The bullet hit him square in the forehead above his left eye and exited from his lower skull, after which it continued on its path, striking the leg of an overturned desk, ricocheting diagonally downwards, piercing the door of the classroom cupboard and the knee of the girl who cowered inside it, then passing through her neck and spine, before finally embedding itself in the wall. Both children died immediately.
Outside, the shot echoed between the buildings. Simonsen automatically looked up towards the source and then back at the Countess, solemnly and without words. The operational commander approached them.
‘It’s over.’
It was almost noon and the situation at the Marmorgade school was under control. The Special Intervention Unit had left the scene, forensics were at work in the classroom and counsellors had been summoned. The mood was oppressive, conversation between the officers present clipped and businesslike.
Konrad Simonsen’s first day back at work was over, Arne Pedersen was insisting on driving him home. In the meantime, the Countess would have to take over. Pedersen would be back within the hour.
In the car Simonsen asked:
‘Haven’t you got better things to do than play chauffeur?’
‘Yeah, but I need to run some decision-making by you.’
‘It’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? We’ll have a fairly good idea of what exactly happened by the end of the day, then all you need is a motive and to find out how Robert Steen Hertz managed to get his hands on a submachine gun. You’ll have to deal with the press, but apart from that I’d focus mainly on making sure the boy was on his own. Because if he’s got mates with the same ideas and the same sort of weapons, you’re going to need to know as soon as possible. And one more thing: if you’re anticipating funding issues, now’s the time to put in for more.’
They discussed matters for a while. Arne Pedersen had a number of questions, Konrad Simonsen answered them. By the time they turned off towards Søllerød they had no more to say on the issue, and Pedersen changed the subject:
‘What about you anyway? How did it go with the Deputy Commissioner? Did she give you something to be getting on with?’
It was obvious he was only asking for the sake of politeness. His mind was still on the school shooting.
‘Of a sort, I suppose.’
Arne Pedersen said nothing, and Simonsen added:
‘Then I heard music.’
‘Music? What sort of music?’
‘Something that’ll make you smile.’
He explained about the resonance. Arne Pedersen was puzzled.
‘Is this important?’
Simonsen shook his head. No, it wasn’t important at all.
When he woke up after collapsing it had meant everything.
The cheerful, inciting overture from the fairground, where everyone was welcome. French horns tearing the old world apart and drawing the marvelling audience into the future. The singer whose optimistic vocals gripped his soul and for a moment dulled the pains in his chest. It was as if he had been allotted another chance, an opportunity to change his mind, alter his life, perhaps even understand it. And then the light intruded, he had felt the weight of his body and everything hurt. In vain he reached out to the music as the final notes drifted away, and the movement caused him to wince. Someone took his hand, and he opened his eyes.
Konrad Simonsen was on the job early, far too early for his own liking, but he came in with the Countess and she had more than enough to think about with the ongoing investigation into the shooting at the school. His schedule would have to bow to hers if they were to go in together. She smiled and was chirpy. The sooner you go in, the sooner you can go home again, think of it that way. She was right, of course, but going home early wasn’t actually an inviting prospect. Time spent on his own in Søllerød dragged, and the Countess herself probably wouldn’t be home until late. He felt pitiful and was annoyed with himself for the same reason. He still hadn’t properly rearranged his life after the heart attack, he thought to himself, and tried to think about something else instead.
Arriving at his office he found Pauline Berg there. She was lounging on the sofa in his annexe, as the little anteroom had swiftly been dubbed, watching TV. He dumped his briefcase on the desk and went in to join her. She switched it off and they said hello, though with little warmth. He studied her for a moment, still standing, long enough for her to look away. He sat down at the other end of the sofa.
‘You look like a dosser.’
He was right. She was wearing a pair of ragged old jeans and a grey man’s shirt whose sleeves and collar were all but threadbare. Her sandals were worn down, the leather in disrepair.
‘If you want to work for me, you can come in properly dressed,’ Simonsen told her.
‘I think I’ve got a pair of UFO pants at the back of my wardrobe, I’ll wear them tomorrow, if you like.’
Seeing that the threat cut no ice, she growled at him:
‘I wear what I want.’
‘No, you don’t. As from tomorrow, you wear what I want. Otherwise, you’re out of here. It’s your choice.’
She flashed him an angry look, but remained seated. He handed her the case folder the Deputy Commissioner had given him.
‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen, born 1951, Copenhagen. Unmarried, worked as a postman. Lived in Hvidovre, died falling down a flight of stairs in his home somewhere round the twentieth of February, which is to say about six months ago. Exact time of death unknown, deceased not having been found until some considerable time after the event.’
Pauline Berg replied in a rather disinterested tone:
‘Tell me about it. These things happen.’
He looked at her in annoyance before going on.
‘On the afternoon of Friday the twenty-ninth of February, a downstairs neighbour finds Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s body on the shared staircase. The man’s been dead for quite some time and the corpse has started to stink. Neighbour calls an ambulance, and we’re brought in as a matter of routine. A patrol car with two officers arrives at the scene, then shortly afterwards the district medical officer as well. He sends the two officers away, investigates the circumstances of death and writes out a certificate saying Jørgen Kramer Nielsen broke his neck in an accident falling down the stairs. In other words: no criminal police, no forensics, no pathology, just away to the morgue with him and then into a coffin.’
‘What a tosser.’
‘Indeed. But there’s an explanation. The district medical officer came straight from a slap-up dinner with the lads, stinking like a distillery. He could hardly walk straight.’
‘You mean, he was pissed?’
‘As a newt. No contention about that. So far, so bad. But it gets worse. One of the two officers called to the scene, a Hans Ulrik Gormsen…’
He sent her an enquiring glance to see if she knew him. She shook her head and Simonsen carried on.
‘This Hans Ulrik Gormsen says he had an idea that Nielsen had been murdered the moment he set eyes on him. And I’m afraid that’s a quote. His suspicion was due to the position of the body, along with the fact that the staircase down which Jørgen Kramer Nielsen ostensibly fell is only seven stairs. He took a number of photos of the body and the stairs with his mobile, measured up as well as he could and questioned the neighbour, apparently having cause to threaten the man with arrest. The neighbour, by the way, is a priest. It seems he wound up the medical officer the wrong way, too, which might be one reason why the case was closed so peremptorily.’