The Vanished

CHAPTER 1

The date was Wednesday 13 August. In Copenhagen the weather was bleak and windy. For Police HQ last night in the city centre had passed relatively peacefully: there had been a couple of bar brawls, an attempted stabbing resulting in only superficial injuries, a handful of drunks now sleeping it off in detention, a prostitute junkie OD’d and dead, but nothing serious or out of the ordinary. The worst had been a drunk driver tearing through the streets in the early morning in an attempt to shake off two patrol cars in hot pursuit. Eventually, he succeeded: with tyres squealing he had turned off Sydhavnsgade towards Sluseholmen doing about a hundred K, after which he had veered right along Ved Stigbordene, putting his foot down with a triumphant look back in the rear-view before plunging straight into the harbour. Now the divers were out looking for him, but the current was strong there, so the search was going to drag on. Everyone hoped he had managed to get out in time and had got himself back on to dry land, but it didn’t seem likely.

The boy making his way over Polititorvet was seriously overweight. At the pedestrian crossing in front of Police HQ he carefully looked both ways before venturing out into the road, his progress laboured and slow. Reaching the other side, he stopped to wipe his cheeks and brow with the handkerchief he pulled out of his trouser pocket, then continued on his way along Niels Brocks Gade. His feet were hurting and he still had a fair way to go before arriving at school. The odd passer-by looked at him with concern, others sending him fleeting glances of pity before hurrying on. Most ignored him.

The boy’s clothing was as wretched-looking as he himself was. His parents were by no means short of money, but this was his own form of protest. He was wearing white, worn-down trainers, bought on special offer last year in the local supermarket, faded jeans that drooped beneath his stomach, and a fawn-coloured windcheater zipped halfway down, one hand tucked inside as if his arm was broken and the garment was a sling. The jacket made him sweat even more, and with his natural padding he could easily have dispensed with it, the weather wasn’t cold. But he needed it: the hand inside clutched a submachine gun.

It was 8.16 a.m.

If Detective Superintendent Konrad Simonsen had got up from his chair and looked out of the window at the right time, he would have been able to see the boy as he passed by below. But he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the Deputy Commissioner while she talked on the phone. She was known for her abysmal dress sense, and today was no exception. That much was plain, even to Konrad Simonsen. She was wearing a snug-fitting, blue-and-green-checked jacket with striped trousers that were almost, though not quite, in the same colours. Konrad Simonsen found himself thinking that all she needed was a dead animal thrown around her neck – a fox fur, for instance – and the hideous effect would be complete.

It was his first day at work in eight weeks and he had felt oddly on edge clocking in that morning. Now his nerves, at least, were gone. He glanced restlessly at the portrait of the queen that adorned the wall behind the Deputy Commissioner’s seat and tried to stifle his annoyance. After a long while he sent the sovereign a grimace as though she were an ally, then glanced back at the case folder on the desk in front of him. It looked thin.

At long last, the Deputy Commissioner finished her call. She smiled warmly at him in a way that was either meticulously rehearsed or genuine, and began to list all the different people who had been in touch with her during his illness, to see how he was doing.

‘Quite a few even called me at home.’

‘Well, I’m touched, I must say,’ he felt obliged to respond

‘And so you should be. Don’t pretend you’re not bothered, you should be glad you’ve got colleagues here who care about you.’

She was right. He said he was glad. She carried on:

‘I’ve decided not to alter your formal status. You’re still in charge of Homicide, but in practice you’ll leave the day-to-day running to Arne Petersen…’

‘Arne Pedersen. His name’s Pedersen, not Petersen.’

Arne Pedersen was one of Konrad Simonsen’s closest colleagues, a highly competent, quick-thinking man in his early forties. It was more or less understood that he would take over from Simonsen as head of the Homicide Department at some point, when the time came, and quite naturally he had stepped in during the two months Simonsen had been away.

The Deputy Commissioner replied:

‘Indeed, my apologies. Anyway, he’ll continue in charge as de facto head until I deem you sufficiently recovered to take over. And to begin with, you’ll stick to three hours a day, four at most. Am I understood?’

He nodded and repeated her words slowly out loud: three hours a day, four at most. After which she informed him that everyone in his vicinity was under strict orders to report to her in the event that he failed to observe her instruction.

‘And if you feel tired, you don’t come in. Remember, the cemetery’s full of people who couldn’t be done without.’

‘Of course. Do I have any say in when I’ll be in, or do you decide that, too?’

The sarcasm was lost on her. She answered him in earnest:

‘You can start by deciding for yourself and we’ll see how it goes.’

‘Thanks. Do I get my new case now?’

She ignored this.

‘We’ve had your office refurbished while you’ve been away. There’s an extra little room for you now, with a sofa in it for whenever you need a lie-down.’

It was obvious she’d been looking forward to telling him that. He thanked her again, awkwardly, feeling ancient. And then at long last she opened the case folder in front of her. Her eyes avoided his as she spoke.

‘This isn’t a case as such. It’s more me wanting something closed in an orderly manner.’

She slapped a hand down on the folder before running through its contents for his benefit. He listened with increasing dismay and realised she was serious: it wasn’t a case at all. He enquired indignantly:

‘You mean the vice-chairman of the Parliamentary Legal Affairs Committee went straight to you in person, interfering in police matters? I’ve never heard the like.’

‘It’s not exactly by the book, Simon, I know. But can’t you interview some witnesses and… well, just put yourself in the picture? Write a report I can…’

She hesitated; he finished the sentence on her behalf.

‘… show the vice-chairman and make her happy?’

The Deputy Commissioner nodded.

‘You’re free to delegate, and I won’t poke my nose in as to how you go about it, only to make sure you’re not overexerting yourself. I just thought it might be a good place for you to start. To get you going again.’

Konrad Simonsen pulled the folder towards him, feeling disgruntled.

‘But it’s not a case.’

And then suddenly he heard music. Indistinct tones, like those that had drifted into his ears when he woke up in the hospital eight weeks before. He was momentarily gripped by panic, paralysed by it as he had been many times since the operation.

‘Is something the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?’ asked his boss, immediately concerned.

He summoned the energy to reply:

‘Can you hear music, too?’

She laughed heartily, and for a couple of near-endless seconds he had no idea if she was hearing the same thing or just indulging him in his delusions. But then she got to her feet, stepped up to the plasterboard wall and thumped her fist against it a couple of times. The music stopped.

‘It’s resonance, that’s all. We’ve got a new intern in the secretariat and she’s got one of those squashed-up little tape recorders with earphones… iPods, I believe they’re called. Anyway, when she leans her head back against the wall, her skull and the partition work together like a loudspeaker.’

He sighed with relief and at once felt exhausted. It was the familiar pattern: first fear of dying, then fatigue.

‘Why don’t you ban her from using it?’

‘I have, but it seems her relationship to authority is… how should I put it?… strained. I was thinking…’

But Konrad Simonsen had stopped listening.

The boy with the submachine gun had reached his destination. The school was on Marmorgade, a short street that lay tucked between H. C. Andersens Boulevard and Vester Voldgade, and comprised a three-winged red-brick building of four storeys, dating back to the early 1900s. The playground faced out on to the street, separated from the pavement only by a chain-link fence. The main entrance was at the rear of the building, imposing steps of granite leading up to an oversized pair of double doors that were painted green and seemed oddly out of place in this setting. The boy headed slowly towards them.

Through a window in the north wing his class teacher spotted him. She had already resolved to speak to the boy about his habitual lateness: it had been dire before the summer holiday, and the new school year had kicked off quite as badly. Moreover, she had a stack of handouts for his class, and if she had a word with him now, she thought, she wouldn’t have to go all the way up the stairs to the second floor. Two birds with one stone. She opened the window and called out to him but to her astonishment he failed to react, though he was no more than a few metres away. She sighed. It wasn’t like him at all, but then being him probably wasn’t always that easy, poor lad.

After battling his way up the stairs and along the corridor to his classroom, the boy sat down on a bench outside to get his breath back. The pause lasted longer than he had anticipated, but he was exhausted and racked by nerves, badly needing to collect himself. Not until a few minutes later, when he caught sight of his class teacher coming towards him with her papers under her arm and a determined smile on her face, did he get to his feet and go inside.

None of his classmates seemed to notice him come in, not even when he crossed their line of vision to get to his chair. He heaved for breath, but did not seat himself. Instead, he remained standing beside his desk with his back against the wall. The substitute teacher who stood at the board conjugating irregular verbs in English appeared undisturbed by the boy’s late arrival. He turned his head to look over for a second, casting a brief and disinterested glance in his direction before carrying on as if nothing had happened. The boy studied him for five long seconds and felt the hatred well inside him, delivering courage.

