Klavs Arnold came back at her in his Jutland drawclass="underline"
‘That’s beside the point. The thing is, would you do it?’
‘Not likely, and not in front of a camera.’
‘But they did.’
Simonsen cut in:
‘They ran into a little hippie girl from the big, wide world who welcomed them to the sixties. Did she pay for that with her life? I wonder. Jealousy? Sex games gone wrong? Drugs?’ he mused in a low voice.
‘Mushrooms… maybe they were on magic mushrooms. It was all the rage in those days,’ Pauline Berg persisted.
Klavs Arnold brought her back to earth.
‘They’d have been a bit short on mushrooms in June. Even in those days.’
Now the Countess spoke:
‘I can see there might have been some tension there, and our Gang of Six might well have been marginalised in respect of their classmates, which wouldn’t have helped the situation with Lucy. It’s an interesting angle, and we need to investigate it further, but before we go off half-cock, I have to say I just can’t see six young kids colluding to kill one of their friends like that. If one of them didn’t do it on their own, then two, maybe, by some quirk, at most. Six just doesn’t seem realistic. I’ve read their essays. They might not have been too fortunate in terms of their looks, but on the whole we’re dealing with normal youngsters here. I can’t see them ganging up to kill someone, and if one of them did kill her by accident, the others would never have covered it up. Not once they got home again and thought about it. Something else must have happened. Something we haven’t thought of yet.’
Her reservations triggered nods all round.
Simonsen realised they were all looking at him to pull things together, Pedersen included. He stood up and indicated they were done, at the same time outlining what they were to investigate next.
‘We need to find out as much as possible about this Gang of Six. We’ve got too little to go on yet, if we’re to confront them in person.’
This, too, won widespread support, whereupon Malte Borup conjured forth a finale, this time in the shape of a video clip: Napoleon out of Disney’s Aristocats, repeating himself in a never-ending loop, that he is the leader, and only he can say when it is the end.
Only when the Countess gestured for Malte to wrap it up did he cease the clip and make himself scarce.
After the meeting, Simonsen drove home to Søllerød to unpack. When it was done and he’d got the washing machine started, he went for his run, only to discover he felt heavier than usual. The good food in Bulgaria had left its toll, though no more so than a couple of days’ exercise would undo. The weather was grey and damp, ideal in fact as he didn’t get overheated while jogging and nor did he feel cold while walking. A car slowed down alongside him and he gave it a casual glance. It was a blue Jaguar and he assumed it was going to turn up the driveway of the house was passing. Only when it continued to follow him did he look again and realise he knew the driver.
Helmer Hammer was a man in his mid-forties, an executive of the Administrative Division of the Prime Minister’s Office, a position that placed him securely within the upper echelons of government power. He was also a man capable of concealing his intentions whenever necessary. The car drew to a halt and the passenger window slid down.
‘Jump in. I’ve only got half an hour before I have to be back at work. Welcome home, by the way.’
Perplexed, Simonsen climbed into the car. Helmer Hammer explained:
‘I’ve come to see this gallery of yours everyone’s talking about, and to give you a piece of information.’
Helmer Hammer wandered slowly around Simonsen’s exhibition, allowing himself time to study each poster. When he was finished he asked about the girl. Simonsen told him as much as he knew.
‘Her name’s Lucy Davison. She was from the UK. We’re assuming she’s dead.’
Hammer nodded sadly, as if he’d been expecting him to say just that. After a moment, he spoke.
‘I’ve got this friend, a solicitor in the city, one of the big boys in his field. We play squash together once a week. Last week he told me he’d been contacted by some British officialis. A judge of the ecclesiastical court of some Catholic diocese, if I’m correctly informed. Someone high up, at any rate.’
Simonsen grunted and pricked up his ears.
‘Anyway, this officialis requested that my friend get in touch with the official receiver at the Glostrup probate court and put in a bid for your posters. What’s more, he was to make sure that if anyone else bid more, the receiver would contact my friend before selling them off. My friend’s been invested with the authority of the British diocese to spend a considerable amount of money if necessary to secure them. A rather surprising amount, as a matter of fact.’
‘You mean the Vatican wants my… Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s… posters?’
‘The Vatican? No, I shouldn’t think so. But someone in the Catholic Church does.’
‘Who? And why?’
‘No idea.’
‘Can’t you ask? I’d like to know.’
‘I don’t think I can. The Catholic Church isn’t an organisation that’s open to scrutiny. Besides, I don’t want to. It could cause all sorts of problems if I were to start poking about in matters like that.’
Simonsen accepted the rebuff and asked instead:
‘How much are they prepared to pay?’
‘Not much unless they have to. Were you thinking of keeping hold of them?’
Simonsen replied frankly:
‘Yes. One, at least, but preferably the lot.’
‘I quite understand. They’re beguiling, aren’t they?’
‘You didn’t answer my question: how much are they willing to bid?’
‘Five hundred kroner per poster. Eight thousand five hundred for all seventeen.’
‘Eighteen. There’s eighteen of them. So that’s nine thousand kroner… quite reasonable, I’d say.’
‘They are, as I said, prepared to go somewhat higher if need be. But don’t tell me I can’t count, Simon. There are seventeen in all, and that’s what I’ll be telling my friend. He asked me to find out how many there were. He doesn’t know, you see.’
After Helmer Hammer had gone, Simonsen did a quick tour of his own, staring at each poster in turn and thinking to himself how fortunate staging this little exhibition had turned out to be. Quite apart from the personal pleasure he derived from it – a pleasure he played down and perhaps underestimated, if he were to be frank. Now, though, it had provided him with a tangible piece of information that was by no means uninteresting. He decided to call the priest at a suitable opportunity and, in strictest confidence, ask him what might be going on. He might even invite him up to Søllerød. He still had Madame, of course, his clairvoyant consultant, so all in all it was far too soon to write off his posters as a failure. Or rather, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s posters. Simonsen reminded himself that unfortunately he had only borrowed them. Naturally, they belonged to Kramer Nielsen’s estate. He cast a wry smile towards the door through which Helmer Hammer had left. Only borrowed… all seventeen of them.
For the rest of the week Simonsen’s investigation made little headway. The autumn again turned damp and dismal as police officers methodically sifted through the area surrounding Nørballe Vandrehjem, comparing summer houses with images photocopied from Kramer Nielsen’s photographs. It was a slow and meticulous business, and one that produced nothing in the way of results. Klavs Arnold insisted on a second pass, and then another.
The paper type on which Kramer Nielsen’s posters had been printed was determined with painstaking German rigour. The first work showing Lucy Davison’s image had been created around 1973, a result that had required a very considerable amount of work, all of which now seemed of little consequence. The same was true of a report from Kurt Melsing that concluded, partly on the basis of the cement used to put up the mirrors in the postman’s loft, that the shrine had been erected somewhere round 2000. This was another unastonishing fact that Simonsen, with a shrug, archived in what was now a rather bulging case folder.