A cold wind blew through the streets of Copenhagen and whistled in the gateway. Rita was freezing. She stood up against the wall, teeth chattering. Konrad Simonsen glanced at the door leading to the back stairs, its green paintwork in flakes. A messenger boy was lugging fuel up to the top floor, a hectolitre of coke per sack, one at a time slung across his shoulders. The boy was skinny, the weight of his burden unsteadying him as he stepped through the gateway towards the stairs. His delivery bike was parked outside. He still had two sacks to go.
Simonsen and Rita weren’t due to knock on the door for another fifteen minutes. At eleven o’clock precisely, not a minute sooner or later. He had spoken to the woman on the phone and she’d been quite clear about that. The woman. The backstreet abortionist. They’d spoken for less than half a minute, and yet Konrad Simonsen disliked her intensely. Her Danish had been poor, interspersed with words he hadn’t understood. Perhaps that was the source of his animosity. Yes, that was probably it.
Finding the money had been easy. He’d been prepared to sell his TV, to dig into his savings and, if needs be, to approach the bank about a loan. He was on a regular income and could see no obvious hindrance. But none of these options proved necessary. Without her knowledge, three of Rita’s student friends from the School of Architecture had collected the money for her, at the halls where she lived as well as in the school itself. Solidarity was no empty word in such circles, and in less than a week they’d reached the amount she needed. Most of those who chipped in had no idea who Rita was. Nor had the collectors gone into any detail as to the reason for the collection; it had been enough for them to say that one of their comrades was in dire straits. And yet the hat had seldom been passed round in vain: who was going to miss ten kroner, anyway? The four thousand an illegal abortion cost was soon raised.
Konrad Simonsen and Rita went through the door and up the back stairs, she in front, he bringing up the rear, his mind full of horror stories about dirty knitting needles, syringes injecting soap solutions into the womb, the use of large doses of potentially lethal quinine. Rita knocked. Three times, followed by a pause, then three times again. The performing of an illegal abortion was punishable by law, carrying a term of up to eight years’ imprisonment. It was not a matter to be taken lightly.
The woman who opened the door and led them though the narrow kitchen into the living room fully lived up to Konrad Simonsen’s prejudices: middle-aged, small and plump, with Slavic features and a look of avarice in her dark, almost black eyes. They sat down and the woman demanded payment. Rita handed her an envelope which she tore open greedily, counting the notes twice. As she did so, Simonsen studied her grubby nails. He turned his head and looked at Rita. Her face was pale. Resolutely, he stood up, snatched the money from the woman’s hands and dragged Rita away from the place.
They adjourned to a cafeteria to discuss the situation. They could give the child up for adoption if she – they – didn’t want to keep it. She refused, rejecting any other suggestion than abortion. He promised to make enquiries for another abortionist, though he had no idea how to proceed. Backstreet abortionists didn’t exactly advertise in the phone book. Connections were required, and he had none. But before long the issue had resolved itself.
A couple of days later – at least, that’s how he remembered it, though it might easily have been a week or more – he was called out to a gassing. November and December was peak season for suicides, one of the most popular methods being to turn on the gas and simply lie down in the kitchen to await the end. It was an effective, albeit devilish way of shuffling off the mortal coil. If the neighbours didn’t smell gas in time, a single spark could turn a whole building into an inferno. He’d seen it happen twice and heard of many more instances besides. In this case, as in most, the suspicions of a downstairs neighbour had thankfully been aroused. The flats on the same stairway and those adjacent were evacuated and the fire brigade had gone in. Windows and doors were opened, those that stuck were smashed.
Konrad Simonsen sat on the top step outside the main door, half sheltered from the wind. The police had been called as a matter of routine and he was expected to keep the peace while the firemen did their bit, and later, when the ambulance crew carried the dead body out, to hold nosy onlookers at bay. But there was no one there to disturb the peace, no one to be held at bay. So he had sought shelter from the cold while waiting impatiently until the firemen finished and he could get back to the station and warm himself up with a cup of hot coffee.
A person approached and Simonsen looked up at him. The man was in his early forties, with sharply defined features, an intelligent look in his eyes and an air of authority that prompted Konrad Simonsen to get to his feet. For a brief moment, the man considered him without concealing the fact that he didn’t care for what he saw. Then he reached his hand into the inside pocket of his sheepskin and produced his police badge, holding it briefly in the air for Simonsen to see before putting it back in his pocket and rebuttoning his coat.
‘Make sure you and your girl are ready tomorrow at yours. I’ll pick you up around midday.’
He held up his hand, the palm facing Simonsen:
‘No questions.’
And with that he left. Konrad Simonsen trotted after him, astonished.
‘What about the money? We’ve only got four thousand kroner. Where are you going to take us anyway? I need to know. And how did you know we…’
The man stood still and cut him off.
‘To a hospital, of course. And it’s free. I saw you go up to that quack. We’re watching her in connection with something bigger. The rest doesn’t concern you. Now get back to work before I report you for dereliction of duty. And while we’re at it, don’t let me catch you sitting down on the job again. We’re police, not an OAP club.’
The man kept his word. At twelve the next day he pulled up outside Konrad Simonsen’s place in his Opel Record. He said a polite hello to Rita and nodded curtly to Simonsen before ushering them both on to the back seat. He remained silent as he drove. They headed south along the Gammel Køge Landevej to Køge, eventually arriving at the hospital there. He drove slowly past A &E, turning off by some bike sheds before following a narrow lane barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass, and then parking on a lawn in front of a low building. He sounded the horn once before turning round and instructing Rita in a kind voice:
‘You’re bleeding, rather considerably, and irregularly.’
Rita interrupted:
‘But I’m not…’
‘No, like I said, it’s irregular. In a minute, a woman will come out and collect you. She’s my sister and she’s a consultant here in the Gynaecological Department. She’ll give you a D &C, out-patient. We’ll be waiting here again at ten o’clock. Understood?’
Rita understood, and thanked him. The man added:
‘My sister doesn’t care for present-day informalities. Address her as Doctor.’
Five minutes later Rita was duly collected and Konrad Simonsen was left alone with the man, whose friendliness at once evaporated.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of a condom, you bloody idiot?’ he growled.
It was the first bollocking he ever received from Kasper Planck. But far from the last.
Subsequently, Rita gave back the money that had been collected, which presented the students with something of a problem. Who was to have it? After prolonged debate, the field was narrowed down to two options: an organisation that supported the military junta in Greece, and one that was active in the struggle against Francisco Franco’s oppressive fascist regime in Spain. Meetings were held, in groups and larger assemblies, and the matter was still the subject of heated discussion in the halls of residence after the Christmas break. Eventually, the junta won out. Konrad Simonsen’s suggestion, the Mother’s Aid organisation, fell on deaf ears.