“What?”
“It’s about Arne.”
Harald realized, with a guilty start, that in the last few days he had hardly given a thought to his brother, languishing in jail. “What’s happened?”
“Arne is. . He’s dead.”
At first Harald could not take it in. “Dead?” he said as if he did not understand the meaning of the word. “How could that be?”
“The police say he took his own life.”
“Suicide?” Harald had the feeling the world was crumbling around him, the walls of the church collapsing and the trees in the park falling over and the castle of Kirstenslot blowing away in a strong wind. “Why would he do that?”
“To avoid interrogation by the Gestapo, Arne’s commanding officer told her.”
“To avoid. .” Harald saw immediately what that meant. “He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to withstand the torture.”
Karen nodded. “That was the implication.”
“If he had talked, he would have betrayed me.”
She was silent, neither agreeing with him nor contradicting him.
“He killed himself to protect me.” Harald suddenly needed Karen to confirm his inference. He took her by the shoulders. “I’m right, am I not?” he shouted. “That must be it! He did it for me! Say something, for God’s sake.”
At last she spoke. “I think you’re right,” she whispered.
In an instant Harald’s anger was transformed into grief. It swamped him, and he lost control. Tears flooded his eyes, and his body shook with sobs. “Oh, God,” he said, and he covered his wet face with his hands. “Oh, God, this is awful.”
He felt Karen’s arms enfold him. Gently, she drew his head down to her shoulder. His tears soaked into her hair and ran down her throat. She stroked his neck and kissed his wet face.
“Poor Arne,” Harald said, his voice choked by sorrow. “Poor Arne.”
“I’m sorry,” Karen murmured. “My darling Harald, I’m so sorry.”
24
In the middle of the Politigaarden, Copenhagen’s police headquarters, was a spacious circular courtyard open to the sunshine. It was ringed by an arcade with classical double pillars in a perfect repeating pattern. To Peter Flemming, the design stood for the way order and regularity permitted the light of truth to shine in on human wickedness. He often wondered whether the architect had intended that, or had just thought a courtyard might look nice.
He and Tilde Jespersen stood in the arcade, leaning against a pair of pillars, smoking cigarettes. Tilde wore a sleeveless blouse that showed the smooth skin of her arms. She had fine blond hair on her forearms. “The Gestapo have finished with Jens Toksvig,” he told her.
“And?”
“Nothing.” He felt exasperated, and he shook his shoulders as if to shrug off the feeling of frustration. “He has told everything he knows, of course. He is one of the Nightwatchmen, he passed information to Poul Kirke, and he agreed to shelter Arne Olufsen when Arne was on the run. He also said that this whole project had been organized by Arne’s fiancee, Hermia Mount, who is with MI6 back in England.”
“Interesting-but it doesn’t get us anywhere.”
“Exactly. Unfortunately for us, Jens doesn’t know who sneaked into the base on Sande, and he has no knowledge of the film Harald developed.”
Tilde drew in smoke. Peter watched her mouth. She seemed to be kissing the cigarette. She inhaled, then blew smoke out through her nostrils. “Arne killed himself to protect someone,” she said. “I assume that person has the film.”
“His brother Harald either has it or has passed it to someone else. Either way, we have to talk to him.”
“Where is he?”
“At the parsonage on Sande, I assume. It’s the only home he’s got.” He looked at his watch. “I’m catching a train in an hour.”
“Why not phone?”
“I don’t want to give him the chance to run away.”
Tilde looked troubled. “What will you say to the parents? Don’t you think they might blame you for what happened to Arne?”
“They don’t know I was there when Arne shot himself. They don’t even know I arrested him.”
“I suppose not,” she said dubiously.
“Anyway, I don’t give a shit what they think,” Peter said impatiently. “General Braun hit the roof when I told him that the spies may have photographs of the base on Sande. God knows what the Germans have there but it’s deadly secret. And he blames me. If that film leaves Denmark, I don’t know what he’ll do to me.”
“But you’re the one who uncovered the spy ring!”
“And I almost wish I hadn’t.” He dropped his cigarette end and stamped on it, grinding it with the sole of his shoe. “I’d like you to come to Sande with me.”
Her clear blue eyes gave him an appraising look. “Of course, if you want my help.”
“And I’d like you to meet my parents.”
“Where would I stay?”
“I know a small hotel in Morlunde, quiet and clean, that I think would suit you.” His father owned a hotel, of course, but that was too close to home. If Tilde stayed there, the entire population of Sande would know what she was doing every minute of the day.
Peter and Tilde had not spoken about what had happened in his apartment, even though it was six days ago. He was not sure what to say. He had felt driven to do it, to have sex with Tilde in front of Inge, and Tilde had gone along with it, sharing his passion and seeming to understand his need. Afterward, she had seemed troubled, and he had driven her home and left her with a good-night kiss.
They had not repeated it. Once was enough to prove whatever he had to prove. He had gone to Tilde’s apartment the following evening, but her son had been awake, asking for drinks of water and complaining of bad dreams, and Peter had left early. Now he saw the trip to Sande as a chance to get her alone.
But she seemed to hesitate. She asked another practical question: “What about Inge?”
“I’ll get the nursing agency to provide twenty-four-hour cover, as I did when we went to Bornholm.”
“I see.”
She looked across the courtyard, considering, and he studied her profile: the small nose, the bow-shaped mouth, the determined chin. He remembered the overwhelming thrill of possessing her. Surely she could not have forgotten that. He said, “Don’t you want to spend a night together?”
She turned to him with a smile. “Of course I do,” she said. “I’d better go and pack a case.”
On the following morning, Peter woke up in the Oesterport Hotel in Morlunde. The Oesterport was a respectable establishment but its owner, Erland Berten, was not married to the woman who called herself Mrs. Berten. Erland had a wife in Copenhagen who would not give him a divorce. No one in Morlunde knew this except Peter Flemming, who had discovered it by chance, while investigating the murder of one Jacob Berten, who was no relation. Peter had let Erland know he had found out about the real Mrs. Berten, but had otherwise kept the news to himself, knowing that the secret gave him power over Erland. Now he could rely on Erland’s discretion. Whatever happened between Peter and Tilde in the Oesterport Hotel, Erland would tell no one.
However, Peter and Tilde had not slept together in the end. Their train had been delayed, and had finally arrived in the middle of the night, long after the last ferry to Sande. Weary and bad-tempered after the frustrating journey, they had checked in to separate single rooms and grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep. Now they were going to catch the first ferry of the morning.
