“Why not phone?”
“I don’t want to give him the chance to run away.”
Tilde looked troubled. “What will you say to the parents? Don’t you think they might blame you for what happened to Arne?”
“They don’t know I was there when Arne shot himself. They don’t even know I arrested him.”
“I suppose not,” she said dubiously.
“Anyway, I don’t give a shit what they think,” Peter said impatiently. “General Braun hit the roof when I told him that the spies may have photographs of the base on Sande. God knows what the Germans have there but it’s deadly secret. And he blames me. If that film leaves Denmark, I don’t know what he’ll do to me.”
“But you’re the one who uncovered the spy ring!”
“And I almost wish I hadn’t.” He dropped his cigarette end and stamped on it, grinding it with the sole of his shoe. “I’d like you to come to Sande with me.”
Her clear blue eyes gave him an appraising look. “Of course, if you want my help.”
“And I’d like you to meet my parents.”
“Where would I stay?”
“I know a small hotel in Morlunde, quiet and clean, that I think would suit you.” His father owned a hotel, of course, but that was too close to home. If Tilde stayed there, the entire population of Sande would know what she was doing every minute of the day.
Peter and Tilde had not spoken about what had happened in his apartment, even though it was six days ago. He was not sure what to say. He had felt driven to do it, to have sex with Tilde in front of Inge, and Tilde had gone along with it, sharing his passion and seeming to understand his need. Afterward, she had seemed troubled, and he had driven her home and left her with a good-night kiss.
They had not repeated it. Once was enough to prove whatever he had to prove. He had gone to Tilde’s apartment the following evening, but her son had been awake, asking for drinks of water and complaining of bad dreams, and Peter had left early. Now he saw the trip to Sande as a chance to get her alone.
But she seemed to hesitate. She asked another practical question: “What about Inge?”
“I’ll get the nursing agency to provide twenty-four-hour cover, as I did when we went to Bornholm.”
“I see.”
She looked across the courtyard, considering, and he studied her profile: the small nose, the bow-shaped mouth, the determined chin. He remembered the overwhelming thrill of possessing her. Surely she could not have forgotten that. He said, “Don’t you want to spend a night together?”
She turned to him with a smile. “Of course I do,” she said. “I’d better go and pack a case.”
On the following morning, Peter woke up in the Oesterport Hotel in Morlunde. The Oesterport was a respectable establishment but its owner, Erland Berten, was not married to the woman who called herself Mrs. Berten. Erland had a wife in Copenhagen who would not give him a divorce. No one in Morlunde knew this except Peter Flemming, who had discovered it by chance, while investigating the murder of one Jacob Berten, who was no relation. Peter had let Erland know he had found out about the real Mrs. Berten, but had otherwise kept the news to himself, knowing that the secret gave him power over Erland. Now he could rely on Erland’s discretion. Whatever happened between Peter and Tilde in the Oesterport Hotel, Erland would tell no one.
However, Peter and Tilde had not slept together in the end. Their train had been delayed, and had finally arrived in the middle of the night, long after the last ferry to Sande. Weary and bad-tempered after the frustrating journey, they had checked in to separate single rooms and grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep. Now they were going to catch the first ferry of the morning.
He dressed quickly then went and tapped on Tilde’s door. She was putting on a straw hat, looking in the mirror over the fireplace as she adjusted it. He kissed her cheek, not wanting to spoil her makeup.
They walked down to the harbor. A local policeman and a German soldier asked them for their identity cards as they boarded the ferry. The checkpoint was new. Peter guessed it was an additional security precaution brought in by the Germans because of the spies’ interest in Sande. But it could be useful to Peter, too. He showed his police badge and asked them to write down the names of everyone visiting the island over the next few days. It would be interesting to see who came to Arne’s funeral.
On the other side of the channel, the hotel’s horse-drawn taxi was waiting for them. Peter told the driver to take them to the parsonage.
The sun was edging up over the horizon, gleaming off the little windows of the low houses. There had been rain overnight, and the coarse grass of the sand dunes glistened with droplets. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the sea. The island seemed to have put on its best clothes for Tilde’s visit. “What a pretty place,” she said. He was glad she liked it. He pointed out the sights as they drove: the hotel, his father’s house-the largest on the island-and the military base that was the target of the spy ring.
Approaching the parsonage, Peter noticed that the door to the little church stood open, and he heard a piano. “That might be Harald,” he said. He heard the excitement in his own voice. Could it be this easy? He coughed, and made his voice deeper and calmer. “Let’s see, shall we?”
They dismounted from the buggy. The driver said, “What time shall I come back, Mr. Flemming?”
“Wait here, please,” Peter said.
“I’ve got other customers-”
“Just wait!”
The driver muttered something under his breath.
Peter said, “If you’re not here when I come out, you’re fired.” The driver looked sulky, but he stayed put.
Peter and Tilde entered the church. At the far end of the room a tall figure was seated at the piano. He had his back to the door, but Peter knew the broad shoulders and domed head. It was Bruno Olufsen, Harald’s father.
Peter winced with disappointment. He was hungry for this arrest. He must be careful not to let his need take control.
The pastor was playing a slow hymn tune in a minor key. Peter glanced at Tilde and saw that she looked sorrowful. “Don’t be fooled,” he murmured. “The old tyrant is as hard as gunmetal.”
The verse ended and Olufsen began another. Peter was not willing to wait. “Pastor!” he said loudly.
The pastor did not stop playing immediately, but finished the line, and let the music hang in the air for a moment. Finally he turned around. “Young Peter,” he said in a flat voice.
Peter was momentarily shocked to see that the pastor seemed to have aged. His face was lined with weariness and his blue eyes had lost their icy glitter. After an instant of surprise, Peter said, “I’m looking for Harald.”
“I didn’t imagine this was a condolence call,” the pastor said coldly.
“Is he here?”
“Is this an official inquiry?”
“Why do you ask? Is Harald involved in some wrongdoing?”
“Certainly not.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is he in the house?”
“No. He’s not on the island. I don’t know where he went.”
Peter looked at Tilde. This was a letdown-but, on the other hand, it suggested that Harald was guilty. Why else would he disappear? “Where do you think he might be?”
“Go away.”
Arrogant as ever-but this time the pastor was not going to get away with it, Peter thought with relish. “Your elder son killed himself because he was caught spying,” he said harshly.
The pastor flinched as if Peter had struck him.
Peter heard Tilde gasp beside him, and realized he had shocked her by his cruelty, but he pressed on. “Your younger son may be guilty of similar crimes. You’re in no position to act high and mighty with the police.”
The pastor’s normally proud face looked hurt and vulnerable. “I’ve told you that I don’t know where Harald is,” he said dully. “Do you have any other questions?”
“What are you hiding?”
The pastor sighed. “You’re one of my flock, and if you come to me for spiritual help I won’t turn you away. But I will not speak to you for any other reason. You’re arrogant and cruel, and as near worthless as one of God’s creatures can be. Get out of my sight.”