“Why in the world is that?”
“After the municipal mergers there was a lot of trouble about the old museum administration, so my simple request has now gone up to director level, and, ye gods, what a director. Helle Oldermand Hagensen, she and only she is the one who grants access for third parties to the museum’s non-publicly accessible collections. The latter is unfortunately a quote. So I had to wait three solid hours until she was done with some public meeting or other-and that was after she’d cancelled our first meeting.”
“Couldn’t the museum appointment be made by phone?”
“Well, unfortunately not, the director wanted to see who she was dealing with in person.”
“Did you say that this concerned a serious crime?”
“Yes, of course. But she was completely indifferent. The result was that I’ve been granted an hour tomorrow evening… ”
The Countess stuck her nose in the air and said unctuously, “This must be done in an hour, Officer Rosen, I don’t have more time than that, you must understand.”
Pedersen observed her with curiosity and then said, “Your eyes look evil, that’s unusual.”
The Countess let out a curt, joyless laugh.
“Evil eye? Well, maybe I’m trying out a little good old-fashioned black magic. Abracadabra-Mrs Hagensen, may your milk never curdle.”
She had spoken in a low voice, almost mumbling. Pedersen asked, “What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”
“Never mind, I’m just trying to distance myself from her a little.”
Simonsen muttered in irritation. “It’s completely indefensible that she is allowed to hinder a murder investigation. There must be someone she reports to. Should I exchange a few words with them tomorrow morning?”
“No thanks. I’ll manage on my own, and maybe I’ll find something that can put her in her place. I’m not completely new to this job after all. But the problem is that what I’m rooting around in is a trifle complicated. I don’t want too much controversy about what I’m doing.”
“No, I’ve noticed that.”
The irony was clear. Pedersen wondered what was going on here. He had no idea what the Countess was working on, but that Simonsen was obviously not fully informed either seemed almost bizarre. The Countess guessed his thoughts and hurried to ask, “How did your chess games go?”
“Chess game. We only had time for one, and Simon won, obviously. Unfortunately I’m not as good as I thought I was.”
Simonsen nodded his agreement. The Countess did not let herself be convinced. She slid down from the armrest and over behind Pedersen, where to both men’s surprise she set one hand on his shoulder. In the past there had been problems between them, so the gesture was unexpected.
“I don’t believe that for a moment. On the contrary, you are certainly a competent chess player or your game would never have taken over three hours, but now you should head home so Simon can get his night’s sleep. You look worn out yourself.”
The two men said goodbye in the hall. Simonsen opened the front door. Pedersen pressed him about their next chess appointment.
“But we will play another time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it true that I’m bad?”
“Yes, you mustn’t listen to her, she has no appreciation of chess.”
Simonsen’s tune was a little different when fifteen minutes later the Countess kissed him goodnight and hustled him upstairs and into bed.
“If I had his talent, I could have reached IM level.”
“And if I was sitting on a rack, I could have become a dressmaker’s dummy. Good night, Simon.”
“It’s only a matter of time before he beats me.”
“It’s only a matter of time before you fall asleep. A short time.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Work.”
“On what?”
“Good night and sleep well, Simon.”
CHAPTER 19
He is a child, and he is lying in his bed at night. The room is illuminated by a weak bulb set directly in the socket, which gives off a subdued green light that has a soothing effect on children. He is afraid of the night light, but even more afraid of the dark.
In the room there is a window that faces the forest. It is made up of two parts, each with six small panes divided by peeling white bars. All four hasps are securely fastened, and the curtain is drawn completely. If the hollyhocks get too high, his father nails a tack to the sill and ties up the stalks, so they don’t knock against the panes in the wind. He is afraid of the window, but even more afraid of the unknown outside.
When fatigue overcomes his anxiety he falls asleep, but is wakened by a soft sound coming from the window behind the curtain. A small, metallic clack. It is the witch pulling the hasps up one by one. A witch can do that sort of thing, pull hasps off windows from outside.
At first her dark green silhouette is enlarged upon the wall. Then he sees her little body as she crawls in with difficulty. Her limbs are long and slender like spider’s legs, her fingers crooked, her nails sharp. With a quick pull she tears the curtain away and looks greedily at him with her small, blinking eyes. Her dirty hair sticks out in tufts, but the worst thing is the mouth. It is missing.
He runs.
As fast as he can, he bolts down a hallway. At the end his mother is standing with her arms open, but the faster he runs, the farther away she is. The witch is right behind him. He hears her panting, smells her. Finally, finally he reaches his mother, throws himself against her and hides his face in her skirt, while he weeps with relief and notices how she holds him protectively.
That is how the nightmare begins.
He looks up, but it is not his mother’s face he is looking into; it is the witch’s.
As far back as Arne Pedersen can remember, he has suffered from nightmares. Always the same, and always with the same result, namely that he wakes up bathed in sweat from head to toe, with a fear inside that it takes the rest of the night to overcome. In his childhood this happened often, once or twice a week when it was at its worst. As an adult he experiences it much less often. Six months might pass in between episodes; plenty of time to repress the memory, until one night there it is again. Like the flu, only over more quickly. For this reason his recurring nightmare has no further effect on his life, and so far he’s paid no particular attention to it. It is a congenital nuisance, there is nothing more to say about it. His mother called it the bad dream. His wife refers to it simply as it… “My God, did you have it again?”… and always sweetly gets up with him and makes him a cup of chamomile tea, before she goes back to bed again. He wishes she wouldn’t.
Now for the third night in a row he’d been awakened by the nightmare, and he could not remember that ever happening before. Either as a child or as an adult. His wife was worried. She set down the mug of chamomile tea on the table beside him and asked cautiously, “Is there something wrong, Arne? Is something bothering you?”
He shook his head, nothing was wrong.
“If this keeps up, you’ll have to see a doctor.”
She was right. He had basically not slept and that could not go on, as she matter-of-factly pointed out a few times. As if she needed to tell him. He shrugged it off, and shortly afterwards she went to bed. He chucked the chamomile tea down the sink and poured himself a cognac, moderate, not too big-it wouldn’t help anyway. With the palms of his hands he massaged his temples briefly, while he hissed to himself, “I want to kill him.”
And shortly afterwards, “I swear, I fucking want to kill him.”