The Vanished

CHAPTER 7

As the plane took off from Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport Simonsen thought about Lucy, gazing at the passing clouds as if in search of her image. After a while he put all thoughts of the case aside. The Deputy Commissioner was right: others were quite capable of keeping things together while he was away, and moreover he had meticulously instructed Pauline Berg during the course of the morning. Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, waking again only when the stewardess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder with a reminder for him to fasten his safety belt as the plane prepared for landing.

Only once during the conference did he receive word about the case. It was in a lunch break and he was relaxing in the hotel’s giant jacuzzi after the morning’s exertions, flanked by an Argentinian and a Korean. He’d put his mobile down on the edge of the pool behind him in case the Countess happened to call. When it vibrated he couldn’t reach it, but one of the ubiquitous staff was swiftly at hand, dashing forward and holding out the phone in time for him to answer. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no connection. He said his name into the receiver a couple of times in forlorn expectation before giving up with a sigh. The Argentinian at his side uttered something incomprehensible and pointed at his phone. Simonsen made to hand it to him, only for the man to shake his head, a gesture that was accompanied by further pronouncements in Spanish. The Korean translated for him without opening his eyes:

‘You got text. No phone call. Text.’

Simonsen loathed text messaging and had forbidden his staff from ever communicating with him in such a childish manner. Even Anna Mia respected his stance, though she found it silly. With some difficulty he managed to open the message. It was from Pauline Berg:

Hi Simon. Hope you’re enjoying the ‘conference’:) Arne and I are at the big crisis meeting. Totally meaningless, be glad you’re away. Report in from Swedes. Lucy D was never there. Do you want more info now? Loads of time here.

He replied with a yes that took him several minutes to type and send. Thirty seconds later a second text came in:

The Swedes conducted perfect investigation in 1969. Tent put up in depths of forest. No one wld ever spend night there. Too far from road and habitation. No sign of normal activity in tent. Only unrolled sleeping bag, rucksack still packed. More in a bit…

He waited, unsure as to whether he needed to reply. Shortly afterwards, her next text arrived:

Twelve brand new Swedish 10-kronor notes in her wallet. Traced to bank in Copenhagen! No Swedish coins. No fprints on notes. Not even her own! Technology re prints on paper new at time though.

This time he simply waited, and another thirty seconds passed as he’d anticipated.

Postcard pic from Esbjerg. Written by her but sent with Swdsh stamp from Orsa. Nothing about arriving Sweden, only that she was heading to Nth Cape to see midnight sun. Stamp (commemorative, Vasa warship) sold only by block. Rest of block not found among effects.

Simonsen smiled at the Argentinian who was unashamedly following his correspondence, though what he might be gleaning from it was another matter entirely.

Forgot to say UK sending orgnl postcd plus othr stuff to Gurli (Arne called her that not me):) More indicatns Lucy D never got to Swdn. But signature on report most compelling. You’ll nvr believe it! Guess!

He swore under his breath and fumbled his way through a No. A moment later he found himself staring at the name of Scandinavia’s most famous crime investigator, a police officer whose reputation extended throughout the world. The Argentinian was quick to acknowledge the fact, jabbing a finger at Simonsen’s display and slapping the flat of his other hand against the water in delight:

‘Es mi hero grande. Un hombre fantastico.’

The Korean opened an eye, and Simonsen commented with pride:

‘I just received a message from a legend.’

The man nodded almost imperceptibly and closed his eye again.

‘Lucky you.’

The jaunty voice of the stewardess informed the passengers over the tannoy that the plane would be landing at Kastrup Airport in approximately thirty minutes. The weather in Copenhagen was chilly and windy, the temperature around twelve degrees Celsius.

Konrad Simonsen dozed, but the announcement, along with a few jolts of turbulence, made him stir. He rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window. Below lay a thick, grey blanket of cloud, obliterating all sight of land. He was feeling well, and pleasantly at ease. He hadn’t given the postman case much thought at all in Bulgaria. Rita neither, for that matter: his flashbacks seemed to have abated, a fact he rather regretted. After all, they had been through a lot together, good times as well as bad, in an age with which he had been at odds. Then and now. Chilly and windy, wasn’t that what the stewardess had said? No weather for a girl in an Afghan coat.

A cold wind blew through the streets of Copenhagen and whistled in the gateway. Rita was freezing. She stood up against the wall, teeth chattering. Konrad Simonsen glanced at the door leading to the back stairs, its green paintwork in flakes. A messenger boy was lugging fuel up to the top floor, a hectolitre of coke per sack, one at a time slung across his shoulders. The boy was skinny, the weight of his burden unsteadying him as he stepped through the gateway towards the stairs. His delivery bike was parked outside. He still had two sacks to go.

Simonsen and Rita weren’t due to knock on the door for another fifteen minutes. At eleven o’clock precisely, not a minute sooner or later. He had spoken to the woman on the phone and she’d been quite clear about that. The woman. The backstreet abortionist. They’d spoken for less than half a minute, and yet Konrad Simonsen disliked her intensely. Her Danish had been poor, interspersed with words he hadn’t understood. Perhaps that was the source of his animosity. Yes, that was probably it.

Finding the money had been easy. He’d been prepared to sell his TV, to dig into his savings and, if needs be, to approach the bank about a loan. He was on a regular income and could see no obvious hindrance. But none of these options proved necessary. Without her knowledge, three of Rita’s student friends from the School of Architecture had collected the money for her, at the halls where she lived as well as in the school itself. Solidarity was no empty word in such circles, and in less than a week they’d reached the amount she needed. Most of those who chipped in had no idea who Rita was. Nor had the collectors gone into any detail as to the reason for the collection; it had been enough for them to say that one of their comrades was in dire straits. And yet the hat had seldom been passed round in vain: who was going to miss ten kroner, anyway? The four thousand an illegal abortion cost was soon raised.

Konrad Simonsen and Rita went through the door and up the back stairs, she in front, he bringing up the rear, his mind full of horror stories about dirty knitting needles, syringes injecting soap solutions into the womb, the use of large doses of potentially lethal quinine. Rita knocked. Three times, followed by a pause, then three times again. The performing of an illegal abortion was punishable by law, carrying a term of up to eight years’ imprisonment. It was not a matter to be taken lightly.

The woman who opened the door and led them though the narrow kitchen into the living room fully lived up to Konrad Simonsen’s prejudices: middle-aged, small and plump, with Slavic features and a look of avarice in her dark, almost black eyes. They sat down and the woman demanded payment. Rita handed her an envelope which she tore open greedily, counting the notes twice. As she did so, Simonsen studied her grubby nails. He turned his head and looked at Rita. Her face was pale. Resolutely, he stood up, snatched the money from the woman’s hands and dragged Rita away from the place.

They adjourned to a cafeteria to discuss the situation. They could give the child up for adoption if she – they – didn’t want to keep it. She refused, rejecting any other suggestion than abortion. He promised to make enquiries for another abortionist, though he had no idea how to proceed. Backstreet abortionists didn’t exactly advertise in the phone book. Connections were required, and he had none. But before long the issue had resolved itself.

A couple of days later – at least, that’s how he remembered it, though it might easily have been a week or more – he was called out to a gassing. November and December was peak season for suicides, one of the most popular methods being to turn on the gas and simply lie down in the kitchen to await the end. It was an effective, albeit devilish way of shuffling off the mortal coil. If the neighbours didn’t smell gas in time, a single spark could turn a whole building into an inferno. He’d seen it happen twice and heard of many more instances besides. In this case, as in most, the suspicions of a downstairs neighbour had thankfully been aroused. The flats on the same stairway and those adjacent were evacuated and the fire brigade had gone in. Windows and doors were opened, those that stuck were smashed.

Konrad Simonsen sat on the top step outside the main door, half sheltered from the wind. The police had been called as a matter of routine and he was expected to keep the peace while the firemen did their bit, and later, when the ambulance crew carried the dead body out, to hold nosy onlookers at bay. But there was no one there to disturb the peace, no one to be held at bay. So he had sought shelter from the cold while waiting impatiently until the firemen finished and he could get back to the station and warm himself up with a cup of hot coffee.

A person approached and Simonsen looked up at him. The man was in his early forties, with sharply defined features, an intelligent look in his eyes and an air of authority that prompted Konrad Simonsen to get to his feet. For a brief moment, the man considered him without concealing the fact that he didn’t care for what he saw. Then he reached his hand into the inside pocket of his sheepskin and produced his police badge, holding it briefly in the air for Simonsen to see before putting it back in his pocket and rebuttoning his coat.

