Murder at the Second–Hand Shop: A Small-Town Cosy Mystery Series
Date: 2026-05-07 18:33:44+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Mystery & Detective; General
Description: In the dozy Danish provinces, death hides among the dusty bric‐a‐brac...The elderly volunteers at the second-hand shop keep dropping dead. Heart attacks. Strokes. A simple case of old age, say the police. Sad but inevitable. Newly retired Mrs Mortensen begs to differ. This “Danish Miss Marple” and her dachshund, Mortensen III, sniff a sinister pattern. Sharp‐tongued, sharp‐eyed, and fueled by justice and cake, Mrs Mortensen launches her own probe, stirring gossip, grudges, and small-town spats. The deeper she digs, the surer she gets: someone's picking off shop volunteers, one "oops" at a time
Publisher: Lindhardt og Ringhof

Anna Grue

The Murder at the Second-Hand Shop

Translated by Nina Sokol

SAGA Egmont

The Murder at the Second-Hand Shop

Translated by Nina Sokol

Original title: Mysteriet i Genbrugsen

Original language: Danish

Cover image: Shutterstock
Copyright © 2020, 2026 Anna Grue and SAGA Egmont

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9788727324883

1st ebook edition
Format: EPUB 3.0

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievial system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor, be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

www.sagaegmont.com
Saga is a subsidiary of Egmont. Egmont is Denmark’s largest media company and fully owned by the Egmont Foundation, which donates almost 13,4 million euros annually to children in difficult circumstances.

The Mortensen Family

Anne-Maj Mortensen: medical secretary on early retirement

Iben Mortensen: Anne-Maj’s daughter, shop assistant in a shoe store

Ditte-Marie (Didi) Mortensen: Anne-Maj’s grandchild, pupil

Mortensen III: Anne-Maj’s dachshund

Personnel at The Second-Hand Shop

Else Simonsen: a farmer’s widow

Stanley Hjort: brain-injured and on early retirement

Valborg von Schilling: retired schoolteacher, formerly married to a mayor

Lis Klausen: married to an unemployed machine worker

Helmer Bergstrøm: deceased lawyer

Vips Bergstrøm: Helmer’s widow

Ruth Møllegaard: retired office worker

Kylle Poulsen: former day-care worker

The Bergstrøm Family

Thomas Bergstrøm: lawyer

Feline Bergstrøm: owner of interior design store

Christian Bergstrøm: chef

The Police

Jan Krause: head of investigation

Signe Olsted: investigator

Anders Hall: investigator

Nykøbing, Zealand (a good 5,000 inhabitants) in Odsherred County (approximately 33,000 residents –plus the owners of 26,000 summer houses, in peak season 100,000 tourists).

Centre of Nykøbing, Zealand

1. Anne-Maj Mortensen’s house

2. The Second-Hand Shop

3. Iben and Didi’s apartment

4. Grønnehave Forest

5. Nykøbing Church

6. The graveyard

7. The station

8. Towards Kildehuse

9. The pharmacy

10. Towards the harbour

Although Nykøbing, Zealand, is, of course, a real place, I have taken certain liberties in this novel. There are several excellent Second-Hand Shops in the town centre, however, there are none right next to the Irma supermarket – and Irma does not have a place for delivering goods facing the car park. The shoe store is different from the one that actually exists and Anne-Maj’s light blue townhouse doesn’t exist, just as the house in Kildehuse and Iben’s apartment are my own inventions.

Chapter 1

Sunday 17 March

Every meal begins with a person cooking. Actually no, that isn’t really true. It begins with a person buying the necessary ingredients, preparing them and cooking them and then serving the finished dish. But it is a process that fewer and fewer people subscribe to. In fact, more and more people choose to buy their meals ready made, already prepared to be thrown into the microwave and later consumed practically straight from the packet. It is a depressing tendency, thinks Anne-Maj, who derives just as much satisfaction from preparing the meal as she does from eating it, and that is no exaggeration; her passionate love of good food is reflected in her ample figure.

When Anna-Maj moves around the kitchen, it’s like watching someone perform a carefully choreographed tribal dance in which every movement serves a specific purpose: from when she cuts up the red pepper, onions and celery in perfect square-shapes to when she, in deep concentration, folds the stiffly beaten egg whites into the slightly cooled-off roux for an egg gratin, or when she, with a practically lovestruck look on her face, pours dripping over a saddle of venison simmering in the oven.

It’s best not to communicate with Anne-Maj when she’s in the kitchen. If you do, there is a risk that she’ll lose track of what she’s doing, in which case she may snap at you. Of course, her family is well aware of this, but every now and then a guest may unwittingly venture into the kitchen to have a cosy chat or offer some help, forcing Anne-Maj to put her foot down: “Help yourself to a glass of wine and have a seat in the living room. I’ll bring out the food when it’s ready.”

However, despite her somewhat belligerent demeanour, for Anne-Maj cooking is associated first and foremost with warm feelings. Love is an essential ingredient in each and every dish. It’s how she shows her daughter, granddaughter and friends how much they mean to her. She knows it and they know it, if nothing else, in their subconscious. Homemade food, meticulously prepared with the utmost love and care always tastes better than the kind produced by a factory worker who makes their living by throwing a couple of ingredients together according to some standard recipe.

Anne-Maj once asked a young man, her daughter’s first real boyfriend, what his favourite dish was. He answered without hesitation, “Something homemade!” She asked him what he meant by that, and he explained that when he was growing up his parents didn’t like cooking, and so many of his dinners at home consisted of frozen pizzas, open sandwiches, oatmeal or ready-made meatballs in curry sauce. So, any kind of food that had been prepared from scratch was pure luxury in his eyes. From that day on, Anne-Maj treated him practically like a foie-gras goose: she stuffed him with food whenever he came over. A year later, when the young man and Iben broke up, Anne-Maj’s greatest concern was whether he would get enough to eat from then on.

No, she thinks, washing the juices from the meat off her hands, grown-ups who refuse to cook their own food shouldn’t be allowed to call themselves grown-ups. Or at least shouldn’t be allowed to have children. If you aren’t able to provide your family with nutritious, tasty meals three times a day, then you’re simply … she is trying to find the right word as she dries her hands on a clean dish towel …Well, then you’re simply immature. She nods to herself, satisfied with her own conclusion. The thought doesn’t occur to her that her own daughter, who is notoriously clumsy in the kitchen, belongs to that very category of people.

Anne-Maj looks down with affection at Mortensen, a young wire-haired dachshund who is the only male in her life, and for that reason alone deserves to bear her surname. His name is Mortensen III, to be more precise. He had two predecessors of the same breed and name. Right now, he is lying completely still in his basket by the terrace door and is keeping a close eye on Anne-Maj to see when she reaches for the chopping board covered with the scraps from the pork tenderloin so he can help her with the washing-up.

“You’ll have to wait, sweetie,” Anne-Maj says, “You’ll get your snack when the rest of us sit down at the table.”

Mortensen gives her a sad look, but there is still a trace of hope in his eyes. The dog is the only one who is welcome in her kitchen. He never gets in her way, never asks disturbing questions like whether they need to put soup plates or regular plates on the table, and would never dream of distracting her with comments about the weather or the election or about something he’s read on Facebook. Mortensen is the perfect kitchen mate.

Anne-Maj prepares the remaining ingredients, and places the peeled potatoes, finely sliced mushrooms, oil, meat, stock, cream, freshly cut herbs and so on, all in a row on the kitchen counter according to the order in which they are to be added into either the frying pan or the pot. That way she can just reach out for each ingredient, almost with her eyes shut, so that she can concentrate on other things like tasting the food, keeping an eye on the temperature and keeping track of the times required for boiling and frying. It is precisely those sorts of things that cause people to make mistakes when they are cooking, making them claim afterwards that cooking is difficult, she thinks smugly. However, cooking is not difficult. It’s just a matter of preparing properly and doing everything in the correct order so that you don’t end up peeling the potatoes like an amateur while the gravy is burning on the stove. Once, one of the doctors at her workplace implied that these downright rigid routines of hers that she insists on adhering to in her daily chores might be a sign of compulsive neurosis, which, of course, was completely off the wall. Just because a person likes to have a little order and logic in their lives doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re irrational. “It’s really quite normal,” she had responded to her busybody boss. She doesn’t remember whether she ever got an answer from him.

When everything is ready and set to go, she sits down in the living room. Mortensen comes wandering over to her disappointedly. Anne-Maj doesn’t want to turn on the oven until the guests have arrived and are seated in the sofa corner with their drinks – a glass of wine for Iben and a soda for Didi, as her granddaughter insists on being called. Didi. It sounds like the name of a minor character in a German TV series or some twit with a lower-back tattoo on Love Island. But that might be the whole point, Anne-Maj realises. Personally, she finds the ten-year-old’s given name, Ditte-Marie, much prettier. But grandmothers don’t have any right of veto over things like that, unfortunately.

She fishes out the first section of the Sunday paper from the pile on the table, turns to the crossword page and gets to work on the one in the bottom right-hand corner: ‘The Little But Difficult One’ as the newspaper has chosen to call it. Not until she’s through with it does Anne-Maj permit herself to look at the other two. That is the rule she follows, week after week. She bites her pen as she considers what the first word of the puzzle might be. ‘An unborn infant’ in ten letters … her brain starts processing and she forgets all about the cooking, her guests and her begging dog as she ponders the various possibilities of what the correct word going across for ‘foetus’ might be. She would never dream of filling in the white spaces until she is absolutely certain she has found the right word.

Shortly afterwards someone rings the doorbell. Just a short buzz and then the door is opened. Mortensen doesn’t bark like he normally would when someone comes, which is a sure sign that the visitors are regular guests of the house. He rushes out to the front-door as quickly as his short legs will carry him. “Hi!” Iben can be heard saying outside. “Hi, Grandma!” Didi’s voice follows immediately afterwards. Anne-Maj casts a final glance at the crossword puzzle which still has a long way to go and folds the newspaper before getting up to greet her guests in the hallway.

“Right on time,” she says.

“And we wouldn’t dream of coming a second later.” Iben is holding Mortensen in her arms as if he was a wagging and rather hairy baby and turns her face down towards him. “And who is a good dog?” she hums in a light tone as she rocks him back and forth. “Who’s a good boy?” Iben is not permitted to have pets in her apartment but makes up for it to a large degree by being in the company of her mother’s little bow-legged companion.

They settle down in the living room, each with their beverage of choice.

“So, are you able to pass the time, Mrs Mortensen?” Iben asks. It’s the same question every time. As though early retirement has, with the flick of a wand, drained Anne-Maj’s life of all substance.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m just asking out of friendly curiosity, you know. There’s no need to snap at me.”

“I didn’t snap at you.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll just leave it at that.”

“I have plenty of things to do,” Anne-Maj says as she takes a sip of her white wine. “I take Mortensen for long walks, read lots of books, do the gardening, there’s my regular day at the Second-Hand Shop, go to Holbæk and do some shopping … I have plenty of things to do,” she repeats. “I’m just grateful I don’t have to go to that damnhealth centre every day.”

“Mum!” Iben says as she casts a glance over at Didi who is totally absorbed in her smartphone.

Without looking away from the display on her phone, Didi says dryly, “You don’t seriously think that I pick up swear words listening to Grandma, do you?”

“I just think we all should talk nicely,” Iben says, somewhat sternly.

Didi looks at her grandmother with raised eyebrows as she crosses her eyes in an exaggerated way. Whereupon, she returns her focus to her apparently rather demanding contact in the part of the universe which doesn’t exist in Anne-Maj’s little light blue townhouse on “Lindeallé-Nykøbing-Odsherred-Zealand-Denmark-Europe-Earth” as Didi’s little rhyme used to go. When did she stop reciting it?

“But I guess you liked your job, right?” Iben persists. “Or you wouldn’t have worked there for an eternity the way that you did?”

Anne-Maj shrugs. If she were to be honest, she misses her job as medical secretary for three GPs at the health centre. From her small, well-defined kingdom behind the counter, she kept careful track of doctors and nurses, as well as patients. It had suited her need to play the enforcer of orderliness very well. So naturally, she misses it. A little. But most of the time she enjoys her freedom, especially from having to deal with the increasingly complex computer programs that are used in the health system these days and it is precisely this issue she wishes to emphasise to the world and, not least of all, to her busybody daughter.

“I’m hungry,” Didi says.

Now it’s Iben and Anne-Maj’s turn to exchange surprised glances. Didi always eats like a bird. A very finicky bird, at that. They always have to encourage her to eat, and when she finally gives in to them, it has to be solely fusilli pasta – and not the wholegrain version, or the vegan kind with no eggs – as well as chips and cucumber that has been sliced lengthways. A rather one-sided diet. It’s strange, Anne-Maj thinks. She looks at her granddaughter’s stick-thin arms sticking out from the sleeves of her T-shirt, like the emaciated wings of a bird. A descendant of a long line of food-loving women. Though Iben isn’t quite as full-figured as Anne-Maj, it’ll come.

How can it be that the youngest member of the family has such difficulty eating food? Could it be Iben’s lack of interest in cooking that is to blame? Anne-Maj’s greatest fear is that Didi’s finickiness when it comes to food is going to develop into an eating disorder. The fact that the child is spontaneously expressing a desire for food is a happy event.

“Well, then it’s a good thing that we’ll be eating soon,” Anne-Maj says as she gets to her feet. Mortensen III wriggles from Iben’s arms. He hasn’t forgotten the scraps on the kitchen table. “If you two sit down at the table and make yourselves cosy,” Anne-Maj continues, “I’ll go out and do the last few things. It will take about fifteen minutes.”

“What are we having?” Iben asks.

“Tenderloin with potatoes and steamed mushrooms and asparagus. And a salad.” Then she shifts her gaze to Didi and says, “I’ve turned on the deep fryer so you can get a nice big portion of chips.”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to do that,” Didi says, looking up from her phone. “From today on I’m going to eat more varied.”

Anne-Maj knows that’s not a word the child would normally use, so she asks, “Is that something you learned about at school?”

“Nah …” she says, fidgeting in her seat a little, “It’s … nothing.”

Anne-Maj and her daughter exchange glances once more. Iben shrugs her shoulders.

“So, you’ll eat boiled potatoes and meat and gravy and vegetables now?” Anne-Maj asks, to be absolutely sure. “And I can turn off the fryer?”

“Well …” Didi says, still fidgeting a little. “If you’ve turned on the deep fryer anyway maybe I’ll have a couple of chips after all. They taste so good and go well with … all the varied food.”

Chapter 2

Sunday 17 March

Ever since she was young, Iben has been something of a problem child, Anne-Maj thinks. She is exceptionally gifted, but she is … if not downright lazy then certainly bad at prioritising her time properly, and she doesn’t have the least bit of interest in making any kind of intellectual effort even though she could easily become a member of Mensa if she wanted to. Iben just managed to pass her high-school exams back in the day, and since then she has basically only made poor decisions: she chooses the wrong men, has the wrong degree and takes the wrong jobs.

Iben herself insists that she is more than satisfied with her new job as a sales assistant in a shoe store on Algade, and the single life suits her very well, just as it does her mother. In fact, she seems downright relieved that her ex-husband has moved in with his new girlfriend in Copenhagen and has recently had a little boy, whom he is so preoccupied with that he only sporadically remembers that he has a ten-year-old daughter as well.

On the other hand, mother, daughter and grandmother see each other often, at least every Sunday. They only live a few hundred metres from each other, which suits all parties perfectly well. Especially now that Anne-Maj has gone on early retirement and can therefore receive visits after school from Ditte-Marie. Didi! Anne-Maj corrects herself. She surveys the stove and confirms that she has managed it once again: the preparations have been timed so that everything will be done at exactly the same moment. I really ought to get a medal, Anne-Maj thinks. Or at least some kind of diploma.

“We’re eating in five minutes!” she calls out to the living room and gets a couple of acknowledging grunts in response. She then arranges the pieces of tenderloin and the asparagus on a pretty dish decorated with blue flowers which she inherited from her grandmother many years ago. Didi’s great-great-grandmother. It’s hard to fathom. Anne-Maj can still smell the scent of her grandmother, feel her soft, wrinkled skin in her hands. For her, the memory of her grandmother belongs to the real world even though it’s almost forty years ago since she passed away, while for Iben, her great-grandmother is merely a concept; she can probably barely remember her. And if you were to ask Didi, she’d say that her great-great-grandmother belongs so far in the distant past that she might as well be a brontosaurus. She can’t even remember her great-grandmother, Anne-Maj thinks, my mother, who faded further and further away into dementia and finally died when Didi was still going to nursery school. Time flies by so quickly and the women in our family die much too early, she thinks. Anne-Maj places the dishes on the table and goes back into the kitchen to get the potatoes and gravy. Now I’m of the oldest generation. Me, who will someday become a great-grandmother and most likely be nothing but a faint memory for Didi’s children and the sheer past for her great-grandchildren. The thought of it fills her with a mixture of pride and terror. Generations shall follow generations. Everyone knows that all too well. Yet still, she shudders.

“Okay, you can seat yourselves at the table now,” she says. Anne-Maj always assumes, somewhat naively, that upon hearing her announcement her guests will sit down, even though she knows perfectly well that that is never the case. There is always at least one guest who first has to go to the bathroom, another one who needs to charge their phone, and yet another who wants to wash their hands. Usually there is an interval of at least several minutes from when she has called them to the table to when they are actually sitting in their seats – regardless of whether she has warned them in plenty of time or not – and in those minutes Anne-Maj is usually ready to explode with impatience. Don’t they know that the vegetables will lose their consistency, the gravy will stiffen, that the fine, rose-coloured tone of the meat will grow grey and pale while they are busy bustling about, fumbling with their last-minute things?

And that’s how things are going today too, of course. Anne-Maj places the bowl with burning hot salted chip next to Didi’s plate and goes back into the kitchen for a jug of iced water. She tries to force herself to think of something other than all the good food on the table getting cold.

“Okay, Mortensen,” she says as she places the cutting board with leftovers on the floor. “Wait!” she commands, and the little dachshund sits down obediently with its beautiful, dark brown eyes completely fixed on the pile of raw tendons and skin. “Help yourself,” Anne-Maj then says, whereupon Mortensen instantly hurls himself at his prey. When the whole delicious lot has been devoured a few seconds later, the dog thoroughly licks the cutting board as he wags his tail so much he is about to lose his balance. Anne-Maj smiles.

She returns to the living room and – wow– a miracle! Both Didi and Iben are sitting in their seats. Didi has already shovelled half the chips onto her plate. “Remember, you also need room for the meat and vegetables,” says Anne-Maj. “All the varied food, you know.”

Didi reluctantly takes the dish and eases a single asparagus onto her plate along with the smallest piece of meat. She looks so dismayed at the sight of the steamed mushrooms that Anne-Maj politely pretends to have forgotten to pass them to her. If the child actually manages to work her way through a vegetable and a mouthful of meat it’ll be a miracle.

“How are things at the Second-Hand Shop?” Iben asks in a tone indicating she wants to make conversation when they have helped themselves to the food.

“I’m there every Friday,” says Anne-Maj. “You know that.”

Iben has taken a mouthful of food so has to make do with nodding.

“It’s going very well,” continues Anne-Maj, noticing from the corner of her eye how Didi is struggling with the meat which she is cutting into tiny pieces. “Helmer Bergstrøm died on Tuesday.”

“Mother!” Iben has finished chewing her food. “That nice old man! You can’t say that things are going fine and then in the next breath announce that one of the other volunteers has died!”

“No, you’re right,” Anne-Maj admits, “I didn’t mean it that way. But Helmer was so old … over ninety.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not a sad thing if he dies. Especially if it happened so suddenly. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

“Maybe he got murdered!” Didi says, looking suddenly rejuvenated.

“Didi!” says Iben. “You shouldn’t think like that!”

“Sure, you can,” Didi says, placing her knife and fork down, clearly ready for a spirited little debate about the possibility of a murder mystery among Nykøbing’s senior citizens.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Oh, stop it,” says Anne-Maj. “Didi just has a small inner detective. There’s nothing wrong with playing with the idea, as long as it’s done within these four walls.”

“Mum!” says Iben. “You should never have given her The Hound of the Baskervilles. Didi is much too young for crime novels.”

“No, I’m not!” says Didi.

“When I was her age,” says Anne-Maj, “I was reading Agatha Christie, which I thoroughly enjoyed.”

“As though that’s a great comfort,” Iben says, shaking her head. “Eat your food, Didi.”

“You don’t have to eat the meat,” says Anne-Maj, as she can see that the piece of tenderloin is developing into an insurmountable project for the girl. “Try the asparagus instead.”

“All I meant was,” Iben says, “if Helmer’s death was so sudden it must have been a shock for his family, no matter how old he was.”

“You couldn’t really call it sudden. He was hospitalised a few days beforehand and they said it was the heart and then …” Anne-Maj pours some more wine into both their glasses. “I didn’t hear anything about Helmer having heart problems but mentally things were going downhill for him the last few months. No one was surprised that his time had come. In reality, he really couldn’t handle working at the Second-Hand Shop. One of the others took over the job as administrator a while back, but he insisted on continuing to work in the book section. In many ways, it was probably all for the best that he …” Anne-Maj tries to find a suitable way of finishing the sentence, but when it turns out to be impossible, she decides to change the subject. “I think I’ll be given the chance to take over the book section from now on.”

Ever since Anne-Maj went on early retirement six months ago, she has been working as a volunteer at the Second-Hand Shop situated in an abandoned supermarket behind the new Irma supermarket. Just once a week, from ten o’clock in the morning to six o’clock in the evening. She has always had a great interest in books. She loves reading them, smelling the pages, feeling them in her hands, and she has always had a sharp eye for beautiful front covers and the fine details of book bindings. So, being in charge of the book section has greatly interested her for quite a while; however, old Helmer thought he owned the section right up to the end and prevented anyone from sharing the job with him. If she could take over that job now …

Iben quickly places her right hand on the table with a guilty look in her eyes. Which means she has once again snuck a piece of meat to Mortensen. “So that means that there are no men working there now, right?”

“There’s Stanley. Stanley Hjort.”

“The simple one, right?”

“You shouldn’t say that.” She looks over at Didi who is busy dissecting an asparagus spear. “Stanley was brain-injured in a traffic accident and isn’t quite the person he once was. Still, he’s a great help. He comes in every day and manages the things the rest of us aren’t able to, like climbing tall ladders when the top shelves have to be dusted off, or picking up heavy bags of clothes and boxes, or doing the cleaning and taking good care of our delivery van.”

“The Blue Lightning,” says Didi who has apparently been listening more than they thought.

“Exactly.” Anne-Maj smiles. “We’d have a hard time running the store without Stanley’s help.”

“I didn’t mean to speak badly about him.”

“I just don’t like the term ‘simple’.”

They continue eating for a little while in silence. Didi reaches for the jug of water. She does nothing to prevent all the ice cubes from pouring into her glass. When she puts the water jug back on the table, she meets her grandmother’s glance. Anne-Maj winks at her.

Iben resumes the conversation. “Helmer’s widow still works at the store, doesn’t she? What’s her name again?”

“Vips. Vibeke.”

“She must be crushed.”

“She’s taking it surprisingly well.”

Anne-Maj’s thoughts suddenly revolve around Vips who, despite her eighty-four years and her wobbly legs is still the one in charge of the silverware, jewellery and watches section, all of which are kept in a glass case next to the till where she sits for a few hours every single afternoon in a comfortable chair as she collects money from the customers. The only time she gets up is if someone wants to have a closer look at the fine things, in which case she will stand, maintaining a firm grip on the cane while, with her other hand, unlocking the glass case and pulling out one flat velvet-covered drawer after another. Despite her colleagues’ protests, she keeps the key to the glass case at the bottom of her purse, making it impossible for anyone else to sell silverware and jewellery outside of her working hours. Vips loves her job and, like the other volunteers at the Second-Hand Shop, doesn’t care that the work is unpaid. She took a single day off work after her husband’s death, but the following morning she was sitting right back in her old spot as usual. “Perhaps the grief won’t properly sink in until after the funeral service.”

“When will that be?”

“On Tuesday.”

“Are you going?”

“I think we all are. The store can easily be closed for a few hours in the middle of the day. Helmer worked there for over nine years. It goes without saying that we’re going to give him a proper send-off.”

“Of course.”

“Not that anyone’s going to miss him. He was a real tyrant.”

“Mum!”

Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders. “Well, he was.” She thinks they’ve spoken long enough about that disagreeable old man’s death, so after a pause, she exclaims, “But I have so many plans for the book section!”

Iben looks at her. “Yes?”

“First of all, I want to throw out all those outdated encyclopaedias. Lademanns Leksikon, outdated atlases and so on. Helmer thought they were worth a lot of money but no one wants that sort of thing anymore. You can find everything on the internet these days. Then I want to go through all the fiction with a fine-tooth comb and throw out the most worn-out subscription club editions. Maybe I could create some small exhibits with children’s books and crime novels. That would attract a whole new audience. And then I’d like to introduce a system so that we register each book with the date that we receive it. That way we can see whether it’s been standing on the shelf and gathering dust for too long, in which case we can throw it out.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Iben says, absentmindedly. Her attention is focused on her daughter who is busy shovelling more chips onto her plate. “Don’t forget to eat the rest of the meat, Didi.”

“Grandma said I didn’t have to.”

“But I can see that you’ve eaten your asparagus.” Iben is speaking in the most artificial teacher’s voice one can imagine. “Good girl. Would you like one more?”

“No thank you.” Didi pushes the entire plate of chips away. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs Mortensen.”

Anne-Maj makes a face. Her own daughter refers to her by her surname when she wants to tease her, and it seems Didi has started in on it, too. She doesn’t have the energy to protest.

“Can I be excused?”

Anne-Maj watches her granddaughter who is now heading for the sofa with her smartphone. “Do you want some dessert?” she asks. “There’s ice cream.”

“What flavour?” Didi asks, her eyes pasted to the phone.

“Vanilla.”

She looks up. “Is it homemade?”

Anne-Maj responds with an almost inaudible sigh. “No, I bought it.”

“Then I’d like some.” She meets Anne-Maj’s eyes. Didi knows perfectly well how painful it is for her cooking-fanatic of a grandmother to have to fill her freezer with processed food. She knows that Anne-Maj’s purchase of a litre of organic Hansen’s Ice Cream is solely for her, Didi’s, sake, and she is polite enough to show her acknowledgement of that. “Thank you, Mrs Mortensen.”

Chapter 3

Tuesday 19 March

Nykøbing Church is almost 800 years old, a classical red mission brick building without a lot of fancy frills. It is surrounded by a small park with ancient tombstones and monuments, but the graveyard itself is situated a couple of hundred metres away from there.

There simply isn’t enough space in the immediate vicinity of the church, so from 1920 the townspeople were no longer buried within the cadastral plot of the church. The interior of the church is just as simple in style as the exterior: heavy, whitewashed arches supported by bare, rustic red-brick columns. A simple cross and a finely detailed sailing ship are the only ornaments in the austere white room of the church, from which the frescoes were obliterated a long time ago. It’s very Protestant, Anne-Maj thinks every time she is here. A Catholic would literally make the sign of the cross at the sight of this spartan House of God. She herself is very fond of its subdued style. In general, she is very fond of her church. This was where she was baptised, where she was wed to her unfaithful husband and where she will someday be buried. But, fortunately, she hasn’t quite reached that point yet. Hopefully, she still has many years left. Maybe twenty? Maybe twenty-five, now that she’s stopped smoking … Anne-Maj nods to one of the other volunteers from the Second-Hand Shop, a farmer’s widow from the Northern Asmindrup area by the name of Else Simonsen. She’s all right, Anne-Maj thinks, stout-hearted and down-to-earth, if not a bit naive. She moves a little to the side of the pew to make room for her.

“It’s so beautifully decorated,” Else says in a half-whisper. “So many flowers.”

“That’s the one from the store,” Anne-Maj says, pointing at a wreath of white flowers. “We have to pay one-hundred and fifty kroner each.”

“That much?” Elsa asks, with a shocked look.

Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders. “It cost over a thousand kroner.”

“My word,” says Else, “and who paid?”

“I did.”

Else opens her purse to fish out her wallet so that she can pay her back right away. Anne-Maj stops her by placing her hand on Else’s. “Let’s wait with that,” she says, “there’s no need to flash our money around in the church.”

“No, that’s true,” says Else, straightening herself up with the purse still in her lap.

“She looks so small up there.”

Anne-Maj immediately knows who she means. Helmer’s wife, Vips, is sitting on the front-row pew between her two middle-aged sons. The wig’s slightly too uniform – the dyed-brown curls are easy to identify, even though they are only just discernible above the tall back-rest of the church pew. At that very moment, the organ starts, prompting everyone to silence.

The ceremony itself is very fine and dignified, the priest’s sermon more personal than one usually experiences even if he comes across as keeping a certain professional distance. That’s one good reason for going to church every now and then, Anne-Maj thinks: you’ll at least get a proper send-off and not have to make do with some irrelevant sermon by someone who only knows the deceased by the descriptions of the bereaved. The fact that the priest doesn’t mention Helmer’s tendency to be quarrelsome and grumpy is a sign of politeness, Anne-Maj thinks. From where she is sitting she can see Helmer’s grown-up sons take their handkerchiefs out every now and then. Well, he could, of course, have been an affectionate father, Anne-Maj thinks, although she has a hard time imagining it. She didn’t really know him very well. In fact, she’s had very little to do with him and Vips since she started working at the Second-Hand Shop six months ago, and the strongest feeling she has for the elderly couple is one of irritation.

While the rest of the gathering sings the last hymn – Anne-Maj is tone-deaf and therefore always spares the rest of the world from having to experience her voice – she internally runs through the list of things she has to pick up on her way home. She has to drop by the Irma supermarket to pick up the good acorn syrup and a package of fresh lobster ravioli and then make a quick stop at the Netto supermarket to get toilet paper and other staples.

Else Simonsen is still sitting with her hands resting on her handbag. She isn’t quite as considerate as Anne-Maj, so she sings the hymns enthusiastically at the top of her lungs in an off-key vibrato, only hitting the melody sporadically – even someone who is tone-deaf can pick that up, or, at the very least, see it by the expressions on the faces of those sitting around Else every time she turns up the volume.

Anne-Maj recalls the bag of poussins she noticed was on sale in Irma’s advertising flyer the other day. Perhaps she should buy a few for the freezer. She ought to add it to the list, but she can’t start writing one right there in the middle of a funeral, she admits to herself somewhat regretfully.

The ceremony is finally over, and the church bells ring their slow, monotonous funeral chime as the coffin is carried out. Then there’s a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting while the coffin lies in the open hearse and the family places upon it the long-stemmed roses that are apparently required nowadays. At least the weather is nice, Anne-Maj thinks as she makes an effort not to look too cheerful at the thought of it. It is one of the first real days of spring, mild and bright. The trees aren’t in bloom yet but in the periphery, at the front of the church, there are clusters of snowdrops and crocuses.

Then the undertaker shuts the rear door of the hearse and it rolls out of the church grounds. While people stand in line in front of the widow and the sons to give their condolences, Anne-Maj and some other volunteers from the Second-Hand Shop retreat in a small group by themselves as they wait for it to be their turn, including Else Simonsen, who has finally had the chance to pay her dues and no longer has to think of her purse all the time; the early retiree, Stanley Hjort, with his stooping posture and an eternally apologetic look on his face; and, of course, Valborg von Schilling. She is the store’s administrator and in charge of the working schedules and finances and deals with staff absences. She is the one who convenes joint meetings and is in contact with the main office and the local merchants’ association, as well as the municipality.

Valborg is in her mid-seventies and is tall and thin with an arched, aristocratic nose. She is always dressed in spotless, freshly pressed suits. It is customary for the volunteers to wear second-hand clothes from the assortment in the store, except for underwear and stockings. Of course, everyone pays for whatever items they choose, but they get a discount, and the clothes are always neat and clean. The fact that the cut of the clothes is often outdated and a little crooked at the seams doesn’t bother anyone, that is, no one except for Valborg, who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing other people’s discarded clothes.

“Where are the rest?” Else is now asking.

“Kylle is visiting her sister in Nakskov and Lis couldn’t come,” Valborg answers. “She didn’t give a reason.” She casts a serious glance at the group until she is convinced that everyone has realised that not coming up with a legitimate reason for one’s absence is considered inappropriate. “Ruth also had to cancel coming to the ceremony; however, she will be coming for the refreshments. She had an appointment with a specialist this morning.”

No one comments. They just nod. At that very moment, Ruth Møllegaard rounds the corner and joins the small group. “I just made it,” she says breathlessly.

“Speak of the devil,” says Anne-Maj.

“They took me in earlier than I was scheduled for, which isn’t something you’d expect at the ophthalmologist’s, there are usually so many people.” Since no one asks her the question she’s obviously waiting to be asked, she continues on her own. “Luckily, there was nothing wrong, he said, except for a little cataract, but who doesn’t have that at our age, right?”

The others fidget around restlessly. It’s not pleasant being reminded of one’s physical deterioration, especially not at a funeral.

Else clears her throat. “We should also talk a little bit about what’s going to happen in the future,” she says.

“The future?” Valborg asks.

“Yes. What are we going to do about the book section now that Helmer’s gone?”

Anne-Maj freezes. “What do you mean, what are we going to do?” she asks.

“Well, someone’s got to take over Helmer’s job there,” Else persists. “I’d be willing to deal with the books if someone else will take care of the ironing and alterations. I can, of course, give a hand when things get busy, but…”

Anne-Maj must interfere now. Right now. If she doesn’t, Else will nab the opportunity. “But won’t it be too much for you, dear?” Anne-Maj asks in the friendliest voice that she can muster. “There is an awful lot of drudgery in heaving the books, and you have a bad back.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Else as she glances at the only man of the group. “Stanley has promised to help. Right, Stanley?”

So, they’ve already talked about it, Else and Stanley. Has Valborg also been consulted? Anne-Maj glances at her, but her long aristocratic face is completely neutral. If Else has also managed to get her on board then the whole thing is doomed.

“How very kind of you, Stanley,” Anne-Maj says, smiling maternally at him and noticing he has suddenly got a very concerned look in his eyes. He is clearly nervous that he may have got involved in a conflict he isn’t able to grasp. Anne-Maj continues, “But you have so many other tasks that need to be seen to.” He still doesn’t answer so she turns towards Valborg. “It’s a little impractical having to use Stanley, who is busy enough as it is, when there are so many others who would be capable of handling the job without his help. Don’t you agree?”

“And would that be you?” The tone of Else’s voice is still polite; however, her cheeks are blushing. “You, who have been in the store for the shortest period of time?”

“What difference does it make how long–”

“Now, now!” Valborg’s voice cuts through. “This is neither the place nor time for taking up this discussion.”

“No,” Anne-Maj says, turning away.

Her rival mumbles something inaudible. Everything Anne-Maj had appreciated about Else – her willpower, her resoluteness, her energy – now come across as downright alarming. Anne-Maj will need all the resourcefulness she can muster if she’s going to get her wish fulfilled.

“We’ll have a joint meeting on Thursday,” says Valborg as she glances around at everyone in the little group with an authoritative gaze. “It will be after closing hours. I hope you all can come.”

“I’ll post it in the group,” says Ruth. The most important communication between the volunteers takes place through a Facebook group which Ruth runs expertly. If broader information has to be spread in relation to finding new volunteers or sales for their more regular customers, she posts it in the town’s local group. “And you, Else, are being informed of it now.” She looks at the little red-cheeked woman who, like Vips, doesn’t use computers and therefore always has to be informed via the telephone.

Valborg marches over to Vips and her sons who are receiving condolences from all the others. The rest of them follow her in silence. Anne-Maj senses Else’s gaze on her. The poor woman has no idea what kind of force she’s up against.

Anne-Maj immediately recalls something. She fishes the shopping list and a pen from her bag and writes, “Poussins, Irma.”

Chapter 4

Thursday 21 March

The scorching hot mass of coconut, brown sugar, butter and a drop of milk trickles out of the pot and settles in a soft, syrupy layer on top of the almost-baked cake. Anne-Maj smooths it out with the dough scraper so that the brown filling is evenly spread, right to the very edges. Then she puts the baking tray back in the oven which in the meantime has reached a somewhat higher temperature. She sets the timer and cleans up in the kitchen, fills the dishwasher, washes the pot thoroughly in the sink, dries off all the surfaces and the stove with a clean, moist cloth and … “No, Mortensen,” she says when the dog tries to manoeuvre his way into the pleasant-smelling contents of the dishwasher. She pushes the animal aside and closes the door shut … Ping! That is the signal indicating that the necessary five minutes are up. Anne-Maj takes out the finished Danish dream cake from the oven, places it on the counter to cool off and goes into the living room.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

Didi is sitting at the dining table doing her homework. Right now, she is working on an English essay with the title, ‘A Pet I Love’. She has (of course) chosen to write about Mortensen, and at the top of the page she has actually managed to draw an almost accurate picture of her grandmother’s dog.

“I’m finished,” she says, straightening her back. “Do you want to see?”

Anne-Maj extends her hand to receive the notebook and sits down on the sofa with the essay. “I love a dog called Mortensen,” says the heading. In terms of content, the piece is very good, but it is inundated with spelling errors. On the other hand, Didi knows the English word for Mortensen’s breed: dachshund, even though she spells it “dakeshund”, and she knows the English word for “lead”. Her English vocabulary is impressive considering that she is only ten years old. Or perhaps it is precisely due to her age, Anne-Maj thinks. Kids nowadays get filled with English-language TV series and YouTube videos, and they start learning English in school from Year Two. So, it’s not so unusual if they can speak and understand the language from an early age. The only thing they seem to struggle with is the spelling.

“Your story is really good,” she says. “It might help to add a full stop in a few places so you can see how the sentences hang together – or rather, don’t.”

Didi looks at her in puzzlement. In her generation, using full stops and capitalising letters at the beginning of sentences are considered superfluous, and commas and question marks are seen as even less relevant, while all other forms of punctuation are as good as non-existent. She shrugs her shoulders.

Anne-Maj shows her how the text immediately becomes more comprehensible by inserting four full stops in the appropriate places, but she gives up on correcting the spelling. She’ll leave that to the English teacher. Instead, she praises Didi’s vocabulary and the child’s face brightens up with a broad smile. She is so pretty, Anne-Maj thinks, with her thick, light hair done in a long braid down her back, her hazel brown eyes, and lots of tiny, dark brown freckles even at this time of year. She is, of course, much too thin, but something can always be done about that.

“Do you want the rest of the ice cream from Sunday?” Anne-Maj asks. It is intentional on Anne-Maj’s part that she doesn’t offer her a piece of the cake she has just taken out of the oven and which is spreading a luscious aroma throughout the house. Didi doesn’t eat foods that have been combined together in any sort of way. The two layers of the dream cake, a yellow and a brown one, make it impossible to consume in Didi’s eyes, because they each have their own structure.

Didi is busy packing her school things in her bag. She looks up, and contemplates for a moment. “Yes, please,” she then says.

It really isn’t normal for a ten-year-old to actually have to take a moment to think before accepting a portion of ice cream, Anne-Maj thinks as she takes out the tub from the freezer. It’s that sort of thing that makes her worry about an eating disorder, and she secretly thanks her lucky stars that Iben is so good at filling her daughter up with vitamins and minerals in capsule form.

An hour later they are walking down Algade. Didi is going home to her and her mother’s apartment in a newly renovated courtyard behind the bookshop and is dragging her school bag. Anne-Maj is balancing the cake tin which she has packed inside a big plastic bag, and has a cotton bag containing a bottle of cognac, both of which are carefully planned contributions on her part for the coffee and tea portion of the joint meeting. The cake and cognac will, combined with a small speech she has meticulously prepared, contribute to convincing the group of volunteers that she is the only right choice for the vacant job of being in charge of the book section.

Since Anne-Maj has to go down the narrow passage at Matas, she and Didi go their separate ways. She waves with the two fingers she can just manage to ease out from her heavy load and Didi mimics her grandmother’s awkward wave with a laugh.

“See you on Sunday,” Anne-Maj calls to her granddaughter.

“Yup!” Didi’s braid jumps and dances across her back. She doesn’t turn to look.

When Anne-Maj pushes the door to the store open with her shoulder a few moments later, it is precisely 5.30pm and Stanley is there, ready to turn away those customers who haven’t managed to grasp that the sign on the glass door states that they close at … click, click … at 5.30pm and not a second later. His gaze immediately shifts to the plastic-wrapped cake tin.

“Dream cake,” Anne-Maj says before she is asked.

“Yes,” says Stanley. He rarely ever speaks so she takes it as a big compliment when he mumbles, “I-like-dream-cake.”

“Can I get you to give me a hand?” she asks. Her arms feel like they might soon fall off.

Stanley immediately takes the cake and walks ahead of her to the area in the store in which only staff are allowed to enter. There is the bathroom, the storage room and the room in which the volunteers hold all their meetings. Back in the day, these rooms housed a supermarket which has now moved from the city centre so the room of the store itself and the storage room are unusually big for a second-hand shop. In the lunch-room, however, there is just enough space for a teeny-weeny kitchenette and a narrow table with a stand-alone computer as well as a long table with mismatched chairs around it.

Valborg is already sitting at her usual place at the end of the table where the Second-Hand Shop’s accounts ledger always lies ready in its ring binder, as though the lunch-room were her private office. Her indispensable brown-striped tote bag is lying on the window sill. So much more practical than a handbag when it comes to carrying work folders, as she always says. She politely greets the newly arrived but makes no gesture to help. That would be asking too much.

“Just put it over there,” Anne-Maj says to Stanley as she nods towards the kitchenette. Stanley obliges.

She cuts the cake into perfectly equal-sized squares, arranges it symmetrically on a glass dish – borrowed from the store’s table service – and places it and the cognac bottle on the table. Valborg looks up from her papers, briefly rests her gaze on the treats, and nods. “It looks wonderful,” is her verdict.

“Thank you.” Anne-Maj looks at Stanley who is staring longingly at the dream cake. “Stanley, could you go out and find some glasses for the cognac?”

He points at the schnapps glasses standing on the shelf above the sink which the volunteers use when they have a little pick-me-up after a workday. The two ladies exchange glances. Suppressed laughter is sparkling in Valborg’s eyes. “No, those are for our after-work drinks.” Anne-Maj gets up. “Follow me and I’ll show you where we keep our cognac glasses.”

All of the volunteers show up at the meeting even though it was announced at the very last minute. Lis Klausen and Ruth Møllegaard have both just finished their afternoon shifts and so are already there, Kylle Poulsen comes dashing in just in time in a cloud of heavy perfume, and Vips Bergstrøm surprises everybody with her attendance just two days after her husband’s funeral. Else Simonsen is the very last one to arrive, and she too has a covered cake tin with her.

With a lifted eyebrow she looks down at Anne-Maj’s dream cake and says, “Well, I can see we’ve both had the same idea. It looks delicious, Anne-Maj.” She smiles. “Chock-full of wonderful calories, no doubt.” And with an elegant motion of her hand, like a magician’s, she pulls back the dish towel covering her cake tin, revealing a dozen raisin rolls, a pack of Kærgården butter and a jar of homemade blackcurrant jam.

While everyone expresses their awe with “aahs” and “oohs”, Anne-Maj is seething. Rolls? Ha, anybody can bake rolls like that. And knowing Else, they probably aren’t organic. And Kærgården butter! Anne-Maj is just about to voice her opinion on spreadable butters but stops herself at the last minute. Many people, including those present at the meeting, use those kinds of spreads with no hesitation and refer to them as butter. If she has any intention of winning them over, now is not the time to start lecturing.

When everyone has helped themselves to the cake and rolls – Anne-Maj keeps a close eye on who takes what and how quickly as the respective serving platters are emptied – Valborg clears her throat and announces that the meeting has begun. She says a few words of respect regarding Helmer and once again gives her condolences to Vips on the part of the National Union of Second-Hand Shops and mentions what a great void the old man will be leaving in the store’s daily routine.

Everyone mumbles something or other. Vips lifts a folded handkerchief to her eyes.

“And that’s why we’re here today,” Valborg continues. “Since there is no indication that we’ll be including any new volunteers in our small circle, we won’t find any external replacements for Helmer. We’ll have to make do with the people we already have, so we’ll need to make adjustments to the work schedule and figure out who’s going to be in charge of the book section.”

It falls silent around the table. Everyone – including those who didn’t witness the confrontation between the two women at the church – is clearly familiar with the problematic situation.

“I understand,” says Valborg when the silence has lasted long enough, “that there are already two of you who would like to take over the book section. Else, who has for a number of years been responsible for the preparation and maintenance of various types of clothing,” she looks at Else for a moment before shifting her gaze to Anne-Maj, “and Anne-Maj who has only been here for seven months and therefore doesn’t have an actual area she is in charge of.”

“Wouldn’t it make most sense, then, for Anne-Maj to get that job?” Kylle interrupts with an impatient look on her face. “That way we won’t have to alter the personnel in all the other departments. I can’t see why we have to have a big discussion over it.”

“Well,” says Else quickly, “seniority does play a role of some kind, I believe.”

“Of course it does,” says Anne-Maj, patting Else’s hand. “Of course,” she smiles, “if you’re a bookworm, then it’s a wonderful section to be in charge of – even if you have a bad back and need help doing certain tasks.” She truly hopes no one there remembers how much she herself limps every time her bad knee starts acting up.

“I know I’d be good at running the book section,” says Else. “And Stanley is willing to help.” She looks pleadingly at him, but he is so absorbed with taking his fourth piece of cake that he is unable to confirm anything at all. “I’m passionate about books,” she says in a somewhat tame voice.

“So, do you read a lot of books?” asks Valborg.

“Yes, of course.” Else’s cheeks have turned red. “Now that I’m retired I have plenty of time to read.”

“And do you have a broad knowledge of literature? Do you know what sells?”

“Yes, I …” Her face grows even redder. “I know what I myself like to read, and those are the books that are the most popular at the library.” She reels off the titles of a couple of romantic paperbacks, mentions a few biographies and a so-called ‘book club’ novel.

Valborg listens with a neutral expression on her face. Anne-Maj knows that Valborg von Schilling was a schoolteacher before she retired, which is easily apparent. She certainly knows how to run a meeting and she is good at maintaining a neutral expression so that no one can read her until she is ready for it. Perhaps she’s also learned a thing or two from her politician-spouse, Anne-Maj thinks. Valborg’s now-deceased husband was for many years the mayor of a borough on Zealand. A fact which she has pointed out so many times that behind her back the volunteers refer to her in jest as “Mrs Mayor”.

If one were to venture a guess, then Valborg would most likely side with Anne-Maj when it comes to this particular conflict, but it’s hard to make out. “And you, Anne-Maj,” she says, turning towards her. “I assume you are also an avid reader since you’ve also put yourself down for the task.”

“Yes,” she says. This is the moment she has been waiting for, so she makes herself comfortable on the chair and begins her little speech. She keeps it as short as possible yet manages to fit everything in: the small exhibit of good children’s books, fiction books of a certain quality, a separate section for crime novels and the date-stamping of newly arrived books.

“You’ve given it some thought,” says Valborg. “But you do realise that the book section won’t be getting any more space than it already has? What will you do to ensure that there’s enough shelf space?”

