The Vanished

CHAPTER 12

‘None of them!’

The conclusion was plain for all to see, but Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg left it to Simonsen to utter the words. They could only speak for their own two witnesses, Hanne Brummersted and Helena Brage Hansen in Pauline’s case, the Mikkelsen couple in Arne’s. That couldn’t be true, thought Simonsen, getting up from his chair and frustratedly pacing back and forth as far as the limited space allowed. The Countess studied him with concern. Arne and Pauline, both seated on the sofa, looked away and waited as Simonsen wondered if he’d made a mistake including them in the Esbjerg meeting. Of all his colleagues, Arne was the least well informed on the case, busy as he was with his funding issues, accounts and the like. And as for Pauline, well, she wasn’t exactly easy to work with in the best of circumstances and now all she could come up with was nothing. Two duds, or at the very least one, the one who’d messed up, whoever that might be. Simonsen sat down again with a single, unconstructive thought in his head: What a sodding day.

The Countess ventured a query.

‘What do we do now, Simon?’

‘Run me through it again.’

He prodded a finger at Arne, who spluttered a protest:

‘You mean, repeat myself?’

‘Yes, it’s all in the word again. So once more, from the be-ginning.’

Pauline shook her head.

‘This is stupid. We told you everything already five minutes ago.’

Simonsen growled at her:

‘If you think this investigation’s stupid, you know what you can do.’

He pointed towards the door.

‘Go somewhere else and cause trouble. You’re not my headache anyway until next year and I can easily do without you until then.’

The Countess intervened: ‘All right, Simon, that’ll do.’ Pauline remained seated and sullen as Arne proceeded once more to summarise his observations from two days before in Esbjerg. From the beginning, as per orders.

Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen had been under extreme psychological pressure for long periods during Simonsen’s rounds of questioning. At the same time, neither of them seemed to be concealing a second agenda – Arne didn’t know quite what else to call it – concerning Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, either individually or as a couple. Throughout the day they’d hardly communicated with each other, no surreptitious glances had been exchanged at any point, in fact they’d barely seemed aware of each other’s presence. But most importantly, neither had shown any sign of apprehension at the mention of the postman’s name. Arne gave a couple of concrete examples from his notes before concluding almost apologetically:

‘Unless they’re the world’s best actors, better than any suspect I’ve ever seen, then neither of them killed your postman, Simon. And they didn’t get anyone else to do it for them either.’

Simonsen grimaced like a miser presented with a bill. Arne stuck to his guns:

‘I know it’s not what you want to hear, Simon. But they didn’t kill anyone.’

Simonsen’s eyes flashed. The Countess was quick to intervene:

‘Apart from Lucy Davison, of course.’

Pauline’s account of Hanne Brummersted’s and Helena Brage Hansen’s reactions was depressingly similar. Neither Brummersted nor Brage Hansen had anything to do with Kramer Nielsen’s murder in Hvidovre. Simonsen shook his head again in annoyance, a clear sign that he didn’t believe a word. He collected himself and probed further into Pauline’s observations of Hanne Brummersted. The consultant doctor had long been his prime suspect.

‘What was her exact reaction when I said the only thing we needed was to find out who killed him?’

‘She didn’t react at all. She was just completely stunned by having seen the remains of the body.’

‘What about when I mentioned the pledge they made? And that one of them had broken it?’

‘She didn’t know what you meant. I didn’t, either, to be honest. I don’t think anyone did.’

He decided to start again from another angle. Maybe that was what was needed. He clapped his hands together and exclaimed in a more optimistic tone:

‘All right, let’s forget about their reactions for a minute and look at the overall picture. Who made the biggest impression on you that day?’

He looked at Pauline, then at Arne, then back again, as if to coax an answer from one of them. Eventually, Pauline replied:

‘You did. Especially when you made them dig the body up. That was totally uncalled for and very cruel.’

‘They killed a young girl.’

‘A young girl you’ve been slobbering over for months, a girl you obviously decided to avenge at the first possible opportunity. And anyway, they didn’t kill her, that daft lad did.’

Simonsen gasped for breath and sensed himself about to erupt in rage. Only by a gargantuan effort did he manage to contain his first urge to yell into Pauline’s face with all his might. The brief respite made him even more livid when he realised neither the Countess nor Arne had put her in her place. It could only mean one thing: that they agreed with her, but hadn’t the guts to say so themselves.

He was about to walk out, leave them all. Depart from his office in anger and let them sit there with their useless logic, to rot in their own ineptitude. And yet he opted for an even better solution, or so he thought. He began to issue orders.

‘Arne, you check their alibis again. I know it’s been done, but I want them scrutinised and I don’t care if it’s the fifth, sixth or tenth time. And I want you to be responsible for getting written permission from all four of them, allowing us to search their homes and any other property they happen to own. Voluntarily… even if you have to twist their arms off in the process. And make sure we get experienced officers conducting those searches. Inform Norwegian police for the sake of good relations, but send three of our own to Hammerfest as soon as you’ve got Helena Brage Hansen’s signature.’

Arne accepted this with a weary nod. Simonsen turned to Pauline then, his voice icy.

‘You make sure all four of them remain in Copenhagen and are available to me for at least the rest of this week. I intend to question them from A to Z until one of them breaks. They can get their arses over here to HQ as soon as and whenever I say. And if they don’t, they’ll have what they did to Lucy Davison splashed all over the tabloids with their own photos in there to boot. And if they’re in any doubt about that threat, just remind them how pretty Lucy was, then ask if they think she’ll sell copy. And if that doesn’t convince them, I’ll personally have the public prosecutor bring charges against them for manslaughter, group rape, indecent acts with a corpse and unauthorised burial of a human being in unconsecrated ground.’

Pauline retorted:

‘For whose benefit?’

Simonsen slammed his fist down on the coffee table.

‘Mine! And you, Countess, get me some solid medical opinions on Troels Holst, our man with Down’s. I want to know if he could react the way they claim. As far as I’m informed, people with Down’s tend to be peaceful and harmless, and this is the first instance I’ve ever heard of where someone like that… a person suffering from that disorder… supposedly killed someone. And I want the information from at least two independent sources.’

He clapped his hands together again.

‘Let’s get cracking.’