‘Make sure you and your girl are ready tomorrow at yours. I’ll pick you up around midday.’

He held up his hand, the palm facing Simonsen:

‘No questions.’

And with that he left. Konrad Simonsen trotted after him, astonished.

‘What about the money? We’ve only got four thousand kroner. Where are you going to take us anyway? I need to know. And how did you know we…’

The man stood still and cut him off.

‘To a hospital, of course. And it’s free. I saw you go up to that quack. We’re watching her in connection with something bigger. The rest doesn’t concern you. Now get back to work before I report you for dereliction of duty. And while we’re at it, don’t let me catch you sitting down on the job again. We’re police, not an OAP club.’

The man kept his word. At twelve the next day he pulled up outside Konrad Simonsen’s place in his Opel Record. He said a polite hello to Rita and nodded curtly to Simonsen before ushering them both on to the back seat. He remained silent as he drove. They headed south along the Gammel Køge Landevej to Køge, eventually arriving at the hospital there. He drove slowly past A &E, turning off by some bike sheds before following a narrow lane barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass, and then parking on a lawn in front of a low building. He sounded the horn once before turning round and instructing Rita in a kind voice:

‘You’re bleeding, rather considerably, and irregularly.’

Rita interrupted:

‘But I’m not…’

‘No, like I said, it’s irregular. In a minute, a woman will come out and collect you. She’s my sister and she’s a consultant here in the Gynaecological Department. She’ll give you a D &C, out-patient. We’ll be waiting here again at ten o’clock. Understood?’

Rita understood, and thanked him. The man added:

‘My sister doesn’t care for present-day informalities. Address her as Doctor.’

Five minutes later Rita was duly collected and Konrad Simonsen was left alone with the man, whose friendliness at once evaporated.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of a condom, you bloody idiot?’ he growled.

It was the first bollocking he ever received from Kasper Planck. But far from the last.

Subsequently, Rita gave back the money that had been collected, which presented the students with something of a problem. Who was to have it? After prolonged debate, the field was narrowed down to two options: an organisation that supported the military junta in Greece, and one that was active in the struggle against Francisco Franco’s oppressive fascist regime in Spain. Meetings were held, in groups and larger assemblies, and the matter was still the subject of heated discussion in the halls of residence after the Christmas break. Eventually, the junta won out. Konrad Simonsen’s suggestion, the Mother’s Aid organisation, fell on deaf ears.

In the arrivals hall at Kastrup, Simonsen was met by the Countess. It had been almost a fortnight since they’d last seen each other, and their reunion was warm indeed. She gave him a big kiss for the little figurine he’d brought home for her, and another for the bunch of flowers that had greeted her when she got back from Esbjerg. Simonsen sent a kind and grateful thought to Maja Nørgaard and willingly took the credit for her gift.

‘Arne, Pauline and Klavs are all ready back at HS if you want to have a meeting today,’ said the Countess. ‘But tomorrow’s fine if you’re tired after the journey.’

He wasn’t tired at all. In fact, he hadn’t felt so relaxed in years. At least, that’s how it seemed. She smiled.

‘Right, let’s get going then. There’ve been quite a few developments in that case of yours while you’ve been away.’

Simonsen sat, tanned and full of expectation, flanked by the Countess and Pauline Berg, as Arne Pedersen conducted the meeting in his own office. At the rear of the room, Malte Borup ran Pedersen’s computer.

Pedersen himself appeared nervous, and Simonsen was surprised by the fact. Arne had run countless meetings like this and had steered any number of briefings during ongoing investigations. Moreover, with the exception of Klavs Arnold, all five of his audience were long-time colleagues, and Arnold himself was affable enough. Perhaps Pauline Berg was playing up again. He hadn’t had the chance to ask the Countess about her on their way in to Police HQ.

‘First, let me say welcome back, Simon. I hope you had a pleasant and fruitful time down there.’

Simonsen replied briefly: the trip had been beneficial indeed. At the same time, he noted that Pedersen had difficulty looking him in the eye. Simonsen’s puzzlement mounted as Pedersen spent far too long assuring him that he categorically was not in the process of taking over the investigation into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s killing. Certainly not, on the contrary! All they’d done while Simonsen had been away was to collate the information he’d already gathered with some new findings that had come up in the meantime. He felt compelled to stress the fact, which he then did, several times, waffling his way through the same rubbish almost from the beginning again. Fortunately, Klavs Arnold interrupted. The man from Jutland turned to Simonsen and explained:

‘It’s still your investigation, but we need to stoke it up a bit. The way things are, we’re looking at a double murder inquiry, so the expectation is that you’ll involve the rest of us and seek other resources at your disposal, too. That’s from upstairs to Arne, and quite reasonable, too, if you ask me.’

Arne Pedersen confirmed this was indeed the case, albeit rather more diplomatically. He looked at Simonsen and after a slight pause received the answer everyone was hoping for.

‘That’s fine by me, as long as I’m still in charge. I’m not having you vetoing me, Arne. And if you want to be in on the investigation, I’m your boss and not the other way round.’

It was quickly agreed, and Pedersen’s nerves evaporated just as swiftly.

‘We’ve borrowed Klavs Arnold for a while. There’s the Esbjerg link, and he’s the expert there. Moreover, as you can see, I’ve had some new equipment installed. A smartboard, to be exact, computer screen and whiteboard all in one. Like the one in the big conference room, only not quite as advanced. Malte’s running it for us today, I’ve not had time to familiarise myself with it yet.’

A collective snigger went up as Malte clicked a photo of himself on to the screen the instant Pedersen mentioned his name. The mood became more serious when it was replaced by one of Lucy Davison.

Lucy Selma Davison was born on 20 April 1952 in Liverpool. Her father George was now retired from his job as a fitter, her mother Margaret had worked as a waitress. There were two other children, Lucy’s younger brother and sister. The girl had left home on 28 May 1969, leaving a brief, uninformative note. Following the recent approach from Copenhagen, Merseyside Police had resumed enquiries into her disappearance, albeit discreetly and without the knowledge of her kin. Lucy Davison had not returned home in the intervening period, and police believed there was nothing else to suggest that anyone in the UK had heard from her in the forty years or so that had passed since her disappearance.

Arne Pedersen went on:

‘We know nothing about why she might have wanted to run away, but a reasonable guess would be that she was gripped by the general urge of young people at the time to liberate themselves from the constraints of traditional norms and values. She lived in the suburbs and came from a Catholic home, and I’m sure a city that produced the Beatles had more to offer.’

All they knew for certain was that Lucy Davison had been in Harwich on 14 June 1969. Most probably she arrived in Esbjerg on 16 or 17 June. According to her postcard, she was heading to northern Norway to see the midnight sun. In Esbjerg she made contact with six pupils from class Three Y of the Brøndbyøster Gymnasium who had got together in a summer house to revise for the last subject of their final exams, oral maths, scheduled for Friday 20 June.

Arne Pedersen took a gulp of water and the Countess interjected for Simonsen’s benefit:

‘We call them the Gang of Six.’

He nodded, though he didn’t care for the name, finding it vaguely accusatory and therefore liable to lead them towards the wrong conclusions. Pedersen continued:

‘Our theory is that Lucy Davison died in that summer house and that our Gang of Six concealed the body. Two of them then drove to Lycksele in Sweden, which is in the Västerbotten region, about a thousand kilometres from Malmö as the crow flies. Some way outside the town they put up her tent in the forest. Before they got to Lycksele, however, about halfway there, they stopped off in Orsa and sent her postcard. There are three things in particular that we still haven’t a clue about. How did she die? What happened to her body? And where is this summer house? Any questions?’

He looked at Konrad Simonsen, who had a couple, at least.

‘Are her parents still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘I assume we know the identities of all the members of this Gang of Six?’

‘We do. I’ll get to that in just a minute.’

‘What about the other pupils in Three Y? Do we know where they are today?’

‘We haven’t looked into that. What do you want them for?’

To everyone’s astonishment, Klavs Arnold interrupted:

‘He’s right, you know. We’ve only got one shot at those bastards.’

‘I’m not with you,’ said Pauline Berg.

The Countess butted in:

‘If we don’t get a really good idea about this Gang of Six, what they were like in their school days, then we won’t have a chance when it comes to assessing their stories once we interview them as adults. Now I see why I spent hours going through their useless essays as well as the school magazine from nineteen sixty-seven to sixty-nine while you were relaxing in mud baths by the Black Sea, Simon. You might have told me.’

He begged to differ.