“I would drive to the recycling centre with all the outdated encyclopaedias and the most worn-out of the subscription club editions that are doing nothing but filling up shelves,” Anne-Maj says right away. “In addition, I could also–”

“But you can’t possibly mean that!” Vips interrupts. “Helmer was proud to be able to offer the customers that fine selection of bound encyclopaedias in their entirety.”

“But there’s a reason why they’ve been standing there for years, Vips. No one wants Lademanns Leksikon or an outdated five-volume medical book,” Anne-Maj responds, more condescendingly than was really wise. She can sense the discomfort of Kylle, Ruth and Lis: that’s not the way to speak to a woman who has just become a widow. “I’m sure that Helmer had excellent knowledge of antiquarian books but we have to cut down on something if we’re going to adjust to the changing times.”

Vips has taken out her handkerchief once more. Anne-Maj’s confidence is dwindling. The sympathy she may have won through her enthusiastic and well-thought-out strategy has now been lost. The tears of a widow always trump everything else, something which she should have been more aware of. She looks at Valborg who she hopes has maintained an objective overview in all this pettiness; she must be able to see that Anne-Maj is the right choice. Valborg von Schilling’s word is always law.

Mrs Mayor sits for a little while looking down at her papers, pours herself a cup of straight black coffee plus a very small glass of cognac and says, “I think you two, Anne-Maj and Else, should share the job.” She lifts her hand when Else begins to protest. “If this were an ordinary workplace, we would be forced to choose one and then let the other choose between keeping their old job or finding something else. But that’s not the way we do things around here.” She looks at each of them, one by one. “This is a charity organisation. Everyone here works on a volunteer basis and we simply can’t afford for any of you to quit.”

“Okay, well …” says Anne-Maj, “so what, then?”

“We have to consider the organisation and its profit, and not individuals.”

“Couldn’t we vote on it?” asks Kylle, who is in the middle of buttering half a roll, of which she now has taken three – and only one piece of cake, Anne-Maj notices. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kylle has shifted her support to Else.

“On whether it should be Else or Anne-Maj?” Lis asks.

“No,” Valborg cuts through. “First we have to vote on whether or not we think it should be a joint project.”

Else and Anne-Maj are the only ones who vote against it. No one mentions the fact that Stanley has raised his hand for both proposals. The book section is to be divided between the two opponents.

“But what do we do about the strategy?” asks Anne-Maj despairingly. “If we have to agree on every little detail, then …”

“I’m sure you’ll figure that out between the two of you,” Valborg says, reaching for her tote bag. “I’ve revised the work schedules for you …”

After the meeting Anne-Maj walks out into the evening air, tired and crestfallen. She is still lugging the cake tin as well as the half-full bottle of cognac. There wasn’t much demand for the latter. Perhaps they should have stuck with Fernet-Branca like they usually do.

“Want a lift?” Vips is suddenly standing beside her. Her eyes, which must have once been dark brown, have faded to a colour similar to cold tea. She has placed her slender hand on Anne-Maj’s arm.

“I live right down here on Linde Allé,” Anne-Maj says hesitantly. “It isn’t so far.”

“No, come on,” says Vips. “You have a lot to carry and I have to go in that direction anyway.”

Her car is red and quite new.

“Helmer was so fond of it,” she says when Anne-Maj politely praises the diminutive vehicle. Vips almost seems cheerful. Apparently, she has forgotten their little clash about her husband’s way of running the book section. Maybe becoming a widow has actually relieved her a little? Though it’s not something you could ever say out loud, of course, but you couldn’t blame her if that’s how she felt. If her husband acted just as domineering at home as he did in the store, then it’s no wonder she doesn’t mind being liberated from him.

“I could have just brought the car myself,” Anne-Maj says as she pushes back the passenger seat so there is space both for her stomach and her cake tin. “But then I thought … it’s such a short distance.”

Vips nods. Right now, she is fully concentrated on backing out of the parking space, which is happening at a snail’s pace. When the laborious task is over with she notices Anne-Maj’s glance. “I’m not used to driving,” she says. “Helmer always drove but I must learn to …” She signals to the right at Svanestræde. “Oh, that’s right, we’re not allowed to drive across the pedestrian street,” she mumbles to herself as she signals in the opposite direction, wrenching the steering wheel counter-clockwise.

“You actually are,” says Anne-Maj, “you just drive past the station … but the distance is the same no matter which way you go.” When she notices Vips’ confused expression she adds, “I’ll show you the way.”

The car stops abruptly with a metallic screech when they are halfway across the road. “Oh, now what?” Vips’ voice trembles. “I’m so used to Helmer … I’m not accustomed to having to …”

“Would you like me to drive?” Anne-Maj asks.

“No, no, I just have to …” Vips manages to restart the engine and manoeuvres it into first gear. It only complains slightly when she shifts it into second.

“You could use a drink,” Anne-Maj says, tapping Vips on her hand as they slowly make their way up the road. “When you get home, I mean. Put your feet up and then have a little restorative.”

“Oh, no,” Vips says with a dignified expression. “I never drink alcohol alone. It’s a principle.”

“I can go home with you and keep you company?” Anne-Maj asks, sending a small prayer to the powers-that-be that Vips will say no.

Luckily, she does. “No, you shouldn’t bother about me,” she says, and Anne-Maj knows that she is lying. That’s precisely what Vips wants: for someone to bother about her.

“I could come out another day and explain everything about the computer? It’s not difficult at all once you get started.”

“Thank you, but someone has already offered to help me with that.”

“Would you like to come over for dinner one evening, then?” Anne-Maj asks before she has time to regret it.

“Now that sounds cosy,” Vips says, her eyes brightening.

Chapter 5

Sunday 14 April

Some weeks later, Anne-Maj is ready to fulfil her promise to Vips. The table has been set with the blue-striped linen tablecloth, white porcelain and orange serviettes in order to make a little contrast. In the middle of the table there is a vase with a bouquet of orange tulips. The menu has been slightly upgraded compared to when she has her usual guests, Iben and Didi, over. Anne-Maj wants to show Vips that she is a welcome guest in her home, and what better way to do that than through a good old-fashioned three-course meal? Older people are often a little hesitant when it comes to exotic food, she knows, so she has selected a classic beef roast with white potatoes, brown gravy and a green salad with Grandma’s dressing. The appetiser, avocado with shrimps, has to be prepared at the very last minute and the lemon mousse, to be served in individual portions, was put in the fridge a while ago, while the roast is in the oven and the rest of the ingredients are, as always, lined up on the kitchen counter in the correct order.

Didi and Iben are already sitting in the living room, the latter with Mortensen in her lap. He is lying on his back like a baby, completely relaxed in pure bliss with his stomach protruding straight up in the air and his eyes half-shut.

Anne-Maj sinks down into her favourite armchair and puts her feet up on a stool. Ahh. “Well,” she says, “hopefully Vips will show up soon.”

“Haven’t you factored in possible delays like you always do?”

“Yes, of course. I invited her to come at six o’clock and I’ll be serving dinner at seven. That should leave plenty of leeway for any unforeseen delays. Furthermore, she called to double-check the time this afternoon so, yes, she is certain to come on time.”

“Most certainly. That type always comes on time, if not before.”

“Oh, Iben,” Anne-Maj says, shaking her head. “You don’t even know her. How could you possibly know what ‘type’ she is?”

“She’s over eighty, isn’t she?” asks Iben. She repeats, emphasising every word, “That-Type-Always-Comes-On-Time.”

Anne-Maj can’t help curling her lips. “Now, be nice to her, you two,” she says. “Vips is a poor soul.”

“Why is she a poor soul?” Didi asks, without shifting her gaze from the smartphone display. As usual, the two grown-ups are a bit taken aback. You can easily forget that the little girl hears everything happening around her even if she is absorbed with … whatever it is that is so appealing out there in cyberspace.

“She lost her husband about a month ago,” Anne-Maj explains.

“But wasn’t he the one who was so stern?” Didi asks. “The one you didn’t like?”

Iben and Anne-Maj exchange glances. That child absorbs everything!

“Yes,” says Anne-Maj. “He wasn’t the easiest person to deal with.”

“Then she should just be happy he’s dead,” Didi says, looking up from her display. “Maybe she’s the one who killed him.”

“Now, Didi!” says Iben. “That’s enough!”

“Your mother’s right,” Anne-Maj says when Didi looks at her appealingly. Didi is used to Anne-Maj siding with her – but not this time. “It may be that Helmer was an old tyrant at home, but he was also the one who took care of their bills and insurance, the car and the house, that sort of thing. Now Vips has to figure it all out herself and she’s totally confused and very unhappy. She doesn’t even know how to read and send an email, let alone do online banking. In fact, I don’t think she even knows how to turn on a computer.”

“Doesn’t she have children that can help her?”

“They live far away. They can’t come rushing over here every time she has a small problem. Yet, there may be one that takes the time to do it. She did mention that someone or other had promised to give her a little crash course in computers.”

“I’m sorry,” Iben interrupts her. “But quite frankly, it’s the woman’s own fault. You can’t go through life knowing nothing about the practical side of things. It’s uncommonly stupid to be so dependent on one’s husband.”

“We can agree on that,” says Anne-Maj. “But sometimes you don’t know how other people are put together. Some people just don’t like paperwork. Vips has probably taken care of a lot of other things, like the kids, the household, seaming clothes. That sort of thing. You have to be a little more tolerant, Iben.”

“But, Grandma, what about you and cooking?” Didi asks, her eyes still glued to the screen.

“Cooking?”

“Yes, cooking. You’re the one who isn’t very tolerant.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You always say that grown-ups who can’t cook don’t deserve to eat,” Didi says as she looks up. “That’s not very tolerant, is it?”

“That’s completely different!” Anne-Maj objects. “Maybe not everybody is good at numbers and technology, but cooking is something everyone can learn.”

“Not everyone,” says Iben, laughing. “Take me, for example. I’ll never be good at it, and it doesn’t interest me in the least. Everybody is different, and there are some that are even different from you, Mrs Mortensen. Even though you sometimes have a hard time fathoming that.”

She smiles broadly and Didi giggles. After a while, Anne-Maj gives in and laughs as well.

“Okay, I think you’ve teased me enough for one day,” Anne-Maj says as she gets up. “I have to check up on the roast.” She goes into the kitchen, opens the door of the oven and confirms that everything is as it should be. A quick glance at her watch tells her that Vips is now ten minutes late. It’s not catastrophic, but it is, however, a little strange.

She takes the peanut bowl with her back to the living room, giving Mortensen a stern glance; he has woken up and straightened himself up on the sofa next to Iben with an expression of craving for goodies in his eyes. “You can forget all about it, friend. This isn’t for you.”

“I keep forgetting to ask,” says Iben. “Will you be taking over the book section?”

“No,” Anne-Maj says with a sigh. “No, I won’t, at least not alone.” She explains in broad terms what the set-up is going to look like, and adds, “But I was clever. When the new working schedule had to be finalised I volunteered to take three afternoons, whereas only Else got two.”

“So?” Iben asks, confused.

“Don’t you see? If I’m the one who’s there the most then I’ll be the one who decides the most things. Furthermore, I’m the one who has devised an actual strategy for the section. She hasn’t. She only has jurisdiction over her schmaltzy romances and book club novels.”

Iben shakes her head. “I just don’t get it. It is unpaid work, you are grown-ups and all of you still have all of your marbles – and you are fighting over being in charge of used books that take up just a few feet of space on the bookshelf? It makes no sense.”

“There’s a lot you don’t understand,” says Anne-Maj.

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t. If you are unable to see it for yourself then I can’t help you,” Anne-Maj snaps at her.

“It’s a quarter to, now,” says Iben as she eats a handful of peanuts.

“Do you think something’s happened?” Didi asks, looking at her grandmother.

“What could that possibly be?”

For once, Didi sounds excited. “She could have died of a heart attack.”

“Stop with that nonsense.”

“Well, she could. Vips is ancient, right?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ancient,” Anne-Maj mumbles.

“If she’s the one who murdered her husband, maybe she’s fled abroad or hung herself …” The two grown-ups gasp in horror but Didi is unfazed and continues. “She might have had a car accident, somebody may have attacked her … or maybe her sons have forbidden her to speak to anyone or …”

“Stop, stop!” Anne-Maj puts her hand up in the air. “It’s unbelievable, Didi! Where do you get all that nonsense from?”

Didi laughs and looks back at her phone. Before disappearing mentally once again she says, “Then call her, Mrs Mortensen.”

That’s actually a perfect idea, Anne-Maj thinks. She doesn’t have her number, but a quick google search will solve that problem, as it looks like a landline number. The ringing signal is loud and clear. Once, twice, three times – it goes on and on. Apparently, Vips doesn’t use an answering machine.

“Well,” says Anne-Maj, “I’m going to have to take the roast out now so that it can rest a bit, but I won’t be able to prepare the rest of the food until I know what time we’ll be sitting down at the table.”

“I’m starving,” says Iben.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Follow your original plan, Mum. Cook the food, serve it at seven o’clock and we’ll enjoy it at our own pace. When Vips shows up, she’ll join us, like nothing’s happened.”

“And if she doesn’t show up?”

“Then she’s forgotten it or misunderstood the time you said to her.”

“Or something has happened to her.”

“In which case, that would be an entirely new situation,” says Iben. “And we’d have to take it from there. But right now, I’m very hungry and could eat some food.”

“Okay, then,” says Anne-Maj as she retreats to the kitchen and prepares the rest of the meal, but Didi’s list of all the things that could have gone wrong remain in the back of her mind. She doesn’t know Vips very well, but Iben is right: older people tend to come way before the time they are supposed to, perhaps for fear of being a burden or of not being able to find the way or getting stuck in traffic. Not that there’s much risk of the latter in the light traffic and very short distance Linde Allé and the small cluster of houses that go by the name of Kildehusene span – but you never know. Back when Anne-Maj’s own mother grew old, before she got seriously ill, she always had to be driven home after the Sunday dinner. Every time, her mother would take out the key to the front-door, even before they left Anne-Maj’s house, and the whole way home in the car she would press the key between her thumb and index finger, all ready and set to unlock the door to her own house as soon as they got there. It’s best to be well prepared, as she would always say.

They eat all three courses, taking their time while doing so. Didi is still bravely venturing forth with the “varied” diet. She nibbles a piece of avocado and sniffs the shrimp, consumes a potato with a drop of gravy as well as a portion of chips and some cucumbers cut lengthways, and tastes a spoonful of lemon mousse. Neither her mother nor her grandmother comment on it, even though Iben can’t help but follow her daughter’s consumption. Anne-Maj, on the other hand, constantly has her antennae directed at the front-door and she has, extraordinarily, her cell phone next to her plate so that she won’t miss it if Vips should call. But no sound was forthcoming, neither from the phone nor the doorbell. When they have finished their desserts, Anne-Maj tries once more to call Vips – but with the same result as before.

“Well, we’d better start heading home,” says Iben, “tomorrow’s a regular school day.”

“Yes, it’s grown late,” Anne-Maj says, absentmindedly.

“Do you want me to do the dishes?” Iben asks the same question every Sunday even though she knows the answer perfectly well: no one but Anne-Maj has access to the kitchen. She doesn’t expect a response, and she doesn’t get one, either.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange?” Anne-Maj asks instead. “I just can’t understand why Vips didn’t show up.”

“Why don’t you drop by her place and see if she’s there, if you’re so worried. You’ve only had one glass of wine, you can certainly drive.” Iben has got to her feet and is getting her and Didi’s coats as Mortensen slinks along between her ankles.

“If you don’t do it, you know you’ll keep yourself up tossing and turning all night, wondering whether Vips is lying on the kitchen floor with a broken hip and can’t get to a phone. I know you.”

Anne-Maj gets up. The thought of the broken hip combined with Didi’s horrific scenarios settles it for her. “No, just leave it alone,” Anne-Maj says when Iben, now wearing her coat, starts clearing the dessert dishes from the table. “I’ll do it later.”

Iben shakes her head and smiles. She puts back the plates. “Are you accompanying us out?”

“Yes, I’m taking Mortensen. He could use a little walk before the drive.”

No sooner said than done. Anne-Maj accompanies Iben and Didi up Algade until Mortensen has done his business. Then, she drives out to the house where the Bergstrøms have lived for many years. She checks the number one more time. Yes, this is it. The first row out to the fjord, an uncommonly well-proportioned house and meticulously well-kept dwelling of a substantial size.

The small red car is parked in the driveway, and the sense that something is terribly wrong is intensified.

“You stay here,” she says to Mortensen who stretches himself, all ready and set to go, wagging his tail in anticipation of another walk at this new and exciting place. “Stay here. Watch the car,” she says to him.

The lamp above the front-door is on and through a round window, a dim glimmer of light can just be discerned. Aside from that, it is dark and silent. It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of the dark, Anne-Maj thinks. At least not very much. She rings the doorbell but to no avail. Neither does a persistent knocking on what is clearly the kitchen window provoke a response.

Anne-Maj is definitely not comfortable at the thought of sneaking around in other people’s yards, but she has to pull herself together. Anyway, who would discover her at this time of night? The only sensible thing to do is to find the source of the dim gleam of light. With a little luck, she will be able to see through the windows on the opposite side of the house. Anne-Maj activates the flashlight on her mobile phone and follows the trail down a narrow, cobblestone path until she steps out on to the terrace with a similar covering of cobblestones. A faint glow from the moon and the stars makes it possible to look out across the Ise Fjord where a couple of seagulls are rocking back and forth on the dark waves.

She goes over to the window. A floor lamp casts a warm light across a red sofa with a stiff back. It is a classic: a piece of FDB furniture from the sixties, Anne-Maj guesses. The living room looks deserted. She is just about to turn around and go back to the car when she notices that there is another sofa in the room, similar to the other one. Its back is flush with the wall at the furthest end of the living room. As Anne-Maj goes to another window and directs the flashlight’s cone of light in there, she can discern the outline of a body. She knocks on the windowpane. Hard. The figure doesn’t move. After she has knocked on the window several times, she knows she will have to find a way to get in there and see if first aid is required. Many years behind the reception desk in a GP surgery meant that she had to attend one course after the other, so if Vips needs a cardiac massage or mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, then Anne-Maj is fully capable of performing them.

She grabs hold of the terrace door and to her surprise, it opens easily, without any resistance. Well, that’s good; she had been a little worried that she would have to break a window and risk cutting herself. There is the scent of a spice in the room, something familiar, but right now she can’t remember what it is. After taking a few long strides she is over at Vips’ side, but it doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds to determine that even the most professional attempt at first aid wouldn’t be able to get the old lady back on her feet.

Chapter 6

Sunday 14 April

The emergency call centre requests that Anne-Maj remain where she is and that she doesn’t touch anything until the ambulance has arrived. It is sometimes necessary to summon the police in the instance of a sudden, unexpected death, the lady at the other end of the line explains.

The police? A sudden and unexpected death? Anne-Maj’s brain starts spinning. Could it really be possible that Vips has been … nah. My imagination is running wild … I’ve been too influenced by Didi and her morbid fantasies. Anne-Maj gets Mortensen and puts the lead on him. There is no reason for him to sit in that dark car longer than absolutely necessary and there are limits to how much one little dog can contaminate the scene of a crime, right? But just to be on the safe side, she sits down outside with the dog on the terrace facing the water. They sit side-by-side on a garden bench which has after many years of wear and tear been worn down to a silky-smooth surface. The seagulls are still swimming out there on the fjord. Do they actually sleep like that during the night, rocking on the cold waves? The air is a little raw but not as freezing as it sometimes can be in the middle of April.

Anne-Maj isn’t normally afraid of the dark but tonight, with the old lady’s corpse lying in there, she is rather unsettled. Her senses are much too acute. She constantly imagines she can hear someone or something stirring in the house. A door opening. Footsteps on the stairs. Mortensen growls several times out into the darkness, and once he barks, enraged, and Anne-Maj is startled. It’s probably just a porcupine, Anne-Maj consoles herself, but the creeping sense of unease continues to haunt her and she doesn’t feel in the least bit compelled to look further into what it could be. Anne-Maj rubs Mortensen behind his ears to soothe him. Those paramedics are certainly taking their time. On the other hand … there is only one ambulance in all of Nykøbing. If that is being used now then they’ll have to send one from Asnæs or all the way from Holbæk, she remembers from her former job. It’ll just have to take whatever time it takes. She yawns.

Anne-Maj tries not to think too much about Vips’ inanimate body on the red sofa. She is lying so neatly, with her hands folded together on her stomach, her eyes almost shut. Nevertheless, when, for that brief moment, Anne-Maj stood in shock as she looked down at the old woman’s corpse, she had an odd feeling that there was something wrong. It wasn’t just the strange scent that she couldn’t identify. There was something else, something to do with the body itself … something indefinable. Now Anne-Maj is sitting out here in the cool night air and is trying to recall what it was, but every time she is just about to grasp the thought, it slips away. She tries to persuade herself to go in and take a last look at the inanimate body, but it’s too unpleasant for her.

After three-quarters of an hour, the ambulance arrives. There are no sirens or flashing lights, just the sound of a diesel engine as it rolls in front of the house. Anne-Maj walks around to meet them. Her eyes have adjusted so much to the darkness that the mobile phone’s flashlight is no longer necessary.

“Hi!” she shouts when she stands at the corner.

“Are you the one who called?” asks the first paramedic, a young man in a white and neon-yellow jacket with transverse reflector stripes and who seems to be the leader. He is speaking very loudly in order to drown out Mortensen, who, like a real dachshund, is barking like crazy in order to frighten the dangerous man back into the darkness from whence he came.

Anne-Maj greets the other paramedic who has now also stepped out of the vehicle, and then leads them around the house and positions herself to the side on the terrace so as not to stand in their way. The two men open the door without wearing gloves, turn on more lights and tread around the room. They are unintentionally leaving fingerprints and fibres and traces of DNA … haven’t they ever heard of keeping the place sterile? Anne-Maj thinks as she lifts Mortensen up in order to stop his barking, which she manages to do, partially. At least he is only growling now. At that very moment, Anne-Maj yawns once again, so intensely that she almost loses her balance. How she wishes she could just go home and clean the kitchen so she could go to bed. It’s been a long day.

The paramedics are bent over Vips. Then they straighten up and look at each other. One of them shakes his head. They both go out to Anne-Maj.

“Did she have any ailments?” the leader asks.

Anne-Maj scours her brain, which is stored with the symptoms that the various ladies at the store suffer from. It’s hard keeping track of who has bad blood circulation, who has high blood pressure, and who was on the waiting list for a hip replacement. At that age, it’s actually easier to make a list of the ailments they don’t have. “Perhaps there was something with her heart,” she says finally.

“We’re going to have to get the police to come out here,” says the second paramedic, who is an older man. “And we need to get hold of her doctor so that we know whether there is an explanation or whether we have to look into it further.”

“Do you think a crime was committed here?” Anne-Maj asks.

“There is nothing that indicates that. It’s just standard procedure.” He walks a little way off and starts talking into his phone.

Anne-Maj looks at the leader. He is so tall that she has to tilt her head back when she addresses him. “Is it necessary for me to stay?”

“No,” he says, a little hesitantly, “I don’t see any reason why you should.” He fishes out a small pad and a pen from one of the many pockets of his jacket. “If you give me your name and telephone number, the police can always call you if they need to.”

Chapter 7

Monday 15 April

The feeling that there was something wrong with Vips’ dead body continues to linger with Anne-Maj, as she empties the dishwasher, as she lies exhausted but sleepless in her bed, as she is on her way the next day to the Second-Hand Shop. It irritates her enormously that she can’t put her finger on what it is that bothers her. Vips was old, she says to herself. Maybe she had an illness nobody in her circle knew about. But isn’t it quite a coincidence that Vips has died just a month after her husband? Did she kill herself? Or was she suffering from an incurable disease? Didi’s talk about the couple’s death lurks in the back of her mind.

Anne-Maj is early this morning, so she quickly drops by the shoe store where Iben works to see if she is busy. You can’t exactly say that she is. She’s chatting with another colleague. There isn’t a single customer in the store, which is strange considering that it’s the first Monday of the Easter vacation and the town has started buzzing with summer house guests. Iben seems a little nettled over the fact that her mother wants to talk to her during her working hours, but after Anne-Maj explains to her what has happened, she mellows.

“That must have been a really nasty shock, Mum,” she says. “Let’s go out back.”

Her colleague gives her a sympathetic nod. She can easily handle an empty store. Iben gives her mother a cup of coffee from the store’s coffee machine. It tastes bitter and metallic, so Anne-Maj is forced to pour a considerable amount of sugar into it in order to make it drinkable. She pulls a chair over and puts her feet up on it.

“So Didi was right, something was wrong,” says Iben.

“I couldn’t understand why Vips didn’t show up myself, it was so unlike her.”

“Just wait till the kid hears about it.”

“There’s no need to tell her,” Anne-Maj says in protest.

“Yes, there is, Mrs Mortensen. She was still talking about it this morning and all the theories about what could have happened.” Iben smiles. “My little sensation-seeking daughter.”

“I just don’t think …” Anne-Maj takes a hesitant sip of the horrible coffee. A cookie would definitely have improved the experience, but she’ll have to use her imagination instead.

“It’s not a fun thing, Iben. It shouldn’t be a form of entertainment for children.”

Iben’s expression immediately turns serious. “No, of course not, Mum. But I’m still going to tell her.”

Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders. “Well, you do that, then.”

They sit for a moment in silence. Then Iben asks, “So, what did you do? Call the police?”

“An ambulance came, I gave them my name and telephone number, of course, so that they could give them to the police.” Anne-Maj straightens her back a little. “I am, after all, an important witness.”

“Witness? Didn’t she just die of old age?”

“Yes, but you never know,” Anne-Maj says, and then adds, “She wasn’t that old, you know. Both the emergency call centre and the paramedics referred to it as a sudden death … which could be a crime of some sort, right?”

“Now, don’t let your imagination get the better of you,” says Iben. “Soon you’ll be worse than Didi.”

Ting-a-ling, the shop’s doorbell sounds. “I’d better go out and get back to work.”

“But your colleague is out there.”

“Maybe another customer will come while she’s waiting on the first one.”

Wishful thinking, Anne-Maj thinks when she steps out on to the pedestrian street a few minutes later. The shoe store is clearly not doing well. And if any “restructuring”, as the business world calls it, was ever to be made, then you don’t want to be the co-worker sitting out in the back chit-chatting with a family member while there are customers in the store.

There is still a little time before Anne-Maj has to be at the Second-Hand Shop. She sits down on a bench, takes out her mobile and googles the number of the local police which turns out to be completely idiotic since the station is only open on Thursday afternoons from three o’clock to five. Instead, she calls a so-called service centre, which doesn’t sound like it has much to do with the police and she has no idea where its physical location is.

She gets hold of a calm-sounding female with a Jutlandic accent on the other end. The woman confirms very carefully that it is indeed the right place she has called, listens to her story, whereupon she transfers her to the officer on duty who transfers her further to a detective. This time the person on the receiving end is a young man who sounds even busier and introduces himself as Anders Hall of the Mid and West Zealand Police Force. She explains for a third time that she is calling with reference to Vibeke Bergstrøm who was found dead in Kildehusene. “Yes,” he says.

“So, you know what I’m referring to?” she asks. Who knows how many suspicious bodies the police district normally encounters in one day.

“I can find out,” says Anders.

“I just wanted to check and make sure that you got my telephone number from the ambulance personnel. They got that and my name and address …”

“Well, then it’s all good,” Anders interrupts her.

“Could you check it anyway?” Anne-Maj persists. “It would be such a shame if you needed to interrogate me and you couldn’t find my–”

“Interrogate? Why should we have to interrogate you?”

“Well, I was the one who found her, after all … and … that makes me an important witness, right?”

There is a momentary silence on the other end. “Yes,” Anders then says. He sounds as though he has a big smile on his face. “Yes, you could say that. But I’m pretty certain that we have your contact details.”

“If not, I’ll give them to you again,” says Anne-Maj who has now grown stubborn. What a condescending puppy, to sit and laugh at her like that! After all, the only thing she was offering was her help, right? She reels off her name, telephone number and so on in the most patient voice she can muster, demands that he repeats it all back to her just to make sure he’s got it right, at which point she says goodbye in a somewhat stern voice.

There are more volunteers at the shift than normal. Valborg von Schilling and Stanley Hjort, of course, as well as Ruth Møllegaard; and Lis Klausen has taken an extra shift. Anne-Maj assumes she has taken it in order to get away from her unemployed husband, Åge, who isn’t exactly great company. And Else Simonsen is there, too, even though it’s not her day to be on duty. She is busy sorting the books in one section of the shelves, Anne-Maj notices, which won’t provoke any particular anger from her side. Today she is the messenger, an important envoy from the big world that overshadows the little power struggle between her and Else.

First, she gives the news to Valborg, who takes it stoically even though she, of course, finds it sad. The other volunteers quickly perceive that something out of the ordinary is going on and gather around Anne-Maj who doesn’t mind repeating her story a few times. Stanley immediately breaks down in sobs and rushes out the back-door.

“What did she die of?” Else asks.

“How in the world should Anne-Maj know?” says Valborg. “I guess they’ll perform a post-mortem examination today? I think that’s what you normally do in the case of sudden, unexplained deaths. Then they’ll decide whether to open a case with an autopsy and everything.”

“It was probably on account of a broken heart,” says Else, cocking her head to the side. “It’s so beautiful: an old couple, a husband and wife who die shortly after one another.”

“It sure does make you think,” says Ruth, who has sunk down into a chair. “My doctor has said I have to watch out for my heart – it has a small murmur, a very rare kind. I have an appointment with a cardiologist on the seventeenth so it can be properly examined but …”

Anne-Maj has stopped listening. She is much too familiar with Ruth’s self-centred jeremiads and doesn’t feel any particular need right now to have to listen to one more. Everybody’s good at something, and Ruth’s forte is the subject of ‘symptoms’. No one can hold a candle to her on that score. If somebody so much as mentions an ailment to her, a sign of a serious illness, an inexplicable pain, Ruth is always ready with a story that can surpass it. You say you’ve got a pain in your back? Ruth has had a five-fold slipped disc which she barely survived. You’ve got migraines? Ruth gets something every now and then that both she and her doctor are convinced is Horton’s headache, only ten times worse. You’ve got an abscess in your gum? Ruth can describe in gruelling detail how she nearly got her entire lower jaw amputated because of an infection that had been the worst the dentist had ever seen.

Valborg and Anne-Maj exchange knowing smiles behind Ruth’s back. Perhaps Mrs Mayor isn’t nearly as bad as Anne-Maj thought. She is clearly intelligent and every so often displays an appreciation of dry humour. The fact that her aristocratic appearance and slightly too confident manner sticks out among the more common people of this area shouldn’t be held against her, Anne-Maj thinks.

“When is the funeral going to be?” asks Lis in an attempt to stop Ruth’s flow of words. “Or perhaps nobody knows, yet?”

“I have no idea,” Anne-Maj says. “I assume the sons will let us know.”

The little group disperses as, at that very moment, two young women enter the store and, familiar with the place, head straight for the stand with the vintage dresses. Stanley re-enters, smelling of cigarette smoke. His eyes look swollen. He doesn’t answer when Anne-Maj asks him if he is okay, merely nods and goes over to Else who is once again sorting books. Anne-Maj stands for a moment observing her rival, who pretends not to notice. Else gets Stanley to take one pile of books after the other and place them on a table whereupon Else sorts them out according to genre and condition. It actually looks rather sensible, Anne-Maj thinks, but was it really necessary for Else to push her way to a Monday shift?

Chapter 8

Tuesday 23 April

Yet another funeral. Same church, same priest and basically the same congregation. The two Bergstrøm brothers are sitting next to each other towards the middle aisle on the first pew and an elegant lady, who Anne-Maj is certain must be married to one of the men, is sitting a little further away, between two young girls who also attended Helmer’s funeral. One of the hymns was also played at his funeral and Else’s shrill vibrato is as loud and clear as ever. The priest’s sermon is, of course, different, and Anne-Maj is certain she can detect a more genuine tone in the priest’s voice as he recites the many attributes of the deceased.

Her glance returns to the back of the heads of the two middle-aged sons. Seen from behind they resemble each other – and their blessed father – and in fact, are hardly distinguishable from one another. Well-trimmed, short hair, greying but not the least sign of thinning-out in the thick curls. They are the same height and have the same erect posture; even the shoulders of their suit jackets resemble one another to a striking degree. From where Anne-Maj is sitting it could look as though the two men were twins, but she knows that their faces are very different. Where one of the men’s jaws is very pronounced, the eyebrows thick and as black as forest snails, and his nose prominent, the other one has, more like their mother, softer, less distinct features. Anne-Maj actually can’t remember their names; she doubts that she was ever told. She observes their silhouettes somewhat absentmindedly while the rest of the gathering sings the last hymn. Last time she was sitting there and had seen those two, Vips had been sitting between them. Little, somewhat stooped, Vips. The only thing you could discern was the top of her wig sticking out from the back of the church bench. That somewhat-too-dark, somewhat-too-youthful-looking wig.

All at once it strikes Anne-Maj – she knows precisely what it was she had found strange about Vips’ corpse. It can only mean one thing, she thinks as Else and the others continue to sing. She sits still for a moment, bolt upright, analysing her observation carefully, trying to think of what she should do and who she can confide in. She really doesn’t feel like having yet another conversation with the condescending young police officer but there is probably no getting around it, she realises. She’ll have to call him as soon as she gets home.

Immediately it strikes her that that isn’t good enough. Not in the least. Before she manages to get home from the funeral, the undertaker will be well on his way to the crematorium with Vips’ coffin, and who knows when it’ll be thrown into the oven?

Perhaps right away? That won’t do at all. She has to get a hold of the authorities before that happens.

She is about to explode with impatience as the coffin is carried down the church aisle by the same six people who carried Helmer out and the rest of the funeral party follows afterwards in slow motion. Anne-Maj has just a couple of minutes, she thinks, as the others are busy with the roses and that sort of thing, and in any event, the hearse isn’t exactly going to rush off with Vips’ coffin to the crematorium. Luckily, the latter is located all the way down in Ringsted and since it serves all the churches and chapels in the Diocese of Roskilde, if one is a little lucky there might be a waiting period, Anne-Maj tries to console herself. Nevertheless, there is no time to waste – she has about an hour-and-a-half, she estimates. An ordinary police officer can’t possibly decide on his own and with such brief notice to stop the cremation. If he can even be persuaded to take Anne-Maj’s information seriously – and that’s a big ‘if’ – he’ll have to try to convince perhaps one or more of his superiors, and they may even have to obtain a court order, but she really isn’t sure about that. If truth be told, she feels she knows more about the procedures in the British system than in the Danish, which is the outcome of being an avid reader of British crime novels.

As soon as there is an opportunity for Anne-Maj to squeeze past the procession in a way that doesn’t seem too impolite, she does so. She rushes around the corner and finds a stone bench she can sit on while she calls the so-called service centre. She asks the receptionist to put her through to Anders Hall and once again gets him on the other end.

“Hello,” he says when she explains to him who she is. “And what can I do for you today?”

“You can stop a cremation from taking place,” says Anne-Maj.

“A cremation?”

“The lady I found dead last weekend, Vibeke Bergstrøm, her funeral service is taking place right now. In Nykøbing.”

“Yes?”

Anne-Maj takes a deep breath. “I think she was murdered.”

“I see.” If he is surprised, he is concealing it well.

“And if an autopsy is to be conducted you’ll have to get hold of the corpse before it’s too late.”

There is a short pause. Then he asks, “What makes you think she was murdered?”

“Because … I was the one who found her, you see?” When the police officer doesn’t respond, she continues, “So I saw her clearly as she lay there on the sofa. It all looked perfectly natural. She was wearing stockings, her slippers were neatly placed on the floor next to her, and on the sofa table there was a crossword puzzle. In fact, the same one I’d been working on that Sunday …”

“Yes?” He sounds slightly impatient. “And?”

“Yes, well, there was something with the wig. I thought there was something wrong. I kept pondering over it, I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. But it was the wig.”

“The wig?”

“Yes,” Anne-Maj says as she clears her throat. “It wasn’t sitting on her correctly.”

“Wasn’t sitting on her correctly?”

I wonder if Anders Hall has gone to a course where they learn to always repeat the last words of the statements given by those they interrogate. “Her wig was sitting the wrong way round – the back of her wig was sitting on her forehead, if you see what I mean.”

“I see exactly what you mean.”

“Maybe you can see it in the pictures taken at the scene of the crime.”

“I don’t think any pictures were taken, Anne-Maj.” He is silent for a few moments. “Tell me, what is it about the wig that makes you think Vibeke Bergstrøm was murdered?”

“Because …” Anne-Maj is searching for a good explanation. It’s not so easy explaining to a young man how vain an elderly woman can be when it comes to her appearance, even if she is wrinkled and bent with age and doesn’t look a day younger than two hundred years old. Still, she tries. “Vips … Vibeke, that is … would never wear her wig the wrong way. She was very meticulous about keeping it neat and she convinced herself that the rest of the world thought it was her own hair. Not that it looked like it was: everyone could tell it was a wig because she had chosen a shade that matched the one she had when she was younger instead of choosing a grey shade that would have been more suitable for a woman her age.”

“Yes?” He sounded a little perplexed.

“Don’t you see? The fact that her wig was sitting the wrong way round can only mean one thing: that someone else put it on her.”

“I suppose,” he answered with some hesitation.

“Furthermore, I had such a strange feeling when I was at the house, as if there was someone else in there, tiptoeing around on the staircase. Maybe someone snuck out the front-door while I was standing at the back of the house.”

“And you haven’t thought of that until now, several days afterwards?”

“I was a little confused the first time we spoke together, Anders. You could imagine someone or other …”

“You know what, Anne-Maj?” Anders interrupts her. “I’ll see what I can do. But if my boss doesn’t see any reason to stop the cremation, then it’s going to take place.”

“But what if …”

“I have just brought the case up on our system and there is no indication whatsoever that Vibeke Bergstrøm’s death was due to anything but natural causes. And no, no photos were taken at the place where she was discovered.”

“Was an autopsy performed on her?”

“Um …” a moment’s pause, “no, it doesn’t look like it.”

“I thought autopsies were always performed in connection with sudden deaths.”

“Well, it wasn’t all that sudden.” The policeman is now speaking slowly and condescendingly, as though Anne-Maj is a little slow on the uptake. “At the coroner’s inquest, her own doctor said that Mrs Bergstrøm had had a heart condition for years and that she was on medication for it. No one in her family was surprised by her death.”

“But perhaps, just to be on the safe side, it would be a good idea to–”

“I’m afraid there simply aren’t enough resources for that. If there wasn’t anything suspicious to see when the body was found and the deceased was suffering from an ailment then … they’re busy over at forensics, you know, there has to be a good reason for conducting an autopsy and in this case, the police didn’t think that there was.”

Anne-Maj takes a deep breath, trying to subdue her anger. “Nobody seems to care when an old person dies.”

“Now that’s not true, Anne-Maj,” Anders Hall says in his condescending tone. “But I’ll talk with my boss about it. Maybe he’ll agree with you.”

The telephone conversation terminates. Anne-Maj is seething with rage. She sets the phone on mute and puts it in her purse. Then she goes back to her seat in the church. The hearse has driven off, the condolences line has shrunk, and two middle-aged women are standing at the sheltered side of the porch with a guilty expression in their eyes. Today’s pariahs, Anne-Maj thinks as she pats herself on the back internally for managing to quit smoking almost three years ago.

She nods to the other volunteers from the store who, just like last time, are huddled in a small cluster. Valborg, Stanley, Kylle, Else and Lis – the latter also with a cigarette in her mouth. Ruth is apparently delayed once again – one of the region’s hard-pressed doctors is probably busy giving her a free scan or an endoscopy or a biopsy on taxpayers’ money. Anne-Maj doesn’t stop to talk with her colleagues but heads straight for the two Bergstrøm sons. They are busy talking with an elderly gentleman who is wearing a dark blue suit that is slightly dirty and worn at the elbows. It’s probably the only one he owns, and judging by the cut it was purchased in the seventies and is the same suit he’s worn to all the funerals, weddings and birthdays he’s attended in his circle. And clearly without ever having been cleaned, Anne-Maj thinks as she comes close enough to detect a stale odour.

As soon as one of the sons, the one with the pronounced features, notices her, he disengages from the conversation with the elderly man.

“You are Anne-Marie Mortensen, aren’t you?” He extends his hand. “I’m Thomas Bergstrøm.”

“Hello. My name is Anne-Maj. My sincere condolences.”

“Anne-Maj, of course. I’m sorry.” Thomas Bergstrøm nods seriously. “I understand you were the one who found my mother?”

“She was supposed to come over for dinner at my place that evening. When she didn’t show up,” Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders, “I felt obligated to see whether she had fallen or had become ill.”

“We’re very grateful that you did,” Thomas says, casting a glance at his brother who is busy disengaging his hand from the elderly gentleman’s persistent grip.

“This is my brother,” he says. “Christian. I know that he’d like to greet you as well.” And then, lowering his voice, he adds, “And that is our Uncle Keld. He’s come over all the way from the town of Vodskov where my mother’s family comes from. My cousin gave him a ride. He’s a little …” He looks at the old man who still has a firm grip on Christian’s hand and lowers his voice to a whisper, “He’s got so old all of a sudden.”

Anne-Maj nods. She is in two minds as to what she should do. Should she tell Thomas and Christian about her suspicion? On the one hand, they may have more luck with the police in connection with stopping the cremation. On the other hand, if it was murder, then Vips’ two sons are at the top of Anne-Maj’s list of possible suspects. In which case, it wouldn’t be wise to share the one piece of substantial evidence with them now, Anne-Maj thinks, proud of herself for even knowing that phrase. “Christian, this is Anne-Maj Mortensen,” Thomas Bergstrøm says after his brother has finally managed to writhe his hand free and the uncle is making his way over to the smokers. The correction of her name, the condolences and the acknowledgements are all repeated once more and she discovers that Christian’s somewhat dull features are lit up by a pair of beautiful grey eyes behind the light frames of his glasses. “I’d also like you to meet my wife,” says Thomas as he gestures to an elegant-looking woman who has been staying in the background until now. She is of medium height, has blonde hair and is extremely thin, almost on the verge of being emaciated. She is dressed in the obligatory Hellerup uniform: diverse nuances of sand and khaki with details in white and gold – and in honour of the day’s sorrowful occasion, supplemented with a form-fitting black jacket. Anne-Maj, who adores large-patterned outfits in strong shades thinks to herself that she would be bored to death if she had to greet every day dressed in such a colourless outfit.

“Feline Bergstrøm,” she says as she extends her slack-looking hand. Anne-Maj suddenly realises that the slender beige-clad woman’s reserve is not due to arrogance; Feline is just shy. She may, of course, also be dying from malnutrition. Anne-Maj feels like tapping her on her cheek and giving her something full of calories, like an ice cream, a beer, a bag of pork scratchings, in order to wake her up a little.

“Anne-Maj,” says Christian, “we were thinking that perhaps you’d like to come out with us to Kildehuse and join us for lunch next time we come up here. We have a lot of sorting out to do.”

“Yes, thanks.” Anne-Maj is overwhelmed. “That would be very nice.”

“Then you could choose something for yourself,” Thomas says. “There are many fine artworks, and our parents didn’t really have any strong connections to anyone the way they used to. It was really seldom that our mother was invited out … and she was so excited that you had invited her over for a family dinner.”

“Yes, well …” Anne-Maj is just about to object and say that she most certainly didn’t know their parents as well they seem to think, but at the last minute, she decides to keep silent about it. The opportunity to return to the beautiful house and to snoop around, talk with the sons and the daughter-in-law – find out more about the deceased couple – is one she can’t miss.

And it is right there, during that exact moment, that the truth dawns on her. Without having planned it, without having wished for it, without in any way having made a conscious decision about it, it suddenly just happened: she is investigating a murder.

Chapter 9

Wednesday 24 April

“I thought we agreed that the section furthest to the right was to be dedicated solely to crime novels,” says Anne-Maj, “but I may have been mistaken.”

“No, no,” Else replies in the same cold and overly polite tone of voice. “You’re not mistaken, my dear, I simply took the liberty of making that decision on my own.”

“Oh?”

“There simply isn’t enough room for romance novels unless we bring in a few extra shelves.”

“If there isn’t enough space then we’ll have to sort out more books,” says Anne-Maj, and by “we” she means “you”. They’ve made a clear agreement that Else is responsible for romance novels of every kind, and that they are to share the responsibility for children’s books and biographies while Anne-Maj takes care of everything else. Non-fiction and fiction books, as well as crime novels, are supposed to take up, all in all, two sections of the bookshelves and children’s books and romance novels only one. The two ladies have decided to interchangeably exhibit books from the various genres on a narrow table in front of the bookshelves. Right now, it is poetry, which Anne-Maj has insisted on placing a little extra focus on. “Take these, for example,” Anne-Maj says in a very friendly tone as she points to a pile of worn dime-store novels. “Those couldn’t possibly be an easy sell. They’ve been lying on the shelf collecting dust all the time I’ve been here.”

“No,” says Else as she looks through the pulp novels dejectedly. “I just thought … but you’re probably right.” Without further discussion, she takes the whole pile and throws it in a transparent plastic bag for the recycling centre.

“No matter what,” says Anne-Maj, a little overly confident now after that small triumph, “we shouldn’t sell anything that looks too worn.”

Anne-Maj was used to ordering people around in the clinic’s waiting room or during the office’s telephone hours. She knows she is the most qualified to take responsibility for those antiquarian books, and if Else doesn’t like being put in her place she should never have volunteered for something she has no talent for. Furthermore, the woman doesn’t have to come running in every day making a mess of their work schedule. No one has asked her to do that.

Anne-Maj goes out to the lunch-room, makes herself a cup of instant coffee and makes a telephone call before she has time to regret it. This time it takes a little while before Anders Hall picks up the phone. A scratchy noise reveals that he is outside, and she immediately imagines that the young and most probably very handsome police officer is at the scene of a crime standing next to a mistreated corpse, his mobile squeezed between his stubbled cheek and his masculine shoulder as he pulls on a pair of blue disposal gloves. Get a grip on yourself, Mrs Mortensen, she thinks. He’s probably just out picking up some cakes for afternoon coffee.

“Hello Anne-Maj,” he says, remembering her name. “I had a feeling you might call.”

“It’s clear you’re a police officer,” she says, “with that clever mind of yours.”

He laughs. “And what can we do for you today?”

“I just wanted to ask whether you managed it in time yesterday?”

“Managed it?” That habit of repeating the last words of one’s sentence is really very irritating.

“Managed to stop the cremation?”

“Oh, that,” Anders says; he has found some shelter, so the connection isn’t as scratchy anymore. “No, we didn’t. My boss looked into the case and he couldn’t see anything …”

“But it’s too late, then!” Anne-Maj can hear how desperate she sounds. “If a corpse has been cremated it’s impossible to make the toxicological screening needed to prove …”

“You’ve done your research, it seems.”

“I’m a medical secretary,” she says. There is no reason to reduce one’s professionalism by adding the word “former”.

“Anne-Maj.” Anders is now speaking slowly and in a serious tone. “There is no indication to believe that she didn’t die of natural causes. None whatsoever.”

