The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  Troulsen answered him confrontationally.

  “She’s capable, and you’re disagreeable.”

  “This is no time to argue. Okay, Simon, it’s your ass, but I assume that we break off?”

  Simonsen was no great actor, and even though he had practised his line, it sounded affected. He said, “I don’t know . . . yes, that is standard procedure. I mean, I can’t really decide what I want or don’t want, and poor Pauline, she—”

  The head of DSIS pounced on him, cold and confrontational.

  “Make your decision, man, tell me! Don’t you realise it’s urgent?”

  The harsh words did not help; almost the contrary. Simonsen shook his head heavily and breathed rapidly in short, brief bursts. Suddenly sweat was running out of every pore. The attack made him resemble a boiled crab and was far more convincing than his previous dilly-dallying.

  The head of DSIS threw out his arms in despair and turned instead to appeal to the police commissioner, who after a few long seconds authoritatively cut through.

  “Cancel the surveillance immediately.”

  The secretary made a note.

  Like the Countess, the head of DSIS also had a microphone on his lapel, on the inside. He quickly turned the lapel, made connection via a small switch that was hanging down on a cord, and slowly and clearly gave the command.

  “All units withdraw out of range of vision immediately. I repeat—all units withdraw out of range of vision immediately. Without exception. Safety distance of at least five hundred metres.”

  Simonsen had pulled himself together. The police commissioner stared at him, worried, and he apologised.

  “I’m sorry, that won’t happen again.”

  The head of DSIS supported him to his boss.

  “That kind of thing is an occupational hazard. It’s good that you were here and could give the order, that was the right thing to do.”

  He looked at Simonsen, who seemed to have regained control of himself.

  “Brief stress attacks are normal under severe pressure. It even happens to me, that’s just how it is, but I’m sure you know about that.”

  The police commissioner felt reassured and said, “Yes, of course I do. I know very well that it doesn’t mean anything.”

  The Countess’s voice returned, and those present listened tensely.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “With what?”

  “Keeping an eye on my food.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “No.”

  “The food is very good, don’t you think?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Are you picky? Well, I actually eat everything, within limits that is, but there is one thing that is certain, and do you know what that is? It was Ponto, wasn’t it?”

  “Pronto.”

  “Pronto, yes. Well, that was what you said. Do you know what is certain?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That I’m going to have a cognac with my coffee, and I would like to treat you to one too.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “And that is because I am simply so upset. I tell you, I am shaken.”

  “No, why is that?”

  “Because this morning two police officers wanted to search my cellar, and they were so shameless that you don’t know the half of it.”

  “No.”

  “Just think, they ordered me around, as if—well, they were searching for two girls, who . . . Hey, where are you going? You’re not even finished . . . damn it anyway. I’ll go after him, that will have to be plan B, so I hope he reacts better than this.”

  Simonsen said quietly, “It was worth a try.”

  Troulsen tried to be optimistic.

  “Let’s just see what his next response is. I really think this is our best chance.”

  The head of DSIS snapped, “It’s a little late to say now.”

  No one answered him. Shortly after that the Countess whimpered through the speakers:

  “Excuse me, Andreas Falkenborg, yes, I know your name, I’m not who I said I was. But you know where my daughter is, and you know that she will die if you don’t help me. And I believe deep inside that you know what you have done is wrong. You mustn’t take her away from me. Think about your own mother, how much she suffered, but all that you did to her, you can make good again by giving me my child back. Her name is Pauline . . . yes, yes, I’ll be going now, but for God’s sake, think it over. For your mother’s sake and the peace of your own soul.”

  Troulsen commented, “He didn’t even answer, is that good or bad?”

  The head of DSIS asked, “Didn’t he say something in the background? Very faintly?”

  Simonsen thought that the man was laying it on too thick, and did not support the assertion. No one else commented either. Shortly afterwards the Countess’s voice filled the room:

  “I’m standing out in the parking lot, and what just happened made a big impression on Falkenborg, although he waved me away. But now there’s no need for this microphone. I’ll call you in a little while, Simon.”

  Twenty seconds later Simonsen’s cell phone rang. He took the call and relayed the conversation as he listened, talking in turn to the others and to the Countess. It worked well, everyone could follow what was happening.

  The Countess said, “The timing is going to be close, Simon. He’s still sitting in his car, but if he leaves, and the DSIS people spot him, the whole thing is messed up. And where are Doctor Cold’s gorillas? I don’t see any sign of them . . . Wait a moment, here they are now.”

  Simonsen relayed to his listeners:

  “She says that he felt touched, he seemed almost contrite and depressed. His attitude was completely resigned. He waved her away because he was starting to cry. Now he’s circling his car, apparently at a loss about what to do.”

  The police commissioner wrung her hands and let out a short, “Yes.”

  Simonsen instructed the Countess.

  “No, you must not approach him again, leave him alone for a while.”

  She said, “Now Doctor Cold’s people have caught up with him. It went fast, and no one noticed anything, but the timing is bad . . . No, now the driver is going to the truck where I put the transmitter. So you might as well continue.”

  Simonsen informed the gathering.

