“I should thank you. I hope you find Maryann’s murderer. She did not deserve that fate.”
Pauline watched the car for a long time as it drove away. She should have said, No one deserved a fate like Maryann Nygaard’s.
Eight hours later Pauline Berg was in her bathtub, playing contentedly with the foam around her while the hot water washed away the hardships of the day. She had left the door standing open, and a smile broadened across her pretty face when she heard the front door to the house open and then close again. Without hurrying she let herself glide down in a carefully conceived tableau, her hair floating in a golden wreath around her and one arm dangling over the edge of the tub in a refined swoon. Millions of small bubbles covered her nakedness-like a coverlet of coquettish virtue, where only one well-formed knee suggested what was hidden below.
“Hi, Arne. Good thing you read the note. I’m not out of the bath yet. You’ll have to excuse me, there’s been a lot going on.”
She heard no answer and called again.
“Arne, what are you doing?”
Still silence. She straightened up and in the process destroyed her pose.
“Stop teasing me, it’s not funny. I don’t like it!” she called at top volume.
At the same time the light changed slightly in the corridor outside the bathroom. Then she heard the front door slam again. She started to feel anxious, until she heard his voice.
“Pauline, where are you? Is there something wrong?”
Suddenly he was standing in the doorway, and anger replaced panic.
“What are you doing? Why didn’t you answer? I was scared to death.”
“I forgot I’d left my toolbox in the car. Are you in the bath?”
The seductive prelude was spoiled, and Pauline made no attempt to revert to it.
“What does it look like?”
“I got your message. You did an amazing job today, and this is such a nice house. May I look around while you get ready?”
“Wait a little. Are those flowers for me?”
“That was the idea, as a housewarming gift.”
“They’re really beautiful, thank you. Would you mind setting them in the sink and putting a little water in the bottom? I’ll try to find a vase later in all the moving mess.”
He did as she asked. Then she told him to sit on the chair beside the bathtub. The house he could see later. She related her talk with the home care nurse in Roskilde and described the website where she had found the helicopter pilot.
“I’ve also cross-checked that he was the one who flew Maryann.”
“How could you do that?”
“The DYE-5 employee in the wheelchair, I found him at Østerbro. Strange man, almost impossible to get away from, but he was quite sure about it. At Roskilde Library I printed out twelve random faces and put the helicopter pilot in the middle, and the man in the wheelchair recognised him right away.”
“Brilliant, Pauline. They’ll be surprised tomorrow. I’m really happy for you. But you’re going to call Simon this evening, if you haven’t already done so.”
“Why is that?”
“Because that’s what you do when you’ve found out something important.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, I spoke with Greenland. They’ve found the remains of DYE-5 and you were completely right about the coordinates.”
“I’m good, aren’t I?”
He grinned.
“Do you happen to know how far it is between the two places?”
“I made it thirty-one kilometres,” Pauline told him.
“Thirty-one point three is what they got.”
“Greenland is welcome to those three hundred metres.”
She blew a puff of foam at him and slyly released the plug with one foot.
CHAPTER 7
Ingrid Thomsen did not say a word when she answered the door to Konrad Simonsen and the Countess. For a brief moment she silently assessed them both from head to toe, then turned on her heel and went inside, leaving the door standing open as a sign for them to follow her.
The living room was as Simonsen remembered it from ten years before. Minor details he had forgotten in the meantime were now brought back to life before him. They made him feel sad. The light red imitation marble of the windowsills that clashed with the flowered curtains. The bric-a-brac shelf with the polished conch shells, neatly arranged by size and shape. A picture of Jesus over the sofa posing in a jewel-studded purple tunic, an abundant halo around his head. And then her hands. They were bony like she was, red and strong, hands that were used to hard physical work. She twisted them around in a slow, methodical movement, as if all the pain in the world could be kneaded away between them. That’s how it was then, and that’s how it was today. He tried to ignore the movement, holding her gaze while he explained rather clumsily why he had come. She listened without comment.
He sat down on the couch alongside her. The Countess had chosen a chair by the dining table at the other end of the room. She did not get involved in the conversation. From time to time he sneaked a glance at her and every time felt a sting of irritation at her presence. She should have stayed in the car. This situation was hard enough for him and superfluous listeners did not make it any easier. He explained about Greenland and then compared the killings of Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen. Twice he confused the victims’ names without noticing it himself. Ingrid Thomsen listened, condemning him while saying nothing. His legs were tingling worse than ever, which for once he welcomed. It was as if he deserved the pain. Suddenly Ingrid Thomsen interrupted him.
“That’s just the way it is.”
Those were the first words she had spoken since they arrived. Her voice was dark and melodic, and suited her poorly. He had also forgotten that. She repeated the statement in slightly varied form.
“Things can’t be done over again. That’s the way it is.”
He did not know if he should continue his monologue, but chose to remain silent, while still looking her in the eyes. The pause was long and awkward, and finally she continued speaking.
“What is it you really want? My forgiveness for what you did to my husband? Is that why you’ve come? Or do you expect sympathy perhaps?”
Simonsen had asked himself several times what the purpose of his visit really was, without finding a reasonable answer. Suddenly it felt imperative that he should tell her that the police, and he in particular, had made mistaken accusations against her husband. But would that be enough? Perhaps, just as she had said, it was her forgiveness he wanted, whatever that meant. He avoided answering. Suddenly she stopped her hand-wringing and struck the palm of one hand on the tabletop in front of her. Although the sound was not loud, it made him jump.
“Carl Henning and Catherine are in Ulse Cemetery, under the chestnut tree out towards the parking lot. Why don’t you go there and talk to them?”
Simonsen got to his feet and answered her quietly.
“I did not fabricate false evidence against your husband, while in all likelihood Catherine’s murderer did. And I did not kill your husband, he did that himself.”
“You were just doing your job.”
The sarcasm did not affect him. He maintained his calm.
“Yes, exactly. I was doing my job. Regrettably for you I was mistaken, which was very unfortunate. But yes, I was just doing my job.”
They let themselves out.
He sat in the back seat of the car, where he took off his shoes and put his feet up on the seat. That helped the restlessness in his legs. The Countess drove out of town. As the buildings began to thin out, she asked carefully, “Do you want to go out to that cemetery?”
“No, we’ll skip the church, but stop if you see a pub. I want a beer and a cigarette.”
She turned her head and smiled quickly at him.
“That sounds like a splendid idea.”
“And then I want another beer and cigarette.”
He smiled defiantly, almost childishly. She gave him another quick smile. Then she started looking for a pub.