‘How did I know you were reading their essays? I’m not a mind reader. Did you come up with anything?’

Within a second everyone was talking at once and Arne Pedersen sat there like an idiot, not knowing whether he should involve himself in the debate, wait until it was over or ask for quiet. Malte Borup solved the issue on his behalf. A silent-movie speech caption appeared on the screen: Shut up and listen to Arne. It was ambulance siren, however, that cut most effectively through the babble. Everyone fell silent at once, and Pauline Berg put her hands to her ears.

Pedersen sent Malte a look of gratitude before he carried on as though nothing had happened:

‘I’ll put a couple of men on the rest of the class, Simon. OK?’

‘OK, but data only. No contact. We’ll do that ourselves.’

‘Fine. Let’s move on to the photos.’

There seemed little doubt that Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had taken these himself. He appeared only in one, a group photo most likely taken with a self-timing release. Moreover, the negatives had been found in his possession. In contrast to the postman, Lucy Davison appeared in all twelve photos, though conceivably there had been others from which she was absent and which Kramer Nielsen had discarded. It was a reasonable assumption, and supported by the technical evidence indicating that he had taken images of her face from the twelve photos he’d retained in order to produce his posters. And yet they could in no way be certain that all those involved had been captured on Kramer Nielsen’s film, that the Gang of Six was not a Gang of Seven or maybe even more. Conceivably, another member might well have avoided being photographed, for whatever reason, perhaps because he or she didn’t like having their picture taken, or because Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had omitted to photograph them, regardless of whether Lucy Davison was in the frame or not. But it didn’t seem likely, even if they couldn’t eliminate the possibility entirely.

Arne Pedersen gulped down another mouthful of water, and this time his audience refrained from interrupting. He cleared his throat.

‘The photographs tell us a number of things, not least the identities of our Gang of Six. We already have a small amount of knowledge about them, and more information will be coming in. We know Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, of course, and then there’s this guy here, though we needn’t waste much time on him.’

Malte Borup changed the image on the screen. A spotty-faced kid with big ears and a daft grin on his face appeared instead.

‘His name is Mouritz Malmborg.’

Pauline Berg sniggered, apparently without reason. Pedersen looked at her in surprise.

‘What’s funny, Pauline?’

‘Sorry. It’s just… Mouritz Malmborg… the name and the way he looks. The poor lad never stood a chance, did he?’

She sniggered again.

She was right. Mouritz Malmborg’s time on earth was short and he died in 1973 after crashing his moped. At the time, he was a biology student at Aarhus University. Arne Pedersen suggested they set him aside and focus on those who were still alive.

The image on the screen changed again. This time a girl appeared, plump and dull-looking.

‘She’s got a bit of meat on her, hasn’t she?’ Pauline commented.

No one said anything, though the Countess grimaced and flashed her a look of annoyance.

Hanne Brummersted had graduated from medical school in 1977 and gone on to do her doctoral dissertation in 1982 on the subject of chromosomal defects. At present she was a consultant in the department of Clinical Genetics at Herlev Hospital, resident in Roskilde and divorced. She’d had her children late, two girls now fifteen and eighteen. The police had nothing on file about her and her financial situation seemed to be sound.

Next, please, Malte. Another girl, this one with somewhat irregular features and sporting a pair of imperious horn-rimmed glasses. Arne Pedersen consulted his notes.

‘Helena Brage Hansen. No further education, as far as we know. A Norwegian citizen these days, living in Hammerfest. Unmarried, with various jobs, a tourist guide in the summer season. Financial standing as yet unknown, and we’re unsure if she’s known to police up there either. We’ve asked them to get a move on with that. Last one now, Malte, if you don’t mind.’

This time, two images appeared. A boy with a pleasant face and a bright smile, displaying white teeth. Next to him a girl, pale and sickly-looking.

‘I’ve put them together because they’re married. They weren’t at the time, of course. His name is Jesper Mikkelsen, and she’s Pia Muus…’

Pauline Berg snorted disdainfully, but by now Pedersen had had enough.

‘That’ll do, Pauline. It may well be she hasn’t got your looks, but if that bothers you, you can keep it to herself.’

Pauline mockingly gave him the finger and asked a question as if nothing had happened:

‘What’s that he’s got on his face?’

‘A birthmark. Or stork bite, as they say.’

‘Must have been a big stork.’

‘Do you mind if I go on?’

‘Be my guest.’

Pia Muus was now Pia Mikkelsen, and the couple lived in Aalborg. After graduating from the gymnasium school, both had begun studies at Aalborg University, though neither had completed them: they both read Sociology, dropping out after three terms. For a considerable number of years they ran a record shop, Used Records, in the town centre, specialising in LPs from the sixties and seventies. The shop had long since closed down, but their online sales were still a huge success, giving them a turnover of almost four million kroner in the previous tax year. They had no children, and the business meant their financial situation was more than healthy. Police had been called out to domestic disturbances at the couple’s house on several occasions over the years, though neither party had ever gone so far as to press charges, and the reports in each instance stated that it had been a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other. Moreover, there were vague indications of involvement in Aalborg’s drugs and porn circles. On this matter, though, Aalborg Politi couldn’t make up their minds, as they readily admitted, and the fact was the couple had never been charged with anything at all.

Arne Pedersen put down his notes on the table.

‘That was our Gang of Six for you in brief. Any comments?’

Klavs Arnold stuck a finger in the air, in stark contrast to his usual way of going about these things. He even waited until Arne Pedersen indicated it was his turn:

‘Klavs?’

‘Yeah, I’m a bit scared of Malte’s ambulance siren, but what was that about the porn scene in Aalborg? Are we talking brothels, film, what?’

‘Films. All perfectly legal, though. Both of them seem to have an interest in rather young girls. Young and vulnerable. But Aalborg have nothing concrete, so it’s all just speculation as it stands.’

Simonsen got to his feet.

‘Listen here a minute. Malte, have you got a shot with all six of them at once, including the two who are dead, but without Lucy Davison?’

Malte Borup shook his head.

‘Can you do us one on your own computer? It doesn’t matter if it’s a composite.’

The intern nodded this time, and got up and left the room.

While he was away Simonsen stood there staring into space and the others kept quiet so as not to disturb his train of thought. Apart from Klavs Arnold, who at one point muttered an of course to himself, no one said a word. After a few minutes Malte Borup came back and clicked the photo on to the screen. Simonsen sat down again.

‘Pauline, would you tell us what springs to mind, looking at these people?’

She answered hesitantly:

‘Well, six ordinary kids, gymnasium types…’

Simonsen cut her off abruptly.

‘That’s not what I mean. Tell us what you think, your gut feeling. Don’t try to be politically correct about it.’

She blushed slightly. Arne Pedersen was one thing, she could cope with him no trouble. But Simonsen was another matter entirely. She followed his instruction.

‘OK, I know I’m bitchy now, but they’re not exactly lookers any of them, are they? See for yourself. I’m sorry, but they seem like a bunch of losers to me. If that’s all the sixties could come up with, I’m glad I wasn’t born until…’

Simonsen interrupted again:

‘Thanks, Pauline, you’ve made my point.’

‘Which is?’

The Countess provided a tentative interpretation.

‘Which is that we’re dealing with a group of outsiders, and I can support that with some information about Jesper Mikkelsen. The school magazine has this list of nicknames of those graduating from the third year, in which he’s dubbed Yes, yes, yes, yes, Jesper. Apparently, he had a dreadful stutter when he was young.’

Simonsen concluded:

‘We need to know how tight they were. Were they a group or not? And we need to know before we talk to them, if at all possible.’

‘OK, we’ll slog our guts out, day and night.’

Which was Klavs Arnold’s way of saying he thought Simonsen was asking a lot of them…

They took a ten-minute break to get coffee, go to the bathroom or just stretch their legs. Pauline Berg collared Simonsen in the corridor.

‘I know you’ve just got back, but aren’t you going to do anything about that meeting you promised us with Arthur Elvang? The group are getting a bit impatient. I am, too, for that matter.’

The group! He’d been hoping that no longer existed. He replied almost with animosity:

‘And how many people would there be in this group of yours?’

‘There are five of us.’

‘I see. Well, you can tell the group that you’ll be informed of a date later this week. But the group will not be meeting Elvang. It’ll be you and your friend from Melby Overdrev only – and no one else.’

The Countess took over and led the meeting, though remaining seated in her chair as she outlined what had been uncovered with respect to the summer house.