  “He is walking around the parking lot, now she can’t see him because of a bus . . . Then he comes out again, he goes back to his car and gets in . . . And now she says that he’s driving away.”

  The head of DSIS pointed up at the big screen and said, “We can see that for ourselves, Simon.”

  Simonsen shook his head slightly then said to the Countess, “No, you shouldn’t follow him, come back to HS. We have him tracked.”

  The Countess answered Simonsen, “Keep your fingers crossed that the surveillance team doesn’t notice his car when it leaves the parking lot. See you in a bit.”

  The optimism lasted for almost an hour; Falkenborg was on the move, driving on the South Freeway that led to Rødby on Lolland, and everyone was anxious when he turned off it; some more than others, however. Troulsen said, “Soon he’ll be at the Farø Bridge, where do you suppose he’s hidden her?”

  The police commissioner was somewhat more subdued than before.

  “Maybe he’s in flight, that’s also a possibility.”

  The Countess, who had joined them, answered, “I don’t think so, he seemed very, very affected.”

  “But when will he exit the freeway? This is almost unbearable to watch.”

  Suddenly the head of DSIS said, “Something is wrong, he is driving too slowly. My people are a kilometre behind him, I’ll ask a team to drive up.”

  It took a long time before he came back. Not until Falkenborg was stopped at Falster just before Guldborgsund did the security chief come into the room again, trembling with excitement.

  “We lost him, that’s not even his car. He tricked us at the parki
ng lot in Solrød and put the transmitter on a German truck that’s going to Rødby.”

  Everyone was shouting at each other. Except for the police commissioner, whose face turned ash-grey and who dabbed her cheeks with her mineral water. No one had seen that happen before. There was confusion for a while until Simonsen became the focal point of everyone’s gaze. He said calmly, “Go and put out a search for him again, Poul, there’s nothing else to do. And this time we’ll bring him in when we find him.”

  Troulsen left, and the head of DSIS consoled the police commissioner.

  “Your order to cancel the close surveillance was correct. I am almost certain that it will be backed up everywhere, even though you have no operational experience. Unless there is a major investigation . . . but it shouldn’t concern outsiders who orders who to do what. I will personally take responsibility, so long as I don’t have to lie to an official inquiry. What do you say, Simon?”

  “Naturally we’re in agreement on that, and I would have done exactly the same. Can’t we just avoid putting the command in the minutes? It’s not reasonable that only one of us takes full responsibility.”

  The police commissioner livened up a little.

  “Thanks, I won’t forget that.”

  Neither of the two men believed there’d ever be an official inquiry, however; these things would obviously be taken care of internally. Or perhaps simply forgotten.

  The story of the fiasco spread like wildfire through Police Headquarters. Gradually people began to gather in the control room. Individually or in small groups, the officers came in silently and took empty chairs or lined the walls. No one spoke, and the spontaneous gathering had no purpose. It felt simply as if everyone was used up; four days and nights of unbroken high-pressure effort had finally culminated in this. No one imagined Pauline Berg had any chance left now. Her rescue was beyond the scope of the police and could only be achieved by an even higher power. An older detective understood that better than anyone; he knelt and said a prayer, while others in his vicinity lowered their heads and, according to conviction, supported him as best they could. Arne Pedersen left the room, his caretaker followed. Both of them were crying openly. In the midst of the confusion sat Simonsen and the Countess, holding each other’s hand and waiting in anticipation. And then all at once the prayer was answered. The big screen suddenly changed its image, and a green circle appeared on a map of Denmark. One voice shouted excitedly above the rest.

  “That’s the damned forest road to Avnsø, I know that place. It’s deserted out there, what do you suppose he’s doing?”

  And another interpreted the green, blinking figure.

  “He’s talking on his cell phone.”

  The ring tone from Simonsen’s inside pocket was timed so that no one needed a closer interpretation. The homicide chief took the call, while everyone in the room held their breath. Simonsen listened; Doctor Cold’s voice was business-like, as usual. Simonsen, who by now was used to misleading anyone observing him, said aloud, “It’s him.”

  He listened then added, “Between Källna and Össjö, right on the highway in a little birch grove, yes, I got that . . . And that’s where you buried Liz Suenson?”

  The Countess was ready with pen and paper and wrote that down.

  “Bunker in Hareskov between Skovbrynet Station and Hareskov Station, I follow you . . . No, you mustn’t . . . Yes, you’re sick, and we can help you. Stay where you—”

  Simonsen dropped his cell phone and shouted, even though everyone was hanging on every word from his lips in advance.

  “Malte, are you here?”

  The student answered and instantly received his orders.

  “Air-raid shelter from 1955, rented from Værløse Municipality, it must be Furesø Municipality today, at the end of a forest path near the S-train. Find the address, as quickly as you can. Poul, you get hold of an ambulance, use the emergency number, say that they should dispatch it from Herlev Hospital, that’s the quickest, and make sure there is a doctor along with it. Tell them they should drive toward Hareskoven and that the driver will be given the exact destination en route.”

  Troulsen ran out, and Simonsen gave further commands.

