Simonsen’s high spirits carried over into his home life. Full of himself, he lectured the Countess and his daughter about the virtues of persistence and luck.
‘How I wish I’d inherited some of your genius, Dad. But what is it you’ve found out about this postman of yours? Or haven’t you?’
The Countess chipped in. Of course he’d found something out. He’d been going around with that silly grin on his face for three whole days now.
She turned and looked at him.
‘Where have you been all day, anyway? The last person to see you at HS was Pauline. She said you were playing stupid games in your office and looked like you’d gone soft in the head.’
‘National Centre of Forensic Services in Vanløse. I was with Kurt Melsing most of the day and will be tomorrow, as well. The things you learn out there. Do you know, they’ve got this machine… you can put anything you want in it and it’ll tell you the chemical make-up of it. A gaschromo-something-or-other, they call it. You put, say, a rubber eraser in it and it’ll spit out a whole lot of complicated-looking graphs that apparently aren’t nearly as complicated as they look, because they’ve all got regular chemical designations with numbers attached. Then what they do is, they feed a computer with these designations and hey, presto, it’ll tell you you’ve got a rubber eraser. It’s marvellous, and all for as little as just under a million kroner.’
‘All right, I’m with you. You’re not going to tell us. But you might at least say when we can expect to be informed of whatever it is you’ve come up with.’
‘Yes, Dad, I’m dying to know, too.’
‘Patience, ladies. Everything comes to she who waits, and if you wait long enough they’ll make you Queen of Sweden, as the saying goes. I know there are two of you but Sweden’s a big place, a vast country. There’ll be enough of it for both of you. One of you can have the north, the other the south. You can even swap around once in a while.’
Anna Mia gave up.
‘And you can be King Daft-Arse and I can find myself another dad. Come on, Nathalie, let’s leave him on his own. He doesn’t deserve us.’
Word spread quickly at Police HQ. Simonsen had solved the postman murder. Everyone, it seemed, had it on good authority, from someone who knew someone else who was one hundred per cent reliable. Only a few short months previously, not a single soul could have cared less about Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s death; now it was just the opposite. The Countess could hardly get her work done for people poking their heads round the door on some stupid pretext, each excuse lamer than the last, and while they were there, what was it they’d heard about that killing out in Hvidovre? Eventually, she put a note on her door saying she didn’t have a clue about the matter, and when that didn’t help she called it a day and went home. Even the Deputy Commissioner stopped by Simonsen’s own office, for no reason in particular other than to hear how he was getting on. She could be Queen of Sweden, too, he thought to himself, and what a divided country that was turning out to be.
‘Promise me I’ll be the first to be informed when you’re ready,’ she said.
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Not that I normally need to know things the second they happen, but HS is buzzing, and… well, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Simonsen, without the faintest idea what she was on about.
That same evening he called a meeting for the next morning at eight, knowing full well he was leaving it late and that eight o’clock was early, two facts he thought might just cancel each other out. In the morning they were all there on the dot. He himself arrived a couple of minutes late, carrying a box full of pastries from the baker’s and a bag of peeled carrots.
He stood in the middle of the room with the air of a televangelist.
‘Very nice of you all to come. As I’m sure most of you know, since my heart attack I’ve been forced to change my habits rather drastically, and part of my new regimen consists of a daily jog. The first time out was more literally a walk, but gradually…’
He spent ten minutes telling them about his triumph: yesterday, for the first time, he had managed to run the entire way! Which called for pastries and organic carrots all round.
Some time passed before everyone had settled. Eventually, Klavs Arnold said:
‘Was that it?’
‘Well, it’s not my birthday, but I’ve got a packet of raisins in my lunch box if you’re still hungry.’
They trickled away to avoid further embarrassment, bumping into a seething Deputy Commissioner in the corridor outside. Arne Pedersen stopped her to explain. Simonsen offered her a carrot.
The next day was more serious. They were all there again, realising that yesterday’s stunt would not be repeated, if only because Simonsen clearly was in a more solemn mood. He began by handing round a report. It was rather a comprehensive report, and a quick leaf through its pages revealed that its subject matter was by no means easily fathomed. The Countess frowned and asked:
‘What is this, Simon? A dissertation in physics, or what? What sort of person would understand this?’
He ignored her and commenced more formally.
‘First off, I’d like to thank you all for the hard work and effort you’ve put into this case. Sometimes more in spite of than because of me, for which I would like to apologise. Now to the matter at hand. I know it’s rather symbolic, but it was extremely important to Melsing that he provide us with a most thorough analysis in this instance. I’m afraid that might slightly have affected the readability of the thing.’
Pauline chipped in:
‘Slightly? It might as well be Greek.’
‘Not at all. It’s mathematics and mechanics, with a bit of anatomy and physiology thrown in for good measure. Newton and Hippocrates, you could say. But perhaps we ought to start with the conclusion. After all, it’s the most important bit.’
He flicked through to the end and quoted:
‘“Assuming the premises of our calculations to be correct, what this means is that the position of the deceased’s body on the stairs may beyond reasonable doubt be taken to be the result of accident.”’
‘You mean Kramer Nielsen just fell down the stairs? Is that it?’ the Countess exclaimed in astonishment.
‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen fell and broke his neck. There’s no doubt about it now.’
Arne cut in:
‘That bloody idiot.’
‘It’s not his fault he wasn’t murdered. It could happen to anyone.’
‘Not him – Hans Ulrik Gormsen. His mother-in-law, too, for that matter.’
‘Yes, but think of the positive results the investigation’s yielded. You can’t say our efforts have been in vain. Perhaps I should run through the main points so you get the general idea. So, Melsing drew up the report himself, separating Kramer Nielsen’s fall into eleven different stages, each accompanied by illustrations and the complex differential equation they use to work out how the relevant forces impacted on the position of the body during each phase of the fall. The blue arrows are velocity vectors for each object or part of the body viewed in partial isolation. Basically it’s all spatial geometry using the staircase as its system of co-ordinates. The various parts of Kramer Nielsen’s body considered individually can be seen in attachment six.’
Arne Pedersen capitulated and closed his folder. Klavs Arnold, however, wasn’t so quickly thrown.
‘What are all these figures above each… what did you call it… complex differential equation? The ones in the curly brackets.’
‘Well spotted, Klavs. They’re crucial. What it is is an overview of the estimated or measured parameter values. You can see how the various parameters and values are matched at the different stages of the fall in attachment eleven’s attachment four. But to give an example, the coefficient of kinetic friction between the carpet and the deceased is calculated to be one point two with a degree of uncertainty of nought point eight per cent. That’s at eighteen degrees centigrade.’