The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  “Is it possible that the other potential Jehovah’s Witness partners can confirm that they haven’t visited the place? I mean, so that Catherine Thomsen is the only possibility?”

  “That’s being worked on, but bear in mind that when you do outreach you visit a good number of addresses every day. And the episode is over ten years ago.”

  “What about a date?”

  “Not exact, but it would have been within the first three weeks of June, 1996, and he is sure of that.”

  “That is, over nine months before she was killed?”

  “Yes, that must be right.”

  The Countess shuddered.

  “But tell me something,” Simonsen continued. “We’ve had nothing so far on domestic partners, lovers, men, women, in-between, anything at all?”

  Pedersen shook his head.

  “I haven’t run into anything along those lines, and he’s always lived alone. Officially in any event.”

  The Countess was on the same track.

  “Nothing from me either. At the base he was well liked, helpful but not particularly social, and had no lovers that we know of. Some perceived him as slightly eccentric, but he wasn’t the only one, and no one I’ve talked to had anything against him. All in all I can’t contribute much about Andreas Falkenborg, but there were around nine hundred people at the base, and they were constantly being replaced, so I’m not even close to having exhausted witness possibilities. With respect to Maryann Nygaard it’s a little easier because she was a woman. There were so few of them that most remember her, mostly thanks to her appearance. But is it relevant to follow that trail further? Your call, Simon.”

  Simonsen hummed absent-mindedly, which after a brief hesitation the Countess interpreted as encouragement for her to continue speaking. To give them an overview she started describing life at the Søndre Strømfjord base during the early eighties. Simonsen tuned out her words and observed her blouse. He thought that it was definitely bought at an ultra-expensive designer boutique, the sort that offered “collections” and “diffusion lines”. It was made of silk, patterned in light green and brown, and reminded him of autumn beech trees. His lapse in concentration was vaguely worrying. He pinched himself on the arm and recovered in time to answer her, though he had only heard half of her report.

  The Countess asked, “What do you think? Shall we continue with them tomorrow? And should it be both him and her? That is, Falkenborg as well as Maryann Nygaard?”

  “No, we’ll drop the base for the time being. There’s not much there, and we can always go back to it if things change.”

  “Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in her voice, perhaps it was because he had so many years’ practice in reading other people, or perhaps it was because she had gained his permission to operate for a couple of days on her own. In any event, he thought it over and changed his mind.

  “Do I understand correctly that you would like to dig a little deeper?”

  If she was surprised by his intuition, she did not show it.

  “It’s not something I can make an argument for, but one witness says that Maryann Nygaard’s behaviour changed the two or three weeks before she was murdered. Among other things she stayed away from parties and gatherings and that sort of thing, which she definitely had not done before. It’s aroused my curiosity, though as I said it’s probably not something we can use.”

  “How will you investigate this more closely? Do you have a source?”

  “I may have a line on a friend of hers, I’ll know tomorrow.”

  “Okay, take a couple more days and see what emerges. Meanwhile let’s concentrate on some key dates. We have reason to assume that Andreas Falkenborg met Maryann Nygaard for the first time in a nursing home where his grandmother lived. This may have been in January or February 1982. Not until September the thirteenth, 1983, that is more than a year and a half later, does he murder her after having pursued her all the way to Greenland. The pattern is just as sinister in relation to Catherine Thomsen. They met by chance in June of 1996, and her murder happened about nine months later. Presumably after his having made enormous efforts to get her father’s fingerprints on a plastic bag, which—”

  Simonsen got no farther than that. He was interrupted by a pale-faced Pauline Berg, who came rushing into his office without knocking. In her hand she held a photograph of a young woman—a young woman who resembled Maryann Nygaard. Or Catherine Thomsen. But was neither of them.

  CHAPTER 10

  When the work day was over, Konrad Simonsen sometimes treated them to beer—which did not happen often, so was greatly appreciated when it did.

  This took place by established custom at Copenhagen’s Bodega, an unpretentious bar opposite Glyptoteket that was mostly patronised by police officers. The Countess, Arne Pedersen and Poul Troulsen sat down at the same table as their boss. Their remaining colleagues found other places and did not disturb them, except for occasionally raising glasses towards their table. The establishment was half full, the mood upbeat without excessive hilarity, with muted pop classics playing and a quick-witted bartender who charmed everyone with his contagious smile. Shortly after they’d sat down Pauline Berg joined them. She had been out on an unexplained errand and had returned with a bag from Illum, which despite the Countess’s inquisitive gaze she shoved under her chair. Everyone made toasts in draft beer, and Simonsen said a few predictable things about good work, that no one heard. Then the conversation flowed. “God knows how many people he’s killed! Maybe we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg,” said Pauline Berg, disregarding the convention of not mixing details of an investigation with a social gathering.

  Troulsen immediately picked up on this remark.

  “There may be a lot, worse luck. It’s not enough to review our own lists of missing persons. There may be tourists who never returned home or he may have murdered on his own holidays, not to mention that young women with black hair are perhaps only one of his preferences. Maybe he also has an eye for red-haired boys—who the hell knows? I hope you’ve got him nicely contained, boss, until we’re ready to put him in the hole.”

