by Lotte Hammer
His use of the plural form was nicely judged. His two listeners were now painfully aware of what they were up against, if they did not play this Hammer’s way, and both of them silently consented. He smiled winningly.
“My wife and my daughter always tell me that I should rely more on other people, and they’re right of course. Will you help me in spreading truth number two? It would have the greatest effect, of course, coming from you. Besides, I never forget a favour.”
Simonsen answered hesitantly, “What did you have in mind?”
He explained and again they accepted, the Countess however with a touch of resentment.
“In other words: no Thule, no book, and no letter?”
The under secretary shook his head apologetically.
“No Thule, no book, and no letter. That is unfortunately correct, but I well understand if you—in addition to doing what you have to do—have become a trifle fascinated by the story. That letter in particular is quite amazing. It is a real masterpiece and should be printed on the back of every single employment document in Slotsholmen, under the heading Read and Learn.”
He looked at his watch and reached for his shoes, but then had second thoughts and carried on speaking.
“So, the US government asks Denmark about the country’s attitude towards atomic weapons in Greenland. A simple, straightforward question. The response, on the other hand, is anything but simple. On the contrary, it is outstanding in its artfulness, and all down to one of Bertil’s predecessors—Nils Svenningsen was his name. To start with, the reply establishes that the American Ambassador presented no specific plan for the introduction of atomic weapons in Greenland, which is completely true. Governments have generals for specific military plans. Also, atomic bombs are rewritten to ammunition supplies of a particular type. And then what is completely fabulous—director Svenningsen has his prime minister answer based on the absence of specific plans: I do not think that your comments give reason for any comments on my part.”
He gestured eagerly.
“Translation: you may by all means introduce all the atomic bombs you want—although we officially forbid that—so long as we know nothing. I do not think that your comments give reason for any comments on my part . . . and this to the US government! That is damned ingenious.”
This time it was Simonsen who looked at his watch. He had a double murderer to question, and besides, he had a hard time appreciating where evasiveness ended and ingenuity began.
CHAPTER 32
The questioning of Andreas Falkenborg began with silence. For a long time Konrad Simonsen stared down his prisoner, and watched the other man squirm under his gaze. It was evident that his discomfort at being observed made him restless and uncertain; he wrung his hands and stared down at the table like a guilty child. Simonsen let the other man stew and stonewalled the few times the prisoner looked at him, mutely imploring him to get the interview going.
Finally Simonsen recited the necessary preamble.
“Please state your name.”
“Andreas Falkenborg.”
“Birth date and place.”
“July the eleventh, 1955, in Copenhagen.”
“Where in Copenhagen?”
“The Municipal Hospital.”
“And where did your parents live?”
“Bispebjerg, when I was born. I don’t know the address, they moved shortly after.”
“That doesn’t matter. Andreas Falkenborg, you are accused of the murder of two women, namely the murder of Maryann Nygaard on September the thirteenth, 1983 near the radar station DYE-5 on the Greenland ice cap; and the murder of Catherine Thomsen on April the fifth, 1997 on Nordstrand outside Stevns Klint in Zealand. In addition you are a suspect in the murder of Annie Lindberg Hansson, who disappeared at Jungshoved near Præestø on October the fifth, 1990, and the kidnapping and attempted murder of Rikke Barbara Hvidt on May the sixth, 1977 in Kikhavn at Hundested. Do you understand these accusations?”
“Yes, but I haven’t done anything.”
“Do you also know that you have the right to a lawyer who can support you?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Would you like a lawyer?”
“No, thanks.”
“I will make a note of that.”
A brief shudder ran through Falkenborg then, almost like a slight epileptic fit. Simonsen wrinkled his brow; that reaction was not in his script, and the last thing he needed was a suspect who did not let himself be questioned. Falkenborg asked, “Can I change my mind later? And get a lawyer then if I want?”
“Yes, of course you can.”
“And you won’t be angry with me?”
“My reaction is unimportant. If you want legal representation, just say so, and I will interrupt questioning until the lawyer has arrived.”
“Thanks.”
“You should also know that you have no obligation to speak. If you choose to do so, anything you say can possibly be used against you in court. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And even though you are not compelled to, you really want to talk to me?”
“Yes, I do.”
Simonsen noted to himself that now not even the most meddlesome defence lawyer could reasonably maintain anything other than that the man was well acquainted with his rights. Simonsen’s first actual question had been carefully chosen in consultation with Ernesto Madsen.
“You make a living by spying on other people. Do you like doing that?”
