The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  “GGS?”

  “Greenland’s Geological Surveys, it was under the Greenland Ministry at the time. The department was housed on Øster Voldgade along with the other geological institutions. Today GGS has merged with its Danish sister organisation. Well, the letter was returned, no one knew any Steen Hansen apparently. Maryann was down in the dumps for a couple of days, but then she thought of writing to the base commander at Thule. That was not normally something you did, but on the other hand, what else could she do? She explained the situation and asked that he forward her letter to Steen Hansen, if he could. She also sent a picture of him. It was just a snapshot, but all in all her persistence paid off because two weeks later Steen called her. Yes, he was married and had a child, the jerk, but he had backbone enough to contact her.”

  “Why didn’t she want to tell you his real name?”

  “I don’t know, she didn’t want to say. I recall that it irritated me. We also nagged her about that, but there was no getting her to budge. And then she disappeared, of course, and after that I had a really bad conscience because maybe she had gone away by choice, if you understand.”

  The Countess understood only too well.

  “Still, for a long time I hoped as I said that she would come back. Things did not really add up because she was simply not that depressed. She withdrew into herself, but two days before her trip to the ice cap we talked about baby clothes and that sort of thing. But that’s really all I wanted to tell you, and I can’t see how it will help you very much.”

  “Maybe it will, maybe not. This fake Steen Hansen, what did he look like?”

  “Very ordinary. Light hair, crew-cut, not that tall, in his early thirties. The truth is, I don’t really remember him. I only spoke to him a few times.”

  “Any distinguishing features?”

  “Not that I remember, apart from his hair that is. I mean, he was probably the only Danish man who had such short hair. All the others at that time had long hair, at least below the ears. Oh, yes, and . . . there was actually one other thing about him, now I remember it. He talked in an unnaturally high voice like a girl’s, a falsetto it’s called. Someone called him the Castrato . . . well, as a nickname, that is. Everyone got a nickname, even after a few days, and . . . ”

  The Countess tuned out the professor’s words for a moment. She had never before known a witness, twice within a minute, give her information that almost made her fall off her chair. This time, however, she subdued her reaction and admonished herself that the lead about a voice was subject to interpretation and had to be backed up, and that could be damned hard to do. She concentrated again on the conversation.

  “Is there anything else you know about him?”

  “Well, he gave her his cap, but that probably doesn’t have any great significance.”

  “Just tell me.”

  Allinna squinted briefly and then said serenely, “Well, he had one of those knitted caps with interlaced fleur-de-lis in different colours. His mother had made it for him, he said, but that was definitely not true because there was a manufacturer’s tag inside. Well, whatever, Maryann loved that cap, and so he gave it to her.”

  “As a memento?”

  “Yes, maybe. She was very happy about it anyway. Personally I thought it was hideous, too many colours in it. I recall that once she was standing in front of a mirror with it on, and I must have commented on it. And then she said something along the lines of it probably could attract a few males if ever she was short of money for rent. Well, that was only in jest, but she wore it a lot, and I know that she had it on when she disappeared because I brooded about that for days afterwards. For me it made her disappearance even sadder, though that doesn’t make any real sense.”

  The Countess nodded; she had seen the cap herself. It was lying beside Maryann Nygaard’s corpse, and quite involuntarily she thought that Allinna Holmsgaard had been right—it really wasn’t very pretty. She dropped the subject and asked instead, “And you have no idea why he used a false name?”

  “No, unfortunately. Maryann maintained that he really was a geologist, and he was there to negotiate some sensitive concession agreements with the Americans on extraction of underground minerals. At first that didn’t sound completely off the wall. There were a number of disagreements between Danish and Greenlandic atomic power opponents on the one hand and GGS and Risø on the other. This visit allegedly concerned extraction of uranium and perhaps thorium from the Kvane field in Narsaq, and the subject was sensitive to say the least, but . . . well, it wasn’t logical. I mean, what was he doing in Thule in that case? The American Air Force was not involved in mining operations, and Thule Airbase is almost two thousand kilo-metres from Narsaq.”

