She was incompetent, she said, she knew that herself. She was of no use to anyone for anything. There was no end to her self-reproach. He had no idea what to say, and how he got through the next half-hour was a mystery to him. But when at last she rang off, sobbing and apologising profusely for just about everything under the sun, he poured himself a brandy for the first time in months and knocked it back in one without the slightest feeling of guilt. After that he turned off his phone, switched on the TV and fell asleep.
The Countess woke him up an hour later when she got home, noting immediately that he’d had a drink. She ticked him off for it: his health wasn’t up to it, when would he realise? And with that, the day ended as annoyingly as it had begun.
He slept on his own, in his room upstairs.
Summer, extended by the heatwave at the beginning of the month, was now definitely gone. The weather was changeable; it was windy and the mornings arrived with a chill. Konrad Simonsen once again had to make an effort to go for his runs. He had just begun to enjoy them, but running in a headwind and bad weather wasn’t fun at all.
The investigation into the death of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen was at a standstill. He called in Arne Pedersen and the Countess for a status meeting in order to breathe some much-needed life into the case.
They met in Arne Pedersen’s office. It was Wednesday 1 October, mid-morning.
Simonsen kicked off by summing up their progress since the last time they’d gathered. It wasn’t encouraging.
A fragment of the photo paper from each of the eighteen posters had been sent off to Germany for chemical analysis, and a comparison of paper brands from various periods would later give them an estimate as to when the posters had been created.
‘I’d especially like to pinpoint the first one, but it may be a while before we’re given any sort of answer. So the only definite progress as far as that goes is that we’ve now positively established it’s neither his younger sister nor his mother as a young woman.’
His audience of two loyally echoed his words: Neither his younger sister nor his mother. So that was that out of the way. It was obvious they both had other matters to which they would rather be attending, despite their making an effort to pass appropriate comments.
‘Besides that, and on request, I’ve spent some time mapping break-ins in the area.’
There was nothing to indicate the killing might be related to a burglary or a robbery gone wrong. Moreover, the situation of the house was such that a burglar or anyone wanting to carry out a robbery in the home would surely choose another, more accessible property, one set much further back from the street than Kramer Nielsen’s was.
Not a burglary, not a robbery. What were they supposed to say? The Countess made a half-hearted comment, Pedersen glanced at his watch and Simonsen carried on down his little list of items.
‘What bothers me most is that I can’t find the negatives. The original photos of the girl. They must have been somewhere in his possessions, but there’s no sign of them. One theory could be that whoever killed him took them with them. They’re gone, anyway. We’ve been through the post office, his flat, all his stuff. Not once but four times now, without turning up anything at all… as you know.’
He had set up three teams of two. Experienced officers, and meticulous. People who didn’t moan when he got them rummaging for the fourth time in search of the negatives none of them any longer believed to exist. Fortunately, the young couple who had moved into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s former flat were co-operative and had left a key for the policemen to use while the occupiers were out at work.
Unfortunately, the team charged with searching the flat had got the idea of bringing in a dog to help them. The male tenant had called Konrad Simonsen as soon as he got home that night: his wife was seriously allergic to dog hair, it seemed, and the couple had to be put up in a hotel at the department’s expense until the place was cleaned. As if to add insult to injury the man had furthermore reported another… irregularity.
Konrad Simonsen had called in the two officers for a dressing-down, a procedure he commenced in all seriousness before eventually concluding:
‘The poor woman’s coughing and sneezing and can hardly breathe, all because two plods managed to poison her in her own home. I will admit, however, the idea wasn’t bad. A film-tracer dog… why not? Whose is it anyway?’
One of the men indicated that it was his. At present, it was still under training and doing rather well. Despite the situation, it was clear he was proud of the animal.
‘I gave him the scent of a roll of negatives and then some prints, and then we went all along the skirting boards, doors, ceiling, window sills… everywhere we’d turned up blanks.’
‘Is your dog horny?’
‘No, why?’
‘I’d say it is. Because the truth of the matter is it found something, didn’t it? You see, my very reliable source can’t understand how a certain cardboard box containing private photographs has been all messed up. Very private photographs, as it happens. I had to explain to him that we didn’t take fingerprints to clear up matters of that nature. Which is true, of course, and also rather fortunate, seeing as how your dog seems to have been so horny it couldn’t keep its paws off.’
Neither of the officers responded: both of them stared at the floor and had very red ears indeed.
‘Not a hair. Not one single, invisible little dog hair from that randy hound of yours, understood? I want that place hoovered and cleaned as if your careers depended on it. Now, get going the pair of you.’
‘Did they get rid of all the hairs?’ the Countess asked.
‘I think so. It would have been a very costly affair if they hadn’t.’
‘But the idea was all right. The dog, I mean. Have you tried it out at the post office or in the storage facility with Kramer Nielsen’s effects?’
‘I’ve thought about it and left a message on the dog handler’s answerphone. He’s on holiday this week, so I should hear back from him no later than Wednesday, I reckon.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ said Arne Pedersen drily.
Simonsen went on with his discouraging briefing as if he hadn’t heard.
‘The last thing’s the matter of the posters, which at the moment are adorning the walls in Søllerød.’
The Countess cut in:
‘Your gallery.’
Arne Pedersen laughed, though not derisively. Simonsen ignored him nevertheless and informed them that experts in various fields had now been out to study the posters of their girl in the clouds: professional photo technicians and a behavioural psychologist who waffled on without saying anything at all.
‘Let me guess. Clarification would mean getting in a host of others just like him?’
The Countess was pretty much spot on.
Simonsen admitted:
‘So basically my gallery, as you call it, has been a failure.’
‘What about your parapsychologist? Didn’t you get her in on it?’ asked Pedersen.
It was the worst-kept secret in Homicide that Konrad Simonsen now and again made discreet use of a clairvoyant in his investigations, a fact that on occasion had led to some rather surprising conclusions, while at others it had proved utterly worthless.
‘She’s been in hospital with a broken hip, but maybe I can persuade her to stop by if she’s finished her rehab.’