‘I hope so. Tell me, do you like onion soup?’
Simonsen laughed.
‘That’s the most elegant change of subject I’ve heard in a very long time. And yes, I love onion soup.’
The priest led the way. It wasn’t far, he said. They turned down a quiet residential street, then took a right up a long driveway. The priest explained:
‘My brother’s a chef and works in a canteen here. Smashing place, don’t you think?’
Simonsen glanced around at what looked like storage halls, a number of nicely renovated old buildings and modern modular prefabs – an oddly harmonious cluster. It was like stepping into a village. A busy village, with people scuttling about between the various buildings, on their own or several at a time, despite its being the weekend. They passed a coachload of tourists being shown around by a guide rattling off information in English. Simonsen took hold of the priest’s sleeve and held him back.
‘What on earth is this place?’
‘Nordisk Film. Didn’t you see the sign?’
Simonsen shook his head.
‘And I thought I knew this city. I even used to live here in Valby. And yet I’ve never been here, ever.’
‘It is tucked a bit out of the way. Perhaps that’s what makes the place so charming. Did you know Nordisk Film is the world’s oldest surviving film company? I’ll tell you the history in a minute, but let’s have our soup first, shall we? Just wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.’
He went through a door, returning shortly afterwards carrying two precariously balanced bowls of soup. He handed one to Simonsen and the two men proceeded slowly through a narrow passage between two buildings, the priest still leading the way. Emerging, they came to a lawn on which three small huts had been erected in a row. They reminded Simonsen of children’s playhouses, the kind that came with their own sandpit. Each hut had its own name, etched into a wooden nameplate above the door: Faith, Hope and Charity. Simonsen was allowed to choose and pointed to the one in the middle.
‘Let’s take Hope. What are they used for anyway?’
‘Mostly they’re for scriptwriters, if they need a couple of hours to themselves.’
The two men edged their way inside and found room in the cramped space, Simonsen seating himself on the only chair, the priest on a bench next to him. They slurped their onion soup while the priest told him about Ole Olsen, the film company’s founder – businessman, entrepreneur, art collector and all-round character.
Simonsen listened with interest. Then without warning he said:
‘I’ve kept one of the Lucy posters. Missing Children in Liverpool will have to make do with seventeen, but there were eighteen in all.’
He had feared the reaction. The priest would be well within his rights to report him for theft, but there was no cause for concern:
‘Well, nine plus nine is usually eighteen, I can see that. But I think seventeen will suffice in this case, don’t you?’
He’d known, of course. Nine posters on one wall, nine on the other. He’d told Simonsen himself that he’d stood on top of the ladder staring into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mirror room. Simonsen told him about his trip to Hammerfest and the new home the poster had found in Kaare’s study up on the fell. The priest found it to be an excellent choice and asked him about the trip in general. He’d once been to Tromsø in his younger days. The conversation moved on and the missing picture was relegated to the past. Hesitantly Simonsen told him about Rita, to see how it felt. The priest listened with few comments.
‘There’s a story from that time that I’d like to tell you,’ said Simonsen.
‘By all means. Go ahead.’
‘I think I’d like to wait, if you don’t mind. I’m… not quite ready yet. I think that’s what they say, isn’t it? But some other time, if you’re still up for it?’
‘Certainly, no problem.’
They parted on the street outside the film studios. Simonsen, who had not asked a single question relating to his investigation, angled at the last minute:
‘I’d actually brought along four photographs of the students Lucy and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen were with in Esbjerg. I didn’t get round to showing them to you.’
‘No matter. I don’t know any of them.’
‘One of them killed Jørgen.’
‘You’re an extremely capable investigator. I trust and rely on your judgement.’
They shook hands. On his way back to the station, Simonsen found himself in good spirits. He was glad he’d taken the time out, even more so for what he’d been told. He was so immersed in thought he walked straight past the station, stopping only when the squeal of an incoming S-train prompted him to turn back. Jesper Mikkelsen, Pia Mikkelsen, Hanne Brummersted, Helena Brage Hansen. I trust and rely on your judgement. Rather an odd thing to say, if complimentary. He crossed the street to the steps leading down to the trains and felt confident he would live up to that judgement. He had already made significant progress, he thought, and… well, yes, he was an extremely capable investigator.
The time was just over half-past eight in the morning. It was Sunday 16 November and a punchy wind battered the spruce and hastened ragged clouds across the sky from the west. The day had hardly started and it was freezing cold. Simonsen shivered and glanced at Pauline by his side. She wasn’t wrapped up, but didn’t seem overly bothered by the fact either.
‘How come you chose me and Arne to come with you?’ she asked.
The day before, as they’d driven over to Esbjerg, she’d asked the same question, and again that afternoon at the hotel. On both occasions he’d fobbed her off: No reason in particular, he’d said, then changed the subject. Later, when Pauline had gone to bed and he and Arne Pedersen had adjourned to the bar, each with a fizzing glass of mineral water, Pedersen had put the question to him again, only for Simonsen to sidestep the matter once more.
He answered Pauline with a touch of annoyance.
‘That’s the third time. It doesn’t matter, surely?’
‘It does to me, Simon.’
She wormed her hand under his arm, but he shook her off.
‘The Countess is disqualified because of her poor relationship with Hanne Brummersted, even if she would have been my first choice.’
‘Was she miffed?’
‘I can’t allow personal considerations to sway my professional judgement, so she’ll have to live with it. Anyway it’s not an issue, she’s a professional too. You’re here because I wanted a woman involved.’
None of which was true. He’d passed over the Countess for personal reasons. It was unprofessional, he readily conceded, but that was how it was. He didn’t want her there when he found Lucy. In fact, he had seriously considered coming over on his own, though had eventually dismissed the idea. He needed someone besides himself to study the reactions of the four individuals who in a short time would once more be assembled after almost forty years apart. Not their reactions to Lucy Davison, but to Jørgen Kramer Nielsen.
‘And why Arne and not Klavs?’ Pauline wanted to know next.
‘Because Klavs is moving to Copenhagen today. Among other things.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
He wasn’t sure quite what she was pleased to hear, but he mumbled a reply nevertheless and gazed out at the surroundings. They were sheltering behind a woodshed next to the main entrance to the Scout hut, gusts of wind tugging at the smaller construction’s roofing felt and whistling around its eaves. The weather had worsened, he thought, despite the forecast predicting a calm spell. Pauline stamped her feet a few times on the sandy earth.
‘I thought it was to give me and Arne the chance to work together again,’ she said after a bit.
‘Well, it wasn’t.’