As a farewell token he was presented with a highly illustrative colour photograph of his formerly fatally decrepit arteries, readily interpreted by his physician, whose biro pointed out to him what was living tissue and what was dead. The image appeared to show a poorly woven rag mat in shades of red and black, marred by numerous little blue flaws, treacherous calcium crystals patiently accumulating, until one day they were ready to shut down his life.
Ever since, the rag-mat image had regularly returned to haunt him and plunge him into the darkest of moods. It was particularly bad before sleep and he would have to contain his urge to go downstairs and speak to the Countess about it. He kept quiet – pathetic was the last thing he wanted to be, and what good did talk ever do? Now the problem had solved itself all of a sudden: he no longer slept with the rag mat foremost in his mind, but with the image of the girl in the postman’s shrine of mirrors, wondering who she might be, and what she wanted him for. It was a definite improvement.
The investigation was in a state of limbo.
Jørgen Kramer Nielsen paying young girls to walk about his flat naked and his turning his loft into some weird hall of mirrors were sufficient grounds for Simonsen to put off handing in his routine report to the Deputy Commissioner. But what they had discovered was far from enough to justify a request for resources to conduct a full-scale investigation, one that included anyone besides Simonsen himself and Pauline Berg. There was still nothing to suggest that the postman’s death was the result of a crime. Simonsen would have to wait for the forensics report and Kurt Melsing’s take on the mobile photos showing the position of the body on the stairs before he reached a conclusion on that, and neither of them was even remotely on the horizon. The case was hardly a priority, which for Konrad Simonsen was an unfamiliar state of affairs he kept telling himself was a good thing. Nonetheless he found himself annoyed by it. He tried to give things a nudge in the right direction one day in Arne Pedersen’s office, where they chatted for a few minutes about nothing very much until Simonsen casually said:
‘By the way, do you think you could give Melsing a ring and get him to have a look at my postman? I’m stuck before I get an answer out of him.’
Arne Pedersen laughed in his face and refused point blank.
‘Would you, in my position?’
Simonsen had gone away again, feeling restless and in a bit of a sulk. And, as if to make matters worse, he had bumped into the Countess in the corridor. He grumbled about it, without really intending to, and she recommended he take a couple of days’ holiday, before hurrying off again.
Today’s workload consisted of interviewing Hans Ulrik Gormsen, which took all of fifteen minutes and turned up less than zero, Gormsen’s mobile having died a watery death in his toilet bowl since he’d used it to photograph the dead postman. Forensics would have to make do with the printouts they already had. Apart from that, Gormsen’s statement matched the others Simonsen had taken in the case. But the man was unbearably annoying, with a superior, know-it-all attitude, so once it became clear he had nothing to add to the investigation, Simonsen thanked him half-heartedly and hoped never to see him again.
Afterwards, he called Pauline. He’d got her compiling a profile of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen and had left her to get on with it. She was far from done but obviously glad he’d called. Which was a relief, since he’d feared the opposite. He glanced at his wrist watch and noted that he wasn’t due to be picked up for another two hours.
On the Saturday Simonsen went for his daily walk, this time with his daughter. Anna Mia was in buoyant mood. Both of them wore tracksuits and trainers. The September rain fell, warm and dusty, while the neighbourhood seemed to have gone into hibernation. A battered Chevrolet with four youngsters in it passed them slowly, breaking the listless silence with a series of whoops and toots on the horn. Anna Mia waved at them cheerfully and they returned the gesture before speeding up, the screech of tyres ruffling the listless afternoon.
‘I like exercising with you. I’ve been looking forward to this,’ said Simonsen’s daughter.
Her high spirits were infectious: Simonsen smiled. He, too, had started to grow fond of his walks, if only because it was the one time of day he didn’t miss smoking. Even when he slept he wanted a cigarette. At least, that’s how it felt.
‘It’s nothing for you… you’re young, fit and sensible.’
‘Every little helps. Have you noticed how it gets easier?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘When you first started, you couldn’t walk and talk at the same time. You’re not snorting like a pig any more, either.’
She was right. He hadn’t thought about it like that.
‘Pigs don’t snort. Horses snort, pigs grunt.’
‘And heads of Homicide Departments.’
‘Not this one.’
‘Wait till we start jogging! It’ll be great, I promise. Anyway, tell me how things are getting on at work. Are you glad to be back? Has the wicked witch given you a decent case to be getting on with?’
As a matter of routine he reminded her to speak respectfully of the Deputy Commissioner, then without enthusiasm told her about his postman case.
‘A killing, wow! I thought she was going to ease you in gently. Has it been in the papers?’
‘It happened more than six months ago, and he probably wasn’t killed at all. That’s what I’ve got to find out, if I can.’
‘So now you’re gathering evidence to have him dug up?’
‘That’s not quite how it works. Anyway, he was cremated.’
‘It sounds like you’ve quite a job on your hands then. How are you going about it?’
‘We’re just trying to gain an overall picture at the moment.’
‘Dad, who’s Rita?’
Characteristically, she’d changed the subject quite without warning. Her mother had had the same habit, which he’d found highly annoying back then, but with Anna Mia it didn’t bother him.
‘Why do you ask, kid?’
‘Can’t you stop calling me that? If you must call me something, try my name.’
She was right. It was childish, and Anna Mia was no longer a child but in fact in her third year at police college, having previously studied for a legal degree at university, though she had not completed it. Now she was part of a trial scheme where candidates received time and support to study law alongside completing their police training. And besides that, she had a sensible approach to life. Too sensible, he sometimes thought.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he said. ‘And why do you ask, little diddums?’
She ignored his teasing.
‘Nathalie says you called her Rita when you woke up after the op.’
Anna Mia always called the Countess by her proper name. She was the only one he knew who did. He tried to evade the question with a non-committal grunt.
‘I’m sure Nathalie’s going to ask you herself at some point.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
A bit later his daughter had another go:
‘How come you never talk about yourself? I mean, really talk about yourself. Your feelings.’
‘I feel like having a cigarette, and besides that I feel a loathing towards everything low-fat, free-range or organic.’
‘Thanks for nothing! You’re incorrigible.’
‘Rubbish. You don’t tell me about your sweethearts.’
He could have bitten his tongue off, but the damage was done. Exercise and thinking at the same time were clearly incompatible. Anna Mia responded like a spring suddenly released:
‘You mean, you’ve got two on the go? Blimey, I never saw that coming.’
‘Come off it, I’m not even sure I’ve got one, never mind two. Forty years ago I knew someone called Rita, and that’s all there is to it. I can’t remember anything other than that, and it doesn’t mean a thing.’