You’ve got to stay young, ’cause you’ll never grow old.
The song reaches out for her; the song embraces her; the daughters of the night rage in the sunlight; the song drives the dream away; the sun disappears, and the flag, the table, Grandfather, everything disappears; the bed is gone; the nurse is gone; it is dark; it is quiet; there is fear; she hides her face in the dog; she hears steps; she is so little and the steps are so heavy; panic can be mitigated with psychiatric or psychotherapeutic treatment.
Therapy chases away the anxiety; Uncle Bernhard chases away the dog.
She feels his moist breath on her neck; she can smell his brilliantine.
She hears him panting; she feels his fingers open her.
Helle Smidt J?rgensen doesn’t scream. It doesn’t help.
CHAPTER 11
The young man’s fingers flew over the keys so fast that it sounded like a strip of cardboard in the spokes of a child’s bicycle wheel. The Countess looked up from her reading and watched him surreptitiously as he worked. He was a curly-haired youth with blue eyes and an open face; he had a slender build, with a fashion sense that she could characterize only as unique. His downy upper lip held the beginnings of a mustache, but when he smiled it was difficult to suppress an urge to stroke his curls and want to rescue him from a cruel world that at best offered him only minimal chances for survival. Or so it seemed to her.
Malte Borup looked up as if he felt her gaze, and his hands hovered above the keyboard.
“That good-looking one, is she also a cop?”
“Her name is Pauline, and yes she is. As she told you.”
“That’s true, she did. I was using my eyes more than my ears.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“What about the other one? The one with … well, the other one.”
“She is a psychologist who will be participating in the discussion.”
“What’s she done?”
“Nothing. How is my laptop doing?”
“It’ll be ready soon. I’ve sent a text message to the one with the beard. The strange one … one moment … I’ve got him here.”
Her address book popped up on the screen. The computer worked as a natural extension of his thoughts.
“Poul Troulsen. I’ll have to learn these names. He went to McDonald’s, isn’t that right?”
“A pizzeria. What did you write?”
“I just asked if he wanted to bring a couple of sodas back with him. Was that bad? I’ll pay him back.”
“No, that’s all right, but I don’t think he reads his text messages.”
He glanced at the screen, realized there was no help to be had there, and shrugged.
“We’ll go back to HS tomorrow. There’s a canteen there where you can buy soda.”
“Sweet. Will I meet the boss? That fat guy. I saw him on TV.”
“You’ll meet him today, but don’t call him fat.”
“Not fat. I meant slightly overweight.”
“Don’t call him fat, and don’t call him overweight.”
“Okay.”
“His name is Konrad Simonsen and he’s in the gymnasium with a guest. Maybe we can catch him before he heads back to the city.”
Malte Borup stiffened. Like a frozen computer screen.
“I’d rather not see any corpses. I really don’t want to, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“And you won’t. The bodies were transported to lab a long time ago.”
“Cool.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
*
It turned out that it was a matter of opinion if the dead were completely gone. A woman who turned up in a taxi brought a whole new perspective on the matter.
Simonsen was stubbing out his cigarette in an ugly black streak on the exterior wall of the gymnasium when he saw the car. He was on edge, almost irritable. The night had been too short and his head was about to run over with information that he was expected to handle. Big and small all mixed in together and every time something left his hands something new turned up to take its place. It was always that way in the beginning of a case, especially something of this nature, which was, mildly put, a high-profile case, but knowing this was hardly a consolation. On top of this, he had forgotten to call Anna Mia yesterday although he had gone to great lengths to promise her, and he had forgotten to thank the Countess for the chess book, which he had gone to great lengths to promise himself. But he had not been able to remember either of these, and as if that were not enough, he had, in a fit of terrible dietary planning, decided to subsist on a bowl of yogurt for breakfast, so now he was also famished. He tried on a smile that was far from genuine and walked up to meet his guest.
She was a weathered little woman who blended into the asphalt. They greeted each other formally. Her voice was dry as talc and without inflection as she started to dissect his current desires—and as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I sense a strong attraction to fish filets.”