Helmer Hammer also had to poke his listener, and Poul Troulsen got himself an admonishing shove for his words about a welcome committee of dubious quality. On top of it all, Hammer leaned forward and saw through the window of the taxi that his fellow passenger had been right. If two people could be called a committee. He rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn. Sunday had barely started and he had already been up for more than five hours.
The telephone had rung at four o’clock and a voice that was familiar but that belonged to someone who on no account was supposed to contact him at home made him wide awake at once. The woman who had awakened him had several names. One of these she used in her highly skilled work in finance, and the other was used for more social activities. He was one of the very few people who knew both. He also knew that if one was in possession of a small fortune and had the right connections, she could be rented on a daily basis and that she was worth every penny. He listened and silently prayed to higher authorities that there was a natural explanation for her call, which went against all business ethics. His prayer was heard. She had a copy of the Dagbladet for him. Her penthouse apartment was nearby and they met halfway between. He got his newspaper and a kiss on the cheek. That he thereby owed her a large favor, she was far too smart to mention.
The order of the day for the following three hours was damage control, and it was not much of a consolation that he was able to ruin the sleep of a large number of other people. With call after call he gradually started to get something of a grasp on the situation.
By the time he collected Poul Troulsen in the taxi Hammer was therefore in a reasonable mood and was able to handle the invective that the detective directed at him.
“I may as well say this straight off—if you’re planning to slaughter Simon you can go to hell, I don’t care how much power you have. But don’t count on me for one second.”
Mildly put, the man seemed to have no faith in the authorities.
Helmer Hammer answered calmly, “That’s not what this is about. Quite the opposite, as I explained on the phone.”
“I hate myself for going behind his back. What’s with all this secrecy?”
“Your boss is brilliant at leading investigations and lousy at dealing with the press. The last thing I need right now is having him let loose on the Dagbladet. And the police business can be dealt with on a lower level, by which I mean you.”
Poul Troulsen sensed that Hammer was telling the truth and relaxed a little.
“What is Simon doing right now? Where is he?”
“He’s in bed, sleeping, which he deserves and has a great need for.”
Poul Troulsen nodded. It was difficult not to like the man.
“How did you manage it?”
“I got lucky.”
They drove for a while in silence. Then Troulsen asked, “Why me? I can’t stand those filthy bastards either.”
“Because you may feel that way but you don’t bite. Because you know your place and you hold your tongue in a meeting. And because the one you call the Countess is in Odense.”
Troulsen gave a strained smile. They drove another couple of streets. This time it was Helmer Hammer who broke the silence.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That honesty can be abused. Are you always this direct?”
The executive did not have to answer. The news came on the radio and they both listened. The high point was an interview with the minister of justice in which even his most exquisite and fluid formulations were not sufficient to mask the fact that he knew absolutely nothing.
“What a fool,” Troulsen commented.
Hammer was less judgmental. The minister had been his only blunder, but that was what came from cutting himself off from the world.
“He is a survivor. Perhaps the most tenacious of them all.”
The taxi arrived at the destination. Troulsen said provocatively, “Well, I’ll be damned—a welcoming committee of the tabloid-press scavengers.”
Hammer gave him a shove. Without any effect.
“I’ll wring the teats off that stupid bitch.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll keep your mouth shut. Diplomacy is not for the likes of you.”
The taxi stopped. Hammer added, “And just so you know, bigger men than you have had to eat their words.”
Then he put on his most charming face and got out.
The two men were escorted to the conference room where Anni Staal had presented her videos Friday night. A woman in her thirties sat at the handsomely laden table and waited. The chief legal counsel of the Dagbladet stood up and shook their hands as she introduced herself, then she sat back down expectantly. Troulsen immediately felt a kind of kinship with her. It was clear that she, too, had been assigned a secondary role. The two leads chatted as they helped themselves to refreshments. Each of the women poured herself a glass of juice; Troulsen had a cup of black coffee. After three rolls and a croissant, the publisher finally began the meeting.
“Since you are the ones who called for this discussion, I think it would be appropriate if you could tell us what we can assist you with.”
Helmer responded with unexpected vehemence, “You can skip the pleasantries. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?”