by Lotte Hammer
He sat down on the couch alongside her. The Countess had chosen a chair by the dining table at the other end of the room. She did not get involved in the conversation. From time to time he sneaked a glance at her and every time felt a sting of irritation at her presence. She should have stayed in the car. This situation was hard enough for him and superfluous listeners did not make it any easier. He explained about Greenland and then compared the killings of Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen. Twice he confused the victims’ names without noticing it himself. Ingrid Thomsen listened, condemning him while saying nothing. His legs were tingling worse than ever, which for once he welcomed. It was as if he deserved the pain. Suddenly Ingrid Thomsen interrupted him.
“That’s just the way it is.”
Those were the first words she had spoken since they arrived. Her voice was dark and melodic, and suited her poorly. He had also forgotten that. She repeated the statement in slightly varied form.
“Things can’t be done over again. That’s the way it is.”
He did not know if he should continue his monologue, but chose to remain silent, while still looking her in the eyes. The pause was long and awkward, and finally she continued speaking.
“What is it you really want? My forgiveness for what you did to my husband? Is that why you’ve come? Or do you expect sympathy perhaps?”
Simonsen had asked himself several times what the purpose of his visit really was, without finding a reasonable answer. Suddenly it felt imperative that he should tell her that the police, and he in particular, had made mistaken accusations against her husband. But would that be enough? Perhaps, just as she had said, it was her forgiveness he wanted, whatever that meant. He avoided answering. Suddenly she stopped her hand-wringing and struck the palm of one hand on the tabletop in front of her. Although the sound was not loud, it made him jump.
“Carl Henning and Catherine are in Ulse Cemetery, under the chestnut tree out towards the parking lot. Why don’t you go there and talk to them?”
Simonsen got to his feet and answered her quietly.
“I did not fabricate false evidence against your husband, while in all likelihood Catherine’s murderer did. And I did not kill your husband, he did that himself.”
“You were just doing your job.”
The sarcasm did not affect him. He maintained his calm.
“Yes, exactly. I was doing my job. Regrettably for you I was mistaken, which was very unfortunate. But yes, I was just doing my job.”
They let themselves out.
He sat in the back seat of the car, where he took off his shoes and put his feet up on the seat. That helped the restlessness in his legs. The Countess drove out of town. As the buildings began to thin out, she asked carefully, “Do you want to go out to that cemetery?”
“No, we’ll skip the church, but stop if you see a pub. I want a beer and a cigarette.”
She turned her head and smiled quickly at him.
“That sounds like a splendid idea.”
“And then I want another beer and cigarette.”
He smiled defiantly, almost childishly. She gave him another quick smile. Then she started looking for a pub.
CHAPTER 8
“Andreas Falkenborg!”
Konrad Simonsen’s deep voice commanded the attention of the listeners packed into his office. Pauline Berg thought that only now were her efforts of the day before validated. Arne Pedersen and the Countess were content to nod, Poul Troulsen did not react.
“Helicopter pilot, electrical engineer, presumed double murderer. That’s what we know about him at the moment, so the task for today is simple: we have to fill in his CV. Arne and Poul, you take his life here in Denmark, form groups and let them do the work. I’m especially interested in any links to Catherine Thomsen. Where did he meet her? What relationship did they have? Including the false evidence against her father, how and when he fabricated that. Also try to get a current photograph of him, and if you don’t find one, take one without him knowing. Tomorrow I’m putting a full surveillance team on him, maybe they can take a picture. If you leave HS, I want to know where you are.”
HS stands for Head square, and Konrad Simonsen normally avoided the abbreviation, which he found stilted and redundant, but right now he was too tired to care much for his language.
Pedersen nodded bleary-eyed. Troulsen raised a thumb in the air and asked at the same time, “So we have him under surveillance already?”
“Yes, more or less. We’re discreetly following what he’s doing, but not intensively.”
“Why isn’t he under intensive surveillance? He’s not a man who should be going around without supervision.”
“We’re in the process of freeing up resources. That will happen in the course of the day.”
With Troulsen satisfied, Simonsen continued.
“Countess, you get Greenland. Your primary focus is to delve into whether we can nail him to the murder of Maryann Nygaard in a way that will hold up in court. I also want to know whether he had contact with her in Denmark, or if they first met in Greenland. Use Trond Egede up there, he’s competent, but you are not allowed to ask the Americans officially. Not Thule Air Base or anywhere else, unless I specifically give instructions. And just like Arne and Poul, don’t go anywhere without my knowledge. Are you with me?”
The Countess agreed, and Simonsen turned towards Pauline Berg.
