“Last name?”
The secretary shook her head. “No, but she became a doctor, in case that helps. It’s strange. I can see her so clearly but the little sister is completely gone. We should take a trip to the basement.”
“The basement?”
“Yes. If you come along I’m sure we’ll find her last name and whatever else we have on her. I keep the old yearbooks down there. I know it isn’t exactly the National Archives but it’s not uncommon that I can help track down former pupils. You know, for reunions and the like.”
A deep, powerful voice interrupted them.
“Tell me, what’s this all about?”
The principal was standing in the doorway to his office, broad-chested and imposing. Troulsen looked at him. His considerable belly stretched his red suspenders nearly to the breaking point. His face was fleshy and grim, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses were pushed up on his bald head.
“I’m from the police and I’m trying to get some information about a—”
“I heard you,” the principal broke in. “What are you going to use the information for?”
“What I’m going to use it for? I’m going to use it to solve a crime.”
“What kind of crime?”
Poul Troulsen answered with some irritation, “That’s not relevant.”
“I think I know what kind of a crime it is. I’ve seen you on the Internet.”
“And?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“A warrant? Why on earth would I need a warrant?”
“There’s no public access to our archives.”
With a heavy hand he shoved the secretary, who had just stood up, back in her chair.
“I know that we disagree on this point but you will come to accept that I make the decisions around here. We don’t give out personal information about our pupils without a legitimate reason.”
The secretary’s eyes flashed and she waved his hand away while she appealed to Troulsen. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do.
“Am I to understand that you’re refusing to assist me in my work?”
“You work is of no concern to me. I am refusing to give you access to our personal files unless you have a search warrant or written permission from one of my superiors in the administration. Other than this I have nothing to discuss with you.”
“Your personal files … that’s preposterous. I only need one name.”
“As I said, I have nothing more to discuss with you.”
“Then I think I’ll have to swing by the town hall and have a conversation with your boss.”
If Troulsen had been hoping that the man could be intimidated, he was wrong.
“That’s an excellent idea. The superintendent, the director of child and cultural affairs, the county director, or the mayor. Take your pick.”
He sounded unsettlingly sure of the outcome, regardless of which person would review the matter.
“Thank you very much. I hope that we’ll have a chance to speak again soon.”
“I don’t, but who knows?”
Troulsen fished out a card and held it out to the secretary without saying anything. It wasn’t necessary. She took it in front of the principal and they both saw how his fingers twitched in readiness to prevent the exchange.
“Try anything and I’ll arrest you on the spot. For obstruction of justice or for obesity, whichever suits me best.”
The threat worked. The principal kept himself in check. Frustratingly enough.
*
“The superintendent, the director of child and cultural affairs, the county director, or the mayor,” Troulsen said, reciting the hierarchical phrase that the school principal had given him.
The receptionist at the Gentofte city hall did not seem overwhelmed by the choices he gave her. She typed for a while, then looked at a screen. “Looks like it may have to be the director of child and cultural affairs. What should I say this is in regard to?” She emphasized the word may.
He showed her his police identification, which she examined suspiciously for an overly long period of time before she decided it was genuine. Then she gave him a little card with an office number and pointed him in the right direction with a long purple fingernail. He left without thanking her.