The next day, they got up early and drove the last part of the way, up through Norway, the road winding in and out through splendid fjords. As they turned off and drove the final stretch towards Hammerfest, he tried to scale down her expectations.
‘They’ve pledged an oath never to speak of you. I’m certain of that. None of my colleagues understands how powerful such a pledge can become, but I do. To begin with, you remember every word. Gradually, it becomes a voice inside, with only the meaning recalled. Year by year, it becomes more and more entrenched in the mind. Eventually, it’s become a part of you. Something that can’t be changed. Neither good nor bad, but impossible to break, the same way as you can’t do anything about your name, you’re stuck with it whether you like it or not. Now we must help one of them overcome her fear, so I can find out where they buried you and make sure you get home again. But if we work together, I’m sure things will work out just fine.’
After that, he spoke to her no more.
Helena Brage Hansen looked exactly like she did in the photos Simonsen was familiar with, apart from the fact that her hair was now white and she wore glasses. He waylaid her outside her home on the Thursday. It was mid-morning and she came wheeling her bike up the hill. He got out of the car and waited for her. He introduced himself, and she answered calmly:
‘I’ve been expecting this, but I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing.’
‘It was a lovely drive.’
‘I’m sure. But I’m sorry, we’ve got nothing to talk about.’
‘I’m not just here to talk. I’m also here because I was hoping you’d be able to help me with something else.’
He showed her the poster in its frame. She stood and looked at it for a long time, enough for his arms to tire. Then, after a while, she spoke.
‘Oh, goodness.’
That was all. A tiny, sorrowful exclamation. Simonsen sensed it would be best to avoid mention of the photographer and the additional circumstances. Perhaps she knew already, or perhaps it would spoil this first, tentative opening.
‘Would you help me find a place to hang her up? I don’t know anyone here. Preferably in a room with many windows.’
‘Is that why you’ve come?’
‘Yes, and to speak with you, though I haven’t envisaged you’d be willing to tell me anything.’
‘Wait.’
Shortly afterwards she returned, wearing a jacket and carrying a rucksack. He followed her out of the town, up a winding path that led them on to the hillside and quickly had him panting for breath. They passed a few reindeer along the way, the grazing animals barely pausing to look up, and she exchanged a brief word of greeting with an elderly man at a wooden rack of stockfish. She walked briskly. For a time he struggled to keep up with her, eventually falling back and finding his own pace. He was carrying the framed poster; it was unwieldy and held him up.
‘You’re going too fast,’ he called out.
She slowed down to accommodate him. They hiked through the stunning landscape for perhaps half an hour. Barren, grey-black rock, broken here and there by sparse expanses of moss and lichen, or glistening white snow. Soon, they were high above the town. The view was stupendous and almost hurt his eyes, so much did he stare. Eventually, they came to three crofts settled snuggly in a dip in the hillside. She went to the largest of them, going inside without a knock and leading him up some stairs. The room they entered was bright and pleasant, tastefully decorated. At the far end, a man sat huddled at a computer, writing. He turned abruptly, rose cheerfully to his feet and greeted her with a kiss, whereupon they immediately began to converse in sign language. The man stepped forward and extended his hand silently to Konrad Simonsen. They shook, and Helena Brage Hansen explained:
‘Kaare’s a journalist, financial affairs. He works freelance, specialising in Switzerland. He’s travelled all over the world. These days, though, he’ll hardly bother to go into town.’
‘I can well understand it. This is an amazing place.’
‘Yes, it’s lovely now, but in a month’s time the weather makes it too gloomy for me.’
Together they found a space for Lucy Davison. It took them a while. All three had their opinions, but eventually they agreed on Kaare’s proposal. He fetched some tools and before long the picture was up and hanging on the wall.
‘What’s he saying?’ Simonsen asked as the man signed at him.
‘He wants you to taste his blueberry aquavit.’
‘I’d like to, but just a taste. I had a heart attack not long ago, so there are certain pleasures I have to forego.’
She translated for him.
‘Kaare says blueberry schnapps is good for the heart.’
It was all very cordial, and hours passed. Kaare’s home was a place in which Simonsen quickly felt comfortable. At some point, almost casually, Helena Brage Hansen said:
‘I’ve booked two seats on the plane for Copenhagen at ten-thirty in the morning, but there’ll be a couple of transfers. If you pick me up early I can help you make arrangements to get your car back to Denmark.’
No more was said on the matter, and it was mid-afternoon by the time they made tracks. Simonsen noted her farewell to the man was not the sort that indicated she was expecting to be gone for long.
The next day she was quiet, albeit neither distraught nor nervous. On their way to the airport few words were exchanged between them, and it was only once they were on the plane that he asked her:
‘What are you intending to do when we get to Copenhagen?’
‘Check in to the hotel and sleep, I think.’
‘And tomorrow?’
‘Speak to the other five.’
‘Mouritz Malmborg and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen are dead.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose it was only to be expected. Statistically, I mean.’
‘What are you going to say to them?’
‘I’ll arrange a meeting.’
‘Do you know where they live?’
‘No, but you do.’
‘Yes. Where will you meet?’
‘Vesterhavsgården.’
‘You remember the name?’
‘I remember every second, and the others do, too.’
‘You made each other a promise.’
‘Yes, but we shouldn’t have done. We should never have done that. And this is what ought to have happened a very long time ago. If it had, we might have had lives worth living.’
Simonsen refrained from passing comment, but a short while later he said:
‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was murdered.’
Her reaction was subdued. He thought she might have taken a sedative.
‘I think one of you four who remain killed him. Or had him killed.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you their leader?’
‘You could say. Until Lucy came along. She took over as easy as anything.’
‘Did you and the others kill her?’
‘That’s for you to decide later.’
‘I’m asking you now.’
‘Yes, we did.’
CHAPTER 11
Konrad Simonsen set up a meeting with the priest on the Saturday, the day after he arrived home from Norway, prompting the Countess to comment:
‘Don’t you think you should relax a bit? Surely it can wait until next week? You’ve got a drive ahead of you, remember.’
She was right. Of course it could wait. It probably wasn’t even necessary. The meeting had no real bearing on the investigation, or anything at all, most likely. And yet, much to his bemusement, he had found himself calling the man and arranging an appointment. The priest, for his part, didn’t seem in the slightest bit surprised. He hadn’t asked what it was about, had simply fitted Simonsen in, if not in so many words.
‘What do you want to talk to him about anyway?’ the Countess wanted to know.