The Vanished

CHAPTER 3

Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s death was upgraded to a murder investigation. Konrad Simonsen informed the Deputy Commissioner who was less than over the moon though unable to do anything else but hope for a swift turnaround, even if she did have the sense not to say so out loud. Murder cases weren’t going to be solved any quicker by hurrying the head of investigation, that much had long since become plain to her. And yet Simonsen was tactless enough to suggest the opposite when he demanded from Arne Pedersen that he should allocate the necessary resources.

‘I need at least five detectives for three days, including the Countess or yourself. It’s imperative we establish some kind of insight into the victim’s life as soon as possible. Not necessarily in detail to begin with, just the bare bones. But Pauline and I can’t do that on our own, it’ll take far too long. And afterwards I want at least a couple of men at my disposal, as and when they’re needed.’

Arne Pedersen was sweating and looked flustered. Simonsen went on:

‘She’s got the Legal Affairs Committee breathing down her neck, but maybe I should ask her to call you instead of playing piggy in the middle.’

The reference to the Deputy Commissioner did the trick: Simonsen got what he was asking for.

Their intensified efforts paid off and a fuller picture of the murdered postman began to emerge.

Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had attended his local comprehensive, moving on to upper secondary at the Brøndbyøster Gymnasium, both schools situated in Hvidovre. Following his graduation from the gymnasium in the summer of 1969, he found employment at the post office on Julius Framlev Allé, now called simply Framlev Post Office, where his father was postmaster. In the spring of 1972, both his parents and his younger sister died in a plane crash in Mallorca. They were his only family. Kramer Nielsen inherited the family home, living there until the day he died. His life could only be described as quiet, seemingly solitary, and his workmates at the post office seemed barely to have known him.

Konrad Simonsen sent his officers out into the surrounding area, to neighbours and shopkeepers, and results were indeed forthcoming, though hardly earth-shattering. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen ate out every Saturday without fail, always at the same restaurant, even sticking to the same choice from the menu: steak and chips with béarnaise sauce, the establishment’s most expensive dish at 135 kroner. Konrad Simonsen sighed on receiving this piece of information, though without bothering to note it down. Moreover, Kramer Nielsen was a regularly borrower of library books, his selections unwavering: maths, travel books – though only on Norway, Sweden or Finland, science and biographies of famous scientists. The Countess, who had investigated this part of the profile, added:

‘He had a nickname, Ninety-nine point four Nielsen.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Ninety-nine point four is the library classification number for biographies. It’s supposed to be funny.’

‘Hilarious. Anything else?’

There wasn’t.

Then there were the victim’s financial affairs. On this matter, Pauline Berg was able to add one detail, albeit a minute one: Jørgen Kramer Nielsen stuck to using an ATM card and paid his bills in person at his bank.

‘Is that it?’ Simonsen said with obvious disappointment.

She flicked vigorously through her notes.

‘He made an agreement to tithe two per cent of his income when he converted to Catholicism. It’s usual, and tax-deductible, too, though not counted as taxation officially, since religious communities other than Church of Denmark don’t have the same standing in the eyes of the Inland Revenue.’

‘When did he convert?’

‘No idea.’

‘What about his will? Did you find out anything there?’

‘Yes, he made it back in nineteen ninety-nine, wanting the rest of what he made on the sale of the house, which is to say about a million and a half kroner, donated to a British charity called Missing Children. They’re based in London, but they’ve got branches in all the major cities over there. You can check their website. His personal belongings weren’t bequeathed, though, so technically they belong to the state.’

‘Where did he get that idea, Missing Children?’

‘We don’t know. The solicitor who drew up the will can’t remember the case at all. Why should he?’

Konrad Simonsen gave her a new job to do.

‘Check up on holidays. Where did he go? He must have done something with himself besides working and sitting at home on his own. The girls, too. Find out if there were any more of them. His loft and those girls are the only things we’ve got that give him a bit of light and shade.’

‘They make him creepy, if you ask me.’

‘Which could be why someone killed him.’

She went off, just as he was about to probe some more.