Pauline and Arne got to their feet and shuffled off without comment. The Countess remained seated. Simonsen flopped down on the sofa, falling silent. Oddly, he found himself thinking about Pauline, recently the object of his fury, and yet the way he thought about her now was different, albeit he was unable to put his finger on quite how. He shook his head, as if to rid his mind of whatever was puzzling him, and when that didn’t help he turned to the Countess.

‘I stood there when the forensics guys uncovered Lucy, and when they took their photographs and laid her bone by bone into one of those boxes. When they lifted up her skull I found her… becoming. That’s what I thought to myself: that she was still beautiful. Her teeth were so regular and white, and the shape of her head… she was just so… whole and perfect.’

The Countess smiled to herself, and threw out a casual invitation in the same dreamy tone.

‘Should we go out for dinner tonight? Somewhere cosy, in Helsingør, perhaps? I could do with it.’

Simonsen decided to conduct all interviews with what was now the Gang of Four on his own. An hour or more with each, and with half an hour in between so they didn’t get the chance to collude on their way in or out. The bulk of his suspicion was still aimed at Hanne Brummersted, the hospital consultant who had been so arrogant and dismissive the last time they’d questioned her on her own. Now the arrogance was gone; her eyes were tearful and she looked like she hadn’t slept.

‘Don’t you think it’s about time you got it off your chest? We know you were in touch with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. It’s all over his diary.’

She shook her head in despair.

‘It must be wrong. I haven’t seen him since the trip to Sweden. Not once… at least, not to my knowledge.’

Simonsen was upon her like a cobra.

‘To your knowledge? What’s that supposed to mean?’

He sensed the tension mount explosively, but her explanation was worthless. Maybe sometime in the late nineties, 1997 perhaps, she wasn’t sure, but she might have seen him in IKEA in Gentofte. She’d avoided him and had deliberately gone the other way. He hadn’t seen her, she felt sure of it.

‘Why would he mention you in his diary, then? How do you explain that?’

She couldn’t. She wished she could, but no, it was inexplicable to her. At no point did she seem to realise Simonsen was lying.

With Helena Brage Hansen he was rather more cautious. He didn’t want her to break down the way her brother had told him she was liable to do at the slightest provocation. He put his questions to her calmly, as if the game were up and he had nothing personal against her.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen came to see you in Norway. When was the first time he was there?’

‘No, you’re wrong. He was never in Norway. At least, not to see me.’

‘So you went to see him in Copenhagen?’

‘No, I didn’t, no such thing. We haven’t been in touch since… since then.’

‘Phone records don’t lie, Helena.’

‘Then there must be some mistake. Please check again. We never phoned each other. Never once.’

With the Mikkelsen couple he tried to play one off against the other. Jesper Mikkelsen wept for most of the duration, wringing a handkerchief that became increasingly wretched the longer they went on. Simonsen noted with irritation the way he kept dabbing at his tears. He thought about Lucy, and the small measure of pity he’d felt evaporated instantly.

‘Stop blubbering, man. Find yourself a decent solicitor instead.’

‘I didn’t think you wanted us to.’

‘No, but you’d better. Did you really think your wife was going to cover up for you for ever? How naive can you be? Especially in view of the way your relationship’s been going over the years.’

Mikkelsen burst into tears again, struggling to utter his words through the sobs.

‘Then punish me for killing Jørgen, even though I didn’t. I deserve to go to prison.’

Pia Mikkelsen was the only one who offered a measure of resistance.

‘Can’t you people get it into your heads? I had nothing to do with Jørgen whatsoever.’

‘But you’re the only one who was in touch with him.’

‘I most certainly was not. That’s a lie.’

Simonsen slammed the flat of his hand down on the table and yelled. And then she was crying, too.

That evening he and the Countess had dinner at a little Italian place in Helsingør’s town centre. Anna Mia joined them, the Countess having called and asked her. Or maybe it was vice versa, Simonsen never really found out.

The food was good without being spectacular, and reasonably priced, too, as the Countess noted when eventually they sat with their tea and coffee. Anna Mia didn’t get it.

‘I don’t understand you, Nathalie. You’re absolutely loaded with dosh and normally you’re not bothered how much you spend, but every time we got out for a meal you look at the bill as if every penny counted. Did your parents starve you when you were a kid, or what?’

The Countess laughed. No, she’d wanted for nothing. Anna Mia persisted:

‘Maybe it doesn’t always have to be you who pays every time we’re out. Dad could, for a change… or me, for that matter.’

The afterthought was a bit hesitant.

‘I thought you were saving up,’ said the Countess.

‘I am, but there’s a long way to go yet.’

Simonsen suddenly paid attention. He’d been staring out of the window without really listening. Pauline Berg was inside him again, a voice, an emotion… impossible to explain, but he found it happening increasingly.

‘What was that you said about saving up?’ he asked his daughter.

Anna Mia shook her head in resignation.

‘It doesn’t matter. There’s no point anyway with property prices the way they are in Copenhagen. Flats, I mean. I’ll never get anywhere near being able to put something down for a mortgage.’

‘Aren’t you happy where you are?’ he said, a note of concern in his voice.

The Countess shook her head with a little smile.

‘Simon…’

She made it sound like he should stop contesting the law of gravity. He acquiesced. She was right, of course, he shouldn’t interfere. Anna Mia explained it to him.

‘I’m getting older, too, Dad. But it’s not feasible, especially if I want to live in the centre, Frederiksberg or Valby. Sometimes I think I should move to Jutland. Aarhus, perhaps, or Aalborg. The prices over there are more reasonable.’

The Countess came to her aid.

‘That sounds like a good idea. Live somewhere else for a few years, Copenhagen’s not everything. We could drive over one day and look at some places, if you want. I love doing that.’

‘That’d be brilliant.’

Anna Mia sounded happy. Simonsen was not. He spun out a couple of inarticulate arguments in favour of the capital: Copenhagen would be best in career terms, and besides, her friends were all here. What’s more, she had to bear in mind the greater distances involved in Jutland. The region was bigger, much bigger than she was used to, for which reason she would have to work a car into her budget, meaning there wouldn’t be much gained anyway. Probably the opposite, all things considered. No doubt about it.

The Countess again offered her help.

‘You can buy my car cheap, I’ll get another. We’d be able to see you a bit more then, though it wouldn’t be the same as when you’re living here, of course.’

