The Vanished

CHAPTER 4

The first time they slept together was predictable, and cautiously investigative.

Afterwards, neither of them felt the urge to talk about what words could so easily damage, and besides there was little to add.

The Countess sat up in bed and bundled a pillow behind her back. Spontaneously, she pulled the duvet up over her breasts, then ran her fingers through her hair a few times by way of rearrangement.

It was Sunday and already mid-morning.

Simonsen felt a craving for a cigarette, more so than for a long time. A walk would be a good substitute, or rather a run as he was justified in calling it since he now jogged at least a third of his route. Sleep was a second alternative, if hardly realistic. He wondered if from today he would be sleeping where he now lay, in the Countess’s bed, rather than in his own upstairs. Perhaps she even expected him to. He realised that telling her he actually preferred to sleep in his own would not be easy. It didn’t occur to him that she might feel the same way. He removed his hand, that had been resting on her knee. It was sticky and warm, and he wiped it discreetly on the duvet without her noticing. Then he folded his hands behind his head, looked up into her face and asked:

‘Have you ever been deployed to a demonstration?’

‘A violent one, you mean? I’ve been called out to peaceful ones lots of times.’

‘Yes, a violent one. A big one, the kind that gets out of hand, so eventually you can’t think about anything but your own safety.’

‘No, not really. They used to keep female officers well out of that sort of thing when I was young. Not that anyone ever said as much. Besides, all the big demos were before my time, the ones that really gathered the crowds. You must have seen your share, though?’

She was right.

When he was a young constable back in the late sixties and early seventies, there had been protests all the time. Or that’s how he remembered it, anyway. Demos for better wages and working conditions, equal rights for women. Demos against nuclear power one day, and ballistic missiles or Denmark’s Common Market membership the next. Not to mention the student demos targeting whoever happened to be Minister of Education at the time, regardless of which party he belonged to and what policies he was implementing. Or she, of course – as if it made any difference. Then there were the protests in support of everything under the sun: anti-apartheid in South Africa, the Palestinian cause, the oppressed masses of Central America, Copenhagen’s free town of Christiania, and probably a whole lot more besides that he had since forgotten. It had not been uncommon for a Copenhagen demo to attract upwards of 50,000 people, mainly young. It was a hallmark of the times and the phenomenon was by no means confined to Denmark. Throughout the Western world the picture had been the same, and often a lot worse, with protesters or police officers killed in the fray. The Deutsche Oper in West Berlin in 1967, the May 1968 protests in Paris, Kent State University, Ohio, 1970.

He picked up on the Countess’s opener with enthusiasm. Yes, he had been at many of the big demos.

‘The Vietnam protests were the worst. The IMF summit was bad, too. I was really scared at that one. My legs wouldn’t stop shaking, literally, and I was afraid my colleagues were going to notice, but they were probably just as terrified as I was. I just didn’t think so at the time, standing there in the front line with my helmet on, and my shield and baton in my hands, like some soldier in a war I didn’t understand. It was horrendous.’

‘But part of the job.’

She’d meant it to be supportive, he realised that from the tone of her voice. Nevertheless, the harshness of his reaction surprised him.

‘Police work was a choice. I could have gone back on it, resigned from the force and got myself another job. No one forced me to join up. It’s no excuse.’

Her hand found its way to the back of his head, and she stroked him where once there had been hair.

‘Are you looking for one? An excuse, I mean.’

He ignored her question and went on sombrely:

‘Pig, rozzer, plod, fascist, scum, bastard… some of the things they used to shout after me.’

‘Not everyone, surely.’

The protesters did, though, and how he hated them. Their long hair, their placards and banners, their eloquence and the way they stuck together… he hated them all. But more than anything he hated their studied lack of respect, the way they disdainfully turned their backs on everything he believed in, everything his parents had worked for all their lives, the old values dying off one by one while they jeered and gloated. No, he’d almost forgotten: what he really hated most was their daring… their dedication to the cause and their daring.

‘The protesters weren’t scared. They had a cause to fight for, and they had each other.’

There was no longer resentment in his voice, only puzzlement. The Countess sensed the ambiguity.

‘And you could never be a part of it because you had a job to do, guarding the established order, is that it?’

‘I was a guard, yes. In front of the US Embassy, looking out on a foaming sea of rage, an open target because of the errors of others. It wasn’t me showering little kids with napalm and dropping bombies on the villages.’