Summer went on, and it was hot. An area of high pressure had parked itself over the country and the weather people said it would be staying put for a few days, at least.

Konrad Simonsen lay stretched out on a sofa in the Countess’s living room. It had just gone eight in the evening, but the heat of the day persisted. He had dumped his jacket and shirt and was wearing only an undershirt and short pants of thin cotton. The air conditioning was on full whack. And yet he was sweating. He glanced at the time on the antique grandfather clock that stood against the far wall and whose eternal ticking had driven him mad the first few weeks after he had moved in. Now he seldom noticed it. For a brief moment he thought he might have a nap, but it was too late in the day, he might not be able to sleep later on if he did. Instead, he immersed himself in a Sudoku on the back page of the day’s paper, but found his mind began to wander as soon he got stuck.

He felt at home here with the Countess, he couldn’t deny that fact, and it had been weeks since he’d been back to his own flat in Valby, apart from picking up his mail twice a week. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. Both of them avoided the issue of a more permanent arrangement involving an official change of address, and actively making a decision about it seemed to become superfluous as time went by. The previous week he’d received his own set of keys. Before that he’d used the back-door key that hung in its secret place in the outhouse. It wasn’t the best of arrangements insofar as he’d had to go to back and forth with it every time he came or went. The Countess had given him his own complete set one morning before they went to work, casually, with a comment about its being the most practical solution, as though he were a plumber needing access to do a job while she was out. No more was said. She had also divulged the password to her online banking, so she wouldn’t be the only one able to pay the bills. That was practical, too.

He stared into space. At what point could you say two people were living together? When they shared the same postal address? Slept in the same bed? Pooled their finances? Or was it enough just to… live together, like they were doing?

The Countess was late, it was almost nine o’clock by the time she finally got back. He tried to shake off his annoyance, not wanting to be unreasonable. He, more than anyone, knew how domestic arrangements crumbled in the face of work.

‘Hi, Simon, sorry I’m late. The meeting dragged on.’

‘Fair enough. You should have called, though.’

They kissed, rather more ritually than usual.

‘Sorry. Have you made anything to eat?’

‘Leek flan. Cold, now.’

‘Cold leek flan is just what I need.’

She was hard to be annoyed with, and he was glad to see her, despite that flan having cost him two hours in the kitchen. He couldn’t understand the recipe and had to phone his daughter twice, though she hadn’t been much help. He didn’t know anyone else to ask.

They ate, and the Countess complimented his cooking. Feeling proud of himself, he told her about his day’s exercise.

‘I ran two hundred metres, at least. Or just short, I suppose.’

‘That’s brilliant, Simon. You’ll make an athlete yet. What about your postman, how’s he getting along?’

He’d been hoping she would ask, but at the same time had decided he wouldn’t mention it of his own accord. It was one of the disadvantages of having lost his status as department head: the Countess and Arne Pedersen no longer converged on him naturally to discuss his investigation. They had other, more important things to be getting on with, and he had to ask if he wanted their opinions. Usually, Pauline was the only person he had to talk to, and she’d been away today for an appointment with her psychiatrist. Another appointment.

‘I was at the post office again, but it’s the same old song. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen lived a very quiet and exceptionally regular life, as you know. I thought about the way that priest at Kasper Planck’s funeral condensed his life into two minutes. It really made me sad.’

Kasper Planck had been Konrad Simonsen’s boss in the Homicide Department, and his friend. Simonsen went on:

‘A long and vibrant life reduced to a few objective statements by someone he never knew, even if it did happen to be a priest. I found it almost offensive. But in Kramer Nielsen’s case I think anyone would have a hard job filling two minutes.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Do you really want to hear? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wind down?’

‘I’m winding down, and I want to hear.’

He loved her for that. He’d slipped his notebook into his back pocket in readiness. He took it out, flicked through the pages and began to fill her in.

