They deposited her parcels on the floor, tucking them out of the way under the table before ordering lunch.
‘I’m thinking of giving our friend from Jutland a job,’ he said. ‘Or rather, I’m thinking of getting Arne to give him a job. What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds all right to me. Is he good?’
‘According to his chief constable, yes. His idea about the first of those landscapes being taken in real life was good.’
‘But wrong?’
‘So it seems, unfortunately. Melsing had already looked at it, don’t ask me how. But there was nothing wrong with the idea, at least.’
‘No, but still a bit flimsy, perhaps, as a reason for taking him on.’
‘I’ve asked for his HR file. I should have it tomorrow. I’ve a feeling he’ll fit in, and that’s just about all it boils down to. There’d be a trial period, of course, so we can see how he gets on.’
The Countess agreed, both about the trial period and the Jutlander seeming to fit in.
After they’d finished their lunch, Simonsen was allowed to see the yield from the Countess’s autumn shop-amok. Not bothering wasn’t an option. One garment after another was produced from its carrier bag, unfolded, commented upon and put back again. It took some time: her credit card must have been glowing. Simonsen made an effort, but after a while found it hard to vary his reactions. There were no more superlatives left in him, and he floundered. If he didn’t immediately extol the virtues of one jumper, he was invited to compare it to a previous one: Do you like it better than the purple one with the stripes? When, truth be told, he’d already forgotten all about the purple one with the stripes. But if she realised that, it would only be produced once again to refresh his memory. Which do you like best? Moreover, They’re both nice didn’t count as a valid reply. Potentially, it was endless, and yet it stopped.
There was only one parcel left and it wasn’t from a clothes shop. The Countess removed something from its carrier and placed it proudly on the table in front of him. It was a camera. More specifically, it was a Nikon F6 single-lens reflex camera, so the packaging informed him. Despite this, he asked:
‘What’s that?’
‘Anna Mia’s birthday present. Don’t you remember we talked about getting her a camera? It’s what she wants.’
It was true, he remembered now. He stared mistrustfully at the box.
‘I was thinking we could give it to her in time for that trip of hers to Bornholm. It’s next week, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. It’s a bit of an expensive birthday present, though.’
Her gesture indicated it didn’t matter. Unsurprisingly, for money was never an issue for the Countess. Most of it she had inherited from her father, who in her own words had accumulated a fortune by means of lawful swindling: buying flats, doing them up on the cheap and selling them on at a profit. On his death she had become wealthy at a relatively advanced age and was still rather at odds with the idea, which meant that every now and then she would throw her money about, though without ever making so much as a dent in her account. Sometimes, however, he felt her extravagance to be over the top. Like now, for instance.
‘If I’m going to give my daughter a birthday present, I want to know how much it cost,’ he said sullenly. ‘And besides that, I’d like to pay half.’
She tossed her head slightly and presented him with the amount:
‘Fourteen thousand kroner, plus four thousand for a long lens that’s coming tomorrow.’
No sooner had she uttered the words than they both knew they had a problem. They sat and stared at each other, considering their next move. Simonsen spoke first, categorically:
‘No way. You can take it back.’
‘Take it back? You mean you don’t want to spend nine thousand kroner on your own daughter?’
He felt derided and retorted harshly:
‘Of course I do. But in our family we don’t give each other things as expensive as that. Besides, it would be humiliating for her mother and stepbrother. What are their five-hundred-kroner presents going to look like next to eighteen thousand?’
‘You could tell them you were compensating for not having given her anything when she was confirmed. And since when did you start caring about what Anna Mia’s mother feels?’
He felt himself blush and snapped at her:
‘I’m perfectly capable of upholding a decent relationship with my ex-wife. I don’t need to be for ever consciously winding her up.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Go on, what’s that supposed to mean?’ the Countess hissed back.
‘You know perfectly well what it means.’
She gathered her carrier bags together in a huff, her movements angry and abrupt, before striding out of the premises with a straight back and her nose in the air. The box containing the camera was still on the table in front of him.
An hour later Simonsen arrived back at Police HQ with the camera under his arm. He was still in a foul mood, albeit prepared to discuss the matter more calmly with her. He went straight to her office, only to find it empty. In the corridor he ran into Arne Pedersen.
‘Hi, Simon. Good idea of yours, sending the Countess to Esbjerg.’
His jaw dropped. Pedersen noticed the picture on the box under his arm.
‘Wow, a Nikon F6. Mind if I have a look?’
He handed it over.
‘There you go. Give it back to the Countess, it’s hers.’
In his office he found Pauline Berg lounging on the sofa in his annexe reading a report. She looked cheerful.
‘You took your time. Now, listen to this. I’ve set up a time with that dog handler: tomorrow morning at ten out at Express Move’s facility in Hvidovre.’
Simonsen pointed a finger at her.
‘Get out of my office!’
She stared at him, then burst out laughing and said something about how reassuring it was that he could act like a tosser as well. When the door slammed behind her he flopped down on the now vacated sofa with the distinct feeling that everything was falling apart.
The weather had gone cold, the mornings were bitter and in the Countess’s garden the climbing rose by the garage was scattered with meticulously spun cobwebs glistening with tiny droplets of dew in the faint early rays of sun, prompting Simonsen to pause and relish the sight for a few seconds.
The country’s economy, too, had chilled. No one was spending: you knew what you’d got, but not what you were going to get. There was a feeling of impending crisis and the National Police Commissioner invited the whole force to take part in an inspirational conference at the Øksnehallen in Copenhagen, with live video hook-ups to the eleven other police districts in the country for those unlucky enough not to be able to take part in person. Austerity measures, cutbacks, service reductions were to be viewed as a challenge, a springboard for new creative processes to flourish, a unique opportunity to think anew. In the Homicide Department, the week’s discussion topic was finding the best excuse for not coming in.
Konrad Simonsen missed the Countess. They’d had a long talk on the phone the evening before, and both of them had apologised. Nevertheless, she thought it would be healthy for them to spend a few days apart. He declared himself in agreement, but waking up on his own in the morning he found it hard to see any benefit. He took a quick shower and hurried his way through breakfast. Hardly more than an hour after waking he pulled into Express Move’s facility in Hvidovre, still drowsy, yet pleased to be getting started on the day’s work. It would take his mind off her.
In the storage hall he met up with a disgruntled and somewhat taciturn dog handler and his happy charge, a playful labrador that had yet to leave puppyhood fully behind. Four men with bulging biceps, dressed in blue overalls, were in the process of lugging Kramer Nielsen’s furniture out of its storage place. They worked efficiently with few words and were almost done. It crossed Simonsen’s mind that Arne Pedersen would be receiving Express Move’s bill, but decided that wasn’t his problem. Shortly afterwards, Pauline Berg arrived. She patted the dog and turned on the charm with the dog handler, all the while eating yoghurt from a little plastic beaker in her hand. She seemed to be in an excellent mood.