The Vanished

CHAPTER 5

Autumn was setting in. The Boston ivy on the Homicide Department facing Niels Brocks Gade changed colour, the summer’s weary green all gradually replaced by cheerful yellow and orange hues that lent the gentle morning drizzle a golden appearance. Soon they would turn again, into bright reds, and when they did the summer half of the year would be definitively over according to Konrad Simonsen’s calendar. He raised his head and looked out over the roof. Pale grey clouds, barely discernible against the blue-white sky, drifted east like smoke wafting from a chimney.

He had clocked in earlier than usual so as to come in with the Countess. She was run off her feet and needed a long day at work so she wouldn’t get home too late. He thought to himself that she probably wouldn’t get back until evening anyway, and truth be told it was a bit daft coming in together in separate cars, but it had been his own idea that they leave home at the same time, so…

His train of thought came to a halt when he discovered the note. She had stuck it to the TV screen in his annexe with Sellotape, and as soon as he set eyes on it he knew it was from her. No one but Pauline Berg would leave a message for him there, if only because she was the only person familiar with his new habit of starting the day by zapping through the news on Teletext before getting on with his work.

He tore the note from the screen and shook his head in annoyance at the small but no less visible area of sticky tape that was left behind. Couldn’t she have stuck it somewhere else instead? He read her words with puzzlement. Pauline couldn’t come in to HS today because she had gone to Frederikssund to pursue the Juli case. That was it, apart from the signing off which he found slightly inappropriate: Lots of love, Pauline. Whether she had left the note for him when she went home the day before, or whether she had come in early and then gone again, he had no idea. He addressed the note with a frown: the Juli case? And then at last his brain joined the dots and he put a clenched fist to his brow.

‘Oh, God, tell me she hasn’t.’

A long conversation with the chief constable in Frederikssund told him she had.

The chief constable seemed reasonable enough, and once Simonsen as far as he was able had given him some background on Pauline Berg’s behaviour, the man calmed down and showed himself to be rather co-operative. He could quite understand the problem from Simonsen’s point of view, but it wasn’t on, having an errant crime investigator running about on his patch, poking her nose into a case that wasn’t even a case, and which without a shadow of a doubt was nothing but a natural, albeit tragic, death. Simonsen could do little else but agree with the man: it wasn’t on at all. He promised to call back later in the day and assured the chief constable he would do everything in his power to rein in his runaway subordinate.

As soon as he’d uttered the words Simonsen realised he might be promising more than he was able to deliver. It was a concern confirmed only moments later when he called Pauline’s mobile, only to be put through to her answering service. He left a message telling her to get back to HS right away and without further ado, and wondered at the same time whether the Countess’s unauthorised contacts in telecommunications might be able to trace the phone so he would at least know where the hell Pauline was. But then he took a deep breath and tried to relax, telling himself it would be overkill. Then, after thinking again, he decided to see if he might have a quick word with the National Commissioner.

The secretary at the National Police Commissioner’s office was adamant once she heard what it was Simonsen wanted.

‘Not today, Simon. Not even for a minute, not unless it’s absolutely vital.’

He knew her well: a friendly, efficient woman who without exception treated everyone with respect.

‘I can’t say that it is, I’m afraid,’ he said with a sigh.

She swivelled on her chair and looked him in the eye.

‘Is it about Pauline Berg?’

He wasn’t at all surprised that she was so well informed, and confirmed this.

‘I’ve heard she’s gone off on her own, but if it’s about disciplinary sanctions I can’t help you. I wouldn’t even book you in for another day. If she’s not breaking the law, or doing anything that might bring herself or others into danger, then no one can touch her. And there are no buts.’

This, too, came as no surprise to Simonsen. He knew the game only too well. But it left him with a problem, and she could help him with that.

Her response was affected, coquettish almost: what could she possibly do?

He told her as much as he knew. In her own mind, Pauline Berg now had the case she desperately wanted: her own. Apart from the fact that there was no case, though unfortunately there did seem to be some parallels with his own, which presumably had encouraged Pauline to snatch at this one.

‘Your dead postman?’

‘My dead postman, yes. But the woman from the Frederikssund police district wasn’t murdered, and besides that I’m sure it’s bad enough for her family as it is without them being dragged through a superfluous and unauthorised criminal investigation…’

He gave it the works, though within reason, realising she wouldn’t buy it if he came on too strong.

‘And you don’t think Pauline Berg will come to heel if you ask her?’ she asked.

‘I doubt it. A lot of the time she does what she wants, and it looks like she can get away with it, too.’

‘Yes, it looks like it. Tell me what I can do.’

Konrad Simonsen nodded towards the Commissioner’s closed door.

‘Get him to transfer the matter of the woman’s death to me. Then I’ll see if I can shut it all down nice and gently.’

‘How do you imagine I can transfer a case that doesn’t exist?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s the sort of thing you’re good at, if you want to be. All it takes is a few keystrokes, surely?’

‘And what do you suppose Nordsjællands Politi will have to say about that? They’ll think we’re idiots.’

‘I’ll drive up to Frederikssund tomorrow morning and explain it to the chief constable there in person.’

She thought about it for a moment. Her previous reservations about its feasibility evaporated. Eventually, she gave in.

‘OK, Simon, you win. You’ll have it in writing from him by tomorrow at the latest.’

Simonsen was irritable after this poor start to his day. He holed up in his office for a couple of hours, isolating himself from his surroundings with two reports from Interpol he had been meaning to read for a long time, without giving the postman case a thought. At intervals he called Pauline’s mobile, though each time unsuccessfully.

His mood improved considerably, however, when the interview with the priest and his bishop evolved into the most perfect piece of police work he had been party to in years.

Shortly before their ecclesiastical guests arrived, he went to Arne Pedersen’s office and found its occupant looking rather surprisingly unruffled. A few minutes later they were joined by a relaxed and smiling Deputy Commissioner dressed in bright yellow like an Easter chick, albeit regrettably an Easter chick with a mobile phone, and hardly had she entered the room before it began to ring. Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen exchanged glances. Superiors who were present and yet half the time absent because of their very important phone calls were all too familiar to them both. But they were doing her a disservice: what the two men thought to be bad manners turned out to be sensible groundwork. The call was a short one. The Deputy Commissioner hung up and briefed them.

‘Just as I thought. That was the duty desk. Our guests are on their way and it looks like we should prepare ourselves for a display of ecclesiastical ceremony. But two can play at that game. I’ll be back in five minutes. No need to worry, the duty sergeant will keep them busy in the meantime. Let’s give them the reception they deserve.’

And with that she was gone.

‘What on earth was all that about?’ asked Arne Pedersen.

‘Dress, I reckon. Can’t be too sure, though. In five minutes all will be revealed. Are you nervous?’

‘I could have throttled you yesterday. Now I could give you a kiss.’

‘I’ll settle for something in between, if you don’t mind. But remember, don’t force things. You’re too impatient by half sometimes.’