“But what about the wig?”

“Vibeke Bergstrøm may have put it on that way in a state of panic when she started feeling ill. Maybe it moved out of place when she fell. Maybe …”

“She didn’t fall,” Anne-Maj interrupts him. “And she didn’t panic. I’ve explained that to you. Vips was lying nice and neatly on the sofa. There was nothing abrupt or panicky in the way her corpse had been positioned.”

“Had been positioned?” He laughs dryly. “Are you sure you haven’t been mistaken or are remembering things wrong?” he asks, sounding a little less patient now.

“I know what I saw.”

“Like I said, Anne-Maj, I’m sorry. There isn’t much more we can do here. We’re really busy.”

“But couldn’t you …”

“I’m going to have to go now, Anne-Maj, thanks for calling. Take care.” He hangs up before she gets a chance to answer him.

When she returns to the room of the store she notices Valborg standing by the till and talking with Kylle Poulsen. The latter has, with great enthusiasm taken it upon herself to commandeer Vips’ cashier’s job, as well as the display case with all the jewellery and silverware. The two women are engaged in a conversation and Valborg bends over the display case as she shakes one of the handles.

“What’s going on?” asks Anne-Maj.

“I can’t get this lock to open and Vips had the only key. We’ll probably have to get a locksmith to do it, but they’re expensive.”

“The best thing would be if we could break one of the lids,” says Kylle. As always, she is surrounded by a cloud of perfume that makes it hard to breathe in her presence. She has probably used the same perfume for so many years that she can’t smell it anymore herself.

Valborg von Schilling straightens up to her full aristocratic height. “You don’t just break apart a fine piece of furniture like this,” she says. “Then we’d either have to find a new display case or pay a carpenter to repair it, and believe me, that would be even more expensive than a locksmith.”

Anne-Maj looks at the beautifully hand-crafted mahogany case, the upper part of which consists of a thick piece of glass, just like the slanting front, making the first ten centimetres of each one of the low velvet-lined drawers visible.

The display case makes everything look much more valuable than it really is. Of course, the various sets of old silverware lying so neatly sorted on the left-hand side are worth a penny or two even though most of it is silver-plated. But the rest, the highly celebrated jewellery and watches that Vips guarded so carefully, is pure junk as far as Anne-Maj can tell. Worthless trinkets, broken watches, a tray with a mishmash of various rings. Empty jewellery boxes lie in several rows in the bottom drawer. Probably Vips couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. They may very well be the most interesting items here, Anne-Maj thinks. One box, in particular, made of black leather, is particularly fancy and considerably bigger than the other ones, as though it had been made for a complete set consisting of earrings, necklaces and bracelets.

She looks at Valborg. “Wouldn’t it be easiest just to find Vips’ key?”

Mrs Mayor looks at her. “Yes,” she says hesitantly. “Of course, it would. How do we get hold of it?”

“I could call one of the sons,” says Anne-Maj, still standing with her mobile in her hand. “Vips’ purse is probably still lying somewhere in the house.”

“Do you have their numbers?”

“Yes.” She is proud of having a more familiar relationship with the Bergstrøm descendants than the others, who have worked for many years at the Second-Hand Shop and, therefore, knew Vips and Helmer considerably better. “I think they are coming to town this weekend.”

“The sooner the better,” says Kylle. “I’ve already had to turn one customer away who wanted to look at a bracelet.”

Shortly afterwards, Anne-Maj is able to inform the others that Thomas Bergstrøm will deliver the key on Saturday; she has explained to him where to look. Kylle mumbles something about it being a long time to have to wait, but Valborg is very satisfied. She retreats into the lunch-room while mumbling something about her approaching seventy-fifth birthday and the guest list.

At that very moment, Didi enters the store. She comes every so often to the Second-Hand Shop in search of books to read, clothes or little knick-knacks for her room, plus she also gets a chance to see her grandmother. Of course, all the other volunteers know Didi and greet her kindly.

She must have a somewhat lonely childhood, Anne-Maj thinks, as she gives her granddaughter a hug, having a mother who usually can’t get off work until after dinner time. And for all those hours Didi is solely in her own company … if she would only attend an after-school club, but she stubbornly refuses. In general, it doesn’t seem like she’s spent all that much time with kids her own age of late. “Will your mother be coming home late today?” Anne-Maj asks.

Didi shakes her head. “You couldn’t exactly say that.”

“Oh?”

“No, because she’s lying in bed with a bad cold. She wasn’t at work today or yesterday. I think she’ll have to stay home from work tomorrow, too.”

“My goodness.” Why is it that Anne-Maj should find out by coincidence that her only daughter is ill? “Does she have a fever?”

“38.4 Celsius,” Didi informs with a knowledgeable look. “As of this morning.”

“So you had to pack your own lunch bag, honey?”

Didi laughs. “But I do that every day, Mrs Mortensen.”

“But who’s been doing the shopping and … what are you getting to eat?” Anne-Maj immediately imagines Didi and Iben feeble from hunger and nobody taking care of the little family. “I can go now,” she says determinedly before Didi has a chance to answer. “We’ll do some shopping on the way home and then I’ll cook for both of you.”

“Mum says she’s not hungry.”

“And what about you, peanut? Aren’t you going to have anything to eat?”

Did shrugs her shoulders. “I can just go down to the local takeaway and buy some chips in Havnegade. That’ll be fine.”

No, that certainly won’t be fine! How come Iben hasn’t called her mother and told her about the situation?

“Come on,” says Anne-Maj, “I’m going to go to Irma supermarket.”

“You’re going? And what about me, then?”

“You’re going to pick up Mortensen,” Anne-Maj says as she fishes her bunch of keys out of her purse. “Take some of his dog food along. It’s in …”

“… the cabinet furthest to the right.” Didi grabs the keys. “There are poo bags in the third drawer and his lead is hanging on the hook next to the door. I know it all by heart.”

Anne-Maj buys onions, leeks, celery, carrots and frozen peas. Plus, a good chicken stock. Everything needed for a good and healthy vegetable soup. She also buys some freshly baked bread and a bag of fusilli pasta for Didi plus some items for breakfast and tomorrow’s lunch bag. Finally, she goes to the pharmacy to buy cough sweets and medicine. And fever-reducing aspirin. When Anne-Maj is standing in Iben’s apartment a half-hour later, Iben is in a rather feeble state, but Anne-Maj is in a much better mood. Externally, she is very compassionate and feels bad for her daughter, but internally, she is absolutely ecstatic at getting the opportunity to drown her family with hot soup and stifle them with maternal compassion.

“So?” Iben asks an hour later after she has finished eating. She has clearly improved after filling herself with piping hot soup and some aspirins, and right now she is lying on the sofa with Mortensen draped across her stomach, while her mother and daughter are each lounging in their own chair, the latter with her eyes glued to the smartphone, of course. “What was the final verdict? Did Vips die of a heart attack, or what?”

“Oh …” Anne-Maj’s bad mood returns. “It’s not quite that straightforward.” She recaps the three disappointing conversations she’s had with Anders Hall. “No one’s taking me seriously,” she concludes. “Yesterday I got this crazy notion that maybe I should consider solving the case on my own, like a regular private detective.”

“You could, you know, if you put your mind to it.”

“Thanks for showing such confidence in me, my dear, but …” Anne-Maj looks at her, “What can an old woman like me possibly do? The police are the ones who have all the tools and computers and labs needed, plus all kinds of other things. I have no choice but to try to collaborate with them, which they’re clearly against. They think I’m ridiculous. I couldn’t even make them demand that the cremation be postponed for a few hours.”

“Don’t give up,” says Iben as she scratches Mortensen’s tummy. The little dog shuts his eyes in pure bliss.

“So, you also find the whole thing a bit mysterious?”

“I don’t know,” says Iben, frowning. “But you’re usually right about things.”

“Yes, well …” Anne-Maj’s self-confidence starts to rise a tad. “Perhaps.”

“Of course, you’re right, Mrs Mortensen,” Didi says, putting aside her smartphone. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Chapter 10

Monday 29 April

Didi is right. Her grandmother most certainly isn’t stupid. For example, Anne-Maj knows perfectly well that she is overweight. Almost ninety kilos distributed across her five-foot-three frame. She knows perfectly well that her bad knee would improve considerably if she lost weight, and she knows that her doctor – and former employer – is concerned about her health in general. If she were to forget her BMI for a brief moment, complete and utter strangers occasionally make sure to remind her with their cruel comments. She is deeply hurt every time. She knows she ought to lose weight, but is it really necessary to actually rub her face in it like that? No, it’s not.

Anne-Maj has spent most of her adult life starving herself in new and imaginative ways while the Ministry of Health keeps changing its recommendations from one year to the next: a hysterical fear of fat was, at some point, replaced with plenty of fat; wholewheat bread was replaced with nothing; a totally cholesterol-free diet transformed into a complex calculation of good and bad cholesterol, and at the moment, the consensus seems to be that it makes no difference how much cholesterol is included in one’s daily intake, unless you have been medically compromised.

Anne-Maj gave up keeping track of it all a long time ago, even though, like so many other overweight people, she is extremely well-informed when it comes to nutrition. Few average-sized individuals know as many details about diet as someone who struggles with their weight and is fairly intelligent. Name a food product and Anne-Maj knows how many calories it contains and how its carbohydrates, protein and fat are distributed. She knows just as much about the nutritional content of a specific kind of food as she does about its taste and aesthetics – and she knows that her eating habits are really quite sensible. The problem is she doesn’t move around enough. Go for a walk every day, the doctor tells her, a long one at a rapid pace. Go to the local swimming pool. Ride your bike instead of taking the car. It all sounds so good, so manageable, almost alluring. The truth of the matter is that Anne-Maj loathes exercise and detests getting out of breath. Furthermore, her damn knee hurts so much at times that just going for a walk is sheer torture.

The previous day, Iben and Didi were over at her place for their usual Sunday dinner, and despite her snotty nose, Iben was still well enough to venture out into the world. As far as Didi was concerned, her improved attitude towards food is continuing. Not only did she consume a boiled potato but she also worked her way through a minimal bite of fried pork, although she didn’t touch the parsley sauce.

Afterwards, Anne-Maj rewarded her grandchild with a portion of fusilli pasta so that Didi at least got her stomach filled.

The menu was according to Iben’s wish, as a kind of “get well present”: fried pork with parsley sauce isn’t exactly Anne-Maj’s favourite dish. She doesn’t like the hard, crunchy slices of pork that make such a nauseating racket when people consume them, plus she knows that there are no diets that would ever include this dish on their top ten list. According to one diet, there is too much starch in it, another diet forbids the animal fat in it, and a third one claims that the lack of fibre makes it a no-no recipe. The national dish consists of one sin after another, Anne-Maj was thinking yesterday while trying to shut out Iben’s crunching sounds as she ate and every now and then snuck a piece of pork down to Mortensen when she thought her mother wasn’t looking.

But today is going to be different, Anne-Maj thinks. Today is going to be the first day of my new and active lifestyle. The weather outside is gorgeous and mild, real spring weather. She drives out to Grønnehave forest where dogs don’t have to wear a lead and lets Mortensen race along among the beech trees. This is, in actuality, the nicest time of year, Anne-Maj thinks as she steps almost routinely across an enormous tree that lies across the path at the top of the slope and which creates an unintentional yet efficient barrier against buggies and wheelchairs.

Anne-Maj has taken walks in this forest ever since she was a child. With her parents, with her child, with her grandchild – and always, always in the company of one or more dachshund dogs. The love for this particular breed is something she’s inherited from her mother who reared the wire-haired little crazies herself. Anne-Maj takes Mortensen for walks out here a few times a week all year round, and that’s pretty much all the exercise she gets. Today, the first of her new physically active life, she decides that from now on she’s going to walk Mortensen here daily. Anne-Maj speeds up the pace and takes a route in the forest that is longer than the one she normally takes as she ignores the shooting pain that throbs through her knee with every step. She is out of breath by the time she gets back to the car. She fills up the dog bowl and drinks the rest of the cold water straight out of the thermos bottle.

“Okay, Captain,” she says as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “We’re going home so you can watch the house while Mum is at work.” Anne-Maj suddenly remembers that she is out in public and quickly looks around to make sure that she is alone in the car park. Some people might think it ridiculous that she refers to herself as the dog’s mother.

She has just enough time to spend an hour solving this week’s crossword puzzle before she has to go to work. Having three half days a week is turning out to be pretty annoying. She has to admit that that wasn’t such a great idea on her part. She has to go over there constantly, and now that the book section has been arranged in the new way, so that Else’s and her responsibility is basically just to receive books and date them, there is absolutely no need for that much work to be put into that part of the store. Instead, Anne-Maj and Else help with the clothes, which is Lis’ and Ruth’s responsibility. They receive new donations, sort, wash, iron and repair the clothes and transport the most ragged of the donations to the recycling centre with Stanley, who may be able to contribute with his muscle power but who is not the most scintillating person in the world to be in the company of. One can’t get a word out of him, and the other volunteers gave up on it a long time ago. But he is a good chauffeur, calm and patient. He sometimes drives a little too slow for Anne-Maj’s taste, but better too slow than too fast.

She’s almost finished with this week’s hard crossword puzzle, but annoyingly, the last corner still needs to be solved – six letters across for “view” – when she has to leave. She gives Mortensen a dried dog treat and sets out into the world up Linde Allé, further down Algade, into the small passage that leads to Matas and to the Second-Hand Shop that is tucked away behind Irma supermarket.

As soon as she approaches the store she can see that something is wrong. The window pane in the door has been smashed to pieces and, inside, the clothes racks and baskets with toys lie spread across the floor. The books have been torn off the shelves, and a table is lying on its side amidst thousands of broken porcelain pieces. Kylle, Lis and Valborg are standing clustered together by the counter while Stanley is shuffling about looking like he is on the verge of tears.

“What happened?” Anne-Maj asks.

“There was a burglary,” says Valborg. “Last night, we’re guessing.” She quickly looks at Lis and Kylle. “I’m happy you called me right away.”

“Has anything disappeared?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“Yes, a few things have been taken,” Kylle corrects her. “There was some change in the till which, of course, was taken.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes,” answers Valborg as she puts her mobile phone into her striped tote bag. “I just did. They’re going to try to get a patrol out here at some point, but the officer on duty didn’t sound too optimistic. I’ve got hold of a glazier and we’ll send his bill to the insurance company. But at least we’ve reported the robbery, like you’re supposed to.”

Anne-Maj nods. She has reached the counter and casts a glance at the glass display case. It looks untouched. “Isn’t it a bit odd that the robbers didn’t try to get hold of the silverware?”

“Perhaps,” says Valborg. “But if they are real amateurs, which they seem to have been, then they would hardly know what to do with things like forks and knives, right? I think all they wanted was the cash.”

Kylle reaches for the empty wooden box that normally functions as the store’s till. “They could even have taken the jewellery and silverware without having to smash the display case,” she says. “Look! The key is lying right here. Vips’ eldest son dropped by with it on Saturday.”

“Perfect.”

“We agreed to keep it in the till from now on so that we don’t end up in that same stupid situation again.”

They look around for a while at the chaotic room. Stanley is squatting as he sweeps up the broken porcelain pieces with a turquoise dustpan and brush. He carefully tips the shards into the bucket and continues sweeping, slowly and methodically. And Lis has started cleaning up. She has put the toppled-over clothes racks back in an upright position and hung the clothes back up on the hangers.

“I guess this vandalism was just for a bit of fun,” Anne-Maj says. “Probably some teenagers who were bored. There aren’t that many things to keep them occupied in this town.”

“If this was supposed to be for fun then it’s beyond me,” says Valborg.

“Maybe they were mad because there was so little cash in the till,” says Kylle. “On Saturday afternoon, I delivered the money to the twenty-four-hour depository, so there were only some coins left.”

Mrs Mayor gets the bottle of Fernet-Branca. She thinks they could use a tot after all the commotion, something which the others totally agree with her on. It’s as though the entire mood changes after the bitter drink and the whole group regains its courage. A memory flashes before Anne-Maj’s mind but then disappears again.

She turns around once more and looks at the display case. All at once, she is struck by a certain detail. “Was it this Saturday, Kylle?”

“That’s what I said.” Her tone isn’t so much one of irritation but of dejection; she clearly doesn’t have the energy for cleaning up. “I was here, Valborg was here. As was Ruth, Stanley and Else.”

“What time of the day did Thomas Bergstrøm come with the key?”

Kylle frowns. “I don’t know. Before me, that’s for certain. It was lying in an envelope inside the door of the store,” she says. “I picked it up when I arrived here. But as for how long it had been there, I don’t know.”

“So, you had access to the glass case from eleven o’clock to four when you closed?”

“Yes, but …” She looks more and more perplexed.

“Did you sell anything from the glass case in that time period? Jewellery? Watches?”

“Why?” Valborg cuts in.

“Did you?” Anne-Maj continues to address Kylle. “Do you recall? Or was the display case open for other reasons? Perhaps because you were cleaning inside it, that sort of thing?”

“No, I …” She thinks for a moment. “No,” she says more steadfastly. “I tried using the key in the cabinet door to make sure it was the right one and then I placed it in the box after discussing it with Valborg. After that I didn’t use it, I’m quite certain.”

“Why?” asks Valborg. “Why did you want to know that, Anne-Maj? Is there something wrong?”

Anne-Maj points toward the lowest drawer where the fancy jewellery boxes are lined up in a row. “One of them is missing,” she says. “A large black leather box with a golden pattern. Have any of you taken it?”

“What in the world would we do with an empty jewellery box?” asks Valborg. “Take out the drawer, will you Kylle?”

Kylle looks as though she’s about to object but doesn’t say a word. She has something wrong with her back, Anne-Maj knows. In contrast to Ruth who is constantly reciting all the different ailments she suffers from, Kylle doesn’t like discussing her afflictions, but every time she has to bend over, everyone can see that there’s something terribly wrong. That’s probably the reason why she’s chosen to take over Vips’ old job, so that she can spend her shifts sitting in a comfortable office chair.

“Here,” says Anne-Maj. “I’ll do it.” She squeezes her way past Valborg, unlocks the mahogany cabinet and pulls out the drawer with the jewellery boxes. They are lined up closely next to each other in neat rows: small, big, red, natural-coloured and black. But the leather box is gone. All that is left is an empty square space approximately twenty centimetres square. “Look,” she says, “that’s where it was.”

“And?” asks Mrs Mayor with raised eyebrows. “Are you saying that the robbers who were in here and trashed everything fished the key out from the till, unlocked the cabinet, pulled out the bottom drawer, selected a single empty box and let the silverware and jewellery remain? Seriously?”

“No, it does sound a little strange,” Anne-Maj admits.

“Don’t you think there’s a possibility that you’ve had a memory lapse?”

Anne-Maj can feel her cheeks flush with anger. She hasn’t remembered incorrectly, that’s for certain. Her memory can sometimes have gaps when it comes to things she hears, but the things she sees are ingrained in her mind. Her visual memory and sense of detail are phenomenal. She always finds little inconsistencies no one else notices. She can let her eyes survey a full bookshelf and her gaze is immediately attracted to the one book that has been placed there upside down. She looks at an embroidered pillow and discovers one stitch that is inverted, sees the bag of wholewheat flour that a customer has absentmindedly put back among the bags of white flour. And Anne-Maj can’t bear it until the items have been put in their proper place. She will resew the cross-stitch pillow or donate it to the Second-Hand Shop. She doesn’t want it on the sofa when it looks like that.

The fact that Valborg is insinuating that she may have been mistaken is an insult. Under normal circumstances she’d snap back, but this time she needs to think things through for a moment before taking any action, and she doesn’t feel like using energy on a dispute with the store’s self-appointed leader of the pack. She therefore shrugs her shoulders and pushes the drawer back into place.

“That may be,” she says, but she can’t look Valborg in the eye.

Chapter 11

Monday 29 April to Tuesday 30 April

A memory lapse. It’s a nice way of saying that you’ve remembered inaccurately or perhaps are even lying. Anne-Maj hasn’t forgiven Valborg. However, in all fairness, it does sound rather implausible that somebody would steal a small, insignificant box like that. It’s more likely that one of the other volunteers has taken it, she thinks as she turns onto her side. It might not have disappeared in connection with the burglary. Perhaps Ruth wanted to use it to store her pills. Or it might have been Stanley who took it home because he thought it looked nice. Both of them were there on Saturday and both of them knew where the key was hidden. Stanley was even there after closing hours because he washed the floors just as he always does on Saturdays. If one of them took the box, perhaps without paying for it, even though it is worth almost nothing, then the wisest thing would be not to mention it at all. But, it’s the principle of the thing, thinks Anne-Maj, who is a big fan of principles.

She is lying in her bed way past the time she normally falls asleep; she is tired but she isn’t in the least bit sleepy. The latest events have not only left her very confused but have also completely tired her out. Has there really been a murder in their small circle? Or two? And are they connected with the robbery? Does the jewellery box play a significant role and if it does, what? Or is this all something she’s imagined, like the policeman thinks?

Curled up in the crook of her knee on top of the duvet, Mortensen has rolled himself up like a little hairy pretzel so that Anne-Maj can’t change her position. The little dog whimpers every so often in his sleep as his paws move back and forth. If only that were me, Anne-Maj thinks as she turns the night lamp on. I could really use a couple of hours in dreamland myself. She might as well do a little reading now that she’s awake anyway. Right now, she’s in the middle of a thick crime novel, one that has won all kinds of awards and received five-star reviews. She was lucky enough to find it in the store before one of the customers grabbed it. But she’s having a hard time getting absorbed in the book – especially now her thoughts keep revolving around the potential of a real-life murder, or several. About a quarter of an hour after she has read the same paragraph over and over again she gives up and places the bulky novel on her bedside table.

Anne-Maj loves her bedroom which is rectangular in shape, with sloping walls in which there is a half-moon-shaped attic window. From the outside, the fancy window in combination with the baby blue colour of the façade makes the house rather noticeable. Many a tourist has taken pictures of the adorable little house that, every year around July, is tucked away behind an idyllic lace edging of dark red, light yellow and white hollyhocks. In general, Linde Allé is worth a visit: a wide street that is a continuation of the pedestrian one but is still quiet and dignified. On each side of the street, there is a row of fine old linden trees, and the houses have been painted in different colours and have fine sash bars. It is an idyllic provincial town at its best. When Anne-Maj got the opportunity almost forty years ago to rent the house in order to settle down with her little daughter, she almost couldn’t believe her own luck, and when a few years later she had enough money to buy it, she was truly elated.

In the bedroom, the walls are blue – a deep, velvety soft indigo that enhances the cave-like atmosphere and provides an elegant contrastive background for all the family pictures she has hanging on her walls. Old, yellow and fading photographs from the previous century of her forefathers and mothers, childhood pictures from the thirties of her mother and from the sixties of Anne-Maj herself and her little brother with whom she has more or less lost all contact. A group photo from her confirmation where she and her brother are standing between their female cousins, at least ten colour pictures of Iben as a little girl in the seventies and eighties, a whole bunch of photos of Didi from back when she had round cheeks and didn’t mind being called Ditte-Marie. All these faces, directly related to one another or distantly. Features that recur from one individual to the next, perhaps skipping a generation to suddenly re-emerge. It’s really not so strange that senile people tend to lose complete track of their family members’ identities and chronological order.

Anne-Maj gets to her feet and receives a glance from Mortensen who clearly thinks his owner is a little too active in these early morning hours which are normally spent in deep slumber. She enters the guest-room on the first floor in which she has arranged a modest little working space in the corner and gets her iPad. Back under the duvet, she starts googling: causes of death that might be confused with a heart attack, symptoms that might be due to an insulin overdose, poison that can’t be immediately traced unless the forensic pathologist knows specifically what chemical to look for. Anne-Maj is fairly certain that the killer was sly enough to choose a method of murder that would have been hard to trace even if a thorough examination had been conducted of Vips’ corpse. And as far as Helmer goes, well, it’s hard to say. He had grown feeble in the last few months of his life and he died after being hospitalised for a few days, so it’s unlikely that an autopsy was conducted on him, she assumes. Anne-Maj will have to ask her source at the police station. Perhaps Anders Hall knows something about the burglary? She writes an email to herself in order not to forget.

The search engine doesn’t seem to be able to come up with as many satisfying answers as Anne-Maj had hoped, yet she has grown a little wiser. Perhaps she should ask one of her old doctor bosses if they know more. For about a quarter of an hour she plays solitaire on the computer until her eyelids start to grow heavy and she can barely keep them open. When she turns off the light shortly afterwards, she immediately falls asleep.

“Anne-Maj? What do you want?” Anders Hall answers the call without introducing himself and without waiting to hear who’s calling. In other words, he has saved her number in the system so that he can immediately see it’s her. Anne-Maj feels very important.

“And good morning to you, too,” she answers sarcastically.

“Good morning,” he says, grudgingly. “What do you want?” he repeats. “We’re very busy today.”

“I was thinking … could we perhaps meet?”

“Meet? … That’s … I don’t know …” For once he doesn’t have a fast reply. “Why?” he asks.

“Because I need to talk the whole thing through with you, and it shouldn’t be on the phone or when you’re preoccupied with other things.”

He sighs. “Is it still the thing with the wig? Because if it is, then I can’t just–”

“It’s not only that,” Anne-Maj interrupts him. “There’s more.”

“Anything concrete?”

“Noon.” She hesitates. “I just keep stumbling over mysterious details, so I thought maybe …”

“Okay,” he sighs once more. “I don’t have time to drive out to you … can you come here to Roskilde?”

Roskilde? Almost an hour’s drive from Nykøbing? Anne-Maj sighs. “What time?”

“Shall we say …” a brief pause, “At one o’clock? We can meet at a café. That way I can eat lunch while we talk.” He senses her reluctance and continues, “I am seriously busy, Anne-Maj, it’s not just something I’m saying.”

At one o’clock Anne-Maj is sitting waiting in the café. She is wearing a plain grass-green dress, one that comes across as more conventional and reliable than her colourful and fully-patterned cotton outfits in a, among mature women, very popular Swedish design. She has been up to the counter to buy coffee – without milk foam or syrup or soya milk or other odd inventions. The barista baulks at having to serve an ordinary cup of black coffee. However, she seems to settle down a little after Anne-Maj has decided to break her diet and buy a cookie like other normal people do.

Anders Hall arrives a quarter past one. Anne-Maj’s preconceived notion of him being a tall, fit, thirty-something with a masculine jaw covered by day-old stubble is immediately put to shame. The man who enters the café doesn’t look a day older than twenty. Even though … he must be older than twenty, right? Twenty-year-olds can’t work as police officers, can they? Or perhaps they can? Anne-Maj’s knowledge of the age limit for working in the Danish Police Force is pretty limited. She would never have guessed that Anders Hall is a police officer had he not remained standing in the half-open door, gazing across the busy lunch crowd in the room. He looks Chinese or perhaps Vietnamese, and is of medium height and not exactly muscular. The most grown-up thing about him is his nice-looking light blue shirt and newly pressed linen jacket. Anne-Maj gets halfway up as she waves at him. His boyish face lights up in a smile. He must be adopted, Anne-Maj thinks, as they shake hands. That’s the only explanation she can think of for the unexpected combination of his name and ethnicity.

“I’m just going to run up and order,” he says. “I’m dying of hunger.”

Guess he still has growing pains, Anne-Maj thinks and takes a bite of her cookie. There is nothing wrong with the consistency, but it could have used a dash of salt, she concludes condescendingly. Everyone knows that you just need to add a few salt flakes into cakes and cookies in order to round them off and bring out more flavour. Such amateurs.

Shortly afterwards Anders Hall comes back with a cup of hot water and a tea bag and sits down at the table. “I literally have twenty minutes,” he says as he checks his watch. “So I’ll have to eat while you talk.”

“You’re very young,” Anne-Maj blurts out, “I mean for a murder investigator.”

He laughs. “I’m not a murder investigator. At least not yet. I’m in the burglary department. Right now, I’m looking through some surveillance recordings in connection with some summer house burglaries in the Kalundborg area. Several of the houses are equipped with movement-sensitive cameras,” he explains. “There are a lot of deer up there, I’ve discovered.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. “For your information, I’m twenty-eight.”

“Why did you take the telephone call the first time I rang, Anders? If you don’t work on murder cases?”

“It was a coincidence. The officer on duty directed your call to whoever happened to be available at that moment.”

Anne-Maj tries not to show her disappointment. All this time she has assumed that at least she was talking with someone who dealt with violence and murder and that sort of thing. “Well, since you deal with break-ins,” she says, “then maybe you’ll also be dealing with the vandalism committed at that store where I work? The Second-Hand Shop in Nykøbing?”

“No, I haven’t even heard of that.” Anders takes the plate of grilled panini that the young barista serves him. The food smells good, making Anne-Maj’s mouth water. He takes a big bite. A slice of tomato works its way out of the sandwich and lands on his plate. “So, tell me everything,” he says.

And so, she does. She reiterates the story about the old couple that died just a few weeks apart from one another, about how she discovered Vips’ corpse and her wig that was put on backwards. Anders gets an impatient look on his face when she gets to the part about how she may have heard somebody lurking around the Bergstrøm’s house that night, so Anne-Maj quickly moves on to tell him about the latest pieces of the jigsaw puzzle: the burglary, the vandalism, the locked display case and the box that is missing. She stops her flow of words.

Anders Hall puts down the half-eaten sandwich and washes it down with some tea. “And?” he says. “Was that all?”

“Can’t you see that it’s strange?” asks Anne-Maj who all at once feels somewhat insecure. He is right, the basis is a little thin. But aren’t you supposed to follow your intuition? she thinks. When it comes to solving crimes, one’s feelings and intuitions play an important role. She knows that from the crime novels she’s read. Intuition is what sets everything off – you can always find the evidence later. “All those coincidences?”

“All?” he laughs and picks up his panini once again. “I only see one and that is that you have experienced two deaths and an amateurish burglary within a short period of time. And yes, that’s both tragic and unusual, but nothing more than that.” He takes another bite and chews energetically as he looks down at his watch.

“But what about the wig? And the box that disappeared?”

Anders swallows. “Now, no offence … but,” he looks at her, “both incidents are based on your memory. You are the only one who claims to have remembered that Vibeke Bergstrøm’s wig was sitting backward and you are the only one who has noticed that box that you think disappeared.”

“But the ambulance men must be able to confirm that the wig …”

He shakes his head. “They can’t. I’ve asked them.”

“When?”

“When you called the second time I got hold of them just to be sure. None of them registered anything out of the ordinary about the death. There was a coroner’s inquest, the old lady’s own doctor was there, none of them had any reason to believe that she died from anything other than natural causes.”

Anne-Maj sits for a moment looking down into her coffee. “Do you realise,” she says, “that this is precisely the way to commit the perfect murder?”

“How?” he asks and finishes the last bite of the sandwich.

“You just need to choose a victim who is old and use a murder method that doesn’t leave marks on the body, like poison or a plastic bag or something like that. That way no one will think of examining the case any closer or conducting an autopsy. When you’re old you’re expected to die. That’s why no one wonders about it when the body is found.”

Anders nods as he gulps down the rest of the now-cold tea. “I’ve gotta go now.”

She doesn’t return his smile. “Why have you bothered to take the time to meet with me if you don’t take me seriously?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?” When she nods, he continues: “I was getting kind of curious.” He laughs. “It’s seldom you encounter someone with your persistence.”

“I see,” she says, smiling in an attempt to conceal her irritation at having driven all this way just because a lower-ranking officer from the burglary department wanted to satisfy his curiosity.

Anders senses her irritation and glances at his watch. “If you really must know, you remind me of my Danish teacher in elementary school.”

“Oh?”

“On the surface she seemed rather soft and maternal, perhaps a little naive.” Thanks a lot, Anne-Maj thinks, but then he continues: “The thing is, it turned out she was anything but naive. She saw potential in certain students whom all the other teachers considered hopeless, and she could stop any attempts at bullying by manipulating the kids and making sure all incidents were brushed off. My mother also always told me how, at the parent-teacher meetings, Birgitte would always be able to predict what the most quarrelsome parents were going to complain about. So she would always make sure to be thoroughly prepared so she could tackle the problem well in advance before it got a chance to develop.”

“Sounds like I should be flattered for being compared to her,” Anne-Maj says.

“You should be. Birgitte was the smartest and most cunning teacher I’ve ever had. She could come off as a bit of a busybody, but she was always right. Always. And she persevered until the problem was solved.” He smiles. “For example, it was Birgitte who discovered that one of the teachers was reacting out of character in a number of situations and she very discreetly persuaded the individual to go to their doctor. It turned out that the person had a brain tumour, but because Birgitte had been so observant, the woman was operated on in time.”

“Okay,” says Anne-Maj, her confidence improving. “But what has that got to do with my involvement in this case?”

“Nothing. Like I said, I was just curious to meet you,” he says, looking at her. “And then I hoped you’d understand that when I say to you, right here, face to face, that you shouldn’t consider Vibeke Bergstrøm’s death a murder, I really mean it.”

“But you just said that your teacher Birgitte was always right.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re right, though, does it? At least not this time.” Anders gets up. “All I’m saying is that you resemble her quite a bit, that’s all.” He extends his hand. “I don’t think that you can say I didn’t listen and take you seriously, Anne-Maj. Now you’re just going to have to accept that there isn’t a case here.”

Chapter 12

Wednesday 8 May

A week has passed since Anne-Maj’s new life began. She has managed to walk Mortensen in the woods for an hour each day and she has almost resisted drinking wine just like she has almost stopped eating liquorice. Yet, somewhat disappointed, she discovers during her weekly weigh-in that she has only lost two hundred grams. That wasn’t very much considering all those sacrifices she has had to make. Her desire to continue a healthy lifestyle has diminished considerably.

Luckily Iben calls before a bout of depression caused by her weight gets too firm a grip on Anne-Maj.

“Are you going to the forest to exercise this morning, Mum?”

Anne-Maj sighs. “I suppose I am.”

“I’ll join you.”

“Are you off work today?”

“Yes. And the weather is so nice.”

They meet up in front of the car ten minutes later and drive to Grønnehave. It’s so seldom that they’re alone together, Anne-Maj thinks, and she glances at her daughter who, with a strenuous look on her face is making her way up the path from the car park.

“Was there something special you wanted?”

Iben looks at her. “I just thought it would be good for me to get a little exercise and you said you go for a walk every morning, so … that’s okay with you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Anne-Maj removes Mortensen’s lead so he can run freely. “Of course, it is.”

“How is your detective work coming along? You met up with the police officer the other day, right?”

“Yes.” Anne-Maj bristles. “Anders Hall. That didn’t help me much.”

“Why?”

“He’s a young man and a little condescending toward this elderly woman who he thinks is seeing ghosts.” Anne-Maj shakes her head. “He isn’t taking me seriously in the slightest.”

“Can’t you talk with another one, then?”

“Well, I actually believe Anders when he says he has done everything to check out my suspicions. He’s got hold of the ambulance people and asked them whether they could remember anything else; he’s talked about me with his boss several times … I don’t think my going to another one would change anything; the person would probably turn out to have the same boss … the police are convinced that Vips and Helmer died of natural causes.”

“But you still don’t believe that?”

Anne-Maj buttons up her jacket. They walk at a rapid pace and she is sweating. “I don’t know,” she says after thinking for a moment, “my gut feeling is telling me one thing, my common sense something else.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Anders Hall has asked me to drop it.”

“Maybe that’s the wisest thing, Mum.”

“I guess it is.” She walks a little, looking for Mortensen who has found a small puddle to roll himself in. “I’m meeting the beneficiaries on Saturday. They’ve invited me over for lunch at the house. I thought it might be interesting to check them out a little.”

Iben smiles wryly. “And that’s what you call dropping the case?”

“Officially I’m there because they think I should select a little something as a memento of Vips.” Anne-Maj clears her throat. “Because she and I were such good friends.”

Iben laughs out loud. “That’s a lie, though, Mrs Mortensen.”

“But they don’t know that.”

A little while later they are sitting in the car, and on their way back to town Iben says, a little too nonchalantly, “I think they’re going to fire me after the summer vacation.”

So, there was something after all.

“What makes you think that?”

“The boss said so yesterday. If we don’t get more sales then they won’t be able to afford to have two sales assistants, and since I’m the last one who was employed there, I’ll be the first to go.” Iben shrugs her shoulders. “I think he should be happy if he can get his business to survive even then.”

“But why? You have a good selection, the service is good, and it’s the only shoe store in Odsherred. I don’t understand how you can’t make it work. Everybody needs shoes.”

“You have no idea,” says Iben. “People walk into the store, try on a bunch of different models, we run back and forth to the storage room to find the right size and colour and everything. And then they go home and buy the shoes for a cheaper price on the internet. Some of them don’t even conceal it.”

“That’s just unbelievable,” Anne-Maj says as she parks the car in front of the house. “The nerve!”

“It’s very common now. Just ask at the bookstore. People are shameless.” Iben gets out of the car. “But don’t worry. I’ll find something else. It’s just annoying.”

Shortly afterwards Anne-Maj saunters to the Second-Hand Shop. She nods to Kylle who is sitting in her seat behind the counter and notices with some annoyance that Else has turned up even though this isn’t her workday. She is busy sorting some books from an estate sale. “That’s very industrious of you,” Anne-Maj says in an overly sweet voice as she casts a glance at the piles. “But don’t throw this one away,” she continues as she fishes out a good Danish copy of Tove Ditlevsen’s Dependency from the rubbish bag. “She’s become extremely popular again.” Anne-Maj hasn’t even taken off her coat yet.

Else looks at the book and shrugs. “You can keep it if you want. You have a lot more knowledge of books than I have.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Anne-Maj says in a contrived excessively polite voice. “We just have different interests.”

Else looks at her. “Perhaps you’d like to sort these out yourself?”

“Those? Yes, I’d be more than happy to.”

“There are two more bags with books that I have sorted through in the Blue Lightning van,” Else says with a straight face. “They’re in the back. I’ve been working through them for the last couple of hours and I’m still not done.”

“My goodness.” Anne-Maj looks through the books that Else has set aside for the store. “This one …” she holds a Danish bestseller between her thumb and index finger, “A weekly journal was giving these out for free; you won’t get a penny for them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You’re clearly much more knowledgeable than me when it comes to these things. I’ll get Stanley to drag all the books back in here. Then we’ll go through them together.”

“You shouldn’t start on that big workload all over again, honey.” Anne-Maj already has her entire upper body inside her bag. “You must be exhausted, and you’re not obligated to be here when it’s not your shift.”

She ignores the angry grunt she receives in reply. When the shop door has closed behind Else, Anne-Maj straightens up. “Stanley?”

He immediately stops dusting off a shelf full of vases and goes over to her.

“Can I get you to bring those two rubbish bags in from the van? The ones filled with books?”

He stares at her.

“I know that you’ve just carried them out there.”

He nods.

“I’m sorry.” She puts her hand on his arm. “But I need you to bring them back in.”

The taciturn man gets the two rubbish bags without much ado. Meanwhile, Anne-Maj goes out to the lunch-room. For once, Mrs Mayor isn’t there. Anne-Maj hangs her jacket up on a hook and places her handbag on a shelf behind the door so that it isn’t visible from the window. Since the burglary, the ladies at the Second-Hand Shop have become extra careful and have implemented stricter routines: both the front- and back-door to the store have new locks; you are only allowed to use the front-door during the store’s opening hours, and the back-door is always locked when it is not in use. Another precaution is having two signs, one for each entrance: “No cash” it says concisely and clearly. Anne-Maj doesn’t believe for one second that it will prevent criminals from breaking in if that’s what they want to do, but it’s worth a try, as Valborg, who made the signs using the store’s laminating machines, puts it.

A little later Anne-Maj has worked her way through the contents of the rubbish bags. Well, there weren’t quite as many duff copies as she had feared, but she has changed the prioritisation of the books. When she is done she gets Stanley to carry the bags back to the Blue Lightning van. Then she meticulously dates the books that meet her exacting standards and puts them in their proper place. She is forced to put some of them on top of the other row of books that are already there, and tomorrow morning when it is her shift again, she’ll start cleaning things out in general. There’ll most certainly be some of the books in the overfilled shelves that can be placed outside in the discount box for one Danish krone each.

Anne-Maj sits down at the long table in the lunch-room with a cup of coffee and a couple of cookies, only 60 calories a piece, so okay, for once. The back-door opens and Valborg enters.

“What’s up?” asks Anne-Maj.

“What do you mean?” asks Valborg as she places the striped tote bag on the windowsill.

“It’s just that you look so happy.”

“That’s because I am. Come on out to where the others are.”

Anne-Maj grabs more butter-coated calories and obediently follows Valborg. Kylle, Lis and Ruth are at the counter when Stanley comes shuffling in as soon as he realises something unusual is happening. At the very back of the store, two middle-aged ladies who appear to be old friends are browsing and looking at some shelves with little knick-knacks. Valborg lowers her voice so that the whole group has to lean towards her in order to hear.

“We’ve inherited some money,” says Valborg, “or rather, the Second-Hand Shop has inherited some money.”

“How wonderful. From Vips?”

“Vips and Helmer, yes. They had drawn up mutual wills which came into effect after Vips’ death.”

“How generous of them,” says Kylle.

“They were such wonderful people,” Ruth adds as she places her hand on the upper part of her chest. Whether it is because she is moved or due to her bronchial tube is unclear.

It is quiet for a moment. Anne-Maj decides she is going to have to ask what they are all thinking: “How much?”

Valborg looks at her. “I’m not exactly sure. The lawyer is looking into it. There are some securities left to us and their worth is estimated to be about one hundred and fifty thousand.”

“My goodness.”

Ruth sinks down into Kylle’s chair. “What a nice gesture.”

Lis agrees with her. “It is a gift from the kingdom of the dead.”

“Not quite,” Valborg says, “not quite.”

“What’ll we use it for?” Anne-Maj asks.

“We’ll have to see.” Of course, Mrs Mayor means that she’ll have to see. “I think we should let them remain where they are. They are good to have for sudden, unforeseen bills. Like if the van breaks down or something like that.”

“Good idea,” says Kylle who is leaning up against the counter because her back is clearly tired, yet she is unwilling to demand her chair back. What could she be? Anne-Maj thinks, eighty? Perhaps a little more? At any rate, considerably older than Ruth who hasn’t noticed a thing and is now sitting very comfortably and has an excellent view of the room. Something has to be done about this.

“Could I get you, Ruth and Lis, to come and help me with a small thing?” Anne-Maj asks. “In the lunch-room?”

Ruth gives up her comfortable seat with a deep sigh as she once again rests her hand on her chest, seemingly in order to demonstrate what a physical strain it is for her to manage the manoeuvre. Perhaps it isn’t the bronchial tubes but the heart this time that is supposed to be causing her such discomfort?

From the corner of her eye, Anne-Maj sees that Kylle reclaims her seat with a satisfied look in her eyes while Valborg goes to the back of the store to ask the two ladies looking at knick-knacks whether they need help with anything. Meanwhile, Anne-Maj is thinking like mad on her way down with the other two: what in the world is she going to get them to help her with? If only she had thought of a reason for asking Lis and Ruth to join her.

She grabs the first idea that comes to mind. “I was thinking,” she says as she shuts the door behind her, “it might be nice if we all chipped in for a present for Valborg.”

“Uhm…” Lis looks a little perplexed.

“Why?” asks Ruth.

“Because she’s turning seventy-five next week, as we all know.” Anne-Maj looks from one to the other. “There’ll be a reception on Thursday.”

“Seventy-five?” says Lis. “She’s in pretty good shape.”

Anne-Maj doesn’t really agree but keeps it to herself.

“It’ll be fun to give the present to her on the exact day of her birthday instead of waiting to do it at the reception like everyone else,” says Ruth, “but the reception might actually be on her birthday.” She has sat down by the desktop computer where she manages the group’s Facebook page.

“I actually don’t know,” Anne-Maj admits.

“Let’s google her. Valborg von Schilling … there she is … and that’s her address.” Ruth sounds proud and skims down the various results until she reaches the Wikipedia page. “Wow … I didn’t know that!” she exclaims, pointing at the screen. “The von Schilling family is noble. Valborg’s husband must have been a baron.”

“Well, she certainly kept that well-hidden.”

“But she’s not mentioned in the text, and, of course, there’s no birthday either.”

“Try looking her husband up instead,” says Anne-Maj. “A former mayor who was, on top of it, noble, must have his own post. Maybe she’s mentioned there.”

“Okay, Mayor … and … von Schilling.” Ruth’s fingers flutter away on the keyword. Her symptoms seemed to have temporarily disappeared. “They don’t give any results,” she says, disappointed, after a couple more tries.

“Do you think maybe that she isn’t …” Lis lowers her voice in case someone’s listening by the door. “What if it’s a lie?”

“A lie?” Ruth looks at her.

“I agree with Lis,” whispers Anne-Maj. “If Valborg’s husband isn’t on the internet … maybe she’s never been married to a mayor.”

The three ladies look at each other and start to giggle. Imagine if Mrs Mayor isn’t Mrs Mayor after all. It’d almost be inconceivable.

“You know what?” says Anne-Maj, “How stupid of us … We don’t need a computer … Her birthday is on the staff list.” She opens the door to the store where Valborg is busy helping a lady find a coat big enough for her. It shouldn’t be considered a violation to look at the papers – they aren’t officially Valborg’s property, after all – still, Anne-Maj doesn’t want to be caught red-handed. She shuts the door quietly and finds the list that is clipped together with their work schedules.

“It is onthe same day,” she says. “Thursday the eighteenth.”

“What should we give her?” Lis has come back to life.

“I was thinking …” Anne-Maj’s brain is again churning, “What about a book?”

“From the store?” Ruth asks with a hopeful look; everyone knows that would be a wonderfully cheap solution.

“No,” Anne-Maj says firmly. “A new one. Or three, in reality. I’ve just read an excellent trilogy about the Danish slave trade in the West Indies and it’s just come out in paperback.” She looks at Ruth. “I think she’d really like that.”

“How much does it cost?” Lis looks a little worried. Her husband is notoriously stingy.

“I don’t know,” Anne-Maj admits. “But I can run by the bookstore tomorrow and find out. It’ll probably be about eighty to ninety kroner for each. Maybe a hundred.”

Ruth and Lis look at each other. One hundred Danish kroner isn’t to be sneezed at. Whereupon Ruth nods. “Yes …”

“At least if all six of us contribute,” Anne-Maj continues.

“Six?” Ruth asks, looking perplexed. “If you subtract Valborg then we’re only five.”

“Did you include Stanley?”

“Oh, no, that’s right,” she says, embarrassed by her mistake. “I had forgotten him.”

Chapter 13

Saturday 11 May

For the rest of the week, Anne-Maj fulfils her self-invented rules more consistently. She walks the dog every day, she doesn’t indulge in any snacks, and she has completely abandoned drinking red wine. It’s not in any way fun, but she convinces herself that she can feel a difference and that her waistband feels a little looser. When she weighs herself, the loss after twelve days comes to a total amount of one kilo and 400 grams. Almost a kilo and a half! That calls for a celebration! Time for a gin and tonic! Liquorice! Cakes! No. She pulls herself together and writes a very sensible shopping list which she promises herself to follow to a T. Cottage cheese, celery, lean fish and other boring items like that.

