‘D four.’
The priest replied instantly:
‘D five.’
Pedersen was equally swift:
‘Knight to C three.’
Simonsen stepped back. He was way out of his league now: blindfold chess was quite beyond his reach.
The game was over even before they reached the final poster, Pedersen coming out on top. The priest congratulated him without resentment. Simonsen, however, gloated, though was careful not to show it. Pedersen himself seemed unruffled.
They adjourned to the living room for tea or coffee. The priest told them about his social work, and Simonsen and Arne Pedersen waxed lyrical about the Greenland ice cap where they had been together on a case the year before. It was all very pleasant, not least because the two policemen skilfully avoided all mention of their current investigation.
After the priest had gone, Pedersen admitted:
‘He let me win. I’m pretty certain. Don’t you think?’
Simonsen shook his head.
‘I wouldn’t have a clue. I couldn’t keep up.’
‘At the end I had my knight pawn against his rook. He could have got my knight with a straightforward check, but what he did was to go for the pawn and ran straight into a simple fork. Do you want me to show you?’
Simonsen did indeed. They ran through the game and agreed that the priest almost certainly must have lost on purpose. Pedersen was perplexed.
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He didn’t want to win two games on the trot. I think it’s just the way he is,’ said Simonsen.
‘Funny kind of guy, if you ask me.’
‘A very pleasant one, in my opinion. But certainly not a man to be underestimated.’
If the priest was a funny kind of guy, as Arne Pedersen maintained, Konrad Simonsen’s next visitor to the gallery was even funnier. He had talked his clairvoyant consultant, Madame, into coming up to Søllerød. Normally, he went to see her at her place in Høje Taastrup, always bringing her some item pertaining to the case at hand: a piece of clothing, perhaps, or the victim’s wristwatch. This time, however, it was out of the question, since he had nothing at all in his possession that had belonged to Lucy Davison.
He allowed Pauline Berg to see how Madame worked; she had been rather insistent on the point and eventually he had given in to her pestering. She arrived just as Arne Pedersen was leaving. Simonsen noted hat she barely said hello to the man, mustering only a muttered Hi, whereas Simonsen himself was accorded hugs and a big smile to boot. He followed Pedersen back up the path to the gate, asking, as soon as Pauline was out of earshot:
‘Have you two fallen out again?’
Pedersen hesitated.
‘I wouldn’t say fallen out, exactly. It’s just that every time she doesn’t get her way she sulks. I’ve grown immune to it.’
‘What didn’t you let her do?’
‘She wanted your occult lady to help her in that little project of hers, that Juli Denissen thing. I’m hard pressed as it is to finance your little foibles, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fund Pauline’s as well. Especially when there isn’t the semblance of a case.’
He was right. How to enter Madame’s services in the books was always going to be an issue. Not even Simonsen himself cared much for having it written down in black and white that the Homicide Department was spending good taxpayers’ money on spiritualism. He had fiddled a bit with the categories so as not to make Madame’s fee too obvious, and now Arne Pedersen would have to do likewise. However, it was not a subject Simonsen cared to broach. Instead, he said:
‘Odd get-up she’s wearing today as well. Sometimes she outdoes even our Deputy Commissioner.’
Pauline Berg was in a matching grey jacket and skirt that would have suited an elderly accountant. Perhaps in order to compensate for her old-fashioned appearance she had flung a cheap and garish scarf around her neck. Pedersen asked in surprise:
‘What’s wrong with Gurli’s dress sense? The woman’s got style, if you ask me.’
Ten minutes later, Madame arrived in a Mercedes van that had been converted to carry a wheelchair. The driver was her husband, Stephan Stemme, and Konrad Simonsen didn’t care for him. Not many people did, if anyone at all.
From the living-room window, Simonsen and Pauline Berg watched as Stemme got out of the vehicle and gazed towards the house.
‘I hope he’s not thinking of coming in. We’d better go out and get her.’
Outside, Stemme offered his hand in greeting and furnished them with an explanation: his wife had suffered a complicated fracture of the hip and the joint had furthermore become infected after the operation. Now she was unable to walk until the antibiotics had done their job and she’d been back to the hospital for a check-up. The van had been hired for the day and the cost added to the invoice, which he duly handed to Simonsen in an envelope. He went to the rear of the vehicle, opened the doors and manoeuvred a ramp into position with a remote control. With some difficulty he clambered up and wheeled his wife out on to the ramp, carefully secured the wheelchair, then lowered her down, delivering her directly to Simonsen.
He wheeled her into the gallery, he and Pauline having carried her up the steps of the garden path in the wheelchair. The Countess’s property was built on a slope and the annexe was elevated above the main house, so steps were unavoidable.
Madame was a somewhat wizened woman with a toneless voice and a pair of piercing grey eyes that seemed to stare right into whoever she was looking at. Much to Simonsen’s relief, her husband stayed outside in the van. As they’d received her the man had gripped Pauline Berg by the arm and rudely demanded coffee. Pauline had hissed back at him that he could take his grubby hands off her, and as for coffee he could make his own when he got home. Taken aback, he’d immediately beaten a retreat to the van. Madame had failed to react to the scene. Perhaps she was used to it.
Like the other visitors to his gallery, she allowed herself plenty of time. Simonsen and Berg stepped back so as not to disturb her concentration and waited patiently. She reacted to the very first poster. The spirits had apparently made themselves known to her, and she tossed her head in annoyance.
‘Who’s that screaming kid? I can hardly hear myself think!’
For a moment she covered her ears. Then suddenly she gripped the spokes of one of her wheels, spinning herself round and pointing an accusatory finger at Pauline Berg.
‘Get rid of that scarf at once. Get it away, now!’
Pauline scurried out of the room without protest. When she had gone, Madame turned to Simonsen.
‘Where is the eighteenth picture?’
Simonsen ventured a lie.
‘In my bedroom. I’m examining it and having it framed. Do you want me to get it?’
‘A lie! You’re stealing it. Only don’t.’
When Pauline Berg returned, minus her scarf, Madame carried on studying the images on the walls. After a while she spoke.
‘The girl’s name is Lucy. She was from England and now she’s dead. It’s a long time ago, many years. She came to Denmark on the back of a motorcycle. And a boat, a ferry. Esbjerg.’
Simonsen confirmed this and Madame went on:
‘She’s pleased the church is buying her pictures and she’s looking forward to new surroundings, but she thinks it’s all right about the one that’s missing.’
‘What do you mean, the one that’s missing?’ asked Pauline Berg.
Madame was seemingly still annoyed with her for having tried to con her way to assistance by wearing a scarf that had belonged to Juli Denissen. She barked at Simonsen:
‘Tell her to be quiet, Konrad.’
Simonsen gave Pauline a look and hoped she would get the message. Then he turned back to Madame.