They drove into the parking garage in the basement and then walked up to reception. There was a girl waiting there. She looked around eighteen, maybe twenty, and her hair was bleached by the sun.
“I’ve been on vacation in Spain, and I’ve just come home,” she said. “I left on July sixth, at seven in the morning. It’s about what happened at Skarven Farm. The papers are full of it and I’ve read everything. And, well, I’ve been thinking.”
“Did you see something?” Sejer interjected.
“Possibly.”
“Come up to the office and tell us about it.”
She followed him into the elevator and up to the fifth floor. When they came into the office, Frank got up from under the desk. She greeted him enthusiastically, admiring his wrinkly head and black eyes.
“I was in the parking lot in Geirastadir on July fifth,” she said. “A friend and I wanted to get out in the good weather and go for a walk. We thought we’d go up to Saga.”
“Carry on.”
“Well, I was sitting in the car waiting because my friend had called to say she was running a bit late.”
“And what did you do while you were waiting?”
“I sat in the car and listened to the radio. I had the engine running because I needed the air conditioning on. The parking lot was almost full, but then, a while later, another car came. It was an old red station wagon, I think. I don’t know much about makes, but it was definitely not a small car. And the driver struggled to find a space to park. But eventually he managed to squeeze in.”
“So it was a man?”
“Yes.”
Two red cars, Sejer thought, one at Skarven Farm and one in Geirastadir.
“Then he got out of the car,” the girl continued. “I thought he was probably going to walk to Saga or Svarttjern, but he didn’t. He disappeared down across the fields instead. Toward Skarven.”
“Did you notice what he looked like?”
“Well, I wasn’t paying much attention, but he certainly wasn’t a lightweight, let’s put it that way. He was tall and pretty big. And he was wearing black clothes.”
“But there was something else about him that you remember, which is why you’re here now. Am I right?”
She smiled. “Yes, you see, July fifth was a really hot day. And while the rest of us were melting, the man was wearing a jacket and gloves.”
26
February 2005
Eddie never got a reply from Tracker Tore. He felt utterly overlooked. He was obviously not important enough, nor was his father, so he would have to do it himself.
One day, his mother asked him to give Shiba a bit of TLC. To cut her nails and put some cream on her paw pads. He sat on the kitchen floor with the dog between his legs — she didn’t have the energy to protest — and while he was doing this, he thought intensely about his dead father. When he was finished and the dog had lain down again, he went over to the computer because he was sure he could find the answer if he just kept looking. The National Registry, he thought all of a sudden, I can try there. Because his father would be registered and he had some years and dates now. But he soon discovered that the information he was looking for was subject to data protection, and when he tried the Danish National Registry, he got the same answer. He sat and thought for a while. Maybe his father was registered in the church records — a lot of people found their ancestors there — but that idea didn’t lead anywhere. Instead he clicked onto the population census website and felt a glimmer of optimism. It turned out you could search using several different criteria: first name, surname, sex, civil status, profession, date of birth, place of birth, and domicile. He filled out the search fields with his heart in his throat and then pressed go. To his great disappointment, there were no hits. He couldn’t understand it. His father had lived in this world, he was registered and he had worked, and everyone was tracing their ancestry these days. I’ve done something wrong, he thought, but what? He went to get a Cherry Coke from the fridge and wondered whether he could call the National Archives to ask for help. I demand to be heard, he thought. This is important.
Full of renewed determination, he got the telephone number from directory assistance and picked up the phone and dialed the six numbers. Only to be bitterly disappointed again. Died in 1992? Then the information is subject to data protection for the next sixty years.
Eddie was on the verge of giving up his important project. But an iron will burned inside him. It filled his body and made his head warm. He turned and studied his mother, who was pottering around in the living room with a duster. Maybe, just maybe, she hasn’t thrown away the letter from Inga in Copenhagen, he thought.
Later, when they sat down for supper, he helped himself to four meatballs and a big portion of his mother’s homemade peas.
“I have to talk to you about something important,” he said and looked at her across the table.
“Not so much salt, Eddie,” she chided. “It’s not good for you.”
“Something important,” he repeated. “Inga.”
His mother looked down. He saw her mouth tighten in that all too familiar way.
“Yes, what about Inga?”
“I need to know her surname.”
“I’ve told you, I’ve forgotten it,” she said impatiently. “And I don’t know why you’re so interested in her — she stole your father from you.”
“But she knows where Dad is buried. I’m sure you could remember if you just tried. Sometimes I think you’re hiding things from me on purpose.”
Mass pushed her plate aside and looked him in the eye in an attempt to be strict. But she feared it was a lost battle.
“Maybe I have good reason for that,” she said. “I have to look after you. And there are also some very good reasons why you’re still living at home. You need to be protected.”
He thought about this for a while. Then suddenly he was filled with rage at all the obstructions and he flared up. He hit the table with his fist, which made all the crockery jump.
“Her surname!” he shouted. “Now!”
Mass looked at him in dismay because the outburst had scared her. A kind of reality finally dawned on her: she didn’t have the right to stop him in his efforts.
“Nilsen,” she said quietly. “Inga Margrethe Nilsen.”
The air seemed to go out of Eddie, but the information brought color to his cheeks. He leaned forward and asked for the address.
“I threw away the envelope, I promise. And I shredded the letter and threw it on the fire. I had already lost him.”
Eddie was eager to continue his research. Inga Margrethe Nilsen in Copenhagen, he was sure he could find her. He shoveled down the rest of his food at great speed. Then he went over and picked up the phone and asked for international directory assistance.
His heart was hammering as he gave the name.
“How does she spell Nilsen?” the operator asked.
Eddie didn’t understand her question. Surely he didn’t need to spell Nilsen.
“In Denmark, they often write Nilsen with an extra ‘e,’ ” she explained.
That hadn’t occurred to Eddie. “Look for that one,” he instructed her. “You’re probably right.”
It only took her a few seconds, and then she told him that there was no Inga Margrethe Nielsen in Copenhagen. Eddie was holding the receiver so hard to his ear that it hurt. Was there no end to the obstructions to his search?
“She might have moved,” the woman suggested, wanting to be helpful. “I could do a search of the whole of Denmark. It’s such a small country.”
“Yes,” Eddie replied. “I need to find her. It’s very important.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk as the seconds dragged out. Where could Inga have gone?