The Countess wasn’t convinced.
‘I’m sorry, but this all looks like a gigantic cover-up, if you ask me.’
‘Well, in a way that’s exactly what it is. The report’s conclusion is correct given the premises, but Melsing also wanted to… protect a young intern of his who unfortunately messed up with the software application used in all the previous calculations. Since then, Melsing has been off on a course learning how to use it himself, including, most importantly for us, what they call reverse engineering modus. Whereas the intern proceeded very much by trial and error using different points of departure in order to achieve predetermined results, what Melsing did was to feed in the final result and then ask the software to work out the relevant points of departure. It may sound like a technicality, but it actually turns out to be crucial. Providing us with the results in such mathematical detail as he does is his way of covering our backs in case anyone in accounts starts to kick up a fuss. We’ve spent a lot of resources on the basis of the intern’s initial mistake.’
The Countess went from indignation to a warm smile.
‘I’m not sure if I’m the right person to say this, but I’m going to anyway: well done, Simon. You solved both cases, after all.’
Her words met with agreement all round. Case solved was case solved. It was as simple as that, no matter what the circumstances.
Simonsen looked at his watch:
‘Thank you, everyone. However, there is one thing that remains to be said. A few days ago I stood here playing the clown for you. I hope you enjoyed the performance, but now it’s time to stop. Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts, Lonely Hearts. That’s what I said. But I was wrong and you were right. There was no link. I can only apologise for my stubborn persistence in the face of that fact, and… well, let me just thank you all once again for your patience.’
As if she’d yet to cotton on, Pauline said:
‘Is that it, then?’
‘Not quite, but close. I’ve promised to inform our Deputy Commissioner. By rights, she ought to have been the first to know, so all lips sealed until I get back. If she accepts Melsing’s report, that’ll be the end of it.’
‘I can’t see her not accepting it,’ the Countess said. ‘What do you reckon, Arne? You’re the one who knows her best.’
‘Definitely. No two ways about it. What possible objection could she have?’
CHAPTER 13
It was 12 December, a Friday, the weather calm and dismally grey. It had been a night of violence in Copenhagen: three people had been wounded, one seriously, in a shootout involving bikers and members of an immigrant gang, while out in Amager a young man had been stabbed to death in a club. And yet, things were about to get worse. Much worse. During the morning, a pregnant young financial adviser to one of the big banks was murdered as she left home on her way to work. The perpetrator was a forty-four-year-old psychiatric outpatient, released from treatment the previous evening with a handful of pills and a prescription in his pocket. Not because he didn’t need help – plainly he did – but because no more beds were available, a chronic shortage now in its fifteenth year. The killing had been utterly without reason or premeditation. Moreover, it was an attack of the most brutal nature, the victim having been kicked to death. Curiously, this had taken place on Hambros Allé in affluent Hellerup. Normally, such incidents were confined to less privileged areas – housing estates comfortably remote from city centres, in the peripheral regions of the hinterland – only very seldom in areas whose inhabitants could afford private treatment for psychiatric illness. Certainly not in Gentofte Kommune, inside whose boundaries, clustered together within a radius of only a few hundred metres, resided assorted members of parliament, no less than three television presenters and two chief editors of national newspapers. The killing was hands-down the morning’s top story. A grave government minister appeared on television, genuinely affected by the incident. His daughter lived on the same street.
‘Do you mind if I switch it off?’ Simonsen said to Pauline, who was sitting sprawled at the opposite end of the sofa in his little annexe.
‘Be my guest. I can do without him going on.’
He pressed the remote.
‘I hear you and the Countess are taking some holiday,’ she said. ‘Are you going anywhere?’
‘I might. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Oh, well, I hope you have a nice time. What are we supposed to be doing today anyway?’
‘Melsing and I have got an appointment with the Deputy Commissioner in an hour to go through the Kramer Nielsen case for Hans Ulrik Gormsen and his mother-in-law from the Legal Affairs Committee. You can come with us, if you want.’
‘Do you need me?’ she asked, sounding disinterested.
‘Not really. But I don’t want you feeling left out. You’re the only one besides me who’s been with the case from day one.’
‘Will you be going through all those figures again?’
‘Of course. You don’t have to decide yet, though. Just come along, if you feel like it.’
She didn’t.
The presentation went off according to plan: none of their audience understood a word.
Kurt Melsing passed handouts around and held forth on the HOMS software application and his complex differential equations with their various physical and physiological parameters, eventually leading on to levels of significance and a statistically well-founded conclusion: Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s death was due to an accidental fall on the stairs outside the door to his flat. Only politeness prevented his exclusive audience of three from fleeing the building as he droned on.
Simonsen was affability itself.
‘Would you like us to go through it again? It can be rather opaque the first time around.’
No one took him up on the kind offer, and instead he turned to Hans Ulrik Gormsen.
‘Perhaps you’d like to comment from your side?’
His politician mother-in-law thought this to be a splendid idea and stared in anticipation at the former police officer who had initiated the whole matter as he rummaged hectically through the pages of his handout, only to declare red-faced:
‘Well, it seems obvious to me that the man fell down his own stairs. That’s what the calculations show. No doubt about it, none whatsoever. The science is quite clear about that.’
The woman beamed. Her son-in-law was a most gifted communicator. Simonsen took back the handouts.
On the Saturday, Konrad Simonsen moved out of his flat in Valby. He’d been dreading the day, but his sadness at leaving the place turned to gladness once he realised how excited Anna Mia was about her new home. The move itself didn’t take long at all, the Countess having hired a firm of professionals, and in no time the place was cleared and his stuff shifted into storage in his former gallery at the house in Søllerød.
Sunday afternoon he stopped by Police HQ, spending an hour clearing up the odds and ends of his investigation so he’d be ready to start on something new once he got back from his holiday. He finished a couple of reports he’d been putting off, making sure the case was archived in the proper manner. After that, he left together with Klavs Arnold, who’d come in to get his new office sorted out. Simonsen offered him a lift to Farum.
‘We just have to stop off in Valby first, I need to give my daughter some keys.’
Arnold accepted willingly, having only the vaguest notion of where Farum and Valby might be on a map.
Arnold went up the stairs to the flat with him, eager to say hello to his superior’s daughter. Simonsen led the way, only to discover the door was open. Inside, someone was hammering. They went in and followed the racket into the kitchen. Half the units had been ripped out and lay in bits in a heap on the floor. A pair of legs in blue jeans and sneakers poked out from under a cupboard. They weren’t Anna Mia’s.