At the house they were met by a man in his sixties, who opened his door without a word and waved his arm to invite them in. His appearance was neglected; his face looked older than it should, his eyes shiny, almost runny, and his clothing in a state that a secondhand shop could not even give away. The room they were led into was low-ceilinged and dark despite the radiant sunshine, and it took a little time before the eyes of the two officers grew accustomed to the dim light. The furniture was sparse and worn, but not casually arranged and had originally been expensive.
The man gestured to them to sit on a couch with a sturdy, low oak table before them while he sat down in an armchair opposite. He had made tea for them and poured without asking. They thanked him and drank. Simonsen thought that the tea tasted surprisingly good. At one end of the table were two photographs, which evidently had been placed there for the occasion. The first showed a picture of a healthy little troll in a snowsuit, sitting on a swing being pushed by her father while she showed off for the camera like a prima donna. The second showed a lanky, thirteen-year-old girl in a white skirt, balancing awkwardly in high-heeled shoes in front of a church that was not the neighbouring building. The frames were gilded and hideous. The man followed the direction of Simonsen’s gaze, and said, “Every morning when I wake up I think about her, and every night I cry myself to sleep. I miss her indescribably. She was the only real blessing in my life. Yes, I have brought her out because I think she has a right to be here.”
“It’s appropriate.”
“Yes, very appropriate. It’s my home, after all, and I decide which pictures will be displayed in it.”
Simonsen said quietly, “We have come to find out what happened to your daughter.”
The man took out a dingy handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.
“You believe that she was killed like the two girls in the papers, right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because she resembled them, obviously. I have eyes in my head.”
“Yes, we are afraid that she was killed, although we don’t know anything specific at the present time.”
“I’ve known all along that she was dead, but I hope she didn’t end up like them.”
“We don’t either, and you mustn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”
A small ray of hope was ignited in the man, they could hear it in his voice.
“So it’s not really true. I mean, all those horrible things about adhesive tape and plastic bags over their heads?”
Both detectives cursed the tabloids for wallowing in macabre details on page after page, but unfortunately depicting the murders quite correctly. Annie Lindberg Hansson’s father was now paying the price for the previous day’s sales figures. He and others like him.
“Well, sadly, those things are not wrong, but bear in mind that we know nothing about what happened to your daughter.”
The words bounced off him disregarded. The man crumpled a little.
“What do you want from me?”
“First and foremost, to tell us about the day your daughter didn’t come home.”
He did that, painfully and weighed down with grief, so his two listeners almost felt embarrassed to admit that he had not told them anything they did not already know. When he was done, Troulsen asked as carefully as he could, “You and your daughter argued a bit in the months before she disappeared.”
“Yes, I was the one who was unreasonable. I simply could not cope with her leaving me. It was selfish, I can see that now, but not then.”
“Did she plan to move to Copenhagen?”
“Yes, she really wanted an education, and I also believe she wanted to be with others her own age. There wasn’t much of that out here.”
“She was a pretty girl, what about boyfriends or that sort of thing?”
“Not many, I think, but that was not something she shared with me.”
“Because you were jealous?”
“I’m sure I would have been.”
“Did she want to move to Copenhagen together with a boyfriend?”
“I don’t believe so. No, she wasn’t planning that.”
“Did she have any connections with Copenhagen?”
“She had an aunt there.”
“Whom she visited?”
“Occasionally, not that often.”
“Where did the aunt live?”
“Well, in Copenhagen. That’s what we’re talking about.”
“I was thinking more about where in Copenhagen. Do you have her address?”
“Platanvej, I can’t remember the number, but I can find it if it’s important.”
Troulsen looked at Simonsen, who shook his head. He let the thread fall.
“You say that she wanted to get an education. What kind of education?”
“Cosmetologist, but she was going to earn money first to pay for school, so she was applying for jobs there.”
“What kind of jobs?”
“Anything at all. She went for two interviews, but didn’t get either of them. I hoped every time that they wouldn’t hire her. It’s unbearable to think about today.”
“Do you know the companies where she got an interview?”
“One was at Irma’s headquarters. The other I can’t remember . . . it was a smaller place, exactly where I’ve forgotten. But I’ve saved her papers, and I think it’s there. Is it significant?”