“You can’t throw people out of the church-it doesn’t belong to you.”
“If you want to pray, you’re welcome here. Otherwise, go away.”
Peter hesitated. He did not want to submit to being thrown out, but he knew he had been defeated. After a moment he took Tilde’s arm and led her outside. “I told you he was hard,” he said.
Tilde seemed shaken. “I think the man is in pain.”
“No doubt. But was he telling the truth?”
“Obviously Harald has gone into hiding-which means almost certainly that he has the film.”
“So we have to find him.” Peter reflected on the conversation. “I wonder if his father really doesn’t know where he is.”
“Have you ever known the pastor to lie?”
“No-but he might make an exception to protect his son.”
Tilde made a dismissive gesture. “We’re not going to get anything out of him, either way.”
“I agree. But we’re on the right track, that’s the main thing. Let’s try the mother. She at least is made of flesh and blood.”
They went to the house. Peter steered Tilde to the back. He tapped on the kitchen door and went in without waiting for an answer, as was usual on the island.
Lisbeth Olufsen was sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. Peter had never in his life seen her idle: she was always cooking or cleaning. Even in church she was busy, straightening rows of chairs, putting out hymn books or gathering them up, stoking the peat boiler that warmed the big room in winter. Now she sat looking at her hands. The skin was cracked and raw in places, like a fisherman’s.
“Mrs. Olufsen?”
She turned her face to him. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were drawn. After a moment, she recognized him. “Hello, Peter,” she said expressionlessly.
He decided to take a softer approach with her. “I’m sorry about Arne.”
She nodded vaguely.
“This is my friend Tilde. We work together.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He sat at the table and nodded to Tilde to do the same. Perhaps a simple, practical question would bring Mrs. Olufsen out of her daze. “When is the funeral?”
She thought for a moment, then answered, “Tomorrow.”
That was better.
“I’ve spoken to the pastor,” Peter said. “We saw him in the church.”
“His heart is broken. He doesn’t show it to the world, though.”
“I understand. Harald must be dreadfully upset, too.”
She glanced at him and looked quickly down at her hands again. It was the briefest of looks, but Peter read fear and deceit in it. She muttered, “We haven’t spoken to Harald.”
“Why is that?”
“We don’t know where he is.”
Peter could not tell whether she was lying from moment to moment, but he felt sure of her intention to deceive. It angered him that the pastor and his wife, who pretended to be morally superior to others, should deliberately hide the truth from the police. He raised his voice. “You’d be well advised to cooperate with us!”
Tilde put a restraining hand on his arm and looked an inquiry at him. He nodded for her to go ahead. She said, “Mrs. Olufsen, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Harald may have been involved in the same illegal activities as Arne.”
Mrs. Olufsen looked frightened.
Tilde continued, “The longer he goes on, the worse trouble he’ll be in when finally we catch up with him.”
The old woman shook her head from side to side, looking distressed, but she said nothing.
“If you would help us find him, you’d be doing the best thing for him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” she repeated, but less firmly.
Peter sensed weakness. He stood up and leaned across the kitchen table, pushing his face into hers. “I saw Arne die,” he said gratingly.
Mrs. Olufsen’s eyes widened in horror.
“I saw your son put the gun to his own throat and pull the trigger,” he went on.
Tilde said, “Peter, no-”
He ignored her. “I saw his blood and brains spatter the wall behind him.”
Mrs. Olufsen cried out with shock and grief.
She was about to crack, Peter saw with satisfaction. He pressed his advantage. “Your elder son was a spy and a criminal, and he met a violent end. They that live by the sword shall die by the sword, that’s what the Bible says. Do you want the same to happen to your other son?”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“Then tell me where he is!”
The kitchen door burst open and the pastor strode in. “You filth,” he said.
Peter straightened up, startled but defiant. “I’m entitled to question-”
“Get out of my house.”
Tilde said, “Let’s go, Peter.”
“I still want to know-”
“Now!” the pastor roared. “Leave now!” He advanced around the table.
Peter backed away. He knew he should not allow himself to be shouted down. He was on legitimate police business and he had a right to ask questions. But the towering presence of the pastor scared him, despite the gun under his jacket, and he found himself reversing steadily to the door.
Tilde opened it and went out.
“I haven’t finished with you two,” Peter said feebly as he backed through the doorway.
The pastor slammed the door in his face.
Peter turned away. “Damned hypocrites,” he said. “The pair of them.”
The buggy was waiting. “To my father’s house,” Peter said, and they got in.
As they drove away, he tried to put the humiliating scene out of his mind and concentrate on his next steps. “Harald must be living somewhere,” he said.
“Obviously.” Tilde’s tone was curt, and he guessed she was distressed by what she had just witnessed.
“He’s not at school and he’s not at home, and he has no relations except for some cousins in Hamburg.”
“We could circulate a picture of him.”
“We’ll have trouble finding one. The pastor doesn’t believe in photos-they’re a sign of vanity. You didn’t see any pictures in that kitchen, did you?”
“What about a school photo?”
“Not a Jansborg tradition. The only picture of Arne we could find was the one in his army record. I doubt there’s a photo of Harald anywhere.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“I think he’s staying with friends-don’t you?”
“Makes sense.”
She would not look at him. He sighed. She was in a bad mood with him. So be it. “This is what you do,” he said in a tone of command. “Call the Politigaarden. Send Conrad to Jansborg Skole. Get a list of the home addresses of all the boys in Harald’s class. Then have someone call at each house, ask a few questions, snoop around a bit.”
“They must be all over Denmark. It would take a month to visit them all. How much time do we have?”
“Very little. I don’t know how long it will take for Harald to figure out a way to get the film to London, but he’s a cunning young villain. Use local police where necessary.”
“Very well.”
“If he’s not staying with friends, he must be hiding out with another member of the spy ring. We’re going to stay for the funeral and see who shows up. We’ll check out every mourner. One of them must know where Harald is.”
The buggy slowed as it approached the entrance to Axel Flemming’s house. Tilde said, “Do you mind if I go back to the hotel?”
His parents were expecting them for lunch, but Peter could see that Tilde was not in the mood. “All right.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go to the ferry dock.”
They drove in silence for a while. As they approached the dock, Peter said, “What will you do at the hotel?”
“In fact I think I should return to Copenhagen.”
That made him angry. As the horse stopped at the quayside, he said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t like what just happened.”
“We had to do it!”
“I’m not sure.”
“It was our duty to try to make those people tell what they knew.”