‘You’re not going to tell me you were hypnotised, are you?’
‘You must be joking. But I thought his wife might give it a go.’
Pelle Olsen had given the suggestion some thought before replying:
‘It won’t be cheap. That kind of hypnosis requires the utmost preparation, and of course there’s no guarantee she’ll remember anything, so you may be wasting your money.’
‘I was hoping for a discount.’
‘Of course, Simonsen. Old friends and all that. I can’t go under four thousand, though, that’d be unprofessional. Or two and a half cash in hand? No, wait a minute, that’s not on in your case, I suppose?’
‘Sounds reasonable, but only if you chuck in a jar of those ginseng tablets for nicotine cravings. I stopped smoking not that long ago and I could do with a bit of certified organic homeopathic support. Isn’t that what it says on your website?’
‘On the other hand, Simonsen, I’ll tell you what. I’m so pleased to see you, and you were always so fair in our dealings with each other, let’s say…’
Pelle studied his guest.
‘A thousand kroner?’ Simonsen ventured, then stared at the ceiling, holding his ground.
‘All right, gratis then. How does that sound?’
‘That’s very decent of you.’
‘Not at all. Friends are friends. How about Wednesday afternoon? That’ll give me time to talk the wife round.’
At the police station in Rødby, Konrad Simonsen had overstepped a psychological line he was far from certain he ought to have crossed.
It was to do with Rita’s name. For more than two years of his youth they had been a couple. It had been a period of ups and downs, and at times their relationship had seemed all but over. It didn’t worry him unduly that he had thought so much about her since his operation, occasionally even finding himself daydreaming about her. It had been nice. Or rather, it was nice, and without strings. However, one matter in particular made sure she remained a memory, a voice from his youth, rather than a part of his life again: he could remember only her first name, no matter how hard he racked his brains.
He made no effort to conceal the fact that his errand was private, and yet the duty sergeant of the Rødby Politi ushered him past the counter and into an office.
‘I’ll just need to check your ID again, if that’s all right? And what was it you wanted to do?’
Simonsen pulled out his badge.
‘It’s a personal thing. Nothing that requires preferential treatment.’
‘No problem. What is it you’re looking for?’
‘A woman. I’ve only got a first name… Rita. The surname’s a common-or-garden something-sen. Jensen, Nielsen, Hansen, Petersen, something like that. And she had a funny middle name I’ve forgotten, too. She was arrested for attempted cash smuggling in November or December nineteen seventy-two.’
‘That’s a while since.’
‘I’m afraid so. I’m only interested in her name, though. I’m not bothered about the case itself.’
‘You might just be very lucky indeed. We had two students in last year sorting out our archives. Maybe no one else would give them a job, what do I know? Anyway, they definitely got stuck into all the prehistoric stuff. It’s downstairs in the old basement. I’m not sure, though…’
‘I’ve got three bottles of good claret with me, if that’ll help.’
The sergeant returned after only ten minutes.
‘Easy as pie. Rita Metz Andersen. The intelligence boys at PET stuck their noses in, but the case was dropped.’
The priest came to Søllerød on the Tuesday. It was mid-morning and the sun was out. The day was pleasant: blue skies and a gentle wind playfully tossing the withered leaves that lay here and there in heaps on the residential streets of Konrad Simonsen’s jogging route. He had walked the whole way, ambling in the manner of an elderly gentleman, more than once dragging his feet through the accumulated drifts as he had done as a child. It could hardly be called exercise, but the walk put him in more cheerful mood, and by all accounts that was the sort of thing that prolonged a life such as his. Back home he managed to carry a small, square garden table and a couple of chairs over to his gallery and to fetch his chess set before the priest knocked at the door. The man had biked all the way from Hvidovre and his cheeks bore a healthy flush. They greeted each other and Simonsen was genuinely glad to see him, and told him so. It was mutual, the priest said. The simple truth of the matter was the two men liked each other. The priest took off his jacket and dumped it on Simonsen’s exercise bike.
‘I’m rather intrigued as to what you might have in store for me today, I must admit. You had me completely outmanoeuvred last time.’
The words were spoken quite without bitterness, and Simonsen replied in the same friendly tone:
‘There’ll be no tricks today, I assure you. Like I said on the phone, I thought you might like to have a proper look at Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s posters. And besides that I’ve got a couple of questions for you about them. But then I suppose you’d gathered as much?’
‘Indeed. It’ll be good to have a closer look. I didn’t care to venture further into Jørgen’s loft when I found it, so I’ve only seen them from a distance. I will admit, though, that I did stare for quite some time when we first discovered the place, with my head poking through the trapdoor.’
He jabbed a finger at the table in the middle of the room.
‘A chess player, I see. You people must have run a check on me. It’s been a while since I played.’
‘Second place in the UK university championships in nineteen eighty-five. Not exactly the kind of achievement that comes from sheer luck. That’s why I’ve invited Arne Pedersen over, the detective who interviewed you at Police HQ. He’s a lot better at the game than me. However, he seems to be running a bit late, so you may have to make do with yours truly. Unless you’d prefer to look at the posters first?
The priest sat down and they tossed a coin for white or black. The priest drew white.
‘I didn’t bring a clock. I thought we might chat while we played,’ Simonsen said.
‘Fine by me.’
They began, and the opening moves allowed little time for conversation. As Simonsen had anticipated, the priest was a far superior player, despite Simonsen’s highly defensive and exceptionally cautious strategy. After a dozen or so moves, at which point he was already staring defeat in the eye, he turned to the topic at hand.
‘I hear the church would like to buy the posters. I take it that was your idea?’
The priest moved a pawn before replying:
‘Yes, it was.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I’ll tell you as soon as they’ve been released and we’ve secured the purchase.’
‘Why not now? Won’t they let you?’
Simonsen responded at once to the priest’s move, the priest himself countering swiftly, then answering Simonsen’s question in a gentle tone.
‘I could, but I think it best to wait.’
‘An officialis. You’re well connected.’
‘It would seem so, yes. But the man’s position as officialis has nothing to do with the case. That’s something else entirely.’
‘You do know the posters won’t be released until my investigation has been completed? That may take some time.’
‘We’re patient people. We don’t mind waiting.’
Arne Pedersen entered the room. He greeted them and apologised for being late, saying his car wouldn’t start. He studied the game for a moment, then placed a hand on Simonsen’s shoulder.
‘You’re in a spot of bother, Simon.’
They made a few more moves before Simonsen had no option but to capitulate and offer his hand in congratulation.
The three men made a leisurely round of the gallery, studying each poster in turn, none of them saying a word to begin with. The priest was meticulous, standing for a long time in front of each image, considering it from every angle. The process took a while, but they were in no hurry. At the fourth poster, Arne Pedersen suddenly spoke, his voice a challenge: