The Hanging: A Thriller by Lotte Hammer, Søren Hammer Page B

back. The woman calmed down. After that she let the wet towels fall to the floor and started to rub lotion onto her in soothing circular motions. The old woman opened her eyes and hummed softly, and she continued the rubbing a little longer than strictly necessary.
    “We have to remember to brush your teeth and make sure that it doesn’t end up like last week.”
    She deftly grasped the woman’s upper dentures and pulled on them. The last time she had bathed her the old woman had lost her teeth and she had become very anxious—not that she needed much to set her off. She brushed the set in hand soap while the old one rinsed her mouth.
    “My daughter is coming to visit me. Is it Thursday today?”
    “It is Tuesday today. Your daughter is coming over the weekend. It’s a long time until then,” she snapped without wanting to.
    The woman reacted immediately.
    “Call my daughter. She should come now. Is it Thursday today?”
    “Shut up, you senile old fool.”
    The old one wept heartrendingly.
    Jørgensen couldn’t recall having struck a patient before. Never ever, not even a light slap like the one just now. She needed something to calm herself down, a pill or a drink or both. This was a stressful time.

 
    CHAPTER 17
     
    Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg strolled along the sidewalk. They got along well with each other and liked to break off alone when given the chance, as in this case, although they were very busy. Berg was in a bad mood so there wasn’t much conversation but they did stroll. Perhaps it had become a habit.
    In contrast, Pedersen’s mood was wonderful. The meeting at Forensic Pathology had given the investigation if not a full-blown breakthrough then at least a new dimension, and on top of it he was a cheerful sort. He differed in this way from his companion, who walked half a step in front of him and looked like a scolded child. All his experience with women told him that it was best not to talk to her and to let time work on her mood instead of trying to intervene. Sooner or later she would be back to normal, that was almost always the way, so in the absence of conversation he took the opportunity to admire her backside. It was not such a bad alternative and he slowed down a little more.
    When they reached the corner, where Berg’s car was parked, they found a ticket on the windshield and, what was worse, the citation officer. He stood a couple of cars ahead of them, making note of a new offense. Pedersen decided to study the price list in the window of a laundromat, already firm in his decision not to get mixed up in the situation—a position he abandoned when Berg’s objections quickly escalated from a discussion to a disagreement, and the color of her face indicated a continued escalation. He forced her away from the parking officer, managed to get the keys from her after some work, and hastily drove them away.
    For a time neither said anything. She was the one who finally broke the silence.
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. Do you want to drive?”
    “No, it’s fine.”
    They continued a bit farther in silence, then Pedersen reached for the newspaper between them. He propped it up on the steering wheel and said, “Listen to what that journalist Staal says about Simon.”
    Berg looked disapprovingly at him. To read while driving did not seem a sensible combination.
    “I would like to arrive in one piece.”
    He let her finish, then read, “Chief Detective Inspector Konrad Simonsen was more for decoration than substance at the press conference. He had clearly been muzzled. The leader of the investigation sat as meekly as a lamb on the outer—”
    He got no further.
    “Stop it, Arne. I feel terrible. It’s like the whole thing’s gone wrong and I feel like a complete failure.”
    He tossed the newspaper into the backseat with an attitude of defeat, then placed a hand on her thigh.
    “Don’t you think you just need a man?”
    “Why do you behave like a simple swine when you’re