And then there were the ubiquitous red flags. Sometimes just a simple rag on a stick, sometimes the fine standards of the trade union branches, but always red. He was no supporter of US involvement in Vietnam, but no matter how the spoiled hippies of the world looked at it, the United States was a democracy and the Soviet Union was not. The youth of the Eastern bloc weren’t protesting, or certainly not against the ruling establishment, the oh-so-marvellous Communist state made sure of that. But the pamphlets, flyers and folders the protesters handed out showed images of Vietnamese children caught up in the horrors of war, while photos of Soviet tanks rolling into Prague to crush the Spring Uprising there were seldom, if ever, disseminated. Besides, the very foundation of the freedom enjoyed by these young people had been paid for in American lives and dollars only twenty-five years before during World War II, but none of them ever stopped to think about that. He went on:

‘The Christmas bombings of Hanoi… I remember the Swedish Prime Minister joining the rallies against them, and I actually agreed with him. You cannot save a village by wiping it out, by burning fields, by destroying houses, by locking up or killing those who live there. His words rang true, though the Americans didn’t care to hear them. Vietnam was horrendous, but I couldn’t see why that had to be taken out on Danish police officers, and still don’t to this day. What are you smirking about?’

He sat up, and she kissed him on the cheek.

‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’

‘No, tell me.’

‘The Christmas bombings of Hanoi took place in 1972, Olof Palme’s protest was in 1968, and he was Minister of Education at the time. He didn’t become prime minister until the year after, but it’s true, his criticisms did anger Washington. President Johnson called his ambassador home from Sweden.’

Sometimes Simonsen just couldn’t be doing with all this knowledge of hers. Besides, she’d probably still been in kindergarten at the time. But that didn’t stop her, she was such a know-all about everything, it got on his nerves. Unwittingly, the Countess contradicted him.

‘What are bombies, anyway? I’ve never heard of them before.’

He shook his head in annoyance.

‘It’s stupid of me, talking about all this now. Who needs it?’

‘No, it’s all right, Simon.’

She held his gaze.

‘Really, it’s all right.’

His heart attack had well and truly stirred up the stew inside his head, he had sensed it for quite some time. But why must he start thinking about such unpleasantness now? It would have been a hell of a lot more fitting if he’d showed her some attention, gone out of his way to be nice to her, that kind of thing. They still had breakfast to share, too. Then all of a sudden it struck him why he had begun to dwell on such uncomfortable recollections. He smiled to himself and said:

‘I don’t know why I go on about all these things, it’s decades ago now and it doesn’t matter anyway. This all started after my operation.’

‘You don’t always have to explain.’

Maybe she was right, she often was. He went on, softly now:

‘There are two expressions from back then that I absolutely despise. One is bombies, which is what the Vietnamese called the Americans’ anti-personnel cluster bombs. They were about the size of a tennis ball and looked like a child’s toy.’

‘How awful.’

‘Awful doesn’t go near enough. The second expression is crowd control.’

As a young officer he had been sent back to school. Or rather, he had been sent on a course, but it was the same thing. Crowd control was a shiny new concept, and the English designation made it sound so appealing in the classroom. The police had to learn how to manage large assemblies of people, but what did their fine theories help once you were standing there with a tiny strip of no-man’s-land in front of you, three backward paces off getting crushed to death against the iron railings of the Embassy. In the fray, crowd control was a simple matter of survival, a fact of which the powers that be were only too aware of and even complicit in. Only he hadn’t realised until much later. Crowd control…

He snorted in disgust.

‘They should have called it generation control instead. Then we’d have known what we were up against.’

He pulled the duvet aside and got up.

‘Weren’t you a part of your own generation? I mean, you were allowed to be there, too.’

‘The sixties weren’t about inclusivity. Tolerance was a thing the people with the correct opinions demanded rather than practised. Shall we shower?’

The Countess considered the offer with surprise at first, and then laughed.

‘Yes, why not? But tell me about your demo first.’

He sounded almost wistful.

‘It got me smoking. And I could really do with a cigarette now.’

‘You mean, you smoked on duty?’

‘What do you think? Of course I didn’t! But afterwards…’

‘Go on.’

‘Later, later. I’ve got what feels like the entire Catholic Church to tackle tomorrow. Now that’s what I’d call a sizeable opponent. Too much for a bunch of long-haired dropouts, at any rate. Maybe you can offer me some support, erudite as you are? You read books for fun, and I haven’t even prepared yet.’

‘Only if you stop staring at me like that.’

She bagged the best place under the shower before he caught up with her.

The priest welcomed Konrad Simonsen on the patio, where a table was set for tea. His host did the pouring. Simonsen allowed his gaze to wander over the tidy little garden, wondering at the same time whether the breeze that rustled in the corkscrew willow opposite them would be too much background noise on his dictaphone. He made himself comfortable and looked the priest in the eye. In any other circumstances this visit might have been pleasant, but the other man’s forthright announcement immediately laid down boundaries.

‘I should say right away that we may have a conflict of interests here. As I’m sure you know, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was a member of our parish, and as such I, his priest, have received information I am not at liberty to divulge.’

It was straight talking at any rate. Simonsen frowned and maintained his dissatisfied expression, though the priest subsequently endeavoured to modify his words by assuring his visitor he wished to do everything else in his power to aid the police in their investigation.

‘Should I be unable to give you an answer, you must know that it certainly isn’t because I’m trying to obstruct you.’

