Konrad Simonsen sat at his desk and tried to make his way through the stack of reports that had accumulated in remarkable number over the past couple of days. The task was impossible but he tried as well as he could, skimming mostly and crossing his fingers that others would have a better eye for the details. After a couple of hours of intense work his eyes started to water, which added to the difficulties of his work and also made him feel old. He adjusted his desk lamp and tried to continue for a while without his glasses. Neither helped. Then he found a stack of tissues at the back of his desk drawer and continued to read, wiping away his tears at regular intervals and cursing his colleagues’ inability to express themselves succinctly. In this way he managed to make his way through another five files and had just grabbed the sixth when there was a knock on the door and Arne Pedersen entered the room, almost before he had time to look up.
“Are you busy, Simon?”
“Yes, as you can see.” He let a hand fall heavily onto the stack of reports, deliberately singling out the wrong stack, one he had already read but that was now taller than the one he had not yet read.
Arne Pedersen nodded indifferently and asked, “Why are you crying?”
“My eyes aren’t what they once were. Tell me, does tissue paper have an expiration date? These are not very absorbent.”
He gathered up the used tissues that lay scattered in crumpled wads around his desk and swept them into the trash.
Pedersen replied, “They can be good or poor quality but I don’t think they have a sell-by date if that’s what you are asking. Maybe you should consider getting stronger glasses. You should go to an optometrist and get a check-up.”
“Thanks for the advice. What do you want? Is it important?”
“No, nothing special. I have something on that child-abuse e-mail that you asked me to take a look at, but I can send you my notes.”
“No, thank you, spare me any more notes. Sit down and tell me about it. It’ll be a good time for me to take a break.”
Pedersen sat down while his boss stood up to stretch his legs. He paused by the window for a short time and looked down over the city. The sun was going down and there was a strong wind. He turned back to his place and trained his eyes on his subordinate with a grim expression.
“Now that you’re here, there is one thing that we may as well get over and done with. One thing that I expect you to adhere to in future.”
His tone was more telling than his words and indicated that Simonsen was wearing his boss’s cap. Pedersen sat up in his chair.
“From now on I expect you to keep your amorous escapades separate from your work, and especially from my crime scenes, which you can define as the entire school building for now.”
“But—”
“And you can put away your aggrieved attitude. I have much better things to do with my time than convince Kurt Melsing to… shall we say, refrain from certain forensic investigations surrounding Per Clausen’s death.”
He held a hand out as a stop sign while he continued.
“And I do not want to know whether it was necessary or not. What I do wish, however, is that I will not be placed in a similar situation. Do we understand each other?”
Pedersen’s thin defenses collapsed. “Yes, we do. It won’t happen again.”
They sat in silence for a while, then Simonsen said, “So, what about that e-mail? What have you found out?”
“The server is German. Its physical location is in Hamburg and you can probably guess who accessed it. Or, rather, signed up for Web hosting on it.”
“Per Clausen?”
“Naturally. He’s had the account for a year and paid for it online with a credit card. The American e-mail addresses were uploaded there over the summer in several rounds from the library computer at the Langebæk School, so it is Per Clausen again, but the interesting thing is how the mail distribution was started. It was started from a cell phone that has been traced back to a transmitter erected where the Jyllingevej crosses Motorring 3, that is, in Rødovre. The IT nerds are writing a report right now that you’ll get Monday at the latest.”
“Cell phone, you say. What was the telephone number?
“The SIM card in question was sold at a Statoil station—we don’t know which one yet—but we’re working on it. In addition, the mail addresses were purchased from one or several sites. There were around five hundred twenty thousand, so it can’t have been cheap. There are a couple of folks working on that one as well.”
“Okay, Arne. I’m making a note that the e-mail mailings are linked to the crime through Per Clausen, which naturally is of interest but is also what we would have guessed. Clausen has also been taken to Rødovre to… oops, no, of course he hasn’t. For good reasons. I knew I was getting too old and tired for this job.”
Pedersen smiled crookedly and concluded on his behalf, “So Rødovre is a place that we should keep in mind in case it pops up in another context.”
“Yes, so far I’m with you. Anything else? Anything new with the identifications?”
“Not a thing. No one is missing these five, at least not yet, but Jens Allan Karlsen from Århus is of course about to get a visit. Also, the Countess and Pauline are in Middelford. Elvang’s pictures have been released, so the three remaining victims will be identified within a short period of time, even if we have to deal with the usual.”
“And what is the usual?”
“Yes, well, we have to assume we’re going to get a flood of wrong information. It would not surprise me if we spend most of tomorrow separating the wheat from the chaff. There are many who don’t want to see us clear this up.”
“That part is slowly becoming clear to me. Have some people ready to check the names. There’s not much else we can do. Did you find out why it was so urgent for Anni Staal to get the photographs a couple of hours before everybody else?”
“No, but maybe I can ask her this evening. I’ve promised to call her as soon as we can confirm a couple of the identifications.”
“Try that. And what about Clausen’s funeral?”
“Well, it was thoroughly photographed, as you know. But there were a lot of guests and we don’t know who most of them are so without a comparative basis we have nothing to go on. I have put a halt to the task of identifying the attendees.”
“With what motivation?”
“It requires too many resources in relation to the expected return. Not least because most of them can’t be expected to be cooperative. But I e-mailed you about it yesterday.”
“Hmm, I’m a little behind on my e-mail, but that sounds reasonable. Do you have anything else?”
“No, nothing of any significance.”
The conversation was over and Pedersen should have made a move to leave but he did not. Instead he squirmed on his chair, preparing to utter words that never came.
When the silence became embarrassing, Simonsen said, “Well, what is it? Come on, out with it, Arne. I don’t have oceans of time and you don’t either.”
“No, I know that… it’s just that… I’ve always thought it unpleasant to be reprimanded by you.”
“That’s the damn point. It should be unpleasant. But that’s over now. What’s your point? Hopefully not that I should feel sorry for you.”
“No, of course not. Not like that. But I was thinking about Pauline… I mean, it’s my responsibility… I mean, I was the one who led the way to the classroom where we found Clausen and—” He stopped short again.
“And what?”
Finally he came out with it: “And I would hope that you wouldn’t feel the need to say anything to her. That is, I hope it’s enough to have talked with me.”
Simonsen had not even considered confronting Berg about the matter. Now he frowned and stared down at his folded hands and nodded thoughtfully like a stern but just father who in this matter should consider letting mercy go before justice. Unfortunately, his expression stayed intact only until he looked up at Pedersen. Then he broke into a grin.
“In the first place, it took me a long time to summon the nerve to discipline you and—whether or not equal treatment is called for—this is the extent of it. I’m not going to get involved in who is together with whom except for the fact that you have orders to treat Pauline decently because I like her. In contrast to some of the others you’ve thrown yourself over.”
The atmosphere lightened; the boss was gone. Man-talk could resume. Pedersen said with relief, “I know it’s bad, Simon. With my family and my kids and all that. But I’m kind of into her. It’s like someone’s given me a present that I didn’t deserve.”
“Hm, I think you’ve gotten a number of packages before Christmas, from my recollection …”
Simonsen never finished his sentence. Suddenly he was struck by the thought that he had received a present recently. A book on chess, a book he had never expressed any thanks for. He struck his hand against the table with irritation and flushed alarmingly.
Pedersen asked with curiosity, “What is it? Tell me.”
But Simonsen did not obey this injunction. He pointed to the door.
“Absolutely not. It’s a private matter. Go on, get going.”