by Lotte Hammer
CHAPTER 39
“The criminal justice system is an overrated crock of shit.”
Poul Troulsen said that at every opportunity the next couple of days, and everyone was tired of listening. It was irritating, even though they all knew he didn’t mean it and that it served as an outlet for his frustration. Along with the rest of the Homicide Division he was slaving away at full steam to produce evidence that might connect Andreas Falkenborg to his crimes and thereby prolong his imprisonment. The returns so far were meagre. The key figure refused to be questioned, so it was not possible to continue that route. A large portion of the man’s current and past circle of acquaintances had been tracked down and questioned, an extensive but fruitless process. No one could contribute any information the police did not already know.
What remained was technical evidence, and here recovering possible DNA traces from Maryann Nygaard’s grave in the Greenland ice cap was their best chance. Theoretically such traces could be well preserved in frozen condition, even though almost twenty-five years had passed since the crime took place. Perhaps it was still possible to determine that a helicopter had once landed close by the grave. There was nothing wrong with optimism, but it had no basis in reality. On Friday afternoon Simonsen came back from a meeting with Kurt Melsing, head of the Forensics department. He went to the Countess’s office, where Troulsen, Pauline Berg and the Countess were eagerly waiting for him. One look on their boss’s face, however, told them that the meeting had not gone positively. Simonsen was clearly in a lousy mood, and their spirits plummeted before a word was spoken. The Countess commented, “It didn’t go too well, I see.”
Simonsen collapsed into a chair in despair.
“It went to hell. The technicians have nothing, and if they do come up with something, which is highly unlikely, it won’t be for a while. So good ideas are more than welcome.”
Berg tried half-heartedly.
“This morning I got the name of Catherine Thomsen’s friend slash lover. Her name is Vibeke Behrns, but unfortunately at the moment she is hiking in Finnmark with her two brothers and can’t be reached. They are coming home in less than a week. But I don’t know whether she even knew Andreas Falkenborg.”
Troulsen said despairingly, “We can’t make use of that here and now.”
Berg asked worriedly, as if the truth had still not occurred to her, “But what then? I mean, he’s not going to be released, is he?”
No one answered her, and she repeated the question. This time almost shrilly. The Countess cut her off.
“It doesn’t help to get worked up, and besides it’s not our decision.”
“But the judge can’t release a mass murderer into the community.”
“She quite certainly will, if we can’t produce further evidence. Or more exactly, any evidence whatsoever.”
She turned towards Simonsen.
“Isn’t there anything positive at all?”
“No.”
“What have you done with Arne? Wasn’t he there with Melsing?”
“He went round to see the prosecutor, to convince her to try to get the arrest extended. But she’ll never go along with that. We have nothing new, and she doesn’t like to be made a fool of, for which you can’t blame her.”
Troulsen said, “There are still a couple of days. We’ve got to try and pick up the pieces and then hope for a miracle. Should we do a status report and divide up the tasks?”
Simonsen agreed, without enthusiasm.
“Yes, we’d better do that, but let’s wait for Arne. Pauline, I have a special task for you. You will go to Hundested and speak with Jeanette Hvidt. I want her either out of the way or concealed. And go up there this evening. If you have other plans, then cancel them.”
Pauline Berg nodded. Although it clashed with her personal plans, it was obvious that she had no choice. Instead she said carefully, “Can’t we hold him for other things? Maybe tax evasion. What about the fact that his customers always pay in cash and without an invoice?”
“The Al Capone model.”
It was Troulsen trying to be witty. The Countess shook her head despondently.
“The idea is actually not that bad. It’s just way too late. We have no earthly chance of producing something sustainable before Sunday. But I have thought of a different possibility. We know that he bought half of a house and arranged a move, just to get Carl Henning Thomsen’s fingerprints on a plastic bag. Isn’t that correct?”
Simonsen confirmed that half-heartedly.
“Know is perhaps saying too much, but we strongly assume that. He spares no efforts once he has selected a victim. Where are you going with this?”
“He places the plastic bag he later murders Catherine Thomsen with over his Mozart bust, after which her father sets his fingerprints on it during the move.”
“Yes, that’s what we believe. And what he more or less confirmed during his interview. Why is that interesting now?”
“Because the Mozart bust is connected to Falkenborg, and the plastic bag is connected to the murder of Catherine Thomsen . . . ”
She let the sentence remain open. Simonsen concluded hesitantly for her.
“And if we can connect the plastic bag to the Mozart bust, we have him. The idea is interesting, go on.”
“There’s not much more to say. I am thinking that the fingerprints are logically dependent on the surface on which they are placed, or in this case pressed against. Maybe the contours of the bust can be found on the impressions. Or maybe the technicians can find unambiguous traces of the bust on the inside of the bag. Because I assume that it still exists in some archive or warehouse.”