When the Deputy Commissioner eventually returned she was in full uniform. The effect was that much more impressive, given the slightness of her frame: she was impeccably clad, with a display of badges of rank and insignia that would make even an untrained eye blink. Simonsen and Pedersen, far from untrained, both rose to their feet immediately. The symbolism was demonstrative: from the decorated shoulder straps to the cap under her arm, gold-braided foliage of oak luxuriating about the crown of the realm, all speaking its own unambiguous language of power.

‘Right, are we ready to receive our guests, Arne?’ she asked, buoyantly. ‘They’re on their way up now. It’s not exactly the first time in the history of our country that the crown and the cross have clashed. But I’m rather interested to see which of us will come out on top today.’

She held the door open for Arne Pedersen, who swiftly stepped out into the corridor ahead of her.

Konrad Simonsen lingered a moment in the office until he heard the door of the interview room close. He hurried into an adjoining room, where a two-way mirror allowed him to follow events as they unfolded.

The bishop, a man in his mid-forties with a fleshy, open face and a steady gaze, was in full choir dress. His cassock was of fuchsia silk that hung in folds about his large frame, and on his head was a matching zucchetto that, besides complementing the rest of his ecclesiastical garb, hid an encroaching bald patch that Simonsen noted when the man found himself compelled momentarily to lift the little skullcap in order to scratch his head. Most imposing of all, however, was the pectoral cross, a crucifix with corpus that hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. That, and the man’s unflappable calm.

The Deputy Commissioner asked them to be seated, offering coffee, tea or mineral water before affably introducing herself and Arne Pedersen. That done, she placed her uniform cap on the table in front of her and commenced the interview, thanking them with professional courtesy for coming and guaranteeing full respect for their religious sensibilities. Simonsen noted how she addressed the bishop almost exclusively, while Arne Pedersen focused intently on the priest. Moreover, she managed to imbue her words about co-operation and mutual respect with such sincerity as to raise her introduction far above the usual platitudes.

The bishop was by no means unmoved, and his first utterance, about wishing to help the police in their enquiries as far as it lay within their means to do so, certainly seemed genuine enough. Then, just as everyone thought the Deputy Commissioner would now hand over the stage to the main players, she began to talk about her holiday in Rome last spring. The bishop listened with interest, and before anyone could say time-wasting, the two superiors were chatting away about the Colosseum, the Spanish Steps and narrow, ochre-coloured streets, while their respective subordinates looked impatiently at the ceiling then at each other. Simonsen rested his head in his hands and swore it was the last time he would ever involve a jurist in a police interview.

Not until what seemed like twenty minutes later, when the Deputy Commissioner had filled them in on her grandchildren and the bishop had told her about his ordainment, both had waxed lyrical on the Sistine Chapel, and their involuntary audience had yawned, one surreptitiously, the other quite unabashedly, did Konrad Simonsen realise this was all collusion. From where he was sitting he saw how Arne Pedersen discreetly patted his boss on the thigh, of all places, underneath the table. It went without saying that no one on the force, and certainly not Arne Pedersen, was invested with the authority to fondle the Deputy Commissioner’s thigh, and Konrad Simonsen’s hitherto wearied demeanour was at once transformed into a broad and appreciative smile. The holiday recollections and exchange of personal chit-chat had all run according to a hidden agenda. Their small talk had in part undoubtedly established new group relations between chief and chief, minion and minion, just as it had served to erode the defence mechanisms the priest almost certainly had set on red alert from the outset. Being ready and bored at the same time is not a feasible combination.

The Deputy Commissioner rounded off with a few pleasantly uttered words, and then Arne Pedersen dropped a bombshell:

‘Whose decision was it for Jørgen Kramer Nielsen to be cremated?’

His tone was sharp, offended almost, and he was addressing the bishop. The Deputy Commissioner, who had otherwise now leaned back into the role of expectant onlooker, interrupted in puzzled tones:

‘Cremated?’

She made it sound like he’d been stuffed and put on display, but was quick to beat a retreat.

‘I’m sorry, don’t mind me. Please go on.’

Arne Pedersen paused. Long enough for the first real question for the priest to be put to him by the bishop.

‘Yes, who decided that?’

The priest hesitated, and again Pedersen’s timing was impeccable. He cleared the table and dealt the cards anew.

‘Perhaps that’s the wrong place to start. Let’s get back to that later.’

He looked at the priest.

‘I’d like you in your own words to tell us as much about Jørgen Kramer Nielsen as you are able, in view of your being sworn to uphold the doctrine of confidentiality between priest and penitent.’

The priest was forthcoming. He had little to tell them that they were unaware of beforehand, but the picture they had of Kramer Nielsen being a loner was supported. As two people living in the same house, they got along together on friendly, polite terms, though their relationship went no further than that, and yet Konrad Simonsen was able to find answers to some of the questions he and Arne Pedersen had posed the day before. Most of them negative. For instance, as far as the priest knew, the postman enjoyed no further associations with anyone from his parish; the priest knew nothing about any plane crash; and the only person he recalled having paid a call on his upstairs neighbour had been a plumber. Apart from that, he had very occasionally got the impression there were two people in the upstairs flat, although… well, he wasn’t sure, by any means. One matter, however, was perhaps of interest. It concerned the deceased’s conversion to Catholicism. Arne Pedersen interrupted, sounding eager:

‘We’d like to hear about that.’

‘It was something Jørgen had been thinking about for a long time, certainly way before I knew him. I think what decided it for him in the end was my wanting to buy his house. There were others who were interested, too, and I’m sure I would have lost out had it been down to money alone. Not that he gave the place away, far from it, but then I’m sure you’ve already looked into that.’

Arne Pedersen confirmed:

‘Yes, we have, and it was all above board. With property prices at the time it wasn’t even that cheap.’

Konrad Simonsen smiled. Arne Pedersen was making it up.

‘But there were others who bid more than I was able to. All the interested parties were invited in turn to a short interview that took place at the post office, as it happens. Jørgen wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to end up sharing the house with someone he didn’t care for. As soon as he realised I was a priest, a Catholic priest, that is, he told me all about his wish to convert. I promised to help him as much as I could, naturally, if he felt the way he did, and at the same time I made it clear to him that the offer stood regardless of who he decided to sell the house to. I do think it was instrumental in his eventual choice, though.’

‘Do you know why he decided to move into the upstairs flat? Or why he wanted to sell at all?’

‘I do, yes. He told me he didn’t want to look after the garden any more.’

‘It’s not so big.’

‘No, but that’s what he said, and he sold up because his tenant on the first floor moved into sheltered accommodation. That was what did it.’

Simonsen thought it fitted well with Kramer Nielsen having set up his mirrored loft nine years ago, if that’s what all the window spray was for on his receipts from Netto. But some of the posters of the girl probably dated from a considerable time before.

Arne Pedersen pressed on.

‘So converting was something Jørgen Kramer Nielsen had been considering for a long time?’

‘Yes, a very long time indeed.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘Because you don’t know?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

Both servants of the Lord shook their heads with regret, and Simonsen noted that can’t answer that in the second instance obviously meant no. Pedersen rounded off the first act with a short summary, and the priest confirmed its accuracy. Again, Pedersen gave the Deputy Commissioner an unseen nudge under the table, then went on:

‘That was the more general stuff. Now…’

The Deputy Commissioner cut in:

‘Wait a minute, you said you were going to tell us who decided Kramer Nielsen was to be cremated.’