  “So you didn’t believe that?”

  “Not really, but I didn’t say anything about it. In 1983 the Cold War was still being conducted, so it wasn’t so strange if there were things going on that the public shouldn’t know about.”

  “You may be right about that. Tell me, the picture of the man you mentioned, what should I do if I really want to see it?”

  Allinna Holmsgaard thought about it, then she threw out her arms regretfully.

  “It won’t be easy. I can’t even remember who Maryann got it from.”

  The Countess waited, there was more to come.

  “You do understand that he had left for home a long time before Maryann died?”

  “Completely, but I would still like to see his picture.”

  “Maybe there is a chance, although it’s slight. Do you know Knud Rasmussen's House?”

  “No, unfortunately not.”

  “It’s a museum in North Zealand, Gribskov Municipality, I think. The former museum director collected personal photos from both bases. It was a kind of hobby for him. I have also sent him copies of my own pictures.”

  “This sounds like a real uphill climb, especially since I don’t know what Hansen looks like. Can I convince you to assist me a little?”

  The Countess waited patiently while Allinna Holmsgaard considered. Finally she said, “Tomorrow my husband and I are leaving for Zurich. This trip has been planned for a long time, and I would be loath to cancel or postpone it. On the other hand I owe Maryann, and society for that matter. Only you can decide if it it’s important enough for me to cancel.”

  It was tempting, but the Countess controlled herself.

  “No, go on holiday, it’s not that important.”

  “I’m happy to hear that, but I can easily assist you over the Internet. If I send you an email this evening about the exact period of time when our friend was at Søndre Strømfjord then there won’t be very many pictures to investigate, if there even are any . . . ”

  Together they went over the details. When it was decided, the Countess had only one thing left to do. From her bag she took a picture of Andreas Falkenborg in 1983, and set it in front of the professor.

  “Do you recognise him?”

  “Yes, it’s Pronto, of course, that childish soul. What do you want to know about . . . oh, no . . . ”

  The Countess questioned her closely but Allinna Holmsgaard could not contribute anything groundbreaking.

  CHAPTER 12

  While the Countess was enjoying her white wine at Islands Brygge, her immediate associates in Homicide were en route in two cars to South Zealand. Konrad Simonsen and Poul Troulsen took the lead, with the older man at the wheel. Following right behind them were Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. Troulsen squinted out and looked distrustfully at the summer weather, which already by late morning was hot and sunny, then glanced at his boss in the passenger seat, reading a memorandum.

  “I don’t understand how you can stand it, Simon. The sweat is running off me even though I only have a T-shirt on, and you’re sitting there in a jacket as if the heat doesn’t bother you in the least. Have you heard the weather forecast?”

  Simonsen looked up briefly and observed his colleague, not without envy. Despite his age there was not much surplus fat on Tro
ulsen’s well-trained body, and the muscles of his upper arms bulged nicely out of the sleeves of his T-shirt. A faded pin-up girl, from the days when Nyhavn was raunchy, preened on his forearm. Simonsen’s own temperature regulation varied more than it should. Sometimes he sweated when there was no reason to; other times, like now, he almost didn’t sweat at all. Both situations were a consequence of his diabetes. He said teasingly, “Yes, it’s going to be hot.”

  Troulsen dropped the subject with a sigh and said instead, “Yesterday the wife and I babysat the grandchildren and I didn’t have a minute to spare, so unfortunately I don’t really have a good grasp of what we’re doing right now. I was wondering if you would care to give me a run-through.”

  Simonsen consented; the alternative was that they change roles so that he drove while Troulsen read, and he had no desire for that. Besides, he could hardly reproach the man for having a personal life. Normally he was well prepared, and rarely complained about his hours.

  “Where should I start?”

  “Preferably from the beginning.”