Surprisingly enough, the suspect answered honestly and without the slightest embarrassment.
“Yes, I think it’s fun. I’ve always thought that, ever since I was a kid.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, it’s just the way I am.”
“You like watching people without them knowing it?”
“Yes.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“Yes.”
“Preferably on women?”
“Sometimes it’s men, it depends on who wants my help, and I also sell things . . . microphones, cameras, computer software and that kind of thing.”
“Would you call that spying equipment?”
“Yes, that describes it well, but it’s completely legal.”
“No one is saying it isn’t. Tell me, when you are spying on strangers, do you prefer them to be women or men?”
“Definitely women, I do best with them.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s easier. Women talk more than men, and I also think it’s more fun.”
“Why is it more fun?”
“I don’t really know, I’ve never thought about it, but I guess it’s because I’m normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes, that is, like other men. I’m not abnormal.”
“It’s not normal to kill three women. That’s extremely abnormal.”
This time Falkenborg seemed ashamed. He lowered his eyes and answered, “I know that.”
“What you have done is very serious.”
“Yes, when you put it that way.”
“It almost sounds as if you’re sorry.”
“I am.”
“Well, that’s a start anyway. Tell me, why did you kill Maryann Nygaard?”
Andreas Falkenborg hesitated, trembled slightly and pulled back.
“I did not kill Maryann Nygaard. I didn’t do that.”
Simonsen noticed how he bent his neck and lifted one arm, as if he was going to sniff his own armpit.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing . . . it’s nothing.”
“You’re lying to me. Why did you kill Maryann Nygaard?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know why I killed her.”
“What about Catherine Thomsen, don’t you know why you killed her either?”
The man shook his head. Simonsen said, “The suspect Andreas Falkenborg is shak
ing his head. Please say that out loud.”
“Excuse me, I forgot. I don’t know why I killed Catherine . . . Catherine Thomsen.”
“You waited for her in your car at Roskilde Station on April the fifth, 1997?”
“Yes, we had an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement was that?”
“Catherine was abnormal, she liked other girls but that was a secret. She was also very Christian. Maybe I said that I could help her.”
“With what?”
“She was made wrong . . . it’s embarrassing . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So tell me instead how you killed the women. First Maryann Nygaard, how did you kill her?”
And then suddenly they were back where they started. Falkenborg asked timidly, “But should I say that I killed them when I didn’t do that?”
Simonsen was beginning to sense a pattern. To start with he refrained from answering, but he could hardly ignore it when Falkenborg added, “Will you be angry if I tell you that I didn’t kill them?”
“Did you kill Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen or didn’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, if that’s all right with you?”
Simonsen swore to himself; this could be far more difficult than he’d first expected. He decided to change focus. First however he leaned across the table, stared his prisoner in the eyes and said uncompromisingly, “When we’re sitting here making small talk, you seem like a pleasant person, Andreas. But I also see something else: I see a young girl cast her head back and forth in a desperate attempt to suck in air while her eyes are about to pop out, and you just sit alongside and enjoy the view. And thinking about that makes me so angry.”
Falkenborg’s face twitched. Simonsen took a print from his folder and set it in front of the suspect, noticing how he pulled back in his seat, as if he wanted to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and the photograph.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared of her?”
“Yes, a little—I don’t like that type of woman.”
“What type is that?”
“One like her.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“It’s hard. Just someone like that, they scare me. Won’t you take her away?”
“No. Do you recognise her?”
“Yes, her name is Rikke, but back then she was young. She isn’t any more. She can’t be.”
“Rikke Barbara Hvidt, and you’re right, this picture is of her when she was young. It was taken in 1976, when she was twenty-three years old. When did you meet her?”
“A long time ago. It was in 1978, I think.”
“Could it have been 1977?”
“Yes, that fits.”
“Where did you see her for the first time?”
“On the ferry from Rørvig to Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Both of us were on bikes. That is, they were tied to a railing on the deck of the ferry. Then she came over to me and asked if I would help her fix the chain on hers. So I did that.”
“You weren’t afraid of her at that point?”
“Yes, very.”
“Why didn’t you leave or tell her she could get help from someone else?”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
“For the next six months you pursued her as often as you could. You interrupted your studies and moved into the Hundested Inn.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid of her, I guess.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I know that. But you mustn’t be angry with me. I can’t explain it.”
“I won’t be angry, but I would really like to understand. What did you want with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“Maybe I wanted to go out with her.”
“Did you want to go out with her?”
“No.”
