He dressed quickly then went and tapped on Tilde’s door. She was putting on a straw hat, looking in the mirror over the fireplace as she adjusted it. He kissed her cheek, not wanting to spoil her makeup.
They walked down to the harbor. A local policeman and a German soldier asked them for their identity cards as they boarded the ferry. The checkpoint was new. Peter guessed it was an additional security precaution brought in by the Germans because of the spies’ interest in Sande. But it could be useful to Peter, too. He showed his police badge and asked them to write down the names of everyone visiting the island over the next few days. It would be interesting to see who came to Arne’s funeral.
On the other side of the channel, the hotel’s horse-drawn taxi was waiting for them. Peter told the driver to take them to the parsonage.
The sun was edging up over the horizon, gleaming off the little windows of the low houses. There had been rain overnight, and the coarse grass of the sand dunes glistened with droplets. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the sea. The island seemed to have put on its best clothes for Tilde’s visit. “What a pretty place,” she said. He was glad she liked it. He pointed out the sights as they drove: the hotel, his father’s house-the largest on the island-and the military base that was the target of the spy ring.
Approaching the parsonage, Peter noticed that the door to the little church stood open, and he heard a piano. “That might be Harald,” he said. He heard the excitement in his own voice. Could it be this easy? He coughed, and made his voice deeper and calmer. “Let’s see, shall we?”
They dismounted from the buggy. The driver said, “What time shall I come back, Mr. Flemming?”
“Wait here, please,” Peter said.
“I’ve got other customers-”
“Just wait!”
The driver muttered something under his breath.
Peter said, “If you’re not here when I come out, you’re fired.” The driver looked sulky, but he stayed put.
Peter and Tilde entered the church. At the far end of the room a tall figure was seated at the piano. He had his back to the door, but Peter knew the broad shoulders and domed head. It was Bruno Olufsen, Harald’s father.
Peter winced with disappointment. He was hungry for this arrest. He must be careful not to let his need take control.
The pastor was playing a slow hymn tune in a minor key. Peter glanced at Tilde and saw that she looked sorrowful. “Don’t be fooled,” he murmured. “The old tyrant is as hard as gunmetal.”
The verse ended and Olufsen began another. Peter was not willing to wait. “Pastor!” he said loudly.
The pastor did not stop playing immediately, but finished the line, and let the music hang in the air for a moment. Finally he turned around. “Young Peter,” he said in a flat voice.
Peter was momentarily shocked to see that the pastor seemed to have aged. His face was lined with weariness and his blue eyes had lost their icy glitter. After an instant of surprise, Peter said, “I’m looking for Harald.”
“I didn’t imagine this was a condolence call,” the pastor said coldly.
“Is he here?”
“Is this an official inquiry?”
“Why do you ask? Is Harald involved in some wrongdoing?”
“Certainly not.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is he in the house?”
“No. He’s not on the island. I don’t know where he went.”
Peter looked at Tilde. This was a letdown-but, on the other hand, it suggested that Harald was guilty. Why else would he disappear? “Where do you think he might be?”
“Go away.”
Arrogant as ever-but this time the pastor was not going to get away with it, Peter thought with relish. “Your elder son killed himself because he was caught spying,” he said harshly.
The pastor flinched as if Peter had struck him.
Peter heard Tilde gasp beside him, and realized he had shocked her by his cruelty, but he pressed on. “Your younger son may be guilty of similar crimes. You’re in no position to act high and mighty with the police.”
The pastor’s normally proud face looked hurt and vulnerable. “I’ve told you that I don’t know where Harald is,” he said dully. “Do you have any other questions?”
“What are you hiding?”
The pastor sighed. “You’re one of my flock, and if you come to me for spiritual help I won’t turn you away. But I will not speak to you for any other reason. You’re arrogant and cruel, and as near worthless as one of God’s creatures can be. Get out of my sight.”
“You can’t throw people out of the church-it doesn’t belong to you.”
“If you want to pray, you’re welcome here. Otherwise, go away.”
Peter hesitated. He did not want to submit to being thrown out, but he knew he had been defeated. After a moment he took Tilde’s arm and led her outside. “I told you he was hard,” he said.
Tilde seemed shaken. “I think the man is in pain.”
“No doubt. But was he telling the truth?”
“Obviously Harald has gone into hiding-which means almost certainly that he has the film.”
“So we have to find him.” Peter reflected on the conversation. “I wonder if his father really doesn’t know where he is.”
“Have you ever known the pastor to lie?”
“No-but he might make an exception to protect his son.”
Tilde made a dismissive gesture. “We’re not going to get anything out of him, either way.”
“I agree. But we’re on the right track, that’s the main thing. Let’s try the mother. She at least is made of flesh and blood.”
They went to the house. Peter steered Tilde to the back. He tapped on the kitchen door and went in without waiting for an answer, as was usual on the island.
Lisbeth Olufsen was sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. Peter had never in his life seen her idle: she was always cooking or cleaning. Even in church she was busy, straightening rows of chairs, putting out hymn books or gathering them up, stoking the peat boiler that warmed the big room in winter. Now she sat looking at her hands. The skin was cracked and raw in places, like a fisherman’s.
“Mrs. Olufsen?”
She turned her face to him. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were drawn. After a moment, she recognized him. “Hello, Peter,” she said expressionlessly.
He decided to take a softer approach with her. “I’m sorry about Arne.”
She nodded vaguely.
“This is my friend Tilde. We work together.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He sat at the table and nodded to Tilde to do the same. Perhaps a simple, practical question would bring Mrs. Olufsen out of her daze. “When is the funeral?”
She thought for a moment, then answered, “Tomorrow.”
That was better.
“I’ve spoken to the pastor,” Peter said. “We saw him in the church.”
“His heart is broken. He doesn’t show it to the world, though.”
“I understand. Harald must be dreadfully upset, too.”
She glanced at him and looked quickly down at her hands again. It was the briefest of looks, but Peter read fear and deceit in it. She muttered, “We haven’t spoken to Harald.”
“Why is that?”
“We don’t know where he is.”
Peter could not tell whether she was lying from moment to moment, but he felt sure of her intention to deceive. It angered him that the pastor and his wife, who pretended to be morally superior to others, should deliberately hide the truth from the police. He raised his voice. “You’d be well advised to cooperate with us!”
Tilde put a restraining hand on his arm and looked an inquiry at him. He nodded for her to go ahead. She said,