Once again, it was the bishop she addressed. Konrad Simonsen was enjoying the way things were developing. What began with a question about who had decided on cremation was now presented as a promise of an answer with the man under fire being the bishop, who knew nothing about the matter.

‘That’s right, I did. Why did we choose cremation, exactly?’

The priest replied, after a moment’s thought:

‘The decision was mine. It was Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s wish to be cremated.’

There was a heavy pause, before the bishop asked:

‘Is that what he told you?’

The priest was not happy about the situation and answered reluctantly.

‘No, not directly, but it was my clear impression. He was afraid… afraid of darkness.’

Hardly had the words passed his lips before Arne Pedersen slapped a photograph down on the table in front of him.

‘Did it have something to do with the girl in this photo?’

‘Yes, but I’m afraid that’s all I can say.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘No.’

‘Not even her name?’

‘No.’

The questions came like a volley of shots, Pedersen’s eyes fixing the priest’s.

‘Do you know anything about her?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘If you knew nothing about her, would you be able to tell me that?’

‘Then there’d be nothing to say.’

‘But you’d be able to answer me on that?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I ask you if she’s dead, are you going to answer me?’

‘I’d like to, but I can’t.’

‘Is she dead?’

The door opened and a red-haired intern from the Deputy Commissioner’s office came in with a tray of mineral waters. Without words, but with a friendly smile worthy of any waiter, she swapped the bottles for empties and withdrew again. Not even Konrad Simonsen reflected on the matter. Procedures were always bent a bit when bosses were taking part. Arne Pedersen repeated the question from before the interruption:

‘Is she dead?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

The Deputy Commissioner’s timing was impressive. A split second before the bishop could cut in she turned to Arne Pedersen.

‘There’s something wrong here.’

The bishop concurred.

‘Yes, it would seem there is.’

The priest grasped the pause eagerly, though was clearly unaware of what was going on. Certainly he seemed oblivious to Arne Pedersen’s presence.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked the bishop.

‘The problem just left the room.’

He nodded towards the door through which the intern had just gone out. The Deputy Commissioner delivered a cutting rebuke of her subordinate:

‘You must get a grip, Arne. This is embarrassing.’

Arne Pedersen flicked calmly through his folder, leaving the photograph of the intern in plain sight in front of the priest. Then, apologetically, he said to no one in particular:

‘Sorry about that. Our red-haired friend would be three or four years older than the other girl would have been.’

The priest studied the photo for the first time, and his sad eyes seemed almost to be staring inwards when Arne Pedersen finally picked it up and replaced it with one of a good-looking young girl that Kurt Melsing’s department had extracted from the clouds.

‘Perhaps this one’s dead, then?’

The bishop shook his head pointedly.

‘This is getting too complicated for me. I think you’ve had your answer. I’m afraid we can add no more.’

Arne Pedersen let the issue lie, skipping instead somewhat absently through a few loose ends concerning the landing where the deceased was discovered, before declaring the interview over. All that remained was for the Deputy Commissioner to thank them for their co-operation, a matter she dealt with quite as elegantly as she had introduced them. On their way out she apologised once more:

‘I really am sorry about the mix-up with those photos. Perhaps we might return to the issue once we’ve made more headway?’

Arne Pedersen blushed appropriately like a schoolboy. The bishop, however, was quick to play down the matter, content that the interview had gone off in an atmosphere of mutual co-operation.

‘These things happen. And we’d like to help as much as we can, of course.’

‘Excellent, and thank you for a most pleasant chat. I do hope we’ve shown tact as to your faith, though I must admit I’m still not sure what you’re allowed to divulge and what you’re not.’

The priest commented with a tight-lipped smile:

‘I should get my own photos sorted out one of these days.’

Konrad Simonsen was painting that afternoon, a job he enjoyed and had got stuck into as soon as he came home.

The Countess had let him borrow a wing of her annexe as a makeshift gallery for Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s posters. His excuse for hanging them at home was poor: they ought to be viewed properly, he contended, in decent suroundings, after the psychologists, behavioural scientists and photo buffs had been asked to give their takes on what the images might mean. No one bought the explanation, but nor did anyone feel much like delving into the real reason, so the upshot was that the posters ended up in Søllerød after first having passed through Kurt Melsing’s lab in Vanløse. Now they were leaning up against a wall, waiting to be hung in their newly decorated room. Some tradesmen had cleared the place and carried out a few minor repairs, but Simonsen had insisted on doing the painting himself and he had just got started on the third wall when the Countess came home and found him hard at work. She stood for a while in the doorway watching him. The radio played a decades’ old song as he methodically swept the roller up and down the surface in front of him. Now and again he stepped back to consider the results of his efforts. When eventually he realised she was there he switched the radio off.

‘Are you spying on me?’

‘You know I am. How did Arne’s interview go?’

He told her all about it, standing with the paint roller in his hand.

‘They’ll have been proud of themselves, then?’

‘I’ll say. You should have seen them. Striding along the corridor arm in arm like a pair of lovesick teenagers, soaking up the applause and boasting their heads off.’

‘And you were the audience?’

‘Yes, and I can tell you it got a bit tiresome after their eighth curtain call. But credit where credit’s due, they were the perfect double act and I got all sorts of useful information out of it.’

‘Sounds brilliant.’

‘The priest simply assumed it was the girl from the loft on the photo he was shown, and answered accordingly. So there’s no doubt now that he knew about her before.’

‘Right, I get you. And I take it Arne’s not scared of our Deputy Commissioner any more.’

‘Scared? He called her by her first name – Gurli, he said – and was hugging her like she was a cuddly toy.’

‘I’d like to have been there for that.’

‘It’s all on video. They were so pleased with themselves they forgot to turn the camera off. It wasn’t my interview, so I let them get on with it. Wait till you see it, you’ll have a laugh.’

‘It sounds like something that’ll turn up in the entertainment slot at the Christmas do. Anyway, I actually came to ask what time you wanted dinner. And to see how the decorating was coming on, of course.’

The Countess looked around the room.

‘It’s a bit… gaudy. Why the primary colours?’

‘Don’t you like it? It’s not finished yet.’

She came up to him, but stopped short. Turning one room in the annexe into a rainbow was fine by her, but she didn’t want her new cardigan suffering the same psychedelic fate.

‘Are you having a good time?’

‘I am, actually. Very good.’

‘Have you been for your run?’

‘Of course. Before long I won’t have to walk it at all any more.’

‘I’m proud of you, Simon. But there’s something we need to talk about.’

He stiffened. Such words from a woman’s mouth were seldom encouraging.

‘What’s that?’

She told him.

Their colleagues had been talking, though of course only when Simonsen himself had been out of earshot. And Pauline Berg as well, since no one really knew where they were with her these days and largely avoided her for the same reason. What if their Head of Homicide was taking them in the wrong direction? Apparently, he’d decided that the postman’s murder was to be cleared up by uncovering the man’s past. But what if it had been random? A break-in gone wrong? A couple of maladjusted kids who reckoned he had money stashed away? The Countess filled him in on this cautiously.