He smiled apologetically and appeared calmly steadfast in a way that indicated to Simonsen it wasn’t worth arguing.

‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do about it, I’ll just have to make do.’

The priest’s proviso was hardly surprising. Simonsen had reckoned on certain constraints, though he had been hoping the religious argument wouldn’t be raised until much later in proceedings. As things stood, it was more like the introit. He tried to win himself a bit of time.

‘Are you really prevented from divulging anything, even after the man’s death? I would have thought confessional privilege was only valid with respect to the living.’

‘It makes no difference.’

Simonsen fell silent and considered how to proceed. The priest waited with no sign of impatience, and with accommodating body language, made an effort to ensure the pause need not be embarrassing. Could a body seated two metres away be accommodating? The priest’s could. The man invited openness, albeit without offering it himself. It was remarkably well done, Simonsen thought, before eventually carrying on.

‘You realise, of course, that any reticence you might have as to passing on important information about a crime may be against the law?’

‘I’m aware of that, yes.’

The other man remained unruffled, and Konrad Simonsen elected for a different approach. If he was lucky, his new strategy would pay off and provide him with answers to some of his most pressing questions. Indirect answers, perhaps, but better than nothing, and certainly worth a shot.

‘Can you tell me more about Confession?’

The priest showed no surprise at this change of tack.

‘What do you want to know? It’s a subject I could spend hours on, but I imagine that’s not what you have in mind.’

‘Some other time, perhaps. I’d like to know what I can ask you and what I can’t. You’ve chalked up the court, so it’s only fair you run through the rules for me, too.’

‘You can ask whatever you like. The rules I abide by don’t apply to you.’

‘I realise that. Let me put it another way: I won’t try to hide the fact that I’m unused to this situation, to say the least. Of course, lots of witnesses refuse to co-operate and hold back information, so it’s not that. The unusual thing here is that I’m accepting your terms, mainly because I don’t think I would come out on top in any confrontation between us. But tell me instead, in theory as it were, in what specific circumstances you as a priest would be bound by professional secrecy.’

The priest smiled smugly at his question, before proceeding to elaborate with great passion on the confession of sin, the repentance that went with it and was so crucial, and then forgiveness and the sacramental absolution by which the faithful received divine mercy for their sins.

‘Confession can occur in a number of ways. One of which, the one I’m sure you’re thinking about now, is in the confessional box, in personal conversation with an appointed priest.’

‘Such as yourself, for instance.’

‘I am approved to carry out that function, yes. Partly because I’ve been ordained, and partly by canonical jurisdiction.’

‘And what you hear in that connection is protected by rules of professional privilege?’

‘Complete confidentiality, under seal of Confession.’

He poured them some more tea. Simonsen thanked him politely as he concentrated his thoughts. It was all about timing. Timing and luck. He switched to a more casual tone.

‘Next question: would you mind if I use a dictaphone for what we have to talk about now?’

‘Not at all, go ahead.’

‘I’m glad you’re willing to make my job that bit easier, but I’m afraid I have to do a little soundcheck here to eliminate background noise.’

He indicated the willow tree; the priest nodded his understanding. Simonsen switched on the dictaphone, asking somewhat absently:

‘Tell me, to whom do you confess when the need arises? I’m assuming you can’t absolve yourself of your sins?’

‘Not like that, no. I go to my bishop.’

‘Further up the ladder, is that it?’

‘That’s the normal practice, yes.’

Simonsen was still fiddling with his recalcitrant dictaphone.

‘How often do Catholics confess? I mean, I know that depends on the sins, if you can put it like that, but how common is Confession exactly? On average. How about yourself, for instance? Have you been to your bishop during the last six months, say?’

The priest laughed. You couldn’t look at it in terms of averages, it seemed, and yet he endeavoured to provide an honest answer, pleased with the interest shown in his faith.

‘Actually, I haven’t at all, not for some years. But then we priests are expected to set a good example, aren’t we, even though it doesn’t always work out that way.’

Simonsen glanced up and noted the man’s expression. The patient smile seemed genuine enough, as genuine as good old truth.

The priest looked up into the willow tree. There was no doubt that he had now realised what had occurred. Twenty seconds too late. Simonsen put the dictaphone back in his case. It had been purely for the sake of distraction and was now superfluous. He considered the priest’s mournful expression and realised that he felt ashamed. It was odd. He had manipulated witnesses in worse ways than this, and yet he felt stricken by remorse. Three months ago it wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. He tried to convince himself his subterfuge had been justified, even in the priest’s best interests. It was of the utmost concern that he be eliminated as a suspect, and surely he could see that as Kramer Nielsen’s downstairs neighbour and his landlord he was a prime candidate as likely perpetrator. Either on his own or in collusion. His holiday, for a start, had all the marks of his wanting to give himself an alibi. And then there was his being bound by the doctrine of priest-penitent privilege, that very conveniently excused him from having to answer questions from the police. There was absolutely no reason for Simonsen to feel embarrassed. And yet he did.