The substitute was a fair-haired, rather foppishly dressed man in his early thirties with an appealing demeanour and a classically handsome profile, popular with boys and girls alike, and an excellent teacher as well. As though by some premonition, he turned his head once more and looked over his shoulder. It was then he saw the weapon, the short, black barrel pointed straight at him. Tunnel vision, pumping adrenalin. He reacted with impressive speed, reaching the door in three seamless, athletic bounds and managing to grab the door handle before the gun spat out its rounds.

Thirty-seven shots in less than half a second.

Later, each would be classified: eleven struck the victim in the back, three in the head, one in the upper arm. The man was dead before he hit the ground. The remaining twenty-two rounds had all gone through the door, most of them at a height of more than two and a half metres above the floor, presumably because the boy was unfamiliar with the firearm and had failed to take account of the upward pull of the barrel during operation. However, three rounds had penetrated the door at a height of around a metre and a half, one of which had struck his class teacher, who at that moment had approached the other side. A bullet had gone through her hand. Another had ripped a shard of wood from the door, this having struck her in the right eye, lodging itself between the orb and her cheek, though causing only superficial damage.

She felt no pain at these injuries, only astonishment. In a reflex action, she immediately reached up to her eye and pulled out the shard; then, after staring in bewilderment at her injured hand, she fainted. She suffered from haemophobia, an irrational fear of blood.

Inside, the students panicked. Most screamed and huddled together as far from the fat boy as possible. One pupil jumped resolutely from an open window at the rear and was more than fortunate not to land on the tarmac of the playground below, but on the roof of a van in the process of unloading deliveries. He got away with a broken wrist and a nasty abrasion on his cheek. One girl crawled inside a cupboard and managed to close the door from inside. There she cowered, curled up like an embryo, as quietly as she could. The rest of the class clumped together in the corner furthest from the blackboard, some lying down or seated on the floor, others clinging to the wall as though it might help if they were to be shot at. Their screams faded and became intermittent sobs. All stared in terror at the killer, frightened eyes following each movement of his weapon. The boy himself flopped down on a chair, stunned and confused. He, too, was crying.

Following his meeting with the Deputy Commissioner, Konrad Simonsen adjourned to his office with the case folder under his arm. On his way, he decided he was all right about starting off slowly and with something that didn’t really matter much, a thought that both perplexed him and put him at his ease.

Just as his boss had said, he found his office had been revamped in his absence, the room next door now having been incoporated into it. Previously it had been a storeroom, with mostly pens and stationery at one end and discarded computer equipment at the other. Now it was a kind of informal anteroom, newly painted and decorated, with wall-to-wall carpeting and a leather sofa that had seen better days. It was equipped with a fridge, a coffee maker and a 50-inch TV he assumed must have been inherited from Poul Troulsen, a former close colleague, now retired. On a low, rectangular table in front of the sofa, coffee and bread rolls had been set out, as well as a splendid vase of flowers, and up against the walls stood a handful of colleagues waiting for him, among them the Countess, who besides being one of his closest co-workers also happened to be his life-partner. They lived together in her house in Søllerød. It had been more than a year now since he’d moved in with her, though he still kept on his flat in Valby and slept in a separate bedroom in her house, ostensibly because of his heart condition. She greeted him with a kiss, a gesture that was seldom made during working hours. He looked around him and said:

‘Well, you certainly kept this a secret.’

‘Yes, it was meant to be a surprise. Arne’s on his way, too, he just had to deal with a phone call.’

Simonsen greeted those who had come and noticed Pauline Berg, a woman in her late twenties, another of his closest colleagues. At least, she had been. This was the first time he had seen her in almost a year. The previous September she had been abducted while investigating a case on which Homicide had been working. A seriously disturbed individual had held her hostage together with another young woman in a bunker in the Hareskoven woods. The other woman had been slaughtered in front of Pauline Berg’s eyes and Pauline herself left to rot in captivity, before being rescued at the last minute. Since then, he had received sporadic bulletins as to how she was getting on: she had sold her house in Reerslev and bought a flat on the sixth floor of a high-rise in Rødovre, where she lived alone. For long periods following her stay in hospital she had been too frightened to go out, and any number of things, from cats to cellars, could send her spinning into anxiety. Moreover, she suffered from severe changes of mood and found it difficult to deal with people she didn’t know, especially men, unless she sought their company of her own accord. She must have started work again while he’d been ill. As soon as he saw her, he felt guilty. As her immediate superior he ought to have monitored her progress more diligently. But he was no good at that kind of thing, and more recently he’d had his own problems.

He greeted her warmly and noted that she now wore her hair short and that her clothes were informal, not to say slovenly. She straightened up on the sofa and smiled at him, a sad, almost apologetic smile, followed by a shrug that told him far better than words that she wished everything could have been different. That went for both of them, he thought to himself, before addressing everyone in the room.

‘Thanks for the kind reception, and for such lovely flowers.’

It was all he could think of, adding awkwardly almost as an afterthought:

‘Maybe we should have some breakfast. It looks just the job.’

At the same moment the door to the office was flung open and Arne Pedersen burst in with a wild expression in his eyes. He grabbed Simonsen by the arm and barked out:

‘Everyone, now! We’ve got a shooting just round the corner at Marmorgades Skole.’

He waved his free arm in the air, then swept it in a sixty-degree arc in what was actually the opposite direction from the school.

‘One of the kids has gone berserk with a submachine gun. It’s a massacre.’

When Konrad Simonsen arrived in the playground of the Marmorgade school everything was chaos. No one seemed to have any kind of grip on the situation, and it was hard to find out what had actually happened. Worse than that, the evacuation of the premises was sloppy and unco-ordinated, children and adults alike running around in confusion. Someone had set off the fire alarm, so a lot of the teachers thought it was a fire drill, and as procedure dictated were busy getting the pupils to assemble in the playground and trying to count heads. Outside in the street a crowd of inquisitive onlookers had gathered, pressing their noses to the fence, and in the building opposite people were leaning out of their windows to get a glimpse of what was going on. Police were there in numbers, but the efforts of the rank and file seemed quite as disorganised, and most of them seemed merely to be standing around waiting, staring up at the windows.

Having consulted a number of teachers at random, none of whom knew anything at all, Konrad Simonsen was eventually more fortunate. A secretary at the school had spoken to a pupil who had jumped out of a window to get away from his class. The boy in question had already been taken off to hospital, but the secretary’s account of what he had told her was the closest Simonsen could get to hard facts. It seemed a pupil in Year 11, Robert Steen Hertz, had shot and killed two teachers and that he was in possession of an automatic firearm. At present, the boy was in his classroom on the second floor, where he was holding his classmates hostage if he hadn’t already killed them – no one knew. The classroom had four windows facing the playground. The secretary pointed them out. They were approximately in the middle of the building.

Konrad Simonsen’s knowledge of school shootings was somewhat limited, but one thing he did know was that in every case with which he was familiar, the perpetrator had run amok in a frenzy of bloodlust and made sure to kill as many people as possible, just for the hell of it. He looked around the playground and a shudder ran down his spine. An automatic weapon fired from one of those windows would leave dozens dead, at least.

His priorities were therefore obvious. They needed to clear the playground as quickly as possible, then move the onlookers away and ensure all occupants of the building opposite stayed back from their windows. He instructed Arne Pedersen to get the road cleared, almost yelling the order into his ear: ‘Get it cleared, then cordon off at both ends.’ After that, he collared two of the nearest constables and a number of teachers for good measure and hectically explained to them what needed to be done. Everyone in the street to be moved on. Quickly and efficiently, but no running, and most importantly no one anywhere near the fence. Simonsen repeated his orders, after which he ran into the middle of the playground and rounded up a new group of officers and teachers whom he instructed in the same way.

A constable handed him a loudhailer. His voice echoed between the buildings: ‘Everyone out into the street, away from here immediately! Walk with haste, but don’t run. Older pupils help the younger ones. Keep access free. No running, no pushing. Use truncheons or mace if necessary, access must be kept free.’ The latter order was of course directed at the police officers present, and while he would surely have won no prizes for unambiguous communication, he was nevertheless understood. He repeated: ‘Out into the street. Move away. Do not run. Do not shove. Older pupils help the younger ones. Access to be kept free, access must be free.’

His orders worked, the situation stabilised. Astonishingly quickly, the playground emptied, and after it the street outside. Konrad Simonsen let go of the loudhailer. It fell to the ground where it rolled back and forth for a while in a semicircle. Only when he realised he was now standing on his own in the middle of the playground did any thought for his own safety occur to him.

‘We should get out of here, Simon.’

The Countess appeared behind him, wearing a bulletproof vest and holding another in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the second-floor windows as she spoke. He barked again:

‘Where the hell’s the Special Intervention Unit? Have you heard anything? They’re supposed to be rapid-response, what the bloody hell are they doing? It’s situations like this…’

She cut him off with a hand on his shoulder.

