have to stop using that expression. It made him sound like a world-weary old fart. Especially when he was also ranting about newfangled water coolers.
Søren ducked into the little kitchenette at the end of the hall and selected a mug from the cupboard. The coffee left in the machine was jet black and tasted like charcoal; it had probably been sitting there since lunch. A few other people from the group had also drifted in even though they weren’t on duty again until the next morning. He could hear someone typing and quiet laughter coming from the large, open-plan office. Gitte Nymand was leaning over Mikael Nielsen’s shoulder and pointing to something or other on the screen in front of them. She had a small wrinkle of concentration on her brow, but she was smiling, and her voice bubbled with excitement. Søren allowed himself to stand there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, enjoying the view. Gittewasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her short-cropped hair framed a face that was just as distinctive as her gold-medalist swimmer’s shoulders and muscular legs. Wide cheekbones, strong jaw, bushy eyebrows that were astonishingly dark despite her standard Scandinavian blonde hair and blue-green eyes. But what rendered her one of his best personnel finds of late was the calm, natural authority she radiated, even though she was only in her late twenties. Also, she got along well with Mikael, who could be a little prickly to work with. Søren seemed to remember they had been at the police academy together. It did something to the cadets’ relationships, those months of standing side by side in riot gear, in yet another interminable attempt to clear Christiania’s cannabis market.
“Hi, Boss.”
They had noticed him. Gitte straightened up and looked at him inquisitively, which gave him a brief and very irritating sense of being in the way. As if they were just waiting politely for their aging boss to clear off so they could once again immerse themselves in the details of their report on the training exercise. You could see the easy intimacy between them in the way they moved—Mikael, leaning back casually in his chair, Gitte with her hand still on his shoulder. Søren felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy. When had he last felt that kind of camaraderie with any of his colleagues? When had he last worked side by side with someone who had also seen him drunk? None of his supervisors ever leaned over his shoulder with bright eyes and eager voices, that was for sure.
“Hi,” Søren grunted in response.
He raised his hand halfheartedly and continued into his own office, set the charred coffee down on the desk, and turned on his computer. He stared at the dark screen as the machine slowly whirred through its security protocol. His own face was reflected back at him dimly behind the blinking gray lines of text, looking rather more geriatric than usual. It was the lack of sleep, he told himself firmly, as if attempting to banish the specter of age by willpower alone. Normally, all he saw was himself—broad forehead, receding hairline, and the narrow, hooked nose which, along with his black hair, had earned him the nickname “Kemosabe” at the police academy. As far as he knew no one called him that anymore. Admittedly, the black hair had grayed a bit since then, and his promotion to inspector had probably put the kibosh on that type of linguistic creativity.
At least he was in good shape. He worked out in the gym in the basement every Monday and Wednesday morning before heading for his desk, and he ran two or three times a week, usually ten kilometers or more, and even though he didn’t time himself, he knew he was still creditably fast. The physical that stopped any number of aspiring cadets every year because of excessive cigarettes and chronic puppy fat would still be no hindrance to him. No, there was nothing wrong with his physique, and he didn’t feel old. But to everyone else, to the “younger
Søren ducked into the little kitchenette at the end of the hall and selected a mug from the cupboard. The coffee left in the machine was jet black and tasted like charcoal; it had probably been sitting there since lunch. A few other people from the group had also drifted in even though they weren’t on duty again until the next morning. He could hear someone typing and quiet laughter coming from the large, open-plan office. Gitte Nymand was leaning over Mikael Nielsen’s shoulder and pointing to something or other on the screen in front of them. She had a small wrinkle of concentration on her brow, but she was smiling, and her voice bubbled with excitement. Søren allowed himself to stand there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, enjoying the view. Gittewasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her short-cropped hair framed a face that was just as distinctive as her gold-medalist swimmer’s shoulders and muscular legs. Wide cheekbones, strong jaw, bushy eyebrows that were astonishingly dark despite her standard Scandinavian blonde hair and blue-green eyes. But what rendered her one of his best personnel finds of late was the calm, natural authority she radiated, even though she was only in her late twenties. Also, she got along well with Mikael, who could be a little prickly to work with. Søren seemed to remember they had been at the police academy together. It did something to the cadets’ relationships, those months of standing side by side in riot gear, in yet another interminable attempt to clear Christiania’s cannabis market.
“Hi, Boss.”
They had noticed him. Gitte straightened up and looked at him inquisitively, which gave him a brief and very irritating sense of being in the way. As if they were just waiting politely for their aging boss to clear off so they could once again immerse themselves in the details of their report on the training exercise. You could see the easy intimacy between them in the way they moved—Mikael, leaning back casually in his chair, Gitte with her hand still on his shoulder. Søren felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy. When had he last felt that kind of camaraderie with any of his colleagues? When had he last worked side by side with someone who had also seen him drunk? None of his supervisors ever leaned over his shoulder with bright eyes and eager voices, that was for sure.
“Hi,” Søren grunted in response.
He raised his hand halfheartedly and continued into his own office, set the charred coffee down on the desk, and turned on his computer. He stared at the dark screen as the machine slowly whirred through its security protocol. His own face was reflected back at him dimly behind the blinking gray lines of text, looking rather more geriatric than usual. It was the lack of sleep, he told himself firmly, as if attempting to banish the specter of age by willpower alone. Normally, all he saw was himself—broad forehead, receding hairline, and the narrow, hooked nose which, along with his black hair, had earned him the nickname “Kemosabe” at the police academy. As far as he knew no one called him that anymore. Admittedly, the black hair had grayed a bit since then, and his promotion to inspector had probably put the kibosh on that type of linguistic creativity.
At least he was in good shape. He worked out in the gym in the basement every Monday and Wednesday morning before heading for his desk, and he ran two or three times a week, usually ten kilometers or more, and even though he didn’t time himself, he knew he was still creditably fast. The physical that stopped any number of aspiring cadets every year because of excessive cigarettes and chronic puppy fat would still be no hindrance to him. No, there was nothing wrong with his physique, and he didn’t feel old. But to everyone else, to the “younger
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