The woman only found five hits in the whole of Denmark. In Silkeborg, Holstebro, Kolding, Aarhus, and Odense. Eddie wrote the numbers down; now all he had to do was try. One of these five women must have been married to his father, he was sure of it. Before he dialed the first number, he prepared what he was going to say. He wanted to introduce himself in a polite manner and explain why he was calling. But he didn’t get an answer in Silkeborg; he let it ring for what felt like an eternity but had to give up in the end and try the next number, in Holstebro. A child answered the phone there. Eddie had problems understanding his Danish, so spoke as clearly as he could and asked to speak to an adult. “Mom,” he heard and then some footsteps across the floor.
Finally the mother came to the phone, and Eddie said what he’d prepared. He asked if she had lived in Copenhagen and if she had even been married to Anders Kristoffer Malthe from Norway.
“No, I haven’t,” she said. “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
He put down the phone without saying goodbye and immediately dialed the third number, in Kolding, but he got the same response. As he dialed the number of Inga Nielsen in Aarhus, he looked out of the window; the white light on the bare trees made him uneasy. When he mentioned his father’s name, there was silence at the other end. For some time.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right. But he died in ’92.”
“I know,” Eddie said, his breathing shallow. “I am his son, Eddie Malthe.”
Another deadly silence. Eddie waited.
“He talked about you. Is there something you want to know?”
For a moment, Eddie considered sending praise to God, even though he wasn’t a believer. He turned in triumph to his mother, who was sitting on the sofa. She looked very pensive.
“Yes,” Eddie said eagerly. “I want to know the exact date that he died. And I want to know where he’s buried.”
He had paper and pen at the ready.
“He died on October first, 1992,” she told him. “He’s buried at Vor Frelsers Cemetery in Copenhagen. It’s in Amagerbrogade.”
Eddie nodded to himself. He recognized the name from the long list he had found on the Internet. Before ending the call, he exchanged a few words with Inga Margrethe, and any bitterness that he had felt toward her evaporated. She was nice. And his father had often talked about him, but the fact was that Thomasine had been difficult after the split, as she put it.
“Dad is buried in Amagerbrogade,” he said and turned to face his mother. “And I have a brother. His name is Mads and he’s studying in New York.”
Eddie started to search again. He immediately found Vor Frelsers Church, but to his surprise he discovered that the address for the church was different from that of the cemetery. The church was on Sankt Annæ Gade in Christianhavn. He called international directory assistance again and asked for the number, because now he had the full address. The operator told him that there were several numbers and asked which one he wanted.
“Who deals with the graves?” he asked.
“Presumably the sexton,” she replied. “It says here that his name is Povel Koch.”
Eddie said goodbye and then dialed the number right away, 004532546883. After four rings, he had the sexton on the line.
“I want to visit a grave,” Eddie explained. “In Vor Frelsers Cemetery. But I don’t know where it is, and I don’t want to just wander around the graveyard looking for it.”
“If you have the date of birth and date of death, then I can help you,” Povel Koch told him. “We’ve got an electronic map.”
Eddie almost wept with joy. He had a brother named Mads in New York and he would find his father’s grave. But he also had to face up to some painful truths. His father had left him and started another family, and all he had was the photograph of his father on his bedroom wall. He had practically no memories and absolutely no love in the years that followed. And Mass had been difficult. There was a lot to think about. Eventually he turned the computer off and sat down on the sofa; he had to order all the thoughts that were tumbling around in his head.
His mother had nothing to say. She got up and went to the bathroom, filled the bathtub, got undressed, and lowered her body into the warm water. She had always known that she wouldn’t get away with it, and now it was about to happen. Eddie had found the man who had betrayed them. She grabbed the sponge and started to wash her body. She noticed a large bruise on the inside of her thigh. She thought it odd because she couldn’t remember bumping into anything. When she put her thumb on it and pressed gently, there was no pain. Then she saw another one, farther down toward the knee. They were so dark they were almost black. But she quickly forgot them when her thoughts returned to her son.
27
August 2005
They were standing outside Simon’s daycare in Blåkollen.
The big playground was green and well equipped with climbing frames, swings, and sandboxes, as well as an old boat with a small cabin on top. Someone had painted “Captain Sabeltann” in black letters on the bow. This is where Simon played, Sejer thought. He could picture the little boy on top of the climbing frame, or onboard the old boat, pretending to be a pirate. They went in. Kaja came to meet them and showed them Simon’s coat peg under the snail.
“What have you told the children?” Sejer asked.
Kaja was now sitting behind her desk. “Well, we certainly gave it lots of thought, I can tell you. First we called a meeting with the parents, so they could all say what they thought, but there was no agreement. Some thought that the children should be spared, and others thought it was better to tell the truth because children have such lively imaginations.”
“And you?”
“I wanted to tell them the truth. Not all the gruesome details, of course, but that they had been killed with a knife. I consulted a child psychologist from the Educational and Psychological Counseling Service over at Haugane School, and she supported me in wanting to tell the truth. So that’s what we did in the end.”
“But some parents disagreed?”
“Yes.”
“So how did it go when you told the children?” Sejer asked.
“We took them all into the quiet room, where there are mattresses and pillows and no one is allowed to shout. No one shouted that day. It’s never been so quiet in that room.”
“How did they react?”
“With silence. The youngest ones put their thumbs in their mouths.”
“Did they ask any questions at all?”
“Yes, they wanted to know who had done it and why. We explained that he had probably been angry about something, but the police would find him and put him in jail. And that he would stay there for a long time, perhaps forever.”
She smiled when she said the last word.
The office was full of little statues and there were paintings on the wall. Sejer had a salt dough figure on his desk lamp in the office, a small constable in a blue uniform. Over the years, it had gotten drier and more cracked. He didn’t dare to touch it anymore because he guessed it would just crumble.
“Did you notice anything different about Bonnie’s behavior in the weeks before they were murdered? Did she mention any particular incidents?”
“No, nothing like that. But it was just heart-rending every morning when Bonnie had to leave. Simon was a nervous little boy and he was always devastated when she disappeared out the door.”
“He didn’t have much contact with his father,” Skarre remarked. “Do you know why?”
“Bonnie never talked about things like that. If we broached the subject, she was dismissive. But I believe that children should have a father.”