Simonsen thought for a second before telling her what to do next.
‘Get hold of your stupid little friend and take her back to the house in Hvidovre. I want her to identify exactly where she found that phone. I’ll have a word with her chief constable once I get a minute.’
Pauline Berg’s expression left him in no doubt how little she believed that would ever happen.
By now it was mid-September, with the usual forecasts of rain and wind that nonetheless had amounted to nothing. The warmth of summer continued and on the global scene major upheavals were occurring. International money markets were nose-diving and new words crept into everyday language: sub-prime mortgages, collateralised debt obligations and hedge funds. Nothing ordinary people needed to bother about, and yet it affected them anyway. All of a sudden the country was plunged into financial crisis. Banks had to be bailed out and the welfare state was under pressure. There wouldn’t be enough money to go round in future, they were saying.
A stiflingly hot morning at Express Move’s storage facility in Hvidovre added new pieces to the jigsaw that was Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, though not many and certainly none that revealed even a shadow of a perpetrator.
Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen worked together, the Acting Head of Homicide helping out his actual boss. But while the case had now been officially categorised as a murder inquiry, Simonsen had the feeling Pedersen had come out to Hvidovre more to assess how he was feeling than to help him rummage through Kramer Nielsen’s belongings. However, he refrained from mentioning it, so as not to embarrass both of them. Besides, he needed a hand with this, it was dreary work, and with his head pounding and sweat seeping from every pore in his body as they toiled in the unbearably unventilated storage room, there was a genuine risk of overlooking some important detail. Especially when they didn’t know what they were looking for.
The storage firm had been kind enough to set up a work surface for them, a thick slab of chipboard the size of a table-tennis table, resting on solid trestles. Here they could stand and sift through Kramer Nielsen’s life. Now and then, the manager brought them tea and coffee, or cold soft drinks. On day two, a Tuesday that seemed even more sweltering than the day before, the man had even provided them with an extension lead and a fan that turned slowly from side to side and provided at least some measure of relief.
Arne Pedersen stood examining a camera in his hand.
‘A Leica M4. State of the art in the late sixties. It must have cost a fortune back then… still does, I shouldn’t wonder. A real collector’s item, and look at the gear to go with it.’
Simonsen glanced up from the papers he was immersed in, but felt none the wiser.
‘What? I don’t know a thing about photography.’
‘This is an enlarger. If I’m not mistaken, it’s from the same period as the camera. And here we’ve got telephoto lenses, tripods, projectors, as well as developing trays, timers, tongs, developer, light box, photographic paper… everything you need to set up your own darkroom. He developed his photos the old-fashioned way. Nowadays it’s all digital, done by computer.’
‘I know all that. We haven’t found any photos, though. Apart from the ones in his loft, of course. No negatives either, for that matter. I suppose they’ll turn up.’
‘No doubt. Only about a million boxes to go now.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
A bit later, Pedersen returned to the subject.
‘A darkroom requires running water and therefore a drain. It can’t be that hard to find out if he had one. Whoever cleared his flat should know. Maybe the local photo shop, too.’
‘There used to be a darkroom, Pauline’s already established that. It’s his photos and negatives we haven’t found.’
Pedersen received the information as if it didn’t surprise him, then said:
‘I can give you a couple of officers. Can’t expect you to clear this up on your own.’
Simonsen thought he sounded like an echo of the Countess, who likewise wanted to burden him with personnel, though for the moment he didn’t need any. He replied the way he’d become accustomed to:
‘I’ve got Pauline.’
He glanced up as he mentioned her name and noted the look of annoyance on Arne Pedersen’s face. Not that it surprised him, for it was clear that their working relationship was rather strained at the moment. Which obviously was down to Pauline’s often provocative way of going about things. But there was more to Pauline than that, and he wasn’t sure Arne Pedersen realised it. Simonsen had on several occasions now seen his young colleague emerge from the toilets or his own TV room red-eyed after she had clearly been crying, and at least once she’d suddenly gone home in a taxi, presumably following an anxiety attack and one of her black pills. Pedersen probed cautiously:
‘How’s she getting on anyway? Are you working all right together?’
‘Fine.’
The rebuff was unambiguous, but Pedersen, now his relationship with Pauline was in the past, persisted.
‘Her behaviour’s unacceptable, and it’s getting worse.’
‘I’ve got no issues with her.’
Simonsen carried on working without batting an eyelid.
‘Did you know that when she’s afraid of being on her own at night, she picks up men in hotels or bars?’
‘No, I didn’t, and I wish you hadn’t told me.’
Simonsen raised his voice slightly and gave his former subordinate a firm look.
The subsequent pause dragged out. Pedersen clearly felt uncomfortable. Eventually, he picked up the conversation again, a bit flustered, and indicated Simonsen’s pile of documents.
‘Didn’t our man have a passport or a driving licence? Or any other form of ID with a picture on it?’
‘No passport, no driving licence. And unless we turn up something now no other photo ID either.’
‘He’s starting to annoy me. How can anyone go through life so alone? It’s almost a sin.’
‘Appearances can be deceiving. Who knows? His whole life might unfold before our eyes once we open the next box.’
‘I’ve always envied your optimism, Simon. But I’m beginning to have my doubts.’
‘Wait a minute…’
A fleeting thought had formed in Simonsen’s mind, something important he was unable to pin down. A feeling of things coming together, though the essence of it had evaporated. He tried to rewind:
‘Can you just say again what you just said?’
‘I’ve always envied your optimism. Was that it?’
He concentrated, but the moment was gone. Reluctantly, he abandoned the notion, hoping it would come to him again a bit later. It often did, if you didn’t force it.
‘Just a passing thought, that’s all. It’s gone now. Anyway, I think the plane crash set him back, brought him to a standstill.’
‘What plane crash?’
Pedersen clearly couldn’t be accused of poring over the reports he had received on the case, but Simonsen curbed his irritation and patiently laid the matter out for him.
Some thirty boxes later, the two men were just about done for the day. The fruits of their labours had not been impressive. Searching through the deceased postman’s effects and in particular sifting through his many personal papers and documents, most of which seemed merely to reflect his mathematical pas-time, had failed to take them any further, and was more interesting for what they hadn’t found: photos and negatives.
Simonsen tried to convince himself he had not perspired in vain. Some small pieces of information had been gleaned, and in the greater scheme of things could easily prove useful. Or so he hoped.
The normally good rapport between them had long since been re-established, and neither of them mentioned that moment of dissent about Pauline. Moreover, the fact that Simonsen had exceeded his daily quota of four hours by a long way was allowed to pass without comment. Neither man was enthusiastic about pressing on with the remaining boxes the next day.