I’d like you to carry on.’

He pointed at Hanne Brummersted.

‘We all got up early and did revision until mid-morning. Lucy didn’t wake up until late. She had some breakfast and then she had a bath. I went with her and told her what to do. There was a kind of meter, you had to put a ten-øre coin in for the hot water, so we collected what we had. Not that she was scrounging or anything, she just didn’t have any change on her. Anyway, she had a bath and we carried on revising, but when she came out… that was when it started… she came into the dining room…’

Hanne Brummersted burst into tears.

‘I’m all right… it’s just difficult, that’s all,’ she said after a moment, struggling to get the words out between sobs. ‘She was naked. She just stood there with her pyjamas and underwear rolled up in a wet towel, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She asked what we were thinking of doing.’

‘Was she trying to provoke you? Perhaps test you in some way? Was it a joke?’

‘Not at all. It didn’t mean anything to her, but we all stared as if she’d suddenly grown another head. And the boys… it must have been beyond their wildest dreams.’

‘We’d all thought about it, I’m certain,’ Jesper Mikkelsen cut in. ‘But only in our wildest dreams, as you say.’

‘Well, there she was anyway, and when she realised we were looking at her… or gawping, more like… ogling even… she just laughed, and… I can’t remember her exact words, but we had to learn to be less modest, not to be shy, I think she said. And all of a sudden that was what the day was going to be about.’

‘And she decided that?’

‘We all did. We wanted to, just as much as she did.’

Helena Brage Hansen interrupted and went on:

‘We were unsure of ourselves, but at the same time it was tremendously exciting, and arousing in a sexual way. Now we had the chance to make up for everything our classmates had made sure never came our way, the way we looked at it, at least. It probably wasn’t like that at all. None of us had any real experience of sex, practically none at all, and we would never have been that… I don’t know, immodest, of our own accord. Lucy was the catalyst, but for her it was different, of course. More fun than sex.’

Simonsen pointed to Hanne Brummersted again.

‘Didn’t she realise the effect she was having on you?’

‘We thought she was a part of all the things we’d heard about. The free love, the hippie orgies, group sex. Things that were probably all just blown up by the newspapers to titillate their readers and boost their circulation. We were very naive. She was seventeen years old, for goodness sake, and couldn’t have had any idea what she was igniting inside us. None of us had a clue, and we certainly didn’t know when to stop.’

‘You took off your clothes. I’ve seen a photo Jørgen Kramer Nielsen took.’

‘It wasn’t something that happened right away. It was a line to cross, we had to work up the courage, especially the girls. None of us could compete with Lucy. Eventually, though, we were all naked together, walking about and trying to be proud of our bodies. The boys were, well, aroused, to begin with, but she just laughed about that, and we did, too, after a while. Gradually, there was a more natural feel about it. At one point the postman came with a parcel, a cake from Mouritz’s mum. We heard him coming up the drive on his moped, and we all went out to meet him just as we were, in the nude.’

‘But there was no sexual activity?’

‘Not at that point, only later. It was in the air that something had to happen. Everyone felt that, I think. Apart from Lucy, perhaps.’

‘So later on, things happened. Is that right?’

‘We decided we needed some beer. Lucy said we should club together and put in some of her own money. The rest of us did likewise and the boys went off to the grocery store. When they got back we lit the campfire and started drinking. It was late afternoon by then.’

‘Still without clothes on?’

‘No, not at that point. It was too cold. But then Troels turned up. He had Down’s. Back then we’d have said he was retarded, a mongol. Lucy called him Happy Troels. Helena had seen him before and knew he was harmless, so we let him stay and even gave him a beer. Afterwards we made sure he stuck to fizzy drinks because we weren’t sure what’d happen if he got drunk. Later on, they whistled from the farm next door for him to come back. Imagine, they whistled like he was a dog, but off he went back home and we went inside. We’d had a few beers by then, without really being drunk, and we decided to play strip poker, even if… well, it wasn’t that exciting seeing as how we’d been going about with no clothes on most of the day anyway. So that all petered out. But then Lucy knew a game she taught us.’

Hanne Brummersted paused and glanced around. Simonsen got the feeling she’d been opening up in the expectation of someone else taking over.

‘Go on,’ he said.

She obeyed, though with ill-concealed reluctance.

‘It was a game of five dice. Mostly it was down to luck, but you had to throw the dice in the air and catch them again according to a series of increasingly difficult rules. She called it knucklebones. If you lost, you had to do something the previous player picked for you. And, of course, it got more and more daring each time you lost.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Sexual things, increasingly intimate. To begin with, you lost the rest of your clothes, but after that it got more erotic, a lot more erotic… I don’t suppose we need go into detail.’

