Free Bogman by R.I. Olufsen Page A

know if she turns up,” said Tobias. “Have a good weekend.”
    He telephoned Pernille Madsen. There was no answer. He sent an email: “You’ll be interested to know Bruno Holst is alive and living in Germany. Your instinct was correct. I’ve amended the file. Tobias.”  
    The evening stretched out in front of him. He wondered if his father’s dinner jacket would still fit him. He hadn’t worn it since his stepsister Margrethe’s wedding party in London. He could ask Hilde to tell him if he looked all right in it. That would make a change from the usual invitation to join him for a glass of wine. Same message, different code. He took his mobile phone from his pocket.  
    “Hi, Hilde. Can you take a look at a dinner jacket I’m having to bring out of hibernation?”
    “Sure,” said Hilde. “Bring it over tomorrow morning around ten o’clock. Erik’s here, which was a nice surprise for me. He’ll give you an honest opinion as well.”  
    So her husband had come back earlier than expected. He was almost certainly in the room with her, maybe able to overhear the conversation as well.
    “Thanks, Hilde,” said Tobias.  
    He felt unsettled. He’d been relying on the energetic Hilde to fill his evening. He glanced at the sky. It would be dark in an hour. There wasn’t the time to drive out of the city and play a few holes of golf. He saw he had a text message from Eddy. “Outside bar Friederiskgade. Join us?”
    His spirits lifted. He fancied a bit of company. He could probably persuade Eddy and whichever woman was with him – Tobias could not keep up with Eddy’s chronic pursuit of unsuitable women – to go somewhere quieter than one of the noisiest streets in Aarhus.  
    It was a dry, sunny evening. The wind ushering high clouds across the sky had a hint of warmth in it. The riverside bars and cafes were filling up. He found Eddy sitting outside a bar contemplating a pint of lager. Tobias looked around. The other outside tables were occupied by couples.  
    “Who’s ‘us’? I thought you were with someone.”
    “Skaarup’s inside,” said Eddy. “There’s a Swedish Country Band playing tonight. They haven’t started yet. The bar manager is Swedish. He says there’ll definitely be Swedes turning up to hear the band. Katrine thinks there’s a chance some of them, or one of the musicians, might recognise the badge. Good idea, isn’t it?” He grinned and raised his glass.  
    “You can buy me a Pils,” said Tobias.  
    Inside the bar, Katrine was seated at a table, trying to get a half-sober Swedish musician to look again at the picture of the badge. He didn’t speak Danish so they communicated in English.
    “It is a little familiar,” he said, with reasonable enunciation. “But I don’t know what it is. Will you have a drink?”
    “Try to remember. Is it the badge of a football team? Or a Sports Club?”
    The musician shook his head. He had reddish blond hair that tumbled to his shoulders.  
    “I think I saw it somewhere, maybe a long time ago,” he said. “But I don’t remember where. My name is Dusty Svenson. What is your name?”  
    Katrine handed him a card with her name, rank and mobile phone number.
    “Call me if you remember,” she said.
    “May I call you even if I don’t remember?” said Dusty Svenson. He winked, slid the card under his glass on the table, picked up the guitar he had put to one side and began to pick out a tune.
    Katrine pushed back her chair and stood up. “We’re investigating a murder,” she said sternly. “We don’t know the victim’s identity but we have reason to believe he might be Swedish.”  
    Dusty Svenson put aside his guitar.  
    “He was beaten to death about twelve or thirteen years ago,” said Katrine. “We need to find out who he was and who killed him. He was wearing this badge when he died. You said you might have seen it before.”
    Dusty closed his eyes and beat his fists against his head. “It’s no good. It will not