They walked hand in hand through the hallways. Outside, the wind was gusting in the late-autumn evening and they had to raise their voices to talk to each other. Pedersen asked, “How was the house?”
Pauline Berg shook her head in exasperation. What kind of question to ask was that? He could have chosen a more romantic topic, given the situation. She thought back. The scene of the fire had been a depressing sight. Only the outer walls remained. The roof had caved in and blackened structural beams lay in disarray like a multidimensional game of mikado. A putrid stench of soot and smoke hung like a thick pillow over the place and she had coughed up phlegm. She answered him, half sourly.
“Horrible, I couldn’t stand being out there. They were still working on the final stages of extinguishing the fire and a couple of times the walls collapsed with a bang like a pistol shot. It was unpleasant.”
“What did the fire-forensics team say?”
“That it was arson and that no one was inside. He had poured gasoline in all the rooms and then placed the can on a stove plate and set the timer. Do you think we’ll find him?”
“I don’t know. In any case we have an enormous net out there. I talked to the Countess. She is leading the investigation from headquarters and he’s the top priority for every single patrol unit this evening and night. Even the cemetery where his daughter is buried is under surveillance, as well as the beach where she drowned. We’ve also got the word out in the media with pictures and everything, but, as I said, I don’t really know.”
“Where is Simon?”
“With Kasper Planck.”
“Did he call?”
“Yes, I talked to him before you arrived.”
“Did he say anything interesting?”
Pedersen paused. The conversation had mostly concerned Anni Staal from Folkets Formiddag and had been completely perplexing. It had also involved his personal affairs, although Simonsen had been tactfully oblique. He answered her in a somewhat cryptic way: “He sent greetings from Kasper Planck. Tell me, did you spend three hours at the house?”
“No, luckily only a quarter of an hour. But we may have found a witness. Two little boys were in the vicinity of the school on Wednesday. The kids were running around collecting the little metal tops on beer and soda bottles. Whatever it is they’re called. But one of the boys is in a preschool class at the school. Unfortunately he is somewhat developmentally delayed so we got nothing out of him, but his friend who is his cousin is fairly normal. He’s five years old and lives in Roskilde. I’m going to talk to him this evening.”
“That sounds more promising than my day. Simon is sending me to Sweden.”
“Per Clausen’s daughter?”
“Yes, and I agree that it’s sensible to take a closer look at her, but why I can’t take care of it over the phone, I don’t know. That’s one of Simon’s weaknesses—to send us out without it being completely necessary. If you ask me, that is.”
Berg squeezed his hand.
“Have you found out anything about that platform?”
“The school had one on hand for performances and that kind of thing. Something that could be set up and taken down. Now it’s gone—the one they used—but we’ve known that for a while.”
“Then what have you been doing?”
“Killing time. That is, until now.”
“Downtime is a part of work. How many times have I heard you say that? But maybe that applies to other people’s time?”
“Yes, of course it does. This school is nothing but a pain in my neck. If Per Clausen inserted the trapdoors in the podium at this location he certainly cleaned up well after himself. I’m happy that we’re based primarily out of headquarters as of tomorrow because today has been a bit of a trial. Four hours in the gymnasium, the janitor’s room, and the woodwork room, where I am expected to discover what someone or other may have overlooked.”
“And have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Discovered anything?”
“Not a damn thing.”
As soon as they were in the classroom, Pedersen started to disrobe methodically, placing each item of clothing neatly folded in a stack on a desk. He even folded his socks. Pauline Berg fell back into the pillows.
“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”
“Does that mean that we’re skipping the foreplay?”
She sounded more sulky than sarcastic; then she pulled her shirt off.
“Ouch, what was that?”
Something had jabbed into her elbow and at first she thought, despite the time of year, that it was a wasp. Then she moved a pillow and found—for the second time in the span of twenty-four hours—Per Clausen.
CHAPTER 23