Simonsen ate heartily without feeling any pangs of conscience. After the feast, the two women disappeared and Simonsen was left on his own with Malte, who enthused incomprehensibly about the virtues of the HOMS app, the software he had spent the greater part of his summer holidays familiarising himself with, and which it seemed provided them with unparalleled opportunities and was destined to become a powerful tool in future investigations.
Later on, they all played Ludo together. It was no holds barred, only victory mattered. Each had their own way of playing: the Countess tried to establish fleeting alliances, Simonsen stuck to probability calculus and Malte cheated, even after getting caught. He carried on regardless, rules for him apparently being little more than loose guidelines. Anita won. She had decided to be lucky, and it was a strategy that trounced all opposition twice on the trot.
The Countess drove the young guests home. When she got back, Simonsen had tidied up and flopped down on the sofa, where he sat staring emptily into space. He had lined up the Ludo tokens in a row on the coffee table in front of him, a couple of centimetres from the edge. She sat down next to him.
‘Are you killing off your troops for losing? If you are, we’re going to be a token short.’
He ignored her comment.
‘There we were, lined up to defend the Embassy, while our superiors were light years away in their cosy riot vans. But they’d taught us well. Get stuck in, that was what they said.’
‘Those protesters weren’t exactly sweetness and light.’
‘No, but these days we try to stem any violence in advance. Back then, they sent us out to fight.’
‘I remember hearing about petrol bombs and potatoes with razor blades in them.’
‘That was the IMF confrontation, and it was an exaggeration. This was anti-Vietnam. And yes, sweetness and light were in short supply. The protesters were terrifying and despicable. Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh! Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh! That was the chant, from tens of thousands of people. That’s why I can’t stand football. The game itself and the cheering is OK, but I can’t take the aggressive, co-ordinated chants of the fans.’
‘That’s a shame, Simon. One of these days I’ll show you something really beautiful. But go on.’
‘Most of all I was afraid of any kind of wave action in the crowd. We’d have been trampled to death as easily as anything. What the high-ups called our “opponents” were far stronger than us, they just didn’t know it. Nor did our crowd-control instructor. The hatred he preached, you wouldn’t believe. I wish I’d spoken out, but like everyone else I stuck my head in the sand and let the anger towards the hippies and the Provos flow… the red rabble… they were going to get a good hiding like they deserved. Fear and anger make a dangerous cocktail, especially for a big, strong lad like I was in those days… with a truncheon in his hand.’
The Countess agreed cautiously, though she found it hard to follow him.
‘Der Staat ist auf dem rechten Auge blind. The state is blind in its right eye. Only the youth of the day were just as blind in their left. No wonder it went wrong.’
‘I suppose so.’
He stared into thin air for a moment, immersed in thought. Then he spoke quietly.
‘And then came the girl. Handing out roses. Smiling and unfazed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go from one policeman in riot gear to the next, offering a rose, while hatred and anger were boiling over in our midst. Of course, none of us accepted, but still she went down the whole line. When she got to me she dropped her flowers. Maybe they were knocked out of her hand, maybe she was pushed, I can’t remember. But whatever happened, the flowers lay there on the ground between me and my mate, just behind us. A matter of centimetres perhaps, but enough. When she bent down to pick them up, she broke the line and I hit her, as hard as I could, on her shoulder. After she sank down I kicked her in the side. She was seventeen years old, a fragile seventeen-year-old girl, a student who wanted to give me a rose.’
‘Oh, Simon…’
‘Oh, Simon, indeed. After that, all hell broke loose and the fighting started, just like we’d been waiting for. The next day, I was commended for being ruthless.’
They sat for a while and allowed silence to descend. The Countess leaned closer and whispered:
‘You’ve been wanting to get that out for a long time.’
‘There’s never been anyone to tell, and I don’t think I would have been able to before. But it’s like this sort of… talk… is easier for me now.’
‘This sort of talk is what’s called having feelings.’
‘All right, feelings then. But it’s easier for me since we got together, and especially after…’
‘After you seduced me?’
The comment broke his melancholy.
‘After I what? That’s pure falsification of history! Anyway, it wasn’t what I was going to say.’
‘Fibber.’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Yes, you are, you’re a fibber, admit it! Full of fibs!’
‘OK, so I’m a fibber, now button it. I want you to hear this good idea of mine regarding Arne. This priest who shared the house with our victim is bringing his bishop along with him to our interview on Thursday, so I’ve thought of something that might kill two birds with one stone. Do you want to hear?’
‘If you’re quick.’
The Countess found Konrad Simonsen’s idea to be both reasonable and original. This was praise indeed, coming from her: the Countess seldom uttered a superlative.
Arne Pedersen, however, had his reservations when Simonsen gave him it in outline in Simonsen’s office on the Wednesday morning.
‘Have you gone daft? It’s out of the question. Not under any circumstances. A categorical no.’
Simonsen held up his hands in a defensive gesture.
‘Just calm down a bit. Allow it to sink in first.’
‘Nothing’s going to sink in here. What a ridiculous idea! What possible use would she be? She’s a legal person, and Deputy Commissioner on top of that. She hasn’t a clue about questioning. Besides, she hasn’t time for that sort of thing, and thank God for it!’
‘She’ll make the time. In fact, she’s looking forward to it. What’s more, she knows she’s got to keep quiet and speak only when you give her the nod.’
Arne Pedersen got up from his chair and paced the width of Simonsen’s office. The glimmer of hope in his face was quickly extinguished:
‘You’re taking the piss, Simon. All very funny, I admit, but it’s got to be a joke, surely?’
‘I mentioned it to her yesterday afternoon, and she said I was to say hello and congratulate you on such a good idea. She’s delighted to play her part.’
‘This is worse than bad. Have you something for your nerves that I can borrow?’
‘I’m on all sorts, but nothing like that.’
‘Booze then. Anything alcoholic?’
‘Bad idea. You don’t want her suspecting you of drinking on the job while you’re putting her in the picture ready for tomorrow. Which you’ll be doing between three-thirty and four o’clock this afternoon. I’ve booked it into your diary so you won’t forget.’
‘Help! That’s all I can say. Help.’
‘I knew you’d come round.’
They worked purposefully together for the next three hours. Arne Pedersen was particularly sharp today. The fact that he would soon be relaying the results to the Deputy Commissioner was the perfect intellectual catalyst. After a number of fruitful discussions they agreed on five main questions to which they hoped they would receive answers during the course of the following day’s interview with the priest and his bishop, whose presence the priest had insisted on.
Arne Pedersen typed out the five points, printed them out and, with the sheet of paper in his hand, demanded they go through it all again one more time. Simonsen, who by now was feeling somewhat fatigued by all their hard work, reluctantly agreed.