‘Are you sure it’s all right to take flowers?’
‘Yes, positive.’
‘But I didn’t know her.’
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t take flowers.’
‘Do you think there’ll be others with flowers?’
‘No.’
‘Won’t it be embarrassing?’
‘No.’
The Deputy Commissioner and a laconic individual from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs made up the official delegation, Konrad Simonsen was there in a private capacity. A DNA test had recently established the victim’s identity once and for all. Despite their advanced age, George and Margaret Davison had insisted on making the journey to Copenhagen to accompany their daughter on her final journey. The Danish government had with all possible speed sent off a formal invitation and procured a coffin. The hearse drove slowly out to the aircraft and waited.
‘What a nice thought, to bring flowers,’ the Deputy Commissioner said.
Simonsen felt awkward, and doubtful his rudimentary English would hold up in the face of Liverpudlian dialect.
‘Do me a favour and translate if the parents say anything to me.’
‘Of course, Simon.’
‘Or answer on my behalf.’
The man from the ministry muttered under his breath in English:
‘Welcome to Denmark, kingdom of bilingual bizzies.’
The Deputy Commissioner hissed at him:
‘That’s quite enough arrogance, thank you.’
She turned to Simonsen.
‘Perhaps you should go and put the flowers on her coffin.’
Passengers were now boarding the aircraft. The pilot took his place beside the Deputy Commissioner and shortly afterwards the car carrying Lucy Davison’s parents pulled up. Her father was very elderly and poorly sighted, her mother hunched yet somewhat more animated. Simonsen greeted them both and offered his condolences according to the book, then withdrew a couple of paces, hoping it would all soon be over. But what only took a few short minutes felt like an eternity to him, and he feared the worst when the Deputy Commissioner stepped up to him with Margaret Davison on her arm.
‘You don’t need to say anything, Simon, just listen.’
For a long moment, the old woman considered him with intense blue eyes, clasping his hand in a tight and bony grip before speaking, her voice thin and brittle as parchment:
‘God bless you. Mr Simonsen. God bless you.’
The able among them carried Lucy Davison’s coffin the short distance from the hearse to the conveyor belt that would take her into the hold. Simonsen felt consternation: would her bones end up in a jumble at the rear of the casket, or had the forensic technicians gathered her together in a plastic bag? He didn’t know, and for a moment feared the sudden clatter that would occur if her mortal remains started to slide. Fortunately, he had no reason to fear, and only his own flowers succumbed to the laws of gravity, the coffin tipping gently back and forth for a second at the top of the ramp, as if unable to decide whether to return to England or remain in Denmark. It looked too light by half, he thought to himself.
The Countess picked him up. To begin with he said little, all of a sudden having thought of Pauline Berg and been gripped by a sense of some connection resolved, a truth that had been staring them in the face. It had happened several times during these past few days. He felt like a mathematician suddenly realising he had found the solution to some difficult problem, without yet having done the calculations.
‘Are you all right?’ the Countess asked. ‘You’re even more absent than usual. Was it that bad?’
He replied wearily:
‘No, it’s Kramer Nielsen getting at me again.’
‘Sometimes, you know, success just doesn’t come. It’s part of life, you ought to know by now.’
‘I do. And why everyone keeps lecturing me about it, I’ve no idea.’
‘Well, excuse me. Who’s everyone anyway, besides me?’
‘Anna Mia, yesterday, when we were out jogging.’
‘Simon, Anna Mia’s your daughter, not everyone…’
He cut her off in annoyance.
‘Sorry, just an expression, that’s all.’
‘It doesn’t matter. But what about Kramer Nielsen? Is it because none of us agrees with you? It doesn’t normally bother you.’
‘No, of course not. That little difference of opinion is quite clear-cut: I’m right and you’re wrong. No, it’s something else. I’ve got a guilty conscience and I don’t know why. As long as it was Lucy Davison we were concerned about, I was totally involved every second of the way – sometimes too involved, perhaps. But now it’s only Kramer Nielsen… there, you see, only. That’s it in a nutshell. Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, the eternal loser, even in death. All his adult life there wasn’t a soul who cared about him, and now he’s dead… well, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t really be bothered to find out who killed him so I let myself be diverted. I’m going to have to go back to square one with him, start from the beginning again, retrace my tracks.’
‘Didn’t you just tell us all Esbjerg and Hvidovre are linked? And that we’re stupid for not realising it?’
‘Of course there’s a link, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m able to find it. And I never said anyone was stupid.’
‘No, I know you didn’t. It’s just that you’re so sure of yourself it gets up people’s noses sometimes.’
‘It’s not my fault I’m right.’
They drove for a while in silence.
‘Are we having an argument?’ he said finally.
‘No. But as soon as we get home you’re going out for a jog.’
It sounded like a good idea.
He went over to Valby on the Sunday evening, thinking he would sleep in his own bed one last time. After all, he’d lived there more than twenty years. But somehow it didn’t feel like home any more when he walked through the door. He hovered about in the living room, like a stranger, wondering what furniture he should take with him and what would have to go. He hadn’t a clue: other thoughts encroached, thoughts about Pauline Berg, as if she wouldn’t let go of him. He cursed her under his breath. Ever since he’d got to the bottom of things with Rita and Lucy – he had, surely? – it was like suddenly he’d made room for her. He tried to focus his mind on the sideboard, a monstrosity of a thing handed down from his great-grandmother. He opened one of its cupboards, only to find himself daydreaming again, Pauline’s pretty, petulant face staring back at him in his mind’s eye.
He couldn’t sleep either. Eventually, at a quarter-past two in the morning, he capitulated. He got up and dressed, then put on his warm oilskin coat, scarf and woollen hat. It was bitterly cold outside, though without a breath of wind. The air pinched at his cheeks as he stepped out on to the empty street with a shudder. He wandered, strangely serene. The buildings seemed anonymous, alike in the semi-darkness, and he felt himself merge comfortably into the surroundings. From a modest drinking establishment came the sound of song, no drunken bawling as might be expected at this hour, but a gentle bass line accompanied by a rather out-of-tune piano. He paused, casting an inquisitive glance through the door without being able to see much, and soon, after he’d passed, the song died away and silence returned. It was a long wander.
On his way back, in a side street off Pile Allé, he found himself caught up in an incident against his will. A few short metres ahead of him, a gateway suddenly opened and a caretaker in grey overalls heavy-handedly propelled a sparrow of a man half his own size out on to the street. He had him by the scruff of the neck, showering him with abuse for whatever reason. Simonsen stopped. The caretaker let go of his victim, dropping him on the kerb on the other side of the road, where he rolled over in a heap, presumably drunk.