“The American writer.
There was a sneer in that, an implication that policemen were not sufficiently cultured to read foreign novels, but Peter ignored it and turned to the back of the diary. As he expected, he found a list of names and addresses, some with phone numbers. He glanced up at Gammel, and thought he saw the hint of a flush on his clean-shaven cheeks. That was promising. He scrutinized the address list with care.
He picked a name at random. “Hilde Bjergager-who is she?”
“A lady friend,” Gammel answered coolly.
Peter tried another. “Bertil Bruun?”
Gammel remained unflustered. “We play tennis.”
“Fred Eskildsen.”
“My bank manager.”
The other detectives had stopped searching and fallen silent, sensing the tension.
“Poul Kirke?”
“Old friend.”
“Preben Klausen.”
“Picture dealer.”
For the first time, Gammel showed a hint of emotion, but it was relief, rather than guilt. Why? Did he think he had got away with something? What was the significance of the picture dealer Klausen? Or was the previous name the important one? Had Gammel shown relief because Peter had
“We were at university together.” Gammel’s voice was even, but there was just the suggestion of fear in his eyes.
Peter glanced at Tilde, and she gave a slight nod. She, too, had seen something in Gammel’s reaction.
Peter looked again at the diary. There was no address for Kirke, but beside the phone number was a capital
“Naestved. It’s his number at Naestved.”
“What’s his other number?”
“He doesn’t have another.”
“So why do you need the annotation?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember,” Gammel said, showing irritation.
It might have been true. On the other hand,
Peter said, “What does he do for a living?”
“Pilot.”
“With whom?”
“The army.”
“Ah.” Peter had speculated that the Nightwatchmen might be army people, because of their name and because they were accurate observers of military details. “At which base?”
“Vodal.”
“I thought you said he was at Naestved.”
“It’s nearby.”
“It’s twenty miles away.”
“Well, that’s how I remember it.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully, then said to Conrad, “Arrest this lying prick.”
The search of Ingemar Gammel’s apartment was disappointing. Peter found nothing of interest: no code book, no subversive literature, no weapons. He concluded that Gammel must be a minor figure in the spy ring, one whose role was simply to make observations and report them to a central contact. That key man would compile the messages and send them to England. But who was the pivotal figure? Peter hoped it might be Poul Kirke.
Before driving the fifty miles to the flying school at Vodal where Poul Kirke was stationed, Peter spent an hour at home with his wife, Inge. As he fed her apple-and-honey sandwiches in tiny squares, he found himself daydreaming about domestic life with Tilde Jespersen. He imagined himself watching Tilde getting ready to go out in the evening-washing her hair and drying it vigorously with a towel, sitting at the dressing table in her underwear polishing her nails, looking in the mirror as she tied a silk scarf around her neck. He realized he was yearning to be with a woman who could do things for herself.
He had to stop thinking this way. He was a married man. The fact that a man’s wife was sick did not provide an excuse for adultery. Tilde was a colleague and a friend, and she should never be any more to him than that.
Feeling restless and discontented, he turned on the radio and listened to the news while he waited for the evening nurse to arrive. The British had launched a new attack in North Africa, crossing the Egyptian border into Libya with a tank division in an attempt to relieve the besieged city of Tobruk. It sounded like a major operation, though the censored Danish radio station naturally predicted that German antitank guns would decimate the British forces.
The phone rang, and Peter crossed the room to pick it up.
“Allan Forslund here, Traffic Division.” Forslund was the officer dealing with Finn Jonk, the drunk driver who had crashed into Peter’s car. “The trial has just ended.”
“What happened?”
“Jonk got six months.”
“Six
“I’m sorry-”
Peter’s vision blurred. He felt he was going to fall over, and he put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “For destroying my wife’s mind and ruining my life? Six months?”
“The judge said he had already suffered torment and he would have to live with the guilt for the rest of his life.”
“That’s shit!”
“I know.”
“I thought the prosecution was going to ask for a severe sentence.”
“We did. But Jonk’s lawyer was very persuasive. Said the boy has stopped drinking, rides around on a bicycle, is studying to be an architect-”
“Anyone can say that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t accept this! I refuse to accept it!”
“Nothing we can do-”
“Like hell there isn’t.”
“Peter, don’t take any hasty action.”
Peter tried to calm himself. “Of course I won’t.”
“Are you alone?”
“I’m going back to work in a few minutes.”
“So long as you have someone to talk to.”
“Yes. Thanks for calling, Allan.”
“I’m very sorry we didn’t do better.”
“Not your fault. A slick lawyer and a stupid judge. We’ve seen that before.” Peter hung up. He had forced himself to sound calm, but he was boiling. If Jonk had been at large he might have sought him out and killed him- but the kid was safe in jail, if only for a few months. He thought of finding the lawyer, arresting him on a pretext, and beating the shit out of him; but he knew he would not do it. The lawyer had not broken any laws.
He looked at Inge. She was sitting where he had left her, watching him blank-faced, waiting for him to continue feeding her. He noticed that some of the chewed apple had dribbled from her mouth onto the bodice of her dress. She was not normally a messy eater, despite her condition. Before the accident she had been extraordinarily fastidious about her appearance. Seeing her with food on her chin and stains on her clothing suddenly made him