‘And there’s any number of other possible scenarios. But you’re looking back into Kramer Nielsen’s past, and only back.’

His reply was infuriatingly evasive.

‘I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in, filling cracks I should have mended a long time ago.’

‘Your own?’

He put the roller down in the tray and elaborated on the case.

‘It doesn’t really matter that much if I’m right or wrong. It may be a blind alley, and it may not. Remember, no one in the world showed the slightest interest in Jørgen Kramer Nielsen while he was alive. Now I am, after he’s dead. And as for myself, I’m spending time on a lot of things that weren’t important to me before. As it turned out, reality and circumstances conspired to give me the chance all of a sudden. Where it’s going to take me I don’t know. But as long as I’ve got you and Anna Mia, I’m pretty sure I can’t go wrong.’

The Countess laughed, a bright, disarming sound, and threw caution to the wind with respect to her cardigan. The paint was surely water-based anyway and could be washed out if need be. And if it couldn’t, then she would have an excuse to go into town and buy a new one. Two, even.

‘That’s sweet of you. I was afraid you couldn’t keep the two areas separate.’

‘Of course I can. I just don’t want to, that’s all.’

The Countess stroked his shoulder, then stepped back and looked at him.

‘I hear you’re having trouble with Pauline.’

It was true, but he’d decided to put the issue off until tomorrow. Besides, he wasn’t as worked up about it any more. On the one hand, Pauline was only doing what he would have done himself, if he’d cared to look at Juli’s death like that. On the other, it was completely unrelated to his current inquiry. In either case it would have to wait. He just couldn’t be bothered to think about her at the moment.

The Countess accepted his explanation. It was reasonable enough. And it was important he didn’t do too much at once. She indicated the posters at the far end of the room.

‘What about her?’

He turned and looked at them.

‘There’s no need for me to be jealous, I hear,’ added the Countess.

‘How do you mean? I didn’t even know her. Anyway, to all intents and purposes Arne got the priest to confirm that she was dead. That loft is her memorial.’

‘And now you’re making her a new one?’

There was a pause before Simonsen replied, and when he did he tried to make it sound casual, jokey even. It didn’t work.

‘She’s used to light.’

‘What about Rita? Was she used to light, too?’

The name pulsed in the air between them. She had guessed, but then it had only been a matter of time. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

‘The girl with the flowers, the one you hit on that demo. You met her again, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her name was Rita?’

‘Yes, but it’s my story and I won’t tell it until I’m ready. Right now I want to get this painting done.’

To his mind it sounded reasonable, but the Countess ignored him.

‘Is she still alive?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose so. But if you imagine I’m viewing the girl in the posters as a substitute for Rita, you’d be wrong. Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘It’s what I’m afraid of.’

He went over to the posters and tried to make contact with the face in the clouds on the one facing out.

‘She was prettier than Rita.’

‘Prettier than most, I’d say.’

‘Am I declared of sound mind?’

‘Yes, you are. And your reward is broccoli, cauliflower and tomatoes in half an hour.

‘What would I have got if I wasn’t?’

‘Broccoli, cauliflower and tomatoes in an hour.’

He had met Rita again two days after the demo. At the time he was living in a flat in Brønshøj, and when the doorbell rang he was in the middle of washing the dishes from the day before. He remembered it vividly. A long, aggressive ring on the bell. He opened the door and two young girls were standing there. Neither would say how they had found his name and address, and to begin with they wouldn’t tell him their names either. They had come for the sole purpose of showing him what he had done. Even now, thirty-five years on, he recalled his embarrassment and shame when Rita without warning pulled her blouse over her head so that he could see her bruises. In those days, bras were out. Fortunately so, too, were the majority of his neighbours, but when he heard a door being shut on the floor above, followed by footsteps on the stairs, the only thing he felt he could do was to drag the girls inside and close his own door. Lewdness on the staircase was not the kind of thing that was tolerated in the social housing blocks of the Danish welfare state, and certainly not if you happened to be a police officer and were supposed to be safeguarding society against the subversive activities, moral as well as political, of the younger generation.

It took him a while to make his uninvited guests understand that he had struck out because he had been scared. At first, they thought he was lying. The pigs were fascists with secret orders from the government to beat up as many protesters as they could. Draw your truncheons and lay into them! Could he not remember the shrill voice coming from the loudhailer, while people were being clubbed and the blood was beginning to flow? He stuck to his guns since the truth was he hated demos, as did nearly all his colleagues. And standing there in the police line, before he hit her… well, he couldn’t recall ever being so frightened in his life. Or rather, he could, because all he had to do was think back to the demo before that.

Eventually, they believed him, though without letting him off the hook quite so easily. What about the people of Chile? Weren’t they frightened, too? Weren’t they scared of Augusto Pinochet’s henchmen after the CIA had overturned and murdered President Salvador Allende? Or was it some other issue they had harangued him about? He wasn’t quite sure now. Rita always had some oppressed people or other to hold up in front of her while she waved her fist. Maybe it was the Palestinians who had been frightened. Yes, that sounded likely. They argued again, but even they could see that no matter how oppressed the people of Palestine happened to be, it still didn’t make him any less scared on the streets of Østerbro. It ended up with them grudgingly accepting his explanation, and he apologised to Rita. He was really sorry, and his words were genuine.

And that was that, or so he thought. Surely they would leave him alone then? But instead of saying goodbye they started nosing around in his flat. Without inhibition, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to rummage around in another person’s belongings. Rita went into the bedroom and inspected his wardrobe. He followed her, feverishly hiding away the night’s underwear that had yet to find its way into the laundry basket. Her friend called out from the kitchen. Where does he keep the salt? she was hungry and had put some rice on to boil. He helped her, until called from the living room. Rita had put on his police uniform. It was several sizes too big and swallowed her up, but it didn’t seem to bother her one bit.

She stood outside on the balcony, informing passers-by on the street below that they were under arrest. He tried to pull her back in, but she resisted and kept tight hold of the railing. People were jeering at him, and he smiled forcedly, apologising to his next-door neighbour who had appeared on his own balcony, and then the rice boiled over. Her friend blocked his way back to the kitchen. Is that really you when you were little? How cute! She’d found his family album. He turned down the gas and managed to save the rice, while Rita was busy auctioning off his police cap to the cluster of people who had gathered below. It’s all going to Cats’ Protection. Who’ll bid twenty kroner for this fine item? Cats’ Protection. Twenty kroner I’m bid. Who’ll give me twenty-five? How about you, man in the tie, you look like you can afford it? Twenty-five kroner?

The girls were impossible to keep in check, and so he gave up.

When evening came, they drank tea and watched television. In colour! The TV was his pride and joy, even if Rita did call it a proletarian gogglebox, slapping him playfully on the back as the film started. It was an Arena with a 21-inch screen in a swish teak cabinet, with a crisp sound that reached into the kitchen without the slightest distortion. He’d bought it on hire-purchase a couple of years before so that he could watch the Americans landing on the moon. Man’s first steps on an alien celestial body, an image he felt certain he would remember, even when he grew into an old man. Live transmission, and in colour! But Neil Armstrong’s ‘small step for man, a giant leap for mankind’, was not the image he remembered best from that time. That was a quite different one entirely, and, ironically it was in black and white.