Anne-Maj is very pleased with herself when she comes back from the grocery store with her items. When she has finished unpacking them, she goes upstairs to the bathroom, checks her make-up one last time, combs her hair and is ready to go and have lunch with the Bergstrøm beneficiaries.

“You stay and watch the house, Mortensen,” she says as she gives the dog a chewing bone that is supposed to have a cleansing effect on his teeth and that costs an arm and a leg.

It is Thomas Bergstrøm who opens the door when she rings the bell. She has parked behind three vehicles: Vips’ red Smart car furthest in, then a white four-wheel drive, and finally a Swedish-registered bronze metallic Cabriolet. All three vehicles are brand-new and surprisingly shiny and clean, Anne-Maj notices, whose old yellow Astra at the most sees an interior wash a few times a year and is growing grimy with dirt.

“Welcome, Anne-Marie,” says Thomas who is in full lawyer regalia: a sharp, dark grey suit and a Bordeaux-coloured tie in a Windsor knot. “You’re right on time.”

Anne-Maj knows that that’s a nice way of saying, couldn’t you have dragged it out fifteen minutes?

“Thank you for inviting me,” Anne-Maj says as she extends her hand. She doesn’t feel like commenting on the fact that he insists on calling her by the wrong name.

“This is for you, for tonight, so that you have a little something to relax with.” She hands him two bottles of Italian red wine, one is meant for Christian and the other for Thomas and his wife. He hardly looks at the bottles, just takes them and puts them aside. They weren’t exactly inexpensive. She pulls her jacket off.

“Welcome,” she hears a voice say from the doorway into the living room. Feline Bergstrøm is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves folded up. Her pants are beige coloured and on her neck she is wearing the only somewhat unrestrained accessory worn by members of the beige-coloured club: a chiffon scarf with animal prints – in this case, leopard spots. Good grief, thinks Anne-Maj, who is wearing a purple-and-pink striped jersey tunic, orange capri pants and new venom-green ballerina shoes.

Christian, who it turns out is a professional chef, is much more informally dressed than his brother and sister-in-law. He has prepared risotto with fresh asparagus and blue mussels, and Anne-Maj enjoys the meal in a way that she seldom does when it comes to other people’s culinary creations. During the meal they talk about the deceased owners of the house. The quarrelsome, self-righteous Helmer who, seen through posthumous rose-coloured spectacles, was an uncommonly popular lawyer as well as a kind and caring husband, and Vips, who, of course, had been the best mother in the world. The sons have absolutely nothing critical to say about their parents; however, Anne-Maj notices with some interest that Feline doesn’t contribute a single word to the canonisation of her parents-in-law.

“You knew them pretty well, didn’t you?” asks Christian.

“Yes,” Anne-Maj says without hesitation, “I spoke a lot with your mother especially.” Which is partially true. “She was a good person.”

“Yes, she was.”

“She was as good as gold,” Thomas chimes in.

“Would you like some more?” asks Feline.

“Yes, please,” says Anne-Maj, “it tastes delicious.” She’ll have to live on water and rice crackers tomorrow she thinks as she holds out her plate.

“We’ve been thinking,” says Thomas when his and Christian’s two-part eulogy has finally drawn to an end, “that we do the following: The three of us will, of course, first choose what we want, you will get one thing as a memento and tomorrow our aunt will choose whatever she wants. We should probably get an expert to take a look at the paintings.” He looks at his brother who is nodding. “But when he’s done with that, the Second-Hand Shop can come and pick up everything you think you can sell, and finally, we’ll let a company that clears out estates deal with the rest.”

“That sounds very sensible,” says Anne-Maj, who is actually more interested in hearing about what the inheritance amounts to in total than about how it is going to be distributed in terms of books, knick-knacks and paintings. With a house like that, Helmer and Vips must have left a fortune.

During the dessert – a chocolate gelato which Anne-Maj has a suspicion has been bought ready-made – Anne-Maj asks her three hosts about their professions. Christian is, as he mentioned before, a chef, and owns a restaurant in Malmö where he also lives. Thomas took over his father’s law firm a long time ago.

“Are you also a defence attorney?” asks Anne-Maj.

“No,” says Thomas, “my speciality is tax law, more specifically for international firms operating here in Denmark.”

In other words, you help multinational companies evade their taxes, Anne-Maj thinks. “That sounds exciting, but it must be very demanding,” she says.

“You can say that again,” he says dryly. “A lot of employee turnover, of course …”

“But the firm is just as successful as it was previously, right?”

“I’m not complaining.”

She senses there’s more to it than that, and sees the two brothers exchanging glances while Feline clears her throat with a small, nervous clicking sound. Then the brief moment of tension passes.

“There’s a difference between the budgets of big international firms and the money that can be earned to defend them in criminal cases, Anne-Marie,” Thomas says.

“Anne-Maj,” his wife corrects him.

He shrugs his shoulders irritably, clearly indifferent to the irrelevant names of irrelevant people.

“Our financial affairs here at home have never suffered, but our father’s firm could have been more up-to-date.” Thomas shakes his head. “But I am happy to say that it’s been streamlined now. We actually have more employees at the firm than before …”

“It’s quite a feat,” says Christian who has up until now remained silent during this part of the conversation. “I’m proud of you, brother.” He teasingly slaps Thomas between the shoulder blades. “What would the family have done without you?”

Anne-Maj is curious to find out the reason for the sarcastic tone and everything it implies but realises that she will be given no explanation. After a few awkward moments, she turns instead to Feline. “Are you a lawyer, too?”

“Not exactly.” She straightens her leopard-print scarf. “I have a wonderful store that sells home accessories,” she explains, “and the address is good: it’s a side street to Østerbrogade. But it’ll probably all be over soon.” She shrugs her shoulders. “This family tends to attract bankruptcies, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, stop,” says Christian. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a restaurant owner who hasn’t lost it all once or twice.”

“Feline has just run into some bad luck of late,” says Thomas. “A rent hike, declining sales, an employee who has to go on maternity leave, so Feline is forced to employ a temp she really can’t afford. It’s not easy, Anne-Marie.” He places his arm around Feline’s shoulders and pulls her over to him.

“Anne-Maj,” says Anne-Maj.

“Of course, I’m sorry,” he says, although he clearly isn’t the least bit embarrassed.

“Unfortunately, I am unable to pump money into my wife’s business because my own is still in the development stage. I can’t afford to partake in anyone else’s projects.”

His wife looks a little ill at ease but doesn’t make any comment.

Without thinking, Anne-Maj asks, “Do you have any children?”

A shadow crosses Feline’s face. Darn. Anne-Maj has managed to step in it once again. She keeps forgetting that what is meant to be a friendly question to get the conversation going is considered by others to be deeply intrusive prying into their personal lives. For those who can’t conceive, those three words can feel like salt being poured directly into an open wound, whereas those who have renounced procreation consider it to be a downright insult, an attack on their way of life. It’s simply a taboo to take an interest in this otherwise innocent detail in people’s lives. “I’m sorry,” she rushes to say, “I didn’t mean to pry …”

“That’s okay,” says Thomas, who is still sitting with his arm around Feline. “No, we don’t have any children. Unfortunately,” he adds, giving his wife another little squeeze. She looks like she has to muster all her mental strength not to release herself from his grip.

“I do,” says Christian. “Two girls. They live mostly with their mother but often come over to visit me in Malmö during the weekends when I’m not working. It’s hard keeping a seven on/seven off arrangement when you live in two different countries.”

“I think I saw them at the funeral. How old are they?”

“Ea is twelve and Gry is fourteen,” he says, whereupon he makes the movement that is universal for parents and pet owners all over the world which is to quickly reach for your smartphone with the speed of lightning and start scrolling down to the photo app and hand your phone over to your interlocutor, regardless of whether that individual has expressed any interest in seeing the pictures. Anne-Maj looks at a picture of two fair girls, the oldest pale with her father’s somewhat weak chin, the other one considerably prettier.

“They look very sweet,” says Anne-Maj when she has studied them long enough so that all the rules of politeness have been satisfied. “You must be proud of them.”

“If you’re through eating …” Feline says, getting halfway up. When no one objects she looks at Anne-Maj. “I was thinking that you and I could go through the house and take a look at the various things. I’m sure you know the house better than I do.”

“Yes, well…” Anne-Maj wipes her mouth with the linen serviette, “I suppose so,” she lies.

“And we’ll just continue our work down here,” says Thomas.

“After we’ve cleared the table and done the dishes,” says Christian, who is busy collecting the plates and utensils. “You won’t get off the hook that easily, bro.”

Thomas rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and laughs. “You girls go,” he says to Feline and Anne-Maj. “And let the grown-ups work in peace.”

Girls? Did he actually say that about two fully mature women? Anne-Maj glances at Thomas’s wife who doesn’t express any form of annoyance. Maybe it’s just me, Anne-Maj thinks.

They start on the second floor and go from room to room as Feline nervously chatters away. She doesn’t feel comfortable in her in-laws’ house, Anne-Maj concludes. The blonde woman clearly hasn’t felt any strong emotional ties with either Helmer or Vips. It is evident through her body language, just like it is noticeable through all the things she doesn’t say.

Not for one moment does she express any form of tenderness or even a mild form of sadness while going through the possessions of the deceased.

Perhaps it’s not so strange. If Feline’s business has been having such financial difficulties of late that she is about to go bankrupt, when all the while her in-laws clearly could have easily helped her out of the tight spot she’s in but chose not to … wouldn’t that be enough to cause a little antipathy? Perhaps even a motive for murder? Or a double murder? It’s highly probable that the inheritance can help her business get back on its feet, if her husband invests in it … yes, Anne-Maj can envision Feline Bergstrøm as a murderess. How that theory fits into the burglary and the disappearance of the jewellery box, she doesn’t yet know. Perhaps Anders Hall is right when he says that those two things are completely unrelated. Either that, or she has to think the whole thing through more carefully.

“And this was Helmer’s office,” Feline says as she opens the door to a room with a view towards the fjord. “Not that I was ever invited in here.”

The layout of the room surprises Anne-Maj, who had envisioned a retired, quarrelsome lawyer’s workroom as being furnished with dark bookshelves and leather-bound law books, perhaps with a couple of dusty deer antlers mounted on the walls. Instead, the two women are standing in a light, friendly room with furniture classics in yellow beech and a couple of colourful geometrical paintings on the walls. The writing desk in the middle of the room is made of oil-treated oak with finely hand-carved drawers in a light, floating construction and about sixty to seventy years old.

“What a beautiful table,” she says.

“Oh?” Feline looks as though she’s bored.

Anne-Maj turns towards the bookshelf. Instead of law books, there is row after row of poetry and short story collections from the fifties and sixties, and in addition to Danish ones, there are also German, French, Norwegian and Swedish books. All in the original languages, of course. She takes one out and turns to the first page. A signed first edition. Next one, the same thing, and the next and the next. Wow, Anne-Maj thinks. At least now she knows that Helmer’s possessive feelings about the antiquarian section of the store derived from genuine interest and a well-developed collector’s gene, and not from common greed for power.

“Is that what you’d prefer to have?” Feline asks. “One of Helmer’s books?”

“Maybe,” says Anne-Maj as she puts the thin volume back in its place in the bookshelf. She would give anything to have the opportunity to go through the man’s drawers but that’s clearly not going to be a possibility. “Could we perhaps see the rest? I don’t remember if there are books in the other rooms.” She pretends not to notice Feline’s impatience and opens the next door with a movement of familiarity. It is a guest-room. There is a colourful painting, this one more expressive.

“Lise Malinovsky,” says Feline when she sees Anne-Maj’s gaze. “We have some at home ourselves.”

Anne-Maj doesn’t know the name at all. Painting isn’t exactly her forte, but, “Yes, gorgeous colours. I’ve always said she’s fantastic,” she bluffs.

“Vips was very fond of that painting.”

“Oh?”

Behind the next door is the bedroom. It has windows facing three sides, one side facing the water, the other side the forest. In the middle wall, a double glass door leads to a wide balcony facing the south where the neighbouring house is tucked away behind a thick cluster of trees and from where there is an incredible view across the fjord to Hornsherred. Anne-Maj really has to compose herself to stop from expressing an overly enthusiastic exclamation which would immediately reveal that she had never set foot in this absolutely lovely room up until now.

Aside from a couple more paintings, there is nothing more of interest here. The wardrobe’s doors slide open quietly when Feline gives them a light push. Anne-Maj is blown away by the sight of all the dresses and suits in subdued colours and luscious material: cashmere, silk, English tweed. At the sight of the shy, little lady you would never have guessed that Vips had such a fine selection of clothing at her disposal. In the store, she always wore smock-like tops and a pair of nice slacks.

“All of this …” She lets her fingers glide along the row of tailor-made sleeves, feels the various forms of textiles: smooth, coarse, heavy and structure woven or as light as cobwebs. If only one had been as small as a size 38. “It’ll be going to the store, right?” She looks at Feline and quickly adds, “After you have taken what you want, of course.”

“Me?” Feline smiles for the first time, as though she is genuinely amused. “Wearing that stuff? Never.” She slides the doors back again. “Yes, of course it will go to the Second-Hand Shop. I can’t imagine Vips’ sister would be interested in a pile of old clothes.”

Anne-Maj decides not to get offended by this condescending remark regarding the general quality of the items the Second-Hand Shop sells. “We could get a lot of money for clothes of that quality,” she says.

They inspect the rest of the first floor. Yet another guest-room as well as a nice, though perhaps worn-down, bathroom. Then they go back downstairs. The two brothers have finished doing the dishes and are now standing on the balcony, each with a beer in his hand. Thomas has taken off his tie and jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He almost looks human.

“I thought we were in a hurry,” says Feline.

“We are,” says Christian.

“I’ve just put aside a whole bunch of tableware, sweetheart, perhaps you could take a look at it and see if there’s anything there we want?”

“Okay,” Feline says and looks at Anne-Maj. “Perhaps you could look at the rest on your own?”

“Of course,” says Anne-Maj, making an effort not to sound too pleased. “There’s no need for you to spend more time on me. I think I’ll just go up and have another look at those books, if that’s all right.”

No one objects, so she goes back upstairs to Helmer’s office. She lets the door stand ajar so she can hear if someone comes up the stairs. Then she opens the desk drawers, one after the other. A couple of pens and a letter opener, a pile of old envelopes. In the bottom drawer there’s nothing more than transparent plastic folders and a lined notepad. It seems hopeless. Where did they keep their personal papers? Did Vips remove them when she needed help with the online banking? The computer is from the turn of the century, with no flat screen or any other modern nonsense. She doesn’t dare turn it on.

Anne-Maj listens at the door. She can hear their voices. Did they collaborate on the murder? Anne-Maj is instantly struck with the thought: it was Thomas and Feline. One of them committed the murder while the other one removed all the traces and did the cleaning up. Or is it only in crime series that the murderers are so cunning?

She catches sight of a row of black archive files in the bottom shelf of the bookcase, pulls one out and skims through the contents. Disappointed, she puts it back and takes out another one but with the same result: old bills and receipts, all the way back to the eighties. Not one single bank account statement, no copy of a last will and testament, no balance sheets or records of their portfolios, nothing that can tell her anything about the Bergstrøms’ finances.

At that very moment she hears footsteps on the stairs, so she quickly places the last file neatly on the shelf and takes out a random volume of one of the signed first editions. A somewhat worn copy of Peter Olsen’s poetry collection, it turns out.

“This one,” she says, holding up the book so that Feline can see it. “I’d like this one to remember them by. It meant a lot to Vips and Helmer.”

“Oh?” says Feline, without looking at the book.

Chapter 14

Thursday 16 May

Anne-Maj is extremely pleased to be able to use the deep fryer for something other than the eternal portions of chips for Didi. She is busy preparing hors d’œuvres for Valborg’s birthday reception that same afternoon and one of the dishes is going to be mini spring rolls with chicken and vegetables. She carefully folds and packs the thumb-sized spring rolls and deep-fries them in the oil afterwards, four to five pieces at a time, until they are golden and crispy.

Afterwards she prepares a spicy peanut sauce to go with the rolls as well as a sweet-and-sour lime dip to go with the other dish she has on the menu: small, chilli-spiced crab cakes. Anne-Maj is extremely pleased with her two contributions to the party buffet. She knows that Else will be coming with pigs in blankets and that Kylle has baked mini muffins, while Lis and Ruth are collaborating to make a plate of tiny salmon sandwiches. Which means that Anne-Maj’s contribution will be the most exotic, and that suits her just fine.

There are a number of outsiders who have been invited to the reception: the board and director of the main office of the Nationwide Association of Second-Hand Shops in Copenhagen, the owners of the neighbouring stores, the mayor, the priest, the board of the chamber of commerce, and quite a few more. All-in-all there are eighty-six on the guest list, and Anne-Maj estimates that about sixty will show up.

Valborg von Schilling is the only one who is able to remain calm while all the other ladies of the store run back and forth with flushed cheeks making last-minute preparations. The Second-Hand Shop is closed to customers and has been so since three o’clock that afternoon so the volunteers and Stanley had time to move clothes racks and discount boxes out along the walls of the store; there is plenty of space for a long table in the middle of the floor. The invitation reads: Open House from 4-6 pm. The understanding is that guests are welcome to drop by in between those hours. But since the average age of the guests is pretty high, the volunteers assume that many of them will come right at the designated time and remain there until the end. So they ask Stanley to fetch some chairs from the parish hall on Skolestræde so that the oldest ones and those with mobility issues can sit down.

“Just take as many as you can fit in the van,” she says before Stanley runs out into the rain to the Blue Lightning. “We have an agreement with the custodian.” She doesn’t get a reply, but she hadn’t expected one.

All in all, the reception is a success. The chairman’s speech is slightly too long, the floor quickly gets soaked from all the shoes dragging the rain in, and they run out of white wine a little too early so Lis and Stanley have to go to the supermarket to get some more bottles, but aside from that, everything runs as smoothly as planned. The birthday ‘girl’ smiles with her long teeth, the gift table is overflowing with bottles, flowers and festive wrapping paper. Valborg opened the present from the other volunteers before the guests arrived and she is very pleased with the West Indian Trilogy, she says. The mayor, who always faithfully shows up at events in his municipality, no matter how big or small, only stays for ten minutes, but he brings a very beautiful bouquet with him. It has now been given pride of place on the gift table. Anne-Maj, who is keeping a close eye on the buffet, notes with some irritation that the bacon-wrapped sausages are disappearing the quickest and that the salmon sandwiches seem pretty popular, too. Things seem to be going quite slowly for the crab cakes and she even sees one of the older gentlemen from the board discreetly spit a piece out when the hot chilli burns his tongue. She flashes a friendly smile to a woman with henna-coloured hair who comes up for her third helping of spring rolls. She looks very nice, Anne-Maj thinks. She herself hasn’t had a bite. She is behaving so well, she thinks, even though she is practically dizzy from hunger. The dishes are nearly empty by the time the reception is over – the only two things left are the spring rolls and the crab meatballs. What a bunch of old fogeys, she thinks as she transfers the leftovers into the plastic container she used to transport them over. People don’t know how to appreciate food that’s in the least bit exotic.

Afterwards, the ladies help clear everything away; Else drives Valborg and her pile of gifts home while Stanley returns the folding chairs from the parish hall. After they have done all the dishes and restored the shop’s original set-up, Anne-Maj grabs hold of the plastic containers and walks through the drizzling rain along Algade towards the building where Iben lives. Didi has taken care of Mortensen all afternoon, and it’s time for him to come home. Anne-Maj is given a huge welcome by her dog as well as her granddaughter and goes to the kitchen where Iben is busy digging out a frying pan from the lowest shelf of one of the bottom cabinets.

“I was thinking you might want these,” says Anne-Maj as she puts one of the containers with the leftovers on the side. “They can easily last another day or two. Or you could freeze them,” she quickly adds when she meets Iben’s “I-am-just-in-the-middle-of-cooking-so-don’t-come here-with-a-change-of-plans” look. She recognises it from herself. Just when you’ve figured out which pots and pans to use in the various cooking phases, some meddlesome individual rushes in and suggests you also boil some beans or use the leftover pasta from yesterday. Which is something you only do once in Anne-Maj’s kitchen. Apparently Iben has inherited her mother’s irritation when it comes to that, even though she doesn’t share her love of cooking.

“What are you going to make?” she asks to divert her daughter’s attention.

“Chicken in breadcrumbs,” Iben answers as she gets up holding a pan in her hand.

Anne-Maj tries not to display any sort of reaction. “And what will you have on the side? Vegetables?”

“Chips,” she looks defiant, “and peas. And Béarnaise sauce.” Iben bangs a glass jar with ready-made sauce on the table as she gives her mother a challenging look. “You’re welcome to join us.” She knows perfectly well what her mother thinks of second-rate non-free-range hens blended with flour and water to later be formed into something that is supposed to resemble chicken breasts before they are breaded, frozen and sold to busy families with children. Anne-Maj shudders. The chips have not been sliced up manually from real potatoes like at Anne-Maj’s, but are lying semi-thawed in an ovenproof dish exuding bad quality while they are waiting to be put in the oven. And then Béarnaise sauce from a glass jar! Anne-Maj can’t even find the words to describe how pitiful she thinks it is. The only sensible portion of that meal is the frozen peas. Anne-Maj is convinced that Didi’s finickiness derives from her mother’s lack of cooking skills. Anne-Maj can’t fathom how a woman who was brought up in her household can be so indifferent to cooking.

“Thanks anyway,” says Anne-Maj who ignores her grumbling stomach, “but I’m still full from the reception so I’ll have to pass. But I’d be more than happy to keep you company while you eat – if you’d like.”

Iben sends her a withering glance. There’s no fooling her.

While Iben and Didi are eating, one more than the other, Anne-Maj sits with her glass of water, trying not to think of all those luscious snacks from the reception that she was dumb enough to give to Iben. She’d give anything to be able to empty the container with the crab cakes. But if she were to ask to get a little of her own food after having said no to Iben’s … that simply wouldn’t do. Iben is so extremely sensitive to any act that might be interpreted as criticism. Especially if it’s from her own mother. Anne-Maj will have to take comfort in how thin she’ll become from all the calories she isn’t consuming at this very moment.

“Well,” says Iben. “How did your visit with the Bergstrøm beneficiaries go? Did you find any conclusive evidence?”

For a moment Anne-Maj is confused. It’s several days now since she had lunch at Kildehuse. Have she and Iben really not talked since then? Then she remembers that they had to cancel the usual Sunday family dinner because of some event or other that Iben and Didi had to attend. “Oh, that,” she says. “No, not really. It was … very cosy.” What a lie. But one has to be a little civil. She looks down at Mortensen whose eyes are directed at Iben in the hopes of getting a little snack. “It was very cosy,” she repeats, “but I didn’t find any useful clues.”

Didi looks at her. “I thought you had given up on it, Grandma?”

“Oh,” Anne-Maj smiles, “There are still a couple of details that don’t seem to add up … maybe I’m just being silly.”

Both Iben and Didi look at her, Didi holding a chip halfway up to her mouth. “What happened? Tell us!”

Anne-Maj has no choice but to continue. The more facts Didi is given, the less her somewhat wild imagination can revolve around the macabre topic, she thinks. She can tell that Iben agrees with her. At least she doesn’t object. Anne-Maj takes a deep breath and tells the story all over again from the very beginning. Tells about how she found Vips’ corpse, about the sense that there was another presence further inside the house, about her observation regarding the wig, the burglary and the disappearance of the jewellery box, about the inheritance donated to the store, the daughter-in-law’s bankrupt estate and the son who longs to live in Denmark.

At first, she chatters away like there’s no tomorrow in order to get it over with quickly. But Iben stops her and asks questions about some of the details even though she has heard most of it before. She’s the first person to have taken any of this seriously, Anne-Maj realises. In fact, she and Didi are the only ones Anne-Maj has told the story to, apart from the indifferent police officer in Roskilde. They clearly don’t think she’s making any of it up. And the more her daughter and granddaughter believe in her, the more Anne-Maj is able to trust herself and her attuned intuition again. Perhaps it isn’t just her imagination? Perhaps a murder has really been committed? Anne-Maj is so relieved that she distractedly stuffs herself with the leftover chicken fillets and peas as she talks.

“You know what, Mum?” Iben says when Anne-Maj is through with her story. “I understand why the police aren’t interested. It’s a very thin basis upon which to suspect murder.” Anne-Maj is just about to get offended when her daughter continues, “But I also understand why you don’t want to give up on the case.” The case? She’s referring to it as a case? Anne-Maj straightens up almost imperceptibly in the chair. Iben continues, “I think you should continue investigating on your own.”

“Yes, Grandma, do it!”

“I have no idea how to go about it,” says Anne-Maj. “And don’t you think it might be a little dangerous?”

“Well …” says Iben, “Now don’t get offended, Mum, but nobody would be on their guard around somebody like you.”

“Is that a nice way of saying that I’m old and fat?” Anne-Maj says, laughing. “You are being a little sassy, aren’t you?”

“No, but …” Iben says, fidgeting in her chair, “I just mean that you don’t exactly come across as threatening. If you continue chit-chatting with people, as you always do, about this and that and dogs and food and plants, you could get a whole lot of information because people don’t feel that they’re being interrogated when talking to you. And if the murderer – if it turns out that there even is one – doesn’t think you’re suspicious about anything then you won’t be in danger, either. You see?”

“That’s right, Grandma,” Didi chimes in. “People would much rather say something to you than go to the police, just ask them in a clever way.”

“What’s a clever way?”

Didi thinks for a moment. “I don’t know,” she admits after a short while. “But I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Thank you for having such faith in me. I’ll be sure to do my very best.” Then she turns to Iben. “How would you go about it?”

“Just approach it the exact way you do cooking, Mum. With your, frankly, frightening sense of systematisation. Thoroughly prepare yourself, do it all in the right order and at the right times.”

“And when are the right times?”

It is now Iben’s turn to laugh. “For once I fully agree with my daughter.” She gets up and starts collecting the plates. “I guarantee you you’ll find your own way of doing things, Mum. The first thing could be to collect alibis from the whole gang. Both from when Vips died and from the burglary.”

“No one knows as far as the burglary is concerned. At least not precisely.”

“It’ll solve itself,” says Iben. “You could also ingratiate yourself a little more with those beneficiaries. Sounds to me like they might have a couple of excellent motives.”

“Yeah …”

“And you’ll have to get their alibis as well, I assume?”

“That’ll probably be difficult.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a solution.” Iben looks at her. “But don’t confide your suspicions that a murder has been committed to anyone. Except for the police, of course, if they find anything of interest.”

“Yes, or your life might be in danger,” says Didi a little too excitedly, “if you know too much and the murderer finds out about it. Maybe you should get yourself a gun. And a bulletproof vest.”

Anne-Maj gently tugs her granddaughter’s braid. “Cheeky kid.”

Iben turns around by the door to the kitchen with her hands full of dirty dishes. “Would Mrs Mortensen care for a cup of tea?”

Anne-Maj looks out the window. The rain has started again. “Yes, please. A cup of hot tea would be wonderful.”

Chapter 15

Friday 17 May

On the morning of Friday 17 May the weather is particularly beautiful after a few days of steady rain. The sky has an extraordinarily sheer blue colour that Anne-Maj normally associates with the month of September. But now it’s the middle of May, thankfully. She loves this season more than any of the others. This is the time when you sow and prick out and divide perennials and enjoy the scent of fresh top-soil. Now is when you meet with the other nerds who have green thumbs at the nursery, now is when you dream great dreams for your garden before you’ve reached the point where summer is expected to deliver the goods each day and when there is always someone who becomes disappointed. Depending on whether you reside in the countryside or the city, you think the summer is either too dry or too wet or too hot or too cool. No sunbeams are enjoyed more intensely than the ones that heat up the northern hemisphere during spring, where it still feels like a miracle that the dark season is finally, finally over.

On this gorgeous morning Anne-Maj is on her knees, weeding a narrow perennial flower bed along a tile terrasse. Afterwards she plans to prune a cherry laurel that has become much too dominant in a corner of the little garden – and, if she has time, before she has to go to the Second-Hand Shop, she would like to trim the hedges bordering on the neighbours’ gardens. All of them are good and worthwhile tasks. There is just one slightly irritating aspect; it isn’t her own garden she’s working in but her neighbour’s.

The neighbour is a bachelor by the name of Jonas. He is a carpenter in a local firm and he and Anne-Maj have an agreement in which both parties benefit: she makes sure that his garden looks presentable, except for mowing the lawn and cutting the hedge, which he can handle himself, and he takes care of any minor handiwork that needs to be done at her place. They reached this agreement a couple of years ago at a street party where Jonas confessed that he loathed all work related to flowers and bushes. At that time, he had a horribly boring backyard that consisted of a lawn and a square with tiles, and Anne-Maj was unable to change a gasket in her tap, repair the banister, fill cracks in the walls or fasten a loose tile on the stairs to the front-door. That evening they shook hands on the excellent agreement that still applies today. They exchange services without being petty about the time spent, and every now and then they drink a cup of coffee together, but they never see each other apart from that, which suits both Jonas and Anne-Maj perfectly.

She knows that it’s not ideal when seen from a feminist point of view, and that she ought to dive right into those rather simple maintenance tasks that are a part of being a homeowner, but for years she has made numerous attempts that have ended in disaster. For example, for years she lived with four big ugly holes on her living room wall from when she tried to hang a small china cabinet on it. It took Jonas approximately five minutes to plaster the holes and the following day he hung up the cabinet without the least hassle. She is willing to devote many hours of weeding in exchange for that sort of work.

She has pretty much always been alone; and she’s always had to manage on her own. For a very short period of time over forty years ago she was married to a man, but he found someone else and left before their daughter came into the world, and since then their only connection has been the child support which that son-of-a-bitch had, at least, paid every month until Iben turned eighteen. And no, her husband hadn’t fallen for a younger woman, as the cliché has it. For some reason back then, Anne-Maj, who was almost full-term when it happened, was extra-hurt by the fact that he had fallen for a woman who was ten years older. But today, it’s just become an anecdote, something she says in a sarcastic tone when she meets new people: Yes, my husband exchanged me for an older model. Usually, nobody laughs, but she still thinks it’s quite funny.

A few years after she gave birth to Iben, the mother and daughter moved into the little powder blue townhouse which became Iben’s childhood home. Those two made up the world’s smallest family; they were always together, always the closest kin. That meant, of course, that Iben and Anne-Maj had an almost unnaturally close relationship which was, however, disrupted abruptly as soon as Iben moved out when she was nineteen and only contacted her mother after long intervals. She must have needed to break away, make her own life, Anne-Maj supposes, though she has never dared to really ask about what took place during that period.

Their relationship never truly got close again, not even after Iben returned to Nykøbing, which is, perhaps, somewhat of a shame, but at least they see each other and talk with one another, and they love each other in their own awkward way. In many ways, Iben and Didi’s relationship is an exact mirror image of Anne-Maj and Iben’s. I wonder, Anne-Maj thinks as she uses the garden trowel to remove a stubborn dandelion, whether my daughter and granddaughter will have to go through the same phases as Didi matures and grows older? Perhaps it is, in fact, a purely natural process for a single mother and her daughter?

Doing gardening work gives you the chance to think very clearly. It’s less demanding than cooking and you don’t have to be nearly as focused. Your thoughts can flutter about, touch upon one topic, sweep to the next and wander back and possibly find a solution to a problem, and all the while the weeds disappear tuft by tuft and the thick, dark top-soil becomes visible among the eagerly sprouting perennials.

Today it is the investigation that is dashing about in Anne-Maj’s little grey cells. The same investigation she had been so close to giving up on because she simply didn’t know how to go about it. But now that Iben has egged her on the idea is constantly lurking in the back of her mind, and as she kneels there on the ground digging in the soil she decides to follow her daughter’s advice. Of course, the only problem is that it is hard to collect alibis when there is no precise time for either of the two crimes that were supposed to have taken place. She knows that Vips died between approximately four o’clock, when she called Anne-Maj to confirm their dinner date, and ten o’clock when her corpse was found. Six hours. That’s a hell of a lot of time to have to account for.

Of course, Vips didn’t answer the phone when Anne-Maj called at a quarter to seven and a few times after that, which would indicate that the old woman was most probably dead by that time. However, there is also the possibility that Vips had been preoccupied with something else. For example, an unexpected guest may have rung the doorbell just as Vips was about to drive into town. Perhaps the old woman had gotten confused by the disruption and forgotten her engagement with Anne-Maj? The fact that Vips didn’t answer the phone at seven o’clock can’t be used as a bulletproof argument so Anne-Maj decides to use ten o’clock as a fixed end-time for the period when the possible murder could have taken place.

What about herself? she thinks. Would she be able to verify exactly what she was doing during all those hours? The answer is, in fact, yes. Anne-Maj doesn’t have to rack her brain for long before she remembers what she did that day. After the phone call with Vips, she prepared all the vegetables for the dinner, checked to see whether the lemon meringue had set, sent Mortensen outside to the backyard to do his business on his own, and solved most of the Sunday paper’s hard crossword puzzle. Iben and Didi had arrived at six o’clock, they gave up waiting for Vips and had eaten by a little past seven, and at around half-nine she and Mortensen had gone for a walk up and down Algade before driving to Kildehuse.

Were there any witnesses? No, not really, except for the three-and-a-half hours her family had been at her place. She remembers nodding to Jonas across the hedge when she had let Mortensen out at about five o’clock, and it is highly likely that a few other dog walkers had seen her when she had walked him later that evening. But it would be hard to dig those witnesses up and get them to remember what day they had seen her, since Anne-Maj walks her dachshund almost every evening and she often meets the same people. If she were suspected of a crime, her alibi would be fairly worthless.

At twelve o’clock she steps into the store. For once, there are plenty of customers, considering how early it is in the day. Two young women are trying on summer dresses, a hunched man is looking at some paperbacks in the corner with the antiquarian books, and a toddler is enthusiastically rummaging through the basket of stuffed animals as the mother looks on with a smile. Kylle is sitting at the till. She is busy serving a blonde woman who is studying the tray with the jewellery.

Anne-Maj goes out to the lunch-room to hang up her coat and bag on one of the hooks.

Lis is standing with her hand on the handle to the back-door. “Hi,” she says, “How’s it going?” She is holding a leather cigarette case and a white disposable lighter in her hand.

“Good,” says Anne-Maj. “Are you going out for a smoke?”

“Yes,” Lis says, grimacing slightly. “I know, I really ought to quit.”

“I’ll come with you,” Anne-Maj says. She ignores the flabbergasted look on Lis’s face and follows her out to the courtyard. It doesn’t exactly happen every day – that she seeks Lis’s company – if it has ever even happened before. The somewhat cautious and not-all-too-clever woman is, quite frankly, dull. Her favourite saying is the conflict-averse: “Tastes differ and that is something we should all be grateful for,” which she uses in all sorts of unsuitable situations, for example, when people have differing political views, disagree on the rules for driving on the roads, or refer to a medical fact when they are arguing against some new-age theory. Anne-Maj is about to explode every time that by-now worn cliché is put on the table quite irrelevantly, but she keeps her mouth shut. You have to choose your battles carefully in a circle as small as this.

However, despite all of that, the reason why she chooses to accompany Lis to the smokers’ bench, as it’s called among the Second-Hand Shop’s volunteers, is that she wants to practise her discreet interrogation procedures on this somewhat naive woman before she starts working on the store’s more alert women. But she discovers that they aren’t alone. Ruth is already sitting on the bench. Not because she smokes, she would never expose her frail physical condition to that, but because she needs to get a little fresh air. She greets them cheerfully and moves over to the side so that there is room for all three of them.

When Lis has managed to light her menthol cigarette, Anne-Maj says in a conversational tone, “Did you know that the best way to keep your brain alert is by playing memory games with yourself?”

“No,” says Lis, still confused over this unusual attention Anne-Maj is giving her. “That sounds interesting.”

“Yeah.” Anne-Maj waits a little for one of the others to ask her to explain further but neither of them does. They aren’t exactly thirsting for knowledge, she thinks. After a while she continues, “I often play this game where I repeat to myself what I have done on some random day a couple of weeks ago, minute by minute. It’s surprisingly difficult, at least for people our age.”

“I can always remember what I’ve done,” says Lis. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

“Neither with mine,” Ruth rushes to say. “A few months ago, my doctor was worried that I had a brain tumour, so I got a scan and there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. The neurologist said that my brain was as good as a twenty-year-old’s.”

“Wow, that’s great,” says Anne-Maj. “Congratulations.” She lets a few moments pass to demonstrate her heartfelt joy in hearing about the youthful state of Ruth’s brain and then returns to the same theme. “The interesting thing about that memory game is that you can teach yourself to use resources. Look in the newspaper of the day you want to remember, check what was happening on the radio or television, or talk with others about whether there were big events that took place out in the world. All those things that can prompt your brain to make certain associations so you can better remember things.”

“But, of course, you can never be certain,” Ruth continues in her own train of thought without paying attention to Anne-Maj, “Alzheimer’s can develop very quickly, I’ve heard.”

“Exactly,” says Anne-Maj before a long discussion of the various symptoms takes over the conversation. “But dementia can be prevented or at least postponed with those memory games. You can, of course, do crossword puzzles or jigsaw puzzles, but this thing about remembering what you did on a specific day can be particularly challenging. For example, this morning I tried to remember everything I did on the day I found Vips’ body. And there were several hours that were in a haze for me. At one point I was worried that I was going senile, so I proceeded systematically, tried with all my might to remember, checked the radio programmes from that day, got out the book I had been reading at that point, that sort of thing … until, finally, I had managed to reconstruct the whole day in my mind. I was completely exhausted afterwards but I’m certain that it was a good exercise for the brain.”

“But you’re not senile,” says Ruth, who doesn’t like it when other people have symptoms of any kind. “My doctor says that–”

“–What about you?” Anne-Maj interrupts her. “Would you be able to remember that day, minute by minute?”

“The day Vips died?” Lis asks. “What day was that?”

“April 14th.”

“That’s over a month ago!” Lis says, almost sounding frightened. “Are we supposed to remember the whole day?”

“Well, we’ll make it a little easier: Let’s say from four to five o’clock.”

“It was on a Sunday, right?” Ruth asks.

“Yes, it was.”

Ruth and Lis are both sitting staring at the ground.

Lis has lit yet another cigarette and is absentmindedly clicking the lighter on and off.

“But you’re cheating a little,” says Ruth. “You were the one who found Vips so naturally you remember that day better than the rest of us. I can easily remember just the minutes before I was told about Vips’ death. But that wasn’t until the following day.”

“Yes, but …” Anne-Maj says, already exhausted. Ruth is truly pedantic. Anne-Maj should have practised her technique on Lis alone. “But let’s say you had to remember that precise Sunday, Ruth? How would you go about it? Just as a thought experiment?”

“I remember what Åge and I were doing,” Lis suddenly interrupts them. “Now come to think of it …”

“What?” Anne-Maj asks, relieved.

“We had my husband’s sister over for coffee in the afternoon, as it was her birthday the next day … that’s why I can remember it … after she left we watched a series on TV.”

“What series?”

“Something to do with the police. Maybe it’s British, you know the one with the guy who has a wife …”

A lot of series could be described in that way, but Anne-Maj just nods anyway. “And what did you do afterwards?”

“We ate. It was soup, that much I remember. Åge and I always eat soup on Sundays and this one was made with some very tasty …” Lis gives a meticulous description of her soup habits and finishes by saying that they most certainly watched TV in the evening as well.

Anne-Maj smiles encouragingly. “Were you together with anyone else after your sister-in-law left? Or could your husband perhaps help you to remember more details?”

“No, we were all alone.” Lis looks a little concerned. “That wasn’t very good, was it? I don’t even remember what we saw on TV.”

“I’m sure you’ll remember more if you start thinking about it. Perhaps you could think of an old TV programme that could help you …”

“Midsomer Murders was on TV in the afternoon,” Ruth interrupts her. “The episode where a lady gets crushed beneath a gigantic cheese.”

“That’s right!” Lis exclaims. “We were eating crackers with a small piece of Brie; I actually lost my appetite and had to give what I couldn’t eat to the dog.”

“See, you’re remembering more and more, and I wouldn’t be surprised if more things pop up. What about you, Ruth? Do you remember any more details?”

“Yes,” Ruth says, straightening up her back like a schoolgirl who’s proud of having done her homework. “I actually can. You’re right, it is good practice. I think I’ll tell my doctor about this memory game. He also has many older patients who have difficulty–”

“So, tell us what you did?” Anne-Maj is trying to sound patient.

“That afternoon I went for a walk on the peninsula. But the wind blew so heavily that my ears began to really hurt. I had taken a good windproof hat but I had left it in the car so I had to turn around before I had done my five thousand steps.”

“Five thousand steps?” Anne-Maj asks, a little confused.

“Five thousand out and five thousand back home. I have a pedometer app on my phone … my doctor says you should walk ten thousand steps a day if you want to keep your cardiovascular system healthy, and since my heart is very weak, I have to–”

“–So you walked back to the car?”

“Yes, but the damage had been done at that point. My ears ached so terribly that I had to rush home and take a couple of paracetamols before I could sit down and watch Midsomer Murders. I’d really rather use ibuprofen but my doctor says that ibuprofen is really bad because …” at which point there followed a longer description of the stomach’s mucous membrane and the effects that various over-the-counter painkillers have on it; then came a description of the earache which had lasted for an unusually long period of time that Sunday and which had indirectly caused a crick in her neck because she had, in her exhausted state, fallen asleep in front of the TV and had ended up lying in a rather unfortunate position with her head up against the sofa’s armrest, and so on and so forth.

Anne-Maj grows dizzy, and when it furthermore turns out that, on that particular Sunday, Ruth had her experiences in the sublime state of her own company, from the first minute to the last, and therefore has no alibi to show for it, Anne-Maj loses all interest.

Chapter 16

Saturday 18 May

The beautiful sunny weather doesn’t last, of course. The following day it starts to rain again and Anne-Maj has to unfold her umbrella when she walks along the pedestrian street to the Second-Hand Shop at lunchtime. It’s not her workday, but if she’s ever going to get some kind of an alibi from the other volunteers, she’s going to have to go there on a day when Else is there too. She has brought a freshly baked cake, shaped like a pretzel, from which she has meticulously cut away a third which is now in her freezer. It is rather deserted in the store; not even Kylle is there, so her usual seat at the till is empty. Anne-Maj hears voices through the doorway leading to the staff-room and she follows the direction of the sound. They are sitting in the lunch-room, Valborg, Kylle, Else and Stanley. At that very moment Lis arrives. She enters through the back-door, and her summer jacket is all wet.

“My goodness!” says Kylle. “It’s swarming in from all sides!”

“I was actually just on my way to the Damborg store to get a cover for my ironing board but then I got caught in the rain,” Lis explains as she straightens out her short, moist hair. “And then I thought I could seek shelter here. And maybe also a cup of coffee?” she says, looking at the thermos. “Is there enough there, or should I make another pot?” As she speaks, she peels off her jacket and hangs it up to dry on the back of a chair. “The pot is almost full, so have a seat and take a cup,” Valborg says and looks at Anne-Maj. “Are you also a climate refugee of sorts?” Everyone laughs more heartily than the comment actually deserves.

“No, not really,” Anne-Maj answers, which is true enough, and continues with the story which she has meticulously rehearsed. “I have just attended a friend’s big birthday breakfast and had baked a pretzel cake, but fewer came than I imagined. My friend didn’t want the leftovers and I’m on a diet, so I thought …” She pulls off the protective plastic bag from the cake dish. “I thought maybe you could use a little something to cheer you up in this weather.”

There was a burst of great enthusiasm, especially from Kylle, who has a sweet tooth. From the bathroom Stanley appears, licking his lips. Else moves her chair a little to the side so that there is room for him at the table. For the next few minutes, the conversation revolves around the pretzel, Anne-Maj’s diet, which prohibits her from taking a piece, and Else’s cat, which has been in poor health of late.

“And yesterday Anne-Maj taught me how to exercise my brain,” Lis exclaims just as Anne-Maj has started pondering over how she is going to go about collecting the rest of the alibis. “In order to prevent dementia.” If it wasn’t for the fact that it would probably cause some astonishment, Anne-Maj would have given Lis a big and grateful thumbs-up.

“Oh?” Kylle says, looking very interested.

“You mean by solving crossword puzzles?” Else asks.

“Or Sudoku?” asks Valborg. “Numbers work even better than letters.”

Anne-Maj nods. “Both of them are good for exercising the brain.”

“But this game is more fun,” Lis persists. Anne-Maj could have kissed her. “And harder.”

“How does it work?” Valborg asks.

Lis tries to explain how remembering certain disconnected details from a specific day can help you recall what you did the rest of the day.

“I want to try,” says Else. “What day should I remember?”

“To make it easier, you could take the same day as the rest of us,” Anne-Maj quickly says before anyone gets a chance to come up with a different suggestion. “That way you can use things like the TV programme and the weather that the rest of us have already verified with each other as your anchor.”

“We chose the day Vips died,” Lis explains. “We all have a fair chance of remembering that day.”

Valborg fishes out her calendar from her tote bag. “It’s okay if I refer to this, isn’t it?” she asks as she skims to the correct date without waiting for a response. “I was at church in the morning, ate lunch with the priest along with a few others from the local church council and then I probably had an afternoon nap at home …” She frowns. “I think I watched a crime series a little later. Oh, that’s right, it was Midsomer Murders, I think.” Lis and Anne-Maj exchange glances, and Lis is practically jumping with excitement. Valborg continues, “Then I had dinner, watched a Swedish TV drama or other, I think. And then I watched the news, of course.”

They are all guesses and assumptions. It’s incredible how bad all their alibis are, Anne-Maj thinks. That is, of course, one of the disadvantages of collecting alibis from a group of people in which most are single and retired. There are no witnesses that can confirm their claims, no one that can help them tell one day apart from the other.

Else takes over from there, and she doesn’t need to refer to her calendar. She spent most of the day alone except in the evening when she watched her two youngest grandchildren in Holbæk while their parents were at the movies. She had spent the afternoon in the garden and had a cup of coffee at around five o’clock while watching – surprise! – Midsomer Murders.

Kylle is one of the few who didn’t watch the episode with the woman and the cheese and the British police officer. She leans forward in front of Anne-Maj to take another piece of cake, and the scent of her perfume enters directly into Anne-Maj’s nostrils. Kylle explains that she spent most of the day together with her son and his new wife – she grimaces, revealing what she thinks of that lady – where she stayed for dinner and her son had driven her home at around eight o’clock. At which point, she had done a jigsaw puzzle while listening to an audio book.

Not a single alibi that can be used. Not one.

Stanley has been sitting completely still eating one piece of pretzel cake after another. No one can tell the extent to which he’s been listening to the ladies’ stories, and no one expects to hear anything from him. That’s why Anne-Maj almost gets a shock when he suddenly raises his voice and says, “I-don’t-remember-that-day,” he says in a monotone without looking up from his plate.

“Really? I bet you can.” Apparently, Mrs Mayor thinks a little mental exercise would do Stanley some good. “If you try, that is.”

He shakes his head. “Another-day,” he says.