‘I’ve spoken to close on two dozen of his former workmates and all of them concur: A loner. Reliable, but dull. Never joined in when we went out. Kept himself to himself. No real friends at work. Never a sick day. Never glad. Quiet. Polite. Never stuck out. Hardly said a word unless spoken to. Went straight home after work, no matter what. Never had an opinion about anything. The guy worked there nearly forty years, but he might as well never have been there.’

‘What about elsewhere? Clubs, associations, hobbies, that sort of thing?’

‘I haven’t got that far yet, but we do know mathematics was a hobby. Bear in mind that I’m surrounded by sticklers, however well-meaning, who make sure I go home after only four hours on the job. I’m sure they’ve got a stopwatch somewhere.’

She smiled without comment, and he went on.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to see a retired postman. None of the current people has been there anything like as long as Kramer Nielsen was. Then on Monday, Tuesday as well maybe, I’m going to go through his stuff. Something has to turn up, surely? He must have done something with his life. Arne’s said he’ll give me a hand, though I don’t know how he’s got the time with you all so run off your feet.’

The sarcasm was obvious, but she chose to ignore it.

‘It’s Arne’s job to involve himself in your investigation. But I do agree with you that Kramer Nielsen must have done something else with himself besides just sitting around at home. It’s against human nature otherwise.’

‘He didn’t watch TV. He didn’t even have one, or a computer. Pauline’s found that out already. He didn’t have a car, either.’

‘Perhaps it was a good thing, him being so anonymous.’

‘How do you mean? So far I can’t imagine why anyone would be bothered to bump him off.’

‘Because it made no difference if he was alive or dead?’

‘Not morally, or legally, of course. But in practice, yes. Like I said, I’ve still got a long way to go before any fuller picture emerges. Why do you say it was good that he was so anonymous? If not inconsequential.’

‘It makes the other things stand out more clearly.’

‘That’s true. You’re thinking about the girls and his loft?’

‘No, more about that plane crash. Losing your entire family when you’re only twenty must impact rather heavily on the rest of your life. Especially if he was, well, predisposed to certain things. There were no crisis counsellors in the seventies. I imagine he was pretty much left to his own devices.’

‘That’s why I want to talk to someone who knew him back then. But there’s something else, too, that makes him stand out, if you like. He was a Catholic, and there aren’t many of them about in this country.’

‘What about his priest, have you spoken to him?’

‘Not yet, but I will. Kramer Nielsen paid a tithe to the Catholic community, and is laid to rest in the Catholic cemetery at the Sankt Nikolaj Kirke in Hvidovre, so his faith must have been important to him.’

‘Do you think it’s got anything to do with his downstairs neighbour? Kramer Nielsen sold the house to him after all. Have you looked into that?’

Simonsen shook his head apologetically.

‘Like I said, there’s a limit to how much I can do in four hours a day.’

‘You could ask Arne to free up some resources for you again. After all, it’s a murder inquiry now.’

It had already happened, but he only made use of them when there was no other way. But then, a few more officers were a good thing to have in hand, which was why he’d asked Pedersen in the first place. Perversely perhaps he found that he was beginning to enjoy his rather modest investigation, perhaps for the very reason that it was tucked away out of the spotlight compared to the rest of the department’s activities. He hoped it would stay that way; there was no reason to involve more people in it than absolutely necessary. His next moves were lined up: first the postman’s workmates, then his stuff, then after that the priest. Once he’d got that far, he might want to bring in more resources, then again he might not. He was keeping an open mind.

‘I’ve got Pauline,’ he said.

‘Yes, you have.’

The Countess sounded curt, jealous even. Now and then, she could be quite possessive, and it was something he hadn’t seen in her before he’d moved in. He knew too that she occasionally stalked her ex-husband and his new family. Not personally, but using a private detective. Sometimes covertly, other times in the open, with a camera in public places. Simonsen only found out by chance and had not spoken to her about it yet. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t his business.

She went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. When she came back her voice was normal again.

‘The truth is you’re liking this little case of yours no one else is interested in, aren’t you, Simon?’

‘I’ve certainly become curious about it. Tell me, have you ever smoked cannabis?’

He relished bringing her off course. It didn’t happen that much.

‘Cannabis? Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?’