At last the priest spoke.

‘Was that really necessary?’

‘It’s my job. I was eliminating you from our enquiries.’

‘You subverted a coming together of two people. You could just as easily have asked me straight.’

Simonsen tried to be thick-skinned. A coming together of two people… how unctuous could it get? And those wounded, puppy-dog eyes. Read it and weep, this was a murder inquiry and priests weren’t above the law.

His excuses to himself didn’t really cut any ice. The priest’s words had hit home.

‘Perhaps we should call it a day?’ Simonsen suggested.

‘I think that would be a good idea.’

‘I hope I can persuade you to come by Police HQ at some point. We still have a lot to talk about, regardless.’

‘Indeed, we hardly got started, did we? I’ll come, of course. Call me and we’ll fix a time.’

‘I’m sorry it had to be like this.’

It was a hasty parting. Simonsen wanted to get home, and the priest had work to do.

That same evening, Arne Pedersen came round to play chess and had hardly taken off his coat before he was asking about Simonsen’s interview with the priest. He led his guest into the kitchen where they could sit undisturbed. He had already laid out the board, set up all the pieces and put the game clock on the table next to it. He took a beer from the fridge for Pedersen and poured himself a cup of tea.

‘The priest had nothing to do with the killing.’

He gave Pedersen an account of their conversation without entering into detail, then summed up:

‘He never knew what was coming. Not in the build-up, not even when I got to the crux of it, whether he had confessed recently. He hadn’t. He didn’t even realise I was watching him while he answered. I’m certain of it. He didn’t kill Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, and he doesn’t know who did either. I’d be willing to stake my life on it.’

‘Without reservation? No humility about your own fallibility?’

Konrad Simonsen had never for a moment imagined he could always tell when someone wasn’t telling the truth. Certain people were such proficient liars they could pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, certainly his. But sometimes, in specific situations, he could unambiguously determine whether someone was telling the truth. Or rather, whether they believed what they were saying to be the truth, regardless of whether it actually was or not; that was another matter. And the interview with the priest had belonged to the truthful category.

Arne Pedersen congratulated him.

‘Not bad at all, outsmarting a guy like him in the field of rhetoric.’

Simonsen didn’t look at it like that at all. The priest’s defence mechanisms were tuned in to the matter of his professional secrecy, not to his own self, and why should they have been? From his angle there was no reason for him to be on his guard. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But then, no one could know that beforehand. A coming together of two people… Simonsen hadn’t behaved unethically at all, not in the slightest. Nevertheless, he would prefer to forget about the interview altogether. He answered Pedersen with a grunt that could have meant just about anything.

Pedersen went on:

‘As I understand it, they’re trained scholastically for years on end at their seminaries, right down to the smallest verb.’

‘Well, yes, if you want to reduce the Catholic Church to the sort of obscure cult that brainwashes its representatives. But that’s hardly the case. This man attended Saint Michael Pastoral Centre in Dublin for seven years and got through with flying colours in a host of recognised subjects, whatever academic standards you might care to apply. Prayer and learning off by heart wouldn’t have got him very far there.’

‘You’re very well informed about him. Been cribbing, have we?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

‘He must have realised he was the most obvious suspect. And yet he refuses to answer your questions. What does he think… that priests have automatic immunity in murder cases?’

‘Not at all. And anyway, it wasn’t like that. To my mind he’s a very decent man. I don’t think the thought even occurred to him that someone might suspect him of a crime, certainly not murder. I don’t believe he thinks like that.’

‘To the pure, all things are pure.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Are you finished with him, then?’

‘No, nothing like. I’m picking it up with him again at HS. Along with the Countess or Pauline, I think. I’ll let you know.’

Arne Pedersen thanked him and asked:

‘Any idea when you’re going to get back on the job? As head, I mean. I’m assuming you don’t want to be hanging about.’

Simonsen didn’t know, it was up to his doctor. And the Countess. She’d be wanting her own say in the matter, no doubt about that. He dismissed the question and jabbed a finger at the chessboard.

Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen’s chess games had evolved into a somewhat one-sided affair. When Simonsen’s former boss Kasper Planck had been alive, the two of them had played together for a number of years to their mutual enjoyment, not least because they were a good match for each other. After Planck’s death, Arne Pedersen had taken his place as Simonsen’s chess partner. The first times they played, Simonsen had come out on top, but that seemed like a long time ago now. These days, Arne Pedersen won just about every game, and easily, too. He had a talent, it was as simple as that, though he hardly showed much interest in the game at all. To him, their evenings were all about getting together informally and having a good time. His opponent looked at it rather differently.

Simonsen pondered what looked like his final predicament.

‘I can’t do much about this, can I?’ he said eventually, with some small hope of a miracle.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

They shook hands politely, a ritual they took pains to uphold after the final game.

‘Don’t you get bored by this?’ Simonsen asked. ‘I mean, I’m not much of a challenge for you, am I?’