  “Okay. Annie Lindberg Hansson, age twenty-four from Jungshoved on Præstø, disappeared on the fifth of October, 1990. She worked at an office in Vordingborg, from where she took the bus in the evening towards Præstø and got off at her usual stop four kilometres from home. Her bicycle was waiting for her on the hard shoulder. Since then no one has seen her. The reason that she is interesting to us now is her appearance. Have you seen her picture?”

  “Yes, I got that far. She resembles Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen.”

  “She does, yes. Same black hair, same brown eyes, body build and pretty face with fine features and high cheekbones.”

  “And Andreas Falkenborg lived in the area at the time she disappeared?”

  “In August 1990 he bought a summer house in Tjørnehoved, which is less than five kilometres from Annie Lindberg Hansson’s home, and you must allow for the fact that this is a sparsely populated area, so five kilometres is not that much, if you see what I mean. Besides, the area is not a typical place at all for a summer house.”

  “How did she disappear?”

  “Basically as I told you. There’s not much more to say. She got off the bus at eight o’clock in the evening, and since then she’s been missing.”

  “What about her bicycle?”

  “Never found, but if you stop interrogating me, I’ll tell you about the circumstances at my own pace. I do believe I’m capable of covering all the essentials.”

  “Sorry, it’s in my genes, as you know. And then the heat—it’s almost unbearable.”

  Simonsen’s sympathy was lukewarm, he had his own concerns. A couple of sores on his ankles were itching like hell, small, bright red blotches that would not heal, and made him feel ridiculous, almost embarrassed. In contrast the morning’s usual round of sweating had not materialised, probably due to the nutritious breakfast the Countess had served him. All in all moving to Søllerød had worked out beyond his expectations. He had most of the second storey in the big house to himself. The Countess helped him unpack, showed him around, insisted on taking care of the practicalities, and not least—the awkward episodes he had feared in advance would arise between them had quickly faded into quiet cosiness, yes, even laughter. He enjoyed it, not least being fussed over a little. It had been a long time since he’d really laughed, and it had also been a long time since he’d slept so well. Not until now in the car did regret for his past mistakes around the murder of Catherine Thomsen gnaw its way in again and with that the longing for a cigarette. He leaned over to scratch his sores, thought better of it, and concentrated on updating Poul Troulsen.

  “Annie Lindberg Hansson lived with her father, who is a bit of a social case, reading between the lines, but we’ll soon find that out. Their house is isolated, out by Jungshoved Church, a place where there’s not much besides sheep, water, and then the church and Lindberg Hansson’s little homestead. This meant that Annie had to bike alone most of the way home from where she got off the bus, and you can hardly imagine a more perfect route on which to assault a young girl: dark, deserted, and a bicycle light you can see from far off.”

  “I’m liking this case less and less.”

  “We don’t get paid to enjoy ourselves. Well, where was I? Yes, that evening the father reported his daughter missing and again the next morning. A search was put out for her, but the police efforts were pretty half-hearted, and I think I’m being kind saying that.”

  “Why? Didn’t they believe him?”

  “Keep quiet now, damn it, you’re being a pain! So, everyone expected that the daughter would soon show up again, presumably in Copenhagen. She and her father had had some heated discussions before she disappeared, because she wanted to move to the city and get ahead—or perhaps more precisely get started—with her life. He on the other hand thought that she had a duty to remain living there and more or less take care of him, since his wife had died a year before. For a long time therefore the authorities assumed that she had settled the disagreement in her own way by abandoning him, and that she would later make herself known again when she was established and her father had grown used to the idea. Even though the father regularly visited the police in both Næstved and in Præstø, for a long time he was more or less ignored and the case was correspondingly downplayed.”

  “That really makes me angry, but probably only because I know what I do. By far the majority of young people who disappear turn up again at some stage or another.”

  “Yes, and that’s a good thing, but Annie Lindberg Hansson never showed up. Still no one really believed there’d been a crime, but were more inclined to think she had cut the bonds to her childhood home and was maybe living in the city or else abroad somewhere.”

  “Then we can only hope that’s what she’s doing.”

  “Do you believe that yourself?”