‘Because your eyelids were getting heavy just before and I thought the question might wake you up a bit. Usually, I’m the one who’s falling asleep. And because I’d like to know.’

‘I don’t get the chance to nap two hours a day, do I? Not like some people.’

‘No, I’m lucky. But what about the cannabis?’

‘Yes, I’ve tried it. Years ago now, though.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Fun, to begin with, then stupefying. Come on, why are you asking?’

‘I’d like to try some.’

It didn’t sink in at first. She asked again:

‘Try what?’

‘Cannabis, I just said. I’d like to smoke a joint, a spliff, whatever they call it.’

The Countess got to her feet, put her hands on her hips and rubbished the proposal well and truly.

‘Konrad Simonsen, you are not going to smoke, ever again, under any circumstances, whether it be cannabis, tobacco, beech leaves, or whatever. You can have a cup of tea instead.’

He hadn’t thought of it like that, and stopped her on her way into the kitchen.

‘It wasn’t for the sake of smoking, Countess. There’s other ways, I do know that much. I want to know what cannabis is like, that’s all.’

She seemed to soften a little.

‘And how were you thinking of getting hold of some? Just ambling over to Narcotics, perhaps, and asking if they’ve got any surplus? For private consumption, of course.’

‘I was hoping you’d know how to go about it.’

‘Do I look like a drug dealer? Is that what you’re saying, so elegantly?’

‘Now you mention it, I’ve been having my suspicions about you.’

She paused and looked at him closely.

‘You’re not joking, are you?’

‘No, I’m not. I’d like to try, just the once.’

‘Well, let’s start with some tea, shall we? Then we’ll have to see what the future holds in store.’

He followed her into the kitchen, where he made himself useful getting the cups out and said no more about it.

The next day confirmed the Countess’s assumption that Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s life had taken a marked downturn when his parents and sister were killed. A picture of this began to emerge at a care home on the outskirts of Køge.

Simonsen introduced himself and explained why he was there and that he had found the name of the man he was visiting in the post office’s old personnel files. The old man glared. Simonsen smiled accommodatingly and found himself thinking the interview was doomed. The man smelled rather offensively. Fortunately, however, there was nothing wrong with his memory.

‘Jørgen was lively young lad when he started. That’d be in the early seventies. His dad was postmaster in those days.’

‘The summer of ’sixty-nine.’

‘That sounds right.’

‘Why did he want to join the postal service? He went to the gymnasium school, you’d have thought there were other opportunities?’

‘He wasn’t intending on staying, it was only supposed to be temporary. He was saving up to go round the world. I remember very clearly his dad wasn’t too keen on the idea. He wanted him to carry on with his studies, university and what have you. But there was no stopping Jørgen, he never talked about anything else but that trip of his, all the exotic places he wanted to go. Most of us were sick of hearing about it. We might have been a bit envious, too. We hadn’t the opportunities he had. Our wages were for rent and keeping up the family. He didn’t have any of that to think about.’

‘And then there was that plane crash?’

‘That’s right. He wasn’t as full of himself afterwards.’

‘It sounds like you think he had it coming. Didn’t you like him much?’

The old man tossed his head and his eyes grew moist. Simonsen wanted to find him a hankie, and to draw his chair back a bit, but he never got the chance. The old man came back at him sourly:

‘That’s my business, not yours.’

‘Absolutely, of course. How did he react to the plane crash?’

‘Changed him completely. Broke him apart, it did. Never the same again.’

‘Can you elaborate on that?’

‘From the day they told him, he went about like a ghost. It was like he stopped living, only without being able to die.’

The man proceeded to echo the chorus of other witnesses who had talked about Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s social reticence. The old man recalled a handful of episodes, a couple of which Simonsen had already heard before. Others, however, were new to him, albeit uninteresting insofar as they merely corroborated what he had heard elsewhere.

After a few more questions, he thanked the man and said his goodbyes, glad to get out in the fresh air again, even if it was suffocatingly hot. He had got what he wanted, though he hadn’t cared for the old man one bit, a feeling that had obviously been mutual. The interview, however, had made it all worthwhile. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s life seemed finally to be taking shape.

