The Purity of Vengeance (60 page)

“I wonder who that might be?” she said, indicating a white-haired woman crossing over to the grave from an adjoining path.

In times gone by she must have been considerably taller, but age and the burden of life now weighed upon her spine, her neck thrusting almost horizontally from her shoulders.

They stopped for a moment and watched as the woman rummaged inside a plastic bag, producing something that from a distance looked like the lid of a small box.

She bent down and placed whatever it was against the headstone.

“What’s she doing?” Rose said out loud, tugging the two men along with her.

They saw the inscription from ten meters off. “Nete Hermansen 1937–1987.” That was all. No date of birth or death. No mention of her married name. Not even an RIP. This was what the administrators of her estate had mustered.

“Did you know her?” Rose asked the old lady. The woman nodded her head as she contemplated the slushy snow on the grave.

“Is there anything more pitiful than a grave without flowers?” she answered.

Rose stepped up to her. “Here,” she said, handing her the tawdry wreath with its garish ribbon. “It’s Christmas, so I thought it might be all right,” she explained.

The woman smiled and bent down as far as she could to place it by the stone.

“I’m sorry, you asked if I knew Nete. My name’s Marianne Hanstholm, and I was Nete’s teacher. She was very dear to me. That’s why I had to come. Of course I read all about it in the papers. All those dreadful people they arrested, and the man behind it, who was to blame for all Nete’s suffering. I so wish we could have found each other again, but we lost touch.” She spread out her frail arms. “That’s life, I suppose. And who might you be?”

She nodded, eyes mild, a warm smile on her lips.

“We’re the ones who found her again,” said Rose.

“May I ask what it was you put down just before?” Assad asked, stepping up to the grave.

“Oh, just a little reminder I thought she ought to have with her.”

Again she bent down with difficulty, picking up a small wooden tablet that at first blush looked like a buttering board with writing on it.

She turned it over in her hands and held it up toward them.

I’M GOOD ENOUGH!

Carl nodded to himself.

He was in no doubt she had been.

Once.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A warm thanks to Hanne Adler-Olsen for daily inspiration, encouragement, and wise, insightful contributions. Thanks also to Freddy Milton, Eddie Kiran, Hanne Petersen, Micha Schmalstieg, and Karlo Andersen for indispensable and painstaking comments, and to Anne C. Andersen for her keen eye and astonishing energy. Thanks to Niels and Marianne Haarbo, and to Gitte and Peter Q. Rannes an
d the Danish Center for Writers and Translators at Hald Hovedgaard, for hospitality. Thanks to Police Superintendent Leif Christensen for generously sharing his experience and for corrections concerning police matters and procedure. Thanks to A/S Sund & Bælt, the Danmarks Radio Archive, Marianne Fryd, Kurt Rehder, Birthe Frid-Nielsen, Ulla Yde, Frida Thorup, Gyrit Kaaber, Karl Ravn, and Søs Novella for their contributions to my research on the Women’s Home of Sprogø.

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