“So stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
Again Falkenborg sniffed himself, this time however without being tormented by spasms or other uncontrollable muscle movements. Simonsen continued.
“You made a scene when she cut her hair.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You shouted and wept and carried on, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I shouted and wept and carried on.”
“Where was that?”
“At her hair salon . . . the salon was on the main street in Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s not much to tell, I followed her that day—”
“Which you had done on many other days?”
“Yes, that’s why I was there, to follow her, and then I saw that she was going into the hair salon to get her hair cut short, and so I went in too and . . . shouted and screamed and carried on. They called the police. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“But after that day you stopped pursuing her, why is that?”
“Because she had cut her hair. But I didn’t stop completely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was up watching her again after a few years. To see whether she still had short hair, but she did. It was maybe in 1980, and then she didn’t notice me.”
“You were only interested in her if she had long hair?”
“Yes, their hair should go down to their shoulders.”
“Their hair? Who are they?”
“The women I’m afraid of, those types. They breed. They bring new ugly cuttings into the world. You have to deal with them at once.”
Simonsen felt a cold shudder pass through him and asked sharply, “What do you mean by that? What do you mean, breed?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
“Who is an ugly cutting?”
“That I can’t say. Maybe the ones I’m afraid of.”
“Are you thinking about anyone in particular?”
“Rikke, I was afraid of her.”
“No others?”
“Yes, others too, but mostly Rikke, since we’re talking about her.”
Simonsen observed him coldly. Falkenborg squirmed, but said nothing.
“How could you have been afraid?”
“I don’t know, I was young then, maybe I didn’t really know what I was doing.”
“Stuff and nonsense, you knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Sorry.”
“But I think I know why you are afraid of women who resemble Rikke Barbara Hvidt.”
Simonsen took out another photograph and set it in front of the suspect. Falkenborg looked and said, “Ugh.”
“You say ‘ugh’, so you recognise the picture?”
“Yes, it’s Belphégor.”
“Explain.”
“It’s a demon from TV.”
“The Ghost from the Louvre played by Juliette Gréco, broadcast in the summer of 1965?”
“Yes, that was it.”
“Have you ever owned such a Belphégor mask?”
“No, never.”
Again a shudder and the nose by the armpit. Finally Simonsen got the point.
“You shiver when you’re lying.”
“Yes, I’ve always done that. Or if I get nervous. I can’t help it.”
“You lied just now.”
“Yes, I'm sorry about that.”
“So you have owned such a demon mask?”
“Yes, when I was a kid. I made it myself, it took a long time.”
“Where is the mask now?”
“I’d rather not tell you, it’s a secret.”
“Well, then, let’s wait a little and see if we don’t find it some place or other when we search your apartment. I would bet we do.”
Simonsen reached across the table and moved the photograph
of Rikke Barbara Hvidt over to the left of the man and the demon correspondingly to the right. Then he placed a picture of Agnete Bahn in the middle before him. Andreas Falkenborg started shaking.
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Agnete. She was our maid when I was a child. She was an evil person.”
“One night you tried to scare her with your mask, didn’t you?”
“Yes, it was a Sunday. I would prefer not to talk about it, if I can avoid it.”
“You sneaked up outside her window with your demon mask on and shone a flashlight on your head so that she would be scared. What happened then?”
“Can I avoid saying anything about that?”
“No, you can’t.”
“I didn’t kill Agnete.”
“I know that, did she get too old?”
“She didn’t look like that any more when I grew up.”
“And she wasn’t scared that night in the summer of 1965 when you were peeking in her window. The whole thing turned out quite different from the way you expected, right?”
“She screamed when she saw me.”
“Tell me!”
“She was sitting on top of my dad, she shouldn’t have been doing that, and I wasn’t supposed to see that, definitely not. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Your father got your mother and hit her, because you behaved as you did.”
“My mother screamed, it was awful, I dream about it at night.”
“While you were still pressed against the window with your mask on and all.”
“I didn’t know what I should do. You mustn’t say anything else, my whole body is shaking and sweating. I can’t help it that I sweat.”
“What did Agnete Bahn do in the meantime?”
“It was terrible, I’ll never forget it, it’s stored inside me . . . deep, deep inside me. She pretended that she was kissing me, she thought the whole thing was very funny, her lipstick was on the windowpane for days. Should she have done that? I was just a kid.”
“No, she shouldn’t have done that.”
“I hoped that she was dead, but you’ve spoken with her?”
“Yes, I have spoken with her.”
“Can she go to jail for what she did?”
