Konrad Simonsen sent his officers out into the surrounding area, to neighbours and shopkeepers, and results were indeed forthcoming, though hardly earth-shattering. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen ate out every Saturday without fail, always at the same restaurant, even sticking to the same choice from the menu: steak and chips with béarnaise sauce, the establishment’s most expensive dish at 135 kroner. Konrad Simonsen sighed on receiving this piece of information, though without bothering to note it down. Moreover, Kramer Nielsen was a regularly borrower of library books, his selections unwavering: maths, travel books – though only on Norway, Sweden or Finland, science and biographies of famous scientists. The Countess, who had investigated this part of the profile, added:
‘He had a nickname, Ninety-nine point four Nielsen.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Ninety-nine point four is the library classification number for biographies. It’s supposed to be funny.’
‘Hilarious. Anything else?’
There wasn’t.
Then there were the victim’s financial affairs. On this matter, Pauline Berg was able to add one detail, albeit a minute one: Jørgen Kramer Nielsen stuck to using an ATM card and paid his bills in person at his bank.
‘Is that it?’ Simonsen said with obvious disappointment.
She flicked vigorously through her notes.
‘He made an agreement to tithe two per cent of his income when he converted to Catholicism. It’s usual, and tax-deductible, too, though not counted as taxation officially, since religious communities other than Church of Denmark don’t have the same standing in the eyes of the Inland Revenue.’
‘When did he convert?’
‘No idea.’
‘What about his will? Did you find out anything there?’
‘Yes, he made it back in nineteen ninety-nine, wanting the rest of what he made on the sale of the house, which is to say about a million and a half kroner, donated to a British charity called Missing Children. They’re based in London, but they’ve got branches in all the major cities over there. You can check their website. His personal belongings weren’t bequeathed, though, so technically they belong to the state.’
‘Where did he get that idea, Missing Children?’
‘We don’t know. The solicitor who drew up the will can’t remember the case at all. Why should he?’
Konrad Simonsen gave her a new job to do.
‘Check up on holidays. Where did he go? He must have done something with himself besides working and sitting at home on his own. The girls, too. Find out if there were any more of them. His loft and those girls are the only things we’ve got that give him a bit of light and shade.’
‘They make him creepy, if you ask me.’
‘Which could be why someone killed him.’
She went off, just as he was about to probe some more.
Summer went on, and it was hot. An area of high pressure had parked itself over the country and the weather people said it would be staying put for a few days, at least.
Konrad Simonsen lay stretched out on a sofa in the Countess’s living room. It had just gone eight in the evening, but the heat of the day persisted. He had dumped his jacket and shirt and was wearing only an undershirt and short pants of thin cotton. The air conditioning was on full whack. And yet he was sweating. He glanced at the time on the antique grandfather clock that stood against the far wall and whose eternal ticking had driven him mad the first few weeks after he had moved in. Now he seldom noticed it. For a brief moment he thought he might have a nap, but it was too late in the day, he might not be able to sleep later on if he did. Instead, he immersed himself in a Sudoku on the back page of the day’s paper, but found his mind began to wander as soon he got stuck.
He felt at home here with the Countess, he couldn’t deny that fact, and it had been weeks since he’d been back to his own flat in Valby, apart from picking up his mail twice a week. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. Both of them avoided the issue of a more permanent arrangement involving an official change of address, and actively making a decision about it seemed to become superfluous as time went by. The previous week he’d received his own set of keys. Before that he’d used the back-door key that hung in its secret place in the outhouse. It wasn’t the best of arrangements insofar as he’d had to go to back and forth with it every time he came or went. The Countess had given him his own complete set one morning before they went to work, casually, with a comment about its being the most practical solution, as though he were a plumber needing access to do a job while she was out. No more was said. She had also divulged the password to her online banking, so she wouldn’t be the only one able to pay the bills. That was practical, too.
He stared into space. At what point could you say two people were living together? When they shared the same postal address? Slept in the same bed? Pooled their finances? Or was it enough just to… live together, like they were doing?
The Countess was late, it was almost nine o’clock by the time she finally got back. He tried to shake off his annoyance, not wanting to be unreasonable. He, more than anyone, knew how domestic arrangements crumbled in the face of work.
‘Hi, Simon, sorry I’m late. The meeting dragged on.’
‘Fair enough. You should have called, though.’
They kissed, rather more ritually than usual.
‘Sorry. Have you made anything to eat?’
‘Leek flan. Cold, now.’
‘Cold leek flan is just what I need.’
She was hard to be annoyed with, and he was glad to see her, despite that flan having cost him two hours in the kitchen. He couldn’t understand the recipe and had to phone his daughter twice, though she hadn’t been much help. He didn’t know anyone else to ask.
They ate, and the Countess complimented his cooking. Feeling proud of himself, he told her about his day’s exercise.
‘I ran two hundred metres, at least. Or just short, I suppose.’
‘That’s brilliant, Simon. You’ll make an athlete yet. What about your postman, how’s he getting along?’
He’d been hoping she would ask, but at the same time had decided he wouldn’t mention it of his own accord. It was one of the disadvantages of having lost his status as department head: the Countess and Arne Pedersen no longer converged on him naturally to discuss his investigation. They had other, more important things to be getting on with, and he had to ask if he wanted their opinions. Usually, Pauline was the only person he had to talk to, and she’d been away today for an appointment with her psychiatrist. Another appointment.
‘I was at the post office again, but it’s the same old song. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen lived a very quiet and exceptionally regular life, as you know. I thought about the way that priest at Kasper Planck’s funeral condensed his life into two minutes. It really made me sad.’
Kasper Planck had been Konrad Simonsen’s boss in the Homicide Department, and his friend. Simonsen went on:
‘A long and vibrant life reduced to a few objective statements by someone he never knew, even if it did happen to be a priest. I found it almost offensive. But in Kramer Nielsen’s case I think anyone would have a hard job filling two minutes.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Do you really want to hear? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wind down?’
‘I’m winding down, and I want to hear.’
He loved her for that. He’d slipped his notebook into his back pocket in readiness. He took it out, flicked through the pages and began to fill her in.
‘I’ve spoken to close on two dozen of his former workmates and all of them concur: A loner. Reliable, but dull. Never joined in when we went out. Kept himself to himself. No real friends at work. Never a sick day. Never glad. Quiet. Polite. Never stuck out. Hardly said a word unless spoken to. Went straight home after work, no matter what. Never had an opinion about anything. The guy worked there nearly forty years, but he might as well never have been there.’