“Okay, which one then?” says Anne-Maj. Politeness never hurts. Even in those instances when what other people feel the urge to say is completely without relevance for one’s murder investigation, Anne-Maj thinks.

“The-day-when-there-was-a-burglary,” he says, looks up, catches Anne-Maj’s glance and looks back down. “I-remember-that-day.” Anne-Maj feels her heart skip a beat. How lucky can you be?

“You don’t mean the day when we discovered the robbery?” asks Valborg. She speaks slowly and clearly as though it was his hearing that was the problem. “You mean the day when we think the burglary took place.”

“Yes.” Whereupon Stanley remains silent for so long that Anne-Maj feels like going over and shaking him up a little.

In order to help him, she says, “It was also on a Sunday, Stanley.”

He fidgets in his chair. “I-remember-that.”

“What were you doing on that day?” asks Valborg. “Tell us, by all means.”

Then he raises his head and looks directly at Valborg. And then he starts talking like a bat out of hell. “I-was-on-a-day-trip-with-the-others-to-Odden-Seaport-on-a-trawler-I-caught-a-garfish.” He gasps for breath and continues, “We-had-garfish-for-dinner-they-have-blue-bones-Lars-treated-us-to-ice-cream-boats-because-he-got-a-new-job-we-won’t-be-seeing-him-anymore.”

“What about after dinner?” Valborg continues. She has always been good at communicating with him. “Did you watch TV in the common room?”

“I-went-for-a-walk.”

“Where?” asks Anne-Maj.

“Algade,” he thinks for a moment. “They-were-teasing-me.”

“Who?”

“The-boys-on-the-scooters.” He looks down, and it seems as though he may be losing his concentration. Either that or he is trying to repress an unpleasant situation he had with some of the young people of the town who often have nothing else to do other than ride around on their scooters and make a racket in the streets. She can imagine Stanley being an easy target for their teasing remarks. “Idiot-and-worse-they-shouted-at-me.”

“They should be ashamed of themselves,” says Anne-Maj. Stanley shakes his head. He doesn’t want to say anything more even though they try to pull more details out of him – just for the sake of the game, as Valborg puts it. Finally, he is on the verge of tears. Valborg and Anne-Maj exchange glances.

“You know what I did that Sunday?” Anne-Maj exclaims cunningly, partially to shift the focus of attention from Stanley, who has clearly had enough of being the centre of attention, and partially to get the alibis from the others on that day. She tells them about the roast pork and the family dinner, fabricates some afternoon activities in the garden, tells them about that week’s hard crossword puzzle. Then the others talk about their days which are almost exact replicas of that Sunday that the women had talked about previously, taking walks, having more or less solitary dinners, going on family visits, watching Midsomer Murders, doing garden work. All of it entirely useless, once again. This is hopeless, Anne-Maj thinks when they shortly afterwards discover that the rain has passed. Lis rushes out with her Damborg shopping bag before it starts raining again. Åge will wonder why she hasn’t come home to make his lunch if she’s away much longer, she says. The others disperse in the store. There hasn’t been a single customer in the shop while they’ve been chatting in the back room. Well, thinks, Anne-Maj, there’s no reason to panic. Most of the customers turn up in the afternoon hours. She packs up the rest of the pretzel cake and gives it to Stanley. “Now you have something to go with your evening coffee,” she says. Stanley beams from ear to ear. The upset state he was in before seems to have completely vanished.

Anne-Maj goes out to the store. Else has removed the small display of stuffed animals and children’s books and is busy arranging a new one. She has covered the narrow table with a piece of black velour and is now arranging a number of popular crime novels, a toy revolver and a brass letter opener against a sombre background.

“What do you think?”

“It’s very impressive, Else,” Anne-Maj responds. “But shouldn’t we have talked about it first? We’re supposed to be running this section together, remember?”

“Do you want me to take it back down?”

“No, no,” says Anne-Maj, “like I said, it looks impressive, Else, it’s just that, another time you might perhaps ask …”

They are interrupted by a customer who makes a beeline directly for the velour-covered table. “Wow,” she says as she picks up a couple of copies from a popular Danish crime novel series. “These are the exact two that I’m missing. How much do they cost?”

“Fifteen a piece,” says Anne-Maj. “So, it’ll come to thirty all in all.”

“If I buy both of them can I get them for twenty-five instead?”

Anne-Maj will never understand people who try to bargain a dirt-cheap price further down, especially when they know the money is going to a good cause. She is just about to refuse the stingy customer with a stern remark when Else breaks in.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” she says to the woman who is beaming with the triumphant look of a haggler as she takes the copies up to the till. “You see? This crime corner is a pretty good idea,” says Else as she turns towards the bookshelf to find two replacements for the books that have just been sold. “It’s good for business.”

Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders and leaves. A little while later she is standing moodily outside the store and looking up at the clouds that unfortunately look as though they are gathering. Luckily, she remembered to take the umbrella with her from the store, she discovers, and she has her keys, her wallet and her shopping list for Irma where, as far as she remembers, there is a sale on the Tusindfryd organic range this week, and …

“Anne-Maj.” The toneless voice gives her a start.

“Stanley! I hadn’t heard you come outside,” she says. “You gave me a scare.”

“I-remember-something-else.”

“Yes?” she says, looking at him. “Something from the day of the burglary?”

He nods as he looks at the ground.

“Those-boys-the-ones-with-the-scooter-shouted-I-ran-in-here.”

“Where? In this alleyway?”

He nods in the direction of the store door where the opening hours are displayed.

“All the way into the store?”

“I-have-a-key.” With a proud look in his eyes, he holds forth a bunch of keys with a very grimy-looking pendant. There is a key to the Blue Lightning and two to the cylinder locks like those used for the outer doors.

“That’s good, Stanley.” Anne-Maj’s interest has awakened. Stanley had been in the Second-Hand Shop on the day of the burglary. Perhaps he’d had something to do with it. Not necessarily on purpose, but … all at once she realises what may have happened. “Did the boys follow you in here?”

He nods.

“Did they smash the window in the door?”

He gives another nod.

“And threw things around to tease you?”

He nods once again. He is looking at the ground.

“What did you do then?”

“I-heard-them-didn’t-see-them.” He fidgets restlessly. “Hid-in-the-stock-room.”

“And after the boys left?”

“Ran-home.” Now his voice starts to tremble and a tear has made its way down his cheek.

Anne-Maj stands for a moment observing Stanley. It’s probably no use asking him about the leather jewellery box that disappeared. He clearly hadn’t seen anything, and there’s no reason to torment the man any further.

At that very moment, Valborg comes out and joins them. “What’s wrong, Stanley?” she asks, placing her hand on the shoulder of the half-sobbing man. She looks at Anne-Maj. “What happened?”

Anne-Maj gives an account of the story in broad terms as Stanley gets a chance to wipe away his tears and light a roll-up cigarette. A couple of shreds of tobacco hanging from the end of the cigarette break loose and fall smouldering to the ground.

“I-was-so-scared-that-was-really-horrible.”

Chapter 17

Sunday 19 May

“Come in, Anne-Marie.” Thomas Bergstrøm holds the door open and his wife appears behind him.

“Anne-Maj,” Feline hisses. To Anne-Maj she says, in a considerably politer tone, “I apologise … Thomas is so … absent-minded. Good to see you again.”

“Thank you for inviting me.” Anne-Maj hands Feline a big glass jar. “Here are some ginger cookies, freshly baked.”

“Thanks so much.” Even though Feline’s clothes are as drab in their colours as usual they have been livened up today by a wide, braided leather belt that gives shape to the beige-coloured shirt dress and that matches her brown heels. Heels? Anne-Maj takes a second look. Yes, it would seem that the woman is running around in high heels while packing down heirlooms in bubble wrap and cardboard boxes. These people aren’t in their right minds.

“Thanks for letting me come …”

“Oh, stop,” Thomas interrupts her, waving her repetitive ‘thank-yous’ away. “You’re the one doing us a favour.”

He’s exchanged his lawyer outfit for jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of chalk-white sneakers.

“Do you want something to take with you upstairs?” asks Feline. “A glass of white wine? A cold beer?”

“A beer would be great, thanks. It is dusty work.”

“You can go upstairs and get started if you want and I’ll bring up the drinks,” Feline says, flashing a friendly smile. Her husband disappears into the living room from which you can immediately afterwards hear bumping and dragging sounds from boxes being pushed around on a parquet floor. “I’m going through my mother-in-law’s jewellery and accessories, and I’ve discovered some really fancy items. If you need an exquisite handbag, let me know.”

“Sounds good,” says Anne-Maj, who has never caught on to the handbag craze so popular among other women. She starts her ascent. Her bad knee is bothering her today, so much so that it was with a slight sense of regret that she had to skip the morning walk in Grønnehave. She is in the worst possible mood but firmly determined to come across as cheerful and chatty during her visit here at Kildehuse. When she weighed herself this morning it turned out that she had gained – in spite of actually sticking to her diet – 100 grams which, after nineteen full days, brings her weight loss down to 1300 grams. A fact that has ruined her cheerful mood and made her hate the rest of the population. Especially, of course, the slim segment of it. It is just so unfair, she thinks, that some people can eat whatever they want all their lives without it ever being visible while others struggle like mad just to be on the right side of the BMI limit between ‘overweight’ and ‘extremely overweight’. It’s just too much! And now her knee is hurting like hell, as though it intends to punish her for those extra 100 grams.

Anne-Maj’s excuse for inviting herself out to Vips’ and Helmer’s house is actually quite clever, if she has to say so herself, and the beneficiaries didn’t raise an eyebrow when she called Feline the previous day and explained that as an act of kindness she would be willing to sort out all of Helmer’s first editions in order to see if there were any of them that the estate could sell at an auction for a profit before the Second-Hand Shop takes them over. Feline immediately accepted the offer – and so here they are. Anne-Maj has officially made herself a part of the sorting-out team. Not badly thought through, Mrs Mortensen. Not bad at all.

After the first section, she is already cursing because the shelves are so low. It really isn’t considerate for your back to have bookshelves at knee height, she thinks as she sinks down laboriously onto the floor, her back and knees protesting simultaneously. That’s just the way it’ll have to be, she thinks as she takes a pile of first editions out. They have all been signed. The most worn are in plastic sheets. Tom Kristensen, T. S. Eliot, Baudelaire. Lesser-known names both in Denmark and abroad. Some in gorgeous full binding, others thinly worn in carton covers, a few modern publications from various small publishers. Gradually, Anne-Maj comes to realise that she has taken an impossible task upon herself: she actually has no clue what the prices are for antique books as soon as they fall outside the ‘two for thirty’ category in the Second-Hand Shop.

With tremendous effort, she manages to get back on her feet and brushes the dust off her behind. She takes her can of beer and goes over to Feline who is fidgeting in the bedroom and collapses on a comfortable patinated chair in the window nook.

“Find anything good?” she asks.

Feline looks up from a drawer full of leather gloves. “A little too much, I think. Maybe I shouldn’t be stingy and just send it to the Second-Hand Shop, except, of course, for the jewellery. What do you think? Would you be able to get a decent price for these, for example?” She nods towards the bed where two original Louis Vuitton suitcases are lying on top of one another. “There is also a toilet kit from the same set. They would make a small fortune if I were to put them up for sale on an online auction site, but they’d actually be going to a good cause through you, right? Can you make a decent profit from it, or are people unwilling to pay that kind of money in a Second-Hand Shop?”

“The really valuable things are rarely sold in the store itself. We actually sell those through eBay or through an auction house.”

Feline takes her wine glass and with her back dead straight sits down at Vips’ dressing table. “And the books, are we going to do the same thing with them? Sell the ones that are most rare at an auction house? If they are really valuable I won’t ever get Thomas to go along with letting the Second-Hand Shop take the profit. Sorry.”

“I’ve looked through a great many of them now … there are some very fine copies that I think you’ll be able to get a nice price for; however, I advise you to get a professional to take a look at them.” She sees that Feline is about to object, so she adds, “Perhaps you could get the same professional to assess the paintings and furniture. That way you’d get the whole thing over and done with.”

“But we’re going to be on vacation from Monday for almost three weeks, so it’ll take a while before we can …”

“If you have an extra key, I’d be willing to see to it for you,” Anne-Maj blurts out. “I’d be happy to.”

Feline looks at her thoughtfully. “Well … I can ask Thomas whether it’d be all right to give you the key.”

Poker face, poker face. Anne-Maj really makes an effort to sound as neutral as possible when she agrees with her that that would be the easiest thing to do. Internally, she is jumping for joy. An entire three weeks where she can rummage through all their things in peace and quiet and perhaps find the clues she’s been missing.

Together they go downstairs and run Anne-Maj’s suggestion by Thomas. He immediately agrees with them. The less hassle they have in dealing with the estate the better. Having been a close friend of his deceased mother, of course Anne-Maj can have the key. By the way, he adds, she can also select a bigger item as a thank-you for her help. A piece of jewellery, perhaps?

“How kind of you,” says Anne-Maj.

Shortly afterwards she has, with the help of Feline’s laptop, found the email address for Bruun Rasmussen’s appraisal department. She composes a short message describing the types of articles that need to be appraised, gives her contact information and CCs it to Thomas and Christian’s email addresses which Feline gave to her, and presses ‘Send’.

“All right,” Anne-Maj says and leans back. She glances subconsciously at the couch at the opposite end of the room and Feline notices it.

“Was it very frightening?” she asks. “Finding Vips, I mean?”

“Well, it wasn’t pleasant,” Anne-Maj confesses. “She was lying right over there.”

Feline nods. “Yes, we know.”

“You weren’t there that night, were you? I know that the police called you immediately, but …”

“They did, yes,” Thomas says, sitting down next to his wife. “We were sleeping. I told them we wouldn’t be able to come until the following morning.” He looks at Anne-Maj. “It may seem insensitive, but we were rather bushed.”

“Had it been a hard day?”

“You could say that.” He smiles wryly. “We had hangovers from a brunch, a round of golf and then a long drive home. It’s a kind of tradition,” he explains. “We’re part of a group of friends who go on a weekend trip every spring to celebrate the new season. A new golf course each time. This time it was in Northern Jutland.”

“We didn’t come here until the next morning, I can’t see what else we could have done,” says Feline. “And it wasn’t as though we could do anything. Your mother was already dead at that point.”

“I understand perfectly well,” says Anne-Maj. “And it wasn’t even certain that you would have had the chance to see the … to see her,” Anne-Maj quickly corrects herself. There are certain words that you don’t use in front of grieving family members. “Corpse” is one of them. “Furthermore, it’s dangerous to drive when you’re as tired as you probably were. You did the right thing.”

“If only we had had a chance to say goodbye,” says Thomas. “I know for Mother it was the best way to go that she could have thought of – to pass peacefully away without having to be hospitalised beforehand and going through a terrible ordeal. But for those left behind, a sudden death is always a great shock no matter how sick and old the deceased was, and not being able to be present when …” He looks out the window and clears his throat. “I just would have liked to have been there.”

“We got there as soon as we could,” Feline says brusquely. “And so did Christian.”

“Oh, so he didn’t come until the next day, either?” Anne-Maj asks. She can barely believe her good fortune; are they just presenting their alibi gratuitously for her? And is she also going to get Christian’s on top of it? Hooray! “I guess he was at work the day before it happened?” she asks. “My impression is that he has a lot of weekend shifts.”

“He does,” says Thomas. “That’s how it is being your own boss. And yes, he worked that whole day and night. None of us were …” he swallows. “Imagine, dying all alone. We’re really awful children.”

“But your father didn’t die alone, did he? I seem to remember hearing something about …”

“No, he was hospitalised for a few days so both Mother and we were there.” He gets up, uncomfortable about being moved to tears in front of a stranger. “I’d better get back to work,” he says with a grainy voice. “How far have you got upstairs?” he asks his wife.

“I’m almost done,” she says, getting to her feet.

Feline clearly expects Anne-Maj to go back with her upstairs and continue looking at the books, but no. “It’s my back,” Anne-Maj explains. And her stupid knee. Not to mention Mortensen III who is sitting at home waiting to be taken for a walk.

The latter is a downright lie, she admits to herself. When she arrives home she finds her dachshund all curled up, looking like something between a boa constrictor and a cinnamon roll, snoring loudly and in no way in need of a walk.

Chapter 18

Monday 20 May to Tuesday 11 June

During the following three weeks, Anne-Maj is very busy. When she isn’t on duty in the Second-Hand Shop or together with Didi and Iben, she spends most of her spare time at the Bergstrøm residence in Kildehuse. In the guest-room she finds a box containing books that look identical. She grabs the top copy. The book has a picture of Helmer on the cover with the title From Orphanage to Supreme Court – it is clearly Helmer’s memoirs. It doesn’t really surprise Anne-Maj that the man was vain enough to get them published at his own expense. She doesn’t really feel like reading the book, however, even though there’s the chance it may contain interesting information. Then she checks the drawer of Vips’ bedside table which has apparently functioned as a workroom of sorts for the small, self-deprecating woman who let her husband handle all of the family’s personal finances. The papers she has left behind are also all personal in nature. No, it’s not a diary, that would have been fantastic, but an impressive collection of birthday and Christmas cards primarily from children and grandchildren. Anne-Maj discovers a notebook with a marbled cover, a meal-diary of sorts. Vips has meticulously noted down the guests and menu of every feast she has hosted throughout recent years, most definitely in order to avoid serving the same thing to the same guests twice in a row. It’s actually not a bad idea. Anne-Maj puts the notebook in her purse together with Helmer’s memoirs.

Anne-Maj works her way through the house, pulls books down from the shelves in the living room, skims randomly through them, shakes them with the spine of the books upward and the pages flapping back and forth in the hope that something might fall out. A forgotten document, an old letter, some irrefutable piece of evidence for … something or other, though Anne-Maj isn’t entirely certain what. She even looks behind the paintings in the vain hope that there might be a cash box concealed behind them, and she checks the shelves in the kitchen to see if she can find … what? A sample envelope containing cocaine behind the canned tomatoes? A thick bundle of cash in the glass jar with the sugar? A bag of uncut diamonds hidden between the cookies? The latter is her preferred fantasy, because it must mean something that it was a jewellery box that disappeared in connection with the robbery at the Second-Hand Shop.

The computer is locked with a password and after Anne-Maj has made a couple of shots in the dark, she gives up. There is nothing to be found in the Bergstrøm house, she can now safely conclude. She also doesn’t know why she has felt the urge to rummage through the deceased couple’s things. If the beneficiaries have an alibi for what they were doing on the day Vips died … and you can’t possibly imagine anyone else wanting to … Anne-Maj shakes her head as though that might help make all her thoughts fall into place.

Today she has, just as she had promised, invited the appraisers from Bruun Rasmussen and helped them find their way around the house. As they are working, she serves coffee and freshly baked Finnish cookies with granulated sugar and, in general, makes sure to be at their disposal while at the same time staying out of their way.

“There is some really nice furniture here,” says one of the appraisers after some time. “Almost completely original fifties’ objects. The beneficiaries could get a lot of money for them if they decide to sell through us.” He hands Anne-Maj a piece of paper, a handwritten list. “It is, of course, just an estimate.”

“Thank you.”

“The art collection is not quite as impressive, I’m afraid. The Kurt Trampedach above the staircase is worth quite a lot and there is a small Richard Mortensen piece and some Danish paintings from the eighties that should be worth something, but the other paintings are more average. I’ve listed the most interesting works.”

Anne-Maj turns toward the specialist in old books. “And what do you think?”

“Well …” The woman rocks back and forth on the soles of her feet a little. “There are some copies that are really interesting, and if the right people come to the auction you could bring in an impressive amount of money. Baudelaire, for example. We would be more than happy to sell that one for the couple.”

“Sounds good.”

“The more modern copies are less interesting. It’s a somewhat unfocused collection. Had Helmer Bergstrøm collected more thematically, a specific author, a special bookbinder, a certain topic, then the total collection would have been worth more.”

“It can pay off to be systematic,” says Anne-Maj.

“Exactly,” the book expert says and smiles.

“But doesn’t the value of the books increase if they are signed first editions?”

“Yes,” she says, hesitating, “but not as much as you’d perhaps expect. I’ve written down what my immediate estimate is, both for the collection as a whole and for the most valuable individual copies.”

“Fine. Thank you,” says Anne-Maj, now receiving a second piece of paper.

“But there is one thing that caught my eye and I’m not quite certain what to make of it.” The woman holds out a worn leather-bound book. It is lying on a plastic sheet and doesn’t make much of an impression. “This was lying behind the other books on the top shelf, probably so that it would be concealed in case of a burglary. It is a rather unusual title, you see.”

“What is it?”

“Hans Christian Andersen published his fairy tales in six small, cheap booklets. Each of these booklets is considered to be rather rare, so a somewhat well-preserved copy would be worth a lot.”

“I see.”

“This,” the expert lifts the small, thick copy, “is a complete collection of all six booklets, bound and probably a very special kind of gift.” She shows the spine of the book. Fairy Tales Told for Children it says in gold under the author’s name.

“And look at this …” She skims to a blank page in the front of the book in which beautiful, scrolled and rather indecipherable handwriting covers most of the paper, while a small drawing of a bird fills the rest of it. “This is a poem dedicated to Jenny Lind, dated September 1843, which is exactly when he was courting the Swedish opera singer and later most likely proposed to her.”

“And it is worth a lot of money?”

“You bet it is. If it’s genuine, that is. As far as we know, there are only two other copies that contain a dedication to the ‘Swedish Nightingale’, as she was called.” The book expert slips the book back into the plastic protective cover. “I was thinking …” She looks at Anne-Maj. “Do you think it would be okay with the owners if I took it with me? I’d like to examine it some more and get a Hans Christian Andersen expert to take a look at it. If it is genuine, then it will be a small sensation. If it isn’t then it’s the most convincing fake I’ve seen yet.”

Anne-Maj gives her permission and gets a receipt for the potentially valuable book. The two experts drive away in their car and Anne-Maj goes to the kitchen to wash up the cups before she puts the lists and the receipt aside on the kitchen table together with the key and a note to the Bergstrøm beneficiaries. She shuts the door behind her one last time.

It’s Tuesday after Pentecost, and Thomas and Feline Bergstrøm must have returned to their home in Charlottenlund after their long vacation in Thailand. Anne-Maj has rummaged through everything in the house in Kildehuse without finding anything, not a single thing, despite all her efforts. She is deeply frustrated when, later in the afternoon, she sinks into her garden sofa in the shade of the big pear tree. The air is warm and mild; in a few weeks the period of the light evenings will reach its climax and the birds are singing away as though they are getting paid for it. Anne-Maj senses the smell of lighter fuel and burning charcoal. Jonas is busy lighting up his barbecue for the first time this year. For the first and unfortunately not the last time, Anne-Maj thinks with dismay. The stench of a barbecue has never been her favourite smell and is one of the reasons why she has never engaged in that sort of cooking. If she wants that sort of food, she can simply use the grill element in her oven and, in general, she prefers preparing her meals in a room built for that very purpose as opposed to having to juggle sausages and ketchup and bloody burgers and grill forks and bags of charcoal in the garden. It is burdensome and unhygienic, is what it is, and the risk of ruining a good piece of meat is pretty high.

On the other hand, she thinks … the scent of a barbecue is a true sign that summer is on its way. She closes her eyes and sleepily lets her thoughts drift. Perhaps one should just try to learn to enjoy it just like you enjoy all the other signs that summer is near. The tourist season is in its initial stage, the summer house owners are starting to fill the pavements with bustling life and children eating ice cream, the local businesses get that yearly shot in the arm and then there is the possibility to get a little tan on one’s pale legs. Perhaps the diet will be a touch easier for her once her small greenhouse starts bursting with tomatoes … and cucumbers … and the most beautiful … crisp … mmm … red peppers. She is very close to falling asleep now.

At that very moment, the thought pops up again, the thought that time and again has been fluttering about just beyond her reach. A specific scent brings back the memory of another one. Suddenly she knows what it is. She opens her eyes and is awake all at once. Fernet-Branca. It’s the scent that is always lingering in the lunch-room, the one that can often just be sensed through Kylle’s overpowering perfume. That was the scent that had been lingering in Vips’ living room the night Anne-Maj discovered her body. The scent had been so odd, so out of context. Vips never drank when she was alone, she had said so on several occasions, but there is no mistaking that particular scent. Nothing smells like Fernet-Branca. Why had it been in Vips’ living room that night? It’s very strange. Although, Anne-Maj thinks, maybe it wasn’t so strange after all. There is the possibility that Vips lied about her drinking habits. If she did, she wouldn’t be the first or the last in world history to have done so.

But along with the memory of the distinct spicy scent, other details soon emerge: the warm glow of the reading lamp that only just managed to reach the furthest corner of the living room; Vips, who lay so neatly with her thin, wrinkled hands folded on her chest; the slippers that were on the floor next to the couch; the half-finished crossword puzzle on the table. And the wig that sat so strangely on her head … what if I don’t remember correctly? Anne-Maj thinks.

She sits up and tries to sum up the whole thing for herself: the volunteers who have neither a proper alibi nor a motive, unless Valborg was willing to commit murder to acquire liquidity for the store, versus the beneficiaries with their lack of money and their watertight alibis and perfect motives – at least, when it comes to Thomas and Feline. The lack of an autopsy, which makes finding evidence impossible. A whole case that wouldn’t be a case at all had it not been for Anne-Maj’s feelings and intuitions. What if Anders Hall is right? What if that wig just happened to be sitting a little skewed like the ambulance paramedics said? What if that jewellery box had been snatched by one of the volunteers who had been too embarrassed to admit that they had done it afterwards? What if I’m simply mistaken? she thinks. Maybe this whole investigation is just a result of my, at times, too lively imagination?

I’ll discuss the situation with Iben, Anne-Maj decides. It was, after all, her often rather irritating yet clear-headed daughter who had urged her to start the investigation. Perhaps she can help shut it back down?

Anne-Maj stretches, goes out to make a cup of coffee and then writes a text message. “Can I drop by tonight? I need to hear your opinion on something. I’ll make dinner.” She stands for a moment looking at the short message. Then she changes the last sentence to the safer version: “I can make dinner, if you’d like.” Smiley face, heart, spaghetti emoji. Send.

Chapter 19

Tuesday, 11 June

At half-past six Anne-Maj goes into Netto supermarket and buys the ingredients for spaghetti Bolognaise and a green salad. She considers whether she should buy a bag of fusilli as well in order to ensure that Didi has enough to eat, but then abandons the idea. The child has declared that she eats “varied” – so a different kind of pasta than fusilli must be acceptable, perhaps even with something as advanced as a blob of ketchup. But in order to demonstrate a little goodwill, Anne-Maj buys a cucumber that can be sliced lengthways to the size that Didi can handle. She herself shouldn’t really be eating spaghetti Bolognaise. She has, after a regimen of almost six weeks of dieting, only managed to lose 2.3 kilos, but today her body is simply screaming for carbohydrates. The new lifestyle will have to wait and continue tomorrow, she thinks.

Her dachshund has not been pleased with being tied up on his lead waiting for her in front of the supermarket. She can hear Mortensen barking as soon as she approaches the exit. A young woman in flip-flops sends Anne-Maj an indignant look when she realises who owns the poor abandoned creature. Anne-Maj tries to ignore both the woman and the pain in her knee as she squats down to scratch her dog’s ears. His little bearded old-man’s face lights up, and the deeply traumatic lack of attention in the recent minutes is already forgotten. Anne-Maj gets to her feet with difficulty by supporting herself against the wall, grabs hold of her shopping bag, and takes the dog lead in her other hand before she starts making her way towards the Second-Hand Shop, limping slightly. It’s empty inside, which isn’t surprising since it’s more than an hour past their closing time. She finds the key and lets herself in before releasing Mortensen and letting him shuffle around on his own. The sound of his claws clicking against the floor and the lead dragging after him pervades the rooms. The store seems dark to Anne-Maj after having been exposed to the bright sunshine outside, but she doesn’t turn on the ceiling light. That’s unnecessary since the only errand she needs to do is in the lunch-room. She goes in there and immediately finds Didi’s school bag. The reason why it has ended up here is typical for a ten-year-old: Didi came by here earlier in the afternoon to do her homework in the lunch-room without thinking about the fact that it was Tuesday – one of Anne-Maj’s scheduled days off. Didi had put her school bag aside in the back and had started looking for books in the unattended book section. When she headed home a little later with a pile of cartoon magazines, which Kylle had let her get on credit, the forgetful kid forgot to take her school bag with her. Didi will, of course, have to use her school things early tomorrow morning but didn’t discover it until after closing hours – so she immediately called her grandmother. What else are grandmothers for?

Anne-Maj immediately notices two things at once: the door to the back room is wide open and the sound of clicking claws against the vinyl floor has fallen silent. She quickly puts two and two together and throws her handbag and the school bag aside and runs after her dog. The courtyard borders on the town’s busiest car park, and Mortensen is anything but used to navigating in traffic. Then she hears him bark excitedly and loudly and in a way she has never heard him bark before. Anne-Maj walks in the direction of the sound. It’s coming from the Blue Lightning which is parked in its permanent spot furthest back in the courtyard. As she gets closer she sees that the back is open, and when she has reached the van’s bonnet, she discovers that Mortensen is completely right – there is something very wrong.

Stanley is lying on his stomach on the ground next to the vehicle; one of his arms is pulled up across his face and his right cheek is resting in a small puddle of vomit. The eye that is visible is partially open but completely devoid of life. There is a transparent rubbish bag lying next to him full of clothes. Anne-Maj isn’t in doubt for one moment – Stanley is dead, but she still bends over him and tries to feel his pulse on the side of his neck. Nothing. Stanley’s heart is no longer beating in his stockily built body, which is still lukewarm. Anne-Maj is no specialist in corpses, but one thing she is certain of, he hasn’t been dead for long. A half-hour, maybe a whole hour, taking the mild weather into consideration. That would mean that he collapsed out here immediately after the store’s closing time, probably when he wanted to carry the day’s collection of used clothes from the donation box into the storage room. When she straightens up, she senses it: the scent of Fernet-Branca. It blends with the smell of fresh vomit and smells just as vividly as if she had a glass of the bitter drink right before her. It can’t be a coincidence, Anne-Maj thinks. Three sudden deaths within the course of just a few months; the deceased even worked at the same shop. And then that scent both in connection with Vips’ and Stanley’s bodies. The taste of the strong, bitter drink would be perfect for covering up the taste of poison, Anne-Maj thinks. It must mean something. It can’t be a mere coincidence. All of her concerns from earlier in the afternoon that the whole thing was just her imagination have completely vanished now. She calls the emergency services. Stay with him, the lady says after she has taken Anne-Maj’s contact information, the ambulance will be there as soon as possible. Which isn’t necessarily all that fast, Anne-Maj recalls from last time.

Last time? Indeed, she was the one who found Vips’ body, she thinks. She sends a text message to Iben saying that she’ll be delayed indefinitely. Had this been a crime novel, the sheer fact that she had been the first person at the scene of the murder in two instances would automatically make her a prime suspect. Furthermore, she doesn’t have an alibi for either the first, second or third day that you would need to have if all three deaths are connected. The only thing she doesn’t have is a motive; however, she recently heard a retired detective say in a radio interview that the police always consider the motive to be a secondary factor. The investigators are more interested in knowing who has had the opportunity to commit the murder and connect the individual in question with the scene of the crime and where the body was found with the help of forensics. You can always consider the motives afterwards.

Maybe, Anne-Maj thinks as she sits down on the smoker’s bench, holding a firm grip on Mortensen’s lead, maybe it’s not in her interest to continue insisting that the authorities should be treating these events as one crime. What if she suddenly came under the spotlight? She only knows one person who is familiar enough with the methods used by the police and who could advise her and even tell her whether she should seek legal advice at this point. Anne-Maj looks at her watch. It’s much too late for a polite person to call someone who has most probably finished work just a few hours ago. But she isn’t that polite, she thinks. Anders Hall immediately picks up the phone. He is out of breath, which turns out not to be so strange: the young policeman is out jogging in the good weather. However, he is still able to speak coherently, which in itself is rather impressive, Anne-Maj thinks, who isn’t able to utter so much as a word if she has walked up a hill in Grønnehave forest. She explains the situation to Anders: why, to her, Stanley’s death confirms that the three murders and the burglary aren’t coincidental. Tells him about her attempt to find alibis and how she searched through Helmer’s and Vips’ home. She ignores the despondent sighs the police officer lets out as he receives the various pieces of information. Finally, she asks him what she should do. Does he think that the Homicide Department will take the case seriously now? Or should she gather alibis on her own for today? Would it be possible to ensure that an autopsy is performed this time? Is there a risk that the police will consider her, Anne-Maj, a prime suspect?

“Don’t do anything, Anne-Maj,” Anders says when she finally stops talking. “I’m sure a patrol is on its way, but I can call and check up on that if you want.” His breathing is more steady now. “When you explain the connection with the other murders, I’m sure the officers will notify the Criminal Investigation Division so they can determine whether there is anything strange about Stanley Hjort’s death. In which case you will definitely be called in as a witness, but I can’t imagine anyone suspecting you of anything.”

“Okay.”

“But if I were you …” He is silent for a moment. “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention anything about the alibis to the investigators. It isn’t advantageous for civilians to run around posing as the police.”

“But I’m not.”

“I don’t know what you want to call it. Interrogating witnesses is our job, not anyone else’s, and if the investigators find that gathering alibis is going to be necessary, they’ll do it themselves.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Just stay where you are.”

When the conversation is over, she gets hold of Iben and explains the situation and why she can’t join them for dinner tonight.

“This time there’s no doubt that it’s murder, right? Doesn’t it sound like a poisoning of some kind? Arsenic or something like that?”

“Yes,” says Anne-Maj. “And then there’s the thing with the scent …” At which point she informs Iben of her suspicion that the bitter drink has been used to conceal the unpleasant taste of a poisonous chemical. “Or is that too far-fetched?”

“Not at all, Mum.”

“So, you don’t think it would be stupid to mention it to the police?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Well, I’m supposed to stay here and wait for them at any rate.”

“I’m on my way home now. Do you want me to drop by and pick up Mortensen?” Iben asks. “He’ll just get bored having to wait there for hours.”

“Thank you.” Anne-Maj looks down at the dog who has indeed curled himself up under the bench with a rather resigned look. “Just go to the back of the store … I also have Didi’s school bag and everything I bought to make dinner. You can just take that with you and cook it yourself.”

Her daughter sighs. “It isn’t something very advanced that takes up half the evening to make, is it?”

“Not at all. Spaghetti Bolognaise.”

Anne-Maj goes back to the Blue Lightning and stands there staring down at the dead man for a little while. It’s all so unreal. The day-to-day routine with Iben and Didi and school bags and spaghetti and dog walks, and then there is this poor man whose death clearly came rather abruptly while he was performing unpaid work for the most vulnerable members of society. Those two universes aren’t at all connected with one another. Anne-Maj isn’t geared towards having to deal with blood and murder weapons and sinister motives other than in books, and the fact that she finds herself in the middle of a potential murder case is simply incomprehensible. Everything that is important to her in her day-to-day life has now been pushed to the background. She can’t tear her eyes away from Stanley’s body.

What does she really know about him? Of course, nothing other than that he was brain-injured yet still well enough to be able to keep his driver’s licence and hold down a job – as long as the tasks were clearly defined. As far as she remembers, he lived in a group home in the eastern periphery of town. Anne-Maj knows that a large woman with a close-cropped haircut has, every now and then, held a meeting with Valborg to talk about Stanley’s work in the store, and she vaguely remembers something about him mentioning a support aide by the name of Lars. That’s all she knows. Valborg probably knows a lot more, but since she is such a discreet person she has never informed the other volunteers what the meetings with the short-haired woman revealed.

Iben arrives a few minutes before the ambulance and retrieves Mortensen, the backpack and the shopping bag. Out of curiosity, she casts a glance at Stanley’s body and grimaces in horror whereupon she looks at her mother. “You are being careful, right?”

Anne-Maj shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I mean it, Mum. If anyone’s done this on purpose,” she says, nodding down at the body, “then they’re pretty dangerous.”

“I am careful.”

Iben looks as though she’s about to say something more but at that very moment the ambulance arrives, and she goes home with her load. Thereafter flow some very chaotic minutes. Anne-Maj has to answer a number of questions posed by the squad leader, who also assisted in connection with Vips’ death. Shortly afterwards, a patrol car pulls up and parks a few metres away, and from then on, Anne-Maj is pushed out towards the periphery. She is ordered to leave the courtyard and the store entirely, which is now cordoned off with plastic ribbon. The ambulance crew are standing outside the barricade waiting to receive orders as a police officer talks on the phone. All the professionals maintain a good deal of distance from the body as well as the old delivery van, and shortly afterwards, a silver-coloured passenger car arrives carrying a tall middle-aged man and a thirty-something red-headed woman, both wearing civilian clothes. After having examined the body for some time the woman walks over to Anne-Maj. She greets her politely, asks her a few questions, takes down her name and address and tells her that she’ll hear from them if they need her help. When she indicates that she is going to make her way back to her partner and the doctor who has arrived in the meantime, Anne-Maj blurts out, “Do you realise that this is the third murder in a row?”

The red-headed investigator turns toward her. “What do you mean?” And Anne-Maj tells her story for the umpteenth time.

Chapter 20

Wednesday 12 June

The diet has officially been cancelled. Or at least postponed. When Anne-Maj returned home the previous night, she poured herself a big glass of white wine before she had even taken off her coat and, without hesitation, devoured a bag of crisps while enjoying her second glass. She really craved alcohol, fat and carbohydrates after the meeting with the investigators from the Criminal Investigation Division. What a hopeless name, she thinks. Anne-Maj has a suspicion that in their work-a-day lives they refer to the department by its old name which is still used by laymen: the Homicide Division. Pure and simple.

At any rate, the diet has now seriously been put on pause and when Anne-Maj sits down at the breakfast table on Wednesday morning, there is both forbidden white bread, homemade, taken out of the freezer last night, as well as cheese and orange marmalade on the table. She has lost so few pounds since she began the diet that her motivation is at rock bottom. Furthermore, she can always take it up again, she thinks, and takes a big bite of the sinful bread which is perfectly balanced with salt and a dash of sugar, and with the wonderful hard crust which is the result of good sourdough and allowing enough time to prove. It’s not the kind of bread that you can buy, she praises herself, since there is no one at her local shops who can do it.

For once she has this Wednesday off. ‘The Second-Hand Shop will be closed until the police are done with their investigations,’ Ruth has written on a post in their Facebook group. After Anne-Maj has taken her last bite and washed it down with pure black coffee the phone rings, as if on cue. It is Anders Hall.

“Well,” he says without introducing himself, “were you satisfied with the efforts of the police yesterday?”

“They produced two entirely different police officers and a medical examiner.”

“I know.”

“I explained everything to them.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’m just happy they’re going to take it more seriously this time,” Anne-Maj says as she opens the garden door so Mortensen can get out. “It was about time.”

“Yes, but hold your horses for a moment. The fact that Commissioner Krause is looking into the case doesn’t necessarily mean he agrees that it was a murder.”

“It was,” says Anne-Maj as she pours herself another cup of coffee and goes out on the terrace. “I’m certain of it.”

“My colleagues don’t sound quite as convinced,” says Anders. “But it is a suspicious death, I suppose … I spoke with Signe …”

“You mean the red-head?” Anne-Maj asks.

“Yes, I discussed the situation with her last night when they were on their way out of there. She called me from the car.” He clears his throat. “I also spoke with her right after you called me yesterday. Just to be sure somebody would go up there …”

“And?”

“They’re not taking it especially seriously, Anne-Maj.”

And why should they? she thinks, somewhat crestfallen. If an older, very agitated lady comes limping over to them blabbering about a triple murder and a burglary and a jewellery box that’s disappeared as she stands next to a man whose death, just like in the other two instances, could very well have been due to natural causes … would she have even taken it seriously herself? She noticed how the eyes of the two police officers glazed over when she mentioned her assumption that this death was connected with the previous two, and that in her opinion what was taking place was a series of murders.

“They practically ordered me to stay away from the area.”

“I told you they would.”

“But an autopsy will be performed this time, right?”

“I really couldn’t say for sure.”

“Could you maybe find out for me? Just for the sake of my peace of mind?”

Anders lets out a deep sigh. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything, I work in a completely different–”

“–department,” Anne-Maj concludes his sentence for him. “And you don’t have any further access to their system. I know. But you do have the same cafeteria and printer room and that sort of thing, right? You’re all located in Roskilde, right?” When he doesn’t respond, she continues, “You know Signe, don’t you? Can’t you ask her … just off the record?”

Anne-Maj remains sitting on the terrace a little while longer, finishes her coffee, and tries to gather some energy to do a little gardening in the beautiful June weather now that she’s got an unexpected day off. Some weeding needs to be done around the blooming dahlias and in the flower beds. The lawn needs mowing, and she really ought to tie up that clematis before it topples over from the fence. But her mind isn’t geared up for garden work. Or cleaning, for that matter, even though the interior of the house is in a critical state. Her urge to do something practical is unfortunately only directed at the murder case. The problem is that she can’t actually do anything. A direct prohibition from the authorities can’t be disregarded, she says to herself without being entirely convinced. At least, she ought not to do the thing that she finds most crucial right now: gathering the alibis. Okay, she thinks as she gets to her feet with the empty cup. I’ll wait. But if by the end of the day, the police haven’t declared that this is going to be treated as a murder case, then she’ll have to do something.

At that very moment she suddenly remembers the items that she took from Helmer’s and Vips’ house without checking with the beneficiaries first, which is also the reason why she can’t share them with the police. The little menu book from Vips’ nightstand as well as Helmer’s memoirs. They might be worth having a look at. Anne-Maj finds Helmer’s book and settles down on the couch. Until now, she has not really taken the time to look at it. The cover is made according to a template and is typical for self-published books of that kind, which are published for family and friends. It has a uniformly dark-blue colour with a single skewed portrait of Helmer as a considerably younger man – around forty, if Anne-Maj were to make an educated guess. He is dressed very formally, as though the picture has been taken in a work-related situation and is supposed to instil faith among the handsome lawyer’s potential clients. They haven’t spent money on a professional cover designer, and probably not on an editor or proofreader, either, she thinks, after having cast a glance at the cramped typography of the inside of the book. She doesn’t understand why the finicky, vain Helmer didn’t get a professional to help him. But perhaps he thought he could handle that himself.

Anne-Maj starts tackling From Orphanage to Supreme Court. Fortunately, there aren’t that many typos and the story is in certain passages fairly interesting. The story of how Helmer was placed in a not-too-friendly orphanage at the age of eleven after his mother’s sudden death is touching, and the sense of relief when after two months he is allowed to live with his aunt and her husband is very poignant. To refer to yourself as a child of an orphanage is perhaps stretching it a bit, Anne-Maj thinks, but it does sound good, she has to give him that. Perhaps Helmer didn’t have much talent for book-craftsmanship, but he was good at coming up with catchy titles. The next few pages deal with how good a pupil Helmer was in school and how many mischievous yet unoriginal tricks he managed to pull off despite all his virtuous diligence. Then came his secondary school days which he, of course, got through triumphantly – every single grade is meticulously recorded – and the years as a law student at Copenhagen University. Since Helmer came from a modest background, he was forced to take up various student jobs. The one he had been most fond of was working at that bookstore in Fiolstræde; however, it had been while he was a waiter during the summer season that he met Vips. For a few chapters that lovely young lady has the main role, but it stops abruptly a year after their wedding. From then on, his wife is only mentioned in connection with first the one and then both boys. After their arrival Vips is referred to for the most part as “the boys’ mother”.

Anne-Maj gets interrupted by the telephone. Again, it is Anders Hall. “I have some news for you,” he says. “But I sure as hell don’t want you to tell anyone that you got it from me. If it turns out to be a murder after all, then you will automatically come under the police spotlight. It can’t be on my watch that a suspect has been informed by me.”

“And yet that’s what you’re doing,” she says tersely.

“Had it not been for you and your suspicions then we – I mean they – would probably have never opened the investigation,” he replies. “I personally can’t imagine a guilty person so persistently drawing the police’s attention to a crime they committed.”

“So, there is talk of an investigation?”

“It’s too early to say,” says Anders. “Stanley Hjort is going to have an autopsy performed this afternoon. It may be a poisoning, the medical examiner has said, but whether it is an accident, a suicide or a murder is impossible to determine at this point. Signe and Krause are already busy interrogating witnesses just to be on the safe side and I’m certain that they’ll want to talk with you again.”

“They’re more than welcome to,” Anne-Maj says and thinks for a moment. “Is that to say that they are gathering alibis now?”

“They’ll probably start doing that, yes. And then they’ll talk with those living in the surrounding area as to whether they saw anything.”

“Living in the surrounding area? There are no homes with a view to that part of the car park. It is surrounded by the back walls of various shops. It would make much more sense for them to talk with …”

“Let them do their job, Anne-Maj,” Anders interrupts her. “Don’t call me again, I’ve already said too much.”

Chapter 21

Friday 14 June

Anne-Maj is in the Second-Hand Shop to sort through a box of newly donated books. Some are so worn that she throws them out, but the rest are actually in good condition. The only problem is the books written in English. She knows that there are buyers of English language books, but most of the store’s customers aren’t proficient enough in foreign languages to be able to spell their way through an Anne Tyler novel or a short story collection by Alice Munro. She knows that Else wouldn’t hesitate a single second in throwing that sort of “foreign nonsense” away, but Anne-Maj isn’t sure. It would simply be a shame, she thinks, even though she herself only reads novels in Danish, but she knows that Iben, for example, always insists on reading Anglo-Saxon literature in the original language. Finally, Anne-Maj places all the English books on top of the bookshelf. She’ll get in touch with Iben and give her a heads up; maybe she’ll want to buy some of them.

Kylle is sitting at the till, and it looks as though she’s half-asleep, and Ruth is standing by the ironing board in the storage room, busy ironing some shirts for the men’s section. You can hear her humming out there. It is incredible that she is able to, Anne-Maj thinks, considering that her latest theory is that she’s developing COPD, even though she has never smoked, worked with asbestos, or had any other associated risk behaviour. The doctor can’t confirm her suspicion, but that is undoubtedly something to do with a flaw with his instrument, Ruth believes. At any rate, she is healthy enough to be able to hum, and Anne-Maj is happy to hear that. The store couldn’t cope with more deaths, at least not when it comes to the work schedule.

Anne-Maj goes out to the lunch-room to rest her bad knee for a moment. Valborg is sitting there seeing to business affairs with a very grim look on her face. She is the one who feels the impact of Stanley’s death the most; not only did she genuinely care for the gentle, clumsy man, she is also the one who will have to find a replacement for him. It’s as though it’s not until now that everyone realises just how much he contributed to the store in his own quiet way. For years the man vacuumed, washed the floors, made sure to empty and fill the dishwasher, dragged around all the things the other volunteers didn’t have the energy for, drove to the recycling centre, emptied the container with the donations and so on and so on. All of it amounted to several hours of work every day for which he didn’t receive a single penny. How are they going to find a worker like that again? thinks Anne-Maj who can see that that is precisely what Valborg is pondering right now. It’s hard enough just finding new, fairly agile volunteers who are willing to commit themselves to work a few afternoons a week, but what they’re facing now is a practically impossible task. It wouldn’t even be a solution if they were to spend the inheritance from Vips to pay someone or other to handle the heaviest of the workload while the ladies saw to the cleaning, and so on. They would run out of money very quickly and it would be optimistic to think that the Nationwide Association of Second-Hand Shops would be willing to step in and employ someone when all the other stores of the organisation can manage without having to pay out a salary.

