The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  Simonsen paused briefly. None of his listeners said anything, and the mood was heavy. Malte Borup, who had illustrated his boss’s points with corresponding close-ups, returned to the original two photographs.

  “In addition to this, there are a number of features common to both homicides which may or may not be coincidences. Judge for yourself. Maryann Nygaard was twenty-three years old at her death, Catherine Thomsen twenty-two. Both women were medium height and slender, almost athletic in build. Both had black, wavy hair down to the middle of their back, and in both cases their hair was let down when they were found. If you look at their faces, there are quite a few similarities. Both must be considered pretty, with fine features, high cheekbones and brown eyes. Naturally there are differences, especially around the nose, but without being able to support it objectively I would say there was a close resemblance between them.”

  Pedersen took Pauline Berg by the hand. She misunderstood and pushed him away, annoyed at first, only to freeze the next moment when she stared at the screen and, shaken, grab hold of his hand again. Simonsen went on speaking.

  “For further parallels it should be mentioned that the women were not raped, and we must assume there had not been any other form of sexual molestation, apart from the exposed breasts. Maryann Nygaard’s vagina contained an intact tampon, and Catherine Thomsen was a virgin—she was an active member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who as you know do not sanction pre-marital sex. And besides, no semen residue was found at either of the crime scenes.”

  He paused here, waiting for a reaction which quickly came. They were all in agreement that the person who had murdered Maryann Nygaard in 1983 most likely also killed Catherine Thomsen almost fourteen years later. He took a deep breath. He’d reached the part of the briefing he’d been dreading. His words were chosen with care.

  “What I have to tell you next isn’t easy for me. Some of you who were also involved in the Thomsen murder case will know why, but for the benefit of those who weren’t, I want to give you a brief overview and also talk about my personal role in it, to dispel any rumours you might have heard.”

  People shuffled in their seats. Heads were nodded. No one looked directly at Simonsen. An older officer fished a pair of mirrored sunglasses out of his pocket and took refuge behind them.

  “Carl Henning Thomsen, a trucker, now deceased, was our chief suspect for the murder of his daughter Catherine. We know for a certainty, however, that he was not in Greenland in September 1983 as at that time he was serving a sentence in Vridsløselille State Prison for narcotics smuggling. Thus he did not kill Maryann Nygaard, and if we believe that one perpetrator was responsible for both murders then he was not guilty of killing Catherine either. The apparently damning evidence gathered against him in 1998 was therefore faked—a possibility that was considered back then, but unfortunately not followed up on.”

  Tears had started to trickle down Konrad Simonsen’s face, but he kept his voice steady and accepted the handkerchief that Pauline Berg handed him, without ceasing to speak. He turned his head away, however, when the screen showed the photograph of a middle-aged man, tired and beaten-looking.

  “Carl Henning and Ingrid Thomsen lived in Haslev, where together they ran a small removals company. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the same applied to their only daughter Catherine, who had moved to Østerbro here in Copenhagen where she was studying to be a physical therapist. In their free time the parents as well as Catherine went door to door evangelising. Often the parents drove in to the city to meet up with their daughter and all three of them spread the word together. On Saturday the fifth of April, 1997 Catherine disappeared; in the morning she took the train from Copenhagen towards Haslev and was last seen with certainty at Roskilde Station. Her mother was in Jutland at that time, visiting her sister, and the father maintained that Catherine never arrived at the family house. Eight months later her body was found at Stevns.”

  Simonsen returned the handkerchief with a little nod of gratitude to Pauline. The tears had dried now he had put the worst of it behind him.

  “The investigation was exhaustive, of course, and a number of strongly incriminating circumstances soon pointed to Catherine’s father. First and foremost fingerprints from both his hands were found on the plastic bag used to smother his daughter, in positions that indicated he must have held her around the head after the bag was pulled over it. In addition it could be proved that the plastic bag came from a roll discovered in the Thomsen family’s garage. Furthermore he was seen on the beach at Stevns in March 1997, not far from where the body of Catherine was later found. He maintained he had been summoned by phone to give an estimate for a move, which turned out to be bogus. He’d been given directions to the address that involved walking along the shore. He was unable to account for the other evidence against him.”

  Here the Countess interrupted her boss.

  “What about that phone call? Could it be confirmed or ruled out?”

  “It was confirmed, but it was made from an unknown cell phone towards the cell-phone tower covering Carl Henning Thomsen’s residence. We assumed he called himself, but could never connect the telephone or the call directly to him. Okay?”

  “Yes, but what you have just told us seems to be incriminating enough.”