She and Klavs Arnold had been through Esbjerg and its surrounding areas with a fine-toothed comb in search of where Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had stayed on his annual three-day visit in the summer holidays. Eventually, after days of hard graft without a result, they’d found the place. Kramer Nielsen had lodged at the same hostel, the Nørballe Vandrehjem, every year without fail. The first time was as far back as 1980, though no one at the place had any idea what he’d been doing in the area. True to form, he kept himself to himself. And yet he did always rent a bike, and the Countess thought it likely he visited Lucy Davison’s grave. However, none of the town’s florists seemed to know him. If he took flowers with him, he must have picked them himself. They’d also made efforts to find out if Kramer Nielsen met with any of the others from the Gang of Six on his annual trip. Without wishing to put her head on the block, the Countess felt that he had not. Or most certainly not all at once. She turned to Klavs Arnold.

‘Would you like to say something about the house?’

‘No, you go on. Your accent’s so charming.’

‘Well, in that case I will, but there’s not a lot more to say really.’

Knowing that Kramer Nielsen had rented a bike during his stays at the hostel, they had considered a radius of about fifteen kilometres to be about right. Unfortunately, the area contained hundreds of summer houses, and since the information they had been able to glean from the photos was so sparse, the police had a mammoth task ahead of them if they were to check each one individually. Moreover, the photos showed no visible landmarks of any kind, meaning a cursory check would be insufficient and closer investigation would be required. And as if that wasn’t enough, the last forty-odd years had changed the face of Esbjerg’s summer house areas considerably. All in all, it was going to take a huge effort and an equally huge amount of resources to go from house to house. The Countess went on:

‘We can’t tell from the vegetation on the photos whether the place is on the coast or further inland, so our best bet is to check whether anyone connected with the Gang of Six owned a summer house in the Esbjerg area. That work is being done as I speak. Another avenue is to have Klavs do the rounds of builders, DIY centres, that sort of thing, and get them to have a look at the sections of the house visible on the photos and see if they can tell us anything from a professional perspective.’

Simonsen interrupted with a question:

‘If we find a likely place, can we make a definitive match using those photos?’

Klavs Arnold replied:

‘Definitely.’

‘So the house-to-house can get us a result as long as people are doing their jobs properly?’

‘I’d say so, yes. It’ll take time, though, and you can’t put just anyone on a job like that. Besides, like the Countess says, it’s going to cost a bomb. Aside from that, it’s a possibility. A distinct possibility.’

‘Could you head up that kind of effort?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do it.’

‘I will, as long as you take any flak from on high.’

‘Of course, no problem. As Arne said at the beginning, we may be dealing with a double murder here, and in that case it’s no use penny-pinching. What would the press say if they got word?’

Arne Pedersen spluttered a few half-hearted words about budget and resources.

Pauline Berg silenced him.

‘You’ve got to admit, Simon’s right, Arne. The tabloids would tear Gurli apart. Imagine the headlines.’

Pedersen capitulated and slid back into the role of running the meeting. The screen now showed a grainy blow-up of a man beaming a broad smile at the camera. His age was hard to gauge.

‘They had a visitor. This guy features on two of our photos and as you can see he’s got Down’s syndrome. We reckon he’s somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. We don’t know if he’s significant for us in any way, whether he was on holiday or local. If he was local he might be able to help us narrow things down with respect to location. There’s also a chance he may have been part of the group, on the trip with the others, but we don’t think that’s likely, partly because of the way he’s dressed. At the moment we’ve got nothing more on him.’

Simonsen cut in:

‘While I remember, let me just say that Kramer Nielsen must have had his hair cut shortly after he got back to Copenhagen, before he got taken on at his dad’s post office. It probably means nothing, but bear that in mind.’

Pedersen followed up.

‘Let me kick something in here as well, before we go on to the last and most interesting of these photos. We’re assuming Jørgen Kramer Nielsen and Hanne Brummersted were the ones who took Lucy Davison’s effects over to Sweden, since both of them missed their final exam. Hanne Brummersted did a resit, Kramer Nielsen didn’t, as we already know. Moreover, she was the only one of the six who’d passed her driving test.’

The Countess had a question:

‘How long do we think they were in Sweden? Lycksele’s quite a way.’

‘At least three days, more likely four, unless she drove at night as well or he took over the wheel despite not having a licence. Hanne Brummersted’s parents had a car, we know that, but we don’t know if she borrowed it. They could have rented one. She was eighteen by then. Anything else?’

There wasn’t.

‘Then let’s move on to our final photo, which we assume was taken with a self-timer. Have a good look at it and see what you make of it.’

Seven teenagers appeared on the screen, standing in a line, outdoors, their arms around each other’s shoulders. All were in various stages of undress. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was far left, Lucy Davison to the right. The three young men were completely naked apart from sandals or shoes. Hanne Brummersted, too, was naked, standing at an awkward angle, twisted away from the camera, one hand covering her genitals. The two other girls were in their pants. Lucy Davison was naked under her Afghan coat, hamming it up for the picture. The others were looking down at the ground. The weather was as disheartening as the photo itself.

It was the Countess who broke the silence.

‘Well, you don’t need a degree in psychology to see that none of them cared for this. Poor kids, they’re so embarrassed, all apart from Lucy Davison. What’s that the guys have got written across their stomachs?’

‘No revision. It’s red paint, we think. And look at Lucy Davison’s index finger.’

‘I don’t blame them for being so shy. I would be, too,’ said Pauline Berg.

Klavs Arnold came back at her in his Jutland drawl:

‘That’s beside the point. The thing is, would you do it?’

‘Not likely, and not in front of a camera.’

‘But they did.’

Simonsen cut in:

‘They ran into a little hippie girl from the big, wide world who welcomed them to the sixties. Did she pay for that with her life? I wonder. Jealousy? Sex games gone wrong? Drugs?’ he mused in a low voice.

‘Mushrooms… maybe they were on magic mushrooms. It was all the rage in those days,’ Pauline Berg persisted.

Klavs Arnold brought her back to earth.

‘They’d have been a bit short on mushrooms in June. Even in those days.’

Now the Countess spoke:

‘I can see there might have been some tension there, and our Gang of Six might well have been marginalised in respect of their classmates, which wouldn’t have helped the situation with Lucy. It’s an interesting angle, and we need to investigate it further, but before we go off half-cock, I have to say I just can’t see six young kids colluding to kill one of their friends like that. If one of them didn’t do it on their own, then two, maybe, by some quirk, at most. Six just doesn’t seem realistic. I’ve read their essays. They might not have been too fortunate in terms of their looks, but on the whole we’re dealing with normal youngsters here. I can’t see them ganging up to kill someone, and if one of them did kill her by accident, the others would never have covered it up. Not once they got home again and thought about it. Something else must have happened. Something we haven’t thought of yet.’

Her reservations triggered nods all round.

Simonsen realised they were all looking at him to pull things together, Pedersen included. He stood up and indicated they were done, at the same time outlining what they were to investigate next.

‘We need to find out as much as possible about this Gang of Six. We’ve got too little to go on yet, if we’re to confront them in person.’

This, too, won widespread support, whereupon Malte Borup conjured forth a finale, this time in the shape of a video clip: Napoleon out of Disney’s Aristocats, repeating himself in a never-ending loop, that he is the leader, and only he can say when it is the end.

Only when the Countess gestured for Malte to wrap it up did he cease the clip and make himself scarce.

After the meeting, Simonsen drove home to Søllerød to unpack. When it was done and he’d got the washing machine started, he went for his run, only to discover he felt heavier than usual. The good food in Bulgaria had left its toll, though no more so than a couple of days’ exercise would undo. The weather was grey and damp, ideal in fact as he didn’t get overheated while jogging and nor did he feel cold while walking. A car slowed down alongside him and he gave it a casual glance. It was a blue Jaguar and he assumed it was going to turn up the driveway of the house was passing. Only when it continued to follow him did he look again and realise he knew the driver.

Helmer Hammer was a man in his mid-forties, an executive of the Administrative Division of the Prime Minister’s Office, a position that placed him securely within the upper echelons of government power. He was also a man capable of concealing his intentions whenever necessary. The car drew to a halt and the passenger window slid down.

‘Jump in. I’ve only got half an hour before I have to be back at work. Welcome home, by the way.’

Perplexed, Simonsen climbed into the car. Helmer Hammer explained:

‘I’ve come to see this gallery of yours everyone’s talking about, and to give you a piece of information.’

Helmer Hammer wandered slowly around Simonsen’s exhibition, allowing himself time to study each poster. When he was finished he asked about the girl. Simonsen told him as much as he knew.

