‘Simon. Working late these days, I notice.’
‘Oh, hello. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you, as a matter for fact. I hear you’ve got a problem with your English. I ran into Pauline Berg, you see, and she mentioned some information from England. Liverpool, to be precise.’
Simonsen pricked up his ears.
‘My English isn’t good enough, I’m afraid, and we need a decent introduction, preferably to someone high up the ladder who can open doors.’
‘In which case, I’d probably be the right person, though my English isn’t much better than yours. But I did attend a conference once in Liverpool, so at least I’ve heard the local accent. I didn’t understand it very well, though. Let’s just hope they’re feeling kind when I give them a call.’
‘Would you? It’d be a great help. Are you sure you’ve got time?’
‘Things have been a bit slow this week in the corridors of power. We’ve got the big convening of the force at the Øksnehallen coming up, but we’re all ready for that. And I won’t hide the fact that I’m rather excited about this case of yours after having played my own little part the other day.’
‘Excellent! Then I’ll draw up a list of questions we’d like some answers to. You’ll have it on your desk by tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s where I beg to differ, Simon. First you tell me all about this young girl you’re so interested in, and then you go home and pack.’
‘Pack? What on earth for… where am I going? I’ve called a meeting tomorrow, it’s important.’
‘Not any more it isn’t. It’s rescheduled for next week. Amazing what they can do downstairs in IT as soon as something urgent comes up, isn’t it?’
‘Urgent? Sorry, I’m not with you.’
He was being dispatched to an Interpol conference or seminar, she wasn’t quite sure which. At any rate, the Deputy Commissioner had just discovered that the Copenhagen Police had been allocated three places and not two, as she had thought. It was important they fly the flag on such occasions, even if they did involve a lot of wasted time. It was fortunate that he was available or she’d have had no idea who to send. Her orders were given in a tone that was friendly, but firm:
‘You fly out tomorrow at twelve-thirty. Make sure you’re at the airport two hours before your flight.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘Nesebar in Bulgaria. It’s on the Black Sea. Very cultural, and they’ve got health spas, too, if you need to wind down after the morning’s talks.’
‘What’s the theme?’
There were many themes, and all of them important. International collaboration, transnational teamwork, virtual-experience exchange groups… all of considerable relevance, not least for Denmark with its official proviso as to police and judicial co-operation in the EU. But he didn’t quite get the connection: what had Interpol to do with the EU? She spelled it out for him: it was all about personal networks, the ABC of international co-operation, and in particular establishing personal contacts within the major EU countries. Her enthusiasm was infectious and he listened with interest.
‘I’ll make sure you receive the programme. The secretaries upstairs are making all the arrangements for you.’
Simonsen glanced at his bulletin boards and the Deputy Commissioner followed his gaze.
‘That’ll have to wait a week, Simon. You know how significant international relations are, and how much importance we in the executive attach to them. Besides, Bulgaria’s new to the EU, which makes it all the more crucial we’re represented. Interpol is our backbone. Isn’t that what you say?’
‘But it’s all a bit sudden… and with my own case… very well, yes, I suppose it can wait a week.’
‘I’m sure Pauline Berg would drive you to the airport tomorrow. You can brief her on the way, then she and the others will prepare for your meeting in a week’s time.’
‘All right, if that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you, Simon, I’m pleased. In the meantime I’ll do my best to get hold of the information you want from England. You scratch my back, and what have you.’
Her ear-to-ear smile raised his spirits.
‘Now, tell me about this girl of yours.’
He started by removing one of the photos from the bulletin board and placing it in front of her. Then he found the newspaper article. The Deputy Commissioner studied the photo.
‘What a pretty girl. Has she got a name?’
He ran through the facts they’d got and then summarised the article for her.
The angle, as hinted at in the headline, was a broadside against youth rebellion and all its negative ramifications, focusing in particular on the many teenagers who left their homes to seek out a new life in the city. Copenhagen’s so-called free state of Christiania was mentioned several times.
‘The main gist is clearly to add to pressure being exerted on the new government to clear Christiania, which to the journalist’s mind is little more than a drug den. They might not be that explicit, but you get the idea, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, I’m with you. Call in the bulldozers, Prime Minister.’
She was right. That was certainly what the paper had been angling for. But for Simonsen it was the human interest story that grabbed his attention. Then, as now, it was the human angle that sold copies, not the statistics about missing youngsters, though it seemed there were many in those years. The poor souls, who paid the price for society’s relentless progress and sank to the bottom, casualties of drugs and prostitution, were of little interest either. But a devastated elderly couple from a decent working-class home in Liverpool, touring around Danish and Swedish towns every summer in search of their missing daughter, was something that tugged at the heartstrings in the small homes of Jutland.
‘Lucy’s parents, you mean?’
‘George and Margaret Davison. They scrimped and saved from their pay packets all year so they could afford the trip every summer to hand out flyers and put up posters appealing for information about their daughter. They were Catholics, or maybe still are Catholics. I don’t yet know if they’re alive.’
‘Things are starting to come together, aren’t they, Simon?’
‘Perhaps. We’ll have to wait and see. At any rate, the Davisons have been forced to accept the fact that their daughter is most likely dead, and now I’m certain all they want is to get her home so she can be buried in consecrated earth.’
‘Those poor people.’
‘Indeed. They wanted to see the back of flower power, free love and macrobiotics as fast as possible, I’m sure. Listen to this.’
He put on his glasses and read from the newspaper:
‘“One Wednesday we found a short farewell note. It was the worst morning of our lives. She was gone. Our little girl, run away.” Tears run down Mr Davison’s cheeks, but he does nothing to wipe them away. He sits, powerless in his grief. Mrs Davison carries on where her husband left off. “What did we do that was wrong? We gave her everything money could buy, everything we could afford. Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly? How could she do this to us?” The question remains in the air. Who can answer them?
‘And so on and so forth… damaging influence of subversive elements… then there’s a bit that isn’t of much interest… hang on a minute, there’s more here.
‘“We know that two days later she went off with a young man from our local car dealer’s. He drove her to Harwich where she was going to sneak on board the ferry to Denmark, and we think that somehow she succeeded.” Mrs Davison nods. “She was a bright and cheerful girl, anyone would have helped her. She was no bother as a child, but then last year she got into bad company.” Then Jyllands-Posten makes of that what it will, as I’m sure you can imagine. And there’s the last bit of factual stuff.’