Following his visit to the care home, Simonsen drove back to Police HQ in Copenhagen, even though it was hardly half an hour before he was due to go home again. He found Pauline Berg in his little annexe, stretched out on the sofa reading a newspaper. She spent more time on that sofa than in her own office, often when he wasn’t even there himself, which seemed to annoy everyone else but him. Comment had been passed, in the canteen and elsewhere. He ought to get himself a padlock, it was said, to stop people swanning in and out. No one said it in as many words, but people meant Pauline Berg. Until now he hadn’t paid much attention. It was his office, after all, not theirs, and he was perfectly capable of drawing a line if he didn’t want company. He didn’t need his colleagues to point it out for him. He poked his head round the door and said hello, but then went to his desk and switched on his computer. She came in before he’d logged on.

‘I’ve got something on his holidays,’ she told him.

‘Who, Kramer Nielsen?’

‘Yes, who else? Package holidays weren’t for him, I think we can be sure of that, but then I struck really lucky with DSB at Hvidovre Station. The train lady, or clerk I suppose she is, said she recognised him when I showed her his picture. He used to buy a return to Esbjerg once a year, always the same dates, from Copenhagen Central on the nineteenth of June and back again from Esbjerg two days later.’

‘Was he connected in any way to the railways?’

‘Not that I know of. It was almost in desperation I tried them. I thought if he didn’t fly, then he’d have to go by train. Like I said, it was just luck, really.’

‘Because the clerk knew him?’

‘Recognised him, that’s all.’

‘Was he a regular customer besides that?’

‘Only once a year, as far as she knew.’

‘I’ve come across some good witnesses in my time, but that’s ridiculous. How on earth could she remember one customer who came in once a year?’

‘That’s what I mean. But she remembers him because he wouldn’t queue like other people. That was what first drew him to her attention. He kept going to the back of the line, like he didn’t want anyone standing behind him. She’d never known anyone do that before. Then, as it happened, he came in again the year after, on her shift, the same behaviour as the first time. She thinks it must have been the summers of nineteen ninety-six and -seven. She sold him tickets a number of times after that, though not every year, it depended on whether she was at work that day or not. But then I checked with the post office and the postmaster told me Kramer Nielsen was very flexible with his holidays, and his shifts generally, but always asked for a certain week off in June, and that checks with the week including the nineteenth to the twenty-first. There was never any problem with that from his employers’ side.’

‘Why wouldn’t he queue up?’

‘Who knows? Maybe he was just shy. The train lady thinks he didn’t want anyone else to know where he was going. But that’s with thinks underlined.’

‘What did he do in Esbjerg?’

Pauline shook her head, she’d no idea. Simonsen conscientiously praised her, but it didn’t seem to make any impression. He never quite knew how she was going to react. Sometimes she seemed pleased with the recognition, at times extremely so, and sometimes she was indifferent to it. Today it was the latter.

‘Did you make sure to give that cow a bollocking?’ she suddenly asked.

The ‘cow’ was the nervous female officer who had appropriated Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mobile phone, though she had not done so with ill intent, and certainly not to steal it. On her way up the stairs to the postman’s body she’d been directly behind Hans Ulrik Gormsen and seen how he almost stepped on it without noticing. She’d picked it up and held it in her hand for some time while her colleague photographed the body and kept repeating how obvious it was that they were dealing with a killing, while all the while he argued with the priest. At some point she’d absent-mindedly put the phone in her pocket and, as things turned out, forgotten all about it until the next day back at Glostrup Politistation. There, she’d bagged it as evidence, but instead of allotting it a catalogue code she’d scribbled down her mistake in a few words and then put the bag in the drawer of her desk. Subsequently, she’d explained the matter to her superior in an e-mail and asked what to do. She never received an answer, and Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s mobile stayed put in the drawer.

