‘Relax, I haven’t. Anyway, you make it sound so hard. It could be all you need to do is look her up in the phone book.’
‘Perhaps, but I’m not sure I want to. What makes you think she might still be in Denmark?’
‘She had no brothers or sisters, is that right?’
‘Yes. And?’
‘Did you ever actually look at that folder you brought back with you from Frederiksværk?’
He shook his head. He had tossed it away in annoyance and never given it a thought. She went and got it and opened it in front of him.
‘I think her grandchild’s playing tomorrow afternoon in the Gjethuset there. The music schools are giving their annual concert and on the bill there’s a Teresa Metz Andersen with “Songs for a Grandmother”, three interpretations of songs by Joan Baez. The grandmother might very well be your Rita.’
Konrad Simonsen stared at the page, then said very slowly, almost lingering over every word:
‘Yes, I suppose it might.’
Klavs Arnold’s appointment was made official on the Saturday afternoon. Simonsen had talked the man from Jutland into stopping by Police HQ on the pretext of wanting to discuss strategy on the search of the holiday-camp grounds. Arnold’s strategy, fully in keeping with where he was from, was simply to get on with it, but Simonsen the Copenhagener was insistent. They met at eight, as that was as early as Arnold could make it. Arne Pedersen had protested about going in to work on a Saturday evening for something that could just as well have been dealt with during normal working hours after the weekend. Simonsen, though, was adamant. He might well have called them in on impulse, but he wasn’t forcing anyone to attend. He just felt they needed to get Arnold’s appointment settled as soon as possible. Felt. A new word in his vocabulary, perhaps, but that’s how it was, and his colleagues would just have to take it or leave it.
Pauline Berg arrived all dressed up to go out and looked amazing. Apparently, she had an appointment straight afterwards, though what kind of appointment and with whom she wouldn’t say. It was good to see her like that again, outgoing and bubbling over with enthusiasm, however long it lasted.
It was dark before Arnold arrived. The days had grown shorter and the depressing blanket of heavy grey cloud that had lingered over the city for a week did the rest.
When the man they were all waiting for finally arrived, Simonsen went directly to the issue at hand. Klavs Arnold had hardly sat down before Simonsen put it to him straight:
‘What would you say to joining us here permanently rather than going to Helsinge?’
They all thought he’d been waiting to be asked. Only when Arnold’s jaw dropped and he sat gaping for a moment, visibly gobsmacked, did they realise he hadn’t. Unless he was a born actor.
‘Seriously?’
Pauline Berg replied promptly:
‘No, it’s just something we say to everyone, and we’re only here because we couldn’t think of anything else to do on a Saturday night.’
She mellowed again when Arnold faced up to her and responded to her barbs with a compliment.
‘You’re looking gorgeous tonight. Who’s the lucky bloke?’
‘Oh, thanks. Just someone I know.’
‘Well, he’s very fortunate. And yes, I’d very much like to carry on here, if you’ll have me.’
After that, there wasn’t much more to say. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg battled to be the first one out of the door, and the Countess, too, quickly made her excuses: she had a couple of things to do while she was here. Simonsen waited for her. It struck him that when, or if, Arne Pedersen was to head up the department at some later stage, the inner circle he himself favoured would no longer exist. After a minute, Pauline came back.
‘I didn’t actually say before because of all sorts of other stuff in my head but I’m really glad you’re going to be with us, Klavs. Very glad indeed.’
And then she left again.
The two men exchanged glances without saying a word, before Simonsen spoke.
‘How long are you staying in town?’
‘Until tomorrow. I thought we were going to be talking strategy about that search, even if there isn’t much to talk about.’
‘Because we won’t find her?’
‘I’ve only been out there for an hour. The wife’s got so much on at the moment, and I’ve got to help out with the kids. One of the girls was off colour yesterday and I had to stay home half the day. Never done that before.’
‘What do you think?’
‘What I think is, we don’t stand a chance without knowing where to look.’
‘That’s twice in a very short space of time someone’s said that to me. I’m going back with you to Esbjerg tomorrow. I need to see the place for myself.’
CHAPTER 9
The venue for the concert was a delight. The Gjethuset in Frederiksværk looked a treat in the pale autumnal sun that Sunday afternoon. Originally, the three-winged building had been an ordnance foundry, and the concert hall of today was an intriguing blend of raw eighteenth-century factory floor and modern arts venue with acoustics that were no less than fabulous.
Konrad Simonsen and Klavs Arnold had made the trip together. Once the concert was over they were heading off to Esbjerg, which would give them all day Monday to study the grounds of the Vesterhavsgården camp. They hung about in the car outside the concert hall and watched people as they arrived.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ Simonsen asked for about the third time.
But Klavs Arnold didn’t. As a father of five, three of whom were of school age, he had long since grown averse to performing children, shunning everything in the way of school plays, nativity scenes, kids’ circuses, or just plain music and song. Simonsen felt guilty about making him wait.
‘What are you going to do in the meantime?’
Arnold laughed.
‘Off you go, Simon. See you in a couple of hours.’
The concert had attracted a good-sized audience, the venue was packed, mostly with parents coming to see their musical offspring. Even as he made his way towards the doors, Simonsen had realised he would be more than fortunate to see Rita in all the crowds if indeed she were there at all, and if he would recognise her if he did bump into her. Whatever the circumstances, he had resolved not to go looking for her. Small steps, one at a time. If he didn’t see her here today, the chance would surely come again somewhere else.
He found his seat, far back to the left of the stage, and felt comfortably anonymous in the throng.
The programme was introduced by the mayor of Halsnæs Kommune, Helge Friis. He was a balding man in his fifties with an unforced, casual manner, as though he was well used to appearing on stage, and an assurance in his voice that immediately put Simonsen at his ease. He’d been expecting the usual stiff and under-rehearsed official welcome. The mayor waxed lyrical about the building, the foundry in which generations of workers had grafted forging cannons and guns, today a place of culture, community and music, a language understood by all.
The well-thought-out speech met with resounding applause, an enthusiastic and genuine response from an audience who clearly weren’t clapping just because they were supposed to. Simonsen joined in; the man deserved it. With the scene suitably set, the concert could begin.
The running order had Teresa Metz Andersen appearing second with her ‘Songs for a Grandmother’. Simonsen was almost catapulted back into his seat when she stepped on to the stage, a reaction so violent and unexpected that for the first time in months he worried about his heart. To begin with he even had to look away. Whether it was his memory adapting to the sight of her or whether she really did resemble her grandmother to an astonishing extent was hard for him to say, but the likeness between Rita of the early 1970s and the girl onstage now was unnerving.