  “But unfortunately there were various discrepancies, which at the time were noted but dismissed. First and foremost, we could not understand why we found the father’s fingerprints on the plastic bag while there were no fingerprints on the duct tape. Furthermore his truck’s tachograph from the day of Catherine Thomsen’s death showed that it had not been at Stevns, and we were never able to establish what vehicle had been used to transport her body. The family’s other car was in Jutland. Then the nails being cut . . . we didn’t understand that either. The girl’s nails were not that long, and according to his wife he had never commented negatively on them. There were other small details that didn’t fit either, but you can read those for yourself in the case notes.”

  A detective in the front row interrupted.

  “You mentioned before that he was in prison for narcotics smuggling in 1983.”

  “Correct. Amphetamines and cocaine, if I remember correctly.”

  “Did he have a criminal career, and if so how does that fit with his being a Jehovah’s Witness? It sounds like a strange combination.”

  “When he was younger he was sentenced twice, both times for importing narcotics, which was easy for him as a long-distance driver. Then he met his wife and by his own account was saved. Nothing suggests that his criminal activity continued after they were married in 1986.”

  “But Catherine Thomsen’s age . . . I can’t really get that to fit.”

  “Catherine was his daughter, later adopted by Ingrid when he married her. The girl’s biological mother died in a traffic accident when Catherine was little. But remember, this isn’t meant to be a detailed review. You can read up on all this for yourselves.”

  “Okay, I was just curious.”

  Simonsen gave a wry smile.

  “It comes in useful in our line of work. Well, back to Carl Henning Thomsen. Troublingly, our murder inquiry never established any cast-iron motive for Catherine’s death. We did know, however, that she had been keeping something secret from her parents. She had initiated what can best be described as a cautious or dawning lesbian relationship with a woman we know existed, but never located. The assumption was that the daughter must have informed her father about what was going on, after which, in an outburst of righteous fury, he killed her. But this was all highly speculative on our part, and there were timing issues there also. Another theory was that their daughter continuing her studies had offended the parents—Jehovah’s Witnesses do not believe much in education—but that didn’t carry water.

  “Carl Henning Thomsen continued to maintain his innocence, again and again. I don’t know how many hours he was questioned for altogether, but not for the briefest moment did he waver. My boss, Kasper Planck
, thought for a long time that we had made a mistake over the prints, which unfortunately I finally talked him out of. He had all the proper doubts, I had all the good arguments, and sadly for Thomsen my view prevailed. In the past few days I’ve realised that I am going to have to live with this mistake for the rest of my life.”

  To Simonsen’s own surprise he’d got through the admission he’d been dreading. Or maybe even thinking that way was symptomatic of his own self-importance—he was an egocentric fool, who could not tolerate being wrong, and now felt sorrier for himself than for those who had suffered as a result of his shortcomings.

  Pedersen asked, “Should we take a break?”

  Simonsen glanced at him in confusion.

  “Excuse me, what was that you asked?”

  “Whether we should take a break.”

  “Yes, in a little bit, I'm just about done. The investigation ended when we brought charges against Carl Henning Thomsen for the murder of his daughter. During the trial he had a mental breakdown and was admitted to Rigshospitalet, where despite close monitoring he managed to throw himself out of a ninth-floor window. That was in October 1998. The case was then archived. Two years later, however, there was an addendum to the notes when sophisticated listening devices were found in Catherine Thomsen’s old apartment during its renovation, but no one knew whether these had anything to do with her murder, and no one made more than a half-hearted attempt to find out. Any questions or comments?”

  His gaze was met with a general head-shaking; no one had any questions.

  “Now let’s take a break, and then Arne Pedersen will take over.”

  He took a step towards his colleague and added in a low voice, “I hope that’s all right? The Countess did mention to you that it was a possibility, I hope.”

  “It’s quite all right. I can easily continue, especially now it’s just us present.”

  “I’m tired,” admitted Simonsen, “and the last few weeks have taught me to listen to my body.”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  “Did that seem too self-important to you? The part about . . . about the father and my own role in his death?”

  “It seemed very honest, and if you think you’re the only one who was affected by that case you’d better think again. I don’t know if you noticed, but there should be nineteen of us here today and there are only sixteen. Three colleagues who like you were involved in the investigation of the Stevns murder had to go home. They couldn’t take the stress. And Troulsen went out for a walk, he wasn’t feeling too good either.”

  “Well, it’s out there and that’s a relief. For now I know a secret couch that I want to visit for an hour or so.”

  Pedersen smiled.

  “I know where that secret couch is too. I think a lot of people do, so I hope it’s vacant. Shall I come up and wake you?”

  “I’ll set my cell phone, but thanks for the offer. I assume you’ll review what DYE-5 looks like now, and then allocate our resources to individual DYE employees based on the list from the Americans.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “I would like to have an overview when arrangements are in place, and you should make sure that visits to any DYE employee are made by pairs of officers, one of whom must be male. Agreed?”

  “Completely.”

  “A plan will have to be thought out soon for how we inform the general public. There will be an outcry.”