‘No, it doesn’t bore me at all. I look forward to our chess nights. I hope you’re not thinking of knocking it on the head just because I win a few more than you?’

Simonsen echoed the words with disdain:

‘Win a few more than me? You always win.’

‘All right, so I always win. Or nearly always. We played a draw last time, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘That was the time before last, and you were so exhausted you were falling asleep.’

Arne Pedersen set the pieces out and they ran though the game again, Pedersen explaining to Simonsen where he’d gone wrong.

It had been an enjoyable evening, and it had done both of them good. for a bit the Countess came in and sat with them without ruining the mood. Simonsen’s heart surgery had brought the Countess and Pedersen rather closer. Not so long ago they’d hardly been able to work together.

It was past midnight by the time Pedersen went home. Before getting to his feet there was something he wanted to say, now he had them where he wanted them, as he put it. He reached up to fiddle with the knot of his tie, only to realise he wasn’t wearing one. His other hand repeated the movement automatically, with the same result. Simonsen and the Countess exchanged glances, recognising the gesture all too well.

‘You’d make a lousy poker player, Arne,’ Simonsen said. ‘What’s up? Spit it out.’

‘Nothing, as such. I was going to tell you in the morning, but the thing is she came down to my office, out of the blue, without an appointment or anything. I think she’s keeping an eye on me, trying to catch me out and stuff. She just sat there with that cold look in her eyes…’

Simonsen cut him off.

‘Wait a minute.’

Pedersen fell silent. Simonsen had to get him started again:

‘I’m assuming she is our boss.’

‘You can say what you want, but she’s got it in for me.’

The Countess stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Listen. The truth of the matter is you’re doing brilliantly as head of department, better than anyone expected, including me. And I’m sure the Deputy Commissioner is very pleased with what you’re doing. If she isn’t, she’s got to be stupid.’

‘She’s not stupid, just malicious, that’s all. But that’s my problem, not yours. Anyway, the thing is, she told me that you, Simon, are now in charge of your own hours. But we’re supposed to make sure you don’t rush things. She was adamant about that bit. And you’re still not to take on any executive function, which I’m really sorry about, even if I do understand why.’

Konrad Simonsen and the Countess had to stop themselves from laughing. It was three days since they’d been told Arne Pedersen’s piece of news after the Countess had phoned the Deputy Commissioner herself, albeit with Simonsen’s knowledge and consent.

They showed their guest out and shut the front door behind him.

‘You’ll have to think of something, Simon,’ the Countess said. ‘He’s scared of her. I had no idea it was that bad.’

‘No, it’s not the best scenario, is it?’

‘Not the best scenario? It’s pure paranoia, that’s what it is. We can’t have two people going around the department seeing ghosts wherever they look.’

‘You mean Pauline?’

‘Who else?’

She was right, of course. Pauline, who else? He promised to think about it.

As Head of the Homicide Department, Konrad Simonsen was accustomed to any number of people approaching him requesting an appointment. There’d been e-mails, letters, phone calls, and not infrequently people turning up at Police HQ in person, to demand he give up his time to them on the spot. The vast majority of these petitions were filtered away by lower-ranking staff and never reached him, and only in a very few cases did he become directly involved. When that occurred he would generally tend to find a younger officer to sit in, who could take care of the matter on his behalf.

These approaches from the general public fell roughly into four categories. The first consisted of mentally unstable individuals wishing to share with him what were obviously figments of their imagination. A TV host staring at them during a programme, for instance, and planning to kill them. Then there were the well-meaning amateurs who were convinced that by their genius and logical thinking they had solved some closed or ongoing case, usually a murder. Then came the pathological liars, people who would do anything to be interviewed by the police and who made up stories with the same intention, most often in the form of false confessions. Finally, there was a fourth category, without doubt the worst of them all: family and friends unable to come to terms with the fact that a loved one was dead, and who imagined it must be as a result of crime. These traumatised individuals were often exceptionally persistent in their endeavours to capture the time of a senior crime investigator, and if they succeeded they were almost impossible to get rid of again.

The two people waiting for Konrad Simonsen outside Police HQ when he came in for work on Tuesday morning belonged to this latter category. The duty officer at the desk managed to warn him over his mobile before he got there, and he was able to use another entrance in order to avoid them.

On entering his office he found a stack of papers on his desk, meticulously placed by the keyboard of his computer, allowing him no chance of not seeing them. On top was a yellow Post-it note informing him that the material had been sent in earlier by the two people waiting for him outside the main entrance.

He flicked through the papers casually. The first contained a printout of three long e-mails, all addressed to Simonsen himself, but filtered out before reaching his mailbox. Each had been politely answered by a sergeant whose name he didn’t recognise, and these replies, more or less identically worded, stated that Københavns Politi regrettably were unable to pursue the matter, the sergeant referring them instead to the Nordsjællands Politi and concluding rather laconically that Detective Superintendent Konrad Simonsen was therefore unable to offer any personal appointment to discuss the matter. Which was correct.

