The man held out a packet of cigarettes. He offered them to the girl, who shook her head without answering, then he took out a single cigarette and tucked it behind his ear while he searched his pockets for a lighter.
“Did you see that mother yesterday? In the ruins of the housing block? It was on CNN.”
M?rk nodded, he had seen some of that segment.
“She was completely fucked up. Her getup alone was a disaster. Black coveralls, neglected skin, and eyebrows like a pony’s mane, and maybe you remember how much she howled? She complained so much the subtitles had trouble keeping up, rocking back and forth, waving her arms and legs and rolling her eyes like a wounded chimney sweep. The truth is she messed up her only chance. People have embarrassed themselves by the million, and where do you think her dead children are now? Zapped all the way into oblivion.”
He lit his cigarette and went on: “You asked about what had happened, but what’s happened is about the future, not about the past. That’s why we practice.”
M?rk could see the logic of this. Of course the cameraman was right.
“I understand. It just felt … I don’t know … a bit underhanded.”
“Aren’t you in advertising?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then what’s the problem? She was already fantastic and we make her brilliant. She’ll be styled so it doesn’t look like she’s wearing any makeup but that’ll happen the day after tomorrow, when it’s for real. You’ll get a couple of exclusive shots for your Web site. Black-and-white, I think, she likes that most. And then just wait until you see the final product. You’re going to love it.”
The girl stood at their side and looked bored stiff. Suddenly she said, “Tell me, did you leave your brain at home? Per Clausen told me you were smart. Of course I have to practice. Didn’t you practice the part about your dead sister?”
“How do you know about that?”
“What do you think? Because I was there when you talked about her. Well, did you practice or not?”
“Yes, but … that was different.”
She gave up on him with a shrug and tossed an impatient question into the studio.
“Can’t we get on with it, I’m about to go crazy with this Stone Age talk.”
CHAPTER 58
Konrad Simonsen stopped in ?sterport Station, bought a cup of coffee, and retreated to one of the tables at the very back of the cafeteria. The morning had started well and ended terribly. The evening with the Countess had been fantastic. They had promised each other to go out again soon, and he had woken up in a great mood with a delicious feeling in his body. He had even sung in his bath, which he had not done for years. Then, just as he was about to walk out the door, the mail arrived and his world was shattered.
The letter was from Per Clausen: a yellow A4-size envelope, postmarked in Fredericia yesterday and containing six fuzzy pictures of Anna Mia. One where she was seen leaving her building, a second where she was unlocking her bicycle, and a third, where she was biking toward the photographer. Then there were two lines of a psalm, the contents of which Simonsen knew all too well: Though death may enter in the night, you come with the morning light. A thousand thoughts jostled in his mind while fear churned in his stomach and sweat beaded his brow. The papers fell out of his hand and he sat down on the floor in their midst, gradually starting to overcome his panic attack and forcing his thoughts in a more realistic direction. The day before, Anna Mia had gone to Bornholm to visit a friend who had just had a baby, so she was not in any immediate danger. Common sense also told him that the letter’s thinly veiled threat was meant to trouble him rather than to be taken literally. A cool and measured conclusion that his body had initially refused to accept. Only slowly did he regain enough control to order his thoughts. How could Per Clausen know that Anna Mia was his daughter? Or where she lived? Was he being watched? Had the newspapers last Tuesday written about his and Anna Mia’s interrupted holiday? Was there another explanation? These questions could not be answered as he sat there, and that added to his feeling of impotence. But he managed to quell them until another emotion slowly took over and got him back on his feet. Then he was able to muster the strength to compartmentalize the incident and put it aside. When he finally managed to pull himself together to leave, his exterior showed no signs of turmoil but inside he experienced a white-hot personal hatred with an intensity he had never before felt.
Simonsen’s thoughts about the morning’s events meant that he did not notice the person he was waiting for before he turned up at his side. He locked up his foul mood inside and greeted him in a friendly way.
“Good morning.”
The man was well dressed in a conservative way. His tie testified to his managerial position. He was middle-aged but his almost-bald head and his slightly stooped posture made him appear older than he was. His voice was toneless.
“Good morning, Inspector, or whatever it is that you are now.”
“It was nice of you to come.”