The ensuing pause lasted all of five seconds, and then Simonsen had another idea. He still had his own flat, which basically he hardly ever used. Anna Mia put a hand on his arm at the suggestion.

‘But it’s yours, Dad. And you’re so fond of Valby, I know you are.’

He might well have been, but he’d hardly been there more than three or four times in the past couple of months, apart from picking up his mail. Besides, it had been on his mind for a good while now that something had to change, and this was as good a time as any. It was worth considering, at least. At some point, in the near future.

The Countess thought it was a splendid idea. She knew a solicitor who was brilliant at that sort of thing. Anna Mia could buy the place cheap, the Countess could chip in and help, and Simonsen himself would then have enough in his account to buy something else if he ever found he couldn’t stick living with her any more. She waved away all protests. There were no two ways about it. It was an investment, and she’d be saving money on the car, too, if Anna Mia didn’t need it.

They hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol during the meal, but now she ordered three glasses of Calvados, enlivened by the excitement. Anna Mia conceded that Aalborg was perhaps rather too far away after all, and agreed it would be fantastic if they really could work this out. The Countess raised her glass.

‘Of course we can. I’ll get the solicitor to come round tomorrow evening. Skål!’

The two women chinked glasses. Anna Mia turned to her father.

‘It’s really kind of you, Dad. And thanks for having a drink with us, too. I know you don’t normally. But it’s like sealing the bargain, isn’t it?’

They toasted and drank up.

The second and third round of questioning yielded as little as the first. Simonsen huffed and puffed, begged and pleaded, and used every trick in the book, and a couple more besides, but all to no avail. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s killer remained unforthcoming. The searches he initiated, the surveillance and phone taps, permission for which was so infuriatingly difficult to secure, brought no result either. None of the four suspects had been in contact with any of the others, apart from the Mikkelsen couple, of course, and none had made phone calls that could in any way be considered suspicious. After three days’ slog, Simonsen was left with a big, fat zero.

These were days when he felt everyone was conspiring against him, with the Countess as ringleader. Even Klavs Arnold, who had been on his side right from day one, seemed to have changed tack. When Thursday came round Simonsen took the bull by the horns, gathering his inner circle to hammer it home once and for all: they may reject his theory that one of the Hearts was responsible for Kramer Nielsen’s untimely death, but he was still heading up the investigation, and he alone decided how it was to proceed.

He repeated himself for effect and felt almost gleeful at the sight of their weary-eyed expressions as he hammered home his message.

‘Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts. That’s where we need to look. One of them did away with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. They may even all be in on it. Somewhere there’s a connection, and we have to find it. I want bright ideas, and I want them fast.’

His voice boomed out, to be met only by the blank wall of a rare consensus. Klavs Arnold was frank with him.

‘You’re wrong, and you won’t admit it. The main thing preventing us from finding Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s killer at the moment is you being so stubborn.’

Arne Pedersen was more diplomatic.

‘I’m sorry, I just don’t think there is a connection, not any more.’

He contended that the searches they’d conducted had been a waste of resources. Naturally, that was the word Arne used: resources. Not time or effort. It was the way executives viewed people, Simonsen thought to himself. He listened, feeling somewhat detached, as Arne listed the negative results, going on to confirm Helena Brage Hansen’s and Jesper Mikkelsen’s alibis from the period the killing in Hvidovre had been deemed to have taken place. Eventually, Arne Pedersen concluded:

‘I’ve watched and reviewed all your interviews and have done my utmost in each case to go into things with an open mind. But all I can see is that it holds up. In the case of the unfortunate incident concerning Lucy Davison, they’ve put everything on the table. Every detail has been satisfactorily accounted for. There are no loose ends.’

‘It’s not about Esbjerg, it’s about Hvidovre.’

‘I know that, and in my honest opinion, none of them had anything whatsoever to do with what happened there. And that’s supported by the fact that we’ve yet to find the slightest, even remotely recent piece of evidence linking any of the four together or to Kramer Nielsen himself. And the reason for that is that there is no link, not to mention a conspiracy.’

The Countess twisted the blade.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Simon. It’s as simple as that. Every time we’ve confronted them with Kramer Nielsen’s death they’ve provided us with logically consistent answers without hesitation or any kind of beating about the bush, and even you must admit you’ve been turning the screws on them. Perhaps excessively so at that.’

‘What about Hanne Brummersted? You suspected her yourself for quite some time, if I remember rightly?’

‘Suspected, yes, past tense. It’s no secret I don’t much care for the woman, but she didn’t kill Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. And while I remember it, I’ve got a report for you about people with Down’s Syndrome and their control of sexual urges.’

He was about to cut her off. That could wait, this was neither the time nor the place. But with an efficient flourish he immediately found infuriating she produced a printout and proceeded to go through its main points with pedantic insistence.

People with Down’s did indeed suffer from lack of self-control, though to varying degrees. In particular, they often found difficulty correctly interpreting human behaviour and language, communicative situations in general. Sexually, they could be considered promiscuous, and indecent exposure including public masturbation was not uncommon, a fact attributed to sexual confusion and disorientation. This could furthermore lead to inappropriate, offensive or physically violent behaviour. So, yes, there was a definite possibility that Troels Holst had killed Lucy Davison. Not because he intended to, but because he lost control of himself and the situation.

Simonsen grunted a word of thanks and endeavoured to pick up the thread.

‘Does this mean that you seriously consider we just happen to be dealing with the murder of a man who demonstrably colluded with others in causing the death of a young woman, and yet there is no link between the two occurrences? Think how unusual murder thankfully still is in this country, and then tell me you believe in this utterly incredible coincidence.’

His words were wasted. It was what they believed. Unanimously so.

‘Somewhere, there’s a detail we’ve missed. It’s there. Somewhere.’

There was a shaking of heads. No missing detail. Anywhere.

‘I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what to do.’

It was Pauline who said it and she sounded like she meant it. He didn’t know how to reply to her.

He spent the next day pondering different theories, each more unlikely than the next. Only one seemed to open up some small measure of possibility, enough for him to want to put it to others anyway, in this case Arne Pedersen, whom he waylaid in the corridor.

