‘Oh, that’s great news. I’m happy you’re feeling up to it again.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that, though.’
‘How do you mean?’
Simonsen had discussed the matter at length with the Countess and given it a great deal of thought on his own. The conclusion was that he actually wouldn’t mind at all if Arne Pedersen carried on heading up the department. Naturally, it was a decision that had its drawbacks as well as its benefits. The loss of prestige, in particular, was a bit hard to swallow, but on the other hand it would relieve him of a great deal of work he had never cared for at all. Budgets, HR management, representation and the National Police Commissioner’s e-mails, at the very least. And this was why he and the Countess had invited Pedersen round in the first place, the chess game in this instance merely providing the pretext.
‘I’ve decided I like things the way they are at the moment, so if you want you can carry on in charge, provided we can get the go-ahead from upstairs, of course, but that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’
Arne Pedersen fell silent. Simonsen and the Countess gave him room to think. Eventually, he spoke.
‘I won’t pretend I’m not flattered, because I am. Are you sure?’
‘We’re sure. Both of us.’
Again, Pedersen hesitated.
‘To be honest, I do feel I’ve got the measure of the job now, but all in all I’m going to pass. It’s too early, I’d rather wait until you retire. Which, if you don’t mind my saying so, isn’t that far off.’
That was it. Pedersen’s mind was made up and there was nothing more to be said.
Simonsen picked up the thread:
‘I’m packing it in as soon as I get to sixty-four, no reason for that to be kept a secret. I was twenty-five when I started at HS, moved on to Homicide when that was set up, at which time I was thirty-six, and then took charge when I was forty-nine.’
Pedersen looked relieved. His decision had been far from easy and he had been sorely tempted.
‘I had no idea you were into numerology. Let’s say I ascend the throne once you step down, if they’ll have me. That sounds a lot better to me. Truth is, I’m enjoying myself the most while working for you on that postman case. Those are the good days at the moment. I’m actually looking forward to our meeting tomorrow, which is a bit weird. Three months ago that would have been a day like any other, but now I’m almost excited about it. What that tells me is it’d do me good to wait a few years before heading up anything at all.’
The Countess finished her iced tea and put the glass down on the tray next to Simonsen’s. He’d finished his a while ago.
‘Now that we’re talking shop, Arne,’ she said, ‘how do you feel about Klavs Arnold? And just so you know, Simon and I have been talking about him, and we’re both in agreement.’
‘You mean, if we should take him on?’
‘Yes. What do you think?’
Pedersen squinted at Simonsen.
‘And not just take him on but bring him into the inner circle, is that what you mean?’
‘That’s the idea, yes.’
‘I think it’s a good one. No two ways about it. He’ll have to learn Danish, though.’
‘Well, there are certain issues about his dialect, I’ll admit.’
The Countess interrupted:
‘Listen to you, whatever happened to diversity? Anyway, you’re OK with it, Arne, is that right?’
‘He’s easy to get along with, methodical and industrious, intelligent and not overly afraid of authority. So, yes, I’m positive. I’m not sure what Pauline thinks, though. Does she even have a say?’
Simonsen was rather abrupt in his reply.
‘Yes, she has a say. As big a say as the rest of us. No more, no less. That’s how it is. I was thinking she and someone else could go over to Esbjerg soon, just a quick trip there and back to see how Klavs is getting on looking for that summer house. It won’t help things there, but just to show him and everyone else who’s on that job that we take the matter seriously…’
‘We’re with you, Simon. Sending the right signals and all that. I’ll go over,’ offered the Countess. ‘I’m sure Arne hasn’t got time. Besides, it’s been a while since I spoke to Pauline on my own. But if Klavs is doing a proper job, as everything would seem to indicate, I think we should let him know we’re done with his trial period.’
Simonsen agreed, it sounded reasonable enough. And then he asked:
‘Have you got any more of that quince juice?’
The next morning the Countess and Simonsen had an early breakfast. The evening before, the Countess had hastily arranged her trip to Esbjerg with Pauline, and if they were going to get over there and back the same day she needed an early start.
She sat leafing through yesterday’s paper: it was still too early for today’s to have come. Simonsen himself was preoccupied with breakfast and casually asked about Pauline. Did the Countess have to go into town and pick her up first? It was mostly for the sake of conversation and to display some sort of interest. Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. She sounded hostile when she replied, and folded the paper and put it down.
‘When you were in Rødby, it was to look up Rita’s name that you couldn’t remember, wasn’t it? It’s Rita Metz Andersen, in case you didn’t find out.’
He admitted it was true, though without comprehending what exactly was happening here. Only in the pause that followed did he realise she knew things she couldn’t possibly know unless…
‘Have you been checking up on me behind my back? How come you know Rita’s surname?’
The Countess persisted in what he now felt was an ominous inquisition.
‘You’re thinking of looking her up, I know you are. What’s all this about.’
Contemptuously, she tossed a printed folder down in front of him. He picked it up and stared at it with puzzlement. Then he remembered. It was the folder he’d been given at the tourist office in Frederiksværk when he’d been on his way from Frederikssund to Melby Overdrev to meet Pauline Berg. In the middle was a map he’d used to find his way. He’d stuffed the folder away in the glove compartment and would have thrown it out next time he cleaned the car. Now there it was, staring him in the face, an accusation.
‘“Songs for a Grandmother”, page three.’
There’d been nothing wrong yesterday, she’d been sweetness and light, cooked dinner and made that lovely tea, and now all of a sudden… he failed to understand women sometimes and had no idea at all why she’d chucked this folder at him. He ignored it and instead tried to talk some sense into her. She simply had to trust him if their relationship was going to work. She had to – he savoured the words and felt oddly adult. What’s more, he didn’t want to know where she’d got her information on him. Or on Rita, for that matter. He loved the Countess, he loved living with her and he quite understood how it felt to be afraid of losing someone. He didn’t mention in as many words her once having lost a child, speaking instead more indirectly about her history, her background. He understood all too well, she would have to take his word for it about that, but… His words ran on in a loop, repeated with increasing intensity and frustrated gesticulations.
The Countess waited until he was finished, then spoke serenely, melodically, almost with tenderness, as if he were the one with the problem.
‘Yes, you’re right. We both know.’
What it was they both knew was not elaborated upon, nor did he ask, and after a brief pause she concluded:
‘You can do as you please. Suit yourself.’
With that, she got to her feet, drank the rest of her tea standing and kissed him goodbye as if nothing had happened. The front door shut behind her with rather more of a slam than usual, he thought.
And there he sat, with a cup of tepid tea and a feeling of not being able to count to four.