‘We most certainly do need to go into detail. Besides, you’re a doctor. I’m sure you can be detached about it.’

The look she gave him was one of sadness rather than anger.

‘At first all we did was touch each other, one on one, depending on who lost. The others watched, and then it just escalated, getting more intense all the time. At some point Troels came back and wanted to join in. When he saw what we were doing he took his pants off and sat there with an erection, masturbating himself. Then it was my turn to lose and I had to make him ejaculate, with my hands. It was a mistake, a big mistake. After that, he left and we carried on. It all got out of hand. We were doing all sorts of things we shouldn’t have, opening up for each other, fondling, groping, kissing, licking.’

‘Was Lucy directing all this?’

‘No, not at all. She just thought it was funny. She played along like the rest of us, only she hardly ever lost, she was very dexterous with the dice, much better than us. I remember she took her clothes off, though she didn’t have to.’

‘So she didn’t get involved physically, as it were?’

‘Hardly at all. She kissed me when we were both naked, and she had to fondle Jørgen’s penis while the rest of us counted to twenty. But by that time it was nothing. Pia and Jesper had already had intercourse by then, and after that it was Mouritz and me. I was a virgin, so I bled. It hurt, too, but I just clenched my teeth.’

Simonsen turned to Helena Brage Hansen.

‘It sounds like some of you, at least, wanted it to stop. I’ve read the agony column you edited in the scouting magazine. You come across as a mature, sensible girl who would have known how far to go and when to say stop. Why didn’t you step in? Or at least leave?’

Her reply came promptly:

‘A lot of it was probably to do with the alcohol, though that wasn’t the most important reason. We all carried on in the hope that Lucy would lose, too, and really lose. The boys had their obvious reasons, and we girls because we’d already gone so far, some of us all the way, we thought it was her turn.’

‘Did her turn come round?’

‘No, it didn’t.’

‘Was she cheating?’

‘No, she was just too good.’

‘So how did it end? Perhaps you gave fortune a helping hand?’

‘No, we didn’t. Pia felt ill and was sick, and by then the boys were… well, spent. We’d run out of beer, too, so we just went to bed.’

‘You went to bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Lucy?’

‘She went back to her tent.’

‘And nothing more happened?’

‘Not until the next morning.’

‘All right, go on.’

‘We were the first ones up again. Lucy was still asleep. We all felt terrible. We were embarrassed about what had happened and couldn’t look each other in the eye, so we immersed ourselves in maths and just wanted to go home, I suppose. I think we were angry with Lucy, too, because in a way she’d started it all off and yet she’d never really got involved herself. That’s how I felt about it, at any rate.’

Simonsen noted the nods of agreement.

‘And then Troels came back. It was obvious what he wanted. He had his hands down his trousers, and so on. At first we were going to send him home, but then we got the idea of sending him down to Lucy instead.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘I’m afraid so. We said now she could have a taste of her own medicine, and went to the windows and watched as he crawled into her tent. Obviously, there wasn’t that much we could see, and after a while he crawled out again and went away.’

‘And you were hoping he was going to rape her?’

‘No, not like that. We just thought she could take care of Happy Troels the way we, or rather Hanne, had done the night before. But then when nothing happened, we went back to our Maths and hangovers, moral as well as physical. It wasn’t until after lunch we began to suspect something wasn’t quite right. We called for her, and when she didn’t appear we eventually went down to the tent and looked inside. And that’s when we discovered she was dead. He’d strangled her.’

‘Six people don’t get the same idea all at once. Which of you suggested sending Troels off to Lucy?’

‘I can’t remember. All I know is we were all in agreement.’

Jesper Mikkelsen’s memory was rather better:

‘I did,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

The rest of the interview was predictable and, if possible, even sadder. Pia Mikkelsen hit the nail on the head.

‘We panicked. It was pure panic. The obvious thing to do was call the police and tell them what had happened, but we didn’t even consider it. The mere thought of our parents finding out what we’d done was unbearable, not to mention what would happen to us. We decided to bury her and I said we should do it under the campfire. I thought if they sent dogs out looking for her they wouldn’t be able to detect her there if we buried her deep enough. The boys worked like mad, while we girls packed her tent and rucksack. We couldn’t find room for her Afghan coat, so we lit a fire and burned it.’

‘Where was her body while all this was going on?’

‘We carried her out of the tent, then covered her up with a sheet and put some stones down on the edges so it wouldn’t blow away.’

‘Did she have any clothes on?’