“What you accomplished yesterday was an outstanding piece of investigative work. Today you get the easier, but also the most important, assignments. First and foremost you will find out whether any witness in the Stevns case knew Andreas Falkenborg. There are a lot of them, but you will take all the people you need to help you. I would specifically like to know whether he was known by the Jehovah’s Witnesses. That would be a good way for him to approach Catherine Thomsen. Then I want you to review all the missing person cases in Denmark since 1968 that involve women in the age group fifteen to thirty-five. Get pictures and compare their appearance with Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen. If there is one that matches, compare that to the CV we are constructing on Falkenborg. Are you with me?”
Pauline Berg was happy. The most important assignments. She liked hearing that.
“It will be done.”
“The fact that the two women resembled each other may be a coincidence, but the similarity is so striking I believe it has signifi-cance. In any event, it’s our working hypothesis.”
“Agreed.”
“Good, and then one more thing—a press conference has been called at two o’clock. What do you say about going along with Arne?”
“But I’ve never done that.”
“It’s easy, you just avoid saying anything.”
Simonsen got up and went over to the window.
“All of you take note: you must not contact Falkenborg directly. At the moment I do not wish him to know that we have him in our sights. There is one last thing—Malte and the Countess have convinced me of the benefits of exchanging the bulletin board for the computer while we research our suspect’s life. Malte will make a website, password-protected obviously, and the idea is that we will gradually fill it out as information comes in. He has sent you all an email about how to participate, and you can log in and continuously monitor progress for yourselves, see how far we’ve come. As you know, I’m a bit of a diehard when it comes to the blessings of information technology, but in this case I want to give it a try.”
“It’s also the only correct way to do it.”
Pedersen’s comment earned him a bad-tempered glance from Simonsen, which his colleague simply sneered at. Simonsen concluded.
“Malte should be here now, so he’ll probably arrive in fifteen minutes. You should get going unless you have any questions?”
He paused and looked around the team.
“Which does not seem to be the case. Okay, great, have a good day. Pauline, you stay here, I have a couple of things I want to discuss with you.”
The men got
up and left the office. Pauline Berg remained seated, unsure whether being asked to stay behind should be interpreted positively or negatively—an uncertainty that was quickly eliminated.
“How long was it between you learning the name Andreas Falkenborg and letting me in on it?”
She tried to wriggle out of answering the question.
“Well, it’s hard to say exactly.”
“Measured in hours and minutes, and without any evasions, please. I don’t have time for that.”
“Nine hours and a few minutes.”
“Yes, that fits very well with what I came up with myself.”
He stepped behind her and placed one hand on her shoulder.
“I really ought to lecture you, Pauline. Tell you about twenty colleagues of yours wasting time visiting old DYE-5 employees yesterday afternoon—which they didn’t do, however, because Arne is more responsible than you are. But I have neither the time nor the desire to hang you out to dry. I also spoke with the Countess yesterday, and she very rightly pointed out that personnel management and development interviews and that sort of thing are not my strong suit, so as an alternative I have chosen to give you a very quick introduction to—”
Just then Malte Borup came crashing into the office, out of breath and sweaty, with a laptop computer in one hand and a six-pack of Coke in the other. Konrad Simonsen sent him out again and continued his lecture, though a good deal faster and less forcefully than he had originally intended.
“Have you ever wondered why you were hired here in Homicide, and in particular why almost from the first day you were included among the few I consult the most? You don’t really think it was down to your intelligence and good looks, do you?”
Pauline Berg turned painfully red.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s because you are young and ambitious. Your age gives you a perspective on things that the rest of us don’t always have, and ambition is a necessity in any career—otherwise you learn too slowly. When I was twenty-seven myself, I dreamed of solving a great mystery all alone. I thought I was unique in those thoughts, so I kept them to myself. Later I discovered that all my colleagues that age shared the same fantasy.”
“I’m that way too,” she admitted.
“Really? Well, things clearly haven’t changed much. Later I learned that it was acceptable to take personal initiatives if I was the only one who paid the price, and also if I reported back important results promptly—which is to say about two minutes after I achieved them. In the interests of truth I must regretfully admit that I learned that lesson the hard way. Once I sat on the name of a perpetrator for two days before my boss exposed me. And do you know what happened then?”
She shook her head.
“I got bawled out so badly the hair was almost blown off my head, so luckily for you it seems some things have changed. Pauline, look at me.”
She obeyed.
“Next time . . . and I am in no doubt that there will be a next time, because this talk does not change the fact that you were completely outstanding yesterday . . . next time inform me promptly. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes, we’re in agreement. And sorry.”
“Hmm, I thought I had copyright in that word. Go and do your work. Start by typing up the two witness interviews you did yesterday, if you haven’t already done so.”
She got up and left, aware that she had been let off easily. In the doorway she turned around.
“Thanks.”
“When an employee thanks me after I’ve told her what’s what, I know I must be getting old. Get going.”