The others nodded. It was the best suggestion they had so far been given on how they could move ahead. Although time was very short.
Troulsen asked the obvious question.
“Why didn’t you say this before?”
The Countess answered him without hesitation.
“Because I just happened to think of it now.”
The three others looked at Simonsen. He concluded, “In any event, it’s worth asking Melsing about. Call him, Countess. Get hold of him no matter where he is. Poul, you find out where the bag is. And make sure someone can deliver it, if we’re going to use it this evening.”
Fifteen minutes later the Countess was back with good news from Melsing.
“There are some chances of linking the bust to the plastic bag. Melsing had a couple of ideas, which I did not completely understand. He and his department are ready to get started, as soon as they have both objects. The problem is time. Twenty-four hours is far from enough for the ongoing investigations. A week is more realistic, and then only if they work around the clock, but . . . ”
She smiled. Simonsen and Berg were hanging eagerly on every word.
“If they can find traces of plaster inside the bag, and they can determine that tonight, Melsing is willing to talk up his findings to the judge. And that will guarantee us a week more to work with.”
Simonsen struck a clenched fist against the tabletop and exclaimed, “Yes!” Then he added, “So we got our miracle after all.”
It lasted for five minutes. Then Troulsen came back, almost exuding frustration.
“The plastic bag no longer exists, it was destroyed. I’ve spoken with the Næstved police, and Catherine Thomsen’s murder was considered solved, so in 2002 when they got new space for the archives—”
Simonsen interrupted him.
“I don’t care what happened. Is it certain that it’s gone?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
CHAPTER 40
“Someone has to stop him.”
Jeanette Hvidt’s brown eyes flashed with anger, but the girl’s outburst also contained a touch of anxiety. Pauline Berg did not answer; she did not know what to say. Jeanette repeated, this time almost shrilly: “Someone has to fucking stop that crazy psychopath.”
The two women were sitting on a lawn with a view of the Isefjord. A fresh breeze from t
he water was blowing towards them, and Berg had its salty taste in her mouth. The shadows were long, the late-summer day waning. A short distance away, out of earshot, sat a handful of young people drinking beer. They were Jeanette’s third-year classmates at the Frederiksborg High School in Hillerød, who were patiently waiting for her. The group was on their way to a party when Pauline Berg caught up with them and after a brief discussion isolated her witness. A young man turned his head and watched for a long time when he saw Jeanette waving her hands in the air, but it was doubtful he could hear what she had called out. The wind snatched away the words. Berg noted that despite his age he looked big and strong, and thought that was exactly the type of protector the girl could use. That is, may have use for—hopefully it would not be necessary.
“What about men . . . do you have a boyfriend?”
Berg indicated the girl’s friends with a toss of her head.
“Do you call them men? What does that have to do with you anyway?”
“Wait a minute, Jeanette. I didn’t come up here on a Friday evening just to annoy you, and you know that perfectly well. If it makes you happy, I had to cancel a date this evening that I’ve been looking forward to for days, but some things in life are more important than others, and at the moment you’re more important than my date. My boss thinks so, and I think so too.”
The girl thought for a moment and then said, “Your boss is named Simonsen, but you call him Simon, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is he a good boss?”
“Now and then he can be tough, but all in all, sure, he’s good.”
“I’ve met him, did you know that?”
“I know.”
“I liked him, he was really sweet with my grandma, in a nice, quiet way.”
“Yes, that sounds like Simon. It doesn’t surprise me.”
“I didn’t know she had been assaulted. No one ever told me that. It’s strange, there are so many people I know who knew it, but they never told me a thing. It feels kind of false—you think you know people, and then you don’t at all when it comes right down to it.”
“I know just what you mean. Some secrets are known by a whole generation, but never talked about, as if everyone would prefer to forget. I’m sure we’ll be that way ourselves when we get old.”
The girl looked at Pauline Berg with surprise.
“Do you think so?”
“Definitely.”
“I never looked at it that way. Would you like a beer?”
“No, thanks, I’m driving, and besides I’m on duty.”
“Don’t cops ever drink on the job?”
“Occasionally, it’s like with everyone. Most rarely drink during work hours. Tell me, where are you going exactly?”
“Copenhagen, the train leaves in half an hour. We’re going to a party.”
“Why don’t you go over and ask the others to leave without you, and I’ll drive you to Copenhagen when we’re finished?”
Jeanette thought for a moment about the proposal, after which she got up. Pauline Berg observed her body language while she explained to her friends. It was clear that she had a central place in the group. Shortly after that her friends left.
“Were they upset?”
“Really upset, really upset. No, they weren’t, I’ll see them later. The psychopath gets out Sunday at the earliest, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Sunday morning.”
“So I can party the whole night without looking over my shoulder. This may be my last party.”
Her smile was lovely, but Pauline Berg shuddered anyway.
“Let’s not say things like that, this is not something to joke about.”