The remainder of the documents consisted of a Xeroxed autopsy report. Simonsen paused upon seeing the name of the deceased. Juli Denissen. Somewhere, a bell rang. About a year before, Juli Denissen had been a witness and had provided valuable information in connection with Pauline Berg’s abduction. Later, when it was all over, Simonsen and the Countess had found themselves in Hundested on another matter. On their way home they’d stopped by the woman’s address in Frederiksværk and had given her the Countess’s mobile phone. Juli’s old one had been broken and Simonsen, who had been surprisingly taken with the young woman on meeting her, thought she deserved a new one. After that, he had neither seen nor heard of her and had long since forgotten all about her.

Distracted, he rolled the documents until they were a tight cylinder in his hand, and wondered for a brief moment if he should dump them in his wastepaper basket, only then to glance out of the window at the dense, grey autumn sky. It was not the sort of day on which to stand outside and wait for a person for hours on end, which they undoubtedly would do, and probably the day after as well, if they followed the norm. Instead of discarding the roll of papers he went out into the corridor, determined to offload the matter on to the first lower-ranking investigator he ran into.

Unfortunately, it was Pauline Berg.

Most of Konrad Simonsen’s work this dismal autumn Tuesday consisted of reading the reports of investigators who had been out knocking on doors in Hvidovre trying to turn up something on Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. But apart from a couple of notes he wanted to pursue, his endeavours provided him with little else but the feeling of being slightly better informed than previously. After lunch he met the Deputy Commissioner, a meeting that went well, it seemed, his boss apparently delighted by the idea he put forward. But just as he was about to leave, she stopped him.

‘While you’re here, Simon, I got this e-mail about an hour ago and I want you to have a look at it. I was going to forward it, but now you’re here you might as well read it.’

She turned her computer screen and allowed him to see. It was from the National Police Commissioner and was presumably to be taken as a formal reminder to make sure that the various police districts’ fields of jurisdiction continued to be respected. Simonsen wasn’t sure he understood, which was hardly surprising since he never did know how to interpret e-mails from the country’s highest-ranking police officer, the head of the Rigspolitiet. Nor was he the only one.

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

The Deputy Commissioner placed her elbows on her desk and put the tips of her fingers together, resting her chin on her index fingers.

‘Nothing, as such. But it sounds like Arne Pedersen might have too much on his plate. Can you sort it out for him?’

‘Sort what out? Now you’re making as little sense as our number one.’

‘Call the chief constable in Frederikssund, preferably before you go home today. It’s better he gets the story from you. It’s only second- or third-hand to me.’

It was a request that ought to have set off alarm bells, but it didn’t. Back in his office, Simonsen decided the phone call to Nordsjælland’s chief constable could wait until tomorrow. And then he went home.

That evening he and the Countess had visitors again.

Malte Borup, the Countess’s favourite intern, and his girlfriend Anita Dahlgren were invited to dinner, and it was all much more enjoyable than Konrad Simonsen could have dared to hope. The Countess had hired a chef to prepare some low-fat cuisine. Simonsen was used to her indulging in such extravagances now and then, and while the chef’s physical stature in no way advertised the benefits of his slimming recipes, it was money well spent. The dinner was no less than excellent: a selection of fine cheeses on toasted bread, tournedos with rice and peppers, and a homemade blackcurrant sorbet with whole berries to round things off.

Simonsen ate heartily without feeling any pangs of conscience. After the feast, the two women disappeared and Simonsen was left on his own with Malte, who enthused incomprehensibly about the virtues of the HOMS app, the software he had spent the greater part of his summer holidays familiarising himself with, and which it seemed provided them with unparalleled opportunities and was destined to become a powerful tool in future investigations.

Later on, they all played Ludo together. It was no holds barred, only victory mattered. Each had their own way of playing: the Countess tried to establish fleeting alliances, Simonsen stuck to probability calculus and Malte cheated, even after getting caught. He carried on regardless, rules for him apparently being little more than loose guidelines. Anita won. She had decided to be lucky, and it was a strategy that trounced all opposition twice on the trot.

The Countess drove the young guests home. When she got back, Simonsen had tidied up and flopped down on the sofa, where he sat staring emptily into space. He had lined up the Ludo tokens in a row on the coffee table in front of him, a couple of centimetres from the edge. She sat down next to him.

‘Are you killing off your troops for losing? If you are, we’re going to be a token short.’

He ignored her comment.

‘There we were, lined up to defend the Embassy, while our superiors were light years away in their cosy riot vans. But they’d taught us well. Get stuck in, that was what they said.’

‘Those protesters weren’t exactly sweetness and light.’

‘No, but these days we try to stem any violence in advance. Back then, they sent us out to fight.’

‘I remember hearing about petrol bombs and potatoes with razor blades in them.’

