‘I hope you won’t tell Helena I recorded her on tape. If you ever need to speak to her, that is.’
‘I won’t. It’ll be between the two of us.’
‘I’ll be taking the tape with me when I leave. And I shall destroy it afterwards.’
‘It’s your tape.’
‘Indeed. Just so we’re in agreement.’
‘Why did you record her?’
‘Because I thought that if by some chance she did happen to reveal where that poor girl was buried… in case I forgot…’
‘I understand.’
‘But let’s just start the tape, shall we? The beginning’s private and isn’t relevant to you, so I’ll skip that bit.’
‘All right.’
Hansen repeated himself, rather more firmly than necessary, Simonsen thought:
‘I’m only going to let you hear what’s relevant. No more than that, and I won’t be moved as far as that’s concerned.’
‘Of course.’
He pressed a button and Simonsen listened carefully to the voices on the tape:
‘Helena, there’s something I have to tell you. The criminal department of the Copenhagen police are looking into a trip you and some of your classmates made a long time ago to Esbjerg.’
There was a long pause before she answered.
‘I see.’
Two small words, and yet easily sufficient to hear the tremor in her voice.
‘Do you remember it at all, Helena? A trip to Esbjerg?’
Again, she hesitated.
‘Helena, are you there?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Esbjerg. I don’t remember that at all.’
‘They’ve got photos of you. Old photos with you in them. You stayed at a Scout camp, a cabin Dad had let you use. You were revising for exams. And you were part of a group.’
‘What group? I’ve never been to any Scout camp. I’ve never even been to Esbjerg. I’m not on any photos, and I certainly didn’t kill anyone!’
‘Kill anyone? Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘I think it would be a good idea for you to come to Copenhagen, Helena, don’t you?’
‘I don’t want to go to Copenhagen. I’m a Norwegian citizen. No one can make me.’
‘A girl died there. A girl your age at the time. Seventeen.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Helena, you can’t just ignore this.’
‘Yes, I can. Denmark no longer exists for me.’
‘I’m afraid it does. And I think you really must…’
Finn B. Hansen stopped the tape:
‘She hung up on me.’
Simonsen looked at the tape recorder. Hansen followed his gaze.
‘I won’t give it to you.’
‘No, I understand that.’
‘It wouldn’t help you in any case.’
‘Why not?’
‘As evidence it’s completely useless, of course. And if you pressure her, she’ll break down and then you won’t be able to make any contact at all with her after that. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen it lots of times, when we were young. It’s not what any of us wants.’
‘No, that wouldn’t be beneficial, I can see that. So what you’re saying is that I should leave her alone, is that it?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘She said she hadn’t killed anyone before you even mentioned anything about Lucy… Lucy Davison, that is, the missing girl from the UK. You’re aware of what that indicates to us, obviously.’
Hansen nodded solemnly, and when he spoke again he was almost begging.
‘Can’t you try her classmates first?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Will you be seeking extradition?’
‘We’d prefer not to, so only as a last resort.’
‘I hope it won’t be necessary. Her mental health is poor enough as it is.’
Simonsen regretted the matter, but he would have no option if she maintained the stance she had already taken.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to keep your tape, but you realise that, of course?’
‘Of course. I just hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.’
Konrad Simonsen would have preferred to have skipped the visit to the University of Copenhagen’s Department of Forensic Medicine and had avoided thinking about the matter until now.
Annoyed, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out the stack of documents that resided there, proceeding with sighs of displeasure to leaf hastily through some of the pages. As he had expected, Juli Denissen’s unfortunate death out at Melby Overdrev had been twisted and turned in order to look like the result of a conspiracy between the Frederikssund Police and the emergency services, which contradicted all ordinary common sense. It was a shambles of a report, concluded by ten – not nine or eleven, but ten – questions sowing doubt on Juli Denissen’s having died from natural causes. Simonsen ran through the list and found it beyond ridiculous. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and phoned the chief constable in Frederikssund, who with little trouble was able to furnish him with perfectly reasonable answers to most of the questions.
Why was it never established how the woman and her daughter had got to Melby Overdrev? The answer here was simple: it was. Juli Denissen had borrowed her friend’s car and had moreover been witnessed by two different motorists on account of her overcautious slow driving, attributable to the fact that she had only just passed her driving test a few days previously. How could the jogger in the woods who found the woman’s body call the emergency services when there was no mobile coverage at Melby Overdrev? He could because his own provider’s coverage, as opposed to that of more popular companies, was in fact more than adequate in that location.
Only one question puzzled Simonsen. It was to do with why Juli Denissen had walked almost two kilometres over the grasslands away from the car park. It seemed odd considering the fact she had a two-year-old child with her. Odd, but then no more than that. All he could do was accept that she had done so. And that the question was of little interest in light of her having died of a brain haemorrhage. He glanced at his watch, still feeling annoyed; more annoyed, in fact, than he had done before. He had been thinking he might walk over to the Department of Forensic Medicine, but he hadn’t got time now and would have to take the car. He dumped the pile of documents back in the drawer, kicked it shut and left.
He was lucky to find a parking space on Trepkasgade and arrived at the department ten minutes before the appointed time for his meeting with Arthur Elvang. On the steps of the main entrance, three people were waiting for him. He nodded a greeting to Pauline Berg, who smiled and was visibly glad to see him, then exchanged a rather offish handshake with the woman he had first met out on Melby Overdrev and whose name suddenly came back to him: Linette Krontoft. She looked like someone who ought to have stayed in bed: her face was blotched and bloated, her eyes glassy as if she’d been out all night on a bender. Her handshake was limp. He wiped his hand on his sleeve and hoped he wasn’t going to catch anything. Then, finally, he turned to the man who accompanied Krontoft.
He was in his thirties, slimly built and of average height, with plain features. He put his hand out with exaggerated conviviality.
‘You must be Simon. I’m August and I’m part of the group trying to find out why Juli died.’
Simonsen’s greeting was rather more reserved. He looked the man up and down without speaking. August went on somewhat hectically, as if sensing a question unasked.