“I wonder if there might be a different way of finding volunteers that wouldn’t cost us anything?” Valborg says. “Not necessarily to find a new Stanley – we’d be hard-pressed to come across someone like him – but just more generally.”

“Well, it’d be worth a try,” says Anne-Maj. She sits down at the table with a glass of water. “We could place a post in the Nykøbing and the Egebjerg Facebook groups. They also have a group in Rørvig too, I presume. Have you spoken with Ruth about it?”

“No, but it wouldn’t be enough. Facebook may be efficient for those who use it, but many in our age group don’t. Perhaps we could put up a note on the noticeboards in Netto and Brugsen.”

“Good idea. And perhaps we could emphasise that we’re looking for volunteers of all ages. Maybe we’ll be lucky and an unemployed man with more physical strength than us will respond to it.”

“Ha!” Valborg practically yelps. “People on benefits lose part of their payments if they take a job, regardless of whether it is salaried or not. Because then you’re not available for the job market. No …” she collects her papers in a neat pile, “our only hope is pensioners, and if we’re really lucky it’ll be an early retiree like Stanley who responds.” Valborg looks dispirited. “I just can’t fathom that he’s not with us anymore.”

“You were together with him on Tuesday, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Valborg sighs. “Lis and I had a quick drink with him before going our separate ways, just as a little end-of-the-day thing. We must have been the last ones to see him.”

Aha, Anne-Maj thinks, that explains that penetrating smell coming from the body. Out loud she says, as though the thought had just struck her, “I wonder what he died from? Did he have a heart condition?”

“Not as far as I know,” says Valborg. “But I intend to ask Jeanette, his primary social worker, about that. I think you’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“The one with the close crop?”

Valborg nods. “She’s coming tomorrow morning so we can talk about the funeral service. Jeanette knows a lot more than I do about the state of Stanley’s health.” She sits staring ahead of her for a moment. “Do you realise that we – I mean, those of us working as volunteers in this store – were the closest he ever got to having a family, aside from the home he lived in? It’s sad to think of, isn’t it? We had so little to do with him and he considered us to be his closest acquaintances.”

“You don’t think …” Anne-Maj says, glancing at the door, “that he was poisoned, do you?”

Valborg frowns. “Are you starting in on that, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t the police spoken with you yet? They’ve contacted the rest of us.”

“Yes, they have,” says Anne-Maj. “I was the one who found him …” And I haven’t heard a word from them since, she thinks bitterly.

“Well, there must be a reason why they’re taking such an interest in Stanley’s death,” Valborg persists. “I just don’t think gossiping about it will lead to anything. It creates such a bad atmosphere.”

Yes, and a bad atmosphere is the worst thing that can befall us, Anne-Maj thinks. Much worse than a murder. She gets up and goes to her bookshelves. The last plastic bag is quickly emptied, and she puts the books that have to be trashed in the Blue Lightning. She might as well take advantage of the fact that there are so few customers in the store today and take a trip to the recycling centre with various things that have to be thrown away. She looks around, finds four bags of clothes that are much too worn to be sold and therefore need to be sent further on in the system to be transformed into grey transport blankets for moving companies, and a couple of bags of shoes that are so worn that no one in their right mind would ever buy them. She grabs the van keys from their regular spot, hanging from the hook by the back-door, and starts heading for the recycling centre. The delivery van has a couple of decades behind it, but Stanley meticulously maintained it and it runs very smoothly. She reaches the recycling centre, which is in the northern-most outskirts of town. And it is at that point that Anders Hall calls her, just as she is trying to balance a bag of old junk at the edge of a slightly-too-tall container. Grateful for the disturbance, she gives the plastic bag an extra hard shove so that it drops down to the rest of the rubbish and takes the call.

“Is there anything new? Has the autopsy been performed? What did it show?” The questions fly out of her mouth like bullets from a gun. Even she can hear that she sounds a bit too eager.

Anders apparently agrees with her. “Stop, stop, stop,” he says. “Take a deep breath.”

“It’s very kind of you to call,” Anne-Maj says, pushing herself into the front seat.

“There’s something new,” he says. “And the reason I have decided to inform you is that it turns out that you were right. Furthermore, I’m not telling you anything that won’t be made public in the press release coming out this afternoon. Or, at least, almost not.”

“So I was right? It was a murder?”

“Perhaps. The medical examiner is, at any rate, fairly sure that Stanley Hjort was poisoned.”

“With what? Arsenic? Strychnine?” Those are the only toxic chemicals Anne-Maj can come up with off the top of her head.

“She claims it looks like an al-ch-ma-loid.” It sounds like he’s reading it from a piece of paper. “But precisely which one she won’t be able to tell until she’s received a report from the toxicologist.”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “But an actual investigation has now been opened.”

Anne-Maj senses a trace of satisfaction in his voice. Is he really so happy on her behalf? Suddenly she realises why he might be in such a good mood. “So, they’ve taken you on, have they? You’re officially part of the investigation team?”

“Yup.” You can hear his smile through his voice. “Since I was the one who kept persisting with it, the boss thought he should give me a chance. It’ll be my first murder case. If it is a murder,” he quickly adds.

“Congratulations,” Anne-Maj says and means it. “I guess it’s a little bit my doing.”

“Absolutely. It has everything to do with you. That’s also why I’ve decided to let you know even though that’s not really playing it by the book. Don’t ever tell my colleagues that I did this.”

“No, of course not.”

After a short pause where she can sense his eagerness almost crackling through the telephone, she prompts him, “Was there anything else besides the suspicion of a poisoning, Anders? Have you got everyone’s alibis?”

“We’re in the process of doing that.”

“And you’re also interrogating the Bergstrøm beneficiaries, right? Thomas and Feline were back in the country when Stanley died. I don’t know about Christian, but it might be worth …”

“We haven’t even got to them, Anne-Maj. And we’re not sure whether we will. You must understand,” Anders takes a deep breath, “it’s actually only Stanley Hjort’s death that is being investigated as a possible murder, and the Bergstrøm sons had no reason to …”

“Unless he knew something about the murder of Vips and Helmer, in which case there would be an excellent reason to get rid of him.”

“Yes, but that presupposes that they were murdered, doesn’t it? And no one on the team believes that they died of anything other than natural causes.”

“Well, you’ll have to explain to your colleagues that they did.”

“We’ll see.”

There is a moment of silence again, as though he is waiting for another question. All of a sudden it dawns on Anne-Maj. “Were there any witnesses, Anders? Have you heard from anyone who might have seen something?”

“There are two witnesses. They’ve contacted us on their own initiative. One is a teenager who works in Irma supermarket who was busy piling some milk crates in the car park, and a woman who was walking her dog.”

“And?”

“The boy saw Stanley leave the Second-Hand Shop’s back entrance carrying a pair of plastic bags to the vehicle. He was smoking a cigarette and looked as though he was in a cheerful mood. He even nodded to the witness, which was apparently a little out of character for him.”

“That’s right, he was very introverted.”

“The teenager swears that Stanley was alone.”

“And the other witness, the dog walker?”

“She passed the front of the store a quarter of an hour beforehand and noticed Lis Klausen and Valborg von Schilling leaving the store together. The woman is certain of the time and just as certain of the two ladies’ identities since she is a regular customer and has chatted with them on several occasions. They spoke together for a few moments and then Lis disappeared in the direction of the pedestrian street while Valborg headed north.”

“So, in other words, their alibis are confirmed,” Anne-Maj says thoughtfully. A man with a trailer and wearing a sweater gives her a sour look because the Blue Lightning is blocking the spot in front of the container so he is forced to drag his trash a few extra metres. “On the other hand,” says Anne-Maj, completely unaffected, “it doesn’t mean anything. Stanley could have been poisoned a few hours beforehand, all depending on what kind of chemical was used.”

Chapter 22

Friday 14 June

On that same day, the book expert from Bruun Rasmussen calls. Anne-Maj can immediately tell by the sound of her voice that the news isn’t good.

“No,” the woman confirms, “it isn’t.”

“So, the book is fake?”

“As I said to you the other day, it’s extremely well-executed. The paper is from Hans Christian Andersen’s time, the print looks as though it’s original, the stitching on the spine, the pagination, the leather binding, and the gold relief are all very convincingly produced and done with the right materials and with the right number of years behind them. It must have taken many, many hours, great craftsmanship know-how and very meticulous knowledge to be able to make this book.”

“But on the other hand, it would be worth a lot of money if a collector were to fall for it.”

“I can’t imagine a real collector letting himself be fooled that way. At the museum in Odense, there was no doubt when they received it, and here in this company it would never make it to the auction house.”

There is a pregnant pause. “But yes,” she continues, “had it been real then its provenance, that is its history, the fact that it is dedicated to Jenny Lind in precisely that period, and perhaps was bound for her, as well as the fact that there most likely aren’t any other copies, makes it considerably valuable. A quarter of a million Danish kroner, I’d say. Perhaps even more if some of the international collectors make any bids. The Chinese in particular love Hans Christian Andersen.”

“Goodness. So that enormous effort of forgery was actually worth it.”

“Precisely. Exactly who made the book and how it landed in Helmer Bergstrøm’s bookshelf I obviously don’t know, but the expert from Odense recognised it immediately.” There is another pregnant pause. “The museum has had this exact copy assessed once before, fourteen years ago, and back then it was Helmer Bergstrøm who brought it in. He was considering purchasing it from a private seller and wanted to ensure that it was authentic before investing a fortune in it – which turned out to be a wise decision.”

“Who was the seller?”

“Unfortunately, there is nothing in the record regarding that. When it was discovered that the book was a fake, Helmer Bergstrøm refused to report it to the police. He just held off from purchasing the book, and in connection with that drew the seller’s attention to the fact that it was a fake.”

“Okay.”

“Yes, it’s a strange story.” The Bruun Rasmussen lady clears her throat. “I’ll send the book back together with the others when I’m through with them. There are a few of them that seem …” The book expert gives a long explanation, but Anne-Maj is only half-listening to the enthusiastic voice and picks up only a few details like “Baudelaire”, “a unique binding” and, once again, the strange foreign word, “provenance”. All of that really concerns the beneficiaries and not her, Anne-Maj thinks, but she doesn’t have the heart to interrupt her.

When the conversation is over, Anne-Maj walks around in the living room for a while pondering everything. Is this whole case in reality about a fake book in a plastic sheet? What if someone or other was convinced that it was genuine? Would the individual be willing to commit murder in order to get a hold of the book worth a quarter of a million kroner? Are the sons aware of its existence? In which case, would they really have allowed her to rummage through the bookshelves like that? Anne-Maj asks herself as she absentmindedly starts taking out the vegetables she needs for her dinner from the fridge. If you owned such a masterfully executed fake, wouldn’t you place it somewhere where it would be seen? So you would be reminded of its peculiar background, tell the story as entertainment at the dinner table maybe? Unless …

Anne-Maj straightens up, holding a celery stick in her hand like a royal sceptre. There is something terribly wrong, she thinks and lowers herself onto the kitchen stool with a less-than-royal-sounding thud. Once Helmer had discovered that the book was a fake, he would never have purchased it. It would have been returned to the seller … so why was it in Helmer’s possession? It makes no sense. One explanation could, of course, be that after he had been given a thumbs-down from the experts, he might have bought it for a trifling amount for the sake of curiosity, because he found the story to be funny. It would be out of character for the Helmer that Anne-Maj knew from the store: self-important, quarrelsome and grumpy. He didn’t exactly have a sense of humour. And even if he had found the story funny, which is highly unlikely, why had he chosen to hide it at the very back of the bookshelf?

The fridge starts to beep because the door has stayed open for too long. Still equipped with the green regalia, she gets up, shuts the refrigerator door and opens it quickly again when the beeping has stopped. She takes out the last vegetables as her brain races through the information she’s been given. Helmer’s book collection, the wealth of the home, a fake book concealed behind other books …

Anne-Maj knows that the pieces fit together in some way or other. She just doesn’t know how. She goes into the living room and lies down on the sofa and calls Iben. Sometimes it’s helpful to have someone else play devil’s advocate.

The call is answered immediately. “Hi, Mum.”

“You’re off work early, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I got this terrible headache, so the boss sent me home.” Iben yawns. “But for once we were actually busy today. All the children in the summer house areas have apparently all grown out of their sandals at the same time.”

“Oh, sounds good.” Anne-Maj hasn’t really been listening. “Really good,” she adds. “And how’s Didi?”

“Mum,” Iben says with a tired voice. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean? I just wanted to hear how …”

“Stop it. I know you, Mrs Mortensen.”

Anne-Maj sighs. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“So, what’s new?” Iben’s voice has taken on a different tone. Her curiosity has overcome her tiredness and headache. “Out with it, Mum.”

“Do you remember me telling you about that book the woman from Bruun Rasmussen found?”

“Of course.”

“It turns out it was a fake.” Anne-Maj gives an account of the conversation she had with the book expert. “And that sounds strange to me. I mean, that he still kept it. I mean, if Helmer knew it was a fake … why keep it? What was he going to use it for?”

“That’s a good question.”

“Unless …” All at once Anne-Maj knows what the answer could be. Her thoughts start racing around. She completely forgets that she’s in the middle of a conversation. For a considerable while, she is silent.

“Mum?”

“Sorry, it’s just …”

“What?”

“As far as I can tell, there is only one logical explanation for the reason why Helmer was still in possession of the book he had purchased fourteen years earlier and which he so carefully kept hidden in his bookshelf. Don’t you see?”

“You’re thinking blackmail?”

“Yes.” Anne-Maj hesitates. “If … if he was extorting money out of the person who tried to sell him the fake … is that too far-fetched?”

“I don’t know.” Now it’s Iben’s turn to remain silent for a while as her little grey cells churn. “Perhaps a little imaginative, but not inconceivable.”

Anne-Maj straightens up. “Let’s pretend for a moment, just for fun, that that was the situation. Why?” she says. “Why would anyone allow themselves to be blackmailed for such a small offence?” She scratches her ankle. “I wonder what the punishment is for trying to sell a forged book? Do you think it’s more than just having one’s fingers rapped and having to do a little community work?”

“I doubt it would warrant more than that.”

“So, it would not be worth letting someone blackmail you?”

“No,” Iben says, clearing her throat. “But what if it was a person who had something to lose? If it was someone who had a spotless record … as, let’s say, a bookstore dealer?”

“That’s a good point. It could also be a highly respected journalist who writes about culture and who collects and loves books – a bibliophile!” Anne-Maj has grown more excited. “Or an employee in the public sector who has to have a clear record?” Anne-Maj grows increasingly confident that she is right about this. If Vips knew about the extortion, then her fate was sealed. However, it doesn’t explain why Stanley had to die; but you’ve got to start somewhere, she thinks. Suddenly, Anne-Maj can’t finish the call fast enough. She needs to think it all through on her own. “Thanks for the chat,” she says abruptly. Her brain is about to melt down from all the divergent thoughts slogging around within it.

“Well, I guess now I’m no longer of any use,” Iben laughs. “No problem, Mum.”

Whenever Anne-Maj needs to give her mental activity some rest, she cooks. Cooking is meditation, it cleanses the mind and enhances the senses. And it does exactly that this time; as she slices up the vegetables in exactly equal sizes and precise angles, her brain is empty regarding anything else. All speculations about first editions and extortions and toxic poisoning vanish into thin air. Anne-Maj’s concentration is focused on the sharp knife, the battered old cutting board, and all she is thinking about is the correct order of the celery, carrots, onions and the other six or so vegetables. There’s going to be far too much minestrone, she thinks. But that’s okay. The leftovers can be frozen. Anne-Maj’s mood has improved by an impressive number of degrees.

Not until after she has finished her soup do her thoughts return to the perhaps somewhat-too-imaginative theory about blackmail. She absentmindedly puts Mortensen’s lead on him, takes a walk up Kildestræde, down along Nørregade and Svanestræde and finally heads home along Algade as her thoughts whirl around. Perhaps she ought to call Anders Hall, she thinks. Right now, she and Iben are the only ones, aside from the people at the auction house, who know the story about the fake book from the house in Kildehuse, and the police might just find this piece of information interesting. On the other hand, she debates with herself, she is convinced that it will be treated just as indifferently as the other leads she has so generously provided the authorities with over the last few weeks.

Anne-Maj is once again standing outside her little house. To think, it’s hers. It has such pretty proportions, its colours are so beautiful, from the woodwork painted in white to the powder blue colour of the façade. She especially loves the patinated red tile roof with the semi-circled window in the middle, and the light blue chimney balancing on the ridge. Along the base, the hollyhocks have grown so big that they will be ready for a magnificent blossoming in a few weeks; and in a pot by the front stairs is a Rose de Rêscht showing off its cyclamen-coloured petals and divinely beautiful scent.

This is a good place to be, Anne-Maj thinks as she lets herself in. She’s not going to say goodbye to this house before … well, before what? she thinks, shutting the door behind her. She usually finishes off the sentence with “before they carry me out” but does that really sound sensible? Isn’t it utterly unrealistic to think you can remain living in a two-storey home until you one day fall over and die? How long will she be able to manage using the stairs? If her knee doesn’t get better …

Suddenly crestfallen she sinks down in an armchair. The fact that she’s getting old is becoming increasingly clear to her. Perhaps not right away, but soon. She has always thought of old age as being far away in the distance, but that’s no longer true. If you’re in your mid-sixties, you’re already well on your way. Your sight, your hearing, your knees, hips and all the other lamentations. It’s all pretty depressing, Anne-Maj thinks as she reaches for the remote to find a little distraction. Her hand grazes Helmer Bergstrøm’s memoirs. The blue book isn’t appealing in any way. Just the thought of the old man’s vain chatter makes Anne-Maj tired. If she has to read the line “the boys’ mother” in reference to the woman in his life, the loyal, humble Vips, one more time she’ll scream.

Still, she ends up choosing the memoir as opposed to the TV. She’s just realised something. There is a possibility that Helmer Bergstrøm will mention the episode about the fake fairy tale book. If she can find out who the forger is she may find a possible murder suspect. One who is probably completely new on the scene: one who has nothing to do with either the Bergstrøm sons or with the Second-Hand Shop. At any rate, just a few lines to verify that idea would be the best argument she could use when explaining it to the police.

She takes a deep breath, opens the book to where the bookmark was placed last time she was reading it, and starts from there. The first roles as a trainee solicitor in a big law firm, the years as a gradually more established lawyer with his own firm, the right to appear before the High Court and the Supreme Court. All of which is spiced with little, boring anecdotes about wholly and semi-well-known notables whom he had as clients or sat on a committee with, and one single actress whose son he defended in a vandalism case. If Anne-Maj was starting to feel a certain dislike for Helmer, reading more of those self-glorifying memoirs certainly wasn’t diminishing that. “The boys’ mother” is mentioned less and less. The more Helmer became an important citizen in society, the less his wife mattered, it seems. His parents are given a few lines in connection with their deaths, but other than that they aren’t mentioned either. The two sons also appear sporadically, except when Thomas starts studying law and later establishes himself as a lawyer. This has clearly pleased the proud father, while Christian’s career as a successful chef is only touched upon in a few places.

As the story gradually develops, Anne-Maj finds herself becoming increasingly impatient. He and his firm and his endless list of triumphs at various courts of law. His cunningness when it came to purchasing properties, in the investment of shares, in the organisation of his firm, and on and on … It makes her want to throw up. But all at once, there is a chapter that awakens her interest. It’s almost solely about Helmer’s book collection. It was established in the sixties when he was starting to make money and as the years went on and his income steadily rose, he grew more and more serious about it. His most recent and valuable purchases are diligently listed, and then comes a passage in Helmer’s own pompous style: “As a curiosity it should be mentioned that five years ago I revealed a fake which was a very convincing copy of a rare Hans Christian Andersen book which had been offered to me by a distant acquaintance by the name of Nielsen. I am deliberately leaving out his first name as well as the title of the book in question; discretion was a condition in the agreement we subsequently made.”

And then not a word more. Anne-Maj checks the imprint on the title page. The book was published nine years ago. If you add another five years on top of that, it tallies nicely with the fourteen-year-old notes of the auction house. She dutifully skims through the rest of the memoir to see if there is any information that might indicate that Helmer was a blackmailer, but no. And somebody by the last name of Nielsen, well, good luck to the police in locating that man. Because, yes, the individual is a man, and, yes, this will be reported to the police.

Chapter 23

Saturday 15 June

“Maybe you’re right.” The officer in charge of the investigation gazes at Anne-Maj’s face inquisitively after she has told her story: the fake edition, the brief paragraph from the memoir and the book expert’s account. She has also thrown in the story about the burglary and the vandalism perpetrated against the store. And repeated her detailed account of the scent of Fernet-Branca, the backwards-sitting wig and the vague sense of not being alone in the house.

Krause is a tall, sun-tanned man, the type who is training for an Ironman triathlon or Tour de France or some other totally absurd thing, Anne-Maj thinks.

He continues, “If there really is talk of extortion then it would definitely be a good idea to expand the investigation to include Helmer and Vips Bergstrøm’s deaths.”

You don’t say? Anne-Maj suppresses a smile. She won’t gain anything by giving the impression of feeling triumphant.

“Of course, that means we’ll have to interrogate all those involved again,” says Krause. “And then we’ll have to include the beneficiaries of the Bergstrøms as possible suspects.”

That’s what I’ve been saying all along! Anne-Maj screams to herself but she still doesn’t say anything.

“We also need to talk with the expert from Bruun Rasmussen.”

I’ve already done that! Anne-Maj thinks that Krause’s calm and confident tone is the most infuriating she has ever heard.

“I’m working on it,” says Signe Olsted, the red-headed investigator who has first and foremost been responsible for interrogating the ladies. “We also need to check Bergstrøm’s bank account with that in mind.” She writes something down in her notes; she’s barely looked in Anne-Maj’s direction since they went into the meeting room. Either she’s terribly arrogant or she is making an effort not to reveal that she knows who Anders Hall’s rather unconventional informant is.

However, just to demonstrate that she is miles ahead of the professionals Anne-Maj says in a voice that is slightly too shrill, “Both the Bergstrøm sons have bulletproof alibis when it comes to Vips’ death.” When they both give her a perplexed look, she continues, somewhat desperately, “I have checked.”

“Oh.” Krause’s voice is completely neutral.

“And Helmer was hospitalised several days prior to his death, so if he was also murdered it must have been a different kind of poison that was used.”

“I see.”

“But both he and Vips were cremated, so we’ll never be able to find out.”

A few moments of uncomfortable silence pass as both Signe and Krause thoughtfully observe her. Then Krause says slowly and carefully, “I can hear that you are very preoccupied with everything that’s transpired, Anne-Maj, and I fully understand you.” He tilts his head slightly as though he is speaking to a child who has difficulty grasping the rules of what is considered to be common, good behaviour. “But you’re going to have to take a step back and let us do our job in peace.”

“You can’t forbid me from …”

“No, we neither can nor do we intend to prevent you from discussing the events with your friends and family. It must be exciting when you find yourself on the periphery of a murder investigation; it’s only human to want to tell your immediate circle that you had something to do with it.” He places both his hands on the table and spreads his fingers as though to ensure that the heavy piece of furniture doesn’t suddenly take off and fly out the open window. “But as for running around and interrogating people, which you have given the impression that you’ve been doing – that won’t do at all. Aside from the fact that you risk influencing the memories of important witnesses before we’ve had a chance to speak with them, it can also become very dangerous if you accidentally say the wrong thing to the wrong person – if in fact what we’re dealing with is a series of murders. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“It’s just like in the crime novels,” Signe adds, as though trying to aid Anne-Maj’s weak ability to understand the situation. “You know that phenomenon, don’t you? Civilians should never stick their noses into things.” She leans forward and smiles consolingly.

If you also pat my hand I’ll slap you in the face! Anne-Maj thinks.

When she leaves Nykøbing Police Station a little while afterwards where the murder investigators are temporarily headquartered right now, she is boiling with rage. Rarely has she been treated so humiliatingly, never has she felt her age exposed so mercilessly. They spoke to me as though dementia has already set in, Anne-Maj thinks as she heads toward Algade instead of going directly home. She doesn’t want to be alone now. She has to do something, talk to someone, she needs confirmation that she is still a worthy person. She decides that she won’t give up until she can deliver a solution to Signe and Krause. She’d prefer, above anything else, to show up at the station with the murderer rendered harmless and with his hands tied behind his back. That’ll teach them.

Outside the shoe store, Anne-Maj stops and tries to look past the elaborate display of rubber boots, glitter sandals and woollen slippers, but there are too many customers in there for her to go in and disturb Iben. Maybe the store can earn so much money this summer that Iben won’t have to become unemployed in the autumn, Anne-Maj thinks. Hope springs eternal.

At the grocery stand across from the pharmacy, she buys a tray of strawberries, sniffs their sweet, spicy scent so that she can feel it all the way down in her lungs but controls her urge to taste them. She’s just read a hair-raising article about E. coli bacteria in unrinsed strawberries.

Anne-Maj is still angry and needs to let off steam, so she calls Thomas Bergstrøm’s mobile phone number. Krause and Signe can go shove it where the sun don’t shine. She’s going to talk to whoever she wants whenever she wants and there is a particular issue she’d like to discuss with the Bergstrøm beneficiaries. Unfortunately, no one answers, so she puts her mobile back in her purse, turns at the corner by the pharmacy and heads towards the Second-Hand Shop. At least there she isn’t treated like an old fool. In fact, she’s one of the youngest ones. She’s one of those who can carry a few more things and reach a little higher than the others, at times perhaps also a little quicker at grasping things than the other volunteers. She even knows how to use a smartphone for things other than just making calls, and she is familiar with all the features used in online banking, Facebook and various streaming services, all of which are details that ought to generate some respect.

Else is there, of course; it’s Saturday. She is busy dusting off the shelves containing knick-knacks. Lis is sitting at the till and waves cheerfully when she sees Anne-Maj enter the store, and from the storage room, Ruth’s characteristic humming can be heard. Anne-Maj has a strong suspicion that she enjoys ironing even though she so often claims that the task will be the death of her and causes pains in her shoulders and neck.

There are no customers.

“Well, you can’t exactly say it’s busy here, can you?”

“Yes and no,” says Lis. “Just before, there were plenty of people, but right now there aren’t any.”

“The summer house crowd?”

“Looks like it.” All the locals can immediately recognise an out-of-towner from afar. It has something to do with the way they dress, with their attitude, with the somewhat idle holiday mood which surrounds them. “You’ve brought strawberries with you?”

“They need to be rinsed.”

Anne-Maj nods to Else and casts a quick glance over at the book corner where the small display currently has gardening and cookery books as its theme. In a vase is a bouquet of lilacs.

“Are you the one who brought flowers, Else?”

“Yes, they smell so good.”

“They’ll probably wither by the time the store closes,” Anne-Maj points out to her.

Else doesn’t say anything.

Anne-Maj pops her head into the storage room where Ruth is indeed busy ironing a man’s jacket. The air is saturated with steam and there is the scent of some sort of flowery-smelling chemical. When Ruth realises that she has an audience she immediately stops humming and puts her hand on her back. “It’s hard work,” she says, “especially in this heat.”

Anne-Maj mumbles something affirmative and retreats before Ruth can give her a thorough description of her body’s reaction to the heat and how her back is getting ruined by having to stand in such an unhealthy position in front of the ironing board for so long. She continues out to the lunch-room at the very moment that Valborg lets herself in through the back-door.

“Are you always here?” Anne-Maj asks.

“It feels like it at times,” says Mrs Mayor, returning her smile. “The accountant has just sent the finalised annual accounts to the main office, which has sent them on to every store to be approved … I’d like to get it over with this weekend so they can be sent off to the tax authorities.”

“Isn’t it more comfortable to look them over at home?” asks Anne-Maj, who is rinsing the strawberries.

“But then I’ll miss out on your lovely company.” Valborg looks at her. “You also tend to come to the store outside of your shift, I’ve noticed.”

“One always wants to give a hand.”

“And then you have some company, right? It’s not always easy being alone all the time. Or maybe that’s not so much of a problem for you?”

“Well, I’ve got Mortensen, my dog.”

“I know perfectly well who Mortensen is. Oh, thanks!” Valborg exclaims. “How wonderful,” she says as she takes two strawberries from the bowl Anne-Maj offers.

“I’m afraid I didn’t buy enough,” says Anne-Maj. “Maybe I should quickly run out and buy another tray.”

“No,” says Valborg, “We’ll just have to restrain ourselves a little.”

It’s seldom that Valborg is in such a cheerful mood. Practically bubbly, Anne-Maj thinks. She’s been in low spirits ever since Stanley’s death which has clearly taken a toll on her. They have finally decided on a date for the funeral service, which will take place on Friday; perhaps it is the fact that they finally got all of that settled that has lifted her spirits a little.

Ruth comes out and joins them, her face moist with perspiration and the steam from the iron. She sinks down into a chair and dabs her face with a paper towel. She isn’t interested in any strawberries, thanks anyway. She so easily gets something with her stomach, she says. In order to avoid detailed descriptions of intestinal gas, excremental consistency, nightly bathroom visits, and whatever else Ruth has read on the internet about irritable large intestines, Anne-Maj makes a quick decision and jumps in before she has time to think it over, “I’ve managed to get the police interested in all three deaths.”

“How?” asks Ruth, who has stopped in the middle of a promising sentence about what her doctor has recently told her. “What do you mean by three?”

“Helmer, Vips and Stanley. I think they’re connected. My theory,” what a wonderful-sounding phrase that is. “My theory is that they were all poisoned.”

“What did you say?” asks Else, who has just appeared. “That sounds terrible!”

“Goodness,” says Ruth, grabbing hold of her throat, “do you think there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

“What do the police say?” asks Valborg, always the sensible one.

“They are very grateful for my input,” Anne-Maj answers as she stands up straight. “Extremely grateful, in fact,” she adds. “I’ve discovered several interesting things that I have promised to keep to myself. For the sake of the investigation, of course.”

“What if it’s a psychopath who plans to kill each of us, one by one?” Ruth asks in a trembling voice. “I wonder who the next one will be.”

“But do they believe your theory?” Valborg asks. “Or is this just a random theory you’re spreading around?”

Anne-Maj bristles. “I got them to conduct an autopsy on Stanley.”

“And?”

“Everything indicates that I was right – he was poisoned.”

“Who’s been poisoned?” asks Lis, who can sense the tense mood all the way out in the store. “Stanley?”

“Helmer, Vips and Stanley were murdered, Lis, and one of us will probably be next,” says Ruth. She looks more excited than scared. Maybe she’s already begun to figure out a way in which she can take advantage of it in connection with her doctor. Sleeping pills, anti-anxiety medicine, a referral to some crisis therapy. There are many interesting possibilities.

“Take it easy,” Valborg says calmly. “So far we know nothing for sure. Right, Anne-Maj?” she asks with a discernible look in her eyes above her reading glasses, as though she’s trying to signal to Anne-Maj to cool it a little with her theories before the other three ladies get so scared stiff that they might have heart attacks.

At that very moment, Anne-Maj’s mobile phone rings. Relieved, she takes it and goes out of the room.

“Thomas Bergstrøm. You called?” He sounds like he’s busy, perhaps a little irritated at being phoned during the weekend.

“I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“I’m in the car. Shoot.”

“I was just thinking …” Suddenly Anne-Maj can’t find the words. After all, you can’t just call people out of the blue and accuse their deceased parents of blackmail. The whole thing about the fake book and what the auction lady said … seems very wrong. “Perhaps I should drop by and visit you?” she says. “It would be easier to talk about it face to face.”

“Talk about what?”

“Yes, well …” Her head is spinning. She is so stupid, so extremely stupid. “About what the people from Bruun Rasmussen got out of their evaluation,” she says feebly. “And I want to tell you properly.”

“Didn’t you leave a list at the house?”

“Yes, but–” Anne-Maj takes a deep breath, “there are a couple of things that … that I … that I don’t think they included in the report but which I may have …”

“Of course, you can come, Anne-Maj.” That is Feline’s voice and suddenly it dawns on Anne-Maj that they have loudspeakers on so that everyone in Thomas’s car can listen in on the conversation. “After all that you have done for us.”

“Thank you,” says Anne-Maj. “When would be a good time for you?”

“Come over for coffee tomorrow afternoon. Christian and his daughters will be there too.”

That’s going to disrupt the fixed Sunday dinner ritual, Anne-Maj thinks. It’s a long way to Charlottenlund and she’ll also have to get back again. But Didi and Iben will understand, she decides. Of course, they will.

Chapter 24

Sunday 16 June

“Mum! Didn’t I tell you not to run around telling everybody about your suspicions?” Iben asks with her arms folded. “Now everyone in the store knows you’re trying to dig up more information about the mystery.”

“They don’t know that,” Anne-Maj objects. “As a matter of fact, they don’t know very much. Only that I have told the police about my suspicion that the three deaths are connected. I haven’t said a word about the fake book or the money extortion or any of that.”

“I think it’s a bad idea,” Iben persists. “And now you also want to alert the main suspects?”

“I don’t think you could call them that. The man Helmer blackmailed, Nielsen … maybe the beneficiaries know more about that. If they do I need to know so I can start steering the investigation in the right direction.”

“That’s a job for the police.” Iben is running out of arguments or else she’s tired of repeating herself.

“Without me, there wouldn’t even have been an investigation,” says Anne-Maj, who doesn’t seem to mind repetitions quite as much. “It’s their own fault if they don’t want to take my advice.”

Iben shakes her head. “As long as you’re careful, Mum,” she says. “We don’t want anything happening to you.”

It’s not that often that Anne-Maj’s daughter expresses concern for her. “I’ll be careful,” she promises as she hands Iben the dog lead. “What is Didi doing?”

“She’s at Vigga’s.” Iben looks at her. “This morning I realised how seldom it is that she’s together with a friend,” she says. “The last few months she’s always alone after school and at the weekends, if she’s not with you or me. She doesn’t even talk about anyone else. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“Now that you mention it,” Anne-Maj says, considering it for a moment. “She also seems a little quiet … but I just assumed it was adolescence.”

“It might very well be that it is,” Iben says as she clicks the hook of the lead onto Mortensen’s collar and straightens back up. “But I’m going to have a talk with her. If there’s anything wrong, I’d like to know so I can do something about it if need be.”

After they have left Anne-Maj starts the dishwasher before going outside to pick some garden flowers for Feline. Deep blue columbines, light violet catnips, deep purple lupins and some greenery. She binds them together to make a beautiful bouquet, wraps the stalks in a thick layer of wet paper towels and puts the whole kit and caboodle in a plastic bag.

On her way to the car she meets Jonas who is washing windows together with his mother, a friendly woman with bobbed hair and striking black-framed spectacles. Anne-Maj has met her several times but can never remember her name.

“Have you remembered to water the flowers, Jonas?” Anne-Maj asks her neighbour. “All the flowers that have recently been planted have to have a bucketful every day in the heat.”

“Yes, they’ve just been watered,” says Jonas who is standing on a ladder and busily wiping off the top windows with a chamois leather cloth.

“Well it’s no thanks to you.” His mother nudges his leg and laughs. “I gave them plenty of water this morning. This garden isn’t exactly the boy’s forte, is it?”

Anne-Maj flashes a smile. Imagine, that the woman refers to a fully grown man who owns his own house, car and rotisserie grill as ‘the boy’.

“I don’t know what my son would do without you,” Jonas’s mother continues as though her son can’t hear her. “He is rather helpless, you know.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call him helpless. I myself don’t know what I’d do without him.” She looks up at Jonas. “I’m so grateful that you fixed the cistern the other day.”

The man climbs down the ladder and drops the chamois into the bucket of clean water. “It was nothing,” he says, completely unaffected by the light-hearted rivalry between the two women.

Anne-Maj squeezes herself behind the wheel, programs the GPS and starts heading off for Route 21. It’s strange, she thinks a good half-hour later, how exotic-looking the eastern part of North Zealand seems when you’re coming from the west. As the crow flies it isn’t that far between Nykøbing and Charlottenlund, perhaps forty or forty-five kilometres, but mentally there is a world of difference. You can physically feel the affluence. The big houses, the cars that are almost always black or white, the professionally kept gardens. And the people here also look different with their nonchalant designer clothes and expensive hairdos that, of course, appear as being perfectly natural. There is a sense of abundance that is markedly bigger on practically all levels.

Anne-Maj parks in front of Thomas and Feline Bergstrøm’s large home. Just like the lady of the house, the layout of the building itself is as conventional as you can imagine. Everything from the white façade to the black glazed tiles to the boxwood trees trimmed in the shape of balls. The chalk-white fine gravel and the tall, elaborate wrought-iron lattices all scream of boring, uninspired prosperity. Why is it that people with money so seldom demonstrate a little visual courage? Where are the dark green houses, the wildflowers, the washing-lines with the colourful tablecloths fluttering in the wind? Anne-Maj is certain that there are creative well-to-do people around and that her prejudices against them are probably due to her lack of familiarity with the rich man’s reservation north of Copenhagen; nevertheless, she still harbours them.

Well, at least the Bergstrøms don’t have a Hollywood-like intercom at a remote-controlled gate. You can open it manually, which is exactly what she does. Feline welcomes Anne-Maj in the company of a chocolate-coloured Labrador Retriever who enthusiastically wags his tail at the prospect of all those extra pats and snacks that a visit from a guest often implies. His owner is more relaxed than the last time she and Anne-Maj met one another in connection with the division of the property at Kildehuse. It feels like a long time ago; so much has happened since then. Feline seems very pleased with the garden flowers Anne-Maj has brought, and judging from the look of the interior of the house, Anne-Maj is very pleased with her cheerful choice of colours. So at least there is something to liven up the grey-beige interior. Thomas and Christian are sitting in the living room. They get up and greet Anne-Maj politely, albeit without displaying any particular enthusiasm. The Sunday dress code is apparently jeans – classic blue for the gentlemen and sand-coloured for the lady of the house – as well as black polo shirts and a white top with spaghetti shoulder straps. Anne-Maj feels very gaudily dressed in her pink-purple-orange-coloured cotton dress and red sandals. Then Christian’s daughters enter and join the party. Fourteen-year-old Gry has already learned the code and is dressed all in white with beige-coloured ballerina shoes while Ea, at twelve, is still enough of a child to wear a turquoise summer dress with matching flip-flops. Anne-Maj suddenly doesn’t feel quite as alone when it comes to the colour situation and greets the youngest member of the family extra-warmly.

French coffee in a cafetière is served on the terrace along with Italian biscotti. The children immediately disappear in a wide, white hammock at the very bottom of the garden while the Labrador sits down expectantly with his eyes firmly fixed on the biscuit bowl. Anne-Maj delivers her copy of the assessors’ lists and estimates and the two brothers immediately become fully engrossed in a discussion regarding the profits that a sale might bring them. It doesn’t seem like any of them have considered the fact that they could keep some of the beautiful paintings or the fine pieces of classical furniture. They have got all they wanted and have no interest in anything other than the pecuniary aspects of the estate.

“Have you chosen a slightly bigger item for yourself?” Feline asks when she has grown tired of listening to the two human spreadsheets discuss the matter in detail. “Perhaps a piece of Vips’ jewellery?”

“If I could have the Malinovsky picture from the guest-room, I’d be very happy,” Anne-Maj says, “unless, of course, it’s too much, that is,” she quickly adds when she notices Thomas immediately skimming down the list with the estimated values of the paintings. “I have no idea what it is worth, I just think it’s so impressive.”

Thomas nods to Feline, and that permission is granted without Christian receiving so much as a glimpse from Thomas. The strange thing is that he doesn’t react to the inequality of the decision-making. Not at all. The two brothers apparently never questioned their father’s impression of who was the more important of the two.

There is a moment of expectant silence. Anne-Maj decides to dive right into it. “I’ve run into something that’s rather strange,” she says, “and maybe you can help me find out what it’s all about.”

Thomas leans back in the garden chair. “Yes?”

The Labrador sighs despondently and lies down to go to sleep.

“When the book expert from Bruun Rasmussen looked through your father’s first editions she found something behind the other books …” For the third time this weekend Anne-Maj recounts the story. The quality of the fake book, its high price had it been genuine, Helmer’s message to the auction house that he would handle the problem himself and his comment about the case in his memoir. “You do see it, don’t you?” she asks the awe-struck beneficiaries. “You do see what this is all pointing towards, don’t you?”

“No.” For once Christian is the first to respond. “No, I actually don’t. What is this pointing towards?”

Very carefully, Anne-Maj explains her theory. About the strange fact that Helmer was still in possession of the book even though the deal was off. Helmer and Vips’ deaths, which could have been caused by poisoning. About the possibility that there might be talk of … well, blackmail. And that this blackmail might have been the motive for the triple murder.

She remains silent. For a moment it is completely quiet on the terrace. Even the busy great tit parents and the eagerly singing blackbird males in heat hold their breath. Thomas is sitting bolt upright with the most impenetrable lawyer expression he can muster. Feline is nervously fiddling with a fold in her sand-coloured jeans. Christian is intensely scrutinising the top of a tree further down in the garden.

Anne-Maj breaks the silence. “I was hoping you might know more about this, that you might have an idea of who this Nielsen individual is. I am, of course, busy trying to dig up some more information, but if you could help it would be …”

Still, no one answers. Christian takes a biscuit and nibbles on it. The cracking sound, when it breaks, reverberates loudly in the still air.

“Because you can see it, can’t you?” Anne-Maj continues, completely desperate at this point. “If what I think is true, that Helmer really used that book as a way to blackmail a man named Nielsen … then there’s a good chance that we’ve also found out who murdered your parents.”

Thomas gets up. “I think you should go now, Anne-Marie,” he says, his voice utterly calm and neutral.

Anne-Maj gets up. “I didn’t mean to offend anybody,” she says.

“It’s not a question of taking offence but of defamation.”

“Yes, but …”

“If you repeat those monstrosities in public it would amount to slander.” He signals with a wave of his hand the route from the terrace, through the house and out to her car. “And I can assure you, you won’t beat the rap scot-free.”

They are all staring at her. Feline with an expression in which all the former friendliness has been erased, Christian pale with anger, the two children who have now joined the party, their mouths agape. Only the dog continues to wag its tail in a friendly manner. Anne-Maj understands that she has lost the battle.

Chapter 25

Monday 17 June

“Tell me, what in the world were you thinking?” All inferences of indulgent established pedagogical methods have vanished from Krause’s tone of voice. “You were given clear – very clear – instructions to stay away from the investigation and the first thing you do is share your unsubstantiated theories with the Bergstrøm beneficiaries.”

“Have they made a complaint?”

“Yes, I can damn well assure you that they have!” Krause practically explodes with rage. “I just barely, by the skin of my teeth, managed to prevent Thomas Bergstrøm from suing you for defamation.”

“He’d never win that case,” Anne-Maj says. “I haven’t said anything in public so his honour couldn’t possibly be impaired.”

“You said it to us.”

“Oh, that’s true, isn’t it?” Anne-Maj remains silent for a moment. “Well, maybe paying them a visit wasn’t that tactful of me,” she admits. “But what’s done is done.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Krause sounds more resigned than angry now. “You must keep your nose out of the case. Don’t you see that you’ve ruined our chances of ever getting anything out of the Bergstrøms?”

“They didn’t know anything.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” he says. “We use a certain technique during interrogation that is undoubtedly somewhat more refined than yours, and the chance that we will get people to disclose more than they actually wish to are considerably greater than if someone like you gives it a shot.”

Anne-Maj remains silent.

“What you’ve managed to do now,” Krause continues, “is to put up a big fat warning sign so those three beneficiaries are now tipped off. They can prepare for questioning about precisely that matter when we meet up with them one-by-one later today. They’ll have time to get their stories straight and agree on a strategy in order to cover up for old man Bergstrøm. Can’t you see that?”

“Yeah …”

“You’ve managed to disrupt the very part of the investigation that you yourself finagled to get us into.”

Krause continues his increasingly patronising lecture for a little while longer, long enough for the annoyance Anne-Maj was feeling towards him on Saturday to now return in full force. Doesn’t the man understand how provoking it is to be talked to in that way? she thinks. I may be twenty years older than him but, dammit, I’m still in possession of all my faculties. Why do young people always assume that your mental capabilities deteriorate at the same speed as your eyesight, hearing and connective tissue?

Nevertheless, Krause’s reasoning makes an impression on her and Anne-Maj decides to obey his admonishment. At the conclusion of the conversation, she is as meek as a lamb. There is just one thing she has to know. She retrieves Anders Hall’s mobile number from the listing of calls on her way out the door before she has a chance to regret it. The indignant flow of speech that a few moments later pours out through the phone is a fairly thorough repetition of the one she just had to listen to, but she allows the man to let off all the steam he needs to. At one point she hears him going outside. The wind drowns out the connection in a blanket of crackling sounds.

“Seen from my own personal view,” Anders concludes his scolding, “the worst thing about your behaviour is that it almost got me kicked off the case, and I’d end up doing summer house burglaries again.”

“I’m sorry.” And she really means that.

“It’s as though I’m responsible for whatever you decide to do,” he says. “I’ve been telling you all this time to stay away from the case, haven’t I?”

“Yes, and I will from now on. I’ll stay completely away …”

Anders notes the slight hesitation from her end.

“What now?”

“I have a question.” Anne-Maj can hear him breathe quickly and then utter a stern rejection. “Just out of curiosity. I promise not to use it for anything.”

“I mean, really …”

“Just out of curiosity! Scout’s honour!”

He sighs. “Anne-Maj, it’s no use …”

“This time I really mean it.”

Another sigh. “Okay, what is it then?”

She makes her voice sound more business-like. “The toxicology report, have you received it? Do you know what chemical was used to kill them?”

“In Stanley Hjort’s case, yes. When it comes to the Bergstrøm’s, we don’t know, for obvious reasons. But I repeat: keep this to yourself. There will be no mentioning of this during one of your cosy chats at home or in the Second-Hand Shop.”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Stanley was poisoned with taxine.” Before she has a chance to ask, he continues, “It’s the chemical found in yew trees.”

“Oh my. I know that yew is poisonous, but I thought that it was only horses that die of it … imagine, is it really that dangerous for humans?”

“I don’t know much about it but the forensic chemist has made a note stating that the dosage was so high that either Stanley Hjort consumed a whole lot of seeds or received a distillation from it, that is, a man-made solution.”

“Oh my,” she repeats.

“The forensic chemist is going to drop by here later today and give Krause a more detailed report about how much equipment is needed to develop an extract of the pure poison.” All at once, the staticky sound disappears. Anders has gone indoors. “I’m going to have to go now,” he says.

In the background, Anne-Maj can hear a penetrating hissing sound, concluding with a characteristic humming. She immediately recognises the sound of a certain cappuccino machine. “You’re here, right?” she asks. “In Nykøbing? At the Lokalkompagniet café?”

Anders laughs. “Busted!” he says. “Signe and I just met up for a quick cup of tea before starting on the day’s assignments.”

“Signe? Has she listened to everything you’ve been saying?”

