Peter saw that Arne was about to make a run for it. He drew his gun. “Lie on the ground facedown with your hands behind your back.”
Arne looked worried rather than frightened. In a moment of insight, Peter saw that it was not the gun Arne was scared of, but something else.
Arne said in a challenging tone, “Are you ready to shoot me?”
“If necessary,” Peter said. He leveled the gun threateningly, but in truth he was desperate to take Arne alive. Poul Kirke’s death had dead-ended the investigation. He wanted to interrogate Arne, not kill him.
Arne smiled enigmatically, then turned and ran.
Peter held his gun arm straight and sighted along the barrel. He aimed at Arne’s legs, but it was impossible to shoot accurately with a pistol, and he knew he might hit any part of Arne’s body, or none. But Arne was getting farther away, and Peter’s chances of stopping him were diminishing with every split second that passed.
Peter pulled the trigger.
Arne kept running.
Peter fired again repeatedly. After the fourth shot, Arne seemed to stagger. Peter fired again, and Arne fell, hitting the ground with the heavy thud of a dead weight, rolling onto his back.
“Oh, Christ, no, not again,” Peter said.
He ran forward, still pointing the gun at Arne.
The figure on the ground lay still.
Peter knelt beside it.
Arne opened his eyes. His face was white with pain. “You stupid pig, you should have killed me,” he said.
Tilde came to Peter’s apartment that evening. She was wearing a new pink blouse with flowers embroidered on the cuffs. Pink suited her, Peter thought. It brought out her femininity. The weather was warm, and she seemed to have nothing on under the blouse.
He showed her into the living room. The evening sun shone in, lighting the room with a weird glow, giving a fuzzy edge to the furniture and the pictures on the walls. Inge sat in a chair by the fireplace, gazing into the room with the expressionless look she always wore.
Peter drew Tilde to him and kissed her. She froze for a moment, surprised, then she kissed him back. He stroked her shoulders and her hips.
She pulled back and looked in his face. He could see desire in her eyes, but she was troubled. She glanced at Inge. “Is this all right?” she said.
He touched her hair. “Hush.” He kissed her again, hungrily. They became more passionate. Without breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her soft breasts. He stroked the warm skin.
She pulled away again, breathing hard. Her breasts rose and fell as she panted. “What about her?” she said. “What about Inge?”
Peter looked at his wife. She was regarding the two of them with a blank stare, showing no emotion at all, as always. “There’s no one there,” he told Tilde. “No one there at all.”
She looked into his eyes. Her face showed compassion and understanding mingled with curiosity and lust. “All right,” she said. “All right.”
He bent his head to her naked breasts.
PART THREE
17
The quiet village of Jansborg was creepy by twilight. The villagers seemed to go to bed early, so the streets were deserted and the houses dark and still. Harald felt as if he were driving through a place where something dreadful had happened, and he was the only person who did not know about it.
He parked the motorcycle outside the railway station. It did not look as conspicuous as he had feared, for next to it was a gas-powered Opel Olympia cabriolet, with a wooden structure like a shed over its rear roof to house the giant fuel bag.
He left the bike and set off to walk to the school in the gathering darkness.
After his escape from the guards on Sande he had got back into his old bed and slept heavily until midday. His mother woke him, fed him a vast lunch of cold pork and potatoes, pushed money into his pocket, and pleaded with him to tell her where he was living. Weakened by her affection and his father’s unexpected mellowing, he had told her he was staying in Kirstenslot. However, he had not mentioned the disused church, for fear she would worry about him sleeping rough, and he had left her with the impression he was a guest at the big house.
Then he had set out to drive across Denmark from west to east again. Now, in the evening of the following day, he was approaching his old school.
He had decided to develop the film before going to Copenhagen to hand it over to Arne, who was hiding out at Jens Toksvig’s house in the Nyboder district. He needed to be sure that his photography had been successful, and there were clear images on the roll. Cameras could go wrong, and photographers made mistakes. He did not want Arne to risk his life traveling to England with a film that turned out to be blank. The school had its own darkroom, with all the chemicals necessary for processing. Tik Duchwitz was secretary of the Camera Club, and had a key.
Harald avoided the main gates and cut across the neighboring farm to enter the school via the stables. It was ten o’clock. The younger boys were already in bed, and the middle school was getting undressed. Only the seniors were still about, and most of them were in their study-bedrooms. It was graduation day tomorrow, and they would be packing for home.
Threading through the familiar cluster of buildings, Harald fought the temptation to skulk furtively along walls and dash across open spaces. If he walked naturally and confidently he would appear, to the casual glance, to be a senior boy heading for his room. He was surprised at how difficult it was to fake an identity that had been genuinely his only ten days ago.
He saw no one on his way to the Red House, the building where Tik and Mads had their rooms. There was no way he could conceal himself as he climbed the stairs to the top floor: if he met someone, he would be recognized instantly. But his luck held. The upper corridor was deserted. He hurried past the rooms of the housemaster, Mr. Moller. He quietly opened Tik’s door and stepped inside.
Tik was sitting on the lid of his suitcase, trying to close it. “You!” he said. “Good God!”
Harald sat beside him and helped him snap the catches closed. “Looking forward to going home?”
“No such luck,” Tik said. “I’m being exiled to Aarhus. I’ve got to spend the summer working in a branch of the family bank. It’s my punishment for going to that jazz club with you.”
“Oh.” Harald had been looking forward to having Tik’s company at Kirstenslot, but now he decided there was no need to mention that he was living there.
“What are you doing here?” Tik asked when they had the suitcase shut and strapped.
“I need your help.”
Tik grinned. “What now?”
Harald took the small roll of thirty-five millimeter film from his trousers pocket. “I want to develop this.”
“Why can’t you take it to a shop?”
“Because I would be arrested.”
Tik’s grin faded and he became solemn. “You’re involved in a conspiracy against the Nazis.”
“Something like that.”
“You’re in danger.”
“Yes.”
There was a tap at the door.
Harald dropped to the floor and slid under the bed.
Tik said, “Yes?”
Harald heard the door opening, then Moller’s voice saying, “Lights out, please, Duchwitz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The door closed, and Harald rolled out from under the bed.
They listened while Moller progressed along the corridor, saying good night to each boy. They heard his footsteps returning to his own rooms, then his door closing. They knew he would not reappear until morning, unless there should be an emergency.
Keeping his voice low, Harald said to Tik, “Have you still got the key to the darkroom?”
“Yes, but first we’d have to get into the labs.” The science building was locked at night.
“We can break a window at the back.”