‘I know it’s not what you want to hear, Simon. But they didn’t kill anyone.’
Simonsen’s eyes flashed. The Countess was quick to intervene:
‘Apart from Lucy Davison, of course.’
Pauline’s account of Hanne Brummersted’s and Helena Brage Hansen’s reactions was depressingly similar. Neither Brummersted nor Brage Hansen had anything to do with Kramer Nielsen’s murder in Hvidovre. Simonsen shook his head again in annoyance, a clear sign that he didn’t believe a word. He collected himself and probed further into Pauline’s observations of Hanne Brummersted. The consultant doctor had long been his prime suspect.
‘What was her exact reaction when I said the only thing we needed was to find out who killed him?’
‘She didn’t react at all. She was just completely stunned by having seen the remains of the body.’
‘What about when I mentioned the pledge they made? And that one of them had broken it?’
‘She didn’t know what you meant. I didn’t, either, to be honest. I don’t think anyone did.’
He decided to start again from another angle. Maybe that was what was needed. He clapped his hands together and exclaimed in a more optimistic tone:
‘All right, let’s forget about their reactions for a minute and look at the overall picture. Who made the biggest impression on you that day?’
He looked at Pauline, then at Arne, then back again, as if to coax an answer from one of them. Eventually, Pauline replied:
‘You did. Especially when you made them dig the body up. That was totally uncalled for and very cruel.’
‘They killed a young girl.’
‘A young girl you’ve been slobbering over for months, a girl you obviously decided to avenge at the first possible opportunity. And anyway, they didn’t kill her, that daft lad did.’
Simonsen gasped for breath and sensed himself about to erupt in rage. Only by a gargantuan effort did he manage to contain his first urge to yell into Pauline’s face with all his might. The brief respite made him even more livid when he realised neither the Countess nor Arne had put her in her place. It could only mean one thing: that they agreed with her, but hadn’t the guts to say so themselves.
He was about to walk out, leave them all. Depart from his office in anger and let them sit there with their useless logic, to rot in their own ineptitude. And yet he opted for an even better solution, or so he thought. He began to issue orders.
‘Arne, you check their alibis again. I know it’s been done, but I want them scrutinised and I don’t care if it’s the fifth, sixth or tenth time. And I want you to be responsible for getting written permission from all four of them, allowing us to search their homes and any other property they happen to own. Voluntarily… even if you have to twist their arms off in the process. And make sure we get experienced officers conducting those searches. Inform Norwegian police for the sake of good relations, but send three of our own to Hammerfest as soon as you’ve got Helena Brage Hansen’s signature.’
Arne accepted this with a weary nod. Simonsen turned to Pauline then, his voice icy.
‘You make sure all four of them remain in Copenhagen and are available to me for at least the rest of this week. I intend to question them from A to Z until one of them breaks. They can get their arses over here to HQ as soon as and whenever I say. And if they don’t, they’ll have what they did to Lucy Davison splashed all over the tabloids with their own photos in there to boot. And if they’re in any doubt about that threat, just remind them how pretty Lucy was, then ask if they think she’ll sell copy. And if that doesn’t convince them, I’ll personally have the public prosecutor bring charges against them for manslaughter, group rape, indecent acts with a corpse and unauthorised burial of a human being in unconsecrated ground.’
Pauline retorted:
‘For whose benefit?’
Simonsen slammed his fist down on the coffee table.
‘Mine! And you, Countess, get me some solid medical opinions on Troels Holst, our man with Down’s. I want to know if he could react the way they claim. As far as I’m informed, people with Down’s tend to be peaceful and harmless, and this is the first instance I’ve ever heard of where someone like that… a person suffering from that disorder… supposedly killed someone. And I want the information from at least two independent sources.’
He clapped his hands together again.
‘Let’s get cracking.’
Pauline and Arne got to their feet and shuffled off without comment. The Countess remained seated. Simonsen flopped down on the sofa, falling silent. Oddly, he found himself thinking about Pauline, recently the object of his fury, and yet the way he thought about her now was different, albeit he was unable to put his finger on quite how. He shook his head, as if to rid his mind of whatever was puzzling him, and when that didn’t help he turned to the Countess.
‘I stood there when the forensics guys uncovered Lucy, and when they took their photographs and laid her bone by bone into one of those boxes. When they lifted up her skull I found her… becoming. That’s what I thought to myself: that she was still beautiful. Her teeth were so regular and white, and the shape of her head… she was just so… whole and perfect.’
The Countess smiled to herself, and threw out a casual invitation in the same dreamy tone.
‘Should we go out for dinner tonight? Somewhere cosy, in Helsingør, perhaps? I could do with it.’
Simonsen decided to conduct all interviews with what was now the Gang of Four on his own. An hour or more with each, and with half an hour in between so they didn’t get the chance to collude on their way in or out. The bulk of his suspicion was still aimed at Hanne Brummersted, the hospital consultant who had been so arrogant and dismissive the last time they’d questioned her on her own. Now the arrogance was gone; her eyes were tearful and she looked like she hadn’t slept.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you got it off your chest? We know you were in touch with Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. It’s all over his diary.’
She shook her head in despair.
‘It must be wrong. I haven’t seen him since the trip to Sweden. Not once… at least, not to my knowledge.’
Simonsen was upon her like a cobra.
‘To your knowledge? What’s that supposed to mean?’
He sensed the tension mount explosively, but her explanation was worthless. Maybe sometime in the late nineties, 1997 perhaps, she wasn’t sure, but she might have seen him in IKEA in Gentofte. She’d avoided him and had deliberately gone the other way. He hadn’t seen her, she felt sure of it.
‘Why would he mention you in his diary, then? How do you explain that?’
She couldn’t. She wished she could, but no, it was inexplicable to her. At no point did she seem to realise Simonsen was lying.
With Helena Brage Hansen he was rather more cautious. He didn’t want her to break down the way her brother had told him she was liable to do at the slightest provocation. He put his questions to her calmly, as if the game were up and he had nothing personal against her.
‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen came to see you in Norway. When was the first time he was there?’
‘No, you’re wrong. He was never in Norway. At least, not to see me.’
‘So you went to see him in Copenhagen?’
‘No, I didn’t, no such thing. We haven’t been in touch since… since then.’
‘Phone records don’t lie, Helena.’
‘Then there must be some mistake. Please check again. We never phoned each other. Never once.’
With the Mikkelsen couple he tried to play one off against the other. Jesper Mikkelsen wept for most of the duration, wringing a handkerchief that became increasingly wretched the longer they went on. Simonsen noted with irritation the way he kept dabbing at his tears. He thought about Lucy, and the small measure of pity he’d felt evaporated instantly.