‘Her name’s Lucy Davison. She was from the UK. We’re assuming she’s dead.’

Hammer nodded sadly, as if he’d been expecting him to say just that. After a moment, he spoke.

‘I’ve got this friend, a solicitor in the city, one of the big boys in his field. We play squash together once a week. Last week he told me he’d been contacted by some British officialis. A judge of the ecclesiastical court of some Catholic diocese, if I’m correctly informed. Someone high up, at any rate.’

Simonsen grunted and pricked up his ears.

‘Anyway, this officialis requested that my friend get in touch with the official receiver at the Glostrup probate court and put in a bid for your posters. What’s more, he was to make sure that if anyone else bid more, the receiver would contact my friend before selling them off. My friend’s been invested with the authority of the British diocese to spend a considerable amount of money if necessary to secure them. A rather surprising amount, as a matter of fact.’

‘You mean the Vatican wants my… Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s… posters?’

‘The Vatican? No, I shouldn’t think so. But someone in the Catholic Church does.’

‘Who? And why?’

‘No idea.’

‘Can’t you ask? I’d like to know.’

‘I don’t think I can. The Catholic Church isn’t an organisation that’s open to scrutiny. Besides, I don’t want to. It could cause all sorts of problems if I were to start poking about in matters like that.’

Simonsen accepted the rebuff and asked instead:

‘How much are they prepared to pay?’

‘Not much unless they have to. Were you thinking of keeping hold of them?’

Simonsen replied frankly:

‘Yes. One, at least, but preferably the lot.’

‘I quite understand. They’re beguiling, aren’t they?’

‘You didn’t answer my question: how much are they willing to bid?’

‘Five hundred kroner per poster. Eight thousand five hundred for all seventeen.’

‘Eighteen. There’s eighteen of them. So that’s nine thousand kroner… quite reasonable, I’d say.’

‘They are, as I said, prepared to go somewhat higher if need be. But don’t tell me I can’t count, Simon. There are seventeen in all, and that’s what I’ll be telling my friend. He asked me to find out how many there were. He doesn’t know, you see.’

After Helmer Hammer had gone, Simonsen did a quick tour of his own, staring at each poster in turn and thinking to himself how fortunate staging this little exhibition had turned out to be. Quite apart from the personal pleasure he derived from it – a pleasure he played down and perhaps underestimated, if he were to be frank. Now, though, it had provided him with a tangible piece of information that was by no means uninteresting. He decided to call the priest at a suitable opportunity and, in strictest confidence, ask him what might be going on. He might even invite him up to Søllerød. He still had Madame, of course, his clairvoyant consultant, so all in all it was far too soon to write off his posters as a failure. Or rather, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s posters. Simonsen reminded himself that unfortunately he had only borrowed them. Naturally, they belonged to Kramer Nielsen’s estate. He cast a wry smile towards the door through which Helmer Hammer had left. Only borrowed… all seventeen of them.

For the rest of the week Simonsen’s investigation made little headway. The autumn again turned damp and dismal as police officers methodically sifted through the area surrounding Nørballe Vandrehjem, comparing summer houses with images photocopied from Kramer Nielsen’s photographs. It was a slow and meticulous business, and one that produced nothing in the way of results. Klavs Arnold insisted on a second pass, and then another.

The paper type on which Kramer Nielsen’s posters had been printed was determined with painstaking German rigour. The first work showing Lucy Davison’s image had been created around 1973, a result that had required a very considerable amount of work, all of which now seemed of little consequence. The same was true of a report from Kurt Melsing that concluded, partly on the basis of the cement used to put up the mirrors in the postman’s loft, that the shrine had been erected somewhere round 2000. This was another unastonishing fact that Simonsen, with a shrug, archived in what was now a rather bulging case folder.

Homicide were also hard at work collating information about the Gang of Six. When did they get together? Was there a formal or informal leader? Did they meet up with any regularity? If so, what was the agenda? These were just a few of the many questions that needed answering to provide them with an impression of these young people’s lives since 1969.

Simonsen interviewed their peers from class Three Y of the Brøndbyøster Gymnasium, working outward in an increasing radius from the capital, though without turning up anything that seemed to be of use. It was a long time ago; all he heard were reminiscences of no worth and utterly without relevance to the six in their spotlight. His last interview had been in Ringsted, his next would be in Nykøbing Falster. If he kept on, he’d end up in Detroit and Wellington, which financially was hardly on the cards, double murder or no. Instead, he had to struggle his way through a couple of days on the job with an annoying throat infection and a feeling that the investigation was getting nowhere fast. Eventually, on Monday 27 October, he got in the car and drove to Nykøbing Falster.

The woman who opened the door looked to be around sixty, vocal and angry. No sooner had he introduced himself than he was showered with invective. Swear words were the usual currency here, it seemed.

‘You can stop right now before you get started. Take your stupid badge and shove it! And if you haven’t got a warrant, you can sod off. It’s ten years since he got out, and still you keep coming round bothering him at all hours of the day and night. Clear off!’

Her hands were planted on her hips, forming a defiant obstacle he would do well not to underestimate. A man’s voice called out from inside the house:

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s the police.’

‘Tell them it wasn’t me.’

‘I’ve told him to get lost, but he’s a bit thick, this one. He’s still here.’

The man stepped into the hall. Simonsen recounted events to the Countess when he got back.

‘As I first clapped my eyes on him I thought they were playing tricks on me. But it was him right enough. There he was, the old charmer, charismatic as ever. Pelle Olsen himself. Pelle the Pretender, King of Elmegade.’

‘Oh, I remember. I liked him.’

‘Everyone liked Pelle, even the people he conned. One of the truly great rip-off artists. They said he could charm the money out of any man’s pockets, and the knickers off any woman.’

‘He owes me three hundred kroner, come to think of it.’

‘He must have made an exception in your case.’

Simonsen received a dig in the ribs in return for his jibe.

‘Is he retired now?’

‘Not quite. If you promise not to hit me, I’ll tell you. Right, so he invited me in…’

The mood had quickly turned convivial. Rent-a-gob from the doorstep had morphed into a hospitable hostess with an engaging smile and kindly air. She made lunch while the two men talked about the old days. Simonsen broke all the rules and had a glass of aquavit with his roll-mop herring. Pelle Olsen held forth.

‘I know what you’re going to think, but I’m a certified hypnotist these days. Completely on the level. It cost me three years of hard graft, and that for someone with natural talent. You don’t believe me, do you?’

Simonsen grinned:

‘Of course I do. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone always believes you.’

Olsen’s wife came to his aid. Without the slightest hint of aggression, she explained what their business consisted of.

‘We work with smoking cessation problems, phobias – as long as they’re not serious – and a bit of transcendental. The transcendentals want to get in touch with their past lives and we give them a sound file of what they tell us while they’re in the trance. No more nor less than that. Anything remotely smelling of healing we leave well alone. We’re not interested in conning people who are having a bad time of it. You can believe us or not, but that’s the truth.’

This time Simonsen was more convinced.

‘It’s the way you always were, Pelle. That’s why we liked you. It was the fat wallets you emptied, never the workman’s.’

‘It’s a matter of morals, isn’t it? Do you want to hear about the call-girl scam we worked on two high-court judges? Eighty-four or -five I think it was. You never did get wind of it.’

It took a while before Simonsen was able to get round to why he was there. Olsen’s wife was by no means unwilling to help, but like her classmates her recollections were romanticised and imprecise.

‘It was all happening in those days, wasn’t it? I was in the first year of the gymnasium in nineteen sixty-seven, the summer of love, and Sergeant Pepper, the ultimate LP. In 1968, my second year, it was the student riots in Paris, and in 1969 when we graduated it was the man on the moon and Woodstock. The timing couldn’t have been better, brilliant it was, from start to finish. But then, you’d have been there yourself, wouldn’t you?’

‘I was indeed.’

‘You’ve got to admit, it was the best of times.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know really. Personally, I’m a bit ambivalent. When someone like yourself says Paris 1968, I immediately think Prague Spring. On the other hand, when people moan about pot heads and dropouts, I say peace and love and counterculture. The truth is, I’m at odds with myself.’

Pelle Olsen was immediately on hand.

‘Get yourself on the couch, we’ll get you sorted in no time.’

‘I think I’ll give it a miss, if you don’t mind.’

‘I thought you might say that. I’m not going to pretend to be academic, but one thing I do know is that making money was easy back then. I used to traipse along behind the parrot man and his pram on the pedestrianised street, do you remember him?’

‘Sigvaldi. He sold a book of children’s stories, written by children themselves.’

‘That’s the fella. And I sold beaded bracelets I got for next to nothing in a toy shop in Østerbro, calling them Tibetan handicraft from Lhassakya, the highest-situated monastery in the Himalayas. Trickle-down effect, you could say. Sigvaldi sold his books and I sold my bracelets. People were so unsuspecting in those days. It was like everyone was finding their feet in the new age and no one knew yet what was all right and what was rubbish. I even had a guitar and a wig. I’d go round the student hangouts. I sounded like hell, but they’d be chucking money at me.’

He played air guitar and sang along in a voice that sounded like a pair of squealing brakes:

‘Mum and dad were working-cl-a-a-s…’

The Countess smiled as Simonsen related the story, mostly because he found it so amusing himself.

‘Did she remember anything at all, his wife?’

‘Nothing. When it came to concrete facts she was as blank as all the others I’ve spoken to. None of the names of our Gang of Six even rang a bell, and the photos didn’t help either.’

‘Another flop then. I think you might as well give up on that little project, Simon.’

‘Not just yet. I actually drove down there on another matter, but then I thought I might as well take a chance and see if she was in while I was there. As it happens, she was. After that I went on to Rødby.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ll tell you that later. Just listen for a minute. At Rødby police station I borrowed a computer and looked up Pelle’s website, out of interest while I was waiting. Then I got thinking about what he’d said about finding myself, so on the way back I stopped by again.’

‘You’re not going to tell me you were hypnotised, are you?’

‘You must be joking. But I thought his wife might give it a go.’

Pelle Olsen had given the suggestion some thought before replying:

‘It won’t be cheap. That kind of hypnosis requires the utmost preparation, and of course there’s no guarantee she’ll remember anything, so you may be wasting your money.’

‘I was hoping for a discount.’

‘Of course, Simonsen. Old friends and all that. I can’t go under four thousand, though, that’d be unprofessional. Or two and a half cash in hand? No, wait a minute, that’s not on in your case, I suppose?’

‘Sounds reasonable, but only if you chuck in a jar of those ginseng tablets for nicotine cravings. I stopped smoking not that long ago and I could do with a bit of certified organic homeopathic support. Isn’t that what it says on your website?’

‘On the other hand, Simonsen, I’ll tell you what. I’m so pleased to see you, and you were always so fair in our dealings with each other, let’s say…’

Pelle studied his guest.

‘A thousand kroner?’ Simonsen ventured, then stared at the ceiling, holding his ground.

‘All right, gratis then. How does that sound?’

‘That’s very decent of you.’

‘Not at all. Friends are friends. How about Wednesday afternoon? That’ll give me time to talk the wife round.’

At the police station in Rødby, Konrad Simonsen had overstepped a psychological line he was far from certain he ought to have crossed.

It was to do with Rita’s name. For more than two years of his youth they had been a couple. It had been a period of ups and downs, and at times their relationship had seemed all but over. It didn’t worry him unduly that he had thought so much about her since his operation, occasionally even finding himself daydreaming about her. It had been nice. Or rather, it was nice, and without strings. However, one matter in particular made sure she remained a memory, a voice from his youth, rather than a part of his life again: he could remember only her first name, no matter how hard he racked his brains.

He made no effort to conceal the fact that his errand was private, and yet the duty sergeant of the Rødby Politi ushered him past the counter and into an office.

‘I’ll just need to check your ID again, if that’s all right? And what was it you wanted to do?’

Simonsen pulled out his badge.

‘It’s a personal thing. Nothing that requires preferential treatment.’

‘No problem. What is it you’re looking for?’

‘A woman. I’ve only got a first name… Rita. The surname’s a common-or-garden something-sen. Jensen, Nielsen, Hansen, Petersen, something like that. And she had a funny middle name I’ve forgotten, too. She was arrested for attempted cash smuggling in November or December nineteen seventy-two.’

‘That’s a while since.’

‘I’m afraid so. I’m only interested in her name, though. I’m not bothered about the case itself.’

‘You might just be very lucky indeed. We had two students in last year sorting out our archives. Maybe no one else would give them a job, what do I know? Anyway, they definitely got stuck into all the prehistoric stuff. It’s downstairs in the old basement. I’m not sure, though…’

‘I’ve got three bottles of good claret with me, if that’ll help.’

The sergeant returned after only ten minutes.

‘Easy as pie. Rita Metz Andersen. The intelligence boys at PET stuck their noses in, but the case was dropped.’

The priest came to Søllerød on the Tuesday. It was mid-morning and the sun was out. The day was pleasant: blue skies and a gentle wind playfully tossing the withered leaves that lay here and there in heaps on the residential streets of Konrad Simonsen’s jogging route. He had walked the whole way, ambling in the manner of an elderly gentleman, more than once dragging his feet through the accumulated drifts as he had done as a child. It could hardly be called exercise, but the walk put him in more cheerful mood, and by all accounts that was the sort of thing that prolonged a life such as his. Back home he managed to carry a small, square garden table and a couple of chairs over to his gallery and to fetch his chess set before the priest knocked at the door. The man had biked all the way from Hvidovre and his cheeks bore a healthy flush. They greeted each other and Simonsen was genuinely glad to see him, and told him so. It was mutual, the priest said. The simple truth of the matter was the two men liked each other. The priest took off his jacket and dumped it on Simonsen’s exercise bike.

‘I’m rather intrigued as to what you might have in store for me today, I must admit. You had me completely outmanoeuvred last time.’

The words were spoken quite without bitterness, and Simonsen replied in the same friendly tone:

‘There’ll be no tricks today, I assure you. Like I said on the phone, I thought you might like to have a proper look at Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s posters. And besides that I’ve got a couple of questions for you about them. But then I suppose you’d gathered as much?’

‘Indeed. It’ll be good to have a closer look. I didn’t care to venture further into Jørgen’s loft when I found it, so I’ve only seen them from a distance. I will admit, though, that I did stare for quite some time when we first discovered the place, with my head poking through the trapdoor.’

He jabbed a finger at the table in the middle of the room.

‘A chess player, I see. You people must have run a check on me. It’s been a while since I played.’

‘Second place in the UK university championships in nineteen eighty-five. Not exactly the kind of achievement that comes from sheer luck. That’s why I’ve invited Arne Pedersen over, the detective who interviewed you at Police HQ. He’s a lot better at the game than me. However, he seems to be running a bit late, so you may have to make do with yours truly. Unless you’d prefer to look at the posters first?

The priest sat down and they tossed a coin for white or black. The priest drew white.

‘I didn’t bring a clock. I thought we might chat while we played,’ Simonsen said.

‘Fine by me.’

They began, and the opening moves allowed little time for conversation. As Simonsen had anticipated, the priest was a far superior player, despite Simonsen’s highly defensive and exceptionally cautious strategy. After a dozen or so moves, at which point he was already staring defeat in the eye, he turned to the topic at hand.

‘I hear the church would like to buy the posters. I take it that was your idea?’

The priest moved a pawn before replying:

‘Yes, it was.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘I’ll tell you as soon as they’ve been released and we’ve secured the purchase.’

‘Why not now? Won’t they let you?’

Simonsen responded at once to the priest’s move, the priest himself countering swiftly, then answering Simonsen’s question in a gentle tone.

‘I could, but I think it best to wait.’

‘An officialis. You’re well connected.’

‘It would seem so, yes. But the man’s position as officialis has nothing to do with the case. That’s something else entirely.’

‘You do know the posters won’t be released until my investigation has been completed? That may take some time.’

‘We’re patient people. We don’t mind waiting.’

Arne Pedersen entered the room. He greeted them and apologised for being late, saying his car wouldn’t start. He studied the game for a moment, then placed a hand on Simonsen’s shoulder.

‘You’re in a spot of bother, Simon.’

They made a few more moves before Simonsen had no option but to capitulate and offer his hand in congratulation.

The three men made a leisurely round of the gallery, studying each poster in turn, none of them saying a word to begin with. The priest was meticulous, standing for a long time in front of each image, considering it from every angle. The process took a while, but they were in no hurry. At the fourth poster, Arne Pedersen suddenly spoke, his voice a challenge:

‘D four.’

The priest replied instantly:

‘D five.’

Pedersen was equally swift:

‘Knight to C three.’

Simonsen stepped back. He was way out of his league now: blindfold chess was quite beyond his reach.

The game was over even before they reached the final poster, Pedersen coming out on top. The priest congratulated him without resentment. Simonsen, however, gloated, though was careful not to show it. Pedersen himself seemed unruffled.

