Simonsen gazed at it with interest, There were three bullet points:
• Problem page = correspondence column / where?
• Father’s uniform, what sort?
• Simon flying off at a tangent?
He recognised the first two as his own from the report he had drawn up a couple of days before.
Pedersen continued to bemoan his own ineptitude.
‘I’ve tried everything I could get my hands on, but nothing works.’
‘Everything you could get your hands on? What would that be? Water?’ Simonsen enquired snidely.
‘And washing-up liquid. All right, I know meths probably does the job, and I’m sorry, Malte, I just thought it was urgent. I take it you didn’t have time to buy Coca-cola?’
‘You’re right, I didn’t.’
‘Do it now, and get hold of some meths while you’re at it. When Simon and I are finished you can clean the board and show him that clip you found of Mouritz Malmborg, are you with me?’
Malte went off and Pedersen speeded up.
‘You weren’t supposed to see that last point, obviously, but done is done, so let’s pick up on that once we’ve talked about one and two. I’ve read your notes about the hypnosis in Nykøbing Falster, and Helena Brage Hansen having her own, quote, “problem page”, which I’m sure you’ve realised, too. Besides that, her father wore a uniform, according to what transpired during your seance. We don’t know what kind of uniform, and I’m pretty sure it’s not that relevant either, but I did come up with one thing that might be. Helena Brage Hansen has an older brother, and I know you’re thinking we don’t want her to know we’re checking up on her, but… well, you know him, as it happens. It’s Finn B. Hansen.’
‘One and the same?’
‘Senior deputy judge of the court at Næstved, yes. Of course, I’ve no idea how he gets on with his sister, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t let on to her if we asked him a few questions. On the other hand, he might not tell us anything. That’s a different matter.’
Simonsen agreed.
‘It’s worth a try. Do you want to come with me?’
‘I’d like to, but I’m pressed for time. If you want me with you we need to get this out of the way sharpish.’
‘Right you are. What’s this about me flying off at a tangent?’
Pedersen explained frankly. It had long since been confirmed that the six students involved had all been on the periphery with respect to the rest of their class.
‘At the moment it seems like no detail is too small. A parent in uniform and a problem page. Why don’t you just bring the surviving gang members in for an interview?’
‘What if none of them can remember anything? Collective memory loss. What do we do then?’
‘We do as we always do in that situation, we play them off against each other. Find the cracks in their stories, niggle away until they start caving in, threaten them, fool them, lure them into a trap. The way we do, and do well.’
‘When did you last investigate a crime that took place forty years ago?’
Pedersen hesitated for a second, but stood his ground.
Maybe Simonsen had a point in that respect, and that was what in the first instance had prompted them to uncover all they could by way of background. But they’d done that now, more or less. Some would say more.
‘There comes a point where you have to say: all right, we’ve got the overview, this is as good as it gets. But you’re still picking away. And what’s worse, you’ve got no way of knowing the murder of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen has anything at all to do with Lucy Davison going missing. That’s supposition, and not even well founded. Get them in for interview instead of dallying about in the sixties, or all of a sudden you’ll look up and it’ll be time to retire.’
Simonsen acquiesced without argument. He’d already heard the same advice from the Countess, albeit phrased rather more elegantly.
‘All right, let’s go to Næstved and see Finn B. Hansen. I’ll try to set up an appointment with him today. After that we’ll confront the lot of them, unless something earth-shattering turns up in the meantime. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, as long as I’m deciding what’s earth-shattering,’ Arne insisted.
‘Done. Let me pop back and check my e-mail. Call me once you’ve got your smartboard sorted so I can watch that film.’
When Simonsen saw the clip he had to admit the interviewer was not without charm. Behind the long-haired exterior and the wire-framed glasses a subtle wit sparkled, and it was hard not to be carried along by it, despite the fact that the man in question was making the two teenagers he had selected to be his victims suffer quite without mercy. In front of him stood Mouritz Malmborg and a girl whose identity as yet remained unknown. The interviewer’s introduction was deadpan:
‘We on children’s TV are often accused of not caring about the ordinary kids of today, only for hippies, potheads, peace activists and other dregs of society. So today we’ve come here to Hvidovre Station in the capital’s hinterland, and lo and behold… what have we here but two absolutely ordinary kids of today. One absolutely ordinary boy and one absolutely ordinary girl. And the most ordinary of them would seem to be you. What’s your name?’
‘Susanne.’
‘OK, Susanne. And you can run all the way round the station building in a very short time, and twice around the station building in a bit longer. Is that right?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘And your dream is one day to be as good as all those women athletes from East Germany. Is the reason they’re so much faster than you… because the East German state, unlike Denmark, makes sure its young people get the very best training facilities and a healthy social upbringing? Or is it because the running tracks in East Germany are shorter?’
‘I don’t know… are the tracks shorter in other countries?’
‘All right, so there we have it. What about you, Mouritz? What’s your name?’
‘Mouritz.’
‘I thought it might be. Now, you’re a jablin thrower, right? How about showing the viewers how to throw a jablin? No, hang on. Pretend you’ve got a jablin in your hand and now you’re going to throw it.’
Mouritz Malmborg did as he was instructed. It looked like he was hammering nails into a ceiling.
‘A bit faster, we’ve got to get these jablins away, you know.’
He increased his speed and was left to repeat the movement for a while before the interviewer eventually moved on:
‘Thank you, Mouritz. Well done, that was very, very ordinary indeed. Susanne, would you like to gave Mouritz a round of applause while I say something to the viewers?’
The girl clapped and the interviewer wrapped things up.
Simonsen was impressed, and said so to Malte Borup.
‘Nice work, Malte. You turned up one of public broadcasting’s genuine red hirelings, as they said in the day. When’s it from?’
‘Tenth of April nineteen sixty-nine. It came up on Google. Is it any use?’
‘Definitely, thanks a lot.’
‘Why was he so unpleasant? He knew perfectly well it’s called a javelin. And making them look stupid like that… it was cruel.’
‘I don’t know why. Perhaps he was cruel, or maybe he was doing it just because he could. Times were different then, Malte.’
It was Simonsen’s standard comment whenever he wanted to close a discussion about the past: times were different then. And it was true enough, but when weren’t they different? In this instance, however, his evasion didn’t work. Malte Borup pondered for a second, still unable to get his head round it, in spite of times being different.
‘Was it funny then? Picking on people, I mean?’