Simonsen was looking out of the window of his office in Police Headquarters, wondering whether he was clinically depressed. It was now forty-eight hours since he had stood on the Greenland ice cap observing the corpse of Maryann Nygaard, and ever since then he had not been himself. For the first time in his long career he was having difficulty concentrating on a case. Although he knew perfectly well that this state of mind resulted from the new case’s connection to another equally disturbing homicide, the circumstances of which now had to be reassessed, this insight did not help him much. He told himself over and over that his reaction was a sign of good mental health, evidence that he was not emotionally burned out, but the fact was that he was barely able to suppress his mental pain and attend to his daily workload. On top of that there was his bad health, which he was finding harder and harder to ignore. For the last couple of days his feet had tingled and ached unbearably; he had given in to cigarettes again; somehow he’d stuck to his diet.
Last night he’d been unable to sleep. Thoughts were still churning in his head when the first birdsong of the day mocked his sleeplessness. His feet—and this was almost the worst thing—would not keep still, no matter how he arranged them. All morning he had solemnly promised himself to schedule an appointment with one of the police psychologists, but like so many of his good intentions nothing had come of it. Instead he made another appointment to confront his guilt later that day. Then he must sink or swim.
“Should I call downstairs and say you’ve been delayed?”
The Countess, who was sitting observing him with a worried expression on her face, sounded determinedly calm. She was fresh-faced, optimistic, healthy. He looked and felt like something you baited a line with to catch fish. When he did not reply, she continued speaking.
“We can postpone the meeting for half an hour, that won’t do any harm. There’s no rush at this point.”
He snarled back, “Let them wait, damn it.”
“Yes, we’ll let them wait a little, serve them right.”
“Why on earth has this become such an attraction? It’s completely crazy. Originally it was simply intended to be an internal update. How can I work if anyone and everyone can just come running to my reviews?”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Stop agreeing with me! Can’t you think for yourself?”
The silence that followed was fraught with tension. Other people’s sweet concern . . . echoes of his own self-pity . . . what good was any of that to him? Anger bubbled inside him. He shut his eyes for a moment before collecting himself with an effort.
“Excuse me, Countess. I didn’t really mean that.”
“I know and it’s all right, I’m not made of glass.”
It was one of her good points that she didn’t launch herself into any argument that came along. If she did their closeness would have ended long ago. Now their relationship was tender, cautious. They were like two thirteen year olds edging slowly towards one other. Small steps, cautious steps, the whole time.
Simonsen said sadly, “I don’t know how many times I’ve said those words in the past four days. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me—soon I’ll be apologising to every other person I talk to. It must be unbearable for the rest of you.”
“You mustn’t worry about that, Konrad. Concentrate on yourself. Now I’m going to call and say you’ve been delayed.”
He let her do that, it was reasonable and sensible. When she was done, he reverted to the subject of the uninvited guests who had intruded on his review.
“Who is it by the way who is coming from the Foreign Ministry?”
“Some bigwig . . . as far as I know a director. I don’t know his name, or more exactly—I can’t remember it. But the rumours are that the national chief of police’s office is up in arms about it. They see his presence as ill-timed political involvement, but someone must have overruled them.”
“That’s also a little strange. What’s the motivation? Is it that story about the chancellor again? I don’t believe it, it just can’t be true.”
“The Germans, the Americans, the Greenlanders—all guesses, no one knows exactly.”
“Could you take a look at this, Countess? I would really like to know what’s going on in my own investigation.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
He broke into the first smile of the day then said almost cheerfully, “I asked you about that yesterday too, didn’t I?”
“A good order can’t be given too often.”
Their laughter eased the atmosphere. He sat down heavily in his chair.
“You know perfectly well what the conclusion will be.”
“All of us have read the case files for the Stevns homicide, and no one is in any doubt about how hideous it must have been for those of you who were there—especially for you.”
“Yes, hideous.”
“Mistakes happen. We’re humans, not gods.”
“A dog! She couldn’t even make herself call me a cur . . . ”
“I don’t know what you mean, and now you’re scaring me. Arne or I can take over if you can’t manage it.”
“No, I’ll try on my own. That’s probably best.”
“Maybe.”
“The truth is that I’m afraid of what will happen if I give up and throw in the towel.”
“This isn’t a boxing match, Simon, and you have to be careful. Some things you simply can’t grapple with all on your own. You have to get help, professional help.”
“I know that. Tell me, what are you doing this afternoon?”
“That depends on what you assign me to do.”
“Do you want to take a drive with me? To visit a woman whose husband committed suicide in 1998.”
The Countess did not reply, and he did not hurry her. After a while she said, “You want to tell her that you were wrong?”
“That I was wrong?”