by Lotte Hammer
Even so none of the three men expected the Countess to back down purely because she was outnumbered and her boss disagreed with her, and they were proved right. Belligerently, she launched herself at Konrad Simonsen, without adding anything new. The barb about her monologue hadn’t missed its target entirely and she and Simonsen bickered all the way from Utterslev Mose to Værløse; she sharp and confrontational, he grunting with suppressed ill temper, clearly in a foul mood. As they fought, it began to rain; the drops that fell on the car were scattered and hesitant but soon strong gusts of wind forced Arne Pedersen to reduce speed considerably.
Klavs Arnold’s bluntness was brought to bear for a second time.
‘The two of you sound like an old married couple.’
The Countess didn’t react, but Konrad Simonsen snarled:
‘Mind your own business!’
‘Now, now, I’m just asking – when is the wedding?’
Konrad Simonsen muttered curses under his breath at the young Jutlander, and the Countess seized her chance to put him down.
‘We were married last Saturday,’ she announced.
The new bride accepted Klavs Arnold’s hasty congratulations and went on to speak at length about the happy event, which had been performed by a registrar from Rudersdal town hall with Konrad Simonsen’s daughter, Anna Mia, as the sole guest. A long discussion and many compromises about the size of the wedding had preceded that; Konrad Simonsen had preferred small, the Countess large. Then out of the blue she had changed her mind and agreed with him, without saying why.
‘Imagine, we had to ask our neighbour to be our second witness, or it wouldn’t have been legal. Isn’t that right, Simon?’
Her husband grunted miserably, especially when she added in a loving tone of voice: ‘Oh, do cheer up, you look like you’ve just had root-canal surgery.’
Arne Pedersen was stupid enough to get involved.
‘Many congratulations, Simon . . . or rather, to both of you. I must say, you’ve kept it quiet.’
This was the final straw. Konrad Simonsen practically screamed:
‘Will you shut up!’
And they all did for the rest of the journey.
CHAPTER 7
The woman who welcomed the four Copenhagen Homicide investigators was straight out of an old Morten Koch film. Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold was waiting for her guests at the turn-off to the gravel road that led into Hanehoved Forest. Fresh-faced and smiling, still damp from the recent rain, she waved to welcome the car as a rainbow arched across the sky and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds once more.
She was in her mid-thirties, short and sensibly dressed in a Barbour jacket and trousers rolled up at the ankles to suit her short legs. Her square figure bulged in the wrong places and her home-dyed, chestnut-coloured hair was sorely in need of an appointment with a professional hairdresser. Her face was open and not without its charm, her gaze intelligent and humorous.
Once the car had turned off the main road, she guided it down the gravel road. Surprisingly clearly, Arne Pedersen thought, following her instructions. She pointed to the verge where the sloe bushes between the field and the track ended; they could park there. Klavs Arnold seized the opportunity to comment.
‘I say, I say, it’s her ladyship herself who’s receiving us.’
He didn’t explain how he knew that, and no one asked. Perhaps he had read a report the others had yet to see. The Countess corrected him:
‘She’s no more aristocratic than you or I.’
‘So what is the wife of a Chamberlain? I thought it was something royal.’
‘And, to some extent, it is. If you’re in the Queen’s good books, she might appoint you.’
‘So this woman’s not posh, is that what you’re saying? She doesn’t look it, I must say.’
‘There’s posh and then there’s posh. A Chamberlain is a member of the second class in the order of hierarchy – on a level with bishops, mayors and our dearly beloved National Police Commissioner.’
Klavs Arnold asked with interest:
‘How many classes are there?’
It was Konrad Simonsen who replied:
‘The scale goes all the way down to class forty, where you will find cheeky police officers from Jutland, along with cartoon characters and cheap Chinese garden gnomes. Let’s focus on the job, shall we?’
Konrad Simonsen led the opening pleasantries with Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold. They greeted each other politely, exchanged names and titles, smiling as warmly as the weather. The chief of the Homicide Department thanked her for the welcome, and introduced his team, who shook hands one by one, and then, after a few more remarks about the capricious Danish spring, explained the reason for their visit.
‘We’re here to get a sense of the area. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to your husband, ma’am?’
‘Drop the ma’am, we never use it out here, and yes, I’ve spoken to Adam. He’s very sorry that he couldn’t be here to meet you himself; he has a meeting with the bank, so you’ll have to settle for me to begin with. But he’ll probably be back by the time we get up to the house.’
Her voice was deep, almost sensuous, as though she were flirting when she spoke. Konrad Simonsen laughed lightly, almost by reflex; her good humour was infectious.
‘Of course we would like to meet him too, if that’s possible. Did he also tell you that none of us has had the time to familiarise ourselves properly with the case, so we may have to . . .’
He hesitated briefly, and she promptly finished the sentence for him.
‘I know: ask questions we’ve already answered. But that’s nothing new, it was the same with the officers from Hillerød, so we’re used to that. I’ve planned a route for us. It’s just a suggestion, of course, but there’s one thing you must see, so perhaps we should start with that.’