  “No, unfortunately not. Not since I’ve seen her and know that Andreas Falkenborg was in the area. God knows whether he bought that summer house in Tjørnehoved before or after he met her.”

  “That’s one of the things we’ll try to find out today, but if I had to guess, I’d say after. That would fall neatly in line with the other murders, where he is obviously prepared to reorganise his entire existence to position himself for his misdeeds. He displays a strange combination of extremely goal-oriented activity once he has met his victims, while he does nothing actively to find—how shall I put it?—appropriate candidates. We’ll have to bring in a psychologist to analyse this.”

  Poul Troulsen thought a while then said tentatively, “If women don’t have exactly the right appearance and the right age, he’s harmless. If on the other hand they are black-haired, slender and pretty in a very specific way, then he kills them?”

  “It undeniably looks that way, but as I said, we’ll have to call in a psychologist.”

  “It will make me very happy to turn him over to the correctional system.”

  “You’ll have to get past a judge and presumably a jury first. And it will probably be Nykøbing Zealand secure prison, when we get to that point.”

  “He’s cost us two resignations from the force over the Thomsen affair—and don’t misunderstand me, I know full well that the murders, whether there are two or three of them, are much, much worse—but I can’t help being angry with him about that too. As far as I’m concerned I wasn’t doing too well either when I realised the truth, and I was only peripherally involved in the Stevns case. Even so I couldn’t attend your review on Monday.”

  “I was very close to being the third to resign, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I knew, and this was just my clumsy way of asking how you’re doing now?”

  “If he has killed someone after Catherine Thomsen, then I don’t know . . . I almost don’t dare think about it, but otherwise I guess it is what it is.”

  Troulsen looked at his boss with disapproval. The reply did not invite further discussion, so he concentrated on his driv
ing. Simonsen immersed himself in his papers again.

  An hour later they were nearly at their destination. Poul Troulsen honked briefly at Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg, as he turned left and drove toward Jungshoved while his colleagues’ car continued on the highway. A gentle rural landscape unfolded before them with a view over Bøgestrømmen, the crooked stream between Zealand and Møn. Five minutes later they stopped in front of a small homestead close to Jungshoved Church, all the way out on the promontory.

  At the top of the driveway the two men stopped and looked around. The house consisted of two low, white-plastered wings, which created a contrast to the black-tarred concrete tiles of the roof. The small garden was overgrown, with a couple of beautiful old fruit trees and a weed-infested terrace stretching from the farmhouse out to the lawn, while a high beech hedge behind hid the view to the church. Simonsen recalled the boys’ books of his childhood, where Svend Poulsen Gønge’s guerillas had numerous encounters with the Swedes at this very Jungshoved, without his really knowing whether this was fiction or Danish history. Troulsen commented soberly, “It was probably sold off by the church at one time.”

  At the house they were met by a man in his sixties, who opened his door without a word and waved his arm to invite them in. His appearance was neglected; his face looked older than it should, his eyes shiny, almost runny, and his clothing in a state that a secondhand shop could not even give away. The room they were led into was low-ceilinged and dark despite the radiant sunshine, and it took a little time before the eyes of the two officers grew accustomed to the dim light. The furniture was sparse and worn, but not casually arranged and had originally been expensive.

  The man gestured to them to sit on a couch with a sturdy, low oak table before them while he sat down in an armchair opposite. He had made tea for them and poured without asking. They thanked him and drank. Simonsen thought that the tea tasted surprisingly good. At one end of the table were two photographs, which evidently had been placed there for the occasion. The first showed a picture of a healthy little troll in a snowsuit, sitting on a swing being pushed by her father while she showed off for the camera like a prima donna. The second showed a lanky, thirteen-year-old girl in a white skirt, balancing awkwardly in high-heeled shoes in front of a church that was not the neighbouring building. The frames were gilded and hideous. The man followed the direction of Simonsen’s gaze, and said, “Every morning when I wake up I think about her, and every night I cry myself to sleep. I miss her indescribably. She was the only real blessing in my life. Yes, I have brought her out because I think she has a right to be here.”