He greeted her warmly and noted that she now wore her hair short and that her clothes were informal, not to say slovenly. She straightened up on the sofa and smiled at him, a sad, almost apologetic smile, followed by a shrug that told him far better than words that she wished everything could have been different. That went for both of them, he thought to himself, before addressing everyone in the room.
‘Thanks for the kind reception, and for such lovely flowers.’
It was all he could think of, adding awkwardly almost as an afterthought:
‘Maybe we should have some breakfast. It looks just the job.’
At the same moment the door to the office was flung open and Arne Pedersen burst in with a wild expression in his eyes. He grabbed Simonsen by the arm and barked out:
‘Everyone, now! We’ve got a shooting just round the corner at Marmorgades Skole.’
He waved his free arm in the air, then swept it in a sixty-degree arc in what was actually the opposite direction from the school.
‘One of the kids has gone berserk with a submachine gun. It’s a massacre.’
When Konrad Simonsen arrived in the playground of the Marmorgade school everything was chaos. No one seemed to have any kind of grip on the situation, and it was hard to find out what had actually happened. Worse than that, the evacuation of the premises was sloppy and unco-ordinated, children and adults alike running around in confusion. Someone had set off the fire alarm, so a lot of the teachers thought it was a fire drill, and as procedure dictated were busy getting the pupils to assemble in the playground and trying to count heads. Outside in the street a crowd of inquisitive onlookers had gathered, pressing their noses to the fence, and in the building opposite people were leaning out of their windows to get a glimpse of what was going on. Police were there in numbers, but the efforts of the rank and file seemed quite as disorganised, and most of them seemed merely to be standing around waiting, staring up at the windows.
Having consulted a number of teachers at random, none of whom knew anything at all, Konrad Simonsen was eventually more fortunate. A secretary at the school had spoken to a pupil who had jumped out of a window to get away from his class. The boy in question had already been taken off to hospital, but the secretary’s account of what he had told her was the closest Simonsen could get to hard facts. It seemed a pupil in Year 11, Robert Steen Hertz, had shot and killed two teachers and that he was in possession of an automatic firearm. At present, the boy was in his classroom on the second floor, where he was holding his classmates hostage if he hadn’t already killed them – no one knew. The classroom had four windows facing the playground. The secretary pointed them out. They were approximately in the middle of the building.
Konrad Simonsen’s knowledge of school shootings was somewhat limited, but one thing he did know was that in every case with which he was familiar, the perpetrator had run amok in a frenzy of bloodlust and made sure to kill as many people as possible, just for the hell of it. He looked around the playground and a shudder ran down his spine. An automatic weapon fired from one of those windows would leave dozens dead, at least.
His priorities were therefore obvious. They needed to clear the playground as quickly as possible, then move the onlookers away and ensure all occupants of the building opposite stayed back from their windows. He instructed Arne Pedersen to get the road cleared, almost yelling the order into his ear: ‘Get it cleared, then cordon off at both ends.’ After that, he collared two of the nearest constables and a number of teachers for good measure and hectically explained to them what needed to be done. Everyone in the street to be moved on. Quickly and efficiently, but no running, and most importantly no one anywhere near the fence. Simonsen repeated his orders, after which he ran into the middle of the playground and rounded up a new group of officers and teachers whom he instructed in the same way.
A constable handed him a loudhailer. His voice echoed between the buildings: ‘Everyone out into the street, away from here immediately! Walk with haste, but don’t run. Older pupils help the younger ones. Keep access free. No running, no pushing. Use truncheons or mace if necessary, access must be kept free.’ The latter order was of course directed at the police officers present, and while he would surely have won no prizes for unambiguous communication, he was nevertheless understood. He repeated: ‘Out into the street. Move away. Do not run. Do not shove. Older pupils help the younger ones. Access to be kept free, access must be free.’
His orders worked, the situation stabilised. Astonishingly quickly, the playground emptied, and after it the street outside. Konrad Simonsen let go of the loudhailer. It fell to the ground where it rolled back and forth for a while in a semicircle. Only when he realised he was now standing on his own in the middle of the playground did any thought for his own safety occur to him.
‘We should get out of here, Simon.’
The Countess appeared behind him, wearing a bulletproof vest and holding another in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the second-floor windows as she spoke. He barked again:
‘Where the hell’s the Special Intervention Unit? Have you heard anything? They’re supposed to be rapid-response, what the bloody hell are they doing? It’s situations like this…’
She cut him off with a hand on his shoulder.
‘They’ll be here within five minutes.’
He glanced at his watch and could see he’d only been here himself for ten. It felt like an hour.
‘We’ve got more pupils inside the building.’
‘They’re being led out through other exits. Come on.’
She bundled him away at a trot. He turned to her as they went.
‘Have you learned anything about what happened?’
‘Indications are we’ve got at least two dead, both teachers. We’ve got the second-floor corridor sealed, but we’re not going in, we’re leaving that to the professionals. The body of the class teacher is in front of the classroom door. She’s been shot in the head, so we can assume she’s dead. We’re leaving her where she is for the moment.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘No one knows.’
‘How many?’
‘About twenty-five.’
They found cover behind a patrol car parked on the street in front of the school. The Countess handed Simonsen his bulletproof vest. He put it on and realised to his surprise that it was a perfect fit.
Confusion still prevailed. The Special Intervention Unit had arrived in two vehicles, but were experiencing difficulties getting through the police line on Vester Voldgade. Two badly parked ambulances and a crowd of curious onlookers were blocking their way. Simonsen turned his head in surprise. Behind him, a journalist from Denmark News had commenced an on-the-spot report, jabbering excitedly into her microphone about the bullets that any minute now could be flying about in all directions, and commenting that no one would feel safe as long as the killer was still on the loose inside the school buildings. She, too, had found cover behind the patrol car, while her cameraman fearlessly stood up as he filmed her. Simonsen ordered a constable to get rid of them, then asked the Countess:
‘Are we sure he’s got an automatic weapon?’