Months later, when she was called into Konrad Simonsen’s office, her oversight suddenly turned into a liability, for which reason she’d tried to conceal the facts. She’d done the same when Pauline interviewed her, forcing herself to lie for fear of the consequences should the truth emerge. But at the suspicion this raised against her she grew increasingly restless and irritable, realising the bind she’d got herself into and at the same time genuinely not wishing to hold back evidence in a murder inquiry. Eventually, her husband managed to drag it out of her, and after mulling the matter over he put himself in touch with Pauline Berg. He it was, too, who subsequently drove over to Police HQ and handed in the phone.

Pauline wagged her finger angrily in front of Simonsen’s face.

‘I’ve wasted a lot of time on that cretin.’

Simonsen agreed, albeit in more conciliatory terms that he hoped would rub off. To his surprise it worked.

‘I know I ought to calm down… it’s just…’

And all of a sudden there were tears in Pauline’s eyes and he saw that she was clenching her jaw to hold them back. She managed to control herself and said tonelessly:

‘Go on, I’m all right.’

‘Where did she find the phone? Do we know?’

‘On the landing where the body was, up against the wall on the right. It was lying face down and the cover’s pretty much the same colour as the carpet, as you know, so…’

‘And you’re certain about that?’

‘No, but it’s what the husband told me. She never said anything herself, the stupid little…’

Simonsen thought for a second before telling her what to do next.

‘Get hold of your stupid little friend and take her back to the house in Hvidovre. I want her to identify exactly where she found that phone. I’ll have a word with her chief constable once I get a minute.’

Pauline Berg’s expression left him in no doubt how little she believed that would ever happen.

By now it was mid-September, with the usual forecasts of rain and wind that nonetheless had amounted to nothing. The warmth of summer continued and on the global scene major upheavals were occurring. International money markets were nose-diving and new words crept into everyday language: sub-prime mortgages, collateralised debt obligations and hedge funds. Nothing ordinary people needed to bother about, and yet it affected them anyway. All of a sudden the country was plunged into financial crisis. Banks had to be bailed out and the welfare state was under pressure. There wouldn’t be enough money to go round in future, they were saying.

A stiflingly hot morning at Express Move’s storage facility in Hvidovre added new pieces to the jigsaw that was Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, though not many and certainly none that revealed even a shadow of a perpetrator.

Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen worked together, the Acting Head of Homicide helping out his actual boss. But while the case had now been officially categorised as a murder inquiry, Simonsen had the feeling Pedersen had come out to Hvidovre more to assess how he was feeling than to help him rummage through Kramer Nielsen’s belongings. However, he refrained from mentioning it, so as not to embarrass both of them. Besides, he needed a hand with this, it was dreary work, and with his head pounding and sweat seeping from every pore in his body as they toiled in the unbearably unventilated storage room, there was a genuine risk of overlooking some important detail. Especially when they didn’t know what they were looking for.

The storage firm had been kind enough to set up a work surface for them, a thick slab of chipboard the size of a table-tennis table, resting on solid trestles. Here they could stand and sift through Kramer Nielsen’s life. Now and then, the manager brought them tea and coffee, or cold soft drinks. On day two, a Tuesday that seemed even more sweltering than the day before, the man had even provided them with an extension lead and a fan that turned slowly from side to side and provided at least some measure of relief.

Arne Pedersen stood examining a camera in his hand.

‘A Leica M4. State of the art in the late sixties. It must have cost a fortune back then… still does, I shouldn’t wonder. A real collector’s item, and look at the gear to go with it.’

Simonsen glanced up from the papers he was immersed in, but felt none the wiser.

‘What? I don’t know a thing about photography.’

‘This is an enlarger. If I’m not mistaken, it’s from the same period as the camera. And here we’ve got telephoto lenses, tripods, projectors, as well as developing trays, timers, tongs, developer, light box, photographic paper… everything you need to set up your own darkroom. He developed his photos the old-fashioned way. Nowadays it’s all digital, done by computer.’

‘I know all that. We haven’t found any photos, though. Apart from the ones in his loft, of course. No negatives either, for that matter. I suppose they’ll turn up.’

‘No doubt. Only about a million boxes to go now.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

A bit later, Pedersen returned to the subject.

