The drive from S?ller?d to Police Headquarters was unpleasant. The Countess ran into rush-hour traffic and had far too much time to see how life in Copenhagen continued as it always had, despite the kidnappings of Pauline Berg and Jeanette Hvidt. Even though she knew she was being stupid, it made her angry and even more depressed than she was before. She tried to dismiss her anger before she went into Konrad Simonsen’s office. It was difficult.
Her boss was sitting on a chair above an over-sized map of Zealand, which he had set down on the floor in front of him, and barely said hello when she came in. The map was divided with red ink into a series of quickly and carelessly marked-off areas, which she did not immediately recognise. She started by opening a window; he had been smoking.
Simonsen said, “Do you know how many churches there are in Zealand?”
“No idea. Quite a few, I presume.”
“Exactly. There are an awful lot of churches with districts that don’t follow municipal boundaries, or other worldly boundaries for that matter.”
He rattled off facts about parishes, deaneries and dioceses. The Countess recognised his mood well. Pent-up irritation meant that he had a tendency to make lists, without realising it himself.
“The white chapel? Is that what you have in mind?”
He ignored her.
“And furthermore cemeteries, crematoria, parish halls and a wealth of private chapels in various castles and estates. Not to mention all the various Catholic monastic orders, which no Christian soul can tell apart—Capuchins, cappuccinos, whatever they call themselves. The whole mess combined in a perfect hodgepodge . . . but naturally each with their pestilential cloisters . . . at least one pestilential cloister that is, often several.”
He was talking fast, frantically, and his normal caution not to lose himself in detail had obviously been cast aside. She was worried to see that his face was flushed, beads of sweat visible on his forehead. She commented quietly, “You’re sweating.”
He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Then he said, sounding more under control, “You shouldn’t be nervous, I’m not about to submerge myself in details. I am just so confoundedly angry, which by the way I don’t have time to be. At least I was able to let off a little steam.”
“I’m not afraid of you losing yourself in the details, more about your health, Simon.”
Simonsen allowed himself a little smile.
“You shouldn’t worry about either. That sweating is only when I don’t breathe deeply and regularly, and it passes quickly. This afternoon I had a definite attack, and then I was a little unsure, but now I’ve discovered that I can provoke it myself by . . . what the hell is that called, when you make yourself short of breath on purpose?”
“Hyperventilation.”
“Exactly. As soon as I do that, I start sweating like a pig.”
“That’s not normal.”
“No, I agree. But it’s not something we have time to worry about now either. There are more important matters, don’t you think?”
“I think that you should breathe properly, and then tell me what made you so angry.”
“A meeting in forty-five minutes at the Ministry of Justice. And I’m sure you can guess who called it.”
“Helmer Hammer?”
“Nice! And I naively believed that the whole menagerie of them could be ignored after our press conference last Friday, but no. I have to go to a meeting with the police commissioner and the national chief of police and director this and chief administrative officer that and general commander bleepity-bleep, not to mention the head of the intelligence service, however he comes into the picture. But they’re not telling me what to do. I intend to shift responsibility for the meeting to you, and if you don’t care to go—for which I would not blame you for a second—I’ll send Poul. And if he doesn’t care to go either, I’ll send Pauline’s dead cat. Then Grand Duke Hammer will maybe realise that we have more important work to do than playing press secretary for him and all his dignitaries.”
The Countess asked carefully, “What is the meeting’s agenda?”
“Something meaningless about information sharing, I think. It was the police commissioner who called it, and that could easily be a pretext she thought of on the spot when I asked. That would be just like her. When the mighty whistle, she’s not exactly the type who asks impertinent questions, and certainly not about something as petty as an agenda.”
“Do you mean that you’re not coming?”
“I told her that I would do everything in my power to find a qualified co-worker with a gap in their calendar, but that it was especially hard, considering the circumstances.”
“What did she say to that?”
“Nothing. I don’t think she even got what I meant. But that’s her problem.”