The most surprising, and immediately informative, item was the front page of a newspaper. It was folded once down the middle. He opened it and smoothed it out carefully, scanning the details: Jyllands-Posten, second section, page one, Sunday 17 February 1974. The smiling image of a girl dominated the article, headlined What Price Rebellion? The caption below the photo gave the girl a name: Lucy Selma Davison left her home in Liverpool in May 1969 and was last seen in Harwich on 14 June the same year. Simonsen spoke the name quietly out loud:
‘Lucy Selma Davison.’
For a minute he sat and stared at the girl’s portrait. She could hardly have been more than fourteen or fifteen when it was taken. Seventeen at most, certainly no older than that. Her face was softly rounded about a delicate, slightly pointed nose that displayed a slight smattering of freckles across its bridge. Her eyes hinted at an impish smile, bashful perhaps, or provocative, he wasn’t sure. Her long, dark-blonde hair was pulled back behind her ears and held in place by two hair slides, one on each side. Her straight fringe reached almost to her eyebrows. She wore no make-up: none was necessary.
Cautiously, as though committing some unlawful deed, he allowed his fingertips to pass across her image as he whispered:
‘You were beautiful, Lucy. Beautiful.’
He folded up the article again and tried to think of what he knew about Liverpool. It was next to nothing. The Titanic was registered in Liverpool, and the Beatles, of course, were from Liverpool. Neither of these things were of any relevance, it seemed. Liverpool, May 1969. What happened in Liverpool in May 1969? It was a blank to him, as good a place to start as any.
All of sudden it suited Simonsen fine that the Countess had put off her return from Jutland until Wednesday. It gave him more leeway with regard to his work, and now suddenly he had lots to be getting on with. He told her about his discovery when they spoke on the phone and they agreed it made it all the more imperative that they were able to map Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s movements during his annual holiday trip. It was an investigation she and Klavs Arnold were working hard on, though as yet they’d made little headway.
Only after he’d hung up did the thought occur to Simonsen that he’d forgotten to tell her the issue of Anna Mia’s birthday present had now been settled. He shook his head at himself: settled was just a euphemism for the resounding defeat he had suffered. And then it struck him: he’d better cancel his dinner appointment with his daughter that evening. He wouldn’t have time now. He was lucky. She didn’t answer her phone and he could make do with leaving a message. After which he got started on the job at hand.
On Tuesday Pauline Berg appeared in his office mid-morning, looking cheerful and bright. He was glad to see her. It meant he could bring her up to date on the inroads he’d been making into the postman case. Besides, he’d been growing rather fond of her occasionally challenging demeanour and anarchistic behaviour. As long as it didn’t get out of hand.
‘Hi, Pauline. I hope you can spare me some time. There’s a few things we need to talk about, and one thing in particular I need your help with.’
She sat down, eyes scanning his office with suspicion. The bulletin boards were covered with photos, a big pile of dusty suspension files had been dumped on a table and the whiteboard was a scribble of diagrams.
‘The Countess has been trying to get in touch with you. How come you don’t answer your phone?’ Pauline demanded.
‘I’ve been out of range in a basement most of the day, but I’ll tell you about that later. First of alclass="underline" how good’s your English?’
‘Good. Arne called me as well, he couldn’t get in touch with you either. And neither could your daughter. She tried to call you last night. She thought you were supposed to be having dinner.’
‘I cancelled.’
Pauline gave him a reproachful look and waited for him to go on.
‘OK, it was a bit late by the time I got home, but listen: I want you to phone England later today. My English isn’t good enough for phone calls, too much gets past me. I don’t know where I want you to start just yet, I haven’t had time to think about it. I need to find someone fairly high up you can use as your point of entry. Someone here must have a personal acquaintance over there… maybe one of our superiors. But I’ll sort that out later, like I said.’
‘What am I supposed to find out about?’
‘Anything you can about a seventeen-year-old girl who went missing in 1969. She was from a place called Fairfield in Liverpool, and her name was Lucy.’
‘Is she the girl on your posters?’
‘Yes, and I’ve made further headway there. The girl’s full name was Lucy Davison, and there was some contact with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen before she disappeared.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘I think so, but we’ve no way of knowing for sure yet. That’s why I want you to be a bit careful when you make that call to England. I don’t want her family building up false hopes. Her parents could still be alive now.’
‘So more exactly, you want to know what?’
The most important thing was to make sure Lucy Davison hadn’t turned up again in Liverpool safe and sound, or that her fate hadn’t been happily resolved in some other way. He had been unable to find anything at all about her in the archives, despite having picked his way through metres of shelves with files on missing children and youngsters in 1969 and a couple of years following. He continued:
‘I’ve got twelve photos of her, or rather photos in which she appears. All taken by Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. I’m gradually working towards establishing the time frame. Tomorrow, I’m off to the National Archive to look at exam lists and external examiners’ reports. Would you believe those things are kept for posterity? To be honest, though, I’m not in much doubt as to the dates.’
‘Kramer Nielsen’s holidays every year in June?’
‘Exactly. Ninety-nine per cent certain.’
‘You’ve made a lot of progress, well done.’
‘It’s been hard graft, but if all goes well I should be able to present some pretty solid leads by tomorrow. You’ve seen I’ve called a meeting, I take it? The Countess should be home by then, too, and Arne can make it as well.’
‘What are those boxes over there?’
‘Exam papers. Advanced level school-leaving exams in Danish. Anno nineteen sixty-nine, Class Three Y of Brøndbyøster Gymnasium. Plus end-of-term papers, same year. The first lot I photocopied at the National Archive, the latter set is from the school’s own basement, and the two green boxes are the school magazine, years sixty-seven to -nine. They call it the Dispatch.’
‘And you reckon you’re going to get it all read by tomorrow?’
‘Skimmed. Most of it’s going to be of no use to us, obviously.’
‘Would you excuse me a minute, Simon? There’s something I need to sort out. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
Fifteen minutes turned out to be right, only it wasn’t Pauline Berg who came back. Simonsen didn’t notice the Deputy Commissioner until she’d sat down in front of him.