‘They’ll be here within five minutes.’

He glanced at his watch and could see he’d only been here himself for ten. It felt like an hour.

‘We’ve got more pupils inside the building.’

‘They’re being led out through other exits. Come on.’

She bundled him away at a trot. He turned to her as they went.

‘Have you learned anything about what happened?’

‘Indications are we’ve got at least two dead, both teachers. We’ve got the second-floor corridor sealed, but we’re not going in, we’re leaving that to the professionals. The body of the class teacher is in front of the classroom door. She’s been shot in the head, so we can assume she’s dead. We’re leaving her where she is for the moment.’

‘What about the kids?’

‘No one knows.’

‘How many?’

‘About twenty-five.’

They found cover behind a patrol car parked on the street in front of the school. The Countess handed Simonsen his bulletproof vest. He put it on and realised to his surprise that it was a perfect fit.

Confusion still prevailed. The Special Intervention Unit had arrived in two vehicles, but were experiencing difficulties getting through the police line on Vester Voldgade. Two badly parked ambulances and a crowd of curious onlookers were blocking their way. Simonsen turned his head in surprise. Behind him, a journalist from Denmark News had commenced an on-the-spot report, jabbering excitedly into her microphone about the bullets that any minute now could be flying about in all directions, and commenting that no one would feel safe as long as the killer was still on the loose inside the school buildings. She, too, had found cover behind the patrol car, while her cameraman fearlessly stood up as he filmed her. Simonsen ordered a constable to get rid of them, then asked the Countess:

‘Are we sure he’s got an automatic weapon?’

‘No, but everything points to it.’

‘What a bloody mess.’

The boy was crying. Having killed his substitute teacher he had sat down apathetically on a chair by the blackboard without knowing quite what to do next. He hadn’t thought this far on. Twice he had risen to his feet, once to look out of the window into the playground where everyone was running around in a frenzy, and once to overturn a table – an action without logic, yet one that caused his classmates at the back of the room to huddle even closer together, as though their terror could in some way be shared. Most held someone’s hand, all followed his every movement with wide and fearful eyes. He got up again, walked through the room and halted a couple of metres in front of them. Many covered their heads, a few began to whimper pitifully. He jabbed his gun towards a girl and issued a command:

‘Go away, Maja.’

The girl he had selected did not at first understand what he had said, and he repeated the order, this time in a desperate shout:

‘Get lost, Maja! You can go… go to hell!’

He went back to his chair by the board, in a laboured waddle, and watched as the girl, slowly and with eyes that begged and pleaded, crept along the wall towards the door. She had to pull hard on the handle before the body of their substitute teacher allowed her to squeeze through. As she did, she slipped in the blood on the floor and almost crawled across their class teacher who lay in the corridor. Outside, she began to wail. Immediately, three other girls tried to follow her, only for the boy to deliver a volley of rounds into the ceiling. The girls screamed and ran back to their places at the rear of the room. He had no idea himself why he hadn’t allowed them to leave, too. Perhaps it was because their attempted escape represented a change he had not sanctioned, a lack of control. Or perhaps it was because he simply didn’t care for them. He fired another brief volley into the body at the door, though he felt no pleasure in doing so. And then he began to cry again, and to wish it would all be over soon.

Konrad Simonsen and the Countess received the girl as she came running. She had lost one shoe and was smeared in blood from head to toe. Her white blouse, tight jeans, face and fair hair were crimson. It took a while for the two investigators to realise she was unharmed. The Countess wrapped a blanket around the girl’s shoulders. She was trembling and clearly in need of medical attention.

They were standing behind the Special Intervention Unit’s group vehicle, now referred to invariably as the Gulf, though in this case it was a Mercedes Vito. It was armoured, and anyway there was no longer a danger of their being shot at from the windows. Not for long, at least, the operational commander having just received confirmation that his marksman was in place in the apartment building behind them. Cautiously, the Countess began to question the girl.

‘What happened? How did you get out?’

The reply came in frightened little bursts, and the Countess realised that more than three or four questions would hardly be reasonable.

‘He let me go… but then he shot the others who came after me.’

‘So some of your classmates have been shot?’

The girl put her bloodied hands to her ears and lowered her head.

‘He shot them down in cold blood, that fucking psycho! They never had a chance. Just because they wanted to get away as well. In cold blood…’

The Countess held her gently, shaking her ever so slightly to maintain the girl’s focus. The operational commander and Konrad Simonsen, standing beside them, exchanged glances.

‘How many of your friends are alive?’

‘Some are alive, some are dead. I don’t know how many. He’s going to kill the rest of them soon. He’s going to mow them down like rabbits.’

‘Is that what he said?’

She didn’t seem to comprehend the question, and the Countess repeated:

‘Did Robert Steen Hertz say he was going to kill your classmates?’

‘He doesn’t say anything, he just pumps bullets into people whenever he feels like it. The fat bastard! Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Can’t you blow his head off or something?’

The Countess frowned. Arne Pedersen, who had just joined them, muttered:

‘She’s not much use.’

Simonsen intervened.

‘Get her into an ambulance, Countess.’

The operational commander narrowed his eyes and peered up towards the windows of the classroom, as though it might afford him a clearer picture of the situation inside. It was up to him what was going to happen, whether his men were to go in and neutralise the killer, whether he should try negotiating, or whether the marksman should be given orders to shoot on sight. He was far from convinced by what the girl had said. She was clearly in a state of shock, and the way she talked about it was less than credible, more like something out of a Hollywood movie she’d seen. He did not feel inclined to order the marksman into action on that account. On the other hand, storming the classroom might easily result in more dead. Again, he peered up at the windows, and then he made his decision.

‘A stun grenade and then in. I only hope we’re in time, that’s all.’

At the same moment, the main door of the school opened and a woman gingerly emerged. Even from a distance it was plain that she was covered in blood. She wobbled down the steps, seemingly badly injured, an apparent confirmation of what the girl had told them. A few steps into the playground the class teacher collapsed and fell to the ground in a heap. The operational commander nodded to two of his men, indicating the woman he thought to be a pupil. The men ran out to bring her in. As they did so, the commander gripped the lapel of his jacket and spoke into the microphone that was fastened to its rear.

‘This is Lima. If you get a decent crack, Palle, kill him.’

And then he shouted out loud:

‘Get an ambulance!’

The marksman had been lucky. After arriving at the scene with his unit he had quickly identified the ideal spot, on the third floor of the apartment building opposite, that would afford him an unimpeded view of the windows on the second floor of the school’s main building, behind which the incident was unfolding. He took his rifle from the Gulf, ran quickly to the front door he had picked out and proceeded up the stairs. There were two flats to choose between, but the door of one was already ajar. Inside, a police officer was explaining to the occupant that he was to keep back from the windows facing the street. This was when he struck lucky. The occupant turned out to be a retired army officer, who despite his almost eighty years was quick to sense the gravity of the situation and the needs of the marksman.

The police officer opened one of the living-room windows, lifted it carefully from its hinges and put it down on the floor. The marksman cleared the window sill. Together they lifted the retired officer’s heavy mahogany dining table and carried it over to the window. It was no more than a couple of centimetres shorter in height than the sill. The marksman lay down on the table and prepared his rifle. It was a Heckler & Koch PSG1 A1, one of the most precise rifles ever manufactured, and using it an experienced marksman could hit a target up to eight hundred metres away. That wouldn’t be necessary here, the flat no more than a hundred and fifty metres from the classroom. It was as perfect as could be. He informed his commander that he was in position.

Three times he identified the target in his sights, each time only fleetingly. The first time, he saw the boy upend a table, the second and third times he passed in front of the window, first one way, then the other. Unfortunately, he had moved too quickly for the marksman to be able to identify his weapon. And then the order came, the order he had hoped would never come at all. He requested confirmation and received it immediately.

In the classroom, the boy with the submachine gun had finally decided that the best thing for him to do was to let his classmates go and give himself up. He was exhausted, frightened and hungry, and he wanted out. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was out. Then it was that he heard the ambulance and went over to the window closest to the blackboard, cupping his hand to the pane to eliminate the reflected light as he peered out into the street to see what was going on.

The bullet hit him square in the forehead above his left eye and exited from his lower skull, after which it continued on its path, striking the leg of an overturned desk, ricocheting diagonally downwards, piercing the door of the classroom cupboard and the knee of the girl who cowered inside it, then passing through her neck and spine, before finally embedding itself in the wall. Both children died immediately.

Outside, the shot echoed between the buildings. Simonsen automatically looked up towards the source and then back at the Countess, solemnly and without words. The operational commander approached them.

‘It’s over.’