Without waiting for a reply, she led them back down the gravel road. She stopped right by the main road, where she pointed to a hole in the ground. They all knew what they were looking at: the granite milestone used to weigh down the body of the African woman in the lake had been taken from here. The officers looked around to form an impression of the scene. Konrad Simonsen asked no one in particular:
‘Does anyone remember how heavy it was? I think I read it somewhere, but I’ve forgotten the exact figure.’
Arne Pedersen said:
‘Almost eighty kilos, and it’s roughly two kilometres to the lake from here, and that’s as the crow flies.’
Their conclusions might vary, but none of the officers volunteered anything. That would have to wait until they were alone. When she sensed that her guests had seen enough, the Chamberlain’s wife said, ‘I presume you’ll want to know how to reach the lake from here.’
She took a map from her Barbour’s inside pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the ground in front of her. The offices squatted down in a disciplined semi-circle, while she, using a twig as a pointer, explained.
‘Here’s the manor house, and there’s the lake where the girl was found. You can access it by two different routes. One option is from the main road and down a forest track, but it’s very overgrown and barely passable. The other option is continuing down the gravel track and taking a right where a path leads to a hunting lodge; from there you can walk through the spruce forest and down to the lake. If you go for the latter, you’ll reach the lake’s northern shore where the girl was found. If you pick the other route, you’ll reach the south side of the lake, where there’s a platform for buck hunting – I think it’s called a deer stand.’
She looked up at her audience, who nodded. Klavs Arnold asked:
‘What sort of game do you have here?’
‘Red deer, but they’re rare, and then there are fallow deer. I’m not entirely sure what the species are called, but Adam knows. I don’t like hunting.’
Konrad Simonsen wanted to know if the gravel track they were on led all the way up to the manor house. She shook her head.
‘No, it st
ops a few kilometres further ahead, but then you can walk the rest of the way along a field boundary; it’s not terribly difficult, it was how I made my way here.’
‘You can’t drive it?’
She considered his suggestion critically.
‘Possibly in a tractor, but the gravel road here ends in a stone wall. There may be a gap somewhere, there probably is, I don’t know.’
‘But not in a regular passenger car?’
‘It would be difficult, I think, but whether it would be downright impossible . . . Well, why don’t you walk with me when we head up to the house, and you can decide for yourselves?’
No one had any further questions, and they walked down the gravel road without saying very much. High up in the sky above their heads, larks sang while the rainbow faded and grey clouds drifted to the east. Arne Pedersen thought that his job had its perks while Klavs Arnold wondered whether the Chamberlain’s wife might be just a little too eager to help. Konrad Simonsen and the Countess walked together, without speaking.
The first stop was the hunting lodge. It was new and prefabricated, constructed as a hexagon of vertical, stripped-pine trunks, and each side came with a small farmhouse window. Steps led up to the heavy and cumbersome door. The officers knew that the cabin had been examined meticulously, literally one square centimetre at a time, for potential forensic evidence, all without success. With the scientific expertise available to the Homicide Department, it could be said with almost one hundred per cent certainty that the dead woman had never been inside it.
Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold bent down and produced a key from its hiding place under the doorstep. She opened the door but remained outside herself, as did Konrad Simonsen and the Countess. Klavs Arnold made do with a fleeting glance from the doorway. Only Arne Pedersen went inside. The room was dominated by a hexagonal open fireplace in the centre surrounded by a strong soapstone table, presumably designed so as to retain the heat overnight. Four benches had been erected around the table, and there was a cupboard against one wall. Arne Pedersen sat down on a bench and scanned the room without anything in particular catching his attention. He stayed there dutifully for a couple of minutes, with the same result.
Outside Klavs Arnold asked:
‘The lodge is new. When was it built?’
Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold replied promptly:
‘A year and a half ago, the old one was so decrepit we really had no other choice.’
‘No other choice?’
‘We rent out the hunting to a consortium in Copenhagen. They have the right to be here all year round, but in practice they’re only here in the autumn; we had the old cabin knocked down in the winter, and put up this new one in its place.’
Konrad Simonsen took over, and said in a neutral voice:
‘Your estate bailiff, is that Frode Otto?’
For the first time the Chamberlain’s wife showed some irritation. Her voice sharpened.
‘Yes, that’s right, and I’m perfectly aware that he fell foul of the law when he was younger. But that’s over fifteen years ago. Even so he has been interviewed ten times, at least, as if everything he says is automatically assumed to be pure fiction. Surely people can change for the better, or perhaps you don’t think so?’
Konrad Simonsen obliged her without hesitation:
‘Perhaps they can, and of course it’s neither pleasant nor fair to be singled out when you’ve served your sentence and appear to have kept clean for years. But I’m dealing with a murder investigation, and the truth is I don’t care one jot about such sensitivities. I’ll interview anyone I like. My many years in the job have made me cynical and destroyed any illusions I may once have had when it comes to mankind’s capacity for rehabilitation. That’s just the way it is.’
‘So a youthful error should be allowed to haunt someone for the rest of their life?’
‘I believe there was a single slip recently. Or does my memory fail me?’
Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold looked away. The Countess was surprised. Her husband’s tone of voice had been confrontational – too confrontational for her liking. Besides, it didn’t seem fair to discuss the estate bailiff’s past with his employer. But despite her objections, she did what was expected of her and gently tugged the sleeve of Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold’s jacket and led her away. They stepped out of earshot and the men could see that they were talking together. Soon they were laughing, and Konrad Simonsen smiled. Good cop, bad cop – it worked nearly every time.
The party moved through the spruce forest down towards the lake. The trees were scattered and in most places the forest floor was without vegetation. The two women led the way without rushing. They walked some distance in front of the men, chatting about this and that. The Countess asked:
‘Did you grow up around here?’
‘Almost, I’m from Slangerup. That’s not very far away, but as far as the manor is concerned, I might as well have been from Jutland. This isn’t the kind of place I would frequent, not before I met Adam.’
‘And how did you meet your husband?’
‘I was behind the till at a butcher’s. Not terribly romantic, is it?’
‘Do tell.’
She told her story; the Countess listened and prompted her when necessary.
When they left the conifers behind and entered the deciduous forest, the Countess’s friendly overture paid off. Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold said as if at random:
‘Four years ago Frode was given a three-month suspended sentence for assault. It was a pub brawl in Copenhagen, and I think both parties were equally culpable. We decided to keep him on, but stressed that it mustn’t happen again.’
They had reached a slope. Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold pointed to the post by the lake lying below them and they moved carefully down the slope, half crawling, backing down in single file as they held on to the young beeches growing randomly down most of the hill. A branch swiped back vengefully and cut Arne Pedersen’s ear. It bled and stained his light-coloured leather jacket. He swore, Klavs Arnold apologised.
Someone had hammered a post into the soft soil in front of the reeds, which interfered with their view of the lake. A red and white plastic strip stamped with the word ‘POLICE’ had been tied around the top and finished in a bow. It wasn’t difficult to guess what the post indicated. Konrad Simonsen found a pocketknife and cut the plastic free from the post, before scrunching it up and putting it in his pocket. Then he turned and looked further into the wilderness. The others stayed a few paces away in respectful silence, unsure what information he was absorbing as he stood there staring, lost to the world, deep in his own thoughts.
But Konrad Simonsen was absorbing nothing. He was thinking about Kasper Planck, his old boss and friend, who had died last year. He shook his head imperceptibly, surprised at himself, marvelling at the way the mind works; he had headed the Homicide Department for almost a decade without ever giving his predecessor much thought in a professional capacity. There had been exceptions, indeed one major exception, he acknowledged, but overall he had managed the job on his own. And yet now, after the old boy had died, he missed him all the time. Konrad Simonsen wondered what his old friend would have said, had he been here. At first he failed to come up with a convincing answer, then a clear thought swept all other speculation aside. There could be little doubt about Kasper Planck’s reaction, if he had been standing next to Simonsen; he could almost hear that dark drawl with its biting honesty, which could so easily turn to sarcasm. Planck would have said:
‘What the hell are we doing here?’
CHAPTER 8
Konrad Simonsen, the Countess and the Blixen-Agerskjolds were sitting in the Chamberlain’s office in the main building of Kolleløse Manor, enjoying coffee and homemade cake, fresh out of the oven, still warm. The men spoke, the women were silent. The Countess studied the paintings on the walls, which immortalised first the Blixen and later the Blixen-Agerskjold line – well, the male ancestors, at least. They were arranged in a row stretching
pretty much around the whole room, from where they watched their living descendants sternly and with the weight of expectation. The Countess was only half listening to the somewhat strained conversation Konrad Simonsen kept going concerning the running of the estate.
Adam Blixen-Agerskjold was a tall, gangly man with a pale, long horsey face, protruding eyes, narrow, bloodless lips and a scruffy goatee on his receding chin. He resembled his many ancestors to an astonishing degree, thought the Countess, who nevertheless found him sympathetic. His voice was deep and his replies to Konrad Simonsen’s irrelevant questions were precise and stripped of irritation, though it must be obvious, even to him, that the Detective Superintendent didn’t have the slightest interest in the sewage pipes in the boulder foundation or the restoration of copper roofs.
After an extended period of small talk and baked goods, Konrad Simonsen straightened up in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. The Countess, who recognised the gesture, pricked up her ears. He asked:
‘Are you in charge of the estate accounts yourself?’
Adam Blixen-Agerskjold nodded.
‘Yes, together with the bank and our accountant.’
‘All the accounts?’
‘No, not all of them. Our estate bailiff, Frode Otto, prepares the accounts for his own areas of responsibility, but he reports to me, and to the accountant, of course.’
‘And his areas of responsibility are?’
‘Any activity that doesn’t affect the direct management of the estate. At the moment we have only three. There’s the hunting, then we have the holiday cottages – we have seven behind the apple orchard for visitors – and we’re also currently trying out growing mushrooms in the cellars. But none of this has any major financial impact, sadly. We experiment all the time to find alternative sources of income, but so far without much success.’
