She had an unerring ability to pinpoint the matters on which he himself was uncertain. Sometimes it was good, clarifying things for him; other times it was annoying and he felt himself oddly laid bare. Like now. He tried to be honest.
‘I don’t know, really. I just want to talk to him, perhaps tell him how far I’ve got with Lucy. That we’re going over to dig up her remains tomorrow.’
After they’d landed at Copenhagen, Helena Brage Hansen had booked herself into a hotel in Christianshavn. They had parted company for a few hours, after which she had contacted him again and briefly informed him that she and the others would be arriving at the Vesterhavsgården camp the following day. The others – Jesper and Pia Mikkelsen and Hanne Brummersted – he hadn’t even contacted, merely asking if they’d be there without the presence of solicitors or any other third party, which Helena assured him would be the case. He got Klavs Arnold activated right away, clearing the place of any children’s groups that might have been booked in.
‘You sound very confident about it,’ the Countess said.
He was. Tomorrow Lucy would be found. After nearly forty years in the sand. The thought was so full of pathos he hastened to continue:
‘I’m going to tell the priest I’ve nicked one of his posters. Or whoever it is who’s going to own them now.’
There was something else he wanted to talk to the priest about. Something he wanted to confess. That was the word he used in his mind: confess. It was the way he felt obliged to think about it, if he could think about it at all. And yet this confession had no bearing on his investigation. Truth be told, it was hardly a matter for a priest at all. But he was a person Konrad Simonsen was comfortable talking to, even about difficult matters.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ the Countess said.
It was indeed, he thought. She let the matter drop. If he was quick about it he could go for his run before dinner.
The Countess had made an effort in the kitchen, which he appreciated even if her culinary skills were rather limited. Prawn cocktail with avocado and a homemade thousand island dressing, followed by veal with sautéed vegetables and four consciously apportioned small potatoes each. Unusually, she’d bought a non-alcoholic wine to go with it. They raised their glasses and tasted the grape like a pair of master sommeliers, Simonsen electing not to comment adversely: it was the thought that mattered. The Countess, however, passed judgement herself.
‘It tastes like stale fruit juice. I’ll open a proper bottle, you’ll just have to jog an extra kilometre tomorrow. How’s it going with that anyway? Did you run the whole way today?’
He shook his head. He still had a bit to go, but he was getting there. Then, as they sat with their wine, he said:
‘I should never have looked Rita up like that. It was a mistake, a big mistake.’
He drank another sip, before explaining.
‘When I think about her now, it’s all negative. The time before we broke up was… weird. I’m annoyed about that multi-storey, as well. I mean, if she really needed to invest in something, couldn’t she have put her money in…’
His voice trailed away, then he added pensively:
‘Perhaps I’m just angry with her for getting older.’
‘You’re older yourself.’
‘Which is why I can’t afford to have all my dreams falling apart on me. And if everything goes according to plan I’ll be seeing Lucy, too… the way she is today. It can’t be helped. Has she gone, by the way?’
He nodded towards the annexe. The Countess confirmed it. The posters had been removed while he was away.
The priest had given him an address on a side street in Valby, not far from the Søndermarken park. He took the S-train and walked from Valby station. The place turned out to be a coffee bar, the old-fashioned kind where a cup of coffee cost five kroner, a refill three, sugar and cream at no extra cost. It was about the only thing they sold in the place, tiny premises with just enough room for a few tables and the counter itself, behind which a woman who looked to be about the same age as the building served his beverage from a classic Madam Blå coffee pot, guaranteed freshly brewed. She took his money and he sat down at the nearest table and sipped what for the sake of his dodgy heart ought to have been tea, though he sensed it would have been sacrilege to have asked for such a thing here. He was the only customer, and having brought nothing with him to read he simply sat and stared out of the window. The sun was out, though it was windy: the street looked pleasant and quiet. His mind was empty of thought, but after a bit he began to wonder if he’d got the time wrong.
Eventually, however, the priest came hurrying in, apologising for the delay and sitting down at the table. The old woman brought him a cup of coffee without being asked. Simonsen surmised he was probably a regular. He asked, by way of conversation:
‘Do you come here often?’
He indicated the priest’s coffee cup, suddenly feeling intrusive.
‘I know two people who live in the area and visit whenever I’ve got the time. I usually come in here for a coffee. It’s the only place I actually drink coffee, usually I’m a tea-drinker, but this has become something of a tradition.’
‘I see.’
Simonsen found the situation awkward and the lull that followed all too prolonged. The priest seemed to sense his unease and began to tell him about the people he’d been to see. Lonely people, people who’d been left behind somehow and who now lived their lives in the past. What did you want to see me about? – the perfectly natural question that would make Simonsen feel self-conscious – never arose. When the priest finished talking, Simonsen took over. He told him about Helmer Hammer, the executive from the Prime Minister’s Office, carefully avoiding any mention of the man’s name. The priest listened with interest, clearly enjoying their conversation. Simonsen went on:
‘Anyway, when this top civil servant told us your church wished to purchase Lucy’s posters, we in the Homicide Department of course began to look for an explanation. We could imagine all sorts, to be honest, growing increasingly more sinister. That’s what my job’s like, you see. Everything, no matter what, has to be viewed with a certain amount of scepticism. It’s ingrained in us, I’m afraid.’
The priest nodded his understanding. Obviously, the police couldn’t just accept any old story. Simonsen told him how Pauline Berg – he referred to her as one of my junior staff – had tired of all their theorising and simply grabbed the phone and called this officialis from the British diocese who was trying to obtain the pictures of Lucy Davison. She asked the man straight out for an explanation, which was promptly provided. The priest responded with a smile.
‘Our organisation Missing Children in Liverpool will be inheriting one and a half million kroner from Jørgen, as you know. That’s a considerable sum of money, which will do a world of good. At the moment, Missing Children’s Liverpool branch has its premises in a dilapidated building off Romer Road in the city’s Kensington area. What’s more, they’ve been very short of space. Now, however, they’ve bought themselves some roomier offices on Rydal Avenue in Formby, which at present they’re doing up. I thought it would be the ideal place for Lucy’s pictures, so I phoned our officialis, as you refer to him. We know each other personally, he used to be in charge of Missing Children in Liverpool himself, as a matter of fact, and… well, I managed to persuade him.’
Simonsen put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
‘Lucy…’
The priest followed his example, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. His eyes were kind, his gaze firm.
‘Lucy, indeed.’
‘Tomorrow we’ll finally discover what happened to her. In Esbjerg, all those years ago.’