‘Only her knickers. We took them off her and put them in her rucksack. We thought she’d decompose in time, but the clothes wouldn’t.’

‘What were you going to do with her things?’

Jesper Mikkelsen cut in:

‘We washed semen off her thigh as well. Troels had ejaculated on her, but she hadn’t been raped, only killed.’

Simonsen turned on him like a clap of thunder, but Mikkelsen managed to nip his rage in the bud.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was only that she at least hadn’t been raped.’

Simonsen was appeased. He turned back to Pia Mikkelsen.

‘What about her things?’

‘At first we talked about dumping them in the sea, but we soon gave up on that idea. Then we remembered she’d written a postcard she hadn’t got round to sending. We found it and it said she was going to head up to Norway to see the midnight sun, and then Helena got the idea of taking her things to Sweden and sending the postcard from there. We had her rucksack and tent with us on the train back to Copenhagen.’

‘Who drove to Sweden?’

‘Hanne and Jørgen.’

Simonsen turned to Hanne Brummersted.

‘Why you two?’

‘Me, because I had a driving licence, and Jørgen to help. He volunteered.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been better to go on your own? He couldn’t help you drive.’

‘I can see that now, but at the time it seemed best if there were two of us.’

‘Whose car did you take? And what about your exam?’

‘I told my older brother I’d got myself pregnant and borrowed money from him for an abortion. We hired a car, and to my parents I said the exam had been put back a week and that I was going to Esbjerg again to revise. Later, I told them I’d got it all mixed up, then took the resit in August.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘No, they thought I was pregnant and had gone off to have an abortion. That was I wanted them to think. Don’t ask me what excuse Jørgen made up, because I don’t know. I did the driving and he slept. We hardly said a word. At some point we sent the postcard and drove on, eventually stopping where it was all forest. We went into the trees and put the tent up. After that we drove home.’

‘There was some money in her wallet.’

‘We put some Swedish notes in there. I can’t remember how much it was, only that we had gloves on all the time so as not to leave any fingerprints. Clingy yellow latex, they felt horrible.’

Simonsen indicated he wanted Jesper Mikkelsen to tell the rest.

‘When the grave was dug we dropped her body down and covered it up again. The remains of the fire and her Afghan coat went in there, too. We stamped the earth down with a wooden post, but it was very sandy, so it wasn’t that big a problem. Finally, we put the stones back round the site and lit a huge fire to get some ash.’

‘And that was it? Into the grave with her and back to the Maths books?’

‘We didn’t want to go back early, so we stayed on. I don’t think anyone did any revision, though.’

‘So the day after wasn’t much fun, was it?’

‘None of the days after has been much fun.’

‘You still haven’t told me about your pledge. The oath, or whatever you called it.’

‘Pledge. We called it our pledge. It was Helena’s idea, We gathered around the campfire…’

Simonsen growled:

‘Lucy Davison’s grave! It wasn’t a campfire.’

‘I’m sorry. We gathered around Lucy’s grave and repeated over and over: Never, ever speak of it. Never, ever speak of it. We carried on for ages.’

There was a long pause. They had reached the end of their journey and all eyes were on Konrad Simonsen. Hanne Brummersted and Pia Mikkelsen had started crying again. Eventually, Helena Brage Hansen broke the silence:

‘What’s going to happen to us now?’

‘You’ll be questioned individually in Copenhagen. After that, the public prosecutor and I will decide what to do with you. Perhaps nothing. Regrettably, that seems the likely outcome. But if you’re referring to here and now, then… well, it’s probably easier to show you.’

He got up and went outside, and when he came back he was holding four shovels in his hands.

It took them the best part of three hours. Simonsen showed no pity. Short breaks were allowed for food, water and rest, so no one was made to suffer physically, but apart from that he tolerated nothing but labour. They accepted the conditions and toiled as instructed. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg, who had said nothing for hours, withdrew and watched the scene from a distance. At first, the loose, sandy earth meant that the sides continually gave way, making the hole more of a crater than anything else, but eventually it took shape and narrowed, allowing room for two shovels only at a time. They took turns. Simonsen had hoped for sunshine as they worked. It was how he had imagined it. But the sky darkened and the weather changed once again. In early afternoon, as the light slowly dissolved away into the dismal blanket of cloud, the sand suddenly turned black. He gathered the shovels and handed them a bucket. They continued to dig, though now with their hands. It was Jesper Mikkelsen who found her. He straightened his back without a word, the tip of a white thighbone protruding from the grave at his feet.

Simonsen stopped them:

‘That’s enough. Forensics will take care of the rest. Now all we need to do is to find out which of you killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen.’