The Countess interrupted his thoughts.

‘You’ve got yellow paint in your hair, Simon. You’ll have to have a bath before you go to bed, I don’t want my bedroom painted, if you don’t mind.’

He promised to do as she said, noting that now it was her bedroom all of a sudden. At other times it was theirs – when the bed linen needed changing, for instance.

‘You’re miles away, what are you thinking about?’

They had sat down on the sofa after dinner, she with a book, he with the day’s paper, though he couldn’t be bothered to read it.

‘A picture I remember.’

It was of a man on a step, taken from the side. His head with its receding hairline; his folded hands contrasting to his long, black coat and shiny, polished shoes. The man was kneeling. Behind him photographers could be seen, the front of a crowd, a single soldier with epaulettes and cap. All eyes were focused on the man on the step, albeit from a respectful distance, as if they already knew that this spontaneous moment was historic. Further back you could make out the housing, the dismal grey blocks that had been thrown up in no time in this city whose every building was new. The image of the West German chancellor kneeling before Warsaw’s Ghetto memorial went around the world, and Willy Brandt was the only politician he and Rita ever jointly respected. And millions along with them. West Germany had a chancellor who brought together rather than divided, no mean feat in the days of leftist rebellion. The following year, the man on the step was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and seldom had it been more deserved.

The Countess spoke.

‘What picture’s that?’

‘A picture of a statesman, the greatest of his time.’

She guessed the name, of course. It wasn’t difficult. Simonsen went and had his bath.

As soon as the alarm went off and Konrad Simonsen opened his eyes, he thought to himself that he would much rather stay in bed than get up and start the day that lay ahead of him. His humour was little improved when it turned out he still couldn’t get in touch with Pauline and was instead put through to the answering service he was already sick and tired of. He sulked at breakfast, and the Countess left him alone. She knew by now how to spot the telltale signs of his changing moods and was able to navigate around them to the extent that suited her. This morning she was out of the door long before him, and he barely had the chance to kiss her goodbye before she was gone. He cleared the breakfast things, spent fifteen minutes half-heartedly skimming through the day’s paper, then drove to Frederikssund.

The chief constable turned out to be a pleasant and sensible man, who received Simonsen at the duty desk since his office was being done up. They sat down in a corner where they could talk undisturbed, and the chief constable put him in the picture about the death that Pauline Berg had seemingly decided to treat as a murder investigation.

A twenty-four-year-old woman, Juli Denissen of Frederiksværk, had been found dead on 10 July at Melby Overdrev, a former military training area out towards the Kattegat between Asserbo and Hundested. The place was now a conservation area, part of the National Park that had been dubbed Royal Nordsjælland. The circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body were particularly poignant: the persistent crying of the woman’s two-year-old had been heard by a forestry worker. The death was singular, not only because of the woman’s young age, but also because it had occurred in such a deserted spot. For that reason it had been investigated thoroughly by Nordsjællands Politi, who nonetheless had been unable to unearth anything untoward. The autopsy report concluded quite unequivocally and without reservation that death had been due to a massive cerebral haemorrhage, for which reason the death was classed as occurring from natural causes and duly closed. Juli Denissen had been cremated from Kregme Kirke on Saturday 2 August.

‘That’s the short version,’ said the chief constable. ‘I’m skipping the fine detail, of course, but there’s a couple of case folders you can take with you, if you want to delve into it.’

Konrad Simonsen shook his head emphatically.

‘No, thanks, I’d rather not. I’ve no doubt at all it’s like you say, natural causes.’

‘Glad to hear it. However, the National Commissioner has transferred everything concerning the woman’s death to you. There was an e-mail yesterday, but you’ll know all about that already. I hope we’re not going to have to allocate resources to this again, because if you ask me it would be a waste of time.’

Simonsen assured the chief constable there would be no such expectation. And the transfer was purely so that Nordsjællands Politi could refer to him should anyone start… stirring things up. He couldn’t find a better expression, and the chief constable picked up on it straight away:

‘Stirring things up, indeed. The only person stirring things up here is your own detective sergeant, Pauline Berg.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Tell me what she’s been getting up to.’

‘Well, not much really, besides what we talked about on the phone yesterday. And of course it’s no skin off my nose now it’s all been handed over to you.’

‘I’d like you to endorse the two folders you mentioned with a signed note to the effect that they can only be lent out if sanctioned by you or me.’

‘No problem. Are you having trouble getting in touch with her?’

‘Trouble isn’t the word.’ He held up his hand to stem any protest. ‘All right, I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but like I say, her situation isn’t normal.’

‘Is it PTSD?’

Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. The thought had occurred to Simonsen, too. Pauline Berg’s behaviour at work at times verged on self-destructive. She forced herself and those around her into situations that could only end with her… it was hard to put into words exactly… being put in her place, passed over or sometimes even ignored. He was aware that this followed the recognised pattern of events before some people caused themselves physical harm. Both kinds of behaviour were in order to dull the trauma they had suffered. But Simonsen was no therapist and refused to hang psychiatric labels on others. He replied frankly:

‘I don’t know. Sometimes she appears unbalanced, at other times her work is just as good as before she was abducted. Of course, we hope she’s going to stabilise at some point. However, it seems like she views this young woman’s death as a chance to investigate a case that’s hers and hers alone. And there’s another aspect to it, too. When Pauline was banged up in that bunker, the dead woman came to us with vital information that saved Pauline from dying. I think she has merged the two things in her mind and convinced herself she owes it to the woman to proceed with an investigation. Unfortunately, there’s not much doubt that at the moment she’s consciously avoiding not only me, but her other superiors, too.’

The chief constable was understanding of Pauline Berg’s situation, familiar with all that had happened, like most of the country’s police force. He gave Simonsen something to go on.

‘She’ll be out at Melby Overdrev this afternoon. They’re showing her where the woman died.’

‘Who? Not your people, surely?’

‘Denissen’s kin. Her stepfather and sister.’

‘How come you know?’

‘The sister’s husband called us yesterday. He’s frustrated by his wife’s… let’s call it dedication, and wanted to know why we’d reopened the case. Actually, she’s not even Juli Denissen’s real sister, that’s just what she calls herself.’

The chief constable showed him a map and indicated the place where Juli had been found. Simonsen thanked him. They chatted for a few minutes about other things, people they both knew, the new police reform.

They shook hands, and as Simonsen was about to leave, the chief constable asked:

‘Is it true you knew her? The young woman who died, I mean?’

Simonsen answered hesitantly:

‘No, I didn’t know her at all.’

Konrad Simonsen struggled with his satnav to calibrate the chief constable’s directions to the place where Juli Denissen had died. He failed, and wondered for a moment if he should drive back and request a more exact explanation, but decided instead to stop off in Frederiksværk, where he found his way without difficulty to the local arts centre that also housed the tourist information office. He ate a reasonably good low-cal burger with a bowl of dreary salad and was given a little folder, in the middle of which was a map of the area he wanted to see. The woman behind the desk marked his route in biro.