‘That was the IMF confrontation, and it was an exaggeration. This was anti-Vietnam. And yes, sweetness and light were in short supply. The protesters were terrifying and despicable. Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh! Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh! That was the chant, from tens of thousands of people. That’s why I can’t stand football. The game itself and the cheering is OK, but I can’t take the aggressive, co-ordinated chants of the fans.’

‘That’s a shame, Simon. One of these days I’ll show you something really beautiful. But go on.’

‘Most of all I was afraid of any kind of wave action in the crowd. We’d have been trampled to death as easily as anything. What the high-ups called our “opponents” were far stronger than us, they just didn’t know it. Nor did our crowd-control instructor. The hatred he preached, you wouldn’t believe. I wish I’d spoken out, but like everyone else I stuck my head in the sand and let the anger towards the hippies and the Provos flow… the red rabble… they were going to get a good hiding like they deserved. Fear and anger make a dangerous cocktail, especially for a big, strong lad like I was in those days… with a truncheon in his hand.’

The Countess agreed cautiously, though she found it hard to follow him.

‘Der Staat ist auf dem rechten Auge blind. The state is blind in its right eye. Only the youth of the day were just as blind in their left. No wonder it went wrong.’

‘I suppose so.’

He stared into thin air for a moment, immersed in thought. Then he spoke quietly.

‘And then came the girl. Handing out roses. Smiling and unfazed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go from one policeman in riot gear to the next, offering a rose, while hatred and anger were boiling over in our midst. Of course, none of us accepted, but still she went down the whole line. When she got to me she dropped her flowers. Maybe they were knocked out of her hand, maybe she was pushed, I can’t remember. But whatever happened, the flowers lay there on the ground between me and my mate, just behind us. A matter of centimetres perhaps, but enough. When she bent down to pick them up, she broke the line and I hit her, as hard as I could, on her shoulder. After she sank down I kicked her in the side. She was seventeen years old, a fragile seventeen-year-old girl, a student who wanted to give me a rose.’

‘Oh, Simon…’

‘Oh, Simon, indeed. After that, all hell broke loose and the fighting started, just like we’d been waiting for. The next day, I was commended for being ruthless.’

They sat for a while and allowed silence to descend. The Countess leaned closer and whispered:

‘You’ve been wanting to get that out for a long time.’

‘There’s never been anyone to tell, and I don’t think I would have been able to before. But it’s like this sort of… talk… is easier for me now.’

‘This sort of talk is what’s called having feelings.’

‘All right, feelings then. But it’s easier for me since we got together, and especially after…’

‘After you seduced me?’

The comment broke his melancholy.

‘After I what? That’s pure falsification of history! Anyway, it wasn’t what I was going to say.’

‘Fibber.’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Yes, you are, you’re a fibber, admit it! Full of fibs!’

‘OK, so I’m a fibber, now button it. I want you to hear this good idea of mine regarding Arne. This priest who shared the house with our victim is bringing his bishop along with him to our interview on Thursday, so I’ve thought of something that might kill two birds with one stone. Do you want to hear?’

‘If you’re quick.’

The Countess found Konrad Simonsen’s idea to be both reasonable and original. This was praise indeed, coming from her: the Countess seldom uttered a superlative.

Arne Pedersen, however, had his reservations when Simonsen gave him it in outline in Simonsen’s office on the Wednesday morning.

‘Have you gone daft? It’s out of the question. Not under any circumstances. A categorical no.’

Simonsen held up his hands in a defensive gesture.

‘Just calm down a bit. Allow it to sink in first.’

‘Nothing’s going to sink in here. What a ridiculous idea! What possible use would she be? She’s a legal person, and Deputy Commissioner on top of that. She hasn’t a clue about questioning. Besides, she hasn’t time for that sort of thing, and thank God for it!’

‘She’ll make the time. In fact, she’s looking forward to it. What’s more, she knows she’s got to keep quiet and speak only when you give her the nod.’

Arne Pedersen got up from his chair and paced the width of Simonsen’s office. The glimmer of hope in his face was quickly extinguished:

‘You’re taking the piss, Simon. All very funny, I admit, but it’s got to be a joke, surely?’

‘I mentioned it to her yesterday afternoon, and she said I was to say hello and congratulate you on such a good idea. She’s delighted to play her part.’

‘This is worse than bad. Have you something for your nerves that I can borrow?’

‘I’m on all sorts, but nothing like that.’

‘Booze then. Anything alcoholic?’

‘Bad idea. You don’t want her suspecting you of drinking on the job while you’re putting her in the picture ready for tomorrow. Which you’ll be doing between three-thirty and four o’clock this afternoon. I’ve booked it into your diary so you won’t forget.’

‘Help! That’s all I can say. Help.’

‘I knew you’d come round.’

They worked purposefully together for the next three hours. Arne Pedersen was particularly sharp today. The fact that he would soon be relaying the results to the Deputy Commissioner was the perfect intellectual catalyst. After a number of fruitful discussions they agreed on five main questions to which they hoped they would receive answers during the course of the following day’s interview with the priest and his bishop, whose presence the priest had insisted on.

