The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  Inattention made her brake a little too hard when a young woman suddenly materialised out of nowhere in her path. The woman looked like a spread from a teen magazine; with her whitened smile and designer clothes, she posed for a few seconds in front of the car, smiling from ear-ring to ear-ring to show her joy at nearly being run over. Then she got in on the passenger side and introduced herself fervently by her first name. Beate, she said. The Countess decided to kill her as soon as she got the chance.

  On Beate’s instruction they drove around the terminal buildings and through a gate where the guard waved them on, before they stopped by one of the pavilions in the domestic area. Beate strode ahead, clip-clopping with her boot heels the final stretch into the building and over to a door, which was indicated with a wide smile, after which Beate clip-clopped off. The Countess knocked and opened the door.

  Inside it looked like an inexpensive but pleasant hotel room. It was small, with more furniture than its size justified. Along one wall was a bed and parallel to it an oblong table with a chair set at either end. An armoire, hand basin and TV were also squeezed in. The walls were painted pale blue and were bare apart from two framed pictures of almost identical sunsets, decorative and indifferent, one over the table, the other the bed. Bertil Hampel-Koch was sitting in the chair farthest away, facing her. He closed his laptop, stood up and edged around the furniture to receive her. The Countess had only met him once before, and then he had behaved repellently, but it quickly became clear to her that this was not an approach he intended to repeat. His welcome was friendly, his posture open and positive.

  The Countess set her handbag down on the bed, while Hampel-Koch edged back to his chair. They sat down at the table and looked awkwardly at each other.

  She had tried her best to prepare for the start of their meeting in particular, and he had obviously done the same. He said, “I hope we can get this over in an hour, otherwise I would very much like to know now so I can arrange a later departure. But I would prefer to avoid that if possible.”

  “An hour is fine.”

  She wanted to say more than enough, but thought better of it.

  “Thanks, I’m happy about that. I ordered coffee, but I think they’ve forgotten me.”

  “That’s no problem, I’ll manage without.”

  He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, focused on her and then said with emphasis, “I am sincerely sorry about all this mess, which I can only blame on myself. The arrangement that your boss should regularly brief me about your investigation was my idea. My bad idea, unfortunately. I thought I could combine a personal interest in that way with a . . . non-personal one. That was stupid, almost counter-productive. Someone in my ministry has wondered about my role and put a couple of journalists on my trail. At least, I suppose it must have happened that way. I don’t know who tipped off the press, presumably personal enemies of mine, but that doesn’t matter. In any event, I ought to have foreseen there’d be fall-out. Besides, I should have told the police long ago about my stay at the Søndre Strømfjord base in the summer of 1983, which to put it mildly I have had ample opportunity to do. But I didn’t, which has made a lot of extra work for me now. You’ll have to excuse that, and please pass on my apology.”

  The Countess took note of this and appreciated his honesty, which seemed genuine enough. On the other hand she immediately noticed his wildly fluctuating tone of voice and it struck her that he was just as uneasy about their meeting as she was, a fact that did not make the situation any less awkward. She started with a question based purely on curiosity.

  “How do you know that one of your own employees tipped off the press, as you put it? Couldn’t the source be the police? It would definitely not be the first time.”

  He nodded, as if to acknowledge her point, and then interjected, “The journalists in question have acquired a picture of me as a thirty year old, and it is a copy of a photograph in my personnel file that can be found on our intranet, if you have access. There are other things too that point to an inside source, though I can’t be certain. Does that have any significance?”

  “No, probably not. Let’s get started, shall we? Unfortunately I forgot my Dictaphone, so I’m just going to take a few notes, if that’s acceptable?”

  She pointed to the pad in front of her, and he nodded.

  “In June 1983 you travelled to Greenland in connection with your participation later that year with the Sirius sled patrol. Your trip was to Station North in Northeast Greenland, and en route you had a stopover at the American military base in Søndre Strømfjord. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You spent four days, more precisely from Thursday, July the seventh to Sunday, July the tenth, at Søndre Strømfjord, while you waited for good weather so you could continue.”

  “Yes, that’s right too. The weather can be pretty rough that far north, even in the summer. Going home I flew by way of Mestervig on the east coast, and there were no problems.”

  That was the first hurdle. Now she had heard about the trip directly from the source and could pass that on later with a reasonably clear conscience. That Søndre Strømfjord was not the only stopover on his trip to Station North, and the actual reason for why they were sitting here, remained unsaid. She wrote meticulously on her pad. When she was finished, she said, “Did you make your trip under the name Steen Hansen?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why was that?”

  He spoke about his uncle, who at that time was Danish defence chief, and about his fear of the negative impact the family relationship might have on his companions during the sled journey. The Countess thought that the explanation sounded convincing and was presumably true. Then she asked the only question to which she did not know the answer in advance.

  “You also maintained that your position was that of geologist. Why is that?”

  Bertil Hampel-Koch’s cheeks took on a pink glow, and he did not answer immediately. Not until he had regained his normal colour did he say, “Yes, that’s also a little embarrassing.”