It was almost noon and the situation at the Marmorgade school was under control. The Special Intervention Unit had left the scene, forensics were at work in the classroom and counsellors had been summoned. The mood was oppressive, conversation between the officers present clipped and businesslike.

Konrad Simonsen’s first day back at work was over, Arne Pedersen was insisting on driving him home. In the meantime, the Countess would have to take over. Pedersen would be back within the hour.

In the car Simonsen asked:

‘Haven’t you got better things to do than play chauffeur?’

‘Yeah, but I need to run some decision-making by you.’

‘It’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? We’ll have a fairly good idea of what exactly happened by the end of the day, then all you need is a motive and to find out how Robert Steen Hertz managed to get his hands on a submachine gun. You’ll have to deal with the press, but apart from that I’d focus mainly on making sure the boy was on his own. Because if he’s got mates with the same ideas and the same sort of weapons, you’re going to need to know as soon as possible. And one more thing: if you’re anticipating funding issues, now’s the time to put in for more.’

They discussed matters for a while. Arne Pedersen had a number of questions, Konrad Simonsen answered them. By the time they turned off towards Søllerød they had no more to say on the issue, and Pedersen changed the subject:

‘What about you anyway? How did it go with the Deputy Commissioner? Did she give you something to be getting on with?’

It was obvious he was only asking for the sake of politeness. His mind was still on the school shooting.

‘Of a sort, I suppose.’

Arne Pedersen said nothing, and Simonsen added:

‘Then I heard music.’

‘Music? What sort of music?’

‘Something that’ll make you smile.’

He explained about the resonance. Arne Pedersen was puzzled.

‘Is this important?’

Simonsen shook his head. No, it wasn’t important at all.

When he woke up after collapsing it had meant everything.

The cheerful, inciting overture from the fairground, where everyone was welcome. French horns tearing the old world apart and drawing the marvelling audience into the future. The singer whose optimistic vocals gripped his soul and for a moment dulled the pains in his chest. It was as if he had been allotted another chance, an opportunity to change his mind, alter his life, perhaps even understand it. And then the light intruded, he had felt the weight of his body and everything hurt. In vain he reached out to the music as the final notes drifted away, and the movement caused him to wince. Someone took his hand, and he opened his eyes.

Konrad Simonsen was on the job early, far too early for his own liking, but he came in with the Countess and she had more than enough to think about with the ongoing investigation into the shooting at the school. His schedule would have to bow to hers if they were to go in together. She smiled and was chirpy. The sooner you go in, the sooner you can go home again, think of it that way. She was right, of course, but going home early wasn’t actually an inviting prospect. Time spent on his own in Søllerød dragged, and the Countess herself probably wouldn’t be home until late. He felt pitiful and was annoyed with himself for the same reason. He still hadn’t properly rearranged his life after the heart attack, he thought to himself, and tried to think about something else instead.

Arriving at his office he found Pauline Berg there. She was lounging on the sofa in his annexe, as the little anteroom had swiftly been dubbed, watching TV. He dumped his briefcase on the desk and went in to join her. She switched it off and they said hello, though with little warmth. He studied her for a moment, still standing, long enough for her to look away. He sat down at the other end of the sofa.

‘You look like a dosser.’

He was right. She was wearing a pair of ragged old jeans and a grey man’s shirt whose sleeves and collar were all but threadbare. Her sandals were worn down, the leather in disrepair.

‘If you want to work for me, you can come in properly dressed,’ Simonsen told her.

‘I think I’ve got a pair of UFO pants at the back of my wardrobe, I’ll wear them tomorrow, if you like.’

Seeing that the threat cut no ice, she growled at him:

‘I wear what I want.’

‘No, you don’t. As from tomorrow, you wear what I want. Otherwise, you’re out of here. It’s your choice.’

She flashed him an angry look, but remained seated. He handed her the case folder the Deputy Commissioner had given him.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, born 1951, Copenhagen. Unmarried, worked as a postman. Lived in Hvidovre, died falling down a flight of stairs in his home somewhere round the twentieth of February, which is to say about six months ago. Exact time of death unknown, deceased not having been found until some considerable time after the event.’

Pauline Berg replied in a rather disinterested tone:

‘Tell me about it. These things happen.’

He looked at her in annoyance before going on.

‘On the afternoon of Friday the twenty-ninth of February, a downstairs neighbour finds Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s body on the shared staircase. The man’s been dead for quite some time and the corpse has started to stink. Neighbour calls an ambulance, and we’re brought in as a matter of routine. A patrol car with two officers arrives at the scene, then shortly afterwards the district medical officer as well. He sends the two officers away, investigates the circumstances of death and writes out a certificate saying Jørgen Kramer Nielsen broke his neck in an accident falling down the stairs. In other words: no criminal police, no forensics, no pathology, just away to the morgue with him and then into a coffin.’

‘What a tosser.’

‘Indeed. But there’s an explanation. The district medical officer came straight from a slap-up dinner with the lads, stinking like a distillery. He could hardly walk straight.’

‘You mean, he was pissed?’

‘As a newt. No contention about that. So far, so bad. But it gets worse. One of the two officers called to the scene, a Hans Ulrik Gormsen…’

He sent her an enquiring glance to see if she knew him. She shook her head and Simonsen carried on.

‘This Hans Ulrik Gormsen says he had an idea that Nielsen had been murdered the moment he set eyes on him. And I’m afraid that’s a quote. His suspicion was due to the position of the body, along with the fact that the staircase down which Jørgen Kramer Nielsen ostensibly fell is only seven stairs. He took a number of photos of the body and the stairs with his mobile, measured up as well as he could and questioned the neighbour, apparently having cause to threaten the man with arrest. The neighbour, by the way, is a priest. It seems he wound up the medical officer the wrong way, too, which might be one reason why the case was closed so peremptorily.’

‘I’m with you, but where do we come in? It may be a mess, I’ll give you that, but people found dead with a broken neck at the bottom of a flight of stairs have only very rarely been murdered.’

‘True, nor is there any indication that Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was either, which Hans Ulrik Gormsen, to his great resentment, was told in no uncertain terms when he presented his photos to the police prosecutor. After that, nothing more happened for a month or so, until Gormsen moved on to a new job as security executive in a private company. At this point he decides to pick up the postman case, as he calls it, and lay it out for his mother-in-law. And she was a lot easier to convince that a crime had taken place. Unfortunately, his mother-in-law happens to be vice-chairman of the Parliamentary Legal Affairs Committee.’

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘My sentiments exactly, but the bottom line is we’re expected to spend a couple of days, maybe a week, on Kramer Nielsen’s death, after which we write out a report confirming the man died as a result of a simple domestic fall.’

Pauline Berg guessed:

‘A report the Deputy Commissioner can present to Gormsen’s mother-in-law with a clean conscience?’

‘Exactly, yes. Are you still interested? Or do you want me to tell Arne you’d rather be on the school shooting with everyone else?’

Pauline threw her hands up in annoyance.

‘The fat kid? No, thanks. That case is too depressing.’

She ignored Simonsen’s admonishment to be respectful and stared into space for a while. He waited patiently, and eventually she spoke.

‘What do we know about this postman? Any previous?’

Simonsen shook his head.

‘We know practically nothing apart from this. It’s all we’ve got.’

He handed her a sheet of paper from the folder.

On 5 March 1996, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was attacked and beaten up on his postal route. His assailant was a forty-year-old fitter from Rødovre, no criminal record. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had the stuffing knocked out of him, and the attack only stopped because a patrol car happened by. He was taken to Hvidovre Hospital, but afterwards neither man wished to make a statement, and Nielsen had refused to press charges. The assailant was detained, only to be released later.

Pauline Berg read the report through twice. It was quickly done. She handed it back and said in a wistful tone:

‘The others see me as some kind of untouchable. The Countess doesn’t know where to look, and no one really knows what to do with me. They treat me like an unwanted gift, something no one really likes, but which can’t be discarded either. What I’d really like is a case of my own, but Arne won’t give me one.’

‘I see.’

‘When I get up each morning I feel like it’s going to be the last day of my life. And as for the clothes… well, I don’t like my old stuff any more, the stuff I wore before… before it happened. It makes me afraid.’

‘Then wear your uniform. I can’t take you anywhere in that get-up.’

All of a sudden, she smiled at him warmly. Optimistically, almost.

‘OK, so tell me where to start.’

Arne Pedersen had allocated considerable resources to uncovering what might have been behind the shooting at the Marmorgade school, and their efforts quickly paid off.

The teacher who had been killed turned out to have been an arsehole, as Pedersen himself put it. Tobias Juul was thirty-two years old with a sideline in drug-dealing, supplying mainly to young teenage girls, among them a couple from the Year 11 class he taught. A search of his home revealed a wide selection of narcotics: ecstasy, amphetamine, methamphetamine and cocaine. But he was involved in other shady activities too. Once his girls, as he had referred to them, had become sufficiently addicted and had worked up a sizeable debt, he exploited them sexually. First, for his own pleasure, then later as a money-maker.