He drove with one eye on the map and turned off the main road shortly after Asserbo. There he followed a poorly kept forest track, taking care to avoid the worst potholes. After ten minutes the track opened out and ended in a large parking area. He pulled in at the far end, almost at the beach, where he stood for a moment and took his bearings. The area was enclosed by big, whitewashed stones, with a row of wind-battered saplings of what looked like oak in the middle. There were two cars besides his own. Rain was spitting. Not much, but enough to make him take his umbrella from the boot even if he didn’t put it up.

He climbed a dune. It was steep and he clutched at tufts of lyme grass to steady himself. At the summit he looked out over the sea that lay green and tumultuous before him, waves topped with foam that rose up and vanished again, filling his field of vision as far as the horizon where sea and sky merged into one. To his left, the coastline curved away, a smooth arc that ran out into a point. In the distance it curved back again, the details blurred but for the red-tiled roofs of a cluster of houses he could just pick out somewhere near what must be Hundested. The wind rushed in his ears. Turning his head towards it made it sound like canvas flapping, the noise drowning out even the roaring breakers that crashed on to the shore below.

He stood there for a while, taking it in, before descending again and walking north, cutting across the grassland that lay between the dunes and the woods, extending as far as the eye could see. Here he was sheltered from the wind, but then the rain came and he put up his umbrella. The path he followed dwindled in places to little more than a trampled-down ribbon. It led him to a signpost: a yellow circle with a broken black bomb issuing its stylised shrapnel in an arching red explosion. Graphically, it was poor, but the message was unequivocal. The area had belonged to the military and been used for training purposes; anyone walking here did so at their own risk. He carried on through the gently undulating landscape with its tight blanket of heather interspersed with clusters of low, stunted flowers cowering in the sand. He looked around and saw nothing but nature. Now and then he stopped and stared left towards the woods, to see if anyone had perhaps sought shelter from the rain there. The treeline comprised mainly old shore pine, whose red-speckled bark and oddly twisted trunks resembled a coloured illustration in one of his boyhood adventure books, alluring, and yet eerie and intimidating at the same time. He saw no other people.

After walking for another ten minutes or so, from the top of a rise he caught sight of two figures further ahead. He adjusted his course and went towards them. As he approached he could see that one of them was Pauline Berg. He slowed down and cautioned himself to deal with the situation calmly. There was nothing to be gained by getting worked up.

The two women were soaked. Neither was dressed for the weather. He greeted Pauline as if nothing were untoward, introducing himself then to the woman who accompanied her. They shook hands and she responded by telling him her name.

Linette Krontoft was a fair-haired, corpulent woman in her twenties with attentive blue eyes and a doleful smile he assumed was attributable to the circumstances. Konrad Simonsen noted her exceptionally white and regular teeth, and it crossed his mind, too, that she would benefit from a hunger strike or two. Moreover, that he hadn’t the slightest wish they should meet in this way. And yet here he was.

‘Where was she found?’ he asked quietly.

Linette Krontoft pointed to the bottom of the dip in front of them. He gave the two women his umbrella, their need being greater than his own, then sidestepped his way down the incline and stood for a moment considering the surroundings, scanning the landscape for 360 degrees before peering down at the sandy earth, which he poked at with the toe of his shoe. He scrabbled his way up again. His eyes met Pauline’s and he thought to himself that her defiant gaze did not bode well. Linette Krontoft broke the silence.

‘You’re not here to help us. You’re here to prevent Pauline from doing her job, aren’t you?’

He said nothing, his eyes darting from woman to woman. He wished he had a cigarette. He considered his words carefully before he replied.

‘You two have a choice. Do you want to hear what it is?’

They agreed with obvious reluctance. Pauline seemed almost hostile.

‘You can carry on with these investigations off your own bat and behind my back. If you do, there’ll be no support, no co-operation from anywhere within the police force, and all the people who provided assistance here on the tenth of July when Juli Denissen’s body was discovered will receive a letter, signed by me, instructing them to ignore you if they are approached.

‘The alternative is that the three of us, unofficially and privately, get in touch with a highly competent pathologist I know. But I may as well tell you straight off, it could be some time before we get an appointment, and in the meantime you must do nothing. If, after studying the autopsy report, this pathologist of ours should express even the slightest doubt that Juli Denissen died a natural death, I promise you I shall have the case reopened officially. If, on the other hand, he should consider Juli Denissen’s death was indeed attributable to natural causes, then I must have your promise to let the matter drop and leave her in peace.’

Pauline Berg asked:

‘Would this pathologist be Professor Arthur Elvang?’

These were the first words she had uttered since Simonsen had joined them. He turned to face her. Yes, it was Elvang he had in mind.

‘I’m going back to my car now,’ he added. ‘I’ll wait there for fifteen minutes. If you two reach an agreement before that, then we can talk more about it. If not, you call me tonight, Pauline.’

He walked off without waiting for their reaction. They could keep the umbrella.

He had to wait until evening for his answer. Pauline called. She and the group had discussed his proposal and decided to accept, though with the proviso that they be permitted to complete their photographing of Juli’s flat before the place was cleared. The group, indeed. Not to mention the overly familiar Juli without using any surname. What on earth had got into her? He shook his head while simultaneously recognising that she had reached the sensible decision finally. And then, suddenly, as he cautiously asked if she might be coming in to work on Monday, Pauline began to cry.

She was incompetent, she said, she knew that herself. She was of no use to anyone for anything. There was no end to her self-reproach. He had no idea what to say, and how he got through the next half-hour was a mystery to him. But when at last she rang off, sobbing and apologising profusely for just about everything under the sun, he poured himself a brandy for the first time in months and knocked it back in one without the slightest feeling of guilt. After that he turned off his phone, switched on the TV and fell asleep.

The Countess woke him up an hour later when she got home, noting immediately that he’d had a drink. She ticked him off for it: his health wasn’t up to it, when would he realise? And with that, the day ended as annoyingly as it had begun.

He slept on his own, in his room upstairs.

Summer, extended by the heatwave at the beginning of the month, was now definitely gone. The weather was changeable; it was windy and the mornings arrived with a chill. Konrad Simonsen once again had to make an effort to go for his runs. He had just begun to enjoy them, but running in a headwind and bad weather wasn’t fun at all.

The investigation into the death of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was at a standstill. He called in Arne Pedersen and the Countess for a status meeting in order to breathe some much-needed life into the case.

They met in Arne Pedersen’s office. It was Wednesday 1 October, mid-morning.

Simonsen kicked off by summing up their progress since the last time they’d gathered. It wasn’t encouraging.

A fragment of the photo paper from each of the eighteen posters had been sent off to Germany for chemical analysis, and a comparison of paper brands from various periods would later give them an estimate as to when the posters had been created.

‘I’d especially like to pinpoint the first one, but it may be a while before we’re given any sort of answer. So the only definite progress as far as that goes is that we’ve now positively established it’s neither his younger sister nor his mother as a young woman.’

His audience of two loyally echoed his words: Neither his younger sister nor his mother. So that was that out of the way. It was obvious they both had other matters to which they would rather be attending, despite their making an effort to pass appropriate comments.

