19Jespersen’s expression was apologetic. “Vibeke is finishing with your statement,” he said in his mournful voice. “Once you sign it, you’re free to go.”
“Free to go?” I repeated. “I can leave the country?”
“Your presence in Denmark is no longer required.”
I recognized the deliberate phrasing of an official position. Jespersen was acting in his capacity as diplomatic liaison, conveying a decision of Danish law enforcement, made at higher levels. Blixenstjerne had decided to cut me loose.
The policewoman whisked into the room, clipboard in hand. She said in English, “If you find an error, tell me. I will correct it.” Her uniform blouse was cut full in front to make room for her pregnant belly and she had to stretch her arms to place the typed sheet in front of me. A grainy fixative glis