‘A darkroom requires running water and therefore a drain. It can’t be that hard to find out if he had one. Whoever cleared his flat should know. Maybe the local photo shop, too.’

‘There used to be a darkroom, Pauline’s already established that. It’s his photos and negatives we haven’t found.’

Pedersen received the information as if it didn’t surprise him, then said:

‘I can give you a couple of officers. Can’t expect you to clear this up on your own.’

Simonsen thought he sounded like an echo of the Countess, who likewise wanted to burden him with personnel, though for the moment he didn’t need any. He replied the way he’d become accustomed to:

‘I’ve got Pauline.’

He glanced up as he mentioned her name and noted the look of annoyance on Arne Pedersen’s face. Not that it surprised him, for it was clear that their working relationship was rather strained at the moment. Which obviously was down to Pauline’s often provocative way of going about things. But there was more to Pauline than that, and he wasn’t sure Arne Pedersen realised it. Simonsen had on several occasions now seen his young colleague emerge from the toilets or his own TV room red-eyed after she had clearly been crying, and at least once she’d suddenly gone home in a taxi, presumably following an anxiety attack and one of her black pills. Pedersen probed cautiously:

‘How’s she getting on anyway? Are you working all right together?’

‘Fine.’

The rebuff was unambiguous, but Pedersen, now his relationship with Pauline was in the past, persisted.

‘Her behaviour’s unacceptable, and it’s getting worse.’

‘I’ve got no issues with her.’

Simonsen carried on working without batting an eyelid.

‘Did you know that when she’s afraid of being on her own at night, she picks up men in hotels or bars?’

‘No, I didn’t, and I wish you hadn’t told me.’

Simonsen raised his voice slightly and gave his former subordinate a firm look.

The subsequent pause dragged out. Pedersen clearly felt uncomfortable. Eventually, he picked up the conversation again, a bit flustered, and indicated Simonsen’s pile of documents.

‘Didn’t our man have a passport or a driving licence? Or any other form of ID with a picture on it?’

‘No passport, no driving licence. And unless we turn up something now no other photo ID either.’

‘He’s starting to annoy me. How can anyone go through life so alone? It’s almost a sin.’

‘Appearances can be deceiving. Who knows? His whole life might unfold before our eyes once we open the next box.’

‘I’ve always envied your optimism, Simon. But I’m beginning to have my doubts.’

‘Wait a minute…’

A fleeting thought had formed in Simonsen’s mind, something important he was unable to pin down. A feeling of things coming together, though the essence of it had evaporated. He tried to rewind:

‘Can you just say again what you just said?’

‘I’ve always envied your optimism. Was that it?’

He concentrated, but the moment was gone. Reluctantly, he abandoned the notion, hoping it would come to him again a bit later. It often did, if you didn’t force it.

‘Just a passing thought, that’s all. It’s gone now. Anyway, I think the plane crash set him back, brought him to a standstill.’

‘What plane crash?’

Pedersen clearly couldn’t be accused of poring over the reports he had received on the case, but Simonsen curbed his irritation and patiently laid the matter out for him.

Some thirty boxes later, the two men were just about done for the day. The fruits of their labours had not been impressive. Searching through the deceased postman’s effects and in particular sifting through his many personal papers and documents, most of which seemed merely to reflect his mathematical pas-time, had failed to take them any further, and was more interesting for what they hadn’t found: photos and negatives.

Simonsen tried to convince himself he had not perspired in vain. Some small pieces of information had been gleaned, and in the greater scheme of things could easily prove useful. Or so he hoped.

The normally good rapport between them had long since been re-established, and neither of them mentioned that moment of dissent about Pauline. Moreover, the fact that Simonsen had exceeded his daily quota of four hours by a long way was allowed to pass without comment. Neither man was enthusiastic about pressing on with the remaining boxes the next day.

Simonsen bent down to investigate one final box. Apparently it was full of books, rather more in number than a removal man’s back ought to be burdened with according to the health and safety rules, but since the firm had packed the boxes themselves, that would be their own lookout. He lugged the box on to the table, opened it and froze.

