“Interesting. So, you were right.”
“Yes, I guess so. Next time we’ll try to get her to describe the man, something that was completely impossible today. After endless variations of the same five questions we concluded that the customer had been between the ages of twenty and eighty, was most likely neither a dwarf nor someone confined to a wheelchair and who was most definitely male. At that point I actually believed she was the victim of an undiagnosed dementia. In hindsight, this is clearly an unfair assessment but under the circumstances it was unfortunately more than justified.”
“You searched the garbage for the note?”
“Of course. We turned three containers upside down in the back and started right in. The son helped me, while the woman directed, which was a joke. Finally we found it—a small, light-blue Post-it, where the delivery date and the number of pizzas were elegantly written in a strikingly rounded hand. A graphological gift, even if most of it was numbers. Everyone was happy and they gave me a coffee on the house so the whole thing ended on a nice note. Until I accidentally happened to glance above the counter where the various orders in the restaurant were hanging, written in—well, take a guess.”
“A strikingly rounded hand.”
“Bingo! It was just bad luck and the son was as annoyed as I was. He apologized for his mother’s faulty memory but it was too much for his mother and she flew into a state. She poured out the worst vindictives over our sinful heads—a fine mixture of Danish and Italian—and in the middle of this abuse she calls out to us why we don’t just go and ask the man himself. We just sit there gaping until the son pulls himself together and demands an explanation: does she know him or not? But no, she doesn’t know anyone. He and his father are always the ones who get out and meet people, while she has to stand there selling pizzas. She just knows that the man is a janitor at her son’s old school.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Apparently not. She distinguished between knowing someone and knowing who someone is, which you have to admit is not a crazy thing. She claimed that was where her description got hung up, because she thought we meant his personality and not his appearance.”
The Countess nodded thoughtfully.
“God only knows how Per Clausen will explain the order. It’ll be an interesting afternoon. Won’t you call Simon right away? He’s probably done with Forensics by now.”
“Can’t you do it? I have to use the restroom and I also have to deliver these before they get too warm. Where is the new guy?”
Poul Troulsen proudly pulled two sodas out of his briefcase.
“Impressive. I really didn’t think you could manage the whole texting thing.”
“If the truth be told, I got some help.”
“Malte is programming in the next room. He wants to set up a cross-referencing system for our reports. It was his own idea, and don’t bother asking him for any details.”
Malte Borup gratefully received his sodas. While he was digging for his money, Troulsen at first glanced idly at his work, but took a closer look when something caught his eye.
“Tell me, what are you doing exactly?”
“A cross-referencing system. It’ll save you a lot of time. Automatic free text searching for connections. Inductive and asynchronic. I found a great AI-class library online. For starters I’m integrating with hospitals and telecommunications. Am done with the big hospitals with the exception of Herlev. They’re a hard nut to crack but I’ll try again this evening.”
His listener did not look like someone who could appreciate the depth of this information so he added helpfully, “AI means ‘artificial intelligence.’”
Troulsen laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and said calmly, “Maybe you should try to express yourself in sentences as opposed to acronyms. I’m having trouble understanding what you’re saying—tell me, don’t you know that it’s illegal to break into other people’s computer systems?”
Borup didn’t reply.
“Aren’t we the police, for God’s sake?”
Troulsen’s large mass so close-by made him nervous and when the subject changed he felt completely spun around.
“Malte, who is the prime minister of Denmark?”
He thought hard while his fingers scratched at the keyboard. The question could be answered by Google in a split second, but that would probably be cheating.
“Isn’t it someone from Jutland?”
“It’s always someone from Jutland. Give me more.”
He crossed his fingers and took a guess.
“From ?rhus?”