The Countess had borrowed an office at the police station in Odense Midtby.
Someone banged on the door and was told to enter. An unusually large man in his early thirties was led into the room and placed in front of her. One of his eyelids drooped, which gave him an unsettling, almost pleading look, a comic touch. The officer left the room and she let the man sweat in silence for a while before she began the interrogation.
“My name is Nathalie von Rosen and I’ve been sent here by the Crime Division in Copenhagen. And you are in some deep shit. That goes for your brother too.”
The man’s upper lip trembled and his reply came haltingly: “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m pretty sure I want a lawyer.”
“Well, I can understand that, and you’ll certainly have use for one. I’ve come straight from the hospital, where I listened to your victim talk, or whatever it is one should call what he did in order to make himself understood. You know, it’s hard to talk properly with a broken jaw.”
“That was an accident.”
“Yes, you could say that. And a serious one at that. A broken wrist, two broken ribs, a broken nose, the broken jaw I already mentioned, blows and kicks all over his body, and I’m sure I’m not remembering half of it. Then there is the other accident that transformed his apartment into a dump.”
The giant was fighting back tears, the lawyer forgotten.
“We didn’t know that it wasn’t his video.”
“And if it had been, it would have been perfectly all right to beat him to a pulp?”
“We can’t stand people like that.”
“No, that appears to be a trend these days, but in the eyes of the law there is no difference who the owner of the offending video was. What may make a difference is the fact that your abused friend does not wish to press charges. He claims that he understands you, and I have to say that he must be an unusually tolerant person.”
A small spark of hope was lit in the man’s eye.
“He doesn’t want to press charges?”
“He doesn’t, no. He is hoping that you can come to an agreement about a reasonable restitution for the damages his home has suffered, but don’t get too excited. Your prayers won’t help you because if he isn’t willing to press charges, I will. That is to say, formally it will be the public prosecutor but practically speaking he will act on my orders. And I may as well add this—you will be regarded as lost cause. We are talking about an extreme act of violence that was premeditated and took place in the victim’s own home, which will count as strongly incriminating. My educated guess is that you stand to get at least six years in prison but that will be up to the judge. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and get away with five.”
The prediction was wildly exaggerated. She pressumed the man to be fairly ignorant of the law and she was right. Her talk about six years hit him like a ton of bricks. Pleading and confused, he managed to get out, “But when the charges have been dropped, why do you want to put us in prison? You know it was an accident. You know we aren’t thugs.”
She got up and walked behind him, satisfied with the way things were going.
“Why do I want to press charges? What I should give you right now is a speech about justice and vigilantism and that kind of thing. But truth be told, it’s because I’m in a bad mood.”
“Because you’re in a bad mood?”
“You heard me. When my mood is bad, I get very unpleasant. If I’m not feeling good, I don’t want others to. That may strike you as small-minded but such is life and it is awfully unfair that I should have to be in a bad mood, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course, but… but …”
“You haven’t even asked me why I’m in such a bad mood.”
“Oh no, sorry. Why are you in such a bad mood?”
“It’s thoughtful of you to ask and I will tell you why I feel this way. Yesterday I interrogated a woman who as a child was sexually abused by her own father. It was a stinky job but someone had to do it, and it fell to me. In addition, I’m in a foul mood because of the newspapers. I can’t stand what they write. And last but not least, I’m in a terrible mood about the fact that I can’t go home and relax because I’m tied to a big case that I wrestle with day and night. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“Yes, of course. I feel bad for you.”
The big man looked more like someone who felt sorry for himself.
The Countess sat down in her chair and continued. “This morning I thought I had a good idea that would make me happy again. Namely, I’ve got a lead on a… gentleman, shall we say. He is from Fredericia and in contrast to your poor friend his sexual preferences are clearly directed at the younger age bracket. Much younger, when he can manage it. If he wishes, there is no doubt that he could help me and tell me things that would otherwise take me a very long time to find out. So I’ve requested some reports on him: name, pictures, and such.”
She allowed her hand to fall on a dossier that lay on the table between them.
“Actually I had been planning to go out to the Gudme Sports Complex to see if I couldn’t get somewhere with him. There’s a youth-wrestling tournament and he’s planning to be in the audience, but I’ve given it up. The problem is that whatever I ask him, and even though it is in his best interest to cooperate with me, I know that he will not help me one bit. He will clam up like an oyster and just wait for me to give up and leave. What I want is for him to get a stroke of inspiration. That he would suddenly realize that he ought to do his duty as a citizen and give me information from his… environment. That would make me happy.”
Her listener was somewhat slow on the uptake. “That would make you happy?”
“Yes, you can bet it would. Simply the thought that there is someone who might be able to convince him to meet with me puts me in a decidedly better mood.”
“So you want us to—”
She interrupted him sharply: “I have nothing to do with the specifics of who talks to whom. But, as I said, it would make me happy if he—unharmed and unmolested—were to be enticed to have a little chat. Please make a special note of that phrase: ‘unharmed and unmolested.’”
“Unharmed and unmolested. Sure, I get it, as gentle as a lamb. We won’t hit him. Never again, never ever again.”
“That sounds very sensible, but oh my goodness—look at the time. I really don’t have time to sit here chatting with you. Wait until you see the Dagbladet and then you’ll understand what I am up against. And tonight the GOG women are playing against Randers with a home-court advantage. That’s a game I simply have to see now that I’m in Odense. First handball and then a cup of coffee in the cafeteria after the game. From a quarter past ten.”
The Countess stood up.
“I’m going to go and ask if the guardsman is ready to release you. During this conversation I have come to realize that I would like to think a little more about this matter before I decide to press charges. Now, remember not to look in this file while I’m gone.”
She locked the door behind her and mumbled, “Lucky bastard.”