  “We should also have some patrol cars . . . that must be Gladsaxe Police District, someone take care of that . . . and also cars for Falkenborg. He is at . . . well, you can see that on the map, but it had better be quick, he’s about to do harm to himself.”

  Several officers hurried out of the room.

  The first report back came verbally and a good deal faster than anyone had expected. An officer called in.

  “Andreas Falkenborg is dead. He poured gasoline over himself and the inside of his van, a lot it sounds like. He is burned beyond recognition, but there is no doubt that it’s his car. The fire department and several patrol cars are on their way, but that will take some time. The officers that are there now just happened to be in the vicinity.”

  The head of DSIS commented, “I’ll take care of that aspect personally, if it’s all right with you, Simon?”

  “Yes, do that.”

  No one reacted with particular dismay to the information about Falkenborg’s death. They seemed almost indifferent. Jeanette Hvidt’s fate was also pushed to the background. Only news about Pauline Berg was important. Simonsen thought however about Doctor Cold’s fun with a blowtorch, and shuddered. Then he shook the thought away and concentrated on the present. Redemption arrived ten minutes later with a call to his cell phone. He relayed the message quietly to his audience in the control room.

  “They have Pauline now. She’s alive.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Although the rest of the evening was nothing but aftershock, it was exhausting for Konrad Simonsen and the Countess. First they were at the hospital, where they waited a long time before the doctors and Pauline Berg’s family granted them a minute with the patient. She smiled weakly when she recognised them; they could barely manage to return it. Then Simonsen insisted—even though he could barely stand up—on driving to Hundested, where he felt that he owed Rikke Barbara Hvidt a visit. Fate had been pitiless to the blind woman, and in the midst of all the joy that Pauline Berg had been rescued, Simonsen could not forget the woman who had paid such a high price for Andreas Falkenborg’s madness. But they arrived too late. Despite supervision, Rikke Barbara Hvidt had succeeded in biting an artery in two, while the staff at the nursing home thought she was sleeping. When her suicide attempt was discovered, she had already lost a lot of blood, and she passed away in the ambulance.

  On their way home they passed Frederiksværk, and Simonsen had an impulse.

  “Do you have any desire to give your cell phone away?”

  “Sure, if you like. To whom?”

  “To a young woman whose cell phone doesn’t work.”

  The Countess abstained from further questions. They made a detour so that he could accomplish his errand. It did not take long. The rest of the way home the mood was flat, and neither of them said much. The Countess drove, Simonsen stared out into the night. Suddenly he said, “I guess Rikke was his sixth victim, poor woman.”

  “You could say that.”

  Conversation stopped there. A little later he commented, “The ones who are high up, types like Helmer Hammer and Bertil Hampel-Koch . . . They never get dirt on their hands. They make certain of that.”

  She did not answer him; what was there to say?

  “Do you think what we did was wrong?”

  “No, Simon, I don’t. It’s disgusting and grim to think about, and I will do everything I can to repress the memory of it, but when I saw Pauline, I loved you more than anything on earth. You did the right thing, the only thing you could do.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “But that’s how it is, and remember, you were not alone in it. I also bear my share of responsibility, or blame, if you will.”

  “And I’m happy about that. Do you think we can put this behind us?”

  “Yes, we
can. We have each other, and we also have Pauline back among us, if we should ever be in any doubt that we did the right thing.”

  Simonsen nodded into the darkness.

  * * *

  The same night Andreas Falkenborg’s unhappy childhood claimed its seventh and final victim. The man who left the bar and went into the alley to pee, himself had a number of murders on his conscience. Overdosing addicts to get them out of the way was one of his specialities; threatening and beating up bar owners, so they would buy even more of his boss’s illegal products, was another. Many considered him a stupid swine, but few dared tell him that. A hard-boiled criminal was not someone you chose to have a falling out with.

  What only a few people knew was that the man kept a leg in each camp. He worked for Marcus Kolding’s organisation, which for years the police had kept under so-called Level One surveillance, reserved for the most influential, extended federations in the criminal underworld, while at the same time he was the highest-ranking informant the authorities had in the same organisation. Although he was not exactly part of Doctor Cold’s inner circle of dubious personnel, his tips from time to time produced excellent results. To some degree a blind eye was turned to his personal rap sheet, which he found advantageous. Now his life had been exchanged for that of a young officer.

  In the alley the man held his beer glass in one hand and prepared to relieve himself with the other. After that there was a warm dampness around him, while a slight, almost inaudible sigh of relief escaped him.

  The knife was thrust from behind into his neck and severed his windpipe before he could scream; there was only a faint rattle. The glass shattered when he fell; beer, urine and blood mixed into an ugly fluid that slowly seeped out over the pavement and made its way into the gutter.

  There is a price to be paid for everything.

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHORS

  Lotte and Søren Hammer are a sister and brother from Denmark. Younger sister Lotte worked as a nurse after finishing her training in 1977 and her brother Søren was a trained teacher and a lecturer at the Copenhagen University College of Engineering. After Søren moved into the house where Lotte lived with her family in 2004 they began writing crime novels together. To date, they have written five books in this series. The Hanging is the first and The Girl in the Ice the second.