last day he was at home.’
‘A woman?’ Sejer felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘Did he say what she was called?’ He glanced in the mirror, changed lanes and held his breath.
‘Yes, because he had her name on a bit of paper.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘But I can’t remember it now, it’s such a long time ago.’
‘On a piece of paper? Did you see it?’
‘Yes, he had it in the pocket of his boiler suit. He was lying on his back under the car, and I was sitting on the bench as usual. Well, it wasn’t a piece of paper exactly, more a bit of paper. Sort of half of a sheet of paper.’
‘But you say you saw it – did he take it out of his pocket?’
‘Yes, from his chest pocket. He read the name, and then …’
‘He put it back in his pocket?’
‘No.’
‘Did he throw it away?’
‘I can’t remember what he did with it,’ he said wistfully.
‘If you were to think very hard, do you think you could remember what he did with it?’
‘Don’t know.’ The boy looked earnestly at the policeman, he was beginning to realise that it was important. ‘But if I remember about it I’ll say,’ he whispered.
‘Jan Henry,’ Sejer said softly, ‘this is very, very important.’
They’d arrived at the green house.
‘I know it is.’
‘So if you should remember anything about this woman, anything at all, you must let Mum know, so that she can phone me.’
‘All right then. If I remember. But it is a long time ago.’
‘It certainly is. But it is possible, if you try very hard and think about something for a long time, day after day, to remember something you thought you’d forgotten.’
‘Bye.’
‘See you,’ Sejer said.
He turned the car and watched him in the mirror as he ran to the house.
‘I ought to have realised,’ he said to himself, ‘that the boy would know something. He was always hanging round the garage with his father. Will I never learn?’
Chapter 7
A WOMAN .
He thought about it as he parked at the courthouse and walked the few metres to Mikkelsen’s address. There could have been two of them. The woman might have been there to entice him out, while the man lurked in the background and did the dirty work. But why?
Erik Børresensgate 6 was a shop that sold bathroom fittings, so he entered the lobby of number 5 and saw there was a J. Mikkelsen on the first floor. He was unemployed and therefore at home, a man in his mid-twenties with both knees sticking out of his denim jeans.
‘Do you know Egil Einarsson?’ Sejer asked, studying the man’s reaction. They were seated on opposite sides of the kitchen table. Mikkelsen pushed a pile of lottery tickets, the salt and pepper cellars and the latest edition of
Esquire
out of the way.
‘Einarsson? Well, it’s got a familiar ring, but I don’t know why. Einarsson. Sounds like someone from Iceland.’
He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. In that case it was clearly a waste of time sitting here leaning on this checked oilcloth, in the middle of the day, investigating a blind alley.
‘He’s dead. He was found in the river a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Aaah, yes!’ He nodded energetically and massaged the thin gold ring he wore in his ear. ‘I saw it in the paper. Killed with a knife and stuff. Yes, now I’m with you, Einarsson, yes. Soon it’ll be like America here, it’s all these drugs if you ask me.’
He didn’t ask him. He kept quiet and waited, inquisitively watching the young face under the perfectly straight hairline which made his ponytail suit him so well. Some people were lucky enough to look good wearing one, Sejer thought. But there weren’t many of them.
‘Well, I didn’t know him.’
‘So you don’t know what sort of car he had?’
‘Car? Well no, why should I know that?’
‘He had an Opel Manta. Eighty-eight model. Exceptionally well maintained. He bought it from you, two years ago.’
‘Oh Christ, was that him?’
Mikkelsen nodded to himself. ‘Of course, that was why he
‘A woman?’ Sejer felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘Did he say what she was called?’ He glanced in the mirror, changed lanes and held his breath.
‘Yes, because he had her name on a bit of paper.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘But I can’t remember it now, it’s such a long time ago.’
‘On a piece of paper? Did you see it?’
‘Yes, he had it in the pocket of his boiler suit. He was lying on his back under the car, and I was sitting on the bench as usual. Well, it wasn’t a piece of paper exactly, more a bit of paper. Sort of half of a sheet of paper.’
‘But you say you saw it – did he take it out of his pocket?’
‘Yes, from his chest pocket. He read the name, and then …’
‘He put it back in his pocket?’
‘No.’
‘Did he throw it away?’
‘I can’t remember what he did with it,’ he said wistfully.
‘If you were to think very hard, do you think you could remember what he did with it?’
‘Don’t know.’ The boy looked earnestly at the policeman, he was beginning to realise that it was important. ‘But if I remember about it I’ll say,’ he whispered.
‘Jan Henry,’ Sejer said softly, ‘this is very, very important.’
They’d arrived at the green house.
‘I know it is.’
‘So if you should remember anything about this woman, anything at all, you must let Mum know, so that she can phone me.’
‘All right then. If I remember. But it is a long time ago.’
‘It certainly is. But it is possible, if you try very hard and think about something for a long time, day after day, to remember something you thought you’d forgotten.’
‘Bye.’
‘See you,’ Sejer said.
He turned the car and watched him in the mirror as he ran to the house.
‘I ought to have realised,’ he said to himself, ‘that the boy would know something. He was always hanging round the garage with his father. Will I never learn?’
Chapter 7
A WOMAN .
He thought about it as he parked at the courthouse and walked the few metres to Mikkelsen’s address. There could have been two of them. The woman might have been there to entice him out, while the man lurked in the background and did the dirty work. But why?
Erik Børresensgate 6 was a shop that sold bathroom fittings, so he entered the lobby of number 5 and saw there was a J. Mikkelsen on the first floor. He was unemployed and therefore at home, a man in his mid-twenties with both knees sticking out of his denim jeans.
‘Do you know Egil Einarsson?’ Sejer asked, studying the man’s reaction. They were seated on opposite sides of the kitchen table. Mikkelsen pushed a pile of lottery tickets, the salt and pepper cellars and the latest edition of
Esquire
out of the way.
‘Einarsson? Well, it’s got a familiar ring, but I don’t know why. Einarsson. Sounds like someone from Iceland.’
He didn’t seem to be hiding anything. In that case it was clearly a waste of time sitting here leaning on this checked oilcloth, in the middle of the day, investigating a blind alley.
‘He’s dead. He was found in the river a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Aaah, yes!’ He nodded energetically and massaged the thin gold ring he wore in his ear. ‘I saw it in the paper. Killed with a knife and stuff. Yes, now I’m with you, Einarsson, yes. Soon it’ll be like America here, it’s all these drugs if you ask me.’
He didn’t ask him. He kept quiet and waited, inquisitively watching the young face under the perfectly straight hairline which made his ponytail suit him so well. Some people were lucky enough to look good wearing one, Sejer thought. But there weren’t many of them.
‘Well, I didn’t know him.’
‘So you don’t know what sort of car he had?’
‘Car? Well no, why should I know that?’
‘He had an Opel Manta. Eighty-eight model. Exceptionally well maintained. He bought it from you, two years ago.’
‘Oh Christ, was that him?’
Mikkelsen nodded to himself. ‘Of course, that was why he
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