‘I’ll put a couple of men on the rest of the class, Simon. OK?’
‘OK, but data only. No contact. We’ll do that ourselves.’
‘Fine. Let’s move on to the photos.’
There seemed little doubt that Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had taken these himself. He appeared only in one, a group photo most likely taken with a self-timing release. Moreover, the negatives had been found in his possession. In contrast to the postman, Lucy Davison appeared in all twelve photos, though conceivably there had been others from which she was absent and which Kramer Nielsen had discarded. It was a reasonable assumption, and supported by the technical evidence indicating that he had taken images of her face from the twelve photos he’d retained in order to produce his posters. And yet they could in no way be certain that all those involved had been captured on Kramer Nielsen’s film, that the Gang of Six was not a Gang of Seven or maybe even more. Conceivably, another member might well have avoided being photographed, for whatever reason, perhaps because he or she didn’t like having their picture taken, or because Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had omitted to photograph them, regardless of whether Lucy Davison was in the frame or not. But it didn’t seem likely, even if they couldn’t eliminate the possibility entirely.
Arne Pedersen gulped down another mouthful of water, and this time his audience refrained from interrupting. He cleared his throat.
‘The photographs tell us a number of things, not least the identities of our Gang of Six. We already have a small amount of knowledge about them, and more information will be coming in. We know Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, of course, and then there’s this guy here, though we needn’t waste much time on him.’
Malte Borup changed the image on the screen. A spotty-faced kid with big ears and a daft grin on his face appeared instead.
‘His name is Mouritz Malmborg.’
Pauline Berg sniggered, apparently without reason. Pedersen looked at her in surprise.
‘What’s funny, Pauline?’
‘Sorry. It’s just… Mouritz Malmborg… the name and the way he looks. The poor lad never stood a chance, did he?’
She sniggered again.
She was right. Mouritz Malmborg’s time on earth was short and he died in 1973 after crashing his moped. At the time, he was a biology student at Aarhus University. Arne Pedersen suggested they set him aside and focus on those who were still alive.
The image on the screen changed again. This time a girl appeared, plump and dull-looking.
‘She’s got a bit of meat on her, hasn’t she?’ Pauline commented.
No one said anything, though the Countess grimaced and flashed her a look of annoyance.
Hanne Brummersted had graduated from medical school in 1977 and gone on to do her doctoral dissertation in 1982 on the subject of chromosomal defects. At present she was a consultant in the department of Clinical Genetics at Herlev Hospital, resident in Roskilde and divorced. She’d had her children late, two girls now fifteen and eighteen. The police had nothing on file about her and her financial situation seemed to be sound.
Next, please, Malte. Another girl, this one with somewhat irregular features and sporting a pair of imperious horn-rimmed glasses. Arne Pedersen consulted his notes.
‘Helena Brage Hansen. No further education, as far as we know. A Norwegian citizen these days, living in Hammerfest. Unmarried, with various jobs, a tourist guide in the summer season. Financial standing as yet unknown, and we’re unsure if she’s known to police up there either. We’ve asked them to get a move on with that. Last one now, Malte, if you don’t mind.’
This time, two images appeared. A boy with a pleasant face and a bright smile, displaying white teeth. Next to him a girl, pale and sickly-looking.
‘I’ve put them together because they’re married. They weren’t at the time, of course. His name is Jesper Mikkelsen, and she’s Pia Muus…’
Pauline Berg snorted disdainfully, but by now Pedersen had had enough.
‘That’ll do, Pauline. It may well be she hasn’t got your looks, but if that bothers you, you can keep it to herself.’
Pauline mockingly gave him the finger and asked a question as if nothing had happened:
‘What’s that he’s got on his face?’
‘A birthmark. Or stork bite, as they say.’
‘Must have been a big stork.’
‘Do you mind if I go on?’
‘Be my guest.’
Pia Muus was now Pia Mikkelsen, and the couple lived in Aalborg. After graduating from the gymnasium school, both had begun studies at Aalborg University, though neither had completed them: they both read Sociology, dropping out after three terms. For a considerable number of years they ran a record shop, Used Records, in the town centre, specialising in LPs from the sixties and seventies. The shop had long since closed down, but their online sales were still a huge success, giving them a turnover of almost four million kroner in the previous tax year. They had no children, and the business meant their financial situation was more than healthy. Police had been called out to domestic disturbances at the couple’s house on several occasions over the years, though neither party had ever gone so far as to press charges, and the reports in each instance stated that it had been a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other. Moreover, there were vague indications of involvement in Aalborg’s drugs and porn circles. On this matter, though, Aalborg Politi couldn’t make up their minds, as they readily admitted, and the fact was the couple had never been charged with anything at all.
Arne Pedersen put down his notes on the table.
‘That was our Gang of Six for you in brief. Any comments?’
Klavs Arnold stuck a finger in the air, in stark contrast to his usual way of going about these things. He even waited until Arne Pedersen indicated it was his turn:
‘Klavs?’
‘Yeah, I’m a bit scared of Malte’s ambulance siren, but what was that about the porn scene in Aalborg? Are we talking brothels, film, what?’
‘Films. All perfectly legal, though. Both of them seem to have an interest in rather young girls. Young and vulnerable. But Aalborg have nothing concrete, so it’s all just speculation as it stands.’
Simonsen got to his feet.
‘Listen here a minute. Malte, have you got a shot with all six of them at once, including the two who are dead, but without Lucy Davison?’
Malte Borup shook his head.
‘Can you do us one on your own computer? It doesn’t matter if it’s a composite.’
The intern nodded this time, and got up and left the room.
While he was away Simonsen stood there staring into space and the others kept quiet so as not to disturb his train of thought. Apart from Klavs Arnold, who at one point muttered an of course to himself, no one said a word. After a few minutes Malte Borup came back and clicked the photo on to the screen. Simonsen sat down again.
‘Pauline, would you tell us what springs to mind, looking at these people?’
She answered hesitantly:
‘Well, six ordinary kids, gymnasium types…’
Simonsen cut her off abruptly.
‘That’s not what I mean. Tell us what you think, your gut feeling. Don’t try to be politically correct about it.’
She blushed slightly. Arne Pedersen was one thing, she could cope with him no trouble. But Simonsen was another matter entirely. She followed his instruction.
‘OK, I know I’m bitchy now, but they’re not exactly lookers any of them, are they? See for yourself. I’m sorry, but they seem like a bunch of losers to me. If that’s all the sixties could come up with, I’m glad I wasn’t born until…’
Simonsen interrupted again:
‘Thanks, Pauline, you’ve made my point.’
‘Which is?’
The Countess provided a tentative interpretation.
‘Which is that we’re dealing with a group of outsiders, and I can support that with some information about Jesper Mikkelsen. The school magazine has this list of nicknames of those graduating from the third year, in which he’s dubbed Yes, yes, yes, yes, Jesper. Apparently, he had a dreadful stutter when he was young.’