He ran a finger down the page and quickly found what he was looking for:
‘“We got a postcard from Sweden. The postmark was Orsa, the twenty-second of June nineteen sixty-nine. Then later her tent and rucksack were found near Lycksele, a little town high up in Sweden. But that wasn’t until the beginning of April nineteen seventy. The tent had been put up in a forest.” Once more Mrs Davison picks up from her husband as he breaks down in tears and apologises for losing control. “The Swedish police took the matter very seriously indeed. They started an investigation right away and searched throughout the forest. There were all sorts of people out looking: police, volunteers and soldiers from the Swedish army [Ed. note: the Hemvärnet, or Swedish Reserve], but they didn’t find anything. Later, the police said Lucy hadn’t been in Sweden at all, somebody else had put her tent up and sent the postcard to make it look like she had. The Danish police didn’t want anything to do with it. We’ve tried so many times, as has our priest, too. But all in vain. That’s why we’re hoping it’ll help if Lucy’s picture gets in the papers.”’
Simonsen put the article down.
‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ said the Deputy Commissioner. ‘How can anyone send a postcard and make it look like it’s from her? It can’t be that difficult, surely, to find out if she wrote it herself or not?’
‘No, that struck me, too. It’s one of the questions you’ll need to ask the English police, if they even know anything about the case. I’m thinking it’d be fine if to begin with we don’t inform her family that we may have something new. They’ve suffered enough as it is.’
‘I agree entirely. What about the Swedish police? It sounds like they’ll have a file on her too. Have you been in touch with them?’
‘They’ve promised to send me a copy of the final report as quickly as they can.’
‘Do you want me to lean on them a bit while I’m at it?’
‘No need, they’re usually efficient, even if our colleague over there in the Rikskriminalpolisen did point out to me that we already received the report once, in late seventy-two. Where it got to, and what we did about it at the time, is something I’ve not been able to find out, so the article is probably right: we did nothing.’
‘And you don’t think she ever got to Sweden, do you?’
‘I think Lucy Davison was killed sometime between the fifteenth and the nineteenth of June in a summer house over on the west coast of Jutland, and buried in some out-of-the-way place by Jørgen Kramer Nielsen and five of his mates from class Three Y, Brøndbyøster Gymnasium. What’s more, I think Jørgen Kramer Nielsen paid for that misdeed with his life.’
CHAPTER 7
As the plane took off from Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport Simonsen thought about Lucy, gazing at the passing clouds as if in search of her image. After a while he put all thoughts of the case aside. The Deputy Commissioner was right: others were quite capable of keeping things together while he was away, and moreover he had meticulously instructed Pauline Berg during the course of the morning. Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, waking again only when the stewardess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder with a reminder for him to fasten his safety belt as the plane prepared for landing.
Only once during the conference did he receive word about the case. It was in a lunch break and he was relaxing in the hotel’s giant jacuzzi after the morning’s exertions, flanked by an Argentinian and a Korean. He’d put his mobile down on the edge of the pool behind him in case the Countess happened to call. When it vibrated he couldn’t reach it, but one of the ubiquitous staff was swiftly at hand, dashing forward and holding out the phone in time for him to answer. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no connection. He said his name into the receiver a couple of times in forlorn expectation before giving up with a sigh. The Argentinian at his side uttered something incomprehensible and pointed at his phone. Simonsen made to hand it to him, only for the man to shake his head, a gesture that was accompanied by further pronouncements in Spanish. The Korean translated for him without opening his eyes:
‘You got text. No phone call. Text.’
Simonsen loathed text messaging and had forbidden his staff from ever communicating with him in such a childish manner. Even Anna Mia respected his stance, though she found it silly. With some difficulty he managed to open the message. It was from Pauline Berg:
Hi Simon. Hope you’re enjoying the ‘conference’:) Arne and I are at the big crisis meeting. Totally meaningless, be glad you’re away. Report in from Swedes. Lucy D was never there. Do you want more info now? Loads of time here.
He replied with a yes that took him several minutes to type and send. Thirty seconds later a second text came in:
The Swedes conducted perfect investigation in 1969. Tent put up in depths of forest. No one wld ever spend night there. Too far from road and habitation. No sign of normal activity in tent. Only unrolled sleeping bag, rucksack still packed. More in a bit…
He waited, unsure as to whether he needed to reply. Shortly afterwards, her next text arrived:
Twelve brand new Swedish 10-kronor notes in her wallet. Traced to bank in Copenhagen! No Swedish coins. No fprints on notes. Not even her own! Technology re prints on paper new at time though.
This time he simply waited, and another thirty seconds passed as he’d anticipated.
Postcard pic from Esbjerg. Written by her but sent with Swdsh stamp from Orsa. Nothing about arriving Sweden, only that she was heading to Nth Cape to see midnight sun. Stamp (commemorative, Vasa warship) sold only by block. Rest of block not found among effects.
Simonsen smiled at the Argentinian who was unashamedly following his correspondence, though what he might be gleaning from it was another matter entirely.
Forgot to say UK sending orgnl postcd plus othr stuff to Gurli (Arne called her that not me):) More indicatns Lucy D never got to Swdn. But signature on report most compelling. You’ll nvr believe it! Guess!
He swore under his breath and fumbled his way through a No. A moment later he found himself staring at the name of Scandinavia’s most famous crime investigator, a police officer whose reputation extended throughout the world. The Argentinian was quick to acknowledge the fact, jabbing a finger at Simonsen’s display and slapping the flat of his other hand against the water in delight:
‘Es mi hero grande. Un hombre fantastico.’
The Korean opened an eye, and Simonsen commented with pride:
‘I just received a message from a legend.’
The man nodded almost imperceptibly and closed his eye again.
‘Lucky you.’
The jaunty voice of the stewardess informed the passengers over the tannoy that the plane would be landing at Kastrup Airport in approximately thirty minutes. The weather in Copenhagen was chilly and windy, the temperature around twelve degrees Celsius.
Konrad Simonsen dozed, but the announcement, along with a few jolts of turbulence, made him stir. He rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window. Below lay a thick, grey blanket of cloud, obliterating all sight of land. He was feeling well, and pleasantly at ease. He hadn’t given the postman case much thought at all in Bulgaria. Rita neither, for that matter: his flashbacks seemed to have abated, a fact he rather regretted. After all, they had been through a lot together, good times as well as bad, in an age with which he had been at odds. Then and now. Chilly and windy, wasn’t that what the stewardess had said? No weather for a girl in an Afghan coat.