shaken by the news that the papers were finding their way out of the country. Last night, a Swedish detective who was a personal friend of Peter’s had called to say he thought the paper was being carried on a Lufthansa flight from Berlin to Stockholm that stopped at Copenhagen. That was the breakthrough that accounted for Peter’s feeling of excitement when he woke up. He could be on the brink of a triumph.
When the oatmeal was ready, he added milk and sugar then took the tray into the bedroom.
He helped Inge sit upright. He tasted the oatmeal to make sure it was not too hot, then began to feed her with a spoon.
A year ago, just before petrol restrictions came in, Peter and Inge had been driving to the beach when a young man in a new sports car had crashed into them. Peter had broken both his legs and recovered rapidly. Inge had smashed her skull, and she would never be the same.
The other driver, Finn Jonk, the son of a well-known university professor, had been thrown clear and landed in a bush, unharmed.
He had no driving license-it had been taken from him by the courts after a previous accident-and he had been drunk. But the Jonk family had hired a top lawyer who had succeeded in delaying the trial for a year, so Finn still had not been punished for destroying Inge’s mind. The personal tragedy, for Inge and Peter, was also an example of the disgraceful way crimes could go unpunished in modern society. Whatever you might say against the Nazis, they were gratifyingly tough on criminals.
When Inge had eaten her breakfast, Peter took her to the toilet, then bathed her. She had always been scrupulously neat and clean. It was one of the things he had loved about her. She was especially clean about sex, always washing carefully afterward-something he appreciated. Not all girls were like that. One woman he had slept with, a nightclub singer he had met during a raid and had a brief affair with, had objected to his washing himself after sex, saying it was unromantic.
Inge showed no reaction as he bathed her. He had learned to be equally unmoved, even when he touched the most intimate parts of her body. He dried her soft skin with a big towel, then dressed her. The most difficult part was putting her stockings on. First he rolled the stocking, leaving only the toe sticking out. Then he carefully eased it over her foot and unrolled it up her calf and over her knee, finally fastening the top to the clips of the garter belt. When he started doing this he had put runs in them every time, but he was a persistent man, and could be very patient when he had his mind set on achieving something; and now he was expert.
He helped her into a cheerful yellow cotton dress, then added a gold wristwatch and bracelet. She could not tell the time, but he sometimes thought she came near to smiling when she saw jewelry glinting on her wrists.
When he had brushed her hair, they both looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was a pretty, pale blonde, and before the accident she had had a flirtatious smile and a coy way of fluttering her eyelashes. Now her face was blank.
On their Whitsun visit to Sande, Peter’s father had tried to persuade him to put Inge into a private nursing home. Peter could not afford the fees, but Axel was willing to pay. He said he wanted Peter to be free, though the truth was he was desperate for a grandson to bear his name. However, Peter felt it was his duty to take care of his wife. For him, duty was the most important of a man’s obligations. If he shirked it, he would lose his self- respect.
He took Inge to the living room and sat her by the window. He left the radio playing music at low volume, then returned to the bathroom.
The face in his shaving mirror was regular and well proportioned. Inge had used to say he looked like a film star. Since the accident he had noticed a few gray hairs in his red morning stubble, and there were lines of weariness around the orange-brown eyes. But there was a proud look in the set of his head, and an immovable rectitude in the straight line of his lips.
When he had shaved, he tied his tie and strapped on his shoulder holster with the standard issue Walther 7.65mm pistol, the smaller seven-round “PPK” version designed as a concealed weapon for detectives. Then he stood in the kitchen and ate three slices of dry bread, saving the scarce butter for Inge.
The nurse was supposed to come at eight o’clock.
Between eight and five past Peter’s mood changed. He began to pace up and down the little hallway of the apartment. He lit a cigarette then crushed it out impatiently. He looked at his wristwatch every few seconds.
Between five and ten past he became angry. Did he not have enough to cope with? He combined caring for his helpless wife with a taxing and highly responsible job as a police detective. The nurse had no
When she rang the doorbell at eight-fifteen, he threw open the door and shouted, “How dare you be late?”
She was a plump girl of nineteen, wearing a carefully pressed uniform, her hair neatly arranged under her nurse’s cap, her round face lightly made up. She was shocked by his anger. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He stood aside to let her in. He felt a strong temptation to strike her, and she obviously sensed this, for she hurried past him nervously.
He followed her into the living room. “You had time to do your hair and makeup,” he said angrily.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you realize that I have a very demanding job? You’ve got nothing on your mind more important than walking with boys in the Tivoli Garden-yet you can’t even get to work on time!”
She looked nervously at his gun in the shoulder holster, as if she was afraid he was going to shoot her. “The bus was late,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Get an earlier bus, you lazy cow!”
“Oh!” She looked about to cry.
Peter turned away, fighting an urge to slap her fat face. If she walked out, he would be in worse trouble. He put on his jacket and went to the door. “Don’t you ever be late again!” he shouted. Then he left the apartment.
Outside the building he jumped onto a tram heading for the city center. He lit a cigarette and smoked in rapid puffs, trying to calm himself. He was still angry when he got off outside the Politigaarden, the daringly modern police headquarters, but the sight of the building soothed him: its squat shape gave a reassuring impression of strength, its blindingly white stone spoke of purity, and its rows of identical windows symbolized order and the predictability of justice. He passed through the dark vestibule. Hidden in the center of the building was a large open courtyard, circular, with a ring of double pillars marking a sheltered walkway like the cloisters of a monastery. Peter crossed the courtyard and entered his section.
He was greeted by Detective Constable Tilde Jespersen, one of a handful of women in the Copenhagen force. The young widow of a policeman, she was as tough and smart as any cop in the department. Peter often used her for surveillance work, a role in which a woman was less likely to arouse suspicion. She was rather attractive, with blue eyes and fair curly hair and the kind of small, curvy figure that women would call too fat but men thought just right. “Bus delayed?” she said sympathetically.
“No. Inge’s nurse turned up a quarter of an hour late. Empty-headed flibbertigibbet.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Anything happening?”
“I’m afraid so. General Braun is with Juel. They want to see you as soon as you get here.”
That was bad luck: a visit from Braun on the day Peter was late. “Damn nurse,” he muttered, and headed for Juel’s office.
Juel’s upright carriage and piercing blue eyes would have suited his naval namesake. He spoke German as a courtesy to Braun. All educated Danes could get by in German, and English as well. “Where have you been, Flemming?” he said to Peter. “We are waiting.”
“I apologize,” Peter replied in the same language. He did not give the reason for his lateness: excuses were undignified.
General Braun was in his forties. He had probably been handsome once, but the explosion that destroyed his lung had also taken away part of his jaw, and the right side of his face was deformed. Perhaps because of his damaged appearance, he always wore an immaculate field service uniform, complete with high boots and holstered pistol.
He was courteous and reasonable in conversation. His voice was a soft near-whisper. “Take a look at this, if you would, Inspector Flemming,” he said. He had spread several newspapers on Juel’s desk, all folded open to show
