‘He wasn’t a detective, by the way.’
‘Well, that’s a comfort.’
‘My sentiment exactly. Is the front door usually kept locked?’
‘Always.’
‘Who’s got a key?’
‘I have, naturally. And my new tenants upstairs. Jørgen had as well, of course. Two sets, I imagine, though that would be a guess.’
‘And no one else? A cleaner, anyone like that?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Talking about cleaners, how often does the staircase get cleaned?’
‘Once a fortnight. That’s the agreement. We take turns, but… well, if you’re thinking about forensic evidence, or whatever you call it, I’m afraid the stairs have been scrubbed more thoroughly twice since February. I’m sorry about that. First, I made rather a point of it myself, vacuuming and washing the carpet. The body could have been there for some time.’
He paused, seeming ill at ease. Konrad Simonsen leaned on him.
‘And secondly?’
‘Well, my new tenants said there was a smell. Or rather, no, that’s a bit unfair. The woman thought there was, but only after she heard what had happened to Jørgen. Her husband and I shared the cost of getting professional cleaners in. They came and gave it the works. It was mostly to be neighbourly, if you understand?’
Konrad Simonsen sighed.
‘It can’t be helped. Do you mind if I have a look round on my own?’
The priest didn’t mind at all.
The entrance looked like entrances do. The main door opened on to a small, tiled hall, from which three steps led up to the first landing where the door to the ground-floor flat was. The staircase then continued up to the next landing, where Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s body had been found. Finally, there was a short flight up to the top landing, where there was a wardrobe and the door to the upstairs flat. The whole lot was carpeted, except for the tiles inside the entrance. The banister looked like it had just been painted, in shiny gloss, while the walls appeared white and pristine, hung with a couple of nondescript framed reproductions by an artist Simonsen didn’t recognise. A large, white glass pendant lamp hanging from the upstairs ceiling could have done with a good dusting, and the floor-level window on the upper landing, with its leaded, stained-glass panes, broke with the general impression of unerring suburban chic. Konrad Simonsen walked slowly up and down a few times, trying to focus his mind and senses, though with no other return than sore legs.
Pauline Berg had looked into Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s personal documents, an inquiry that had not been unproblematic. She reported back to Simonsen:
‘His stuff was in store with Express Move, at their premises on Peter Adlers Vej out in Hvidovre. Only when I got there, they were being picked up by a buyer. I had to threaten them with all sorts, then whizz out to the probate court in Glostrup and get the receiver to tie up his estate again. You can imagine the red tape, and you might as well prepare yourself for complaints coming in, since I had to give them a mouthful in court and elsewhere before they gave in. But that’s the fault of the Deputy Commissioner, she should have told them long since.’
‘Did you give her a mouthful, too?’
‘Yeah, but she wasn’t the worst. Those dithering suits in the probate court were. Would you believe I found his will? Or at least a yellowed envelope that said Last Will and Testament on it. Don’t ask me what was inside, because I left it unopened. Though not without ringing the receiver and telling him what I’d unearthed. Was he glad, do you think? Or even just a bit embarrassed by his own carelessness? Was he hell. And what’s more, he even had the cheek to expect me to drive over and drop it off with him in Glostrup. I told him where he could shove it, of course.’
‘Of course you did.’
She smiled, sheepishly.
‘So I had an angry day, I can see that now. But what would you have done?’
‘Dropped it off with him in Glostrup. But what I would have done is beside the point. I’ll deal with it, if anyone kicks up a fuss. Since you’ve put on some decent clothes for a change.’
Pauline Berg was in a neat, knee-length skirt and a simple poloneck sweater, both in shades of grey and eminently suitable had she been a librarian in her fifties, but definitely an improvement on yesterday’s get-up. She smiled again, wryly this time, he thought.
‘Did you come up with anything interesting?’ he asked.
‘There were far too many documents to get through in any detail, so basically all I could do was skim the surface. He had like a million exercise books with all sorts of sums in them… calculations, I think it must have been a hobby of his. He kept all his receipts from the local Netto as well, little bundles going back eleven years, with two figures written on the back. One for the amount and another that didn’t make any immediate sense. Apart from that, I don’t think there was anything interesting at all. But then we weren’t really looking for that, were we?’
He agreed: no, that wasn’t really what they were doing. She went on, hesitantly this time:
‘There’s always something you wonder about, though, isn’t there? I suppose it’s just people, isn’t it?’
Jørgen Kramer Nielsen owned an old-fashioned camera, for instance, and an enlarger with various equipment belonging to it, but she hadn’t come across any developed photographs at all. Moreover, from his bills she could see that Nielsen had bought pay-as-you-go SIMs, and there was a phone charger, too, but no phone. Her take was that it had probably found its way accidentally-on-purpose into the funeral director’s pocket. Simonsen was doubtful, but chose not to pursue the matter.
‘Anything else?’
‘He used a lot of window cleaner, looking at his Netto receipts. No idea why, anyone would think he had a greenhouse, which he didn’t. He had money, though, lots of it. At the time of his death there was almost one point seven million kroner in his account, money he got out of selling the house to the priest in nineteen ninety-nine. No unusual withdrawals or credits the last five years, though, apart perhaps from four hundred and forty kroner each month to his local Catholic parish.’
‘He was Catholic, then?’
Pauline nodded and looked at her watch.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got an appointment with my therapist in half an hour and you’ll be getting picked up soon anyway. What do you want me to do on Monday?’
He had no idea and promised to call. After she went, he looked at his own watch and realised she was right, it was time for him to be collected. They took turns driving him home, maybe they had a roster worked out, he didn’t know and hadn’t asked, but he hoped it was going to be the Countess today. They weren’t seeing that much of each other at the moment; she worked until late and had often already gone in again by the time he woke up in the mornings. Now it was the weekend, but most likely she still had her hands full with the school shooting. He gave a sigh and looked forward to being allowed to drive a car again. And then there was a knock on the door, the appointed time, right on the dot. They were certainly looking after him. It was a young constable this time. Simonsen had never seen him before.
On the Monday afternoon, Simonsen wasted his time interviewing the two ambulance men who had removed the body of Jørgen Kramer Nielsen from the staircase in February. Tracing them took a while and the statements they made were of no use at all. A phone call to the doctor who’d written out the death certificate had likewise drawn a blank. He said he couldn’t even remember the case, and Simonsen believed him. He was unable to get hold of Hans Ulrik Gormsen, and besides that there wasn’t much more he could do that day. It was astonishing how quickly four hours could pass.
The next day, a delightful Tuesday with sunshine and clear blue skies, began with Simonsen sounding out Hans Ulrik Gormsen’s former partner on the job. The female officer turned up looking spick and span in her uniform, with her cap under her left arm in a somewhat exaggerated display of correctness. She marched in and halted in the middle of his office, where she stood to attention like a tin soldier, sweating visibly, until he offered her a chair in which she then sat quite as rigidly and by the book as she had stood.