His excuses to himself didn’t really cut any ice. The priest’s words had hit home.
‘Perhaps we should call it a day?’ Simonsen suggested.
‘I think that would be a good idea.’
‘I hope I can persuade you to come by Police HQ at some point. We still have a lot to talk about, regardless.’
‘Indeed, we hardly got started, did we? I’ll come, of course. Call me and we’ll fix a time.’
‘I’m sorry it had to be like this.’
It was a hasty parting. Simonsen wanted to get home, and the priest had work to do.
That same evening, Arne Pedersen came round to play chess and had hardly taken off his coat before he was asking about Simonsen’s interview with the priest. He led his guest into the kitchen where they could sit undisturbed. He had already laid out the board, set up all the pieces and put the game clock on the table next to it. He took a beer from the fridge for Pedersen and poured himself a cup of tea.
‘The priest had nothing to do with the killing.’
He gave Pedersen an account of their conversation without entering into detail, then summed up:
‘He never knew what was coming. Not in the build-up, not even when I got to the crux of it, whether he had confessed recently. He hadn’t. He didn’t even realise I was watching him while he answered. I’m certain of it. He didn’t kill Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, and he doesn’t know who did either. I’d be willing to stake my life on it.’
‘Without reservation? No humility about your own fallibility?’
Konrad Simonsen had never for a moment imagined he could always tell when someone wasn’t telling the truth. Certain people were such proficient liars they could pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, certainly his. But sometimes, in specific situations, he could unambiguously determine whether someone was telling the truth. Or rather, whether they believed what they were saying to be the truth, regardless of whether it actually was or not; that was another matter. And the interview with the priest had belonged to the truthful category.
Arne Pedersen congratulated him.
‘Not bad at all, outsmarting a guy like him in the field of rhetoric.’
Simonsen didn’t look at it like that at all. The priest’s defence mechanisms were tuned in to the matter of his professional secrecy, not to his own self, and why should they have been? From his angle there was no reason for him to be on his guard. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But then, no one could know that beforehand. A coming together of two people… Simonsen hadn’t behaved unethically at all, not in the slightest. Nevertheless, he would prefer to forget about the interview altogether. He answered Pedersen with a grunt that could have meant just about anything.
Pedersen went on:
‘As I understand it, they’re trained scholastically for years on end at their seminaries, right down to the smallest verb.’
‘Well, yes, if you want to reduce the Catholic Church to the sort of obscure cult that brainwashes its representatives. But that’s hardly the case. This man attended Saint Michael Pastoral Centre in Dublin for seven years and got through with flying colours in a host of recognised subjects, whatever academic standards you might care to apply. Prayer and learning off by heart wouldn’t have got him very far there.’
‘You’re very well informed about him. Been cribbing, have we?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘He must have realised he was the most obvious suspect. And yet he refuses to answer your questions. What does he think… that priests have automatic immunity in murder cases?’
‘Not at all. And anyway, it wasn’t like that. To my mind he’s a very decent man. I don’t think the thought even occurred to him that someone might suspect him of a crime, certainly not murder. I don’t believe he thinks like that.’
‘To the pure, all things are pure.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Are you finished with him, then?’
‘No, nothing like. I’m picking it up with him again at HS. Along with the Countess or Pauline, I think. I’ll let you know.’
Arne Pedersen thanked him and asked:
‘Any idea when you’re going to get back on the job? As head, I mean. I’m assuming you don’t want to be hanging about.’
Simonsen didn’t know, it was up to his doctor. And the Countess. She’d be wanting her own say in the matter, no doubt about that. He dismissed the question and jabbed a finger at the chessboard.
Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen’s chess games had evolved into a somewhat one-sided affair. When Simonsen’s former boss Kasper Planck had been alive, the two of them had played together for a number of years to their mutual enjoyment, not least because they were a good match for each other. After Planck’s death, Arne Pedersen had taken his place as Simonsen’s chess partner. The first times they played, Simonsen had come out on top, but that seemed like a long time ago now. These days, Arne Pedersen won just about every game, and easily, too. He had a talent, it was as simple as that, though he hardly showed much interest in the game at all. To him, their evenings were all about getting together informally and having a good time. His opponent looked at it rather differently.
Simonsen pondered what looked like his final predicament.
‘I can’t do much about this, can I?’ he said eventually, with some small hope of a miracle.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
They shook hands politely, a ritual they took pains to uphold after the final game.
‘Don’t you get bored by this?’ Simonsen asked. ‘I mean, I’m not much of a challenge for you, am I?’
‘No, it doesn’t bore me at all. I look forward to our chess nights. I hope you’re not thinking of knocking it on the head just because I win a few more than you?’
Simonsen echoed the words with disdain:
‘Win a few more than me? You always win.’
‘All right, so I always win. Or nearly always. We played a draw last time, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘That was the time before last, and you were so exhausted you were falling asleep.’
Arne Pedersen set the pieces out and they ran though the game again, Pedersen explaining to Simonsen where he’d gone wrong.
It had been an enjoyable evening, and it had done both of them good. for a bit the Countess came in and sat with them without ruining the mood. Simonsen’s heart surgery had brought the Countess and Pedersen rather closer. Not so long ago they’d hardly been able to work together.
It was past midnight by the time Pedersen went home. Before getting to his feet there was something he wanted to say, now he had them where he wanted them, as he put it. He reached up to fiddle with the knot of his tie, only to realise he wasn’t wearing one. His other hand repeated the movement automatically, with the same result. Simonsen and the Countess exchanged glances, recognising the gesture all too well.
‘You’d make a lousy poker player, Arne,’ Simonsen said. ‘What’s up? Spit it out.’
‘Nothing, as such. I was going to tell you in the morning, but the thing is she came down to my office, out of the blue, without an appointment or anything. I think she’s keeping an eye on me, trying to catch me out and stuff. She just sat there with that cold look in her eyes…’
Simonsen cut him off.
‘Wait a minute.’
Pedersen fell silent. Simonsen had to get him started again:
‘I’m assuming she is our boss.’
‘You can say what you want, but she’s got it in for me.’
The Countess stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Listen. The truth of the matter is you’re doing brilliantly as head of department, better than anyone expected, including me. And I’m sure the Deputy Commissioner is very pleased with what you’re doing. If she isn’t, she’s got to be stupid.’