Konrad Simonsen and Pauline Berg zoomed in on the area on Google Earth. It wasn’t the most encouraging sight for anyone wanting to find a body there.
Pauline shook her head.
‘No way we can dig through all that without some idea of where she might be. They could have buried her anywhere, the place is surrounded by spruce plantations.’
‘I shouldn’t think they’ll have lugged her around more than absolutely necessary,’ said Simonsen.
‘Maybe not, but if we don’t know where they got rid of her she could be ten metres from the front door and we still wouldn’t have a chance.’
‘You’re right. At the moment we haven’t got a look in.’
‘Isn’t there some kind of scanner we can use that can find bones and stuff? I’m sure I heard something about that not long ago. Like a metal detector, only for bodies. Hasn’t Kurt Melsing got one?’
‘It would be almost impossible after such a long time.’
‘What a pain. How are we going to go about it, then?’
‘We’re going to read.’
He had laid his hands on three volumes of Scouting Youth spanning 1967 to 1969. They were on his desk. Helena Brage Hansen had edited the problem page, and Konrad Simonsen thought the magazines would give them a window on her personality.
Pauline grudgingly indulged him. She didn’t feel much like ploughing through forty-year-old Scouting mags, but for once she did as she was asked.
Only later did Simonsen realise he’d got his young colleague started on an impossible job. It was a realisation that came to him when, after an hour and a half of reading, she suddenly said:
‘I’m not sure I understand what I’m looking for.’
He looked up from his own magazine.
‘What you need to do is look at the advice Helena gives her readers and on that basis form an impression of what she’s like as a person. What kind of opinions has she, what does she believe in, what are her morals, visions and dreams? That sort of thing. As far as I can see she often uses herself as a point of reference in her replies.’
‘She was young, too.’
‘True. And?’
‘I think it’s weird her giving all this advice. Usually agony aunts are older, aren’t they? She’s a good writer, though.’
‘She wanted to be a journalist.’
‘How do you know?’
‘From the reply I just read. The same one you read ten minutes ago.’
Pauline rubbed her eyes.
‘I don’t think I’m very good at this. Can’t you give me an example?’
‘Like what?’
‘Something you’ve found yourself that’s important.’
Simonsen looked at his notepad and flicked through the pages.
‘All right, how’s this? She’s replying to a girl who can’t find a boyfriend and feels left out by the others in her class. “Stay true to yourself. It can be hard, I know that. But it’s not worth being admitted to any group if the price of entry is to stop being the person you are. That price is too high, even if sometimes you might be tempted.”’
‘Yeah, all right. But what’s so special about that?’
He put it aside and moved on to another example.
‘This one’s to a boy who’s been admonished by his Scoutmaster for saying he’s against the war in Vietnam.’
‘Nobody likes war.’
‘He means the USA’s involvement in Vietnam. Listen to what she tells him. “You’re entitled to your opinion. It’s your right, and you should tell that to your Scoutmaster. But think about this, too: North Korea is a dictatorship, South Vietnam is a dictatorship, China is a dictatorship, the Soviet Union is a dictatorship. Saying so may not be popular, but it’s the case nevertheless. Try imagining that the USA was a dictatorship, too. That may be difficult, but try as hard as you can and then tell me how that would affect life in Denmark. It doesn’t take much courage to spit on a fortress when you know it’ll remain standing.”’
‘Sounds reasonable enough to me. Don’t you agree with her?’
‘My opinion, whatever it might be, is irrelevant. The point is what her classmates thought about her.’
‘How am I supposed to know that? The only ones who write to her are in Scouting.’
‘She was certainly making waves.’
Pauline looked thoughtful and Simonsen concluded he had finally steered her mind on to the right track, an assumption he was shortly afterwards compelled to revise when she spoke again.
‘I think I might know what you mean now. She ought to have made more of an effort with her appearance. She couldn’t help the way she looked, of course, I know that, but she ought to have done herself up some more, sold herself a bit better. It needn’t cost much. But then maybe it was the times… I wouldn’t know about that, would I?’
‘Just forget about it, Pauline, it doesn’t matter.’
‘What about the others? How come you’re so interested in Helena?’
‘Because she’s the only one we know anything about, and because informally, at least, she seems to have been their leader, if you like.’
‘They being the Lonely Hearts Club?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did they get that stupid name anyway?’
Simonsen gave up and let her go.
But not entirely. As Pauline gathered together her magazines and sorted them into chronological order, he asked:
‘What about Klavs Arnold? Does he need doing up as well?’
He’d been meaning to ask her for a while – not about the man’s appearance, but about him joining them on a permanent basis. This seemed as good a time as any. Yet when her answer came he kicked himself for not having asked before.
‘The Countess and I will take care of that once you give him the job.’
‘How do you know I’m giving him a job? Did the Countess tell you? Or Arne?’
‘No, but that’s been the idea all along, hasn’t it? You are going to take him on, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. And very soon, if he’ll agree.’
On Saturday morning Konrad Simonsen and the Countess went shopping in the Lyngby Storcenter precinct. The Countess wasn’t holding back. Her approach to supermarkets was unstructured and governed by impulse: she picked from the shelves whatever took her fancy on her way round the store, albeit with an expression that was supposed to make it look like every selection was a carefully considered choice. This had fooled Simonsen to begin with, but now he saw straight through her. Occasionally he fished an item from the trolley and replaced it on the shelf without its seeming to bother her unduly. Sometimes he would do it without telling her, while at others his action was accompanied by a brief explanation: The cupboard’s full of coffee, what do we need another three packets for? She would shrug and move on. Having passed through the checkout they trundled their trolley into the lift, then to the Countess’s car parked in the underground car park. Here at their leisure they could transfer their shopping into carrier bags before dumping them in the boot. While they were doing so, the Countess said:
‘I know I was unfair about that folder from Frederiksværk and accusing you about your trip to Rødby. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.’
He grunted a reply and she elaborated the way she did, the way with which he had now become familiar. And yet he sensed she had given more thought to the matter this time: she still hadn’t fully come to terms with her own divorce, though it had been nearly five years ago now. Naturally, she was no longer in love with the man, not at all, but she was still jealous of his family life, his children. Sometimes she could hardly go about in public without fearing she was going to bump into them and – worst of all – see them strolling with their pram. She readily admitted to being overstrung, and probably mean-spirited, too, but nevertheless it was the way she felt.