‘Listen, Arne. Suppose Kramer Nielsen was ill. Suppose he knew he was dying. As long as he was alive he wasn’t going to break that precious pledge of theirs, but on the other hand his Catholic faith is tearing away at him, urging him to make a clean breast of it so he can be ready to meet his maker. Maybe he wrote a letter, to be opened after his death, outlining how Lucy Davison died. Hanne Brummersted happens to find out about his illness via her medical connections. She goes to sees him, to make him think better of it before it’s too late. How does that sound?’

‘Like an equation with too many unknown quantities. Was he ill?’

‘We should be able to find out easily enough.’

Two wasted hours and a handful of phone calls later, Simonsen was forced to concede that there was nothing at all to indicate that the postman had been at death’s door. The priest had no information to that effect, the postmaster likewise, the man hardly having had a day off sick. Kramer Nielsen’s GP and the regional hospitals had nothing, and the list of the deceased’s personal effects contained no medicine other than a jar of aspirin, and even that was unopened. In short, whichever way he turned he drew a blank, and the theory died a death accordingly. Simonsen reminded himself he ought to inform Arne Pedersen, and then forgot all about it again.

There was more substance to Pauline’s input. She didn’t hide the fact that she inclined towards the majority line, as she referred to it, and yet she had taken his call for bright ideas seriously. Arriving in his office one morning, he found her lying flat out on the sofa in his annexe waiting for him. He commented on her choice of clothing, suddenly recalling it had been a problem for her – and for him – some months previously. Since then he hadn’t given the matter a thought, but now he noticed again:

‘You’re wearing your old clothes, the ones you had on before…’

He hesitated and could have kicked himself. She finished the sentence for him.

‘Before I was abducted and tortured. Yeah, so what?’

‘Nothing. It just made me wonder if you were beginning to feel better, that’s all.’

She shook her head.

‘I’m feeling like I always do. It’s up and down. But I don’t want to talk about it. Not today.’

He respected her for it, apologised and kicked himself again for apologising.

‘Two points, Simon,’ she said. ‘First, what if one of them from the Esbjerg trip used to go back once in a while, like Kramer Nielsen did, and then maybe at some point found the bag he’d hidden?’

‘It was well concealed, but not impossible, by any means.’

‘And second, I can’t see that we’ve cross-checked there for your suspects’ fingerprints.’

‘Our suspects.’ It was a point he had to stress. His suspects were Homicide’s suspects, and thereby theirs. Apart from that, he praised her and made a note. Pauline’s face lit up. Apparently, she was having one of those days. He went on:

‘They were all of them affected by what happened on that trip, and it’s no exaggeration to say it marked them for life.’

‘I agree.’

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen with his photos and his maths. Hanne Brummersted with all her work in diagnostics and genetic aspects of Down’s…’

His voice trailed off.

‘Go on, I’m with you.’

‘We’re leaving out Mouritz Malmborg. We’ve forgotten about him completely. How was he affected by Lucy Davison’s death? More importantly, have we even looked into how he died?’

Simonsen scribbled down another note with a pensive grunt and gave her credit once more. He wondered if that was why she was so tenacious with her theories. Much more so than the rest of them put together. Was it all to garner praise? If so, she was the complete opposite of himself. He would ask the Countess about it as soon as he got the chance.

By mid-morning, however, both loose ends came together. No fingerprints from any of the others had been found on Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s bag or any other of his personal effects, and if Mouritz Malmborg’s death had been orchestrated, the rather intricate performance had involved an Italian lorry driver falling asleep at the wheel and two totalled lamp posts. Konrad Simonsen went home for his jog.

Anna Mia was all ready in her running gear, full of beans. The weather was perfect: chilly, though not too cold, no wind and just a slight drizzle that would keep them feeling fresh. This was the day he was going to run all the way from start to finish. It would be a triumph. He was ready for it, and he wanted to share the moment with his daughter.

They ran. She chatted, while he saved his breath.

‘It’s really nice of you to let me come with you. How close are you now to your goal, do you think? Not having to walk, I mean.’

He pinched his index finger and thumb together, leaving a little gap. She understood and stopped talking. It lasted a hundred metres or so.

‘You don’t need to answer, but I think it’s good you found that girl.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Now they’re all saying you’ll clear up that case about the postman, too.’

‘Really.’

‘But that’s stupid, I know. You’re not a magician.’

‘No.’

He had begun to perspire, and the pleasant sensation of controlled exercise on which he had increasingly become dependent spread through his body and mind. They passed along the well-to-do residential roads at a silent jog, shortly afterwards rounding his midway mark for only the third time without pause. Soon the pain set in, his lungs crying out to him.

‘How are you doing? All right?’ his daughter asked.

He didn’t reply. She took this to be an invitation to carry on talking:

‘If you don’t clear up that murder, it won’t matter. You don’t need to live up to some stupid image other people have of you, you know. Anyway, only a couple of kilometres to go now. Less, maybe. You’re doing really well today.’

It was hard for him to think clearly. He wanted the word kilometre abolished, and outlawing corporal punishment of one’s offspring seemed suddenly to have been too hasty a measure by half, but apart from that he was unable to attain any form of coherence as he gasped and heaved for air. He dragged himself along the next stretch of road, and as he turned left he knew that if he looked up and saw how far he still had to go, he wouldn’t make it. And then he noticed the car come gliding slowly towards him, and he had all the time in the world to stare: a Wartburg Convertible from 1969, fully restored, of course. He halted abruptly.

‘Concentrate, Rita.’

They had got an early start and sat themselves down on a bench next to a bus stop on the city’s Rådhuspladsen, facing Vester Voldgade. It was a good place to practise. She was no good at cars. He knew all the makes and models, but she needed to recognise only one. Nonetheless, it was proving more difficult than it sounded. Not least because he wouldn’t tell her why. She enquired cautiously, sounding cowed as she had done all week:

‘But why is this important, Konrad? I’m useless with cars.’

He snarled at her. It just was, that was all, and if she could swan around Europe delivering cash to suspicious individuals for some cause of which she was utterly oblivious, then she could also damn’ well pull herself together and pick out a single make of car when he asked her to. She indulged him and turned her attention back to the morning rush-hour traffic, though it was obvious her lack of knowledge of the subject curbed her motivation. She was exceptionally poor at this task he had given her, hazarding wayward guesses, picking out Datsuns and Chryslers that looked nothing remotely like a Wartburg Convertible. He threw up his arms in exasperation, turning his eyes to the heavens and the bronze statue of the two Viking lur blowers that looked down on them from their pedestal on the square. She apologised, her voice timid as a little girl’s:

‘I’m doing my best.’

