house.”
“Okay.” Tilde hurried after Karen.
Peter went into the shop. It was a general store, selling vegetables and bread and household necessities such as soap and matches. There were cans of food on the shelves, and the floor was obstructed by bundles of firewood and sacks of potatoes. The place looked dirty but prosperous. He showed his police badge to a gray-haired woman in a stained apron. “Do you have a phone?”
“I’ll have to charge you.”
He fumbled in his pocket for change. “Where is it?” he said impatiently. She jerked her head toward a curtain at the back. “Through there.”
He threw some coins on the counter and passed into a small parlor that smelled of cats. He snatched up the phone, called the Politigaarden, and got Conrad. “I think I may have found Arne’s hideout. Number fifty-three St. Paul’s Gade. Get Dresler and Ellegard and come here in a car as fast as you can.”
“Right away,” said Conrad.
Peter hung up and hurried outside. He had been less than a minute. If anyone had left the house during that time, they should still be visible on the street. He looked up and down. He saw an old man in a collarless shirt walking an arthritic dog, the two of them moving with painful slowness. A lively pony was drawing a flatbed cart carrying a sofa with holes in the leather upholstery. A group of boys were playing football in the road, using an old tennis ball worn bald with use. There was no sign of Arne. He crossed the street.
Indulging himself for a moment, he thought how satisfying it would be to arrest the elder son of the Olufsen family. What a revenge that would be for the humiliation of Axel Flemming all those years ago. Coming immediately after the expulsion from school of the younger son, the unmasking of Arne as a spy would surely mean the end of Pastor Olulfsen’s hegemony. How could he strut and preach when both his sons had gone wrong? He would have to resign.
Peter’s father would be pleased.
The door of number fifty-three opened. Peter reached under his jacket and touched the grip of his gun in its shoulder holster as Arne stepped out of the house.
Peter was filled with elation. Arne had shaved off his moustache and covered his black hair with a workman’s cap, but Peter had known him all his life, and recognized him immediately.
After a moment, triumph was replaced by caution. There was often trouble when a lone officer tried to make an arrest. The possibility of escape looked tempting to the suspect who was up against only one cop. Being a plainclothes detective, lacking the authority of a uniform, made it worse. If there was a fight, passers-by had no way of knowing that one of the two was an officer, and might even intervene on the wrong side.
Peter and Arne had fought once before, twelve years ago, at the time of the quarrel between their families. Peter was bigger, but Arne was fit and strong from all the sports he did. There was no clear result. They had traded several blows then been separated. Today Peter had a gun. But perhaps Arne did, too.
Arne slammed the house door and turned onto the street, walking toward Peter.
As they came closer, Arne avoided his eye, walking on the inside of the pavement, near the house walls, in the manner of a fugitive. Peter walked on the curbside, furtively watching Arne’s face.
When they were ten yards apart, Arne stole a glance at Peter’s face. Peter met his eye, watching his expression. He saw a frown of puzzlement, then recognition, then shock, fear, and panic.
Arne stopped, momentarily frozen.
“You’re under arrest,” Peter said.
Arne partly recovered his composure, and for a moment the familiar careless grin flickered across his face. “Gingerbread Pete,” he said, using a childhood nickname.
Peter saw that Arne was about to make a run for it. He drew his gun. “Lie on the ground facedown with your hands behind your back.”
Arne looked worried rather than frightened. In a moment of insight, Peter saw that it was not the gun Arne was scared of, but something else.
Arne said in a challenging tone, “Are you ready to shoot me?”
“If necessary,” Peter said. He leveled the gun threateningly, but in truth he was desperate to take Arne alive. Poul Kirke’s death had dead-ended the investigation. He wanted to interrogate Arne, not kill him.
Arne smiled enigmatically, then turned and ran.
Peter held his gun arm straight and sighted along the barrel. He aimed at Arne’s legs, but it was impossible to shoot accurately with a pistol, and he knew he might hit any part of Arne’s body, or none. But Arne was getting farther away, and Peter’s chances of stopping him were diminishing with every split second that passed.
Peter pulled the trigger.
Arne kept running.
Peter fired again repeatedly. After the fourth shot, Arne seemed to stagger. Peter fired again, and Arne fell, hitting the ground with the heavy thud of a dead weight, rolling onto his back.
“Oh, Christ, no, not again,” Peter said.
He ran forward, still pointing the gun at Arne.
The figure on the ground lay still.
Peter knelt beside it.
Arne opened his eyes. His face was white with pain. “You stupid pig, you should have killed me,” he said.
Tilde came to Peter’s apartment that evening. She was wearing a new pink blouse with flowers embroidered on the cuffs. Pink suited her, Peter thought. It brought out her femininity. The weather was warm, and she seemed to have nothing on under the blouse.
He showed her into the living room. The evening sun shone in, lighting the room with a weird glow, giving a fuzzy edge to the furniture and the pictures on the walls. Inge sat in a chair by the fireplace, gazing into the room with the expressionless look she always wore.
Peter drew Tilde to him and kissed her. She froze for a moment, surprised, then she kissed him back. He stroked her shoulders and her hips.
She pulled back and looked in his face. He could see desire in her eyes, but she was troubled. She glanced at Inge. “Is this all right?” she said.
He touched her hair. “Hush.” He kissed her again, hungrily. They became more passionate. Without breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her soft breasts. He stroked the warm skin.
She pulled away again, breathing hard. Her breasts rose and fell as she panted. “What about her?” she said. “What about Inge?”
Peter looked at his wife. She was regarding the two of them with a blank stare, showing no emotion at all, as always. “There’s no one there,” he told Tilde. “No one there at all.”
She looked into his eyes. Her face showed compassion and understanding mingled with curiosity and lust. “All right,” she said. “All right.”
He bent his head to her naked breasts.
PART THREE
17
The quiet village of Jansborg was creepy by twilight. The villagers seemed to go to bed early, so the streets were deserted and the houses dark and still. Harald felt as if he were driving through a place where something dreadful had happened, and he was the only person who did not know about it.
He parked the motorcycle outside the railway station. It did not look as conspicuous as he had feared, for next to it was a gas-powered Opel Olympia cabriolet, with a wooden structure like a shed over its rear roof to house the giant fuel bag.
He left the bike and set off to walk to the school in the gathering darkness.
