The youngest member of the Homicide Division stuck to her guns: “Yes, it is.”
“The woman from the cruise called of her own accord, so we have no basis from which to judge the truthfulness of her information. Is that also correct?”
“Yes, we don’t know anything for certain.”
“Go on.”
“Me and the Countess should handle the interrogation and we should also move the furniture around in the room so that it is more intimate. All of us should sit closer together.”
Arne Pedersen stared up at the ceiling. Simonsen, however, nodded approvingly. Not in favor of the suggestion-he had not yet formed his final opinion on that-but over her determination. He said, “Am I also shut out?”
Berg became vague and answered indirectly: “The woman from his vacation told me about the same signs that I have often noticed in men who have been nervous-or even afraid-of me. These reactions are particularly typical of men who had an insecure childhood, or so I’ve read. Which fits nicely with the fact that Stig Åge Thorsen sought help from Dr. Jeremy Floyd.”
Pedersen looked at her with some astonishment. This was truly a new side of Berg that he did not know. She did not return his gaze but kept her focus on Simonsen, while he watched the irregular path of the raindrops down the outside of the office windows. Her self-confidence was at its peak.
Last night she had turned up-unannounced and sobbing-at Kasper Planck’s home. Her bad conscience about having lied to the Countess about her conversation at the Gudme Sport Complex café tore at her insides. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and went to see the former head of the Homicide Division, who she thought was the only person who could understand her.
The old man gave her a handkerchief and listened calmly. Afterward he laid a wrinkled hand on her head and said softly, “I think you will be forgiven. Why would you go unaffected when so many have been drawn into this madness? There are many people who don’t even want us to find the killers, if one is to believe the media.”
“But what about Frank Ditlevsen’s friend? One of his old boys. That is an important piece of information. I should have shared that a long time ago.”
“Let Simon figure it out for himself. He should have done so already anyway.”
“How could he do that? He can’t know about it.”
“Of course he can. The murder of the brothers was personal. Frank Ditlevsen was hanged in the middle of the event and Allan Ditlevsen was Mr. Extra-an excellent and meaningful choice of words. And the personal always comes from somewhere.”
Berg gaped. “How long have you known this?”
“Known-bah. It’s still a kind of thought-play but I have a meeting later this week that should cast some light on the situation. So we shall see. Time will tell. But come over here. There’s something I want to give you.”
The old man drew a box out of the deep interior of a mahogany bureau. He held up a necklace, a fish of gold, very pretty, the chain simple and light.
“It belonged to my wife. Now it is yours.”
“But…”
He held a finger up to his mouth, and she stopped. Then she put it on. It fell elegantly over her throat and was hardly noticeable. As if she had always worn it.
“This is wonderful, but…”
The finger across the mouth again. Her spirit felt relieved and lightened and her tears this time were of joy. She borrowed the handkerchief a second time and when she composed herself she asked, “You give and give-isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
Planck’s face lit up. “You can water my flowers, they need it so badly.”
Berg smiled at the thought of her round with the watering can under the direction of the old man, and that clinched the matter. Simonsen decided that when it came to the matter of men’s nervousness, he was sitting across from an expert.
“The Countess is the primary driver in this and your role is to assist. I will only make the final decision when the Countess has also talked to this vacation flirtation and agreed with your suggestion. And then one more thing, Pauline.”
He looked directly into her eyes.
“If you make one wrong move, or if the Countess needs more help, you will immediately be replaced and I don’t want to hear any griping about it afterwards. Understood?”
“Completely, and I appreciate this vote of confidence. I think it is a reasonable decision.”
“It’s not a decision yet. You only have two hours with the Countess, use the time wisely.”
She did. She was out before Pedersen had time to stand up.
Stig Åge Thorsen and his lawyer arrived on time and that Berg had interpreted the situation correctly was revealed early on. The witness apparently did not appreciate being in close proximity to two women, and especially the close contact with the younger woman appeared to embarrass him. He basically whipped his hand back when Berg warmly and kindly laid her hand on his as she greeted him. Simonsen and Pedersen were sitting behind the mirror. Simonsen said, “She’s right. Did you see that? It’s obvious if you’re looking for it. See how he pulls back. He may not even be aware of it himself. His lawyer is not, at any rate.”
In the interrogation room, the Countess was gesturing and explaining something to the lawyer.
“Please have a seat. As you can see, we have had to rearrange the furniture in here temporarily but I think we can manage.”
They had in all haste managed to get hold of a relatively small square table with a chair placed on each of the four sides so that Berg would be able to sit close to Stig Åge Thorsen regardless of which chair the lawyer chose.
Simonsen commented with enthusiasm, “It’s brilliant.”
Arne Pedersen asked half sulkily, “What happened with the television program anyway? Weren’t they going to come today?”
“It’s been postponed for the moment, whatever consequences that may have. There was apparently some other programming that was more important but hold your peace for a moment and we’ll follow this.”
The next half hour was tough for Stig Åge Thorsen. His well-rehearsed defensive postures were of only marginal help and the Countess drove him around the ring with strikes from all angles.
“Your car was in an accident on the eighteenth of November 2003, when someone drove into it parked on Lille Strandvej in Gentofte. What were you doing there?”
He had never been in Gentofte. He pushed back a copy of the accident report. It must be a misunderstanding.
“Who paid for your cruise to Greece? Was it the same stranger?’
He wavered, could not recall, refused to answer, and finally claimed that he had been saving up for the trip for many years.
“In April you turned to Frederiksværk Stålvalseværk and bought a pile of coal that the factory had lying around in the old commercial port. What were you going to do with it?”
It was nice to have on hand. He had ended up using it to burn the minivan, but that had not been planned.
“How was your childhood? Your old teacher from the Kregme School said that you had a difficult childhood. Is that true?”
He had had a normal childhood, a perfectly one-hundred-percent-normal childhood, and the teacher was crazy, a demented old fool.
“You attacked a woman on the beach in Saloniki. What happened there?”
The lawyer jumped in at this point but the accusation had effect. Stig Åge Thorsen looked like a whipped dog.
The Countess went on and on, jumping from subject to subject, poking here, then there, bringing up things that had him on the ropes only to return to them ten minutes later with double the intensity, and soon the farmer started to show small signs of mental fatigue. Tripping over a sentence, a finger rubbing an eye, a twitch at his temple, anger, irritation, and then carelessness. After the dress rehearsal she drove it home.