  Simonsen answered gruffly, “I’m taking good care of him with the resources I have.”

  “Maybe those can be extended a little in this case. Or else use our pension fund. Just so long as he isn’t running around loose.”

  “The most unpleasant thing is that he looks so ordinary. And then of course the faces of those girls in the bags . . . What a way to die! There should be the death penalty for such a psychopath.”

  It was Pauline speaking again.

  Troulsen nodded agreement. The Countess shook her head, clear about where this was headed. “And summary trial, I assume? And royal permission for painful interrogation, like in the old days? I understand that sort of thing is popular with our major ally at the moment.”

  It was like pushing a button, and she knew it. Pedersen shook his head, and Troulsen replied sharply, “We didn’t have three thousand of our countrymen murdered at a stroke. To be honest, I can well understand why many Americans aren’t too concerned about the legal niceties where those behind the massacre are concerned.”

  “Except what you call legal niceties, I call human rights.”

  Pauline appealed to the Countess.

  “I don’t follow you. What are you talking about?”

  “We’re talking about torture, my friend. Or more specifically the US rendition programme, where in the best management style the torments are outsourced to executioners all around the world. Mistreatment by proxy, please. And don’t believe that Denmark isn’t involved. Kastrup Airport has been visited many times by the torture jet, but it’s poor political form to point that out. For your information, torture affects alleged, but never convicted, terrorists.”

  Troulsen shrugged his shoulders provocatively.

  “If it saves innocent lives, I’m not one to lose sleep over it.”

  Simonsen entered
the fray.

  “I know how many witches were burned in Denmark in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—there were about a thousand—and the interesting thing is that almost all of them were guilty, because by far the majority confessed their crimes after being on the rack for a while. The truth is that torture, besides being deeply repulsive, is also counterproductive. You simply can’t rely on the results of such interrogation.”

  Pedersen was the first to finish his beer. The discussion was about to become a trifle too heated for his taste. To be conciliatory he said to the Countess and Simonsen, “You always make it sound so easy, and sometimes I wish I had your sense of ethics or whatever it’s called. But I also know that if someone threatened my family, I would damn’ well not shrink from anything.”

  He glanced at his watch and added, “I’ll buy the next round and then I’m heading home.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It was difficult to trace the woman who went by the nickname “Six Feet of Love” twenty-five years before at the American military base at Søndre Strømfjord in Greenland. And when, ironically, after many twists and turns, the Countess finally did find the woman’s real name, it turned out that she had emailed the Homicide Division two days earlier, because she thought she had information about Maryann Nygaard that might interest the police. The email included the data it had taken the Countess hours to find out a different way. The woman’s name was Allinna Holmsgaard, and the nurse Pauline Berg had interviewed in the car between Roskilde and Viby was not far off in her prediction that the woman’s career probably had something to do with books. Allinna Holmsgaard was Professor of Rhetoric at the University of Copenhagen.

  The Countess responded to the email and tried the listed cell phone number a few times, but without success. A call to the Institute for Media, Perception and Communication, which she did not expect much from as the autumn term had not yet started, produced unexpected dividends. A friendly secretary said that the professor was at work, but she did not know exactly where. The building was on Njalsgade at the Iceland Wharf, which as the crow flies was less than a kilometre from Police Headquarters and thus within acceptable walking distance—a good excuse for the Countess to enjoy the summer weather, and a suitable way to prove to herself that she could walk where she wanted, regardless of whoever she risked running into.

  The city smiled at her, and she smiled back. Until a woman walking towards her with a pushchair made her turn her back to the street and inspect a random shop window until the danger had passed. One wheel squeaked, which irritated her. How hard was it just to put a few drops of oil in the hub, so other people were not disturbed? She saw her reflection in the shop window and felt ugly. Thickset, wrinkled, fifty in a few years. Soon it would be almost two years since she’d last slept with a man. She’d been invited to a confirmation ceremony and could not decline, although her ex-husband and his live-in were also coming. She had hired an escort; the thought of going to the party alone had been unbearable. Later she paid him to take a week-long vacation with her, which she was not exactly proud of afterwards. It had been divine at night and catastrophic during the day. The man proved to be as self-centred as he was untalented at anything but sex, which was saying a lot. Now she had a man again—in her house in any event. The rest would come eventually, little by little. She turned, looked around carefully and walked on.

  Allinna Holmsgaard had aged gracefully; she was in her mid-forties and still lovely. A tall woman with a lightly lined face and graceful movements, standing by the board while she alternately wrote and gestured. The Countess had quietly slipped into the classroom where the witness was teaching, and received a few minutes of free coaching plus time to observe the professor as well as her students. There were only five of them in the class, all young women, sitting in the front row taking notes on their laptops. One woman was recognisable as a TV host and another as a politician. When Allinna Holmsgaard caught sight of the visitor she interrupted her teaching and went up to the Countess, who briefly introduced herself. The professor looked her over from head to toe and said, “Do you have any ID?”

