“Why do I want to press charges? What I should give you right now is a speech about justice and vigilantism and that kind of thing. But truth be told, it’s because I’m in a bad mood.”
“Because you’re in a bad mood?”
“You heard me. When my mood is bad, I get very unpleasant. If I’m not feeling good, I don’t want others to. That may strike you as small-minded but such is life and it is awfully unfair that I should have to be in a bad mood, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course, but… but…”
“You haven’t even asked me why I’m in such a bad mood.”
“Oh no, sorry. Why are you in such a bad mood?”
“It’s thoughtful of you to ask and I will tell you why I feel this way. Yesterday I interrogated a woman who as a child was sexually abused by her own father. It was a stinky job but someone had to do it, and it fell to me. In addition, I’m in a foul mood because of the newspapers. I can’t stand what they write. And last but not least, I’m in a terrible mood about the fact that I can’t go home and relax because I’m tied to a big case that I wrestle with day and night. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“Yes, of course. I feel bad for you.”
The big man looked more like someone who felt sorry for himself.
The Countess sat down in her chair and continued. “This morning I thought I had a good idea that would make me happy again. Namely, I’ve got a lead on a… gentleman, shall we say. He is from Fredericia and in contrast to your poor friend his sexual preferences are clearly directed at the younger age bracket. Much younger, when he can manage it. If he wishes, there is no doubt that he could help me and tell me things that would otherwise take me a very long time to find out. So I’ve requested some reports on him: name, pictures, and such.”
She allowed her hand to fall on a dossier that lay on the table between them.
“Actually I had been planning to go out to the Gudme Sports Complex to see if I couldn’t get somewhere with him. There’s a youth-wrestling tournament and he’s planning to be in the audience, but I’ve given it up. The problem is that whatever I ask him, and even though it is in his best interest to cooperate with me, I know that he will not help me one bit. He will clam up like an oyster and just wait for me to give up and leave. What I want is for him to get a stroke of inspiration. That he would suddenly realize that he ought to do his duty as a citizen and give me information from his… environment. That would make me happy.”
Her listener was somewhat slow on the uptake. “That would make you happy?”
“Yes, you can bet it would. Simply the thought that there is someone who might be able to convince him to meet with me puts me in a decidedly better mood.”
“So you want us to-”
She interrupted him sharply: “I have nothing to do with the specifics of who talks to whom. But, as I said, it would make me happy if he-unharmed and unmolested-were to be enticed to have a little chat. Please make a special note of that phrase: ‘unharmed and unmolested.’”
“Unharmed and unmolested. Sure, I get it, as gentle as a lamb. We won’t hit him. Never again, never ever again.”
“That sounds very sensible, but oh my goodness-look at the time. I really don’t have time to sit here chatting with you. Wait until you see the Dagbladet and then you’ll understand what I am up against. And tonight the GOG women are playing against Randers with a home-court advantage. That’s a game I simply have to see now that I’m in Odense. First handball and then a cup of coffee in the cafeteria after the game. From a quarter past ten.”
The Countess stood up.
“I’m going to go and ask if the guardsman is ready to release you. During this conversation I have come to realize that I would like to think a little more about this matter before I decide to press charges. Now, remember not to look in this file while I’m gone.”
She locked the door behind her and mumbled, “Lucky bastard.”
Chapter 44
The police station in Copenhagen was a powerful and monumental building. From the outside it appeared hard and forbidding, with its gray, dirty walls of rough plaster and mortar and its lack of adornment, if one didn’t count the entrance, where two solid iron cages flanked the colonnades. Striking and heavy-handed symbols that were covered with oversize golden morning stars in case there was any doubt about the symbolism. The rest of the building ran in straight lines along the streets with window after window that all opened inward in order not to break the strength of the facade.
Kasper Planck set the pace across the courtyard and Simonsen slowed his steps, which gave him time to enjoy the architecture. He had always liked the HS’s sober style, which in his eyes was harmonious and appealingly restrained. The interior, however, struck him as confused and nonfunctional-a Spanish monastery with mock bourgeois ornamentation and art deco lighting in the bathrooms; the famous round interior courtyard with its many faux-antique double columns and its redundant third-floor balustrade, which he found outright ugly. The circular yard had the unfortunate side effect of creating curved hallways of differing lengths that made orientation for newcomers a near impossibility.
Simonsen moved through his place of work with familiar ease. On the way, he lost Planck, who bumped into an old colleague. Soon he was at the Division of Criminal Investigations, where he banged on the door to Arne Pedersen’s office and walked in without waiting for an answer.
Pedersen stood at the back of the room. He was talking on the phone but interrupted himself when his boss entered. Simonsen tossed his jacket onto the coat rack in the corner.
“Give me an update, Arne.”
“We have now secured the identities of the five victims, and more information is streaming in.”
Pedersen gestured to the notice boards behind him and added with a boyish grin, “What about you? I hear you are well rested.”
Simonsen ignored the comment and turned around. There was a big piece of paper on the middle board, fastened with pins in each corner, which hung slightly askew. Simonsen took his time to point this out, then he took a step back and concentrated on the content.
Thor Gran
(Mr. Northwest)
Unmarried
Architect
54 years
Århus
Palle Huldgård
(Mr. Northeast)
Widower
Office manager
63 years
Århus
Frank Ditlevsen
(Mr. Middle)
Divorced
Consultant
52 years
Middelford
Jens Allan Karlsen
(Mr. Southwest)
Married
Retired
69 years
Århus
Peder Jacobsen
(Mr. Southeast)
Divorced
Shoemaker
44 years
Vejle
Over each name was a photograph of the deceased. In two cases it was possible to discern the panic-stricken expressions of the faces from the videos, while the three others were normal, smiling portraits.
Pedersen commented, “Elvang and his team of experts slaved away for days to re-create their faces and then we get the whole thing given to us in a matter of hours.”
Simonsen shrugged. “That’s how it goes. And don’t forget that we found three of the names ourselves.”
“And we were only sure of one.”
“Yes, yes, but that’s beside the point now. Anything else?”
“Yes, lots. New information is streaming in constantly. There are about ten officers for each victim, with the exception of Frank Ditlevsen, of course. All teams have a sponsor here at HS and the local police chief is the coordinator, but you should feel free to reorganize as you like.”