“No, no.” It’s clear by the sound of his voice that she is within earshot. “I gotta run, Mum. Talk to you soon.”

Mum? Ha. Anne-Maj plugs in the phone to charge it. She goes out to the garden with her laptop and a glass of ice-cold water and sits down in the shade where Mortensen has already plopped himself. It is only half-ten but the temperature has already risen to a level that dogs and mature ladies find uncomfortable.

“We’ll drop our walk this morning, honey,” she says to the dog, who responds with a lazy wag of his tail. “We’ll just have to take a long walk tonight, right?” Another wag before the little dog goes into another coma.

She has to meet up at the store in an hour-and-a-half and is already exhausted at the thought of the hot walk along Algade awaiting her. She mostly feels like taking a nap before leaving but there’s just one thing she has to check in order to assuage her curiosity.

In the search field, she types ‘taxine symptoms’ and a number of results pop up. She skim-reads a little bit here and there. She finds out that the poison can be extracted from various parts of the yew tree – the bark, the needles, the wood – in which case it takes a few hours for the poison to have a lethal effect, while the poison that is extracted from the seeds found within the otherwise harmless red berry can kill in a half-hour. Well, well. It seems this is a potent chemical and that its concentration is at its peak in the winter months. Anne-Maj scrolls down further and finds a list of the symptoms. She is relieved to discover that they aren’t as unpleasant as she had feared. No cramps or pains. In fact, it says that in many instances the individual won’t even discover that he or she has been poisoned, they just feel cold and tired and fall asleep without waking up again. That sounds fairly peaceful. Somewhere else it says that diarrhoea and vomiting may occur, in which case the latter is relevant with regard to Stanley’s body, but Anne-Maj convinces herself that Vips didn’t experience any of those symptoms. She just died in her sleep, she says to herself. Peacefully and calmly, died in her sleep.

Chapter 26

Wednesday 19 June to Thursday 20 June

That night Anne-Maj feels uneasy about being home alone. It’s not a feeling that normally bothers her. She has lived alone for most of her life and very seldom has she felt unsafe. Only in those brief intervals where she has been knocked out by the flu or a throat infection has it felt, if not exactly unsettling, then most certainly impractical. In those instances, it has been sheer luck that her daughter lives so close by. On those rare occasions that her mother is sick, Iben takes Mortensen for long walks, does the shopping and airs out the house.

But when twilight falls the uneasiness creeps up on Anne-Maj. She checks several times whether the door has been locked, turns on all the lights in the rooms, drops Mortensen’s evening walk and sends him out in the yard instead. While he’s sniffing around out there and doing his business, Anne-Maj stands guard, making sure no one manages to sneak in. Afterwards, she carefully locks the door to the yard. She checks the entire first floor one last time before climbing up the stairs and then checks all the rooms on the top floor. Behind doors, in closets, even under the bed.

When she is one hundred per cent certain that she is alone, she stands looking at the crescent-shaped window that is ajar. The odds of someone climbing up on the roof and into her bedroom during the course of the night are minimal, yet the thought of it worries her. With a sigh she closes the window, draws the curtain and mentally prepares herself for a night in which she will wake up time and again drenched in sweat.

It’s not until a little later when she is lying in bed that it dawns on her where the fear, which is so uncharacteristic for her, is emanating from. It’s been hammered into her head: by Iben, by Krause, by Anders Hall; all three of them have emphasised that the fact that she has got herself involved in the case isn’t just counterproductive for the investigation but may also become dangerous for her. And she has now exposed her cards to the three main suspects. What if one of them prevents her from continuing to work on her theory?

But if that were the case, who would that be? Anne-Maj thinks as she settles down into the bed. She expects to have difficulty falling asleep and she doesn’t dare go downstairs as long as it is dark, so she has prepared for the night ahead with a jug of water and a pack of cookies. She twists and turns the question in her head. On the face of it, Thomas Bergstrøm is the one whom she suspects the most. She can easily imagine that man being capable of killing whoever stands in the way of him getting a considerable inheritance … but it may also be the whole thing with the fake book that is haunting him. If Thomas was aware of its existence and knew everything about the extortion, and Vips, in a sudden attack of social conscience, insisted on telling the whole thing to the authorities, he might have tried to stop her … But Stanley? What did he have to do with any of it? Anne-Maj doesn’t know whether the unfortunate man ever even met the Bergstrøm beneficiaries, but he may have.

The modus operandi of the murders doesn’t seem like it would be typical of Thomas. He seems more like the type who would strangle his victims. Or beat them to death. No matter what, a method in which he has to use his fists. He is very physical and actually comes across as someone who could be rather brutal, now that she thinks about it. It may also just be Anne-Maj’s personal antipathy towards him that compels her to put him at the top of the list, but hadn’t the kind Anders Hall said that she had exceptionally good intuition? She nods to herself. Indeed, he had. And right now, her intuition is telling her that Thomas Bergstrøm would be perfectly capable of committing several murders. Perhaps his rather uncharacteristic method of using poison is due to the fact that he committed the crime together with his wife? There is no question that Feline has a great interest in coming into some money. If she can save her beloved interior decorating business, her world would immediately look much brighter. Furthermore, it doesn’t seem as though she was exactly close to her parents-in-law – and isn’t there something about poison being women’s preferred weapon?

Anne-Maj is more insecure about Christian Bergstrøm. He doesn’t seem like a murderer, she thinks. He is much too gentle and spineless. But that can sometimes trick you. She has heard about many criminals who, on the surface, seem like friendly and helpful people, at least in crime novels. He has a motive, just like the other two. She obviously doesn’t know whether Christian still owes money after his restaurant failed, but that’s definitely something the police ought to look into. He may have to pay off his debts before he can afford the high rents of Copenhagen, which would allow him to see his daughters more often.

The problem with Thomas, Feline and Christian is their alibis. Anne-Maj hasn’t had the chance to check them so she can only take their word for it regarding where they were the night Vips was murdered. And she won’t get the chance to ask them their whereabouts when Stanley died. And who knows, perhaps they are all conspirators she now thinks as she sits up in bed. When each of them would benefit in hard cash from at least the first two murders … they can easily cover up for one another and give each other alibis. Anne-Maj takes a sip of water. On the other hand … she puts the glass aside, maybe the murderer didn’t have to be present at all. One of the advantages of poison is that it can be consumed while the culprit is physically somewhere completely different.

For example, Vips could easily have consumed the poison if it was injected into a jelly capsule with fish oil or some other liquid dietary supplement. If it lay in a pill dispenser with a slot for each day of the week, choosing a capsule from a day in which one knows one has an alibi and switching it, in an unguarded moment, with a chemical preparation would be very easy. The victim wouldn’t discover the bad taste if the poison was concealed in a capsule that is swallowed whole.

Anne-Maj wishes she knew the exact amount of concentrated taxine that is necessary and how much space it takes up. Is it possible to inject the correct dosage in a gelatine receptacle filled with liquid beforehand, or do you first have to suck some of the fish oil out? Will the small hole close up itself after the penetration of the needle, or will the capsule spring a leak? In which case, can it be patched up? By using transparent glue? By using a tiny blob of softened leaf gelatine? It’s such a shame that she has promised not to ask any more questions of the police and the technicians that the department has at its disposal. She already has a full list, and her thoughts keep spinning round and round.

It’s also a shame that she doesn’t have Iben at her side. But you don’t call people in the middle of the night to run a thought by them, not even one’s closest family … At that very moment, Anne-Maj hears a car pull up right in front of the house. Reflected against the curtain she momentarily sees the silhouette of the crescent-shaped window frame. Then the headlights turn off. Several minutes pass before the car door slams shut. What has the driver spent all that time doing? Loading a gun? Sharpening a knife? Putting on gloves and producing a twisted silk rope? Where did all that come from? She realises that they all derive from covers of the Agatha Christie series of her youth. They were always adorned with a dramatic motif in black and white: a pistol, a knife, a rope, a bloody candleholder, a toppled-over poison vial. She tries to laugh at herself and her imagination that’s running wild, but the sense of uneasiness remains. She gets out of bed and tiptoes over to the window, opens the curtain a little and peeks out. There is a white car parked down there but the situation doesn’t seem dangerous: a man is standing next to the car, bending over and kissing a woman through the open side window. Then he straightens up, the engine is started up again and the car rolls away from the kerb. The man is Jonas, Anne-Maj realises. He follows the white car with his gaze. Then he goes into his house and disappears.

Completely exhausted from the sudden rush of adrenaline, she sits back down on the edge of the bed, crunches the cookies and rinses them down with some water. She doesn’t feel like brushing her teeth one more time. She’s simply got to stop this nonsense. There is nothing to be afraid of. Of course, no one is going to come to murder her.

Anne-Maj picks up the novel she’s currently reading but it doesn’t really hold her attention. She raises herself onto her elbow, checks the pile of books lying on the bedside table waiting to be read; working in the Second-Hand Shop, she never runs out of reading material. Underneath the tome of a family saga there is a small, modest-looking book. Anne-Maj sits up, pushes the heavy novel aside and discovers that the thin book is Vips’ notebook – the one with all the menus. She had forgotten all about it. She skims through it, fascinated by Vips’ meticulousness: ‘Keld and Anni + Holger and Bisse, 20 May 2008: Asparagus with parmesan, sole on a dish, Chocolate Symphony.’ Whatever that is, Anne-Maj thinks and skims to another page. ‘The minister + Søren and Hanne, 22 Aug 2010: Tomato salad, fillet of beef with chanterelle, crème brûlée.’ Mmm, that sounds good. Vips had apparently been a rather skilled cook. She skims further. This is quite entertaining for a foodie. Thomas and Feline are mentioned frequently between intervals of a few months, while Christian only appears once or twice a year. Then again, Vips makes an extra effort on the few occasions that her chef-son is among the dinner guests. Those dinners consist of complex dishes, often made with expensive ingredients: lobster thermidor, bouillabaisse, confit de canard. Time-consuming desserts en masse. There is no doubt from whom Christian inherited his interest in food.

All at once Anne-Maj stops at a name she recognises. Just like on all the other pages there is only a first name. ‘Valborg, 5 Jan 2019. Shellfish Symphony’ – what is it with Vips and those symphonies? – ‘cheese and crackers’. Could that be our Valborg? Anne-Maj thinks. How could I not have caught on that Valborg knew Vips and Helmer privately? She looks at the date and starts calculating. Actually, she starts thinking, it may not have been so strange that they dined together right at that point. It was around that time that Helmer grew too weak to continue taking on the administrative responsibilities of the store and Valborg had to take over. Perhaps it was a kind of handover meeting, Anne-Maj ponders.

She regrets having made it so clear to everyone that she will stay away from the case. She would give anything to be able to ask Valborg a bunch of questions about the Bergstrøms’ private life in her beautiful villa. She wonders how well Valborg and the Bergstrøms knew each other. Perhaps Valborg knows more about their circle of friends and the two sons and the daughter-in-law? How long did they frequent one another’s homes? Anne-Maj starts all over again from the beginning of the book’s menu section, goes through all the guests and dinners listed in search of Valborg. She finds that 5 Jan is the first time she is mentioned in the book. Anne-Maj skims further, past the winter months, past the day Helmer died, not that there is any mention of that, but she clearly remembers the funeral service that took place in mid-March.

The Bergstrøms’ dinner parties became less frequent in recent years, Anne-Maj notes. Some of the friends are probably deceased and others must have grown too old to transport themselves to the house. As the frequency of dinner parties declines, so does the standard of the dishes. They become increasingly simple and it wasn’t uncommon for Vips to serve the same dish twice to the same person. So, it would seem that the practical purpose that the menu diary was supposed to serve disappeared, but the old woman continued to faithfully record them, probably out of sheer habit.

All at once Anne-Maj stops in her tracks. Valborg’s name turns up again: ‘Valborg, 28 March 2019, fresh veal carbonnades, After Eights.’ It’s almost three months ago: just a few weeks prior to Vips’ death. Strange that Valborg didn’t mention it, Anne-Maj thinks. On the other hand, Valborg never talked about her conversations with Stanley’s case worker. You can say a lot about Mrs Mayor, and they all do, like giggling schoolgirls, but she’s not a gossip. If Valborg was the one who helped Vips navigate through things like online banking and insurance then she would never share that with the other volunteers. She is the type of person who tries to help people with full discretion without needing any praise from those around her. Anne-Maj wishes she could draw on Valborg’s knowledge of life in Kildehuse. The promise she made to Anders Hall is downright frustrating, but of course, she’ll keep it, she warns herself … of course, she will.

It is with this thought at the back of her mind that Anne-Maj finally manages to fall asleep. It’s almost daylight outside, the blackbird is busy singing and in the distance the sound of an angler’s outboard motor can be discerned. She is not aware of any of this, just snores quietly with her reading glasses resting on the edge of her nose and the marbled notebook lying on her stomach.

She doesn’t wake up until her mobile makes a sound. It’s a text message from Valborg. Anne-Maj gets a shock when she sees what time it is – past ten o’clock – and immediately feels guilty about Mortensen who is lying on the floor snoozing on his back and doesn’t seem to be in need of anything.

“Come on, old boy,” she says as she sticks her feet into her slippers, “you’ve gotta go out and pee.”

The dog immediately gets to his feet and together they slowly but deliberately make their way down the stairs. Mortensen, because his short legs prevent him from leaping down the steps at the speed of a rocket which he would prefer; Anne-Maj because her knee is bothering her so much that she is forced to go down one step at a time. It’ll pass in the course of the day, she consoles herself as she opens the garden door so that Mortensen can go in and out as he pleases.

It’s not until she has poured dry food into the dog bowl and taken a couple of painkillers that she suddenly remembers the text message. Luckily, she has had enough presence of mind to take the mobile phone down with her, but she has forgotten her reading glasses up there. Anne-Maj holds her mobile phone with her arm outstretched while she, with great difficulty, deciphers the hazy spots that are supposed to represent letters. “Can you come by today? Three have called in sick. It’s just me and Kylle. Best, Valborg.”

“Af curse,” Anne-Maj types practically blindly. “Sea yoy.”

When the pills start to take effect, she takes Mortensen for a walk. Down past the station, across the parking lot behind the theatre, through the passageway to the pedestrian street. When they come home she has to leave right away in order to make sure she gets to the Second-Hand Shop before noon.

“Now, you guard the house, sweetheart,” she says and gives the dog a snack. “Good dog!” Mortensen looks at her as though she’s lost the plot. Then he trots into the living room with his dried treat.

It’s really busy in the store, Anne-Maj discovers a quarter of an hour later when she arrives there. Taking over Stanley’s tasks already demands a lot from everybody. Especially from the youngest and most agile like Lis, Ruth and Anne-Maj, who are responsible for doing things like going out to the clothes container and recycling centre, as well as to people who want to donate things but don’t have any means of transport at their disposal. That means that there are fewer hands to work in the store itself and the clothes still need to be ironed and mended, the customers still need to be served and the place still needs to be cleaned regularly. Valborg spends most of her time now in the shop. The other volunteers give an extra hand in one another’s areas of responsibility.

There have been no responses to their ad about needing new volunteers. The situation is untenable, that’s clear to everybody. And when there are three of them who are off ill because of a stomach virus … Anne-Maj understands perfectly well why she’s been asked to take an extra shift.

Chapter 27

Thursday 20 June

“I have found a small menu diary that Vips left,” Anne-Maj says when she and Kylle and Valborg are sitting in the lunch-room enjoying a Fernet-Branca after having distributed the next day’s tasks among one another. There is no indication that the rest of the team will be back on their feet again for the next forty-eight hours.

“A menu diary?” Kylle asks, perplexed. “A diary from Meny supermarket?” Light blue eyeshadow is smeared across her left eyelid, but no one has the heart to tell her. Right now, she’s pale from exhaustion. Well, I guess we all are when push comes to shove, Anne-Maj realises. After all, there is a reason why we’ve retired. Even a volunteer job is a bit over the top at our age when it develops into something that resembles more of a regular part-time job. If we don’t get more help in the store soon, the situation could potentially become critical. People will start dropping like flies, not because they don’t want to work anymore, but because they can’t.

“No,” says Anne-Maj, smiling, “it’s a small book where you note down who you’ve had over for dinner and what you served them. That way you avoid giving them the same thing twice.”

“I remember what I’ve served people when they’ve been over,” Kylle says irritably. “How hard can that be?” she says, fanning herself with a pizza ad so that the scent of her pungent perfume spreads throughout the room. Of course, it doesn’t occur to Kylle that there is a difference between a wealthy lawyer couple who frequently host dinners for a big circle of friends and numerous business contacts, and a retired day-care provider who seldom has guests for dinner, other than her closest family and the neighbours. Anne-Maj doesn’t draw her attention to that, either. They are both about to faint from the heat; there’s no reason to sit here quarrelling.

“That sounds like a great idea,” says Valborg. “Now why didn’t I think of that? When my husband was the mayor …” Whereupon she gives the usual spiel about how important and popular her husband had been in the mid-Zealand town, the many frequent dinners she herself hosted and all the people she had to keep track of. Lis and Anne-Maj don’t dare look at each other. After they discovered that the whole story about the mayor seems to be a lie they’ve been very careful any time the topic has come up.

“I’m sure it would have been a great idea for someone like you,” says Anne-Maj. “And I could actually use one, too.”

Kylle still doesn’t look amused.

“Have you read the entire thing through?” Valborg asks.

“Yes.”

“Then you must have seen my name mentioned a few times.”

“Twice, actually,” says Anne-Maj. “The last time was shortly before Vips passed away.”

Valborg nods. “Yes, it was.”

“And the first time was when Helmer was alive.”

“I was supposed to take over being in charge of the store and communicating with the main office after he got sick, so we thought it best if we met up and he told me everything I needed to know, to teach me the ropes.”

“And the second time?”

“Just for cosiness’ sake.”

When it doesn’t seem as though Valborg is going to elaborate on that, Anne-Maj throws her theory on the table. “You were the one who helped Vips with all the paperwork; she felt so uneasy about doing herself, I’m guessing? After Helmer’s death …” she adds when Valborg doesn’t respond. “She told me that the whole thing with online banking and dealing with various authorities was completely overwhelming her but that there was one person who had promised to help.”

“That’s right,” says Valborg. “Her sons weren’t of much use, Vips had said. They would explain everything very quickly and then rush out the door without making sure that she had understood them properly.”

“I can just see it.” Anne-Maj reaches for the roll of paper towels and wipes the sweat off her face. If she doesn’t get some fresh air soon, she’ll collapse.

Valborg is strangely unaffected by the heat. “Have you met them, the sons?” she asks.

“I greeted them at the two funeral services and I’ve met them a few times out in Kildehuse.” There is no reason to say anything about the catastrophic meeting at their house in Charlottenlund. “They wanted me to have a look at Helmer’s book collection to see if there were any that might be of interest for the store.”

“And were there?”

“There were quite a few, yes … I plan to pick up the books next week.”

“He’s handsome, the eldest,” interjects Kylle who is still fanning herself. “Dark and manly in such a … masculine way.” Manly in such a masculine way? Anne-Maj and Valborg exchange glances.

“Do you know them, Valborg?” Anne-Maj asks and goes over to open the back-door wide so that the lukewarm air can slowly drift its way in. “I mean, aside from the two funeral services?”

“No.” Valborg hesitates. “But we talked for a long time at Helmer’s wake.”

“What’s your impression of them?” Anne-Maj has given up all attempts at concealing her curiosity.

“I think …” Valborg casts a glance at Kylle who has put the pizza ad aside and is now picking at her fingernails where some loud red nail polish has started to peel off in big flakes. “Maybe we should talk about that another time,” she says. “I have a few things I need to do … and Kylle?” Kylle looks up. “Do you need a ride home? I’m sure Anne-Maj would be more than willing to drive you in the Blue Lightning.”

Always such a busybody when it comes to other people, is Anne-Maj’s first thought before it dawns on her that Mrs Mayor just wants to get rid of the notorious gossip in a nice way before she tells Anne-Maj all about the Bergstrøms’ private lives. Discreet as always. Luckily, Kylle declines the offer. She biked to work today, she says. She stands in the open doorway before turning around and saying goodbye. “See you at the funeral tomorrow,” she says in a dejected tone that doesn’t sound like her at all. Hopefully she’s not about to get sick as well, Anne-Maj thinks.

Valborg turns towards her. “I loathe gossip,” she says, “I thought it would be best if we tackled it tête-à-tête.”

“Tackled what?” asks Anne-Maj.

“There is actually something I want to tell you. Something concerning Thomas Bergstrøm. I was thinking of going to the police with it … but I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing …”

“What is it?”

“It’s just that …” Valborg’s glance flies to her tote bag from which a pile of papers is sticking out. “I really do have quite a bit that I need to take care of today. There are a couple of bills that need to be paid and I have to decide on which plumber to choose.”

Had this been a crime novel, Valborg would be murdered very soon, before she can confide what she knows to anybody, Anne-Maj thinks. But that sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life.

“We’ll just talk about it another time,” she says a little dejectedly. She was close.

“How about you come over to my place for a drink at around eight?” Valborg says with a smile. “Just for an hour or so. We can sit on the terrace and share a bottle of chilled white wine. We could use that, couldn’t we?”

Anne-Maj looks at her with surprise. No one at the Second-Hand Shop has ever been invited to Valborg’s place and if, on top of that, she can tell her something more about the unsympathetic lawyer … Anne-Maj desperately tries to conceal the fact that she feels honoured and is about to burst with curiosity.

“I would be happy to,” she says as calmly as she can. “It’s just, well, can I bring my dog with me? He’s been alone all afternoon. I don’t like going home to have dinner and then leaving him again right after.”

“Mortensen is always welcome.”

At half-past seven Anne-Maj starts heading off. She considers taking the car, but then again, the weather is so beautiful and the walk in the northern part of town is actually very pleasant. Furthermore, both she and Mortensen will get a little exercise that way. She ventures a rough estimate that it’s probably about a kilometre-and-a-half to get there, so a good half-hour when walking at Mr and Mrs Mortensen’s pace. They calmly start ambling in the summer evening.

The temperature is pleasant now, but Anne-Maj has still stuffed a thin cotton cardigan in her spacious shoulder bag. You never know whether it’s going to cool down when it’s time to go back home, in which case she’ll need it. She has also had enough presence of mind to grab a box of Plums-in-Madeira chocolates so she doesn’t show up empty-handed. “Come on, old boy,” she says to the dog who is exceptionally preoccupied with sniffing a specific tuft of grass. “Enough of that.” She gives his lead a tug and finally Mortensen lifts his leg and kicks some dirt behind him.

They take a shortcut through the graveyard, which is basically deserted at this time of day. Anne-Maj sniffs the air and smells the scent of newly cut grass. Ah, that scent.

She passes grave after grave. Some are clearly maintained by a professional with a love for grey-blue granite, crushed rock and evergreen, while others have a more personal touch, perennials and small bushes, while a few more have wreaths and some others are marred by weeds and dead flowers. Anne-Maj adores graveyards, which are almost always of interest to a garden lover. Not just the individual graves but the grounds themselves. The alleys, the wide and narrow paths and small shrubberies. She strolls along with all her antennae up. It’s beautiful here; the air seems cooler than in the rest of the sun-baked town.

Suddenly she is standing before a tall hedge at the graveyard’s most northern exit. It has been meticulously cut into shape and its close-cropped massiveness functions as an impenetrable wall. A yew. How many times has Anne-Maj passed it without noticing it? Evergreen bushes don’t particularly interest her. She thinks they are generally gloomy and cheerless. But now, with her newly acquired knowledge about the poisonous taxine in the back of her mind, she looks at the hedge with some interest. She splits a needle in half with her fingernail and senses the sharp, spicy smell. To think that it is lethal – to think that it is allowed in so many public spaces. And to think that so many people have them in their yards and let their children and pets scamper around in them. Right now, they have no berries on them, but from yesterday’s search on the internet, she knows that their season lasts for several months, from September through to January. During all that time, the tempting, deep red berries are on there. They don’t taste of much and their pulp isn’t toxic in itself. A child would easily be able to devour them without suspecting they were poisonous. But inside each berry is the most toxic part of the plant: the seed. Once that’s reached the stomach and is broken down, all hell breaks loose. If you consume just a few berries you are doomed.

Chapter 28

Thursday 20 June

Anne-Maj is standing outside a detached house from the seventies in so-called flamed brownstone. By the dark-stained wooden front-door, there are two doorbells: one has the name ‘The Family Bøgh’ and the other ‘Von Schilling’. Could it be a two-family house? It doesn’t really look like it, Anne-Maj thinks and presses the bottom button. A few moments later, a door is opened at the furthest end of the house. “Come around this way!” shouts Valborg who has poked her head out. “It’s this door that’s mine.” She smiles as Anne-Maj approaches her. “Now you know where it is for another time,” she says as she shows her guest in.

This is really strange, Anne-Maj thinks as they walk through the living room and towards the small enclosed terrace. Valborg, Mrs Mayor herself, is clearly renting a couple of rooms with a very small kitchen. If Anne-Maj were to guess, this part of the house was intended for a teenager or an au pair but not as the home of an elderly lady who has lived most of her life as a prominent citizen in a well-to-do picturesque small town. If she has, that is.

Aside from that, it is a cosy enough place. Antique furniture in various types of dark wood, bound works in her bookshelves, green plants and a suitable number of knick-knacks – enough to create a cosy atmosphere but not so many that it is messy. Valborg has walked out to the terrace which she clearly has to herself. A low lattice fence surrounds the approximately ten square metres of tiles and is almost completely covered by twiners. Valborg considerately serves a bowl of water to Mortensen who practically inhales the cool liquid. There is a bottle of white wine and two glasses plus a small plate of olives on a pile of pink cocktail serviettes. Anne-Maj places the box of chocolates she brought with her next to the little set-up.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says. “Very tranquil.”

They chat politely for a while about various different things. About Valborg’s decision to move away from her hometown after her husband died; how pleased she is with her private little oasis here in this quiet residential neighbourhood. Anne-Maj doesn’t ask how such a fine lady as herself has ended up in a couple of rooms or why Valborg hasn’t bought a small detached house or an apartment. There are, after all, limits to how nosy you can be, and Anne-Maj doesn’t want to risk revealing both her and the other volunteers’ creeping suspicions that her claims of having been married to a mayor may be pure fiction.

“Well, I promised to tell you something about Thomas and Feline Bergstrøm,” Valborg says after their small talk has lasted for a considerable amount of time. “I don’t know everything about them, of course, but Vips told me a few things.”

Anne-Maj puts her glass down on the table and shifts her position. She has to go to the bathroom, she realises, but doesn’t want to disrupt Valborg’s concentration.

“His law firm,” her hostess continues, “is on the verge of going bust.”

“What? Are you sure?” Images start to flash through Anne-Maj’s mind. The ostentatious house, the SUV, Feline’s gold designer jewellery. “He hasn’t said a word about that to me.”

“I don’t know for certain whether the situation is still like that. The death of his parents may have turned everything around, but just a few months ago he was up shit creek, as they say.” She fishes an olive from the bowl and looks at Anne-Maj. “I really don’t care for gossip, but perhaps that’s something you think I should tell the police. Or maybe it’s something you’d want to inform them about.” She pops the green olive in her mouth.

“I could tell them,” says Anne-Maj, “but only if it’s relevant.” She looks at Valborg demurely. “And I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else.”

“Good,” Valborg says, dabbing her mouth with one of the serviettes. “You may already know that Thomas Bergstrøm’s law firm specialises in corporate law, in other words with mergers and the purchasing of property and trading of stocks and that sort of thing.” When Anne-Maj nods, she continues, “He’s apparently played too fast and loose and made some investments himself based on confidential information he acquired.”

“What is known as insider trading?” Anne-Maj wants to demonstrate that she has been following the recent scandals of the international financial world, at least in films and TV series. “That’s a crime.”

“Exactly. He just managed to wangle his way out of it before it was discovered but it’s cost him dearly. That’s why his firm is suffering so much that it’s on the brink of bankruptcy.”

Anne-Maj suddenly remembers Feline’s comment that the Bergstrøms tended “to attract bankruptcies”. And she recalls the flash of anger that flickered across Thomas’s face. She doesn’t doubt for a moment that what Valborg is telling her is true.

“It doesn’t make him less suspicious,” she says. “And the police definitely need to be told about this.”

“So you think so, too?”

“It’s actually strange that they haven’t found out about that themselves, but then again, if they haven’t even looked in his direction it’s not so surprising.”

“That’s the thing.”

“And to think Vips told you all that!”

“She knew that I could keep my mouth shut,” Valborg says.

Anne-Maj is sitting rather uncomfortably in her chair now. “Sorry, but I need to use your toilet.”

“Of course,” says Valborg as she points through the open garden door. “It’s the door right next to the bedroom.”

Two framed pictures are hanging on the wall next to the bathroom door, Anne-Maj discovers after she has relieved herself. The first displays a thickset gentleman in half-figure. He is dressed in a grey suit and has a mayor’s ceremonial gold chain around his neck; he looks kind and confidence-inspiring. Valborg is standing by his side with a dignified smile, around twenty-five years younger than she is now. Anne-Maj immediately feels ashamed. To think that she and the other volunteers in the store have gone around giggling behind her back and claiming that Valborg was probably lying. The picture under the portrait is a kind of diploma. With an elaborate decoration made of oak leaves in black and gold, it indicates that the recipient has won the gold medal for his completed apprenticeship test. The diploma was issued in May 1964 to an Erik Nielsen.

Right at that very moment, Anne-Maj senses Valborg standing directly behind her. “My husband was so proud of that medal,” she says. “That diploma always had to hang in the place of honour, no matter where we lived.”

“Your husband? But his name wasn’t …”

“Oh, I’ve always been a terrible snob,” Valborg smiles wryly. “Naturally I lost my title as baroness when I married him, but I simply couldn’t get myself to change my name. Isn’t that awful?”

“No, I can understand that.” Anne-Maj feels stupid. She and the other ladies had assumed that the mayor was the one with the noble background, and now it turns out that it was his wife. Anne-Maj has put on her reading glasses and can now better decipher what the smaller print on the diploma says. “Was your husband a bookbinder?”

“Yes. And very active in the union. He was the head of the national union for many years until he was elected mayor. Then he let someone else take over.” Valborg wipes away some imperceptible dust from the picture frame. “Erik was mayor right up until that damn structural reform came into effect.”

“I see.” Mayor, medal-winning bookbinder, the surname Nielsen … all the pieces of the puzzle are whirling around in Anne-Maj’s brain. She has to muster all her composure to at least look like someone who is listening.

“Our county was combined with two others in 2007, so Erik had to retire.” Valborg shakes her head negatively. “Of course, the time had come for him to retire anyway, but it was the way in which it was done. The way they just abolished two counties and two town halls, fired numerous employees who had worked there for years … of course, they let some of the administration departments remain in those towns that lost city halls but that was sheer cosmetic surgery. Erik never got over it.”

“But …” Some of the pieces slow down a little and land in a certain kind of pattern. Click, click, click, they fall into place. Anne-Maj just isn’t sure exactly how. “Did your husband continue working in his trade?”

“Yes, he did. He enjoyed fiddling with his books in the evenings.” It doesn’t seem that Valborg has noticed her guest’s distraction.

Anne-Maj scans across the many book spines. The finest, patinated leather bindings and gold imprint. “Was he the one who bound all of these?”

“Not all of them,” says Valborg. “But many of them. Like this one, for example.” She hands Anne-Maj a thick book, a copy of Saxo Grammaticus’ Gesta Danorum bound in red goat skin with a raised gold vine along the edges.

“Very beautiful,” Anne-Maj says and places it back on the bookshelf. She immediately notices on the lowest shelf a book that is not quite as elaborately embellished. A book which she herself has been looking through quite a bit of late: From Orphanage to Supreme Court. Helmer Bergstrøm’s memoirs. She takes it out, stands holding it and weighs it in her hands as several more pieces fall into place. Click, click, click. “Have you read it?” she asks.

“Some of it, yes,” Valborg says, shrugging her shoulders. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a little boring, I think.”

“I totally agree.” If only I could get five minutes to myself, Anne-Maj thinks. Or maybe even ten. She senses that she almost has all the pieces needed to complete the puzzle. She just needs a little peace and quiet to think it through.

“But maybe we should go back outside?” Valborg asks. “And enjoy the last part of the evening?”

She refills the glasses and as she continues talking about the oldest Bergstrøm son and the financial quagmire he’s in, Anne-Maj’s thoughts set out on a long journey. She says yes and no in all the right places, but in reality she’s barely listening. She knows that she ought to get up very soon, thank Valborg for the evening and start heading home and let the police take over from here. But she just can’t hold back anymore. If Valborg really is involved, then …

Anne-Maj dives right into it. “Had your husband ever falsified or made a fake version of a book? In other words, made it from scratch so it resembled a really old book even though it wasn’t?” she asks. “Just for fun?” she adds just to take some of the sting out of her very direct question.

Valborg doesn’t even blink. “Where did you hear about that?” she asks, smiling calmly. “It was practically his hobby, and he was known for it. He would spend weeks on a single book, sometimes even months. Do you want to see some of them?” When Anne-Maj nods, Valborg says, “Just stay right there.” She pops into the living room and returns with a small pile of leather-bound books. “Erik showed them to his old colleagues at the union and they all agreed that he was extremely talented.”

Anne-Maj skims through the books, one after the other. She is no expert, but she thinks she can see that the forgeries are just as skilfully executed as the book they had found in Helmer’s bookshelf. Valborg gladly shows Anne-Maj everything, points out details in the seam of the spine and explains that the paper is old and that the edges have been rubbed by hand to make them look worn. Anne-Maj is completely dazed. If a forger’s widow is so willing to admit to everything, then the thoughts that have just run through Anne-Maj’s mind, but which she thankfully didn’t get a chance to express, are completely off the wall. So, the Hans Christian Andersen booklets have nothing to do with the case. Why in the world would you blackmail someone merely for making fake books when everyone knew that was what he did, and, furthermore, when it was totally legal and not a secret hobby at all? Not to mention, commit murder? How could such a thought ever have entered Anne-Maj’s mind?

“And this one,” Valborg continues without noticing the distraction of her guest, “is supposed to be a replica of the first edition of The Fall of the King. And look, it has his signature and everything.” She holds out the book so that Anne-Maj can see the Danish author Johannes V. Jensen’s beautiful, sweeping handwriting with the characteristic detached ‘V’ in the middle. “Would you ever have suspected …?”

“Not at all. But …”

“Yes?” Valborg looks at her. “But what?”

“I found a very fine edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales in Helmer’s collection,” Anne-Maj says. “And I let an expert from Bruun Rasmussen assess it. The book was a fake. And when I discovered that your husband was originally a bookbinder …” she says smiling, hoping it has a disarming effect. “For a moment I thought that those two things were connected and that they … had something to do with the murders.”

Valborg’s friendly expression freezes. “You thought that I …? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!” She straightens up. “You don’t mean to say that you in your wildest imagination thought that I had killed Stanley? Stanley, who I cared for so much?” Her eyes are wide open. “And Vips? Sweet, innocent Vips!”

“I’m sorry,” mumbles Anne-Maj. There isn’t much more she can say. “I’m sorry.”

“I just can’t believe that that’s what you actually thought.”

“Sorry,” Anne-Maj says once more.

“Well,” Valborg says after a long pause and gets to her feet. “You and your wild imagination are forgiven. I could use a little pick-me-up. How about you?”

Anne-Maj nods gratefully and Valborg disappears into the house. Well, it’ll be a kind of peace pipe, Anne-Maj thinks. She pats Mortensen who has got to his feet and is wagging his tail in the hopes that they’ll soon be going home. “Just another fifteen minutes, honey,” she says, looking into his deep brown eyes. “Then we’ll get going.”

Valborg returns. She is carrying a tray upon which there are two glasses containing a black liquid and an almost-full bottle of Fernet-Branca. “I actually poured them in the kitchen,” she says with a smile, “but then I got to thinking that maybe I should take the whole bottle with me. We’ll probably need another before we say goodnight.”

Anne-Maj looks at the two filled glasses and all her alarm signals start ringing at once. In all the crime novels she’s read where the murder weapon was poison, any drinks that have been poured beforehand are the first to come under suspicion … and the Fernet-Branca? Suddenly Anne-Maj knows why she gets goose bumps at the sight of the finely decorated label. You can add just about anything into a Fernet-Branca and people will just think, “Wow, that really opened up my throat.”

“Here you go,” says Valborg as she places one of the glasses before her guest.

“I’m not sure whether I want it after …”

“Oh, stop!” Valborg smiles. “Down with it!”

Chapter 29

Thursday 20 June

Anne-Maj reaches for the glass but purposely does it so clumsily that she knocks it over. The strong drink runs out on the garden table and trickles down onto the tiles. Some drops hit her handbag that’s sitting under the chair. “Oh,” says Anne-Maj, “I’m such a klutz.” She takes a couple of the pink cocktail serviettes and wipes it all up as best she can. She sneaks one of the soaking wet serviettes into her purse. The forensic experts should be able to examine it for traces of taxine, she thinks. If we hit jackpot, we’ll have a piece of demonstrable physical evidence.

“I’ll pour another,” she says, carefully drying her glass off first. Her hostess doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even seem shocked or irritated over the mess created on her table.

Anne-Maj looks up and notices that Valborg is looking at her with an icy stare. It’s clear that she knows everything – Valborg has found out that she has been found out. Should Anne-Maj be afraid now? She has decided that she doesn’t necessarily have to be. She’d be able to win a physical encounter anytime, even though the thought of it is slightly absurd. Seventy-five-year-old Valborg’s only weapon is poison and without that, the twelve-years-younger Anne-Maj has a good chance of escaping unharmed. Voices can be heard on the opposite side of the lattice fence, some sitting like Anne-Maj and Valborg, enjoying the mild, bright evening. Perhaps Valborg’s landlords. If it turns out that Valborg has a sharpened dagger hidden in the pocket of her tailor-made slacks, Anne-Maj can, if nothing else, scream and be confident in the knowledge that someone will hear her.

She decides to take the bull by the horns. “This was how you did it, wasn’t it?” she asks in a conversant tone. “You put the taxine in a glass of Fernet-Branca so that your victims couldn’t taste it.”

Valborg looks at her in silence. All traces of polite kindness have left her face. All feigned shock at having been accused of murder has been forgotten.

“Where did you get the poison from?” Anne-Maj persists and is surprised by her own sense of calmness. “Oh, yes,” she says, as though she has just had an ‘ah-ha’ moment. “Of course, you pass that yew hedge by the graveyard every day, don’t you?”

Valborg still doesn’t answer.

“You could easily pick some berries and extract the poison … how do you do it, exactly?” Anne-Maj sits for a moment observing her silent hostess. “And why did you kill Helmer and Vips? Did they try to continue blackmailing you even though your husband was dead?”

“I’m not going to sit here listening to your ridiculous guesswork,” Valborg says.

“Then tell me how it all happened,” Anne-Maj says. “There may be a greater chance that I can understand your motives than the police can. Remember, I wasn’t crazy about Helmer, either.”

“I had to do it.”

Now it is Anne-Maj’s turn to sit and wait in silence. She leans back in the chair. Nods with a studied calmness.

“And if you knew the entire situation, you might consider keeping it to yourself,” Valborg continues. “At least, I hope you would.”

“That may be a possibility.” Anne-Maj feels really on top of things, she is very proud of herself for figuring the whole thing out. She’s already looking forward to calling Anders Hall early tomorrow morning. Or she could contact the arrogant Krause. Why not? You really should go directly to the head of the investigation with information like this. “Tell me everything and then we’ll figure out what to do next.” We, now that’s clever of her, she thinks, very clever to make herself come off as Valborg’s ally. She convinces herself that her methods are approaching the advanced interrogation techniques that Krause was boasting about at their last meeting.

“It actually started a long, long time ago,” says Valborg. “Back when my husband was still a union man and preparing himself for a real political career. He–” she shakes her head, “he was always a gambler. Back then in our younger days it was just a little card-playing with some of the people he worked with a few nights a week, very innocent and only for change. But the sums frequently grew bigger and bigger, and they didn’t just play cards. Often, much more often than I realised, they would go to the racecourse betting rather large sums of money, just like he would bet on sports events and that sort of thing. I was irritated about the fact that Erik threw his salary away like that, but I didn’t realise how bad things were until one day he came home with a huge black eye. It turned out that he had borrowed money from some unsympathetic loan shark individual and wasn’t able to pay them back. It was a real problem. I, of course, had my job as a schoolteacher and he, in the meantime, had become the salaried chairman foreman for the Danish Bookbinders’ and Stationers’ Union, and we had a reasonable income, but not enough to throw around.”

“So, what did you do then?”

“We took a loan from the bank. And later one more. And then one more. It was never-ending. Today it would be clear that Erik was a compulsive gambler and he’d be given treatment for it, but back then no one knew that compulsive gambling is an illness the same as alcoholism and drug addiction.”

Valborg sits a little bit, looks down at her hands that are clutching one another. She doesn’t look dangerous anymore, just tired and unhappy. “At one point he ‘borrowed’ a large amount from the union and the scandal was just barely avoided when shortly afterwards he was miraculously able to repay the money before it was discovered.”

“Miraculously? Had he won anything?”

Valborg smiles wryly for a split second. “I really think it was on very rare occasions that Erik won anything. And the times he did, he would just gamble it away again.” She shakes her head. “What happened was that in the mid-nineties I inherited money from my parents. Of course, my big brother got the estate, but I got a considerable amount of money. We managed to cover a debt and Erik promised that he would use that opportunity to start a new life, wipe the slate clean. But he didn’t keep that promise at all, of course.” She looks at Anne-Maj. “I’m making him sound like a miserable scoundrel now, which he wasn’t at all. Erik was popular and respected. No one knew about his gambling habits or our precarious financial situation.”

Against her better judgement, Anne-Maj feels a little sorry for Mrs Mayor.

“At that point he was on the town council. I had spent the remainder of my inheritance from my parents on a small house which I bought in my own name. Everything seemed much brighter, but it turned out that Erik had been gambling all along just like he used to. He mortgaged the house by forging my signature – he was an expert at that sort of thing – and behind my back basically squandered everything in our savings account.”

Anne-Maj nods. She can’t ever imagine allowing a man to have access to various accounts if he had let her down on numerous occasions. To trust another person to that extent … never. But perhaps that was just the stubborn heart of a single woman speaking.

“At the same time that Erik was pulling the financial rug from under our feet, his political ambitions grew and he became mayor. Everyone liked him, everyone respected him, even the council members from the opposition … but had people known about his financial irresponsibility, he wouldn’t have had much of a chance to remain in that position – and he was also scared that I might turn my back on him as well if I discovered what he had done. He had to do something.”

“And that was when he started to forge books?”

“Oh, no, that was something he had been doing for a long time by then. Making fake books was his hobby, like I said before. He took great pride in perfecting his technique and making so-called first editions that could fool most people.” For a moment Valborg actually looks proud. “But, yes, it was at that point that he got the unfortunate idea of using one of his works as a means to repay a gambling debt to Helmer Bergstrøm, whom he knew collected signed first editions.”

“Was Helmer also a compulsive gambler?” That didn’t seem to fit the picture of the quarrelsome lawyer Anne-Maj had in her mind.

“I’m certain that he wasn’t. And he certainly never played with Erik – they lived a little less than 90 kilometres from one another, and his function in those circles was that he lent out money to gamblers who were in debt for a really high interest rate. He was a loan shark, in other words. A real bastard if you ask me. Sitting there in his fancy lawyer’s office, exploiting people who were in unfortunate situations. I knew nothing about any of this or I would, of course, have prevented him from doing something so stupid as to try to repay a debt with a fake Hans Christian Andersen book. But it wasn’t until everything fell apart that he began to confess.”

“What happened?”

“Helmer accepted the book as payment and immediately afterwards got it assessed by a specialist.”

“I know.”

Valborg nods. “The fact that Erik couldn’t predict what would happen bewilders me to this very day. In some ways, he was terribly naive.” She continues, “When Helmer discovered that it was fake, he started blackmailing Erik. If Erik didn’t pay, he would reveal the story about the fake book, our financial hardships and Erik’s compulsive gambling – make it publicly known. He kept the book as evidence as well as the letter in which the expert stated that the book was a fake. To begin with, Helmer didn’t demand huge sums but enough to make our house of cards collapse. I discovered it when I came across an entire drawer full of reminders from the electric company, the car mechanic, and so on. I forced Erik to go through all our finances with me. It was shocking, not least when he confessed to being blackmailed. Had I known who was behind it, I would have done something, but Erik refused to tell me. He was afraid of the consequences if I were to attack the scoundrel, thereby risking that the man would go to the media and reveal all his knowledge about us. Imagine the scandal had people found out that their highly respected mayor was guilty of forgery as well as building up a considerable gambling debts.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Well … what could we do?” Apparently, Valborg doesn’t notice that a single tear is slowly zig-zagging down the wrinkles of her cheek. “We sold the house, moved to an apartment and told everyone that we wanted more independence, to have the possibility to travel when we retired.”

“Did people believe that?”

“I have my suspicions that the gossip was already starting to spread at that point.”

“It must have been hard.” Anne-Maj is genuinely sad for the widow who was so hard-hit. “But he stopped gambling, didn’t he?”

“Yes. At least as far as I know. We simply didn’t have anything more to gamble with and I had taken over all communication with the bank, it was solely my name that was on all the accounts, and I didn’t tell Erik my pin code. Luckily, he had given up using quick loans and loan sharks, but the payments to Helmer consumed everything that could have made life just a little more pleasant for us. At that point we had to deliver 5,000 kroner in cash every month, and as the years passed, we had managed to pay far more than what that fake book could have brought in for us, had it been genuine, that is.”

“And you still didn’t know who was blackmailing your husband?”

“I had no idea. Erik was very stubborn when it came to that. He didn’t want me to interfere with it, and the only way he could prevent that was by keeping the blackmailer’s name secret.” She holds the Fernet-Branca bottle forth. “So, you still don’t want any?” When Anne-Maj shakes her head, Valborg pours herself a glass and drinks it down in one gulp. “Our finances never really straightened out, but I could get early retirement benefits and Erik still had a good job as mayor. The payments to Helmer became such a fixed expense for us that we didn’t even notice it anymore, but we were kept down because of it. After the merger of municipalities in 2007, my husband, as I mentioned before, retired and tried to get Helmer to stop the extortion but he refused. Not until Erik died did it end.”

“And in all those years you remained with your husband. That is fantastic.” Anne-Maj isn’t being ironic. She really thinks it is unbelievable that anyone would put up with such treatment for so many years.

“I loved him,” Valborg says as she shrugs her shoulders. “The first few months after his death I expected to get a reminder, but the blackmailer knew, of course, that Erik was dead and he didn’t intend to blackmail me – which was wise. Had he tried he would have been forced to reveal his identity to me and I wouldn’t have hesitated for one moment to report him to the police. I had nothing to lose.”

“And then?”

“Yes, well, then I moved from the town. I didn’t feel any particular need to live among Erik’s old city council friends and voters, now that the rumours were really underway. There were rumours about his debts, suspicions of embezzlement, speculation about domestic violence and strange sexual tendencies … it was simply unbearable. A friend of mine from the teachers’ college, who has unfortunately passed away now, encouraged me to move to this town. She had lived and worked in Nykøbing for many years and she highly recommended the place. She helped me find this.” Her hand makes a curving gesture that encompasses the terrace, the house, the now-darkening sky.