She tried again, and for the first time succeeded. He praised her, issuing words of encouragement: now she was getting the hang of it. And yet two more passed by without her noticing. He had set aside the whole day, but was now beginning to wonder if it would be enough. Gradually, however, she became more practised, and by late morning she was rather good at it. He asked if she was packed and prepared. She nodded. Tomorrow, she’d be saying goodbye to her old friends: they were meeting up in Kongens Have, and she hoped he’d come, too. Then, the day after, she would board the jumbo that would take her from Copenhagen to New York. She nodded in the direction of a Wartburg Convertible as it passed by. Everything was ready: suitcases, tickets, passport and visa. Everything except money.

‘I’m going to miss you.’

She sounded like she meant it. He told her he’d never in all his life met a girl like her. In all his life… what a ridiculous thing to say now in hindsight; he’d been in his early twenties at the time. She tried to sound optimistic.

‘But you’ve got to come over and see me soon. You promise, don’t you?’

Naturally, he promised. She could count on it.

He was less emotional about it than she was. Somewhere inside, he felt relieved to see her go, though at the same time he knew he loved her in a way, enough at least to feel torn apart by the thought of her sinking to the bottom in America without the means – the money – to take care of herself.

He hadn’t for a moment doubted his own plan once the idea had occurred to him. Moreover, he told himself, it was as good as foolproof – though he knew better than most that the country’s prisons were full of people who had believed their crimes to be without risk of detection.

Their rehearsal now took in the parking spaces around Nørreport Station and the streets behind the Grønttorvet in the direction of Nansensgade, where they biked around, and she identified four Wartburg Convertibles without hesitation.

Her baptism of fire came the following day. They waited outside a telephone box at one end of a slumbering street. The location was ideal. A few shoppers idled past, and some children were playing. That’s how he remembered it.

His instructions to her were clear as the car came into sight and passed by. He nodded towards it discreetly, satisfying himself that she’d noticed.

‘Stay in the phone box. If you see the red Wartburg Convertible come back into the street here, you call. Let it ring three times, then put the receiver down and walk home.’

He went into the phone box, dropped a coin into the slot, dialling a number twice, each time allowing it to ring. There was no answer. He hung up and instructed her again:

‘Tell me the phone number.’

She told him.

‘Tell me again.’

She repeated it.

‘Now, remember. The red Wartburg. You call the number. Let it ring three times, hang up and walk home.’

He repeated the words again, and she likewise. Twice more. And then he left.

Thirty-five years later on a residential street in Søllerød, he stoically accepted defeat. His lungs heaved like a pair of bellows, striving to deliver oxygen to his sorry organism as he stood bent double, head down, hands on knees. But there was nothing wrong with his mind.

‘It’s OK, Dad. You did your best, and in a couple of weeks you’ll be running all the way, no problem. You gave your all today, you can’t ask for more than that. It’ll come, believe me.’

Though his body protested, he chose to run the rest of the way home.

On Saturday 29 November 2008, a day of resplendent late-autumnal colour, Denmark bade farewell to Lucy Davison. It was a difficult day for Konrad Simonsen.

The Countess endeavoured to cheer him up and help make him look presentable. The suit was a present she’d bought him, and this was its first outing. She’d dragged him to a tailor’s in the centre of town, a small and exclusive place that looked like a museum exhibition. He had his measurements taken by an elderly gentleman who prodded a stiff digit into his stomach and generally made him feel like a shop dummy. The tailoring process had involved three return visits before the tailor and the Countess were satisfied. No one asked his opinion and the bill was a secret, too, but today he was happy he’d gone to the trouble. The alternative was his uniform, which more than likely fitted him like a tent after he’d lost so much weight.

‘Are you sure it’s all right to take flowers?’

‘Yes, positive.’

‘But I didn’t know her.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t take flowers.’

‘Do you think there’ll be others with flowers?’

‘No.’

‘Won’t it be embarrassing?’

‘No.’

The Deputy Commissioner and a laconic individual from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs made up the official delegation, Konrad Simonsen was there in a private capacity. A DNA test had recently established the victim’s identity once and for all. Despite their advanced age, George and Margaret Davison had insisted on making the journey to Copenhagen to accompany their daughter on her final journey. The Danish government had with all possible speed sent off a formal invitation and procured a coffin. The hearse drove slowly out to the aircraft and waited.

‘What a nice thought, to bring flowers,’ the Deputy Commissioner said.

Simonsen felt awkward, and doubtful his rudimentary English would hold up in the face of Liverpudlian dialect.

‘Do me a favour and translate if the parents say anything to me.’

‘Of course, Simon.’

‘Or answer on my behalf.’

The man from the ministry muttered under his breath in English:

‘Welcome to Denmark, kingdom of bilingual bizzies.’

The Deputy Commissioner hissed at him:

‘That’s quite enough arrogance, thank you.’

She turned to Simonsen.

‘Perhaps you should go and put the flowers on her coffin.’

Passengers were now boarding the aircraft. The pilot took his place beside the Deputy Commissioner and shortly afterwards the car carrying Lucy Davison’s parents pulled up. Her father was very elderly and poorly sighted, her mother hunched yet somewhat more animated. Simonsen greeted them both and offered his condolences according to the book, then withdrew a couple of paces, hoping it would all soon be over. But what only took a few short minutes felt like an eternity to him, and he feared the worst when the Deputy Commissioner stepped up to him with Margaret Davison on her arm.

‘You don’t need to say anything, Simon, just listen.’

For a long moment, the old woman considered him with intense blue eyes, clasping his hand in a tight and bony grip before speaking, her voice thin and brittle as parchment:

‘God bless you. Mr Simonsen. God bless you.’

The able among them carried Lucy Davison’s coffin the short distance from the hearse to the conveyor belt that would take her into the hold. Simonsen felt consternation: would her bones end up in a jumble at the rear of the casket, or had the forensic technicians gathered her together in a plastic bag? He didn’t know, and for a moment feared the sudden clatter that would occur if her mortal remains started to slide. Fortunately, he had no reason to fear, and only his own flowers succumbed to the laws of gravity, the coffin tipping gently back and forth for a second at the top of the ramp, as if unable to decide whether to return to England or remain in Denmark. It looked too light by half, he thought to himself.