Arne Pedersen typed out the five points, printed them out and, with the sheet of paper in his hand, demanded they go through it all again one more time. Simonsen, who by now was feeling somewhat fatigued by all their hard work, reluctantly agreed.

‘The first point has to do with what kind of relationship there was between the priest and Kramer Nielsen. What did he know about him besides whatever it was they talked about in the confessional?’

‘Right. The cohabitation angle. Everything that doesn’t come under the privilege of the confessional.’

‘The next step is to uncover Kramer Nielsen’s religious life as best we can under the circumstances. A lot of it’s going to be privileged information, but we want to know why he converted, and in particular whether he had any sort of relationship going on with anyone from the Catholic community, as well as who was there when they buried him.’

‘Cremated. Kramer Nielsen was cremated.’

‘Whatever. So, who was at the funeral? Focus with regard to any friends or acquaintances… Hey, hang on a minute, Simon.’

‘I’m hanging on.’

‘What’s the difference between getting buried and cremated? In terms of the ritual, I mean.’

‘In the first instance the body’s lowered into the ground, in the other it’s driven away for cremation.’

‘What happens if there are no family or friends? You can’t ask a corpse, can you, do you want to be buried or cremated?’

‘Buried is the default, I think.’

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was cremated.’

Konrad Simonsen mulled this over before responding. Eventually, he replied, cautiously:

‘I see what you’re getting at. In Kramer Nielsen’s case, the Catholic Church stepped in and took over the duties of burial from the state. I’ve no idea if there are any other standards that might apply in that case. There could have been a stipulation in Kramer Nielsen’s will, of course.’

‘Which Pauline unearthed six months after cremation had taken place. I think we can dismiss that possibility. And if there was some departure from normal procedure, then someone must have known it was the wish of the deceased. They could only have known if they’d spoken to that person about Kramer Nielsen’s death. The most obvious candidate would be the priest.’

‘Interesting. I can do the groundwork for you tomorrow morning, then hopefully you’ll have a really good question to put to him. But let’s get back to these five points, because I’m knackered.’

It wasn’t entirely true, but Simonsen felt Arne Pedersen could very well keep on going over every detail until his briefing meeting with the Deputy Commissioner, and Simonsen couldn’t be bothered.

‘The third area is Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s Confessions. What were they about? Does the priest know things we ought to know too? Is Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s religious affiliation in any way linked to his killing? These all being matters where I can expect to encounter unco-operative witnesses.’

‘Basically, we want to know whether the priest thinks if, with his help, we’d be able to clear this killing up if it were possible for him to share information divulged to him during Confession.’

Arne Pedersen summed up their thinking so far.

The main thrust of the interview was going to consist of hypotheses, negation and indirect correlations, and as interviewer he would need to draw the right conclusions as quickly as possible in respect of a no and a no comment. Hesitation, a look or any other sign of uncertainty between the two witnesses would give him the information he needed, whatever they actually said. Moreover, the pace at which he proceeded would be crucial. It would be all about timing rather than the third degree.

Simonsen approved Pedersen’s appraisal, thinking to himself that in fact the purpose of this exercise was more to do with Pedersen’s presentation of their groundwork to the Deputy Commissioner than the actual interview itself. Pedersen repeated:

‘Swift, seamless logic. That’s the key.’

‘Good. Let’s take the last item.’

The last item was Kramer Nielsen’s relationship to the girl in the loft, including who she was, why he was so obsessed by her, and so on. Though that all depended on whether the priest even knew about the girl, which was what they had to uncover first.

‘The most important question of all being: who is she?’ said Pedersen.

‘Or rather was. I’ve been thinking a great deal about this, and I’m inclined to go along with Pauline’s hunch and assume she’s dead. That loft’s a mausoleum. If you can clear up the main issue of whether she’s dead or alive for certain, we’ll have come a long way. Oh, and while we’re at it, Kurt Melsing says you’ll have a photo of her tomorrow morning first thing. The technicians have done a composite from the posters in the loft. Right, that’s it, we’re finished here. Any more and you’re just waving to the crowds, Arne. You’ve got it all off pat, and I want something to eat.’

‘Wait a minute. What about… what about her?’

Meaning the Deputy Commissioner, that much was obvious. Arne Pedersen began going through the possibilities: what if she said this, what if she asked about that or, worse, what if it turned out she thought that he…

Simonsen stopped him in his tracks.

‘Knock it off, Arne. You’re as prepared as can be, and besides, she’ll spend most of the time telling you she doesn’t mean to interfere.’

‘How come?’

‘You can work that one out, surely?’

‘You didn’t tell her I was scared of her, did you? You didn’t!’

‘You are, though, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but… but that doesn’t… what did she say?’

‘She was very sorry to hear it, as indeed she ought to be. There’s no point in your going about like a bag of nerves. You can die from that.’