The chief constable seemed reasonable enough, and once Simonsen as far as he was able had given him some background on Pauline Berg’s behaviour, the man calmed down and showed himself to be rather co-operative. He could quite understand the problem from Simonsen’s point of view, but it wasn’t on, having an errant crime investigator running about on his patch, poking her nose into a case that wasn’t even a case, and which without a shadow of a doubt was nothing but a natural, albeit tragic, death. Simonsen could do little else but agree with the man: it wasn’t on at all. He promised to call back later in the day and assured the chief constable he would do everything in his power to rein in his runaway subordinate.
As soon as he’d uttered the words Simonsen realised he might be promising more than he was able to deliver. It was a concern confirmed only moments later when he called Pauline’s mobile, only to be put through to her answering service. He left a message telling her to get back to HS right away and without further ado, and wondered at the same time whether the Countess’s unauthorised contacts in telecommunications might be able to trace the phone so he would at least know where the hell Pauline was. But then he took a deep breath and tried to relax, telling himself it would be overkill. Then, after thinking again, he decided to see if he might have a quick word with the National Commissioner.
The secretary at the National Police Commissioner’s office was adamant once she heard what it was Simonsen wanted.
‘Not today, Simon. Not even for a minute, not unless it’s absolutely vital.’
He knew her welclass="underline" a friendly, efficient woman who without exception treated everyone with respect.
‘I can’t say that it is, I’m afraid,’ he said with a sigh.
She swivelled on her chair and looked him in the eye.
‘Is it about Pauline Berg?’
He wasn’t at all surprised that she was so well informed, and confirmed this.
‘I’ve heard she’s gone off on her own, but if it’s about disciplinary sanctions I can’t help you. I wouldn’t even book you in for another day. If she’s not breaking the law, or doing anything that might bring herself or others into danger, then no one can touch her. And there are no buts.’
This, too, came as no surprise to Simonsen. He knew the game only too well. But it left him with a problem, and she could help him with that.
Her response was affected, coquettish almost: what could she possibly do?
He told her as much as he knew. In her own mind, Pauline Berg now had the case she desperately wanted: her own. Apart from the fact that there was no case, though unfortunately there did seem to be some parallels with his own, which presumably had encouraged Pauline to snatch at this one.
‘Your dead postman?’
‘My dead postman, yes. But the woman from the Frederikssund police district wasn’t murdered, and besides that I’m sure it’s bad enough for her family as it is without them being dragged through a superfluous and unauthorised criminal investigation…’
He gave it the works, though within reason, realising she wouldn’t buy it if he came on too strong.
‘And you don’t think Pauline Berg will come to heel if you ask her?’ she asked.
‘I doubt it. A lot of the time she does what she wants, and it looks like she can get away with it, too.’
‘Yes, it looks like it. Tell me what I can do.’
Konrad Simonsen nodded towards the Commissioner’s closed door.
‘Get him to transfer the matter of the woman’s death to me. Then I’ll see if I can shut it all down nice and gently.’
‘How do you imagine I can transfer a case that doesn’t exist?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s the sort of thing you’re good at, if you want to be. All it takes is a few keystrokes, surely?’
‘And what do you suppose Nordsjællands Politi will have to say about that? They’ll think we’re idiots.’
‘I’ll drive up to Frederikssund tomorrow morning and explain it to the chief constable there in person.’
She thought about it for a moment. Her previous reservations about its feasibility evaporated. Eventually, she gave in.
‘OK, Simon, you win. You’ll have it in writing from him by tomorrow at the latest.’
Simonsen was irritable after this poor start to his day. He holed up in his office for a couple of hours, isolating himself from his surroundings with two reports from Interpol he had been meaning to read for a long time, without giving the postman case a thought. At intervals he called Pauline’s mobile, though each time unsuccessfully.
His mood improved considerably, however, when the interview with the priest and his bishop evolved into the most perfect piece of police work he had been party to in years.
Shortly before their ecclesiastical guests arrived, he went to Arne Pedersen’s office and found its occupant looking rather surprisingly unruffled. A few minutes later they were joined by a relaxed and smiling Deputy Commissioner dressed in bright yellow like an Easter chick, albeit regrettably an Easter chick with a mobile phone, and hardly had she entered the room before it began to ring. Konrad Simonsen and Arne Pedersen exchanged glances. Superiors who were present and yet half the time absent because of their very important phone calls were all too familiar to them both. But they were doing her a disservice: what the two men thought to be bad manners turned out to be sensible groundwork. The call was a short one. The Deputy Commissioner hung up and briefed them.
‘Just as I thought. That was the duty desk. Our guests are on their way and it looks like we should prepare ourselves for a display of ecclesiastical ceremony. But two can play at that game. I’ll be back in five minutes. No need to worry, the duty sergeant will keep them busy in the meantime. Let’s give them the reception they deserve.’
And with that she was gone.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ asked Arne Pedersen.
‘Dress, I reckon. Can’t be too sure, though. In five minutes all will be revealed. Are you nervous?’
‘I could have throttled you yesterday. Now I could give you a kiss.’
‘I’ll settle for something in between, if you don’t mind. But remember, don’t force things. You’re too impatient by half sometimes.’
When the Deputy Commissioner eventually returned she was in full uniform. The effect was that much more impressive, given the slightness of her frame: she was impeccably clad, with a display of badges of rank and insignia that would make even an untrained eye blink. Simonsen and Pedersen, far from untrained, both rose to their feet immediately. The symbolism was demonstrative: from the decorated shoulder straps to the cap under her arm, gold-braided foliage of oak luxuriating about the crown of the realm, all speaking its own unambiguous language of power.
‘Right, are we ready to receive our guests, Arne?’ she asked, buoyantly. ‘They’re on their way up now. It’s not exactly the first time in the history of our country that the crown and the cross have clashed. But I’m rather interested to see which of us will come out on top today.’
She held the door open for Arne Pedersen, who swiftly stepped out into the corridor ahead of her.
Konrad Simonsen lingered a moment in the office until he heard the door of the interview room close. He hurried into an adjoining room, where a two-way mirror allowed him to follow events as they unfolded.
The bishop, a man in his mid-forties with a fleshy, open face and a steady gaze, was in full choir dress. His cassock was of fuchsia silk that hung in folds about his large frame, and on his head was a matching zucchetto that, besides complementing the rest of his ecclesiastical garb, hid an encroaching bald patch that Simonsen noted when the man found himself compelled momentarily to lift the little skullcap in order to scratch his head. Most imposing of all, however, was the pectoral cross, a crucifix with corpus that hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. That, and the man’s unflappable calm.