‘Besides that, and on request, I’ve spent some time mapping break-ins in the area.’

There was nothing to indicate the killing might be related to a burglary or a robbery gone wrong. Moreover, the situation of the house was such that a burglar or anyone wanting to carry out a robbery in the home would surely choose another, more accessible property, one set much further back from the street than Kramer Nielsen’s was.

Not a burglary, not a robbery. What were they supposed to say? The Countess made a half-hearted comment, Pedersen glanced at his watch and Simonsen carried on down his little list of items.

‘What bothers me most is that I can’t find the negatives. The original photos of the girl. They must have been somewhere in his possessions, but there’s no sign of them. One theory could be that whoever killed him took them with them. They’re gone, anyway. We’ve been through the post office, his flat, all his stuff. Not once but four times now, without turning up anything at all… as you know.’

He had set up three teams of two. Experienced officers, and meticulous. People who didn’t moan when he got them rummaging for the fourth time in search of the negatives none of them any longer believed to exist. Fortunately, the young couple who had moved into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s former flat were co-operative and had left a key for the policemen to use while the occupiers were out at work.

Unfortunately, the team charged with searching the flat had got the idea of bringing in a dog to help them. The male tenant had called Konrad Simonsen as soon as he got home that night: his wife was seriously allergic to dog hair, it seemed, and the couple had to be put up in a hotel at the department’s expense until the place was cleaned. As if to add insult to injury the man had furthermore reported another… irregularity.

Konrad Simonsen had called in the two officers for a dressing-down, a procedure he commenced in all seriousness before eventually concluding:

‘The poor woman’s coughing and sneezing and can hardly breathe, all because two plods managed to poison her in her own home. I will admit, however, the idea wasn’t bad. A film-tracer dog… why not? Whose is it anyway?’

One of the men indicated that it was his. At present, it was still under training and doing rather well. Despite the situation, it was clear he was proud of the animal.

‘I gave him the scent of a roll of negatives and then some prints, and then we went all along the skirting boards, doors, ceiling, window sills… everywhere we’d turned up blanks.’

‘Is your dog horny?’

‘No, why?’

‘I’d say it is. Because the truth of the matter is it found something, didn’t it? You see, my very reliable source can’t understand how a certain cardboard box containing private photographs has been all messed up. Very private photographs, as it happens. I had to explain to him that we didn’t take fingerprints to clear up matters of that nature. Which is true, of course, and also rather fortunate, seeing as how your dog seems to have been so horny it couldn’t keep its paws off.’

Neither of the officers responded: both of them stared at the floor and had very red ears indeed.

‘Not a hair. Not one single, invisible little dog hair from that randy hound of yours, understood? I want that place hoovered and cleaned as if your careers depended on it. Now, get going the pair of you.’

‘Did they get rid of all the hairs?’ the Countess asked.

‘I think so. It would have been a very costly affair if they hadn’t.’

‘But the idea was all right. The dog, I mean. Have you tried it out at the post office or in the storage facility with Kramer Nielsen’s effects?’

‘I’ve thought about it and left a message on the dog handler’s answerphone. He’s on holiday this week, so I should hear back from him no later than Wednesday, I reckon.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ said Arne Pedersen drily.

Simonsen went on with his discouraging briefing as if he hadn’t heard.

‘The last thing’s the matter of the posters, which at the moment are adorning the walls in Søllerød.’

The Countess cut in:

‘Your gallery.’

Arne Pedersen laughed, though not derisively. Simonsen ignored him nevertheless and informed them that experts in various fields had now been out to study the posters of their girl in the clouds: professional photo technicians and a behavioural psychologist who waffled on without saying anything at all.

‘Let me guess. Clarification would mean getting in a host of others just like him?’

The Countess was pretty much spot on.

Simonsen admitted:

‘So basically my gallery, as you call it, has been a failure.’

‘What about your parapsychologist? Didn’t you get her in on it?’ asked Pedersen.

It was the worst-kept secret in Homicide that Konrad Simonsen now and again made discreet use of a clairvoyant in his investigations, a fact that on occasion had led to some rather surprising conclusions, while at others it had proved utterly worthless.

‘She’s been in hospital with a broken hip, but maybe I can persuade her to stop by if she’s finished her rehab.’

His exclusive audience concurred: it wouldn’t do any harm, at least. He clapped his hands together, feigning optimism.

‘Well, that’s it. Does either of you have any bright ideas as to how we might proceed?’

No startlingly original thoughts were forthcoming. The silence was oppressive. Arne Pedersen was the first to give up:

‘Perhaps we can think about it, Simon?’

The next day, Pauline Berg came up with something new to go on in the case of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. It wasn’t earth-shattering by any means, but by then Simonsen was glad of anything he could get. She was sitting in his office when he arrived on the Thursday morning and announced proudly that she’d got a present for him, even if it wasn’t gift-wrapped.

Following her unfortunate outing to Nordsjælland the week before, she had turned up for work on the Monday as if nothing had happened, and neither of them had mentioned the episode at all. She had returned the documents he had given her without comment and now they languished in the bottom drawer of Simonsen’s desk, waiting for him to pull himself together and get in touch with Professor Arthur Elvang and ask him to read the autopsy report, just as he had promised her on the grasslands of Melby Overdrev almost a week ago. She hadn’t pressed the matter, in fact hadn’t even enquired about it yet, but he was well aware that she wasn’t going to forget about it and that he would soon have to get things squared with the professor.

Contrary to what he’d expected, she had seemed happier this past week than he had seen her in a long time. She was almost back to being the old Pauline, from before the abduction. She was more sociable, too, he found, and not only towards him.

He looked at his present.

‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s final exam certificate from his upper secondary. So it turned up, after all. Where did you find it?’

‘It used to hang on the wall in his dad’s office at the post office, until they got a new postmaster. That’s why it’s framed. Two of the old postmen remembered it hanging next to King Frederik the Ninth, and probably about six months or so with Queen Margrethe as well, after her father died, I imagine, until the plane crash. We found it in the post office’s basement.’

‘So his dad was proud, then.’

‘He was. In fact, he was the first person at the post office whose offspring had graduated from the gymnasium, so it was something to boast about in those days. But have a look at this.’

She handed him a small pile of papers.

‘This is correspondence between Tom Kramer Nielsen and the Ministry of Education in nineteen sixty-nine, and you may as well pat me on the head now because you wouldn’t believe how many phone calls it’s taken to get hold of these copies. Of all the foot-dragging institutions in this country, government ministries are the worst. Most other places they at least get their finger out as long as you say murder inquiry and urgent, but with central administration it seems to have the opposite effect.’

‘They can be a bit reluctant at times. So, yes, a pat on the head.’

She put him in the picture.

Jørgen Kramer Nielsen hadn’t turned up for his final exam, oral maths. The reason seemed rather unclear, given that his father appeared to change his story during the course of the correspondence, but according to the rules his son could not officially graduate, having first to resit the exam at a later date. And yet Jørgen Kramer Nielsen hadn’t attended the resit either.

‘Why not?’ Simonsen asked.