Arne Pedersen informed Konrad Simonsen of his findings. Not because Simonsen was a part of the investigation, he wasn’t, but more as a sparring partner, someone he could lean on. He elaborated on Tobias Juul.

‘That said, it was all small-scale. Juul was no big fish.’

‘So where does the shooting come in?’

‘We could basically be dealing with a common-or-garden crime of passion. We’re thinking that Robert Steen Hertz, the boy with the gun, might have been trying to help one of his classmates, a Maja Nørgaard. It seems she was one of Tobias Juul’s girls, to stay in the vernacular. Hertz may have had a crush on her, but of course he’d never have stood a chance with all that weight he was carrying. Maybe he wanted to save her, or whatever you want to call it.’

‘It sounds like you’re closing in on a motive. What about the gun? Where did he get it from?’

‘Good question. How does a sixteen-year-old Danish lad get hold of a nine-millimetre ArmyTocx SA-5 submachine gun? I’ve no idea, not yet. And your optimism as to the motive might still be a bit premature, I fear. These two girls, Maja Nørgaard being one, aren’t helping us one little bit. Both of them are denying any knowledge of events at all. It doesn’t matter what we’re asking them, they haven’t a clue, so they say. At the moment it’s all uphill. The parents are backing them, of course, especially Maja Nørgaard’s mother. She’s even hired a solicitor. I’m telling you, she’s a bloody nightmare, built like a barn and arrogant as hell. The truth of the matter is it’s the mother who’s obstructing the inquiry, but there’s not a lot I can do about it. The only alternative is to give her the swerve and piece things together as best we can based on second-hand accounts.’

‘Why is she being like that about it?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but most likely she’s afraid word’s going to get out. Her little diddums involved in drugs and prostitution. How the kid feels about it seems to be beside the point. Anyway, how’s the postman case coming along?’

Pedersen chuckled as he asked this.

‘It’s coming along.’

‘What about Pauline? Any problems there?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Konrad Simonsen had begun with the priest, the downstairs neighbour of the deceased postman Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, partly so as to have a look at the house in which the death occurred, partly to speak to the witness whose statement he assumed to be the most reliable. It would give him something to write in his report.

The priest turned out to be an amicable sort, a man in his late thirties who guessed Simonsen’s thoughts the moment he noticed the policeman’s somewhat surprised expression on seeing his white dog collar.

‘That’s right, I’m Catholic. It always seems to throw people a bit if they aren’t expecting it, so let me start by saying I don’t bite.’

He laughed warmly. Konrad Simonsen laughed, too, and they shook hands.

The man’s recollections of what had happened on 29 February were quickly dealt with. He had returned home from holiday to find his upstairs neighbour dead on the staircase. Simonsen moved on to the heart of the matter.

‘And you’re sure you didn’t move the body or alter its position in any way before the ambulance arrived?’

‘Why on earth would I do that? Jørgen was obviously dead, so there was nothing I could do.’

‘Quite. What about the police officers who came? Did any of them change the way the body was lying compared to how you found him?’

‘You mean, before the ambulance people took him away?’

‘Of course.’

The priest thought back, before answering with some measure of uncertainty:

‘The young detective placed a matchbox next to the head before taking photos with his mobile phone. To give an idea of relative dimensions, I suppose. I remember thinking it odd for him to have a matchbox at hand. I mean, who carries matches around with them these days? But he didn’t touch the body.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yes… yes, quite sure.’

‘He wasn’t a detective, by the way.’

‘Well, that’s a comfort.’

‘My sentiment exactly. Is the front door usually kept locked?’

‘Always.’

‘Who’s got a key?’

‘I have, naturally. And my new tenants upstairs. Jørgen had as well, of course. Two sets, I imagine, though that would be a guess.’

‘And no one else? A cleaner, anyone like that?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Talking about cleaners, how often does the staircase get cleaned?’

‘Once a fortnight. That’s the agreement. We take turns, but… well, if you’re thinking about forensic evidence, or whatever you call it, I’m afraid the stairs have been scrubbed more thoroughly twice since February. I’m sorry about that. First, I made rather a point of it myself, vacuuming and washing the carpet. The body could have been there for some time.’

He paused, seeming ill at ease. Konrad Simonsen leaned on him.

‘And secondly?’

‘Well, my new tenants said there was a smell. Or rather, no, that’s a bit unfair. The woman thought there was, but only after she heard what had happened to Jørgen. Her husband and I shared the cost of getting professional cleaners in. They came and gave it the works. It was mostly to be neighbourly, if you understand?’

Konrad Simonsen sighed.

‘It can’t be helped. Do you mind if I have a look round on my own?’

The priest didn’t mind at all.

The entrance looked like entrances do. The main door opened on to a small, tiled hall, from which three steps led up to the first landing where the door to the ground-floor flat was. The staircase then continued up to the next landing, where Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s body had been found. Finally, there was a short flight up to the top landing, where there was a wardrobe and the door to the upstairs flat. The whole lot was carpeted, except for the tiles inside the entrance. The banister looked like it had just been painted, in shiny gloss, while the walls appeared white and pristine, hung with a couple of nondescript framed reproductions by an artist Simonsen didn’t recognise. A large, white glass pendant lamp hanging from the upstairs ceiling could have done with a good dusting, and the floor-level window on the upper landing, with its leaded, stained-glass panes, broke with the general impression of unerring suburban chic. Konrad Simonsen walked slowly up and down a few times, trying to focus his mind and senses, though with no other return than sore legs.

Pauline Berg had looked into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s personal documents, an inquiry that had not been unproblematic. She reported back to Simonsen:

‘His stuff was in store with Express Move, at their premises on Peter Adlers Vej out in Hvidovre. Only when I got there, they were being picked up by a buyer. I had to threaten them with all sorts, then whizz out to the probate court in Glostrup and get the receiver to tie up his estate again. You can imagine the red tape, and you might as well prepare yourself for complaints coming in, since I had to give them a mouthful in court and elsewhere before they gave in. But that’s the fault of the Deputy Commissioner, she should have told them long since.’

‘Did you give her a mouthful, too?’

‘Yeah, but she wasn’t the worst. Those dithering suits in the probate court were. Would you believe I found his will? Or at least a yellowed envelope that said Last Will and Testament on it. Don’t ask me what was inside, because I left it unopened. Though not without ringing the receiver and telling him what I’d unearthed. Was he glad, do you think? Or even just a bit embarrassed by his own carelessness? Was he hell. And what’s more, he even had the cheek to expect me to drive over and drop it off with him in Glostrup. I told him where he could shove it, of course.’

‘Of course you did.’

She smiled, sheepishly.

‘So I had an angry day, I can see that now. But what would you have done?’

‘Dropped it off with him in Glostrup. But what I would have done is beside the point. I’ll deal with it, if anyone kicks up a fuss. Since you’ve put on some decent clothes for a change.’

Pauline Berg was in a neat, knee-length skirt and a simple poloneck sweater, both in shades of grey and eminently suitable had she been a librarian in her fifties, but definitely an improvement on yesterday’s get-up. She smiled again, wryly this time, he thought.

‘Did you come up with anything interesting?’ he asked.

‘There were far too many documents to get through in any detail, so basically all I could do was skim the surface. He had like a million exercise books with all sorts of sums in them… calculations, I think it must have been a hobby of his. He kept all his receipts from the local Netto as well, little bundles going back eleven years, with two figures written on the back. One for the amount and another that didn’t make any immediate sense. Apart from that, I don’t think there was anything interesting at all. But then we weren’t really looking for that, were we?’

He agreed: no, that wasn’t really what they were doing. She went on, hesitantly this time:

‘There’s always something you wonder about, though, isn’t there? I suppose it’s just people, isn’t it?’

Jørgen Kramer Nielsen owned an old-fashioned camera, for instance, and an enlarger with various equipment belonging to it, but she hadn’t come across any developed photographs at all. Moreover, from his bills she could see that Nielsen had bought pay-as-you-go SIMs, and there was a phone charger, too, but no phone. Her take was that it had probably found its way accidentally-on-purpose into the funeral director’s pocket. Simonsen was doubtful, but chose not to pursue the matter.

‘Anything else?’

‘He used a lot of window cleaner, looking at his Netto receipts. No idea why, anyone would think he had a greenhouse, which he didn’t. He had money, though, lots of it. At the time of his death there was almost one point seven million kroner in his account, money he got out of selling the house to the priest in nineteen ninety-nine. No unusual withdrawals or credits the last five years, though, apart perhaps from four hundred and forty kroner each month to his local Catholic parish.’