“No, I know, it just seems so unbelievable. Suddenly, in less than a week, there may be a monster like that chasing after me. Tell me, is he big?”
“Bigger than you.”
“If he tries to do anything to me, I’ll kill him if I can.”
Berg thought that sounded like a splendid idea, but was doubtful what she could allow herself to say, so instead she commented, “We were talking about boyfriends.”
“I don’t have one at the moment, but I can get one by Sunday if that’s what you mean. Are you thinking as a kind of bodyguard?”
“Yes, I am, and don’t say that you can manage by yourself. It’s not only about having a man taking care of you, it’s also about being two. That is, that you aren’t alone.”
Jeanette Hvidt had common sense.
“But that’s impossible, you can’t be together all the time. I mean, glued to each other day and night, who could stand that? And how long would it go on?”
Pauline Berg chose to be honest, apart from not directly saying that the investigation at the moment was at an impasse, and that the Homicide Division had produced no results worth mentioning in the past few days.
“Admittedly that’s a problem, but as you can imagine we are working at full steam. I’m talking here about many people whose sole job is to render Andreas Falkenborg harmless. We are turning over every stone in his life, and at one point or another I am convinced we will find something we can nail him with. The problem is that I can’t tell you when that will happen. Actually I want to hear whether it’s possible for you to go somewhere else for a while. A place that only you and I know about.”
The girl seriously considered the suggestion, while she finished her beer and reached for another from the plastic bag by her side. Pauline Berg considered suggesting a soft drink, but refrained. Jeanette did not seem intoxicated, nor even affected. She said, “It won’t work.”
“Because?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m one year older than the others.”
Berg nodded that of course she had. The truth was she hadn’t noticed, but she could remember how, when she was nineteen, one year more or less had major significance.
“I really have to slave to finish school, almost all the others are more academic than me. That’s just the truth. Where they only need to study for fifteen minutes, I need an hour, and even though I really worked at it, I had to do second year over. It won’t do for me to be away from school for a long time, because then I won’t be able to prepare for my exams. I’m not that smart.”
“You seem very goal-oriented. Do you know what you want to be?”
“A doctor, and I’m going to be one some day.”
“I believe that. But tell me one thing, have you considered cutting your hair short? It could be very attractive on you.”
Jeanette looked at Pauline Berg’s hair and answered soberly, “The same for you.”
Berg said temptingly, “Okay, let’s get our hair cut together, it’s a deal! I’ll find a fancy salon in Copenhagen, and you won’t pay a thing.”
The girl shook her head.
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
She shook her hair away on the left side and exposed her ear. It was deformed, curled together to half size.
“I’m saving up for an operation, but it’s expensive. I’ll have to go abroad, England or Germany, so there will be accommodation and travel on top of that.”
“Good Lord, it’s not that bad.”
“Well, you don’t think so.”
“You’re not just for decoration.”
Jeanette’s reaction was surprisingly aggressive.
“Do you really think I want to show off an ear like this? Are you stupid?”
Pauline Berg ignored the insult, but dropped the haircut idea. She tried an alternative.
“If we disregard your education for a moment, do you have a place you could go?”
“Yes, I have. And you’ll have to excuse me for snapping at you, I just had a few ugly experiences when I was younger. But that’s not your fault.”
Berg placed her hand on the girl’s arm and said kindly, “That’s all right. Where could you possibly go?”
“Helsingør, my uncle lives there, and he would
be happy to have me stay with him for a while.”
A quick calculation told Berg that based on security-related as well as economic considerations this solution would be preferable. If the girl refused to leave her home, the police would be forced to protect her, and that sort of thing was very expensive. She said, “They have high schools in Helsingør too, and we’ll arrange all the practical aspects. I can also promise you competent tutoring to ease the transition, which we can suitably define as until you have earned your diploma, regardless of whether you move back or not. How does that sound?”
All things considered Pauline Berg did not know whether she had any authority to promise this, but surely the government would save a lot of money with such an arrangement and be better served besides. Jeanette Hvidt quietly shook her lovely head.
“It’s so strange, all this, like a bad dream.”
“Yes, I understand how you feel, but what do you say about Helsingør?”
“I say that I don’t believe in it that much. What about my subject combination? And then I’ll have new teachers too, not to mention new classmates.”
Pauline Berg swore to herself; it would be so much easier if the girl voluntarily found an arrangement.
“We have found traces of your picture on Andreas Falkenborg’s computer, and he has read your interview on the Internet.”
Jeanette reacted as Berg had both hoped and feared.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes, disgusting. But the truth is that he has his eye on you.”
“It was those retarded reporters. I didn’t want to say anything at all, but they persisted and persisted. Obviously that’s beside the point now. Is there more? I want to know.”
“When we questioned him, he said that they were breeding and putting new ugly cuttings into the world. We think he was referring to your grandmother and you.”
