“And?”
Laursen leafed through the report again and pointed to a photo of the body. “And so it could be from these,” he said, tapping the pants on the body. “Narrow-ribbed corduroy. Very popular with elderly ladies who don’t update their wardrobe from one day to the next,” he said.
Carl took the leaf and studied it closely. Laursen was right.
“Perhaps we’ll learn more when our sprinter crosses the line,” he said, pointing at Assad, who was running toward them at full speed like a stampeding gnu.
He was out of breath but proud. “Here,” he said, thrusting a leaf in their faces. “There are lots of leaves like this down there in the thicket just to the left of the entrance behind the bicycle stands.”
All at once, Tomas Laursen’s face broke out in a smile. It was a long time since Carl had seen him so thrilled.
“Bloody brilliant!” cheered the canteen manager. “Now we know where that male urine came from. Yeah, we know quite a lot all of a sudden.”
Assad nodded. “I also read that she had dog shit on her shoes.”
“Yes, but there was no gravel in the shit,” said Laursen. “So it’s more likely that she stepped in that outside the garden.”
Carl didn’t follow at all.
“So you actually believe that you’ve just described the course of events more or less? That would really be a breakthrough.” Carl was skeptical.
Laursen laughed. “Hell yes. It almost makes me want to join the force again.”
“So you think that Rigmor Zimmermann wanted to take a shortcut through the park but had already begun running on the sidewalk outside the park? And what makes you think that?”
“She was a classy lady, right? Smart handmade shoes from Scarosso, and she’d even been married to a shoe shop owner and must have known quality when she saw it. Exclusive shoes like that cost more than two thousand kroner, let me tell you,” said Laursen.
“Right up the prime minister’s street,” Assad said with a laugh.
“And she wouldn’t voluntarily smear those shoes with dog shit, is that what you’re telling me?” asked Carl, smiling at his own powers of deduction. But then again, who the hell would ever purposely step in dog shit?
Laursen gave him a thumbs-up.
Assad nodded. “She ran along the sidewalk without looking where she was going. It was also pouring that night, so I agree with Laursen.”
It was exactly like watching an old film with Sherlock Holmes and Watson showing off.
“And she didn’t watch her step, resulting in her stepping in dog shit with her smart, expensive shoes. Not because she was in a rush but because she felt threatened. Is that where you two are going with this?”
Two thumbs-up.
He followed them down to the thicket and looked at it for a moment. Not a bad hiding place when it came to it.
“Okay, let’s sum up. Rigmor Zimmermann ran because she felt threatened. Ran into the King’s Garden—”
“Rosenborg Castle Gardens, Carl,” interjected Assad.
“It’s the same bloody park, Assad.”
Assad’s dark eyebrows leapt in the air.
“And then she ran into Rosenborg Castle Gardens,” he corrected himself to keep the peace while looking at Assad. Apparently that name made Assad feel more comfortable. “And then she hid in this thicket, where the ground is covered with the same leaves as the one we found at the crime scene. It’s probably a place where a lot of people piss.”
“Yes, the smell gives that away, Carl. You can smell it from a distance, but then it is just at the entrance to the park and handy for those who are bursting,” concluded Laursen.
“Hmm. You say that the coroner found the urine on the right buttock and thigh of the body, and now you’re concluding that it’s because she was hiding in the bushes.” Carl nodded to himself. “But why didn’t the perpetrator attack her right here? Is it because they didn’t see her and ran past her?”
Laursen smiled triumphantly. Finally they were on the same wavelength, it seemed.
“Presumably, yes,” said Laursen. “And then Rigmor Zimmermann sat there for a while until she felt sure the coast was clear and continued down the path. But that’s just a theory. We can’t know for sure.”
He was right about that.
“Then you also think that the perpetrator hid down by the restaurant in the meantime and jumped out right at the moment Zimmermann walked past?”
There were those bloody thumbs in the air again.
Carl laughed, shaking his head. “Perhaps you two ought to start writing crime novels, given that you build your conclusions and theories on dog shit and withered leaves.”
“Nevertheless, it’s highly likely, Carl.” Laursen looked at him with subdued complacency, which actually suited him. “In my years as a forensic technician, I learned that mysteries can suddenly be solved on the basis of the wildest theories. Do you know what I mean?”
Carl nodded. He knew that better than anyone. He just couldn’t help but smile. If there was any truth to this hypothesis, a certain Inspector Pasg?rd would kick himself.
“Ahh, there you are!” shouted a male voice across the lawn. “Gordon was right, then. Would you mind going back to the place where the woman was found?”
There were three men. The cameraman, the sound technician, and the bloody annoying Olaf Borg-Pedersen from Station 3 himself. What the hell were they doing here and why had Gordon told them where they were? He was in for it now.
When they were standing back at the crime scene, Borg-Pedersen gestured to his sound technician, who produced some sort of equipment from his bag.
“We’ve brought a can of white spray paint so we can redraw the outline of the position of the body. Do you want the honor, or shall I?”
Carl frowned. “If you so much as spray a single drop, I’ll damn well empty the entire can in your face. Are you out of your mind? This is a crime scene.”
Olaf Borg-Pedersen was clearly a man with years of experience in handling obstinate people, so without hesitation he put his hand in his pocket to reveal three Yankie chocolate bars.
“Low blood sugar?” he said.
Only Assad accepted the offer. Taking all three of them, in fact.
—
There were lots of names on the intercom, and the name Zimmermann appeared twice. Birgit F. Zimmermann on the ground floor was the one they had come to talk to, but there was also a Denise F. Zimmermann on the fifth floor, whom Carl had never heard of.
“Can you believe it?” he said, pressing the buzzer. “Those TV guys were completely delusional, thinking that they could be present when we are questioning someone.”
“I guess, but even so, Carl. You should’ve thought twice before kicking that TV producer in the shin. I’m not sure he believed it was an accident,” said Laursen.
Carl smiled wryly at Assad. Wasn’t it just the sort of alternative but extremely effective method of communication he had used to shut up Gordon? Assad smiled back and shrugged. As long as it worked, what was the problem?