The Countess picked him up. To begin with he said little, all of a sudden having thought of Pauline Berg and been gripped by a sense of some connection resolved, a truth that had been staring them in the face. It had happened several times during these past few days. He felt like a mathematician suddenly realising he had found the solution to some difficult problem, without yet having done the calculations.

‘Are you all right?’ the Countess asked. ‘You’re even more absent than usual. Was it that bad?’

He replied wearily:

‘No, it’s Kramer Nielsen getting at me again.’

‘Sometimes, you know, success just doesn’t come. It’s part of life, you ought to know by now.’

‘I do. And why everyone keeps lecturing me about it, I’ve no idea.’

‘Well, excuse me. Who’s everyone anyway, besides me?’

‘Anna Mia, yesterday, when we were out jogging.’

‘Simon, Anna Mia’s your daughter, not everyone…’

He cut her off in annoyance.

‘Sorry, just an expression, that’s all.’

‘It doesn’t matter. But what about Kramer Nielsen? Is it because none of us agrees with you? It doesn’t normally bother you.’

‘No, of course not. That little difference of opinion is quite clear-cut: I’m right and you’re wrong. No, it’s something else. I’ve got a guilty conscience and I don’t know why. As long as it was Lucy Davison we were concerned about, I was totally involved every second of the way – sometimes too involved, perhaps. But now it’s only Kramer Nielsen… there, you see, only. That’s it in a nutshell. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, the eternal loser, even in death. All his adult life there wasn’t a soul who cared about him, and now he’s dead… well, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t really be bothered to find out who killed him so I let myself be diverted. I’m going to have to go back to square one with him, start from the beginning again, retrace my tracks.’

‘Didn’t you just tell us all Esbjerg and Hvidovre are linked? And that we’re stupid for not realising it?’

‘Of course there’s a link, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m able to find it. And I never said anyone was stupid.’

‘No, I know you didn’t. It’s just that you’re so sure of yourself it gets up people’s noses sometimes.’

‘It’s not my fault I’m right.’

They drove for a while in silence.

‘Are we having an argument?’ he said finally.

‘No. But as soon as we get home you’re going out for a jog.’

It sounded like a good idea.

He went over to Valby on the Sunday evening, thinking he would sleep in his own bed one last time. After all, he’d lived there more than twenty years. But somehow it didn’t feel like home any more when he walked through the door. He hovered about in the living room, like a stranger, wondering what furniture he should take with him and what would have to go. He hadn’t a clue: other thoughts encroached, thoughts about Pauline Berg, as if she wouldn’t let go of him. He cursed her under his breath. Ever since he’d got to the bottom of things with Rita and Lucy – he had, surely? – it was like suddenly he’d made room for her. He tried to focus his mind on the sideboard, a monstrosity of a thing handed down from his great-grandmother. He opened one of its cupboards, only to find himself daydreaming again, Pauline’s pretty, petulant face staring back at him in his mind’s eye.

He couldn’t sleep either. Eventually, at a quarter-past two in the morning, he capitulated. He got up and dressed, then put on his warm oilskin coat, scarf and woollen hat. It was bitterly cold outside, though without a breath of wind. The air pinched at his cheeks as he stepped out on to the empty street with a shudder. He wandered, strangely serene. The buildings seemed anonymous, alike in the semi-darkness, and he felt himself merge comfortably into the surroundings. From a modest drinking establishment came the sound of song, no drunken bawling as might be expected at this hour, but a gentle bass line accompanied by a rather out-of-tune piano. He paused, casting an inquisitive glance through the door without being able to see much, and soon, after he’d passed, the song died away and silence returned. It was a long wander.

On his way back, in a side street off Pile Allé, he found himself caught up in an incident against his will. A few short metres ahead of him, a gateway suddenly opened and a caretaker in grey overalls heavy-handedly propelled a sparrow of a man half his own size out on to the street. He had him by the scruff of the neck, showering him with abuse for whatever reason. Simonsen stopped. The caretaker let go of his victim, dropping him on the kerb on the other side of the road, where he rolled over in a heap, presumably drunk.

‘What’s going on here? You can’t leave him there like that in this weather.’

The caretaker rose to his full height and wheeled round. Why didn’t he mind his own business? Or maybe he fancied a punch on the nose? Simonsen produced his ID, noting how the man still debated with himself as to whether to stand down or not.

‘You can have a try, and I’ll give you three months inside in return, as well as putting you on your back.’

The man calmed down a bit and growled at him:

‘I was down in the basement checking the boiler. Bloody thing went out again, didn’t it? There he was, crashed out in the stairwell… nearly fell over him. Bloody homeless, they’re all over the place if you’re not careful. I can’t have them on my property, it could put me in all sorts of trouble.’

‘Clear off before I take you in.’

The man did as he was told and Simonsen turned his attention to the man on the pavement. A low-life, one of those for whom there was no use any more, in clothes that were sorely inadequate for the time of year. Simonsen took off his coat and wrapped him up, then called for a patrol car.

He was familiar with the statistics. Increasing numbers with not enough money to pay the rent and no other option but the street; twice as many now as five years ago. The credit crunch had undoubtedly speeded up the process. He sighed and stepped back. The man reeked.

And then suddenly, in the space of ten golden seconds, everything came together.

For whose benefit? That’s what she’d said, and it was why he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Not because he was mixing her up with other women, not at all. It was because of those words she’d said at that last meeting when he’d lost his rag. Cui bono? For whose benefit? It was the oldest question in the book, the starting point of any police investigation. Thank you, Pauline. Thank you!

The patrol car arrived swiftly. Simonsen asked them to drive him over to HQ first. It was stupid, really: it would have taken him fifteen minutes at most to go back and pick up his own car. But he couldn’t wait. The two officers rolled down all the windows and lugged the sleeping tramp on to the back seat.

‘Is this your coat?’ one of them asked.

Simonsen nodded.

‘We’ve got a bin liner in the boot, if you want.’

It was a decent thought: he’d be able to take it with him and have it dry-cleaned without touching the thing. On the other hand, he hadn’t worn it for a year, so what the hell?

‘It’s all right, he can keep it.’