‘I’m not sure, but his dad kicked up a fuss and wanted to know why they couldn’t just give him a fail in oral maths, because that would have meant he graduated with the rest of his class. His other grades were more than sufficient to make up for a zero in the one subject. So they correspond back and forth a few times. Only the ministry sticks to its guns and goes by the book.’

‘But he passed eventually?’

‘Yes. That’s this country for you, isn’t it? You see, one of Tom Kramer Nielsen’s old army friends from the days of national service had gone on to make a career for himself in just the right place. He’d become chairman of the association of folk high schools, and old mates scratch each other’s backs, don’t they? So, hey presto, Jørgen Kramer Nielsen graduates. Take the certificate out of the frame and look at the signature on the back.’

Simonsen did as she said.

‘You’ve certainly been digging into your modern history. Who told you all this anyway?’ he said as he fumbled to remove the certificate.

‘The folk high-school chairman himself. Still bright as a button and nearly a hundred. He went on for two hours. It was all very pleasant, quite fascinating actually. So what do you make of the signature?’

‘Well, I never. Old Evil Helge himself.’

‘Why do you call him that? Is there something I’m missing?’

‘It was a sorely unjust nickname. Helge Larsen was a very competent Minister of Education who became the butt of public criticism for the entire youth rebellion back in the day. His job put him on the front line. No politician could ever achieve any kind of popularity in that position then. These are very good grades Kramer Nielsen got, aren’t they?’

‘They are. And look at written maths, and physics for that matter, too.’

‘And yet he never took oral maths or carried on into higher education. I wonder why.’

‘Don’t ask me. But I was wrong about when they burned their exam certificates. It was the year after, in 1970. On the square of Kongens Nytorv.’

Pauline paused for a moment, then added pensively:

‘I’d like to have been around in those days. It must have been really exciting.’

Konrad Simonsen shook his head.

‘Not for me, it wasn’t. I had a job to do. And besides, I never went on to upper secondary.’

The next piece of input that brought the case forward, to view it positively, came the week after from an unexpected quarter and, for Konrad Simonsen, at an equally unexpected time. He had taken Monday and Tuesday off as holiday and spent them developing his repertoire of exercise. In poor weather he could hardly drag himself outside for his daily jog, and in a couple of months the pavements would most likely be covered in snow and ice, which would make running his usual route tantamount to idiocy. Consequently, he’d purchased an exercise bike that he set up in his gallery. And on the Monday morning, as he was working up a sweat for the second time on this new contraption, his unknown poster girl watching him with a twinkle in her eye, he was interrupted by a visitor.

Klavs Arnold was from Esbjerg. He was a big man in his late thirties, thick-limbed and full-chested. There weren’t many superfluous grams of fat on him, and it was a good bet that he seldom had anyone fronting up to him at his local drinking establishment. His clothes were practical and worn. He had taken off his solid leather boots, which wouldn’t have been out of place in an army barracks, and left them outside the door before knocking and entering.

‘Excuse me, are you Konrad Simonsen, from Homicide in Copenhagen?’

Simonsen wound down his cadence as he studied the man, who had to lower his head slightly to get through the doorway.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Klavs Arnold, detective sergeant from Esbjerg.’

He shook Simonsen’s hand, or rather his entire forearm, then twisted the bike’s resistance dial.

‘That’s too much for you, you shouldn’t be on more than three to start with. Beginner, yeah?’

Simonsen admitted rather curtly that this was true, only to realise that the man was right. He stopped pedalling, but remained in the saddle.

‘And you’d be an expert, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, but I do a few shifts at the local gym every now and then to make ends meet.’

He handed Simonsen his towel.

‘I won’t keep you long. Me and the wife are in the city looking for a place to live. We’re moving over this autumn. I thought I’d look you up while I was here, see if you could help me clear up a problem that’s been bothering me this last month. I went in to Police HQ and your wife, I think it was, sent me out here.’

‘And what kind of problem would that be?’

‘Well, it’s like this. You people asked me to find out where this person stays… the one who goes to Esbjerg once a year… if I could. But the only thing I’ve had to go on is a name. So far it’s turned up a blank, so I sent an e-mail and phoned to get some more info. The man’s age, a photo, whatever. Only no one was getting back to me. Eventually I got an e-mail with some likely arrival and departure times.’

He paused, before continuing:

‘Obviously, Esbjerg’s nowhere near the size of Copenhagen, but… well, it’s not on.’

Simonsen could see how unreasonable it was.

‘Who was the officer you were in touch with?’ he asked with trepidation.

‘I can’t tell you, can I? Some of the lads say you can get a bit narky if the mood takes you, and I’m not here to get anyone into trouble, just to ask for some help, that’s all.’

‘So you won’t tell me?’

‘Nope.’

‘What if I order you to?’

‘You can’t. I’m on holiday, and so are you.’

Simonsen looked at the man’s torso. It wasn’t easy to see, even to a trained eye:

‘But you’re carrying a firearm?’

The Jutlander nodded:

‘Yeah.’

‘What for?’

‘I received threats, back in the spring. The family, too. I don’t like to think about it, but… since then I’ve protected myself. And we’ve invested in a gun safe at home, so everything’s by the book. But don’t think I’m some cowboy, because I’m not. That’s not what it’s about.’

The man smoothed the bulge of his jacket where his shoulder holster was.

‘Do you want a beer or something?’ Simonsen asked.

He ran through the case for Arnold and found it depressingly quick to get to the end. Annoyingly, Arnold stressed the point:

‘It’s not much, is it? Mind if I have a look at these posters?’

He walked slowly round the room without speaking. Simonsen followed him and felt like a custodian. At the end of the tour, the Jutlander asked:

‘Which is the first?’

Simonsen pointed:

‘We think it’s one of those two.’

They went over and stood studying them both. Again, Arnold was silent, but after a while he spoke.

‘It’s hard to tell with the naked eye, but a photo technician would probably be able to say.’

‘Say what?’

‘He might well have taken the first one himself rather than from a book, the way you said. On a trip. And that’ll be where he met her. Unless she was with him from the outset. Maybe it’s the Hurtigruten, the boat from Bergen to Tromsø. Didn’t you say he was saving up so he could travel?’

Simonsen was impressed and said so. But he needn’t have bothered. Praise cut no ice with Arnold.

‘Who decorated this room? Was it you? It’s nice. My kids’d love it.’

‘Thanks. Everyone else thinks it’s dreadful. How many have you got?’

‘Five. But the last two are twins. Couldn’t be helped.’

He laughed engagingly.

‘What makes you want to move to Copenhagen? Change of air?’

‘No, the wife’s got herself a new job, so me and the kids have to tag along. It was hard for me to get sorted out with something. No one wanted a redneck like me. Someone did eventually, though.’

‘Where’s that, then?’

‘Helsinge. Between…’

‘I know where Helsinge is. What does your wife do?’

‘New member of parliament. I was hoping it’d never happen. She was only a substitute, but then her member went and got ill and had to pack it in.’

‘How long are you staying in Copenhagen?’

‘I’m off back tonight. Going to work in the morning.’

‘No, you’re not. I want you to come in to my office. I’ll square it with your chief constable.’

‘What for?’

‘Because there are some people I want you to talk to.’