He paused for a moment to reflect. Simonsen waited without saying anything.
“They became friends, the janitor and the kiosk owner. Among other things they share an interest in mathematics. Per Clausen visits the shop once or twice a week, where he ends up sitting in the back room talking with his friend. Especially in the evenings, when there are almost no customers around but the shop stays open until midnight. Clausen is usually drunk, but mostly sober as of the past year, and Farshad doesn’t drink. Their friendship stretches back some seven years. Many of their conversations are of no interest to us, but not all. For example, the two men discuss revenge a couple of times, revenge for the daughter’s suicide and the man who abused her. This is mainly Per Clausen’s preoccupation, but Farshad has also been hit hard. Two sisters and a brother have fallen into the claws of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard-terrible fates-I’ll skip over the depressing details. The two friends weep together, light candles on the birthdays of their dearly departed, the anniversaries of their death, sometimes locking up the shop.”
Simonsen was about to interrupt. The narrative had become more than a little disjointed, but suddenly Planck changed direction of his own accord.
“But last spring the conversations about Helene Clausen and Farshad’s family come to an end. Per Clausen avoids talking about them and changes the topic if they come up. Farshad doesn’t understand why but he is a sensitive person-a very fine person all around-and respects these new signals from his friend. At the same time there is a striking physical transformation in Per Clausen. He cuts back significantly on his drinking. For a while he is almost always sober, then he starts drinking again, but much less severely than before. The transformation is quite abrupt and according to Farshad it stems from an event in February or March of last year.”
“The woman in red?”
“Good guess, Simon. She had to come in somewhere. And she does. Literally. Into the shop around ten o’clock one evening, where Per Clausen is lying indisposed in the back room. Farshad remembers him as unusually intoxicated. Incoherent, even. When this happens, he is allowed to sleep on a cot until Farshad can coax him out at closing time. The woman is in her thirties, wealthy and good-looking according to Farshad, and also polite, focused, and friendly. She wakes up Per Clausen and takes him with her in her car without a single protest. The car is a silver-gray Porsche and she is dressed in an eye-catching crimson suit. She gives him a note with her name, address, and phone number and tells him that he can call her if the janitor is ever in a similar condition. Unfortunately the note has been lost. Per Clausen never mentions her but he is picked up by her one more time, also in the Porsche. This time he is not drunk and it seems as if he has made previous arrangements. In addition, Farroukh Bakhtîshû, one of Farshad’s sons, has seen Per Clausen driving with her on another occasion but the time unfortunately was not determined.”
Planck drew out his final sentence, as if wondering if he had covered everything. Apparently he had.
“That’s all of it, in broad strokes anyhow. I wish I could assure you that it is important but I can’t. Farshad is a cooperative type of person who is happy to help the police but only with facts. He is not interested in jumping into speculation about his late friend’s suspected involvement in the murders.”
Simonsen reflected on this. Then he said, “She sounds interesting. We want to talk to her. Keep going with Farshad if you think there is more to be had there. Get someone to find out how many silver-colored Porsches there are in the city and if it’s possible to trace her that way. Put a couple of men on the neighbors and the school people and ask about the car and the woman.”
“I’ve already done that last part, without results. But I wouldn’t say no to another round with Farshad even though I don’t expect to turn up anything more. We can drive in to the HS together so I’ll get an overview first of how far we have come. Then I’ll head to Bagsværd.”
“That’s exactly what we can do,” Simonsen said and got to his feet, feeling energetic and rested.
Chapter 43
The Countess had borrowed an office at the police station in Odense Midtby.
Someone banged on the door and was told to enter. An unusually large man in his early thirties was led into the room and placed in front of her. One of his eyelids drooped, which gave him an unsettling, almost pleading look, a comic touch. The officer left the room and she let the man sweat in silence for a while before she began the interrogation.
“My name is Nathalie von Rosen and I’ve been sent here by the Crime Division in Copenhagen. And you are in some deep shit. That goes for your brother too.”
The man’s upper lip trembled and his reply came haltingly: “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m pretty sure I want a lawyer.”
“Well, I can understand that, and you’ll certainly have use for one. I’ve come straight from the hospital, where I listened to your victim talk, or whatever it is one should call what he did in order to make himself understood. You know, it’s hard to talk properly with a broken jaw.”
“That was an accident.”
“Yes, you could say that. And a serious one at that. A broken wrist, two broken ribs, a broken nose, the broken jaw I already mentioned, blows and kicks all over his body, and I’m sure I’m not remembering half of it. Then there is the other accident that transformed his apartment into a dump.”
The giant was fighting back tears, the lawyer forgotten.
“We didn’t know that it wasn’t his video.”
“And if it had been, it would have been perfectly all right to beat him to a pulp?”
“We can’t stand people like that.”
“No, that appears to be a trend these days, but in the eyes of the law there is no difference who the owner of the offending video was. What may make a difference is the fact that your abused friend does not wish to press charges. He claims that he understands you, and I have to say that he must be an unusually tolerant person.”
A small spark of hope was lit in the man’s eye.
“He doesn’t want to press charges?”
“He doesn’t, no. He is hoping that you can come to an agreement about a reasonable restitution for the damages his home has suffered, but don’t get too excited. Your prayers won’t help you because if he isn’t willing to press charges, I will. That is to say, formally it will be the public prosecutor but practically speaking he will act on my orders. And I may as well add this-you will be regarded as lost cause. We are talking about an extreme act of violence that was premeditated and took place in the victim’s own home, which will count as strongly incriminating. My educated guess is that you stand to get at least six years in prison but that will be up to the judge. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and get away with five.”
The prediction was wildly exaggerated. She pressumed the man to be fairly ignorant of the law and she was right. Her talk about six years hit him like a ton of bricks. Pleading and confused, he managed to get out, “But when the charges have been dropped, why do you want to put us in prison? You know it was an accident. You know we aren’t thugs.”
She got up and walked behind him, satisfied with the way things were going.