‘He was Catholic, then?’

Pauline nodded and looked at her watch.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got an appointment with my therapist in half an hour and you’ll be getting picked up soon anyway. What do you want me to do on Monday?’

He had no idea and promised to call. After she went, he looked at his own watch and realised she was right, it was time for him to be collected. They took turns driving him home, maybe they had a roster worked out, he didn’t know and hadn’t asked, but he hoped it was going to be the Countess today. They weren’t seeing that much of each other at the moment; she worked until late and had often already gone in again by the time he woke up in the mornings. Now it was the weekend, but most likely she still had her hands full with the school shooting. He gave a sigh and looked forward to being allowed to drive a car again. And then there was a knock on the door, the appointed time, right on the dot. They were certainly looking after him. It was a young constable this time. Simonsen had never seen him before.

On the Monday afternoon, Simonsen wasted his time interviewing the two ambulance men who had removed the body of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen from the staircase in February. Tracing them took a while and the statements they made were of no use at all. A phone call to the doctor who’d written out the death certificate had likewise drawn a blank. He said he couldn’t even remember the case, and Simonsen believed him. He was unable to get hold of Hans Ulrik Gormsen, and besides that there wasn’t much more he could do that day. It was astonishing how quickly four hours could pass.

The next day, a delightful Tuesday with sunshine and clear blue skies, began with Simonsen sounding out Hans Ulrik Gormsen’s former partner on the job. The female officer turned up looking spick and span in her uniform, with her cap under her left arm in a somewhat exaggerated display of correctness. She marched in and halted in the middle of his office, where she stood to attention like a tin soldier, sweating visibly, until he offered her a chair in which she then sat quite as rigidly and by the book as she had stood.

Simonsen asked her to outline what had happened, without expecting any other information than he already had. But then she mentioned a detail he realised he’d overlooked. It was about blood. Or rather, the lack of it.

‘Well, he was just lying there dead, without any real blood or anything, just dead.’

‘He hadn’t bled at all?’

‘Not really. I didn’t see blood, as such.’

‘As such?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He felt the urge to shake her into a more relaxed posture, though it would hardly have been possible had he tried.

‘Did you see something that resembled blood, but wasn’t?’

It was a stupid question, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

‘Try and close your eyes and think back to that staircase, then tell me what makes you think you saw something that wasn’t blood as such.’

She closed her eyes, then said:

‘Because there was a wound on one of his hands. Like an abrasion, only it hadn’t bled. It was just the skin that had been grazed away, probably during his fall. You might be able to see it on the photos Hans Ulrik took with this phone. I’d definitely think so.’

Simonsen grabbed a ring binder from the shelf behind him, pulled out the printouts and saw that she was right. The abrasion on Kramer Nielsen’s right hand was visible on about half the images. Rather clearly at that, once you knew it was there.

‘May I open my eyes again, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes, of course. And thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

‘Am I done?’

He saw how she almost trembled with nerves, her frightened eyes glued to the floor. He had never seen a police officer as tense before. He folded his hands in front of his chin, considering her for a few seconds, before saying:

‘Yes, you’re done.’

She was gone before he could say ‘knife’. He called Pauline Berg and told her what the female officer had said.

Pauline Berg knew the officer in question and had worked with her before moving on to Homicide. When Berg and Simonsen met up the next day, she said:

‘I don’t get it. I’ve never seen her like that at all, nothing like.’

‘Then it’s a pity you weren’t here, because I’ve never seen anything like it either. What did Melsing say anyway?’

He had asked Pauline to go over to the National Centre of Forensic Services and get the department’s director, Kurt Melsing, to go through the photos of the dead postman, just to hear his immediate reaction. Pauline said:

‘He grunted a bit and flicked through them, then he said there were all sorts of ways you could fall down a flight of stairs.’

‘And that was it?’

‘Just about. If we want it looked into properly, he said he’d have to send people out to the scene and would probably need the original photos… and besides that we’d have to wait six months. They’ve bought this software from the US that might be able to help us, but no one’s really learned how to use it yet. You and Arne are to give him a ring if we want it doing officially.’

Simonsen shook his head.

‘No, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I told him we probably didn’t. Anyway, it’s my turn to drive you home today and we’d better get going.’

They hardly spoke in the car, except for a few brief exchanges.

‘They’ve found out how the fat kid got his hands on that submachine gun. Arne’s going to give you a call later on.’

‘Be more respectful. How many times do I have to tell you?’

Then shortly afterwards:

‘Are you sure she was actually shaking? It doesn’t sound like her at all,’ Pauline observed.

‘If I said she was shaking, she was shaking.’

‘Do you mind if I have a word with her?’

Simonsen turned and looked at her.

‘About Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s phone?’

‘Yes.’

As Pauline Berg had said he would, Arne Pedersen called Simonsen that afternoon. He was half dozing, half daydreaming, and sounded miles away when he answered the phone.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ Pedersen asked.

‘No. I was just thinking about a girl I used to know a long time ago.’

Pedersen apologised for having interrupted, a bit embarrassed by Simonsen’s frankness. It wasn’t like him to share that sort of thing. He told his boss about the submachine gun.

Robert Steen Hertz, the boy who had shot Tobias Juul at the school on Marmorgade, had a good friend in the States, a lad by the name of Russ Andrews, from Burlington, Vermont. Hertz had met him just over a year ago when his class had been over there in Year 10 on a school trip. It turned out both boys shared an interest in weaponry and were obsessed by guns. After Hertz returned home to Denmark, the two of them chatted regularly online, always on the subject of guns. In March, Russ Andrews turned eighteen and was legally able to purchase firearms in his home state, Vermont, together with Arizona and Alaska, under the most liberal gun laws in the United States. Andrews bought everything he could afford, including a submachine gun for his new friend. The problem of getting it to Denmark was overcome by Hertz first sending a parcel to a non-existent address in Burlington, a parcel weighing about the same as an ArmyTocx SA-5 and four boxes of ammunition. Approximately one month later, the postal service delivered the parcel back to Hertz, informing him that the address given was unknown. The same day, Hertz sent off a new parcel, this time by express delivery. This one contained the cardboard packaging from the first parcel, complete with all the appropriate stamps and return labels, and was addressed to Russ Andrews. On receipt, Andrews placed the gun and the ammunition in the packaging from the first parcel, which then for the second time was sent return to Denmark with a little help from Andrew’s elder brother who worked for the private company Burlington’s council had contracted to deliver the city’s parcel post. Just as the boys had calculated, their parcel went through all security screenings without problems, having already been scanned once the first time around, and after about a month Robert Steen Hertz took delivery of his submachine gun, this time with his postman’s admonition to take care better care with the address when sending parcels to the USA.

Arne Pedersen wrapped up the rather convoluted explanation:

‘The rest was a piece of cake for Hertz. Using an Allen key, a metal file and a set of instructions off the internet, he modified the gun, converting it from semi-automatic to fully automatic.’

Konrad Simonsen grunted:

‘The customs lot are going to have red ears.’

‘It seems they’re now changing their procedures about returns, here as well as in the States.’

‘What about money? Or was the gun a present?’

‘Dad’s credit card. The father’s a stockbroker at the dubious end of the scale. Profitable business by the looks of it, he didn’t notice the money was gone from his account. Four thousand kroner. Peanuts, not worth bothering about. That’s what he said, I kid you not.’

Simonsen thanked him for the information, though it could all easily have waited until the next day, and then hung on patiently for Pedersen to get round to the real reason he was calling. It took him a while, but when eventually he did get on to the subject it was, as Simonsen had guessed, to do with Maja Nørgaard, whose lack of co-operation had become a major hindrance. Without her help Hertz’s motive would most likely never be identified with any certainty. Arne Pedersen had run out of bright ideas. Simonsen agreed to take part in a meeting about the problem the next day, though he found it hard to see what difference his presence would make.

Barely a week after starting back on the job after his illness, Konrad Simonsen finished up his report to the Deputy Commissioner on the death of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. The unsurprising conclusion was that the postman’s demise was due to an unfortunate fall rather than any criminal act. Simonsen printed it out and read it through one last time, making a couple of minor corrections before printing it out again and taking it with him to his meeting with Arne Pedersen. Handing it over, he said:

‘It’s your shop for the moment, do you want to send this in?’

Pedersen didn’t.

‘No, thanks. The less I have to do with her, the better. Better you submit it personally.’

He was referring to the Deputy Commissioner. Simonsen frowned, but refrained from passing comment.

Shortly afterwards, the others who were taking part in the meeting arrived: four officers, among them the Countess, all involved in the school shooting. Arne Pedersen kicked off, the subject being Maja Nørgaard, and his briefing was mainly for Simonsen’s benefit.

