Pauline Berg argued enthusiastically for her case and Simonsen let her speak her mind. Only when she started to repeat herself did he stop her and summarize her points without indicating if he agreed or not.
“You claim that Stig ?ge Thorsen is afraid of women, or more precisely of intimate contact with women of his own age group, and you are suggesting that we should take advantage of this presumed aversion during his interrogation, which can only mean that you yourself should be the interrogator even though objectively speaking you are the least qualified of us all. And your suggestion comes less than two hours before we are planning to start, based on a ten-minute conversation with someone who got to know the man during a cruise to Greece. Is this correct?”
The youngest member of the Homicide Division stuck to her guns: “Yes, it is.”
“The woman from the cruise called of her own accord, so we have no basis from which to judge the truthfulness of her information. Is that also correct?”
“Yes, we don’t know anything for certain.”
“Go on.”
“Me and the Countess should handle the interrogation and we should also move the furniture around in the room so that it is more intimate. All of us should sit closer together.”
Arne Pedersen stared up at the ceiling. Simonsen, however, nodded approvingly. Not in favor of the suggestion—he had not yet formed his final opinion on that—but over her determination. He said, “Am I also shut out?”
Berg became vague and answered indirectly: “The woman from his vacation told me about the same signs that I have often noticed in men who have been nervous—or even afraid—of me. These reactions are particularly typical of men who had an insecure childhood, or so I’ve read. Which fits nicely with the fact that Stig ?ge Thorsen sought help from Dr. Jeremy Floyd.”
Pedersen looked at her with some astonishment. This was truly a new side of Berg that he did not know. She did not return his gaze but kept her focus on Simonsen, while he watched the irregular path of the raindrops down the outside of the office windows. Her self-confidence was at its peak.
Last night she had turned up—unannounced and sobbing—at Kasper Planck’s home. Her bad conscience about having lied to the Countess about her conversation at the Gudme Sport Complex café tore at her insides. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and went to see the former head of the Homicide Division, who she thought was the only person who could understand her.
The old man gave her a handkerchief and listened calmly. Afterward he laid a wrinkled hand on her head and said softly, “I think you will be forgiven. Why would you go unaffected when so many have been drawn into this madness? There are many people who don’t even want us to find the killers, if one is to believe the media.”
“But what about Frank Ditlevsen’s friend? One of his old boys. That is an important piece of information. I should have shared that a long time ago.”
“Let Simon figure it out for himself. He should have done so already anyway.”
“How could he do that? He can’t know about it.”
“Of course he can. The murder of the brothers was personal. Frank Ditlevsen was hanged in the middle of the event and Allan Ditlevsen was Mr. Extra—an excellent and meaningful choice of words. And the personal always comes from somewhere.”
Berg gaped. “How long have you known this?”
“Known—bah. It’s still a kind of thought-play but I have a meeting later this week that should cast some light on the situation. So we shall see. Time will tell. But come over here. There’s something I want to give you.”
The old man drew a box out of the deep interior of a mahogany bureau. He held up a necklace, a fish of gold, very pretty, the chain simple and light.
“It belonged to my wife. Now it is yours.”
“But…”
He held a finger up to his mouth, and she stopped. Then she put it on. It fell elegantly over her throat and was hardly noticeable. As if she had always worn it.
“This is wonderful, but…”
The finger across the mouth again. Her spirit felt relieved and lightened and her tears this time were of joy. She borrowed the handkerchief a second time and when she composed herself she asked, “You give and give—isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
Planck’s face lit up. “You can water my flowers, they need it so badly.”
Berg smiled at the thought of her round with the watering can under the direction of the old man, and that clinched the matter. Simonsen decided that when it came to the matter of men’s nervousness, he was sitting across from an expert.
“The Countess is the primary driver in this and your role is to assist. I will only make the final decision when the Countess has also talked to this vacation flirtation and agreed with your suggestion. And then one more thing, Pauline.”