The chief constable was understanding of Pauline Berg’s situation, familiar with all that had happened, like most of the country’s police force. He gave Simonsen something to go on.
‘She’ll be out at Melby Overdrev this afternoon. They’re showing her where the woman died.’
‘Who? Not your people, surely?’
‘Denissen’s kin. Her stepfather and sister.’
‘How come you know?’
‘The sister’s husband called us yesterday. He’s frustrated by his wife’s… let’s call it dedication, and wanted to know why we’d reopened the case. Actually, she’s not even Juli Denissen’s real sister, that’s just what she calls herself.’
The chief constable showed him a map and indicated the place where Juli had been found. Simonsen thanked him. They chatted for a few minutes about other things, people they both knew, the new police reform.
They shook hands, and as Simonsen was about to leave, the chief constable asked:
‘Is it true you knew her? The young woman who died, I mean?’
Simonsen answered hesitantly:
‘No, I didn’t know her at all.’
Konrad Simonsen struggled with his satnav to calibrate the chief constable’s directions to the place where Juli Denissen had died. He failed, and wondered for a moment if he should drive back and request a more exact explanation, but decided instead to stop off in Frederiksværk, where he found his way without difficulty to the local arts centre that also housed the tourist information office. He ate a reasonably good low-cal burger with a bowl of dreary salad and was given a little folder, in the middle of which was a map of the area he wanted to see. The woman behind the desk marked his route in biro.
He drove with one eye on the map and turned off the main road shortly after Asserbo. There he followed a poorly kept forest track, taking care to avoid the worst potholes. After ten minutes the track opened out and ended in a large parking area. He pulled in at the far end, almost at the beach, where he stood for a moment and took his bearings. The area was enclosed by big, whitewashed stones, with a row of wind-battered saplings of what looked like oak in the middle. There were two cars besides his own. Rain was spitting. Not much, but enough to make him take his umbrella from the boot even if he didn’t put it up.
He climbed a dune. It was steep and he clutched at tufts of lyme grass to steady himself. At the summit he looked out over the sea that lay green and tumultuous before him, waves topped with foam that rose up and vanished again, filling his field of vision as far as the horizon where sea and sky merged into one. To his left, the coastline curved away, a smooth arc that ran out into a point. In the distance it curved back again, the details blurred but for the red-tiled roofs of a cluster of houses he could just pick out somewhere near what must be Hundested. The wind rushed in his ears. Turning his head towards it made it sound like canvas flapping, the noise drowning out even the roaring breakers that crashed on to the shore below.
He stood there for a while, taking it in, before descending again and walking north, cutting across the grassland that lay between the dunes and the woods, extending as far as the eye could see. Here he was sheltered from the wind, but then the rain came and he put up his umbrella. The path he followed dwindled in places to little more than a trampled-down ribbon. It led him to a signpost: a yellow circle with a broken black bomb issuing its stylised shrapnel in an arching red explosion. Graphically, it was poor, but the message was unequivocal. The area had belonged to the military and been used for training purposes; anyone walking here did so at their own risk. He carried on through the gently undulating landscape with its tight blanket of heather interspersed with clusters of low, stunted flowers cowering in the sand. He looked around and saw nothing but nature. Now and then he stopped and stared left towards the woods, to see if anyone had perhaps sought shelter from the rain there. The treeline comprised mainly old shore pine, whose red-speckled bark and oddly twisted trunks resembled a coloured illustration in one of his boyhood adventure books, alluring, and yet eerie and intimidating at the same time. He saw no other people.
After walking for another ten minutes or so, from the top of a rise he caught sight of two figures further ahead. He adjusted his course and went towards them. As he approached he could see that one of them was Pauline Berg. He slowed down and cautioned himself to deal with the situation calmly. There was nothing to be gained by getting worked up.
The two women were soaked. Neither was dressed for the weather. He greeted Pauline as if nothing were untoward, introducing himself then to the woman who accompanied her. They shook hands and she responded by telling him her name.
Linette Krontoft was a fair-haired, corpulent woman in her twenties with attentive blue eyes and a doleful smile he assumed was attributable to the circumstances. Konrad Simonsen noted her exceptionally white and regular teeth, and it crossed his mind, too, that she would benefit from a hunger strike or two. Moreover, that he hadn’t the slightest wish they should meet in this way. And yet here he was.
‘Where was she found?’ he asked quietly.
Linette Krontoft pointed to the bottom of the dip in front of them. He gave the two women his umbrella, their need being greater than his own, then sidestepped his way down the incline and stood for a moment considering the surroundings, scanning the landscape for 360 degrees before peering down at the sandy earth, which he poked at with the toe of his shoe. He scrabbled his way up again. His eyes met Pauline’s and he thought to himself that her defiant gaze did not bode well. Linette Krontoft broke the silence.
‘You’re not here to help us. You’re here to prevent Pauline from doing her job, aren’t you?’
He said nothing, his eyes darting from woman to woman. He wished he had a cigarette. He considered his words carefully before he replied.
‘You two have a choice. Do you want to hear what it is?’
They agreed with obvious reluctance. Pauline seemed almost hostile.
‘You can carry on with these investigations off your own bat and behind my back. If you do, there’ll be no support, no co-operation from anywhere within the police force, and all the people who provided assistance here on the tenth of July when Juli Denissen’s body was discovered will receive a letter, signed by me, instructing them to ignore you if they are approached.
‘The alternative is that the three of us, unofficially and privately, get in touch with a highly competent pathologist I know. But I may as well tell you straight off, it could be some time before we get an appointment, and in the meantime you must do nothing. If, after studying the autopsy report, this pathologist of ours should express even the slightest doubt that Juli Denissen died a natural death, I promise you I shall have the case reopened officially. If, on the other hand, he should consider Juli Denissen’s death was indeed attributable to natural causes, then I must have your promise to let the matter drop and leave her in peace.’
Pauline Berg asked:
‘Would this pathologist be Professor Arthur Elvang?’
These were the first words she had uttered since Simonsen had joined them. He turned to face her. Yes, it was Elvang he had in mind.
‘I’m going back to my car now,’ he added. ‘I’ll wait there for fifteen minutes. If you two reach an agreement before that, then we can talk more about it. If not, you call me tonight, Pauline.’
He walked off without waiting for their reaction. They could keep the umbrella.
He had to wait until evening for his answer. Pauline called. She and the group had discussed his proposal and decided to accept, though with the proviso that they be permitted to complete their photographing of Juli’s flat before the place was cleared. The group, indeed. Not to mention the overly familiar Juli without using any surname. What on earth had got into her? He shook his head while simultaneously recognising that she had reached the sensible decision finally. And then, suddenly, as he cautiously asked if she might be coming in to work on Monday, Pauline began to cry.