‘As you know, we’re assuming Hertz’s motive for the killings was simple jealousy. It seems the lad had a crush on Maja Nørgaard, who he’d known ever since they were in kindergarten together. She was the reason he carried on in Year 11 instead of going straight on to upper secondary, which was easily within his capabilities. The lad wasn’t daft. He knew perfectly well he didn’t stand a chance with her, so he made do with admiring her from a distance, if we can call it that. But then when she fell into Tobias Juul’s clutches, as we’re strongly assuming she did, the lad flipped his lid, though it did take him a while to suss it out, piecing information together bit by bit. Then…’

And that was as far as Arne Pedersen got. Pauline Berg burst into the room and interrupted him. In her hand was a mobile phone, which she held out in front of Konrad Simonsen without bothering at all about the disgruntled looks she received from around the table.

‘It’s Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s.’

Simonsen composed himself.

‘Can’t it wait, Pauline?’

She said nothing, but pressed a couple of keys until the display showed a photo of a young woman, blonde and smiling. She pressed again and a new image appeared. The same girl, standing in a living room, TV and chandelier visible behind her. She was naked, and this time she wasn’t smiling.

‘Maja Nørgaard?’ Simonsen exclaimed in surprise.

‘It was half question, half statement of fact. Pauline Berg confirmed:

‘On Kramer Nielsen’s mobile!’

It wasn’t the first time the Homicide Department had seen apparently unconnected cases intersecting; far from it. It happened once in a while. The phone went round the table and Pauline Berg filled them in.

‘These MMS photos were sent by Tobias Juul on the twenty-third of January this year with the accompanying text, Sunday 10 a.m. Nothing else. But I don’t know where they were taken.’

The Countess, however, did.

‘Tobias Juul’s living room, I recognise the chandelier. But where did Juul and Kramer Nielsen know each other from?’

Arne Pedersen smiled broadly.

‘I don’t know, but what I do know is that Maja Nørgaard is going to be very eager indeed for her mother not to see these photos. All I need is a word with her on my own, without the solicitor or the mother present. How are we going to do that, Countess? You know her habits.’

The Countess was in no doubt.

‘Friday between six and eight p.m. at the bar called the Goose’s Eye. It’s on Balle Allé, just opposite Enghave Station. She and her mates like to warm up there before going off clubbing in the city centre.’

Konrad Simonsen dropped his report discreetly into the wastepaper basket.

‘I’ll deal with her myself,’ he offered.

There were no protests.

The Goose’s Eye was a drinking establishment of the old-fashioned kind. A single room with a bar at one end and a row of flashing fruit machines at the other. The eight tables with accompanying chairs were of heavy, dark wood, and matched the room’s head-height mahogany panelling. There were beer mats on all the tables, the majority sporting burn marks from dropped cigarettes. An antique copper ventilation fan on its last legs rotated on the ceiling, and the music was low, lightweight Danish pop.

The place was half empty, populated mainly by men in their mid-fifties and upwards, apart from three teenage girls who occupied the rear table furthest from the bar, clearly uninterested in mingling with the rest of the clientele.

Konrad Simonsen slid rather inelegantly on to a bar stool and ordered a beer once the bartender had dragged himself momentarily away from the game of dice in which he was immersed with two somewhat worse for wear customers. Simonsen poured the contents of the bottle into his glass and took a cautious sip. If he was going to break with his regimen he certainly wasn’t going to do it here.

Shortly afterwards, there was a lull in the game and Simonsen waved the bartender over. He was a man in his forties with energetic movements and a friendly smile, attentive and sober-looking. Simonsen flashed his ID discreetly, then leaned over the counter.

‘Homicide Department,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m not interested in bothering you or your business. Certainly not if you co-operate.’

The bartender didn’t hesitate for a second.

‘I’m co-operating.’

Simonsen nodded towards the girls at the back of the room.

‘Not exactly your usual clientele.’

The bartender explained: the redhead’s uncle had a half share in the place, which meant drinks on the slate, and cheaper at that.

‘I’m going to go over to them in a second. When I do, can you make sure the two girls with their backs to us are shown the door?’ Simonsen asked.

‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’

‘I do, and I want them well out of the way, not hanging around outside.’

The bartender hesitated.

‘I reckon all of them are under age. Your licence could be in jeopardy…’

Simonsen left the words hanging in the air, and the bartender capitulated with a smile.

‘Well, out of the way it is, then.’

Understandably, the girls kicked up a fuss when Simonsen sat down on the spare chair at their table. Ignoring the insults they hurled at him, he studied Maja Nørgaard in silence and was glad she was seated against the wall. If she wanted to get out, she would have to crawl under the table. The rest of the customers watched what was going on, while the bartender kept his word and with a minimum of drama ushered the girl’s two friends out on to the street and into a taxi.

Maja Nørgaard spoke first:

‘Are you police?’

She was quick on the uptake. Simonsen showed her his ID.

‘I’m only going to talk to you if my solicitor’s with me.’

Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mobile was ready in his inside pocket, all he had to do was press a single key to activate the display. He did so, pushed the phone across the table and waited. A moment passed before she hissed at him:

‘Have you been slobbering over a picture of me, you old creep? How about getting a life instead?’

‘You can go if you want, Maja. But I don’t think your mum’s going to be very pleased once she gets to know there’s a photograph of you naked doing the rounds, to whet the appetites of old… creeps.’

‘You dare!’

Simonsen kept his cool.

‘I might. And then again, I might not. It’s entirely up to you.’

He could tell she’d already caved in, she just didn’t realise it herself yet. Her hand was shaking as she took a gulp of her Breezer, Smirnoff Red Ice. He gestured to the bartender, who came to the table immediately.

‘We’d like to swap these for a Coke and a mineral water.’

He indicated their glasses, and the bartender removed them. Maja Nørgaard didn’t protest, but said in a feeble voice:

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘First I want you to talk to me, then I want you to talk to Arne Pedersen and the Coun… Nathalie von Rosen. You know them both already. And after that I want you to talk to a school counsellor. And in each instance I want you to tell not just the truth, but the whole truth.’

‘And if I do, you won’t show that photo to my mum?’

‘If you do, I won’t show that photo to your mum, that’s correct.’

‘What if you’re lying and you show her anyway?’

‘In that case I’m lying. All you can do is trust me.’

She thought about it for a second and accepted the logic.

‘Why should I talk to that counsellor guy?’

‘Because you drink too much, not to mention snorting a line or two when you can afford it. You keep all the wrong company, Maja. Moreover, if you need money, you prostitute yourself. That’s why. And because you’re seventeen and need help before your life really starts going wrong.’

Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.

‘Will I be punished?’

‘That depends on what you’ve done. If you’ve done anything at all, that is. But to me you look like a young girl who needs help more than punishment. So what do you say? Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

He excused himself and went to the gents, informing her that she was free to go if she wanted. His aim was twofold: first, and most importantly, it meant he couldn’t be accused at some later point of keeping her against her will, and secondly it gave her a chance to think. He didn’t need a slash, so he splashed some water on his face, dabbed himself with a couple of paper towels and counted to thirty. When he got back she was sitting where he’d left her, staring vaguely at the window. He sat down and went straight to the point:

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, Johannes Lindevej number twenty-seven, Hvidovre. Sunday, January the twenty-seventh, ten a.m.?’

Her reply was barely audible.

‘It was the first time I was there on my own. Without Tobias, I mean. I was scared stiff.’

‘Tobias Juul?’

‘That’s right. Until then, I’d only ever… tried it… at his place. He’d invite a friend of his round…’

She made air quotes on the word ‘friend’.

‘Or maybe two, but there were always two of us girls there. I had to let one of them get off with me, but I knew that. Afterwards, I got half the money and Tobias kept the other half for himself. I usually made a couple of thousand out of it, three if we were lucky. Sometimes he paid it in dope or coke, but he was always good with me and never tried to pull one over.’

That depended on the way you looked at it, Simonsen thought to himself. He went on in the same quiet tone:

‘But with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen it was different?’

She nodded.

‘He was paying six thousand and all I had to do was be there at home with him, watch TV, chat with him, eat… ordinary stuff, only with no clothes on. Then in the evening I could go home. That was it.’

‘Is that what you did?’

‘To begin with I wanted nothing to do with it. It sounded creepy, and he was old. But Tobias talked me into it and promised it was just a few photographs, nothing more. Jørgen wouldn’t even touch me, and he kept all his clothes on, Tobias guaranteed he would. So eventually I gave in and went there.’

‘Sunday the twenty-seventh of January, in the morning?’

‘It sounds right.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘There’s not much to tell. It didn’t work out. He talked to me for a bit, only then he sent me away again. I was there less than half an hour.’

‘Didn’t he like you?’

