Simonsen asked her to outline what had happened, without expecting any other information than he already had. But then she mentioned a detail he realised he’d overlooked. It was about blood. Or rather, the lack of it.
‘Well, he was just lying there dead, without any real blood or anything, just dead.’
‘He hadn’t bled at all?’
‘Not really. I didn’t see blood, as such.’
‘As such?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He felt the urge to shake her into a more relaxed posture, though it would hardly have been possible had he tried.
‘Did you see something that resembled blood, but wasn’t?’
It was a stupid question, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
‘No, sir, I didn’t.’
‘Try and close your eyes and think back to that staircase, then tell me what makes you think you saw something that wasn’t blood as such.’
She closed her eyes, then said:
‘Because there was a wound on one of his hands. Like an abrasion, only it hadn’t bled. It was just the skin that had been grazed away, probably during his fall. You might be able to see it on the photos Hans Ulrik took with this phone. I’d definitely think so.’
Simonsen grabbed a ring binder from the shelf behind him, pulled out the printouts and saw that she was right. The abrasion on Kramer Nielsen’s right hand was visible on about half the images. Rather clearly at that, once you knew it was there.
‘May I open my eyes again, sir?’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. And thanks, you’ve been a great help.’
‘Am I done?’
He saw how she almost trembled with nerves, her frightened eyes glued to the floor. He had never seen a police officer as tense before. He folded his hands in front of his chin, considering her for a few seconds, before saying:
‘Yes, you’re done.’
She was gone before he could say ‘knife’. He called Pauline Berg and told her what the female officer had said.
Pauline Berg knew the officer in question and had worked with her before moving on to Homicide. When Berg and Simonsen met up the next day, she said:
‘I don’t get it. I’ve never seen her like that at all, nothing like.’
‘Then it’s a pity you weren’t here, because I’ve never seen anything like it either. What did Melsing say anyway?’
He had asked Pauline to go over to the National Centre of Forensic Services and get the department’s director, Kurt Melsing, to go through the photos of the dead postman, just to hear his immediate reaction. Pauline said:
‘He grunted a bit and flicked through them, then he said there were all sorts of ways you could fall down a flight of stairs.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Just about. If we want it looked into properly, he said he’d have to send people out to the scene and would probably need the original photos… and besides that we’d have to wait six months. They’ve bought this software from the US that might be able to help us, but no one’s really learned how to use it yet. You and Arne are to give him a ring if we want it doing officially.’
Simonsen shook his head.
‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘I told him we probably didn’t. Anyway, it’s my turn to drive you home today and we’d better get going.’
They hardly spoke in the car, except for a few brief exchanges.
‘They’ve found out how the fat kid got his hands on that submachine gun. Arne’s going to give you a call later on.’
‘Be more respectful. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Then shortly afterwards:
‘Are you sure she was actually shaking? It doesn’t sound like her at all,’ Pauline observed.
‘If I said she was shaking, she was shaking.’
‘Do you mind if I have a word with her?’
Simonsen turned and looked at her.
‘About Jørgen Kramer Nielsen’s phone?’
‘Yes.’
As Pauline Berg had said he would, Arne Pedersen called Simonsen that afternoon. He was half dozing, half daydreaming, and sounded miles away when he answered the phone.
‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ Pedersen asked.
‘No. I was just thinking about a girl I used to know a long time ago.’
Pedersen apologised for having interrupted, a bit embarrassed by Simonsen’s frankness. It wasn’t like him to share that sort of thing. He told his boss about the submachine gun.
Robert Steen Hertz, the boy who had shot Tobias Juul at the school on Marmorgade, had a good friend in the States, a lad by the name of Russ Andrews, from Burlington, Vermont. Hertz had met him just over a year ago when his class had been over there in Year 10 on a school trip. It turned out both boys shared an interest in weaponry and were obsessed by guns. After Hertz returned home to Denmark, the two of them chatted regularly online, always on the subject of guns. In March, Russ Andrews turned eighteen and was legally able to purchase firearms in his home state, Vermont, together with Arizona and Alaska, under the most liberal gun laws in the United States. Andrews bought everything he could afford, including a submachine gun for his new friend. The problem of getting it to Denmark was overcome by Hertz first sending a parcel to a non-existent address in Burlington, a parcel weighing about the same as an ArmyTocx SA-5 and four boxes of ammunition. Approximately one month later, the postal service delivered the parcel back to Hertz, informing him that the address given was unknown. The same day, Hertz sent off a new parcel, this time by express delivery. This one contained the cardboard packaging from the first parcel, complete with all the appropriate stamps and return labels, and was addressed to Russ Andrews. On receipt, Andrews placed the gun and the ammunition in the packaging from the first parcel, which then for the second time was sent return to Denmark with a little help from Andrew’s elder brother who worked for the private company Burlington’s council had contracted to deliver the city’s parcel post. Just as the boys had calculated, their parcel went through all security screenings without problems, having already been scanned once the first time around, and after about a month Robert Steen Hertz took delivery of his submachine gun, this time with his postman’s admonition to take care better care with the address when sending parcels to the USA.
Arne Pedersen wrapped up the rather convoluted explanation:
‘The rest was a piece of cake for Hertz. Using an Allen key, a metal file and a set of instructions off the internet, he modified the gun, converting it from semi-automatic to fully automatic.’
Konrad Simonsen grunted:
‘The customs lot are going to have red ears.’
‘It seems they’re now changing their procedures about returns, here as well as in the States.’
‘What about money? Or was the gun a present?’
‘Dad’s credit card. The father’s a stockbroker at the dubious end of the scale. Profitable business by the looks of it, he didn’t notice the money was gone from his account. Four thousand kroner. Peanuts, not worth bothering about. That’s what he said, I kid you not.’
Simonsen thanked him for the information, though it could all easily have waited until the next day, and then hung on patiently for Pedersen to get round to the real reason he was calling. It took him a while, but when eventually he did get on to the subject it was, as Simonsen had guessed, to do with Maja Nørgaard, whose lack of co-operation had become a major hindrance. Without her help Hertz’s motive would most likely never be identified with any certainty. Arne Pedersen had run out of bright ideas. Simonsen agreed to take part in a meeting about the problem the next day, though he found it hard to see what difference his presence would make.