  The Countess interjected soothingly, “Don’t worry about that. Regardless of what you tell me, I’ve certainly heard it before. Besides, it’s not my task to judge you. And definitely not on something that happened twenty-five years ago.”

  The words helped. He told her in a low voice, “At that time I was newly married, and we were expecting our first child. That was good news, of course, but also a little frightening. So I suddenly got the opportunity to be anonymous on that base, and I thought that if on top of that I lied about my job, no one could trace me when I left. Although . . . well, that proved not to be the case.”

  She didn’t respond, letting him dig himself deeper.

  “In that way I could be a bachelor for a couple of days, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve got the point.”

  “Good Lord, I was twenty-eight years old. I would never behave that way now.”

  He looked imploringly at her, and she discovered to her surprise that he was angling for sympathy. She said casually, “No? Married men’s way of thinking usually grows a bit more relaxed over the years. You met a nurse, Maryann Nygaard.”

  He lowered his eyes.

  “Yes, and I got her—”

  The Countess interrupted him quickly.

  “Now, now, you don’t need to go into detail. This has no relevance to me. I’m only interested in the big picture.”

  She thought that she might just as well have said that from there on she was only interested in passing the time, until she could reasonably maintain that he had been questioned. He answered, relieved, “Well, then. I guess you are.”

  He was a miserable witness, which did not make the next twenty minutes any easier. To put it mildly, he could not remember much about his stay at the base, and not a thing that the Countess could use. She concluded by presenting him with a picture of Andreas Falkenborg from the year 1983.

  Bertil Hampel-Koch looked at
the picture for a long time. There was no doubt that he really wanted to help, but was unable to.

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “His name is Andreas Falkenborg, but he went by the nickname Pronto.”

  He shook his head apologetically.

  “Falkenborg was a trained engineer and employed at the base as an assistant electrician. He also flew helicopters.”

  Again a pause, and again a shake of the head.

  “So you don’t know about any connection between him and Maryann Nygaard either?”

  “Unfortunately not. The only thing I know is that there was a kind of group around Maryann and her Greenlandic friend. I can’t remember the name of the girl, but she was just as pretty as Maryann and . . . that is, Falkenborg was not part of that group.”

  Not part of . . . The Countess wrote down the information in block letters followed by four exclamation points. Then she thought that she should stop while the going was good. She closed her notebook.

  “You have been a great help. Thanks very much for sparing me the time.”

  He frowned and scratched his neck thoroughly with one finger. Then he said seriously, “I truly hope you catch Maryann’s murderer. When I heard that she had been killed, I was both shocked and relieved at the same time. It’s a very strange feeling that I’ve never had before. For many years I believed that she . . . died because of me. That wasn’t the case, but . . . ”

  He stopped short, and she waited politely until he continued.

  “I can’t find any words that are suitable, so I’d better not try. In any event I won’t forget this, I can promise you that. I hope one day to be able to reciprocate.”

  The Countess didn’t want his gratitude; she had her own problem. Simonsen’s medium had insisted that she should cling firmly to Bertil Hampel-Koch, alias Steen Hansen. She had clung and clung for the past seven days. It was a matter of life or death, she had been told. Yet she had ended up in a dead-end and wasted a lot of time to no obvious benefit. Until the last she had hoped for a revelation that had not come. Now she was left empty-handed. And regardless of how much she twisted and turned even the most impossible scenarios, where the director perhaps played a role in the murder of Maryann Nygaard, none of them was even remotely probable. So what now? The answer was obvious—nothing, it was over. Nonetheless she tried to hold a door open.

  “I hope to be able to come back to you another time, if I have further questions.”

  It was clear that the comment puzzled him, but she received his non-committal, polite confirmation. Then she gathered together her things, shook hands with him and deliberately stepped out of her role as she took her leave.

  “Now you be sure to greet our common acquaintance the prime minister from me when you see him.”

  Bertil Hampel-Koch feigned a smile and agreed.

  CHAPTER 38

  So as not to arrive late at the press conference, the Countess rushed back from her conversation with Bertil Hampel-Koch. The result was that she was the first to take her place on the podium. She was followed shortly afterwards by Konrad Simonsen, Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. The Countess nodded curtly to her boss with a meaningful look on her face when he arrived; the questioning of Hampel-Koch had gone as expected. He reciprocated with a raised thumb. Then she had plenty of time to form an impression of the gathering.

  The press conference was well attended; altogether about fifty journalists and photographers participated. With satisfaction the Countess noted that no TV cameras were present. The two channels that had announced their arrival had been promised a special interview with Simonsen and herself immediately afterwards. The reason given for this was that the police wanted to prevent certain sensitive circumstances related to the investigation from being broadcast directly. The explanation had been accepted.

