The cellar bar was small, frequented by the local people, it was dark and smoky, with a short curved bar top. The barman saw her enter and was already getting her favourite drink ready: vodka and apple juice with lots of ice. She sat on the end bar stool, nodded to the barman and took a sip, took out her pack of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled, held it for a few seconds and exhaled. She enjoyed her end of work ritual. Looking around the bar she saw all the regular faces, nobody new, but that was fine, she wasn’t in the mood for company. She slipped off her jacket, draped it over the back of the bar stool, and settled down to enjoy a couple of drinks.
Two hours later, she stood up, hung the jacket over her shoulder and left, walking the five hundred meters home. As she walked through the entrance to the apartment block, she stopped and emptied her mail box, took out a handful of envelopes and climbed the two floors to her apartment. As she walked in, she dropped the envelopes on the small table in the short passageway and went straight to her bedroom, stripped off and fell into her bed.
She woke at around six thirty, pulled on her tee shirt and made coffee. While the coffee brewed, she picked up the envelopes and leafed through them, just bills and the normal commercial rubbish, but one envelope caught her eye, a good quality envelope with a beautifully hand written address, very unusual in today’s world.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette and sat looking at the envelope. She opened it and pulled out the letter, it was a very short hand written note, all it said was: “I need to meet with you, please call the number below at your earliest opportunity. Regards, K.” She had no idea what it was about, and just assumed that K, whoever that was, needed the services of her one-woman detective agency. She dressed, took her handbag, placed the note in it and left for her small office.
She parked her old Chevy around the corner from her office and walked back onto HC Andersens Boulevard, through the doorway and up five steps to her small office, opened the door and went to her coffee machine, pressed the black coffee option, thinking “K, who could that possibly be”. The coffee machine beeped, and brought her out of the thought.
She took the plastic cup with the coffee and sat at her desk, opened the top drawer and took out her contact book, leafed through it until she came to K. There were just three names there, and nobody she could imagine sending such a note. Sipping her coffee, she mulled over the phone number, not local, not even a Danish number, the phone rang, it was one of the people that sends her work, “Hi Jeppe,” she said, “what’s happening with you?”. “Not much,” Jeppe replied. “Just got a woman who wants her cheating husband photographed,” she groaned inside. “Ok,” she said, “gimme his name, any other details?” she asked. “Nope,” said Jeppe, “you’re the detective,” and laughed. “Thanks a bunch,” she replied, wrote down the name and hung up.