They went for a walk on Larsens Plads by the Kvæsthusbroen, back and forth, circling about on the same cobbles while Simonsen explained his predicament. Planck accepted the exercise books with a grunt of annoyance, like a schoolteacher receiving an essay handed in late. Two days later they met up again at the same place, this time seated on a bench in drizzling rain. Planck had brought an umbrella, but only for himself. He began by asking Simonsen a core question:
‘What about you? Are you going to America too?’
‘No.’
He had mulled over the dilemma, lain awake half the night thinking about it, weighing the pros and cons, but now the answer came to him at once. And he knew, as soon as he uttered the word, that it was true.
‘I didn’t think you would be.’
Planck’s assessment was immediately borne out. He gave back the exercise books along with some documents: three typed sheets of additional questions, one – and only one – visa application for the United States, and a form whereby Konrad Simonsen applied to be transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department.
‘I’ll be docking you eight days’ holiday. I won’t have people skiving off,’ was Planck’s only comment.
‘Eight days? I’ve only been away five.’
‘The other three’s to teach you a lesson.’
And that was that. Planck told him what to do, a plan Simonsen followed to the letter. At the bookshop he bought two more exercise books in which Rita wrote down her answers to Planck’s additional questions. She filled in her visa application and gave him her passport. At some point it dawned on her she would be going on her own, but they never discussed the matter.
At the Bellahøj Politistation he handed in half the exercise books and Rita’s documents to PET, represented by an ageing assistant with horn-rimmed glasses and an inscrutable expression. The man spent a couple of minutes leafing through the material. The visa application was passed without comment, warranting merely a near-imperceptible nod, and Simonsen was given another appointment the following week. A bit like going to the dentist’s.
He gave her her passport and visa at the Grønjordskollegium halls one gorgeous summer evening, well suited to melancholy. She cried a little and asked in a tiny voice:
‘Will you sleep with me?’
It was in the air: for the last time. He declined. She asked:
‘What now?’
‘Now we need money.’
He’d been walking about for a bit and found himself at the far end of the parking area, hardly realising how he’d got there. He swivelled round as a BMW swung in and pulled up in front of the Scout cabin. Pia Mikkelsen got out of the back, followed by her husband, who emerged from behind the wheel. The solicitor was not present. Simonsen turned away in the opposite direction without bothering to say hello. After a short detour he returned to the top of the driveway, where Arne and Pauline were waiting for him. Wearily, he looked them both in the eye for a moment before collecting himself and leading the way through the front door.
The four friends of old had seated themselves in armchairs as far apart from each other as possible. Even the Mikkelsen couple were distanced from one another. Helena Brage Hansen sat disinterestedly leafing through a magazine on the table in front of her, while the others stared into space. The air was thick with the solemnity of the occasion. Behind them, a breakfast buffet had been provided, and Konrad Simonsen sent a kind thought to the staff of Esbjerg Kommune. Then he took the floor, bidding them welcome in a breezy tone that seemed almost like a provocation.
‘Good morning, everyone, and thank you indeed for coming. I can tell by your faces that you’re all aware how serious a matter we have to deal with here today. The good news is that I’m certain once you’ve had the opportunity to relieve your consciences, you’ll all be feeling rather more comfortable. Especially after you’ve decided to take a trip down memory lane back to the old school…’
Helena Brage Hansen interrupted his flow, her words like a well-directed whiplash.
‘Put that magazine away, Hanne, and pay attention.’
The consultant immediately obeyed orders, blushing. Simonsen continued:
‘I see little has changed. For the moment, however, I have nothing more to say. It’s your turn now. I’m sure you’ve lots to talk about, am I right?’
As expected, it was Helena Brage Hansen who spoke first:
‘I think we need ten minutes to ourselves to begin with. I hope you’ll allow us that?’
He didn’t have much choice, and a moment later was once more standing outside with Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg, sheltering from the wind behind the woodshed. The gusts had eased and two military helicopters passed almost directly above their heads. They looked up spontaneously and in unison. When they were gone, Pedersen said:
‘Why did you provoke them like that? Was it wise?’
‘It was quite intentional.’
‘I realise that, but why?’
‘I don’t want them to think I’m their cheerful uncle. We’ve got two killings to clear up. It’s not a holiday.’
Pauline Berg chipped in with support for Pedersen.
‘Why would they think that? You’re running the risk of alienating them and then they won’t talk to us.’
‘No, I’m not. They’ve come all this way knowing full well they can’t go home again before they tell us what happened and where Lucy’s remains are. Psychologically, they wouldn’t be able to cope with that, not after they’ve been struggling to accept the thought for two days. I’m convinced it’ll be a major relief to them, or at least to three of them.’
Pedersen changed tack.
‘I agree with that analysis. But when you say three, is that because you think the one who killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen has other interests?’
‘Yes, and I want it all. The lot. It’s got to come out, today.’
‘Sounds realistic to me. What do you think they’re doing in there?’
Pauline shrugged. Simonsen said:
‘They’re going back on the promise they made each other forty years ago.’
Then, after a pause:
‘Make sure to focus on the two you’ve been assigned. All the time, without interruption.’
The agreement was for Pauline to observe Helena Brage Hansen and, in particular, Hanne Brummersted, while Arne was to watch the Mikkelsen couple. Body language: an involuntary posture, a revealing glance, a suggestive slip of the tongue, a nervous twitch. The postman’s killer would be unable to keep up appearances, Simonsen was convinced of it.
Helena Brage Hansen appeared in the doorway and called them back in.
The mood was heavy. The three women were quietly crying, and Jesper Mikkelsen sat motionless in his chair. He collected himself after a moment and addressed Simonsen directly.
‘We’ll tell you everything, but we need your help, too. We imagine you might start by putting questions to us and then perhaps we can tell you more as we go on. It’s not…’
His voice cracked and he looked away for a second before completing the sentence:
‘… easy for us.’
It sounded reasonable. Simonsen refrained from sitting down and jabbed a finger at the man instead, without so much as attempting to sound accommodating.
‘In that case, we can start with you showing me where you people buried Lucy Davison.’
‘There’s no need to show you. We buried her in the campfire pit.’
‘Now!’
Mikkelsen did as he was told, rising to his feet, while the women remained behind. Simonsen followed him. The man wasn’t weeping, but every now and then he expelled a little sob and was plainly unable to speak. The procession, however, was more than a mere demonstration of Simonsen’s authority: the fire pit had quite conceivably been moved in the years that had passed.
They walked perhaps twenty metres along a path, arriving abruptly at their destination. Mikkelsen pointed to the middle, where ash and charred logs lay in a heap, wreathed by a circle of stones.