  At the scheduled time voices in the room lowered to a soft murmur. The Countess straightened up in her seat and became serious. The conference began, and Simonsen was immediately fired upon from all sides. The day’s top story was twofold: partly the arrest and indictment of Andreas Falkenborg, partly the police’s interrogation methods during and after the arrest. Words like “fiasco” and “blunder” were heard, and the head of the Homicide Division had to take many digs, as he was not exactly well liked by the country’s crime reporters. Respected perhaps, but definitely not loved. Over the years he had withheld too many good headlines from them. For the most part however her boss managed fine, and on those few occasions where his temperament threatened to clear the next day’s front pages, Pedersen was capable of taking over.

  The Countess herself said nothing. Instead she systematically scanned the journalists present and soon found the two she was looking for. They were sitting at the back of the room looking frankly bored. The older one was a big man with a shaggy black beard, who reminded her of the Hollywood version of a Cossack. The younger was pale with small, round glasses and a permanently suspicious expression, as if he didn’t really believe what he was hearing, no matter who was speaking, because that was his nature. She secretly observed them for a long time, while pretending to stare blankly into space whenever one of them turned their eyes towards her. It was their fault that the press conference was being held at all, and it was her task to fulfil the promise made in the Botanical Gardens to Helmer Hammer to get them interested in something other than Hampel-Koch’s Greenland trip in the late summer of 1983.

  Gradually the inquisition lost momentum, and Simonsen’s responses began to be repetitive. She kept herself ready and finally came the question that she’d known was planted, just not with whom. She had guessed at a handful of suitable candidates, but completely missed the mark. Her cue was advanced by a veteran among the crime reporters, a man in his sixties from one of the smaller daily papers, the last person she would have thought would dabble in such things. His question was directed to Konrad Simonsen.

  “You have questioned the Foreign Ministry director Bertil Hampel-Koch on several occasions in this case. Why is that?”

  Simonsen seemed a trifle confused by the comment.

  “Yes, well, we have. In relation to Maryann Nygaard, who was killed in Greenland. He is helping us produce information from the American . . . I mean, from other places. Besides, he personally visited the military base in Søndre Strømfjord in 1983, only a couple of months before the murder took place, so in that connection we have also shown . . . I mean, that part I haven’t . . . ”

  He looked at Pedersen, who shook his head, and then at the Countess, who completed the answer.

  “Bertil Hampel-Koch was at the base for four days in July, when he made a stopover en route to Station North, where he was going to participate in the activities of the Sirius patrol. At that time he was a clerk in the Defence Ministry, and the trip was a kind of bonus for good work. And it is correct that he has contributed information from his short time at the base, just as quite a few other people have done.”

  The follow-up question came from a younger man in the first row.

  “Four days in July? That is several months before Maryann Nygaard was murdered.”

  “Yes, and as mentioned he is absolutely not the only one from the base we have spoken to. In addition, Hampel-Koch got to know Maryann Nygaard during his stopover.”

  “Can it be said that Hampel-Koch has been involved in gathering concrete evidence in relation to your indictment?”

  “It is not the job of witnesses to gather evidence, but it can be said that he has helped us a great deal. As I said, along with a number of other people.”

  It was evident that the subject did not hold the gathering’s interest. Some comments were murmured but no one seemed concerned. This changed markedly with the next question, which came from the Cossack. His loud, sonorous voice reached all the way around the room when he asked, “Why did director Bertil Hampel-Koch travel to Greenland under an assumed name?”

  The words “assumed name” made everyone prick up their ears. Perhaps there was a story within th
e story that was about to unfold. Vigilant eyes were directed towards the Countess as she explained the connection. She concluded elegantly, as she almost apologetically noted to Simonsen, “But I don’t know how relevant this is.”

  She didn’t escape that easily, however. The Cossack followed up.

  “It seems strange that at the same time he maintained he was a geologist. Can you also explain that to me?”

  The Countess thought for a moment and began her response with the standard line that would attract the attention of any journalist. She said hesitantly, “I don’t think you need to write that.”

  Then she told them about Hampel-Koch’s sudden opportunity to act like a bachelor again for four days, without fear of a long-lasting relationship.

  Most of her audience agreed with her. It was uninteresting as well as personal. An alert female reporter guessed the connection and asked the tactless question, “Was it Bertil Hampel-Koch who got Maryann Nygaard pregnant?”

  The Countess swooped on her without mercy. She pointed at the journalist with an accusing finger.

  “That’s an incredible supposition that belongs in the gossip columns, I don’t think—”

  Simonsen cut in authoritatively, “Now stop this prying into other people’s bedrooms! I have a murder case with at least two victims, and I don’t care to waste my time on such nonsense.”

  The Fourth Estate pounced on Simonsen’s feigned slip of the tongue. The Countess sensed the hunger in the gathering before the questions mounted in an ugly cacophony. At least two women killed, what do you mean by at least two?

  The Countess was forgotten, Bertil Hampel-Koch was forgotten, everything was as it should be. She looked towards her two journalists again. The suspicious one threw out his arms in despair, and shortly after that they both left the room. She did not feel any particular triumph as her eyes followed them to the door. She thought that was what you deserved when you habitually used words for your own ends and lied without quite saying an untruth. The world was reduced to a game, a game without joy. Then she thought about Simonsen, who had borne the full brunt of it, and about what she would make him for dinner.