‘How stupid we are.’

Arne Pedersen looked up.

‘What?’

‘What’s usually inside a camera?’

They found the Leica again and could see it had taken four pictures.

‘If it’s going to take Forensics a fortnight to get these developed, I’d prefer to go to our friend Photo-Mate with it,’ Simonsen said.

Arne Pedersen promised to see what he could do.

Detective Superintendent Konrad Simonsen made his debut as a cannabis user one Tuesday afternoon on a lawn in Søllerød, and the experiment was hardly an unequivocal success. He had been expecting more from it and was rather disappointed. The Countess’s three hash cakes, whose origins she steadfastly refused to divulge to him, tasted of nothing in particular and failed dismally to kick in. The Countess herself did not wish to take part in the festivities and so he had sat down in the garden to await getting stoned, albeit with a sneaking suspicion that the cakes had never been anywhere near cannabis and were instead the result of wholly lawful and quite unextraordinary activities at the local bakery. He felt this was borne out by the astounding speed with which his partner had produced them.

After a while he began to grumble. He would go to the baker’s, he declared, and ask them why there was no cannabis in their muffins. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, he would tell them. To their faces, right there in the shop. He imagined the assistant’s reaction and giggled. Or perhaps he might simply say, Muffins! Loudly and with authority. Muffins! Muffins! And allow her to infer the rest. What’s more, he’d caught them selling yesterday’s papers. He would bring one home so the Countess could see for herself. He laughed and laughed again until he was compelled to wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. The other customers would be on his side. Yesterday’s news, the cheek of it! Am I right, or am I right? Hands up!

His convulsions of merriment forced him to lie back, flat out on the grass, and after a bit he settled into a more mellow mood, gazing up at the Countess’s shrubbery, whose plants from such an unfamiliar angle seemed toweringly tall, adorned with a pretty, synthetic sheen of yellow and green cellophane. A bit later the lawn began to ripple pleasantly beneath him and he imagined himself to be in a canoe, lazily drifting downstream on some exotic river. The fuchsias in the background became tangerine trees on the banks, and when he put his tongue out, the gentle breeze that wafted across the waters tasted of the sweetest marmalade.

Nothing more was forthcoming. He had hoped for a girl in the sky with diamonds, had even felt entitled to her, but she never materialised. Instead he fell asleep.

There was a change in the weather, an area of low pressure from the east, and temperatures in Copenhagen became bearable again. The first leaves yellowed on the trees and windcheaters began to appear. In the Homicide Department, Konrad Simonsen finally discovered what it was Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had photographed. The film in the postman’s camera had been developed, and he and Pauline Berg showed the results to Arne Pedersen, who took his time considering the first of the four prints in order to seem interested. It was a nice picture, albeit rather dull. A low sun above a spectacular landscape of rugged rocks, its rays reflected in the leaden waters of a fjord. Daytime, frozen for all eternity. Arne Pedersen glanced at the three others, whose theme was the same, albeit with different subjects. He checked the time at the corner of his computer screen, before trying to find something appropriate to say.

‘I think I saw something like that the other day. In the… aren’t they from…’

‘One of the illustrated nature books Kramer Nielsen had taken out on Norway. They’re still among his effects out in Express Move’s storage facility, gathering dust and a hefty fine.’

‘Pictures of Lofoten?’

‘Couldn’t be more wrong. Lofoten in Pictures.’

‘So he took photos of photos?’

‘Exactly, and very expertly, too.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘For his loft, I think.’

Arne Pedersen’s expression suggested he thought there had to be more of an explanation than that. Pauline Berg, sounding surprisingly friendly, explained:

‘He combined the images with photos of the dead girl and made posters out of them for the loft. He must have some negatives of her somewhere, we just haven’t come across them yet.’

Simonsen looked at Pauline in astonishment.

‘What makes you say she’s dead?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Or is it just me?’

Arne Pedersen said nothing. Simonsen, on the other hand, discovered to his surprise that he agreed with her.