They adjourned to the living room for tea or coffee. The priest told them about his social work, and Simonsen and Arne Pedersen waxed lyrical about the Greenland ice cap where they had been together on a case the year before. It was all very pleasant, not least because the two policemen skilfully avoided all mention of their current investigation.

After the priest had gone, Pedersen admitted:

‘He let me win. I’m pretty certain. Don’t you think?’

Simonsen shook his head.

‘I wouldn’t have a clue. I couldn’t keep up.’

‘At the end I had my knight pawn against his rook. He could have got my knight with a straightforward check, but what he did was to go for the pawn and ran straight into a simple fork. Do you want me to show you?’

Simonsen did indeed. They ran through the game and agreed that the priest almost certainly must have lost on purpose. Pedersen was perplexed.

‘Why would he do that?’

‘He didn’t want to win two games on the trot. I think it’s just the way he is,’ said Simonsen.

‘Funny kind of guy, if you ask me.’

‘A very pleasant one, in my opinion. But certainly not a man to be underestimated.’

If the priest was a funny kind of guy, as Arne Pedersen maintained, Konrad Simonsen’s next visitor to the gallery was even funnier. He had talked his clairvoyant consultant, Madame, into coming up to Søllerød. Normally, he went to see her at her place in Høje Taastrup, always bringing her some item pertaining to the case at hand: a piece of clothing, perhaps, or the victim’s wristwatch. This time, however, it was out of the question, since he had nothing at all in his possession that had belonged to Lucy Davison.

He allowed Pauline Berg to see how Madame worked; she had been rather insistent on the point and eventually he had given in to her pestering. She arrived just as Arne Pedersen was leaving. Simonsen noted hat she barely said hello to the man, mustering only a muttered Hi, whereas Simonsen himself was accorded hugs and a big smile to boot. He followed Pedersen back up the path to the gate, asking, as soon as Pauline was out of earshot:

‘Have you two fallen out again?’

Pedersen hesitated.

‘I wouldn’t say fallen out, exactly. It’s just that every time she doesn’t get her way she sulks. I’ve grown immune to it.’

‘What didn’t you let her do?’

‘She wanted your occult lady to help her in that little project of hers, that Juli Denissen thing. I’m hard pressed as it is to finance your little foibles, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fund Pauline’s as well. Especially when there isn’t the semblance of a case.’

He was right. How to enter Madame’s services in the books was always going to be an issue. Not even Simonsen himself cared much for having it written down in black and white that the Homicide Department was spending good taxpayers’ money on spiritualism. He had fiddled a bit with the categories so as not to make Madame’s fee too obvious, and now Arne Pedersen would have to do likewise. However, it was not a subject Simonsen cared to broach. Instead, he said:

‘Odd get-up she’s wearing today as well. Sometimes she outdoes even our Deputy Commissioner.’

Pauline Berg was in a matching grey jacket and skirt that would have suited an elderly accountant. Perhaps in order to compensate for her old-fashioned appearance she had flung a cheap and garish scarf around her neck. Pedersen asked in surprise:

‘What’s wrong with Gurli’s dress sense? The woman’s got style, if you ask me.’

Ten minutes later, Madame arrived in a Mercedes van that had been converted to carry a wheelchair. The driver was her husband, Stephan Stemme, and Konrad Simonsen didn’t care for him. Not many people did, if anyone at all.

From the living-room window, Simonsen and Pauline Berg watched as Stemme got out of the vehicle and gazed towards the house.

‘I hope he’s not thinking of coming in. We’d better go out and get her.’

Outside, Stemme offered his hand in greeting and furnished them with an explanation: his wife had suffered a complicated fracture of the hip and the joint had furthermore become infected after the operation. Now she was unable to walk until the antibiotics had done their job and she’d been back to the hospital for a check-up. The van had been hired for the day and the cost added to the invoice, which he duly handed to Simonsen in an envelope. He went to the rear of the vehicle, opened the doors and manoeuvred a ramp into position with a remote control. With some difficulty he clambered up and wheeled his wife out on to the ramp, carefully secured the wheelchair, then lowered her down, delivering her directly to Simonsen.

He wheeled her into the gallery, he and Pauline having carried her up the steps of the garden path in the wheelchair. The Countess’s property was built on a slope and the annexe was elevated above the main house, so steps were unavoidable.

Madame was a somewhat wizened woman with a toneless voice and a pair of piercing grey eyes that seemed to stare right into whoever she was looking at. Much to Simonsen’s relief, her husband stayed outside in the van. As they’d received her the man had gripped Pauline Berg by the arm and rudely demanded coffee. Pauline had hissed back at him that he could take his grubby hands off her, and as for coffee he could make his own when he got home. Taken aback, he’d immediately beaten a retreat to the van. Madame had failed to react to the scene. Perhaps she was used to it.

Like the other visitors to his gallery, she allowed herself plenty of time. Simonsen and Berg stepped back so as not to disturb her concentration and waited patiently. She reacted to the very first poster. The spirits had apparently made themselves known to her, and she tossed her head in annoyance.

‘Who’s that screaming kid? I can hardly hear myself think!’

For a moment she covered her ears. Then suddenly she gripped the spokes of one of her wheels, spinning herself round and pointing an accusatory finger at Pauline Berg.

‘Get rid of that scarf at once. Get it away, now!’

Pauline scurried out of the room without protest. When she had gone, Madame turned to Simonsen.

‘Where is the eighteenth picture?’

Simonsen ventured a lie.

‘In my bedroom. I’m examining it and having it framed. Do you want me to get it?’

‘A lie! You’re stealing it. Only don’t.’

When Pauline Berg returned, minus her scarf, Madame carried on studying the images on the walls. After a while she spoke.

‘The girl’s name is Lucy. She was from England and now she’s dead. It’s a long time ago, many years. She came to Denmark on the back of a motorcycle. And a boat, a ferry. Esbjerg.’

Simonsen confirmed this and Madame went on:

‘She’s pleased the church is buying her pictures and she’s looking forward to new surroundings, but she thinks it’s all right about the one that’s missing.’

‘What do you mean, the one that’s missing?’ asked Pauline Berg.

Madame was seemingly still annoyed with her for having tried to con her way to assistance by wearing a scarf that had belonged to Juli Denissen. She barked at Simonsen:

‘Tell her to be quiet, Konrad.’

Simonsen gave Pauline a look and hoped she would get the message. Then he turned back to Madame.

‘Why does the Catholic Church want to buy her pictures? Does she know?’

Some moments passed before Madame answered. Her eyelids fluttered, then eventually she spoke.

‘It’s seldom I see them so clearly. How pretty she is. But she’s being coy. Wouldn’t you like to know? is what she says. And with a smile, too.’

Simonsen felt a warmth consume him such as he hadn’t felt in years, and he blushed as Madame went on with the same gravity in her voice:

‘The young women seem to be swarming over you at the moment, Konrad. But perhaps you’re overlooking the most important of them. It will prove fatal.’

After this rather nebulous warning she leaned forward and passed her hand over the poster in front of her and spoke again, searchingly this time.

‘Lucy is buried in black sand. Black Danish sand. Yes, that’s what she’s saying… black sand. She was killed in her tent.’

She paused and stared into space, continuing only after a while.

‘It wasn’t her own tent. She’d borrowed it from her friend. Her friend on the motorbike.’

‘Was she killed by her friend?’ Simonsen asked.

But Madame wasn’t listening. Instead, she spoke softly:

‘She was raped… or, rather… I think she was raped. I’m not quite sure. Attacked, certainly. Sexually abused. But what a mess. Two dead girls and this screaming child as well.’

She wheeled herself back a metre and sat there like some general watching a parade, with remote interest.

‘Listen to the Christian man you don’t like, Konrad. Promise me that.’

‘All right. But how did she die?’

‘I don’t know. I sense a sudden fear. Panic. Dreadful.’

It was the sounds Pauline Berg made that caused Simonsen to spin towards her. She had stiffened in mid-movement and stood there white as a ghost, gurgling as if she were about to vomit. Her wide eyes stared without seeing him, her hands clutching her throat as though she were grappling an assailant. She reached out to him in desperation, pitifully almost. He shouted out: ‘What’s wrong?’ Then: ‘Pauline, what’s the matter? Say something. Do you need an ambulance?’ But Pauline failed to respond.

Madame reassured him.

‘No point in your panicking. Calm down, she won’t die.’