He hastened his way through HQ to his office, unlocked the door, switched on the light and found the folder on the shelf. His fingers fumbled their way through the contents before pulling out the printout he’d got himself so worked up about. He scanned the few lines he was looking for and felt his face light up in a smile.

Cui bono?

That day, Simonsen didn’t come in until mid-morning. He made for his office, gathering all the folders from the Kramer Nielsen case and spreading them out along the length of the deep window sill. Nineteen in all. They took up the entire space. He mused briefly on the fact that no matter what Homicide did, paper was a sure result. He paced about, ambled almost, gazing up at the ceiling or down at the floor, spirits high.

Pauline knocked on his door an hour later, by which time he was seated at his desk with a staple gun, firing at the coffee cup he’d positioned on the floor. The place was littered with staples. She stared at him in disbelief.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working.’

He fired another shot. A hit.

‘The secret is to find the right angle and then pull the trigger slowly, so you’re never quite sure when it’s going to go off. All rather self-evident. But there’s two other things. Can you guess what they are?’

He fired again. Another hit.

‘That was twenty-six out of one hundred and sixteen, so I must be doing something right. What do you reckon?’

‘Arne wants you to help him out with a memo.’

‘You don’t say. A memo. How important-sounding. Why doesn’t he come and ask me himself?’

‘Because he’s busy working on it, that’s why.’

‘I’m busy, too. As you can see.’

Another hit. Third in a row.

‘The other two things are persistence and luck. Persistence and luck.’

‘Are you coming, or what?’

‘Yes, I’m coming. Do you think you could get me a couple of boxes of ammo from the store while Arne and I fine-tune his memo?’

‘Seriously?’

‘No, but you can get me the address of that nervous friend of yours, the girl who stole – or rather didn’t steal – Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mobile phone. I’d like to speak to her again.’

‘You mean her private address?’

‘No, that’s probably overdoing it. Her e-mail will do.’

‘Why don’t you phone her?’

‘E-mail’s better in her case, it’ll give her time to think about her answers without being scared I’m going to come after her on account of that mobile.’

He dumped his weapon on the desk in front of him and went with Pauline Berg. She seemed to be in a good mood, too. Having a good spell, as she might say. He took the opportunity to have a jab at her:

‘Do you fancy sweeping some staples up off my floor afterwards?’

‘In your dreams.’

‘How about running zigzag? I could do with something more exciting to aim at than a coffee cup.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

He found Arne Pedersen slouched behind his computer, unproductive, staring emptily into space. Simonsen slapped him on the back. Don’t worry, help’s at hand. One little memo would hardly be a match for two grown men like them. Arne snapped back to reality.

‘I’ve never known a case to need so much mopping up as this school shooting. We got the actual events cleared up fast enough, but now they’ve got me writing at least five reports about what we can do to prevent it happening again. The fact of the matter is, we can do very little. I can’t say that, though, can I?’

Simonsen agreed. Preventing school shootings was clearly not the job of the Homicide Department. Arne went on wearily:

‘It’s not so much this memo, even if I have ground to a halt and could do with a hand. The thing is, I was sitting here thinking about something.’

‘Go on, we’ve got plenty of time.’

‘In that classroom at Marmorgades Skole, after they’d taken the three bodies away, the floor was covered in tiny shards from the window. They kept crunching under my feet as I walked around.’

‘I can imagine that.’

‘I just kept circling about the room, thinking about what a terrible thing it is when kids are ostracised like that, how deeply it can affect the soul of the victim and give rise to the worst imaginable catastrophes. I knew full well, even then, that Robert Steen Hertz had been victimised and left out. His physical appearance was quite enough on its own to suggest the fact. And then again with the Hearts in Esbjerg. If the kids in that class had just shown them even the slightest positive interest, that girl from England would never have been killed.’

Simonsen could well understand him. It was a neat comparison, certainly one that was worth contemplating. Arne glanced at him distrustfully, expecting a note of dissent perhaps, but there was none.

Nevertheless, he left the subject and returned to the matter of his memo.

Simonsen’s high spirits carried over into his home life. Full of himself, he lectured the Countess and his daughter about the virtues of persistence and luck.

‘How I wish I’d inherited some of your genius, Dad. But what is it you’ve found out about this postman of yours? Or haven’t you?’

The Countess chipped in. Of course he’d found something out. He’d been going around with that silly grin on his face for three whole days now.

She turned and looked at him.

‘Where have you been all day, anyway? The last person to see you at HS was Pauline. She said you were playing stupid games in your office and looked like you’d gone soft in the head.’

‘National Centre of Forensic Services in Vanløse. I was with Kurt Melsing most of the day and will be tomorrow, as well. The things you learn out there. Do you know, they’ve got this machine… you can put anything you want in it and it’ll tell you the chemical make-up of it. A gaschromo-something-or-other, they call it. You put, say, a rubber eraser in it and it’ll spit out a whole lot of complicated-looking graphs that apparently aren’t nearly as complicated as they look, because they’ve all got regular chemical designations with numbers attached. Then what they do is, they feed a computer with these designations and hey, presto, it’ll tell you you’ve got a rubber eraser. It’s marvellous, and all for as little as just under a million kroner.’

‘All right, I’m with you. You’re not going to tell us. But you might at least say when we can expect to be informed of whatever it is you’ve come up with.’

‘Yes, Dad, I’m dying to know, too.’

‘Patience, ladies. Everything comes to she who waits, and if you wait long enough they’ll make you Queen of Sweden, as the saying goes. I know there are two of you but Sweden’s a big place, a vast country. There’ll be enough of it for both of you. One of you can have the north, the other the south. You can even swap around once in a while.’

Anna Mia gave up.

‘And you can be King Daft-Arse and I can find myself another dad. Come on, Nathalie, let’s leave him on his own. He doesn’t deserve us.’

Word spread quickly at Police HQ. Simonsen had solved the postman murder. Everyone, it seemed, had it on good authority, from someone who knew someone else who was one hundred per cent reliable. Only a few short months previously, not a single soul could have cared less about Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s death; now it was just the opposite. The Countess could hardly get her work done for people poking their heads round the door on some stupid pretext, each excuse lamer than the last, and while they were there, what was it they’d heard about that killing out in Hvidovre? Eventually, she put a note on her door saying she didn’t have a clue about the matter, and when that didn’t help she called it a day and went home. Even the Deputy Commissioner stopped by Simonsen’s own office, for no reason in particular other than to hear how he was getting on. She could be Queen of Sweden, too, he thought to himself, and what a divided country that was turning out to be.