‘It wasn’t his fault, really. He’d asked for someone over eighteen, but I was only sixteen at the time. Tobias told me to lie if he asked, so I did. I told him I was eighteen, in my second year at upper secondary, but he sussed me out straight away. Asked me about subjects and stuff, and I didn’t know what to say, did I? So he sent me home. Not in any unpleasant way, he was quite nice, really. He gave me two thousand for my trouble and paid for a taxi on top.’

‘Did he tell you why he wanted you to go around naked for him?’

‘No, we never got round to it.’

‘Did you get the impression Tobias Juul was procuring other girls for Jørgen Kramer Nielsen?’

‘I think so. Otherwise he couldn’t have known what he knew. But I’m not certain.’

‘How did Tobias Juul and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen know each other, have you any idea?’

‘Tobias once had a student job at the same post office where Jørgen worked as a postman. It’s in Rødovre, I think. But that was a long time ago.’

It was true, so the girl was probably telling the truth. Simonsen stared into her eyes before speaking again.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was arrested yesterday. We suspect him of carrying out at least seven rather brutal attacks on young girls.’

The blood drained from Maja’s face. She went white as a sheet. He knew it was the sort of reaction that was impossible to fake. Once she’d digested the announcement, she said:

‘I won’t say he hurt me, because he didn’t.’

Konrad Simonsen told her what had really happened then, explaining why he had needed to test her and apologising. Then he asked her another batch of questions, the answers to which left him none the wiser.

He wrapped up proceedings by praising her.

‘Well done, Maja. Two more interviews, and that’s it. If you’re as truthful then, everything will be all right.’

‘I’ll do my best, but… can you stay here when the others come?’

‘They’re not coming here, you’re coming with me to Police HQ. No need to be nervous, it’s all going to be nice and relaxed. Perhaps we should get you something to eat on the way. And, yes, I’ll be there, if you want.’

On their way to HQ Maja was silent, speaking only twice, the first time when they returned to the car with their brown paper bags from McDonald’s.

‘I really did think he shot all my classmates. I was convinced I saw him do it with my own eyes, mow them down like that. But it didn’t happen, did it? I can’t understand it.’

Simonsen believed her. He felt sure she had been in no doubt that she’d seen what she’d told them she had just after getting out of the classroom at Marmorgades Skole. Under extreme pressure the brain often creates its own versions of reality. He tried to explain it to her, but couldn’t.

‘Was that why you shot Robert? Because of what I said?’

‘Absolutely not. We shot Robert Steen Hertz because there was no other way. It had nothing to do with you.’

He squinted at her and could tell she didn’t believe him. She changed the subject.

‘I’m sorry about what I called you in the pub.’

He dismissed it. He’d been called worse.

After they got in the car, Maja spoke again.

‘There’s something I forgot to say before.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a bit… I don’t know. Maybe I should wait.’

She blushed slightly, and he guessed:

‘Until there’s a woman you can speak to?’

‘Yes. Well, no, it’s all right, I suppose. When I went to Jørgen’s, when he took my photo, it was important I was hairy. He didn’t want me shaved, if you understand what I’m saying. We had to wait until… well, until I was.’

‘Interesting,’ said Simonsen, and meant it.

No one in Homicide was in any doubt that Maja Nørgaard was not the only girl Tobias Juul had run as a prostitute, nor were they under any illusion that she was the only girl Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had met. In that respect, the seemingly wanton attack on the postman in 1996 had perhaps not been entirely without motive after all.

Konrad Simonsen spotted the woman he was looking for on a bench at the far end of the children’s playground, where she sat engrossed in a women’s magazine, rocking a pram with her free hand. Now and then, she glanced across and smiled at a little girl lying flat on her stomach in the sandpit, energetically digging a hole with a toy spade.

Simonsen sat down on the bench next to her. The woman looked up for a second, then carried on reading. Simonsen searched his inside pocket for his ID, discovering to his annoyance that he must have left it behind. He introduced himself cautiously and explained:

‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my badge.’

The woman folded her magazine and tossed it on to the rack under the pram, slid off her glasses and meticulously put them away in a case she took from her bag, before expelling a deep sigh and answering him.

‘I’ve seen you on TV. This is about Tobias, I suppose?’

‘Partly, yes.’

‘Tobias Juul was the most despicable person I’ve ever met. It took me years to get over him. It still made me sad, though, when I saw he was dead. It’s odd, having hated him so much.’

‘When did you know him?’

‘It’s a long time ago now, more than ten years. I was seventeen when I moved in with him, and I’m twenty-nine now, so what’s that… twelve years? Will my husband have to know about… back then? I’d rather he didn’t.’

‘I can give you a guarantee of discretion, nothing to worry about. You lived together, you and Tobias?’

‘For two years, yes. Unofficially, though. I was still registered as living with my parents. How did you find me anyway?’

‘I guessed. Your father attacked a postman on the fifth of March 1996.’

‘Yes, Jørgen Nielsen, that poor man. It was terrible, and all my fault. He died six months ago, by the way. I still think about him sometimes.’

Simonsen informed her briefly of the circumstances and then held back, allowing her to tell the story in her own words. Her tale was in many respects the same as Maja Nørgaard’s, apart from the fact that Jørgen Kramer Nielsen hadn’t rejected her. She had visited him regularly for two years, always on the last Sunday of every other month, taking home four thousand kroner each time, until her father happened to get wind of what was going on.

‘How did he find out?’ Simonsen asked.

‘A neighbour. An old gossip with eyes on stalks. She’s dead, too, now.’

‘And all you had to do was spend time with him, with no clothes on?’

‘That was all there was to it. I could do what I wanted while I was there, and I soon got used to being naked. Tobias had me doing all sorts of things elsewhere, but this was nothing. It was a bit cold at times, but that was the only uncomfortable thing about it.’

‘Didn’t he ever make a pass at you?’

‘Never. And he wasn’t ever dirty, either, though obviously it must have been sexual for him in some way.’

‘Did you ever ask why? I mean, you must have got to know each other in some way.’

‘We did, yes. He bought me presents, for my birthday and Christmas. He was sweet. But no, I never asked him what he got out of my being there. He did show me the loft, though, one of the last times I was there. I sort of worked it out then. I think I was a kind of surrogate for the girl up there, even if he never told me about her. The loft was his big secret and I had to promise never to tell anyone about it. I never did either, until now. But you’ll know all about that, won’t you?

Simonsen called the priest as soon as he left the playground, then ordered a taxi.

Forty-five minutes later he was at the house where Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had lived. The priest led him up the stairs and into the first-floor flat while he explained:

‘It took us a while to find the trapdoor after your call. The man who lives here now gave me a hand, but he had to get off to work before you came. We were beginning to think there was no access, but then eventually we found it. Jørgen fitted it to look like an ordinary ceiling tile in the bathroom. I was the first to go up, and as soon as I saw what he’d done, I thought I’d better come back down again and wait until you got here.’

Entering the loft was an overwhelming experience. Konrad Simonsen had never seen anything like it and he felt oddly alien as he stepped cautiously into the room. After a couple of steps he halted, wondering quite ridiculously if he should remove his shoes, seeing himself as what he was: a timorous intruder, a voyeur, forcing his way into a dead man’s soul.

The room was clad with mirrors. Small, rectangular bevelled mirrors, each no more than a handspan, meticulously covering all the surfaces: the long, sloping side walls of the roof, the two end walls and the floor. Below the ridge beam, the harsh illumination of fluorescent lighting was an endless reflection, avidly reproducing the figure of anyone who ventured inside. There were no windows or furniture.

But most captivating were the photographs. He counted them, as if in some way to hold his own. There were eighteen in total, all poster-sized enlargements, all exactly dimensioned, in width and height, so as to cover the same number of mirrors to the millimetre. The subject was the same, and yet each picture was unique. A lifelong variation over the same enthralling theme: shimmering mountain peaks beneath a cold, ice-blue sky, bathed in the brightest, eternally sparkling sunlight. And then the girl. Everywhere the girl. This was her room. Her pretty face was on every poster, merged to perfection with the sky, from where, as if according to mood, she could play hide-and-seek with her beholder. Now she was visibly smiling; now, by the slightest movement of his head, vanishing into the clouds, only to peep out again in one of her countless reflections.

Stepping closer he could see that each poster was made up of several photographs, but the transitions between them were so seamless he had to focus in order to see the joins, even at a distance of mere centimetres. Here, too, was the secret behind the girl’s compelling gaze, that seen from other angles seemed to alternate so irresistibly with the cold rays of the sun: dozens of tiny holes pierced the paper, allowing the mirror behind to lend her eyes the quality of diamond dust sparkling in her pupils.

Konrad Simonsen closed his own and for a moment felt himself returned to a time long since past. Then he emerged once again into the present and spoke aloud.

‘And who might you be? I wonder.’