“We don’t know that, but I would really like to have his name. Can you remember what it was?”
“No, that’s difficult. I can remember his face, and also that he was an engineer and very handy with electronics, but his name . . . well, wait a minute. His real name I can’t remember, but he had a nickname like everyone else—Bundy or Blondie or something like that—no, no, now I have it: Pronto. It was Pronto. Maryann had a nickname too, I remember. We called her Polly because she had an irritating habit of repeating everything like a parrot, if you understand.”
“Sure. Can you tell me anything else about this Pronto?”
“I remember that he was unbelievably naive. It almost didn’t matter what you told him, he believed it, and sometimes he got teased. It was just too easy.”
“Do you remember any examples?”
The woman thought, but not for long.
“There was one time in the chow hall—that is what we called the mess—when in the fast-food line you could get one of those breaded, formed pieces of ham. It was three-cornered like the ears on a hog and rubbery besides, so we called them flap ears. They tasted very good, though. Well, there was also a soft ice cream machine, and someone told Pronto that flap ears with soft ice cream was an amazing dish that many people in America ate at Christmastime. He ate that steadily for a while. Even once during the evening meal, when he usually sat by himself, I saw him with a plate of ham and soft ice cream.”
“Was he unintelligent?”
“Not at all, just childish. He was actually fairly bright, as I recall. As I said he was a trained engineer, but he was simply the type that takes everything too literally and can’t imagine that others talk nonsense or perhaps flat out lie.”
“What was Pronto’s function at the base?”
The woman shook her head, she couldn’t remember.
Pauline Berg concluded, “So the helicopter pilot who flew Maryann Nygaard from the S?ndre Str?mfjord base to DYE-5 on September the thirteenth, 1983 . . . that is, the day she disappeared . . . was known by the nickname Pronto?”
“Yes, that’s the way it was.”
“When was the last time you saw Pronto?”
“He went home a short time before me. It must have been in early 1984 because I went home in the middle of March. And I haven’t seen him since.”
“Where can I find someone who knows his real name?”
“That won’t be hard. Many of those who were at the base back then still see each other, it’s almost a kind of cult. I haven’t been involved for several years but there is a website, modnord.dk —and there you can see his real name because his nickname is in parentheses, I recall. There’s also a picture, if you’re interested. Oh, no, not again!”
She struck the steering wheel and slowed down the car. Ahead of them a handful of vehicles were lined up, and a motorcycle cop was waving them to the side of the road.
“It’s another random car check, and this is the second time this month.”
“Don’t stop, drive up alongside him.”
The woman obeyed. Pauline Berg got out and showed her badge while she put in a good word. After arranging a lift for herself, she went back to the nurse, who had rolled down the car window.
“Thanks a lot, you’ve been a big help. You can drive around.”
“I should thank you. I hope you find Maryann’s murderer. She did not deserve that fate.”
Pauline watched the car for a long time as it drove away. She should have said, No one deserved a fate like Maryann Nygaard’s.
Eight hours later Pauline Berg was in her bathtub, playing contentedly with the foam around her while the hot water washed away the hardships of the day. She had left the door standing open, and a smile broadened across her pretty face when she heard the front door to the house open and then close again. Without hurrying she let herself glide down in a carefully conceived tableau, her hair floating in a golden wreath around her and one arm dangling over the edge of the tub in a refined swoon. Millions of small bubbles covered her nakedness—like a coverlet of coquettish virtue, where only one well-formed knee suggested what was hidden below.
“Hi, Arne. Good thing you read the note. I’m not out of the bath yet. You’ll have to excuse me, there’s been a lot going on.”
She heard no answer and called again.
“Arne, what are you doing?”
Still silence. She straightened up and in the process destroyed her pose.
“Stop teasing me, it’s not funny. I don’t like it!” she called at top volume.
At the same time the light changed slightly in the corridor outside the bathroom. Then she heard the front door slam again. She started to feel anxious, until she heard his voice.
“Pauline, where are you? Is there something wrong?”
Suddenly he was standing in the doorway, and anger replaced panic.
“What are you doing? Why didn’t you answer? I was scared to death.”
“I forgot I’d left my toolbox in the car. Are you in the bath?”
The seductive prelude was spoiled, and Pauline made no attempt to revert to it.