‘Promise me I’ll be the first to be informed when you’re ready,’ she said.

‘Cross my heart.’

‘Not that I normally need to know things the second they happen, but HS is buzzing, and… well, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Simonsen, without the faintest idea what she was on about.

That same evening he called a meeting for the next morning at eight, knowing full well he was leaving it late and that eight o’clock was early, two facts he thought might just cancel each other out. In the morning they were all there on the dot. He himself arrived a couple of minutes late, carrying a box full of pastries from the baker’s and a bag of peeled carrots.

He stood in the middle of the room with the air of a televangelist.

‘Very nice of you all to come. As I’m sure most of you know, since my heart attack I’ve been forced to change my habits rather drastically, and part of my new regimen consists of a daily jog. The first time out was more literally a walk, but gradually…’

He spent ten minutes telling them about his triumph: yesterday, for the first time, he had managed to run the entire way! Which called for pastries and organic carrots all round.

Some time passed before everyone had settled. Eventually, Klavs Arnold said:

‘Was that it?’

‘Well, it’s not my birthday, but I’ve got a packet of raisins in my lunch box if you’re still hungry.’

They trickled away to avoid further embarrassment, bumping into a seething Deputy Commissioner in the corridor outside. Arne Pedersen stopped her to explain. Simonsen offered her a carrot.

The next day was more serious. They were all there again, realising that yesterday’s stunt would not be repeated, if only because Simonsen clearly was in a more solemn mood. He began by handing round a report. It was rather a comprehensive report, and a quick leaf through its pages revealed that its subject matter was by no means easily fathomed. The Countess frowned and asked:

‘What is this, Simon? A dissertation in physics, or what? What sort of person would understand this?’

He ignored her and commenced more formally.

‘First off, I’d like to thank you all for the hard work and effort you’ve put into this case. Sometimes more in spite of than because of me, for which I would like to apologise. Now to the matter at hand. I know it’s rather symbolic, but it was extremely important to Melsing that he provide us with a most thorough analysis in this instance. I’m afraid that might slightly have affected the readability of the thing.’

Pauline chipped in:

‘Slightly? It might as well be Greek.’

‘Not at all. It’s mathematics and mechanics, with a bit of anatomy and physiology thrown in for good measure. Newton and Hippocrates, you could say. But perhaps we ought to start with the conclusion. After all, it’s the most important bit.’

He flicked through to the end and quoted:

‘“Assuming the premises of our calculations to be correct, what this means is that the position of the deceased’s body on the stairs may beyond reasonable doubt be taken to be the result of accident.”’

‘You mean Kramer Nielsen just fell down the stairs? Is that it?’ the Countess exclaimed in astonishment.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen fell and broke his neck. There’s no doubt about it now.’

Arne cut in:

‘That bloody idiot.’

‘It’s not his fault he wasn’t murdered. It could happen to anyone.’

‘Not him – Hans Ulrik Gormsen. His mother-in-law, too, for that matter.’

‘Yes, but think of the positive results the investigation’s yielded. You can’t say our efforts have been in vain. Perhaps I should run through the main points so you get the general idea. So, Melsing drew up the report himself, separating Kramer Nielsen’s fall into eleven different stages, each accompanied by illustrations and the complex differential equation they use to work out how the relevant forces impacted on the position of the body during each phase of the fall. The blue arrows are velocity vectors for each object or part of the body viewed in partial isolation. Basically it’s all spatial geometry using the staircase as its system of co-ordinates. The various parts of Kramer Nielsen’s body considered individually can be seen in attachment six.’

Arne Pedersen capitulated and closed his folder. Klavs Arnold, however, wasn’t so quickly thrown.

‘What are all these figures above each… what did you call it… complex differential equation? The ones in the curly brackets.’

‘Well spotted, Klavs. They’re crucial. What it is is an overview of the estimated or measured parameter values. You can see how the various parameters and values are matched at the different stages of the fall in attachment eleven’s attachment four. But to give an example, the coefficient of kinetic friction between the carpet and the deceased is calculated to be one point two with a degree of uncertainty of nought point eight per cent. That’s at eighteen degrees centigrade.’

The Countess wasn’t convinced.

‘I’m sorry, but this all looks like a gigantic cover-up, if you ask me.’

‘Well, in a way that’s exactly what it is. The report’s conclusion is correct given the premises, but Melsing also wanted to… protect a young intern of his who unfortunately messed up with the software application used in all the previous calculations. Since then, Melsing has been off on a course learning how to use it himself, including, most importantly for us, what they call reverse engineering modus. Whereas the intern proceeded very much by trial and error using different points of departure in order to achieve predetermined results, what Melsing did was to feed in the final result and then ask the software to work out the relevant points of departure. It may sound like a technicality, but it actually turns out to be crucial. Providing us with the results in such mathematical detail as he does is his way of covering our backs in case anyone in accounts starts to kick up a fuss. We’ve spent a lot of resources on the basis of the intern’s initial mistake.’

The Countess went from indignation to a warm smile.

‘I’m not sure if I’m the right person to say this, but I’m going to anyway: well done, Simon. You solved both cases, after all.’

Her words met with agreement all round. Case solved was case solved. It was as simple as that, no matter what the circumstances.

Simonsen looked at his watch:

‘Thank you, everyone. However, there is one thing that remains to be said. A few days ago I stood here playing the clown for you. I hope you enjoyed the performance, but now it’s time to stop. Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts. That’s what I said. But I was wrong and you were right. There was no link. I can only apologise for my stubborn persistence in the face of that fact, and… well, let me just thank you all once again for your patience.’

As if she’d yet to cotton on, Pauline said:

‘Is that it, then?’

‘Not quite, but close. I’ve promised to inform our Deputy Commissioner. By rights, she ought to have been the first to know, so all lips sealed until I get back. If she accepts Melsing’s report, that’ll be the end of it.’

‘I can’t see her not accepting it,’ the Countess said. ‘What do you reckon, Arne? You’re the one who knows her best.’

‘Definitely. No two ways about it. What possible objection could she have?’