  The Countess found her identification card and showed it to her. Allinna Holmsgaard studied it carefully, after which she said apologetically, “Sorry, but for a moment I suspected you were from the press. A couple of journalists have called. It was almost impossible to get rid of them.”

  “It’s quite all right. Actually I ought to show my ID routinely.”

  The other woman nodded her acceptance of this.

  “I assume that it is about Maryann?”

  “Yes, it is. Do you have time to speak?”

  “I will very soon. What about you, are you in a hurry?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Do you know Kulturhuset down on Bryggen?”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “Why don’t we meet down there when I’m through here? As I said, it won’t be very long. There’s no reason to stay inside on a day like this.”

  Half an hour later the two women were sitting on a bench at Gaswerkshavnen with a view over Kalvebod Brygge. The distorted reflection of a glass facade caught the sun at an unfortunate angle and momentarily blinded them. From time to time one of the broad canal excursion barges passed; then they had to smile and wave, while tourists from far and near photographed them for their scrapbooks, and the tour guide’s school English interrupted their conversation. The two women hit it off from the start. For instance, even when they were ordering something to drink, they both agreed that it was too early in the day for white wine, after which they each ordered a glass anyway. They talked about architecture; it was a difficult subject to avoid when they were sitting where they were, and they could have talked for a long time about everything under the sun if the situation had been different. They both felt that way. The Countess took hold of herself first; she was in the midst of a murder investigation after all.

  “Were you and Maryann Nygaard friends in Greenland?”

  “We were, yes. Very close. It hit me hard when she died, or disappeared rather, but we knew perfectly well what that meant. For a long time I hoped against all the odds that she would be found alive, even though deep down I knew that wouldn’t happen.”

  “But you didn’t suspect she was the victim of a crime?”

  “Absolutely not. It came as a shock when I read that, and I’m still pretty upset. It’s disgusting to think about, but hard not to.”

  “Yes, unfortunately it is disgusting. In your email you said you have information that you think might interest us. Would you like to tell me about it?”

  Allinna Holmsgaard drummed her fingers on the table. Her nails were cut short, but nevertheless the sound irritated the Countess.

  “When I sent the email, I meant it. But after thinking things through I’m not so sure how important it is.”

  “Let me decide.”

  “So, you do know that Maryann was pregnant when she . . . disappeared.”

  Just this morning the Countess had read about the pregnancy in the autopsy report. It had surprised her and raised a few questions. She said, “We know that, and it makes us wonder a little.”

  “Why is it so strange?”

  The Countess could have bitten out her own tongue. Allinna Holmsgaard did not need to know anything about the tampon, but now the revelation was hard to avoid. The Countess vainly tried an evasive manoeuvre.

  “Things don’t work that way between us. I ask, you answer. Not the other way around. Tell me about . . . ”

  The sentence faded out, the professor had guessed the reason for the Countess’s surprise. The finger drumming stopped, and she said in distress, “Maryann’s pregnancy was not proceeding normally. She was bleeding, although she shouldn’t have been, and was flown to Holsteinsborg for a closer examination but there was nothing wrong. She was menstruating when she died, is that it?”

  “Yes, that’s how it was. Do you know the child’s father?”

  “No, I don’t. That is what I thoug
ht might interest you. You see, the whole thing was very mysterious, almost cloak and dagger, and Maryann did not want to come out with it when she finally found out. His name, that is.”

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning.”

  “Yes, of course. Maryann got pregnant about ten weeks before she died. It was by a geologist who was staying at the base for a few days while he waited for good weather, so he could continue on to Thule. They fell in love, just like that, like you read about in romance novels. Or in any event, Maryann did. I have my doubts about what it was like in reality for him. His name was Steen Hansen, he maintained, but that was a lie—”

  The name struck the Countess like a blow from a hammer. Her jaw dropped and then her glass too. The stem broke, and wine spilled over the table. Allinna Holmsgaard asked worriedly, “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

  The Countess pulled herself together. With all her strength she tried to repress the dry female voice that was suddenly echoing in her head. Hold on to Steen Hansen, Baroness. Hold on to Steen Hansen, Baroness. The psychic’s words, and even on the phone they had been unnerving. Now it was much worse.

  “No, it’s nothing, just go on.”

  “So, I did not find out that the name was false until later, but there were other strange things about him . . . things that didn’t seem right. I remember that we women said that we had never seen such a well-dressed geologist. They usually resemble something they dug up. It was unusual besides that the Americans provided an aircraft for him alone when the weather cleared up. We speculated like that without really getting into it very deeply. There were always all sorts of stories in circulation, it was a way to pass the time.”

  She poured a little water in her empty wine glass and drank it.

  “But then Maryann found out that she was pregnant, three or four weeks after he had left, and abortion was ruled out. She’d had an abortion once before, and mentally she couldn’t take it. So she wrote a letter to the father. She did not have his address, only his name, she thought, so she addressed the letter to GGS, where he said he came from.”