No sooner had Pauline Berg left the office than the Countess appeared. Ironically, given what he had just told Pauline, she was asking him to break his own rule. The Countess got right to the point.
“You’re going to have to cut me some slack in this case, Simon. I have a line of inquiry I have to pursue but it may take some time.”
“And what line is this?”
She shook her head at him, refusing to be drawn. “No more than the rest of the week. It won’t take any longer than that. And you have to trust me when I say that I will inform you if necessary.”
“Which is not now, I take it?”
“No, preferably not.”
She smiled and added with a note of appeal in her voice, “This is not something I usually ask for. When I think about it, I believe this is the first time.”
He muttered to himself and then unwillingly gave his consent. After which he quickly added, “This is a decision that can be reversed at any time if I can’t do without you. I also want you here today while we research Andreas Falkenborg. Besides, ten minutes ago I gave Pauline a lecture for working a bit too independently.”
The Countess’s expression turned sceptical.
“She didn’t look very upset by it.”
“No, I’m too nice. When we’re through with the helicopter pilot, then see about getting started on what you’re going to do, whatever that is. And you’ll have to explain yourself to the others. Goodbye.”
“Are you throwing me out?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Get out of my office. One of us needs to do some proper work.”
CHAPTER 9
The day was productive, and for the first time since Greenland Konrad Simonsen felt as if the inquiry was on course. Even if the visit to Ingrid Thomsen had not gone terribly well, it felt as though a burden had been lifted from him once it was over. He had also talked to his daughter via video streaming for almost half an hour, and that too had put a charge in his rundown batteries. This evening he would pack his clothes and move in with the Countess for a while, which to his own surprise he was looking forward to. He threw himself into his work.
Bit by bit the mosaic of Andreas Falkenborg’s life was being pieced together and developed by Malte Borup as a website. The collaboration between the student and the homicide chief was going splendidly. Simonsen had feared he would be left out and not be the one in the middle gathering the threads spider-like, as with the old whiteboard method, but that worry quickly proved to be unfounded. The fact that Malte was never quite sure what was important and should be entered, and what should be filed as background material, possibly cross-referenced, meant that Simonsen had constantly to make decisions about the material, which kept him just as updated as he usually was in these situations. He was also freed from a number of practical tasks and could concentrate on more essential things, mainly prioritising their resources through Pedersen and Troulsen on a regular basis, and deciding which people were assigned which tasks.
Malte Borup briefed him on the timeline they had already established for Andreas Falkenborg.
“Born in 1955 in Hillerød, grew up in Holte north of Copenhagen, primary school with secondary school examination, graduated from Holte High School in 1972, the same year starts at Denmark’s Technical College, parentheses nowadays DTU. Graduated as an engineer in 1979 with a good degree and a specialty in audio. Is that okay? There are a lot of fancy words about his final project, do you want those included?”
“No, make a reference, and delete the parentheses about DTU.”
“Should I put the particular subject he graduated in into the timeline—that is, in his combined chronology?”
“Yes, excellent, but can you make the details less bold?”
“I’ll make them grey.”
Malte typed, Simonsen thought, and shortly thereafter their division of labour produced the day’s first bonus.
“Malte, there’s a gap in his student years in 1977,” said Simonsen, staring at the screen. “Is that an error?”
“No, he doesn’t pass any examinations then.”
“Email or text Arne, I want to know what Falkenborg was doing that year. All of his other exams sit regularly placed like pearls on a string, with excellent results, so something must have happened to him then.”
The student typed away.
“I’ve emailed and texted, and now the o
verview of his addresses is done.”
“Let me hear, but not the addresses, only the cities.”
“That would be Holte, that is, at home, until 1973, student residence in Lyngby until 1979, and then four different places in the Copenhagen area until today: Frederiksberg, Østerbro, Dragør, and finally Frederiksberg again. Do you want the years?”
“No, thanks, but write that down in the chronology, and make links to the actual addresses.”
“What about summer houses?”
“List those too. Houses, you say . . . did he have more than one?”
“One down at Præstø that he’s had for many years. It’s rented out. And then one in Liseleje and one in Sweden, but they were sold again.”
“Write down when he buys and sells them and then a note that refers to the addresses.”
“Yes, sir. And what about Greenland? Then he still has his apartment in Frederiksberg, the first one that is.”
“Make a special page on Greenland, note the date he leaves, and cross-reference.”
“I don’t know the date, nothing at all has come in from the Countess, but there is a strange thing about one house.”
“What’s that?”
“In 1986 . . . no, sorry, 1996 . . . in December 1996 he buys the second storey of a house in Rødovre and sells it again in January 1997, which costs him over forty thousand kroner. There are a lot of papers about it already scanned in.”
