The director was a small man with a sleazy, indolent appearance. His handshake was limp and sticky like a ball of dough. He showed Troulsen a seat on the other side of his desk, for which the latter had to wait patiently while the man cleared his papers out of the way. Finally he sat down with his elbows on the table and his palms together with his head resting against the tips of his fingers, ready and receptive. Troulsen expressed the matter at hand in a concise way. The man across from him nodded thoughtfully during this explanation as if the connections were complicated and only the chosen could fully comprehend it. Afterward he continued nodding while he commented on the matter in a steady stream of polished nonsense.
Troulsen’s phone rang in the middle of this speech and, mostly to irritate the director, he answered it, but it was good that he did because the woman he was looking for was on the other end. The school secretary had been busy, secretly checking the archives. The woman confirmed her visit to the kiosk in Bagsv?rd and was ready to see him within the hour. It could hardly have been better. He wrote down her name and number and hung up.
The interruption had lasted less than a minute, but it changed everything. His errand was suddenly superfluous and he told himself that he should leave, that he was too old for this, that he didn’t need the extra grief, and nonetheless he stayed put.
The director had paused for the telephone call. His attitude remained unchanged, however, and as soon as he regained Troulsen’s attention, he went on: “As I said, I am not a lawyer, so it is possible that there are some aspects of this case that I have not taken into account—”
Troulsen jumped in: “So your conclusion is that you don’t wish to help me.” His tone was sharp, impertinent. Once again his superego admonished him and told him to keep a check on himself, preferably to leave. It helped about as much as using a Band-Aid to treat hay fever.
“That is definitely not my conclusion, Officer Troulsen. You are getting ahead of yourself. The matter will be given a thorough consideration.”
“And when do you anticipate reaching a conclusion?”
“I think we should be able to do so relatively quickly. It is of considerable importance that the Gentofte County School District be a cooperative partner to the other public entities, not least to the police.”
“And by quickly you mean…?”
“I would rather not commit myself to a certain time frame.”
His mouth stretched upward by a couple of centimeters. It was a smile and Troulsen realized that the man was enjoying himself. He stood up.
“I would bet that when you were a child, you were one of the ones who ran straight out of the school yard as soon as there was a fight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I guarantee that you were scared shitless by fighting. Have you ever experienced any police brutality?”
The suggestion of physical violence sucked all confidence out of the director, who crumpled like a punctured balloon. He folded his arms across his chest and his voice shot up a couple of octaves.
“Are you threatening me?”
“It makes no difference if I am or not, and if you don’t want anything to happen to your nose, you’d do best to keep still.”
The man obeyed. Small beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and along his as-yet-unharmed nose. Troulsen’s gaze fell on a pair of scissors that lay on the table and for a split second he thought about cutting off a tuft of his hair and forcing him to eat it. Then his common sense returned and he limited himself to giving the man a light slap on the back of the head.
“Before I go I can inform you of the procedure for filing a complaint with the police. You turn in your paperwork to the nearest police station and the zoom—within only a few years you will receive a rejection.”
While he spoke he moved slowly to the door. He nodded a goodbye, smiling, relieved that he had managed to control his temper to a reasonable degree.
CHAPTER 52
The episode at Gentofte’s city hall had not vanquished Poul Troulsen’s sense of humor. He was extremely satisfied with the day’s developments so far and now all he hoped was that the woman in red would turn out to be cooperative, which their telephone conversation indicated she would be. He also, of course, hoped that she would have information that could advance the investigation. Preferably by a great big leap forward. They could certainly use the help.
Emilie Mosberg Floyd was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had a well-proportioned and slender figure, her face was animated and pretty, her choice of clothes expensive and somewhat ill chosen. An orange-red shiny satin skirt, a short-sleeve cotton blouse in the same color, and a cropped jacket in a roughly woven wool that alternated between orange and purple in a stylized pattern with tulips. Her black shoes would have been appropriate if she were going hiking.
She greeted him at the door of her large brick house and showed him to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The initial pleasantries were quickly dispatched. She was the first to change the subject.
“You want to know about Helene and Per Clausen. You’ll have to excuse me switching to this so abruptly but I only have half an hour and then I have to be at work.”
She smiled winningly. Her teeth were very even and the green watchful eyes were lively. Her words had a teasing charm.
“Yes, I do. You knew them both?”