Chapter 30

Thursday 20 June

“And that was how you met Helmer?” Anne-Maj is eager for Valborg to get to the point. “Was that by coincidence?”

“Completely. One of destiny’s more subtle tricks.” She leans back in the garden chair. “The friend I mentioned before, worked as a volunteer at the Second-Hand Shop and she convinced me to take a couple of shifts. I’m not that interested in old junk, but the work suited me and it was nice getting to know some people in the new town I had moved to. Back then Helmer was still the one who managed the store. He was the one who had contact with the bank, the head office and the municipality and he was responsible for the work schedules and administering the jobs. Everything that I am now responsible for. I didn’t like the man – I guess no one else really did except for his wife, but I suspect that even she was pretty tired of him, too. When his health began to falter he started making more and more mistakes. The rest of us decided to bite the bullet. We approached the head office and got them to formally ask Helmer to step down and let me take over. I was the only one of the volunteers who had the desire and wherewithal to do it.”

“That was right after I started.”

“Yes.”

“And what did Helmer have to say about that?”

“Well, he wasn’t pleased, that goes without saying, but he himself was able to see that the situation couldn’t go on even though he didn’t want to admit it. Of course, it helped that he would still be in charge of his beloved book section.” Valborg takes a deep breath and then slowly breathes out, as though she needs extra oxygen in order to go on. “I had dinner at Vips’ and Helmer’s place during the winter.”

“January 5th,” says Anne-Maj.

“That sounds about right. He must have known who I was for a long time by then. He probably enjoyed watching me, seeing my failing financial situation, observing the result of the many years of blackmail to which he subjected my husband. Maybe he even considered whether he also could blackmail me … of course, I didn’t know anything, but now in retrospect, I can see that he was … studying me. A little too intensely.”

When Anne-Maj doesn’t respond, Valborg continues, “Well, anyway, we managed to take care of all the practical aspects in terms of handing over the documents and balance sheets and that sort of thing rather quickly, and then I was supposed to go home; as I said, I wasn’t too crazy about being in his company. But Vips had prepared a delicious meal with crab claws and Norwegian lobster and all sorts of other things from the fish shop in Odder Town Harbour so I felt obligated to stay. While we were eating, Helmer entertained us with his rather large and valuable collection of signed first editions, and after dinner he insisted on showing it to me. I dutifully admired it and then he insisted on giving me his memoirs as a gift. He had written and published them himself, he told me with pride. It was hard to refuse him.”

Anne-Maj can predict what’s going to happen next in the story.

“I dutifully read some bits here and there. Like I said before, I found it to be a somewhat unbearable experience. But I wanted to get it over with in order to be able to say to the man that I had read it. Then, almost by coincidence, I suddenly came across a paragraph that made my hair stand on end. Helmer writes straight out that someone had tried to cheat him with a fake volume of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales but that he had managed to uncover the fact that the book was a forgery. He even mentions my husband’s surname and says that the whole thing had been taken care of. Taken care of. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” Valborg’s eyes are aflame. “And in that triumphant tone! Just the thought that Erik and I, through our less-than-ostentatious fortune, had contributed to that unsympathetic filthy rich bastard’s expensive and perfect home infuriated me.”

“So you murdered him?”

“No, not at that point. But the thought of murdering him probably occurred to me there. And when a few days later I passed through the graveyard on my way to work I noticed a large yew hedge. It wasn’t trimmed into shape at that point, so it was full of semi-withered red berries, and it was like having a revelation. I knew that yew seeds are poisonous but I didn’t know how much, and I had no idea how I was going to extract the poison.” Valborg shrugs her shoulders. “Well, at any rate, I filled my pockets with them and in the following days spent a great deal of time researching the topic. I went on the internet and looked things up in my old textbooks. I also made an anonymous call to the Danish Poison Information Centre and managed to squeeze a whole lot of information out of them without them suspecting a thing: how many seeds does it take for it to have a toxic effect, that sort of thing. I finally felt that I was sufficiently prepared to start the process of the extraction.”

“Just like that? Don’t you need special equipment?” Anne-Maj asks. She is trying to imagine what it would be like standing in her own kitchen and handling lethal poisonous chemicals. “I mean, you can’t just use any old pot, can you?”

“In a minute you’ll ask for the recipe, I suppose.” Valborg laughs wryly. “You do know that I was a science teacher before I retired, don’t you?” When Anne-Maj shakes her head she continues, “I know enough botany and chemistry to be able to solve this sort of task, but it took a while for me to find the right concentration – the dosage I gave Helmer the first time was much too low. The only thing that happened was that he threw up and got diarrhoea. His doctor just thought it was stomach flu that, due to his already compromised condition, had knocked him completely out. So, when he recovered after a few weeks, I gave him another portion that was twice as strong, and this time it worked.”

“But wasn’t Helmer hospitalised for a few days before he died? I thought that was what Vips said.”

“Yes, it took a little while. But it turned out to be an advantage because that way no one suspected anything, don’t you see?”

Anne-Maj can easily see what she means, but she really has to control herself to come across as a neutral listener. If she displays the slightest sign of disapproval at the morbid story, Valborg will abruptly grow silent. “Did you put the poison in the Fernet-Branca?”

“Precisely. Helmer was very fond of a small glass. I’m sure you remember. He was the one who originally introduced our tradition of having a little drink before going home.”

“But Vips? What about Vips? Why did she have to die?”

“It certainly wasn’t my original intention to include her.” The triumphant look on Valborg’s face has disappeared. “But I had to.”

Anne-Maj doesn’t say anything.

“At the start of April, she invited me over for dinner because I had offered to help her with some small practical things she had been struggling with. The whole thing with online banking made her nervous and she didn’t have an overview of their insurance and mortgage and that sort of thing. Even though I’m no expert, I still managed to guide her through it and wrote instructions and various codes down for her on a piece of paper.” Once again Valborg takes a deep breath; she clearly has a hard time continuing. “Vips showed me a notebook which she had found in a pile of papers on Helmer’s desk and which had made her uneasy. It was plain to see, even for the naive Vips, that it was a loan shark’s account ledger. Page after page of numbers, several years’ exploitation of weak-willed people. Money lent out, interest indicated, money paid, fully or partially. One name was repeated again and again: Nielsen. But what made this individual stand out from the other victims was that after a long period in which the person had both borrowed and paid back at an exorbitant interest rate, there were suddenly just payments, every month, the same amount, year in and year out. Vips was able to put two and two together. Her helplessness when it came to online banking and accounts clearly had nothing to do with dyscalculia or a lack of intelligence.”

“So she realised it was extortion,” Anne-Maj says.

“Exactly. And in her innocence, she told me about it. But what could I use it for? Go to the police and report a dead man? A man whom I myself had murdered? Wouldn’t that just make me look suspicious?” Valborg shakes her head. “I actually didn’t understand the reason why Vips showed me those very revealing accounts, but then she said, ‘I think this is why Helmer was murdered.’ ‘Murdered?’ I said, ‘He died from natural causes.’ But Vips didn’t think so. Not after having seen those accounts. And then she blabbered on about the fake book. Helmer had once told her everything, with himself in the role of the hero in which he uncovered a crime committed by a certain Mr Nielsen, just as he had described it in his memoir, and had sentenced the individual in question to numerous fines so that the deceitful one would finally learn his lesson. If Helmer really was a blackmailer, which the discovery of the accounts seemed to suggest, then he must have put himself in a very dangerous situation, Vips concluded, and that was why she believed that there was a possibility that he had been murdered.”

“But why did she tell you that?”

“Because the innocent soul that she was needed advice: should she go to the police with her murder suspicions and, in the same breath, reveal her husband as being a cynical loan shark and blackmailer, or should she just not open that can of worms?”

“Why didn’t she talk with her sons about it?”

“I asked about that, too. But they were so busy, she said. They’d just get irritated. And even if she did manage to get them to comprehend what it was all about, then certainly Thomas would do everything in his power to prevent her from getting the police involved. The scandal would undoubtedly harm his law firm which he had inherited from his father. Much better to let a murderer go than risk that.”

“What did you advise her to do?”

“I asked for a little more information. Did she, for example, have any proof of his extortions other than the primitive account she had shown me? Yes, she said. She wasn’t sure where the actual fake book was, Helmer had never confided in her where he kept it. She had seen it, knew it still existed but she had no idea where her husband had hidden it. Perhaps in a bank box, she thought. However, the document the expert from the museum had given him, back in the day, well that was something she had kept for him for several years. Vips almost looked proud when she told me. I asked her whether she was keeping the document in a safe place and she said that she had moved it after Helmer’s death when she suddenly thought it was too risky to have in the house.” Valborg looks at Anne-Maj. “I’m sure you can guess where she kept it.”

“In the jewellery box,” Anne-Maj immediately says. “The one that was stolen during the robbery.”

“Precisely. Not the cleverest place in the world if you ask me, but that was apparently as far as her imagination could stretch, and she was the only one in possession of the key to the glass case, so there was no risk that any of us would sell it by accident.” Valborg sits for a moment, scratching the thin skin of her underarm. “But Vips asked for my advice. Of course, I suggested she let the case rest, to get rid of all the evidence as soon as possible and forget about her suspicions. The risk of making a fool of herself was too great, I said. ‘That’s exactly what Thomas would say,’ she said, and suddenly it dawned on me that she wasn’t going to follow my advice. No matter what I suggested, she was going to talk to a police officer about it, try to get an investigation started … and, well, things ended up the way they did. I dropped by her place unannounced under the pretence of having changed my mind and thinking she should go to the police after all …”

“And that was when you killed her?” Anne-Maj has difficulty concealing the loathing in her voice. The thought of that little inanimate figure on the sofa, the wig that was sitting wrong, her slippers that had been placed so neatly next to each other … the rage is boiling within her.

“I had learned something about the dosage when I got rid of Helmer,” Valborg continues. “If you want your victim to die quickly and painlessly the dosage has to be considerably higher, so I gave Vips three times the amount that I gave her husband.”

“How did you get her to drink the drink with the poison in it? Vips knew she was going to drive shortly afterwards over to my place for dinner.”

For the first time, Valborg looks ill at ease. “I persuaded her to,” she eventually says.

“You forced her? Was that why her wig had fallen off?” Anne-Maj’s voice is trembling with rage and she no longer has the wherewithal to conceal it anymore.

“How do you know that her wig fell off?” Valborg asks, looking genuinely surprised.

“Because you put it on the wrong way around afterwards, with the back part turned towards her forehead. That was how I got a suspicion that she hadn’t died of natural causes.”

“Well, I’ll say.”

“I came out there at around ten o’clock.”

“Yes, I heard you when you arrived.”

It’s Anne-Maj’s turn to look astonished. Now she understands. “So it was you who was moving about inside the house. It wasn’t just a porcupine that made Mortensen bark.”

The dog, who has up until now been lying there lazily, following the two women with his eyes, looks all at once wide awake at the sound of his name, but when nothing more happens he settles back down again.

“Yes, it was,” Valborg answers. “I had been looking for that fake book for hours until you came and disrupted me. I snuck out the front-door when you sat down out the back on the terrace.” Once again, she sits in silence for a moment. “It’s strange,” she says. “It’s actually a relief to tell someone all of this. Now there are two of us who know the whole thing.”

Chapter 31

Thursday 20 June

“Not the whole thing,” Anne-Maj says. “What about Stanley?”

“Ah, yes,” says Valborg, a small tick causing the skin under her left eye to quiver. “Stanley. That was a painful ordeal. He’d never so much as hurt a fly.”

“Exactly. So why?”

Valborg takes a deep breath and massages the quivering muscle with the tip of her index finger. “On that Sunday, when he fled into the Second-Hand Shop to escape the thugs who were chasing him on their scooters, I was already there. I was busy opening up the glass jewellery case with the key Thomas Bergstrøm had delivered the day before, when I suddenly heard all the commotion from the narrow passage. When Stanley ran over towards the store, I grabbed the jewellery box and snuck out to the bathroom. Shortly afterwards I heard the thugs throwing the furniture around as they hurled insults at Stanley. Not until after he and his tormentors had left could I come back out of hiding, then I rushed off. It wasn’t until I was almost home that I realised I should have taken the document and left the jewellery box, but I didn’t dare go back at that point. I was counting on being able to put the box back in its place the next day without anyone noticing, but then you discovered that it was missing from the drawer. Damn those hawk eyes of yours.”

Anne-Maj tries not to be flattered. “That doesn’t explain why that poor man had to die,” she says.

“You know how he used to tell his stories in bits and pieces, right? Stanley didn’t have the ability to give an account of such a complex course of events in one go. The first part of his story about his encounter with the ruffians on their scooters in Algade was given to us all; afterwards, he told you that he had sought shelter in the Second-Hand Shop and that the boys had managed to break in.”

“Yes.”

“So far so good. But then,” she clears her throat, “Stanley came to me several weeks later with a final small detail in his story, probably in order to justify himself in what he considered to be a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?”

“Yes. He kept feeling as though the break-in had been his fault no matter how unreasonable that thought was.”

“Poor Stanley.”

“He explained with pride how he had protected my striped tote bag. He had recognised it when he discovered it lying on the glass jewellery case, and when the boys had broken in he took it with him into the storage room so that his pursuers wouldn’t steal my money or medication.” Valborg looks at Anne-Maj.

“That doesn’t explain why he had to die.”

“What if Stanley had told the rest of you and perhaps even the police that my tote bag had been lying on the counter on that exact same Sunday night that the jewellery box had disappeared from a glass case to which there was only one key – a key which the vandals couldn’t possibly have known the location of. Everyone besides Stanley would have immediately been able to put two and two together and conclude that if the striped tote bag was there then I probably would have been there also. Whereupon they would wonder what in the world I had been doing there, what I needed that box for and why I hadn’t immediately reported the break-in. And one thing could lead to another … you see?”

“To be honest, that sounds a little paranoid.”

“Do you think so?” Valborg asks, looking a little ill-at-ease. “Well, after the boys had fled, Stanley placed the tote bag back on the counter and that was where I found it when he, too, had disappeared and I came out from the bathroom. I had to believe that it had been lying there the whole time and was pretty astonished that the vandals hadn’t touched it. If Stanley hadn’t told me that he had saved my tote bag, I would never have known about it and … he would be alive today.” Valborg looks down at her hands. “He got the same high dosage as Vips. It couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes from when he started feeling sick until he was unconscious. That’s at least how things played out for Vips.”

“And you know that … because you stood there and watched her die?” Anne-Maj has given up concealing her contempt.

Valborg nods, still with her eyes cast down.

Anne-Maj straightens up in her chair. “I think we should sleep on this and decide what to do tomorrow.” She gets up. “If we are both going to lie to the police, we’ve got to have some clear agreements about who says what.”

Only the right side of Valborg’s face is lit up by the terrace light – the left side is impossible to see. The light inside the house still hasn’t been turned on. The old lady’s expression is just as difficult to decipher as it was over an hour ago when she started giving her account, or her confession, one could call it. How can she possibly justify to herself what she’s done? How can she think that it is both fair and logical to kill innocent people in order to cover up another crime? How can she possibly consider Anne-Maj to be her ally, her co-conspirator? How can she think that she won’t go to the police? I should have recorded the entire conversation, Anne-Maj thinks. There’s even an app for that on the phone. She just hasn’t thought of it before now … Why is Valborg staring at me like that?

All at once Anne-Maj realises that there can only be one reason why Valborg has so willingly confided in her: it was never Valborg’s intention to let her leave the house alive. Anne-Maj suddenly senses that she had better get away from there and fast. Right now. The dusk has set in, the voices from the other side of the hedge are gone.

“You are completely right,” says Valborg, getting to her feet. “Let me show you out,” she says calmly.

A chill runs down Anne-Maj’s back. There is only one way out, which is through the dark living room. She definitely doesn’t want to be in there together with a deeply disturbed woman who has just confessed to committing three premeditated murders.

“Don’t worry,” says Valborg, as though she can read her thoughts, “I’ll walk ahead of you.” With an icy calmness, she places everything back on the tray. The white wine glasses, the untouched chocolate box, the small dish upon which there are still some olives, the two schnapps glasses, the bottles. She meticulously wraps the olive pits in the soaking cocktail serviettes and puts the wet lump into one of the glasses. Anne-Maj follows her measured, precise movements with fascination. Normally she would applaud this practically exaggerated demonstration of meticulousness but right now it sends cold shivers down her spine.

“Come on,” says Valborg, who walks ahead of Anne-Maj carrying the tray in her hands. “I’ll just drop this off in the kitchen on the way.” If she’s really intending to attack me, she’s certainly making things more difficult for herself, Anne-Maj thinks with relief.

She snaps the lead onto Mortensen’s collar and picks her bag up from the tiles. The small delay means that she has fallen quite far behind; meanwhile, Valborg has reached the kitchen door just as Anne-Maj steps in from the terrace. She turns on the light above the kitchen table and for a moment Anne-Maj is blinded. She only just manages to become aware of Valborg putting the tray down and picking something else up before turning towards her guest.

It takes Anne-Maj a few seconds to grasp what Valborg is holding in her hand: the half-full liquor bottle. Anne-Maj takes a step back and nearly trips over the dog. As she regains her balance, Valborg lifts the bottle as if to strike.

The kitchen door’s opening is a sharp luminous rectangle in the dark living room. Valborg’s silhouette is a big black mass; it’s impossible to distinguish her facial features. One second later Anne-Maj has received a blow to her temple. She instinctively manages to move her head a few millimetres to the side just in time so that the blow doesn’t penetrate completely. Otherwise she might have died right on the spot.

Anne-Maj sinks down to her knees as she sees stars, blinded by the light, and dizzy from the blow. She lets go of the dog lead and supports herself with her hands on the floor, trying with all her might to get back on her feet. Through a daze she senses Valborg lifting her weapon in the air once again.

Her attacker suddenly stops in her tracks, screams loudly and tries to slap the back of her right leg with the bottle. Anne-Maj watches the scenario against the light, so a few moments pass before she discovers what’s going on. Without a sound, Mortensen has bitten Valborg’s calf. His teeth have sunk in deeply, and since Mrs Mayor doesn’t have much meat on her, Anne-Maj imagines that the bite reaches to the very bone. Mortensen keeps a firm grip while the screaming Valborg tries to beat him off. It must be hurting terribly. Luckily, the older, somewhat stiff-backed lady is unable to both twist her body to the side and bend down, so her blows don’t hit the enraged dachshund. Anne-Maj seizes the opportunity to heave her body into an upright position.

She twists the bottle out of Valborg’s hand, lifts it and aims. She has no intention of killing her attacker, just neutralising her. She lets her weapon swing through the air. With a crushing blow, she hits Valborg’s left shoulder just as hard as when she chops wood in the backyard. Although it can’t be true that she actually hears the sound of Valborg’s collarbone breaking, she can certainly sense a vibration as it travels through the half-empty bottle. Valborg sinks down on the floor in a whimpering lump.

Mortensen immediately retreats as soon as he senses that he can let go of both the thin calf and the responsibility. Instead, he starts barking furiously. It is to the accompaniment of that noise that Anne-Maj lifts the bottle once again, ready to strike should Valborg dare to try something. She commands the dog to keep quiet. He obeys reluctantly without taking his eyes off the woman who, just moments ago, tried to do something as appalling as attack his owner.

Anne-Maj calls the emergency services and asks them to hurry over with a patrol car as she readies herself to hit once more if need be. Not that there is much to fear from Valborg. Mrs Mayor has clearly given up any form of attack. She is lying with her right hand resting on the broken collarbone, crying without a sound.

When the police arrive they immediately disarm Anne-Maj because – understandably – they misinterpret the situation: a big strong woman with blood running down her face standing threateningly over a clearly injured old woman while holding a liquor bottle above her head ready to strike, as a little dog snarls furiously at the victim as well as the police. Anne-Maj tries, without much success, to explain the situation, and it doesn’t help much when Valborg’s landlords, a nice-looking couple in their forties, show up in their pyjamas and, horrified, hasten to the aid of their much-liked tenant. Everyone is shouting all at once and Mortensen starts barking again.

In the middle of all the chaos, an ambulance is called for Valborg while Anne-Maj is shown to the couch where she is ordered to remain. When she finally manages to get the officers to understand that the situation is a little more complicated than it looks, they contact Jan Krause upon her request. He confirms that Anne-Maj, to some extent, is cooperating with the police. Somehow. He isn’t quite sure, Anne-Maj can glean from the officer’s end of the conversation.

She is then given permission to call Iben, who comes to pick up Mortensen and immediately gets him to stop all his aggressive barking. Iben discovers that Anne-Maj’s teeth are chattering from the shock and complains loudly about the fact that no one has seen to her mother, who is now sitting collapsed on the sofa as blood runs from an open wound on her temple. She makes sure Anne-Maj gets a warm blanket around her shoulders, nods reservedly to the officers and goes home with the four-legged hero of the day.

One of the ambulance team members is the leader who showed up in connection with Vips’ and Stanley’s death. At the sight of Anne-Maj, he lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. I wonder what he thinks of me, Anne-Maj reflects. That I’m running around committing murders in our peaceful little town? She pulls the blanket closer to her and avoids his gaze.

When a forensic technician arrives at Krause’s request, one of the uniformed officers accompanies Anne-Maj to the emergency room in Holbæk. She is seen to immediately, most probably due to the presence of the police. The wound in her scalp is sewn up with a few stitches and gives no cause for concern, but the doctor has a suspicion that Anne-Maj may have a concussion, so they decide to keep her there for the night under observation.

The last thing she thinks about before the sleeping pill kicks in is the sound of a bone breaking.

Chapter 32

Friday 21 June

The next afternoon, Anne-Maj is sitting in her favourite spot at home in her living room. The rays of the sun are flickering cheerfully among the leaves of the potted plants and there are four teacups and a bowl of homemade cookies on the sofa table. Krause and Signe are sitting across from her on the sofa while Anders Hall is in the other armchair.

“I just don’t understand …” Anne-Maj says when she, after being showered with questions, has given an account of Valborg’s entire confession. “It was stupid of her to attack me in that way. Let’s say I had died, then what had happened would have been immediately discovered. And how would she have explained that? Either I would have been found on her living room floor with a smashed skull, or else she would have had to get rid of my body in some other way – without either a car or sufficient muscle strength at her disposal.”

“You’re completely right,” says Signe. She has put up her red hair in a random bird’s nest of the kind Anne-Maj herself liked when her hair was still long. “It does seem strange.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Anne-Maj answers. “Valborg’s other murders were so well thought-through and planned so coolly. I know that she first attempted to poison me and that it would have been of such a low dosage that I would have managed to get home, but …”

“That’s not what she did,” Krause interrupts her. “She didn’t try to poison you.”

“Oh, yes she did,” Anne-Maj says. “She had put the poison in a glass, but then I toppled it over.”

“We sent the serviette that you gave us for emergency inspection this morning. There was no trace of taxine in it.” He lets her digest the information for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think Valborg had any intention of killing you. At least not on that night and not at her place; that would have been much too risky. My guess is that she only invited you over in order to find out how much you knew or had guessed on your own. But when she saw your reaction to what you thought was poison, she realised that you had figured the whole thing out. She gave up all attempts at tricking you and instead tried to get you on her side.”

“So, she really thought she could make me a co-conspirator?”

“I don’t know if that’s what she thought but she had hoped to be able to, up to the very end. Deep down, Valborg knew that the battle was lost. The attack at the very end must have been a spontaneous act of desperation. Perhaps she would have killed herself afterwards, who knows? At any rate, she had a pipette with taxine lying ready on the kitchen table and since it by all accounts wasn’t meant for you …” Krause shrugs his shoulders. “The doctor has prohibited us from interrogating her anymore before she has fully rested, but as soon as she is ready we will, of course, ask all the questions we still don’t yet know the answers to.”

“I managed to keep a poker face, though. Pretended like I was on her side.”

She sees the three investigators glance at each other. Anders Hall has an amused gleam in his black eyes.

“I hate to say this, Anne-Maj,” he says, “but you are the world’s worst liar.”

“No, I’m not!”

Krause and Signe nod. “Oh, yes you are.”

“You can’t possibly know that, you’ve never heard me lie.”

“You’ve lied every single time we’ve spoken with one another,” Anders says, smiling. “When you swore that you would stay away from the case you were lying your head off. You are unable to conceal your feelings, Anne-Maj, no matter whether you are happy, irritated or hurt, whether you feel like you’re being cunning or have done something you’re proud of. One can read every single one of your moods in your facial expressions and hear it in your tone of voice.”

Anne-Maj feels like throwing her by-now-cold tea right in his face.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Krause says consolingly. “It would be wonderful if everybody were like that. At least for the police. It would save us a whole lot of time.”

“On the other hand,” says Signe, “that particular characteristic isn’t all that practical if one wants to run around playing private detective.”

Anne-Maj immediately bristles. “I haven’t been running around playing anything.”

“Just don’t do it,” Krause says, not really noticing her objection. “I understand why you grew curious and felt an urge to look into the case, but …”

“Had it not been for me, none of you would ever have found out what happened.” Anne-Maj is so enraged now that her ears are ringing, which makes her speak even louder. “I was the one who …”

“I’m sorry to tell you that we were also on the track of discovering the truth,” Krause interrupts her. “It was only a matter of time before we would have had a serious talk with Valborg von Schilling. But the fact that we wouldn’t have figured out her background and motive as quickly as we did without you, that’s a different story.”

“How?” Anne-Maj asks, astonished. “How did you manage to discover that it was her?”

“There were several little things that didn’t add up. But the decisive detail came up when she and Lis Klausen each had to tell their own version of the last time they saw Stanley Hjort.”

“They had a drink together,” Anne-Maj says quickly. She’s not going to let that arrogant chief investigator think that he can surprise her with anything. “And afterwards Valborg and Lis left the store together. I know that.”

“Did you also know that Valborg was the one who filled up the glasses by the kitchen counter?”

“No, I …”

“And, according to Lis Klausen, she turned her back to the other two as she was doing so?”

Anne-Maj shakes her head, irritated with herself for not checking up on that simple fact.

“Not that Lis suspected Valborg of anything. She described the scene very innocently in order to emphasise how solicitous Valborg was towards him. First she poured a glass and placed it in front of him and then she poured two more for Lis and herself.”

“I haven’t spoken with Lis at all about that day,” Anne-Maj reluctantly admits. “All I’m saying is that if I hadn’t called you in the first place then you might never have discovered that we were talking about three murders, would you? Perhaps no one would ever have had the idea of testing for poison. Well, you probably would have in Stanley’s case. But without me, you would never have connected his death with Vips’.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Krause says. “And we are truly grateful for your contribution. However, Anne-Maj, I mean it when I say: don’t interfere in police work again. You’re simply not suited to it. You don’t have the proper educational background and you’ll end up making a mess of things, both for yourself and everyone else.”

Anne-Maj sits for a moment trying to calm down. She reaches up to touch, for the umpteenth time, the stitches that are sitting at the top of the rather impressive bump that has grown from her temple.

“Does it hurt?” Signe asks. “Do you want me to get some paracetamol?”

Anne-Maj doesn’t have the energy to explain to a well-meaning person that paracetamol doesn’t help her without, for example, codeine or ibuprofen. It’s a discussion she has had a few times in her life. In Anne-Maj’s opinion, paracetamol is a kind of fake medicine developed for naive types of people who, in reality, aren’t truly in pain. “I took a couple before you came,” she just says. “But thanks anyway.”

“Well,” says Krause as he gets to his feet by unfolding his body up to its full and impressive height. “I think we know everything we need to for now.”

“If not, you can just call,” says Anne-Maj as she gets up. She feels a little dizzy but she is stubborn. She is completely convinced that all the symptoms of the small concussion the hospital is so convinced she has will disappear if she just behaves normally. There is no need to lie in a dark room feeling sorry for herself, she thinks. No matter what the doctor has said.

She shows the three investigators out and, despite all her good intentions, gives up on clearing the tea table. Instead, she lies down on the couch with this week’s crossword puzzle. The unfilled boxes flicker before her eyes; she can’t make head nor tail of the letters. Before she knows it, she is fast asleep.

Anne-Maj wakes up abruptly when, an hour later, the doorbell suddenly rings loudly. She gets up swearing almost inaudibly to herself. When it rings persistently once more, she realises it can’t be Iben or Didi coming to deliver Mortensen; they have their own keys and merely ring the doorbell very quickly to warn Anne-Maj that they are entering. She doesn’t have the energy to see other people but the person standing outside is, apparently, stubborn. For the third time, the individual decisively presses the doorbell just as Anne-Maj has reached the hallway. She opens the door half-asleep.

“Helle Wiig,” a strange woman with dimples says. She offers a huge bouquet of flowers and explains that she’s from one of the tabloids.

Anne-Maj views the flowers. Not a single one is in season now, she notes instinctively. Still, she accepts the bouquet a little perplexedly. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the woman continues and smiles.

“That’s okay,” says Anne-Maj. She has never before been approached by the Fourth Estate and can’t help feeling a little honoured.

“I don’t mean to intrude but …” Helle Wiig takes a step closer towards the doorway, “if you could just spare a quarter of an hour, I’d be very grateful. As would the readers, of course.”

“I’m terribly tired just now,” Anne-Maj says without budging. “I received a huge blow to my head and the hospital staff said I need to rest.”

“A concussion?”

“Yes, apparently so. I was hit with a bottle, so …” she starts closing the door.

“And your little dog?” The journalist tries to look past Anne-Maj and into the hallway. “Isn’t it at home? It saved your life, from what I understand?”

Where did she get all those details from? Anne-Maj thinks, mystified. From a source within the police department? From the hospital? Who else knows about all of this? Out loud she says with the last morsel of politeness she can muster, “My dog is at my daughter’s place. And now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Couldn’t you just say a few words?” Helle Wiig persists. Behind her, a young man shows up. Where in the world had he been hiding? He lifts a camera and takes a picture.

“Now listen here,” says Anne-Maj, annoyed at being photographed just like that without warning, wearing no make-up, her hair all tousled and wearing soft lounge wear. “I’m in no mood for this.”

Helle Wiig gestures with an irritable movement of her hand for the photographer to back off and continues trying to persuade Anne-Maj to talk, but the only thing she gets out of Anne-Maj is a suggestion that she go to the police public relations spokesperson. With exhaustion vibrating in every muscle, Anne-Maj finally manages to push the door shut and goes out to the kitchen where she puts the bouquet aside in the sink. She doesn’t have the energy to find a vase for it. On the kitchen counter there is already one bouquet, from Thomas and Feline Bergstrøm and a card with the words, “Thanks for your efforts, Anne-Marie. Get well soon!” Dictated by Thomas to the secretary that morning, no doubt. Feline would never make that mistake. A few seconds later, Anne-Maj is lying on the couch, completely determined not to answer the doorbell should it ring again. She quickly sinks back into dream world.

Chapter 33

Saturday 22 June

The next morning Anne-Maj is feeling much better. It’s Saturday and the sky is embellished with light, white brush strokes and the coffee is well-brewed and strong. The Danish Meteorological Institute has promised lower temperatures, but you never know. Anne-Maj braces herself for yet another meltingly hot day. She has to remember to water the garden tonight, she thinks, and places the coffee cup in the sink.

“What do you say, Mortensen? Should we go out for a morning walk before it gets too hot?”

The dachshund wags his tail. It’s as though he can feel all that loving gratefulness the family is pouring out towards him. Grandma’s Little Rescuer, Didi calls him. She has even drawn a medal that is now hanging on the wall of the dog’s bed.

Anne-Maj takes the dog lead from the hook and bends down to snap it onto the dog’s collar. The dizziness from yesterday returns in a nauseating wave and a stabbing pain shoots through her head. Perhaps she should take it easy after all, she thinks as she holds onto the wall until the world has stopped spinning. But no, what a lot of nonsense. It’s only a tiny concussion. Going for a little walk to get some fresh air has never harmed anyone.

Her legs feel like rubber as she walks up Algade, past the theatre, the bookstore and the pharmacy. Almost instinctively, she turns down the narrow passageway by Matas and passes Irma. Not until she’s standing in front of the Second-Hand Shop does she realise that that’s been her destination all along. She tries the door handle. It’s locked, of course. And she doesn’t have the key with her. Anne-Maj stands for a moment looking through the window. Lis and Kylle have recently decorated the windows, so the exhibit is directly intended for the town’s tourists. Summer dresses, sandals, a red-striped balcony parasol, thoroughly cleaned toys for the sandbox, a fanned-out display of Swedish crime novels.

All at once, Anne-Maj discerns something moving in the semi-dark room. She knocks on the window pane, and a few seconds later Ruth comes over to open the door. She looks happy. “We thought it would be weeks before you’d be able to work.”

“Oh,” says Anne-Maj. “It’s just a bump.”

“Just a bump?” Ruth shakes her head. “You have a concussion, and that sort of thing has to be taken seriously. I remember once when I banged my head into a kitchen cupboard that was open …”

Anne-Maj stopped listening. Right now, she can’t take one of Ruth’s stories about her health. Meanwhile, she wonders how she knew about her concussion. Anne-Maj gets the answer immediately afterwards when they go out to the lunch-room. Kylle is sitting with a tabloid paper spread out before her. All the way from the door Anne-Maj can see the headline, ‘My Little Dog Saved My Life’. Oh no, she thinks. What now?

“They could have chosen a more flattering picture of you,” says Kylle as she points to a photo of a rather scruffy version of a far-from-fully-awake Anne-Maj. And to add insult to injury, the photographer has chosen a photo in which her eyes are half-closed. I look like God-knows-what, she thinks as she snaps off Mortensen’s lead.

“I hardly spoke with that journalist,” she says after seating herself across from Kylle. “I can’t believe they got a full article out of that. Can I see?”

“Of course,” says Kylle, pushing the newspaper to Anne-Maj.

My goodness, Anne-Maj thinks after she has read the so-called interview. It’s not that she’s been falsely cited, but in the accompanying text, the writer has really been wearing her poet’s cap. Anne-Maj’s serious and near-fatal concussion after the serial murderer’s brutal attack, the full liquor bottle that maybe did or didn’t break in the heat of the struggle, the brave dog that saved her and who is now being spoiled by the equally brave woman’s close family.

For want of a better one, Helle Wiig has found a stock picture of a dachshund – though not one that is wire-haired like Mortensen, but whose fur is smooth – and written a caption that, in one fell swoop, embraces the dachshund’s daring and willingness to sacrifice itself and the royal family’s notoriously ferocious one of the same breed. The most dominating part is the picture of Anne-Maj herself. She hates, hates, hates it. She shuts the newspaper as though the layers of paper can encapsulate and consume the ridiculous story – only to discover that she also appears on the front page. She isn’t the main headline, but still: ‘Pensioner in Cat Fight Captures Seventy-Five-Year-Old Serial Murderer’ it says, by god. There is a reference to four full pages inside the newspaper. Which means that there isn’t just one spread but two. Anne-Maj simply can’t take looking at it more closely.

“Were you at Stanley’s funeral service yesterday?” she asks, pushing the newspaper as far away from her as possible.

“I was,” says Ruth, looking sad. “There weren’t very many there in total and no one had thought about arranging a wake afterwards.”

“Who from here attended?”

“Not me, I was still too exhausted,” says Kylle, looking ashamed.

“Lis was also ill,” Ruth adds, “you were in hospital and Valborg was, oh, that’s right, I guess she’s in custody?”

“I’m pretty certain she is.”

“Yes, well, then it was only me who came from here. There were also some of Stanley’s housemates and that woman, Jeanette, and an old lady whom none of us knew, perhaps an aunt or a more distant relative. It was a sad-looking attendance.”

“And what about the wreath from all of us?”

“It arrived there in time and looked very beautiful.”

They sit in silence, each in her own thoughts.

“What do we do?” Anne-Maj asks after Kylle has placed a cup of coffee in front of her. “With the store, I mean?”

“We were just talking about that,” Ruth answers. “There’s only five of us left now and we’re not exactly spring chickens. If we’re going to get this to work we’ve got to have twice as many as we are now, at least.”

“We must look for volunteers in a more aggressive way,” says Anne-Maj. “What about showing up at bingo nights or card clubs? There must be other organisations where a lot of old people go.”

“Those who are hearty enough to partake in such activities should also be able to handle a shift once a week at the shop, right?”

“Lis’ husband, Åge, has said he’d be willing to take care of the trips to the recycling centre and that sort of thing while he’s looking for a job, as long as we don’t tell anyone so they don’t take his benefits away from him.”

“That’s very good news,” says Anne-Maj. If she can escape that part of Stanley’s work, she’ll be happy.

Ruth and Kylle exchange glances. “But first and foremost,” says Ruth, “we have to figure out who’s going to take over Valborg’s position.”

“Not me,” Anne-Maj immediately says. “I don’t have the energy for it.” She could just as well have said that she can’t be bothered with it. That would have been equally as accurate.

“Me neither,” Kylle says just as forcefully as Anne-Maj. “All that stuff with computers and accounts confuses me.”

“I’m sure the same goes for Else,” Anne-Maj deliberately says. “I don’t think she can even send an email. And Lis is, well, Lis.” One cannot utter the truth out loud, that sweet, helpful, maternal Lis is slightly on the slow side.

“Then there’s only you left.” Kylle looks at Ruth. “You are the Facebook administrator, you’re a former bookkeeper and you’re already here almost every day.”

“Yeah …” Ruth hesitates, “but my health isn’t great. It’s over a month ago now that I started getting these heart palpitations and my doctor has really done what he can, given me referrals to specialists and all sorts of tests but no one can seem to explain why my heart …” She almost seems to liven up at the thought of her fragile body. Anne-Maj and Kylle carefully avoid looking at each other. They patiently wait until Ruth has finished giving her account.

“But let’s say,” Anne-Maj grabs the opportunity when Ruth takes a break to catch her breath, “I step in for you if you need to have a sick day or need to go to the doctor’s or anything like that.”

“You would?” Ruth lights up. “That’s very kind of you.”

“That’s the least I can do. We have to help each other, right?”

Mortensen has positioned himself at the back-door and is restlessly whimpering. Should his owner have momentarily forgotten that they were only halfway through his walk, he would kindly like to remind her of it. Anne-Maj gets to her feet but as soon as she does, the dizziness hits her like a sledgehammer. It’s as though she is the only thing standing still while the lunch-room and the furniture and the two other women are whirling round and round and turning upside down. She manages to grab hold of the edge of the table at the very last second.

“Anne-Maj!” Kylle has taken hold of her arms and the next moment Ruth is also standing by her side. Together they manoeuvre her down onto the floor. To her, it feels like it’s all happening far, far away, as though it has absolutely nothing to do with her.

When she finally regains consciousness, Mortensen is standing in front of her and licking her face. She pushes him aside, in an utter haze.

“Did I pass out?” she asks the concerned-looking faces looming above her. “How long for?”

“Just about a minute or so,” Ruth answers. For once she doesn’t entertain the party with a story about the last time she experienced something similar, only ten times worse, and instead focuses fully on Anne-Maj. “It’s the concussion,” she says. “You must take it more seriously.”

“Maybe we should call an ambulance?” says Kylle. The smell of her perfume makes Anne-Maj’s stomach turn.

“No!” she says with as much decisiveness as she can muster. The thought of that young paramedic running into her a fourth time is not a pleasant one. “I just need to go back home.”

“Good. I’ll drive you in the Blue Lightning,” says Kylle. “We just need to get you to your feet first.”

“No, you stay right there for a moment,” says Ruth. “Here’s some water.” She places a full glass on the floor next to Anne-Maj’s cheek.

“Maybe you could use a little pick-me-up?” Kylle suggests. “I think a Fernet-Branca would do miracles.”

“Thanks, but no thanks!” says Anne-Maj who is all at once awake. “I’m never having another Fernet-Branca again!”

Chapter 34

Sunday 7 July

Finely chopped onions and pancetta cut into small cubes, beaten eggs with plenty of pecorino and parmesan, a small dash of cream, which she won’t mention anything about since there are carbonara-dogmatists present, dried spaghetti of the finest quality as well as a filled pepper grinder. The salad has been chopped, the vinaigrette stirred up, all the bowls and dishes are lined up and ready and the table is set with her favourite striped tablecloth.

It’s Sunday, a good two weeks after her confrontation with Valborg. Anne-Maj’s dizziness has diminished by now, and the headache only reappears if she pushes herself too hard. It is an exquisite pleasure to have the wherewithal once again to be able to handle the day-to-day chores and manage the cooking. She glances across the kitchen and delights in the fact that everything is all set and ready to go; all the surfaces have been cleaned and all the dishes have been put in the dishwasher. The world has once again fallen into place.

There’s still twenty minutes before her regular Sunday guests are due to arrive. Anne-Maj decides to spend that time doing the day’s crossword puzzle. After a short break to think things over, she mixes a weak gin and tonic and takes it with her into the living room. Mortensen looks at her reproachfully. He has been following her cooking devotedly and his snout has informed him of all the details regarding the bacon, cheese and eggs. Exactly how these delicious items still haven’t reached his stomach is beyond him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to give you a small portion when the rest of us are going to eat. Just don’t keep staring at me like that.”

Mortensen blinks but remains sitting with his gaze directed at her. Anne-Maj takes a refreshing sip of her drink and sinks onto the sofa with the newspaper open at the page with the hard crossword puzzle. French speciality, nine letters, down. Escargots is the first thing that comes to Anne-Maj’s mind. As usual, she doesn’t immediately fill the word into the white spaces but first solves the words going across. Media: local newspaper. Preposition: over. Fairy tale hedge: rose.

Just as she has decided that the garlic-filled snails must be the right answer, Iben and Didi arrive and they go through the usual ritual where Mortensen and Iben are reunited as though they have been separated for months at a time.

“I’ll get going on the food right away,” Anne-Maj says as she puts down the crossword puzzle. “I could eat a horse.”

Didi follows her out to the kitchen and casts a glance at the carefully arranged food products. “What are we having?” she asks, looking desperately at the bowl with pancetta cubes. She has lately become better at eating a little bit of everything, even though her food intake is still rather selective. For example, she now eats pasta in shapes other than fusilli. But meat and eggs will probably never be her favourites.

“It’s spaghetti carbonara,” Anne-Maj says, giving her granddaughter a little squeeze on the shoulders. “I’ll set a portion of the pasta aside for you before I start mixing it with everything else. I can give you a small pat of butter, if you like. And I also have a vegetable plate.” She opens the refrigerator door. “See,” she says as she points to a beautifully arranged portion of carrots, cucumber sticks and raw mushrooms.

Didi nods in satisfaction. “I also eat bread now, Mrs Mortensen. I get buns with cream cheese in my lunch bag instead of fusilli. And a cucumber, of course.”

“That’s great!” Anne-Maj says, trying to sound enthusiastic. As though soft white bread is better than pasta, she thinks, as she lights the flame on the stove upon which there is a pot of water.

“That way I don’t get teased anymore,” says Didi. “Buns are more like a real lunch bag.”

“Teased?” Her grandmother stops in her tracks. “Who’s been teasing you?”

The ten-year-old fidgets. “The other girls,” she says. “In the class.”

“Do they tease you about your food?”

“Or … they don’t tease … not really. They say … they said,” Didi corrects herself, “they didn’t want to have anything to do with me until I started eating more varied. For my own sake,” she quickly adds, “in order to help me.”

“For your own sake?” Anne-Maj says, looking at Iben who has now appeared in the doorway with Mortensen III flitting around her legs. “Have you heard about this, Iben?”

Her daughter shakes her head. “No, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”

They exchange glances. Girls can be so vicious. This sophisticated form of peer pressure is typical of females, Anne-Maj thinks, although it’s painful to have to think like that about one’s own gender. For your own sake. In order to help you. How many times has she herself received that silky snide remark regarding her own weight? She can just hear the tone of the girls’ voices as if they were present right there in the kitchen – lucky for them that they aren’t. Little brats.

“They just want to be good friends and help me,” Didi says in desperation, as she senses the silent reaction from her mother and grandmother. “They don’t want me to become skinny and unhealthy. Like an an-or-ex-ic. It was only to help.”

“Yes, maybe, but …”

“We’re playing together again now.”

For as long as it lasts, thinks Anne-Maj. Until the little vixens find something else that needs to be rectified through peer pressure.

“What about Vigga?” asks Iben. “She didn’t take part in keeping you outside from the rest of the group, did she?”

Didi blushes. She looks over towards the window when she answers. “No, not exactly.” So, she did. The child shifts her gaze to a top cupboard. “She helps figure out what I can eat.”

Oh, I see, thinks Anne-Maj. She looks at Iben and tries by way of telepathy to communicate to her: You’ve got to take this up with the school, talk with the teacher, set up a meeting about bullying. She hopes her daughter catches her message.

At that very moment, the water begins to boil. “Out,” says Anne-Maj. “Out! I have work to do!” She sprinkles some salt in the water and places a cast-iron pan on another flame. “We’re eating in eleven minutes.”

About The Mystery at the Second-Hand Shop

In a quiet provincial Danish town, something is afoot. The volunteers of the local second-hand shop keep dying.

Since they’re all OAP's, the police can’t see the problem. It’s the inevitable – if unfortunate – circle of life. However, resident busy-body, and force-to-be-reckoned-with, Anne-Maj Mortensen is not so sure. She may be newly retirement herself, but she still has her wits about her and knows when something needs a little investigating…

Scandi crime, but not as you’ve ever seen it before. The 'Danish Miss Marple' will thrill fans of Richard Osman's 'The Thursday Murder Club' and Anthony Horowitz' 'Hawthorne' series.

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Other
- Other
- Chapter 1: Sunday 17 March
- Chapter 2: Sunday 17 March
- Chapter 3: Tuesday 19 March
- Chapter 4: Thursday 21 March
- Chapter 5: Sunday 14 April
- Chapter 6: Sunday 14 April
- Chapter 7: Monday 15 April
- Chapter 8: Tuesday 23 April
- Chapter 9: Wednesday 24 April
- Chapter 10: Monday 29 April

- Chapter 11: Monday 29 April to Tuesday 30 April

- Chapter 12: Wednesday 8 May
- Chapter 13: Saturday 11 May
- Chapter 14: Thursday 16 May
- Chapter 15: Friday 17 May
- Chapter 16: Saturday 18 May
- Chapter 17: Sunday 19 May

- Chapter 18: Monday 20 May to Tuesday 11 June

- Chapter 19: Tuesday, 11 June
- Chapter 20: Wednesday 12 June
- Chapter 21: Friday 14 June
- Chapter 22: Friday 14 June
- Chapter 23: Saturday 15 June
- Chapter 24: Sunday 16 June
- Chapter 25: Monday 17 June

- Chapter 26: Wednesday 19 June to Thursday 20 June

- Chapter 27: Thursday 20 June
- Chapter 28: Thursday 20 June
- Chapter 29: Thursday 20 June
- Chapter 30: Thursday 20 June
- Chapter 31: Thursday 20 June
- Chapter 32: Friday 21 June
- Chapter 33: Saturday 22 June
- Chapter 34: Sunday 7 July
- About The Mystery at the Second-Hand Shop