It helped him to know that. And yet it was clear to him that Madame’s seance had to be abandoned immediately. Mercifully, she was in agreement. Pauline needed attention, that much was obvious. He wheeled Madame out of the room, manhandling the wheelchair down the steps in the path and delivering her to her husband before dashing back to the gallery, where he found Pauline sitting huddled up against a wall, knees drawn to her chin, shoulders tightly raised, her whole body twisted into an unnatural knot of tension. Droplets of perspiration glistened on her brow and upper lip. She didn’t respond to his questions. He placed a protective hand on her shoulder, only for her to shuffle away from him as if he were burning hot. He wondered again if he should call an ambulance, but decided to give her the tranquilliser he kept for her in his wallet. He left her for a moment to fetch some water, then almost forced her to swallow the pill. After a while there was some contact again. He could tell from her eyes that she was coming round from her panic and asked cautiously:

‘Is the medicine working?’

She shook her head.

‘What should I do?’

It was simple: she wanted to go home. But he was not to call a doctor, she was adamant about it. Instead, she wanted him to stay with her. She gripped his hand insistently.

‘You mustn’t go. I can’t be on my own. You’ve got to promise.’

He promised not to leave her. It was all he could do. Even though, as far as he could tell, she needed a psychiatrist, or perhaps ought even to be admitted to hospital. But what was he to do when she expressly told him not to call for medical assistance?

In the car on the way she gradually succumbed to exhaustion and her anxiety seemed little by little to fade. In the lift up to her flat she leaned her head against his shoulder, and outside her door she handed him the keys. Her legs buckled and he had to support her as he unlocked the door.

It was the first time he had seen where she lived. The flat was neat, meticulously so, and made him think of a library. He would have expected her to be more untidy. The view from the living-room window was dismal: two concrete blocks of flats the same as the one she lived in, next to the S-train line somewhere between Rødovre and Brøndbyøster, as far as he could make out. He led her into the bedroom, helped her off with her shoes and put her to bed. Again, she made him promise not to go, a snivelling plea and yet unequivocal, and again he promised to stay. She drifted into sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, while he sat at her side on the edge of the bed. In the living room he picked up an armchair and lugged it into the bedroom. He sat down and once more took her hand, then after a while turned on a small TV set on the dresser at the end of the bed, muting the sound, though she would hardly wake up even if he were to let off fireworks.

At one point the Countess rang. They were supposed to be going out to see a film together but now they would have to put it off until some other day. She offered advice: he was to remember to put Pauline on her side, that was important. Then two equally sensible-sounding instructions he failed to take in fully. Besides that, she had little to say apart from suggesting she come and take over, an offer he rejected.

He listened for a long time to the sound of Pauline’s steady breathing while thinking about what Madame had told him. Not about the investigation – he would hold off on that until the morning – but more her comment about young women swarming over him. That, and the fact that he had overlooked the most important one of all. His mind ran through a list of candidates: Lucy, Rita, Anna Mia. Maja Nørgaard perhaps, or Pauline Berg? He glanced at her huddled figure as she lay in the dim light. Who was he overlooking? He racked his brains. The most important of them all. Who was that?

The evening was long, the night even longer.

The hypnosis session displayed a side of Pelle Olsen that Simonsen had never seen before. Olsen had toned down the light-hearted banter of Monday in favour of a more professional demeanour. His wife sat down in an armchair and within minutes was guided into a state of mental relaxation Simonsen could best describe as semi-sleep. Olsen then led her gently back to her time at the gymnasium school as though the forty-odd years that had passed since then were little more than a wink of the eye.

‘Where are you now?’

‘In the classroom. We’ve got maths with Kite.’

‘What class are you in?’

‘Two Y. The coolest class in the school.’

‘What day is it?’

‘Thursday the fourteenth of March nineteen sixty-eight.’

Pelle Olsen turned to Simonsen and spoke softly.

‘I’m going to chat with her for a while about what she’s experiencing. You can ask questions afterwards, but do it through me. Is that all right?’

Simonsen confirmed with a nod, sceptical as to whether or not he was being taken for a ride.

‘Can you ask her if there are any animals in the class? Pets, I mean.’

If Olsen felt he was being tested, it didn’t show.

‘Are there any animals in the classroom?’

‘No, Uffe’s ill, so Silver isn’t here.’

Simonsen was satisfied, and Olsen went on.

‘Kite, is that your teacher?’

‘Henderson, the principal. We call him Mr Kite because of his hobby. He’s a champion kite-flyer. That’s why those Japanese are here. He’s a big name in Japan.’

She giggled like a teenager.

‘It might even be true, for all we know. He goes on about it sometimes, but apart from that he’s nice enough. They say he’s a hard examiner, but I don’t believe it. They say that about everyone. The third years, I mean. To put the wind up us.’

‘Tell me about the Japanese.’

‘They’re not here today, they’re off on a trip to Elsinore. Kite’s organised their whole stay. They go to some kind of circus school in Japan where they have acrobatics as well as ordinary lessons like us. There’s seven of them, six boys and a girl, and they’re staying with some of us while they’re here. We like them, even if their English is really poor and they’re hard to talk to. On Saturday we’re putting on a show with them for anyone who wants to come.’

An expectant smile appeared on her face.

‘Are you looking forward to that?’

‘It’s going to be great. You should see them! They jump about on trampolines and juggle with flaming torches at the same time, and you’d think there was no such thing as gravity. It’s all to honour Kite, so he and his family are going to be on the front row. We’re performing, too, at least some of us are. Dancing “Les Lanciers”, but only three of the tours: “La Victoria”, “Les Moulinets” and “Les Lanciers” itself.’

‘Will you be dancing?’

She giggled again.

‘Of course, my horse!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s just something we say, too much sometimes. You get sick of it. It’s because of our English teacher. He takes us for music, as well. He says it all the time: Of course, my horse. We just started copying him. At one point we actually started calling him Horse, but it never caught on, so now we just call him by his first name, Henry. Not all the teachers let us do that, but Henry’s not that old. He has us for dance practice, “Les Lanciers”, and on Saturday he’s going to be doing a Viennese waltz with his wife. They go to ballroom dancing, competitively. They’re on after us.’

Pelle Olsen gave Simonsen a nod.

‘Ask her if she can see Jørgen.’

She gave an indifferent shrug and replied before her husband spoke.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. What’s there to say? He’s just there, that’s all. He’s one of the Hearts.’

‘The Hearts? What’s that? Are you one of them, too?’

She snorted disdainfully.

‘The Lonely Hearts Club. That’s too corny, so we just call them the Hearts instead. Helena’s the one who got them together. Jørgen, Jesper, Hanne, Pia, and two or three more from the other classes. Mouritz is one, when he’s here. Mouritz Nitwit, we call him.’

‘What do they do, the Hearts?’

‘Nothing, they just stick together. I think they wish they were like the rest of us, only we couldn’t be bothered with them.’

‘Why not?’

There was a pause before she replied.

‘Helena’s weird, nobody likes her. She’s going to America for three weeks because she won some stupid competition the American Embassy ran. We write USA OUT on her desk and pick on her because her friends took a hiding from the Viet Cong in the Tet New Year Offensive. Holy Helena. I can’t stand her! We call her the Virgin Helena, too, and she goes really red in the face, because it’s true. She’s ugly, and all dried-up. She’s not stupid, though, I’ll give her that.’

‘What about the other Hearts?’

She ignored the question and carried on, rather more hectically than before, and her husband gestured to Simonsen to indicate he would now take over again.

‘She’s got her own problem page with all sorts of smarmy stuff about the kids of today, and her hair’s always in a bowl cut. She wears a bra, too, but her boobs are like a pair of egg-cups. In PE once we hid her bra, but she had a spare in her bag!’

‘Can you tell us about the others?’

Again, she failed to answer the question. Simonsen sensed something wasn’t quite right. Her voice had become too hurried. With a thumb and index finger, Pelle Olsen indicated there wasn’t much time left.

‘Her dad came to the school play in a uniform with all sorts of medals and what have you. It was so embarrassing, we all cringed. Even my parents were better, even if they are pissed half the time. Then, when we were onstage…’

Olsen interrupted, shaking her gently to wake her. She sat there for a moment, as if in a daze, then spoke.

‘That was horrible, Pelle. That last bit. I don’t like it. I told you I wouldn’t.’

‘You’re all right, love, I’m here.’

‘I’m not doing it again. We knew what would happen.’

Olsen put his arms around her and waved his guest away. Simonsen took his leave. In the car, he wrote down some notes, and on the way home he couldn’t make up his mind if he was happy or sad.