  “There already is. Go up now and rest.”

  Pedersen almost pushed his boss towards the door, which suggested goodwill combined with worry for his well-being, but Simonsen knew his colleague too well to believe that. “Tell me, what’s going on here? Why are you suddenly so eager to get rid of me?”

  Then he caught sight of a message from Malte Borup, in big letters on the screen: Distinguished visitor en route to the boss.

  Pedersen did not give up. “It can wait. Come on, Simon.”

  But it was too late. An impeccably dressed man came into the room. Both Simonsen and Pedersen knew him from a previous case. His name was Helmer Hammer and he was employed in the Prime Minister’s office—a charming person, who consistently downplayed his influence, and as a rule got things done the way he wanted them. Both detectives liked him, which did not however prevent Pedersen from receiving him with a bad-tempered torrent of words.

  “We weren’t the ones who embarrassed the little worm from the Foreign Ministry, and if you want to speak to Simon, you’ll have to wait a couple of hours until he’s rested.”

  As usual Helmer Hammer was one step ahead.

  “Well, I don’t mind waiting. It’s no skin off my nose. But I thought you’d like to know that the little worm from the Foreign Ministry is in the process of arranging a videoconference for this evening, and he has asked if Simon has time to participate.”

  “Is it Berlin calling?”

  It was Pedersen again.

  “No, now it’s a ship in the Caribbean . . . Though naturally it’s wrong of me to come rushing in and then expect you to drop everything else. Even though my errand will only take ten minutes, I apologise . . . ”

  But a bell was already ringing in Simonsen’s head. When he and the Countess had been obliged to cancel their Caribbean trip, she had suggested that his daughter Anna Mia should go instead. Completely free, with a friend if she liked. She did. The agreement was that Anna Mia would phone home occasionally, but so far he had not heard from her. He’d assumed it was due to poor signal.

  “Just a moment. What kind of conference is this?” he asked.

  “They are calling it a trust-building initiative. The kind they’re really good at in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  “And what do I have to do in return?”

  “Nothing, that’s the whole point. Consider it his apology for flying off the handle at you earlier.”

  “Sounds like a trick to me.”

  “But it’s not, you have my word on that. He made an ass of himself, and now he’s trying to make up for it.”

  “Then I’d be happy to agree. Will you tell him for me?

  “Yes, no problem. And while I’m here, tell me, is there a place we can talk undisturbed? I meant what I said, it will only take ten minutes.”

  Simonsen threw out his arms.

  “No one will interrupt us here.”

  The two men walked down the corridor together while Helmer Hammer explained.

  “I’m here because I want some advice from you, and at the same time I want to ask for a favour. First the advice: some people have become aware that there is a handful of young constables who have passed a number of examinations in legal studies before dropping out of university and attending the police academy instead. Now, the idea is to help them complete their degree in law while they are training as constables. It’s good economics: we gain extremely capable police employees for a relatively modest outlay. I would like to hear what you think about that plan, as a chief inspector.”

  Simonsen shook his head in disbelief at such a virtuoso display of manipulation, marvellously downplayed so that it was impossible to be genuinely annoyed by it. Helmer Hammer knew perfectly well that Simonsen’s daughter had skipped two years of legal studies and would soon be finished at the police academy. He also knew that the loosely sketched education project was bait that her father could not refuse.

  “You’re simply too much. So how can I help you?”

  “I’ll take that as confirmation that you like the concept. With respect to the favour I want to ask for, I’ve run into a problem. The man from the Foreign Ministry who visited your lecture is named Bertil Hampel-Koch, and his title is actually not worm, but general director. God knows he can be a sourpuss sometimes and even a little arrogant. He’s also constantly getting mixed up in every possible territorial pissing contest, which unfortunately he’s not alone in, definitely not. Now and then the central administration at Slotsholmen is a real kindergarten, but Bertil is also a very competent person, who can be a good and fa
ithful supporter if you get to know him. Besides, you can rely on him, he always keeps his agreements.”

  “And how do I get to know this gentleman?”

  “By sending him a brief email, preferably just a couple of lines, every evening about how the investigation is proceeding. If there’s nothing new, tell him that. If an important development happens, email as soon as you have time.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, not quite. You will also get to know him by visiting him every now and then, if he wants that.”

  “According to my calendar, not his.”

  “I have emphasised that detail.”

  “And he went along with it?”

  “He is always guided by expediency. Otherwise he wouldn’t be in the exalted position he now occupies.”

  “If I receive a written instruction from the police commissioner that I have to . . . get to know your friend, then we can reach an agreement. That is, not from the national chief of police, it has to be from my direct boss, Gurli—”

  “The instruction is waiting on your desk alongside a business card with the telephone number you should call concerning this evening’s arrangements. There is also his email address.”