Anita made a gesture of helplessness. The discussion was futile.
“And how do you think we make our living? Have you taken a look at the latest sales figures?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been reading stories about beatings and bands of thugs from across the entire country, but we’ll probably choose to downplay those in tomorrow’s paper, on account of space restrictions.”
Irritation oozed out of her.
“Tell me, why don’t you find another job?”
“How do you know I’m not looking?”
“I don’t. Have you seen our new opinion poll? It was posted on the Web site yesterday.”
“No, luckily.”
“Question: Do you truly wish that the pedophile crimes will be solved? Do you want to take a guess?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Sixty-four percent no, twenty-eight percent don’t know, eight percent yes. We’re putting it on the front page.”
“That I can well imagine. We’re feeding the dog its own bile.”
“What do you mean?”
Anita did not answer immediately. She finished her beer first. It had disappeared alarmingly fast. An occupational hazard at such a young age. The selfreproach was exaggerated and she smiled a joyless little smile.
“It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you tell me what you want from me?”
“Your help. I’ve been thinking that the biggest problem for the police right now is public opinion. The Homicide Division doesn’t just have an investigation to perform, it also has a PR problem. To put it another way-if they can’t change public opinion, their job will get harder and harder and sooner or later they will realize this.”
“And where do I enter this picture?”
“I want an exclusive interview with Konrad Simonsen.”
“You do?”
“Yes, me. And it has to be with him, not one of the people he shoves to the front when the public needs to be informed about something. If we can overcome our personal antipathy, this arrangement could be mutually beneficial.”
Anni underscored her logic by tapping a finger on the table. She didn’t mention that the idea had come in the mail from a reader. A couple of borrowed feathers wouldn’t hurt. Anita was thinking it over and coming to the conclusion that her boss was right.
“And this is something that you want me to pass along? Why so complicated? Why don’t you just call and ask him?”
“I’ll think about that.”
“Rubbish. You think fast. Tell me if you’re going to do it or not.”
The answer was arrogant and dismissive: “Maybe, maybe not. You’ll find out.”
Anita stood up. “Thanks for the beer.”
Anni watched her leave.
“You’re welcome, you little bitch.”
Chapter 54
“Selfish bitch.”
Poul Troulsen snarled at Emilie Mosberg Floyd. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg glanced at him, then exchanged looks. This reaction wasn’t like him. Normally he was calm and balanced-at least when he was among his colleagues-but the woman had apparently gotten under his skin.
All three of them were sitting in a narrow cubicle behind interrogation room 4 at the police headquarters in Copenhagen. The pane of glass between the two rooms filled most of one wall. On the other side it looked like a mirror, a standard arrangement in police stations around the world that allowed others to participate in the sessions without being seen or heard. This was at least how it was envisioned, but the concealed speakers that carried the sound were from the Stone Age so the acoustics were terrible and the voices took on a metallic and highly irritating echo. From time to time they dropped out entirely. The Countess’s voice in particular was distorted. She sounded like a cartoon character. Being deeper, Konrad Simonsen’s voice came through more intact.
Troulsen did not turn his head when he asked, “Aren’t you two going somewhere?”
Berg stood up as if she had been given an order.
Pedersen asked, “Why are you so angry with her?”
“I don’t really know. Maybe because I don’t think for a moment that she was planning to turn to us if we hadn’t found her. Maybe because I’m dead tired of this halfhearted cooperation from the public. In the best case. If it were up to me, we would simply replace people with a newer and better model, as the poet so excellently suggested to the powers that be. I haven’t had such a tough time in my job since I stood guard at the American embassy during the Vietnam demonstrations in 1967. And a couple of hours ago I took it out on a greasy little bureaucrat at the Gentofte city hall, which irritates me and will probably give us an unnecessary and silly complaint.”
Pedersen fell into a similarly despondent mood and started thinking about his own troubles. “I know what you’re saying. On Friday one of my boys was bullied by his classmates because of my job, and now we have to go to a meeting at the school because he gave one of his tormentors a bloody nose. Normally I try to teach my kids to handle things without violence but this time I made an exception and told him I was proud of him. I wish the pride went both ways. Unfortunately that’s not the case right now, even though he doesn’t say anything directly.”
He could have added that he was also thoroughly tired of having to deliver tasty morsels from the investigation to the Dagbladet, just because a retired old crank had a feeling. But he said nothing about any of that.
“Why don’t you ask to be switched to…”
Berg’s comment was kindly meant. She was having problems, too. But their faces brought her to silence.
“And leave him all alone with this shit?” Troulsen’s sweeping gesture toward Simonsen was almost reverent.
Pedersen stood up and pushed Berg along in front of him. He excused her inwardly, she was from another generation. Maybe less masochistic, maybe just a little dumber.
On the other side of the glass, the interrogation of Emilie Mosberg Floyd was proceeding well. She was cooperative. Without complaining, she repeated what she had already explained to Troulsen. She took her time in the telling, and tried to convey feelings or mood when asked. From time to time-if she found a question difficult-she thought long and hard. But there was nothing painful about these silences, and both Simonsen and the Countess waited patiently. So they were doing at the moment, even though the pause was unusually long. In return, she gave an extensive report.
“I really don’t think that it’s particularly relevant if he stopped drinking. Per was an alcoholic when I found him, there was no doubt about that. He only barely managed his job and was indifferent to everything. His life went to pieces when he lost Helene and he punished himself by destroying his health and his psyche. But the conversations between him and Jeremy had an effect. As I mentioned, I often picked him up in Bagsværd and often drove him back again. Apart from at the beginning of this process, he was never drunk or even half drunk. How he managed in between these times I don’t know. It could be two weeks at a stretch before we would see each other. That’s why I can’t tell you if he stopped drinking, but I can say definitely that he changed. He stopped being indifferent and became present, much more present.”
She searched for the right words.
“And… what shall I say?… very clear. Per could be an exceptionally… electrifying person, almost dominating. No, not almost dominating, very dominating. And very intelligent in his own quiet way. It was as if he managed to be humble and arrogant at the same time. A rare characteristic. For better or for worse, Jeremy was very fascinated by him in the beginning and convinced him to tell his story to the other patients.”
“Or was it the other way around?” the Countess asked.
“I don’t understand.”
She did not have a chance to elaborate, as Simonsen’s next question trumped hers: “Did you and Per Clausen have a sexual relationship?”