What was Simonsen to say to that? In a way it was. It was hard to explain.
In the car on the way to Næstved, Arne Pedersen buried his nose in a stack of spreadsheets and statements of accounts, poring his way through them with the aid of a pocket calculator and a biro. Occasionally he expelled a sigh, but said nothing. Simonsen, too, immersed himself in thought, transporting himself back into the past as he had done that morning. In his mind he lingered on his final meeting with Rita. She had disappeared for days on end. He had no idea where she went, and often her leaving came as a surprise to him. On her return she would refuse to answer his many questions, and it took a long time for him to discover that she was working as a courier, running cash from Denmark to Germany or France, money collected in Scandinavia with the aim of supporting Palestinian liberation. He never found out for certain which organisation had recruited her. Most likely it was the PFLP, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, though he had no clear indication, then or now. There were so many different groups and so many gullible idealists willing to do the dirty work, who at the end of the day had no idea at all who they were working for. Rita was a tiny pawn in a very big game that was becoming increasingly nasty. Hijackings, killings and kidnappings were the order of the day. The use of terror was accelerating, but the reactions to it were often equally violent: Mossad, the Israeli security agency, tracked down and liquidated the perpetrators of the Olympic Games massacre in Munich, one by one.
In the spring of 1973, Rita was away for almost two weeks. When she got back she looked tanned yet depressed. As usual, she wouldn’t say what she’d been doing. It couldn’t go on, and they paused their relationship, as they had done several times before, only to pick things up again after a short time. The crux of the matter, so they thought, was that they couldn’t do without each other.
But then came the shock: staring him in the face in black and white, revealing to him just how far gone she was. As he remembered it, they were at a workers’ festival in the Fælledparken, an event that had drawn tens of thousands, a perfectly orchestrated display of organisational talent and logistics. But maybe he was mistaken, perhaps the festival came later, and now he came to think about it he was unsure as to the time of year, too. But whatever, he had been put on duty to keep the peace at some event or other organised by the Danish communists. It was a cushy job. Regardless of his disdain for the party, he had to admit they kept their cadres in order. The communists were never any trouble: never a jeer was issued in his direction, the police were mostly ignored and he’d even on occasion been offered a cup of coffee.
He’d been approached by two men, middle-aged activists of the easy-going kind. They’d sat down on a bench by a table, in a tent, as he recalled. The tablecloth was the only thing he remembered vividly, red and white checks, as in the cheaper restaurants of the capital. The men had placed two almost identical photographs in front of him. Both showed Rita climbing the steps to board a plane. She carried crutches, and one of her legs was in plaster. The plane was an El Al flight to Tel Aviv.
The men had been friendly, though neither wished to reveal where the photos came from or how they knew about his connection to Rita. Their gentle advice to him was to get his girlfriend out of the mess she’d landed herself in. He never found out if the two men had been sent by the party – if they were even communists at all – or whether they’d approached him off their own bat as a matter of simple decency.
For two days and nights he pored over the problem. And then he went to PET, police intelligence. PET’s headquarters was at that time on the first floor of the Bellahøj Politistation. He was interviewed by three colleagues. They took down his explanations and enquired in detail about his relationship with Rita. He was given a list of further questions to think about and answer to the best of his ability. Before leaving, he paradoxically received the same piece of advice the communists had issued. Get her out of this mess and do it now. Those were their parting words. Afterwards, he adjourned to a bar and felt miserable. The interview with PET had been unpleasant and he felt like a traitor: he’d betrayed Rita, no matter how many times he told himself he’d done the only thing he could have done and that it was right. Presumably, they were no longer in a relationship at all.
Senior Deputy Judge Finn B. Hansen had for a number of years been in charge of Department 14 of the High Court of Western Denmark with responsibility for preparing all civil cases to be tried by the court. Some ten years ago he had been moved down the ladder to the district court at Næstved, having completed an enforced sabbatical of six months on account of a somewhat far-reaching drink problem. Subsequently he had managed to get a grip on himself, but his career had suffered irreparably and he had been compelled to accept the fact that he would never rise to the echelons of magistrate.
He was a corpulent man with thin white hair and a fleshy face. He welcomed Simonsen and Pedersen and ushered them to the two Bauhaus chairs that had been drawn up in front of his desk. Simonsen hesitated. He found the furniture aesthetically pleasing, but was always reluctant actually to sit down on such an item, and whenever he did so it was always with a measure of scepticism as to the spindly steel tubing and the two missing legs.
‘So, what can I do for you gentlemen? I was intrigued to hear from you, I must admit.’
Simonsen threw caution to the wind and sat down before explaining why they had come. Many years ago, Hansen’s younger sister had spent some days revising for exams over on the west coast together with some classmates from her gymnasium. There they had been visited by a young English girl who had later disappeared. He showed the man a couple of photos, though not the one in which the youngsters were partially naked.
Hansen’s expression turned from cheery to reticent. He studied the photos for some time, though all they required was a glance.
‘And you think this English girl is dead, am I right?’ he eventually asked.
The inference was reasonable: after all, they were from Homicide. Simonsen confirmed the suspicion that Lucy Davison most likely was dead. Finn B. Hansen nodded solemnly before responding:
‘It’s a long time ago. I’m sorry, can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water?’
It was obvious the deputy judge needed time to digest the matter. Pedersen declined on behalf of them both, whereupon he explained as tactfully as possible Hansen’s sister’s possible involvement in the case, before briefly outlining the killing of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. As soon as he was finished, Simonsen took over.
‘We fully understand if you don’t want to help us. I’m not sure how I’d react in the situation myself. Nevertheless, we’d like you to know that regardless of whatever you may decide to do, no record of this will ever be made, neither publically nor internally within the department. That said, we would indeed be very grateful if you were to refrain from informing your sister that we have spoken.’
Hansen shook his white head vigorously. It looked more like a shudder. After a moment’s pause he spoke again.
‘Two people died?’
‘Hardly any doubt.’
‘And worst case is my sister being charged with murder?’
‘Worst case, yes. But it’s not particularly on the cards as regards Esbjerg. We don’t consider first-degree murder to be at all likely in that case, and anything else would be time-barred by now as you’d know better than anyone. As for the postman, it seems clear that…’
‘Helena could never have broken anyone’s neck. You know she lives in the north of Norway, I take it?’
‘We’re aware of that, yes.’
‘Do you think I could have a minute to think this over? Perhaps you could go for a little walk or something?’