The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  For obvious reasons the police interest was focused on the Chamberlain’s forest rather than on his farming. Hanehoved Forest, however, was mostly unexploited. The hunting rights had been leased to a consortium on Frederiksberg, and months would pass without anyone from the estate having reasons to enter the forest. Besides no one, not from the manor or the hunting consortium, had seen an African woman on the estate.

  The second lead also turned out to be a dead end. A massive effort ensured that the girl’s facial reconstruction was shown not only to the inhabitants of the sparsely populated countryside roundabout, but also to the majority of business owners in the three surrounding towns, Slangerup, Lynge and Ganløse. It was a huge job but all in vain, and the investigation slowly ground to a halt in the absence of any new leads. On the anniversary of the woman’s death – an event known only to very few people – no one from the police was really concerned about their lack of progress. Nor was the public terribly worried about her fate.

  But that, however, was about to change.

  CHAPTER 4

  TV-20, Hillerød’s local TV station, went on air weekdays at eight o’clock. The channel was run by a team of volunteers on grants from the Ministry of Culture and at times delivered excellent and serious coverage of various activities in the region, from town council meetings to sports events and amateur theatre. A regular feature was the programme Law and Order in Hillerød, which went out every other Wednesday, and without sensationalising or skimming the surface, tried to examine crimes in the area. As it did one Wednesday in April 2009 when the programme was due to feature a lengthy interview with Hillerød’s chief constable about his recently published review of last year’s police efforts. Unfortunately, the chief constable had to pull out just before the programme went on air, and a sergeant was hastily summoned to stand in for his boss.

  The sergeant was unprepared of course, but at the same time old and wise enough to admit when he didn’t know the answer to a question; besides, the interviewer was skilled at initiating a constructive dialogue on any subjects where the interviewee was well informed. So the first half of the interview was a success, but just as both people concerned had decided that by helping each other, they could sail the programme safely ashore, it all went horribly wrong. The subject matter was the murder investigation in Hanehoved Forest, which couldn’t be counted as one of last year’s police successes. A fact, however, the sergeant was reluctant to concede. The interviewer pushed him gently.

  ‘But ultimately, wouldn’t it be fair to say you haven’t made any progress with the investigation?’

  The sergeant nodded. It was correct, but at the same time he wanted to defend his investigating colleagues, whom he knew had put in a great deal of effort.

  ‘The thing is, it can be really tricky to work out where those nignogs originally come from.’

  The interviewer’s jaw dropped and an awkward silence ensued.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Well, she was from Africa. I mean . . . she could have lived all sorts of places.’

  The sergeant had genuinely not meant to cause offence with his language. His own father had used the expression back in the 1970s, referring to migrant workers. The interviewer braced himself and attempted damage limitation.

  ‘When you put it like that, you’re not saying that the woman should be treated differently because of the colour of her skin?’

  The sergeant frowned, baffled.

  ‘No, of course not. Why should she be?’

  However the next days only added fuel to the fire. Hillerød’s chief constable was unwise enough both to defend and explain his junior officer’s behaviour to the media, with the result that the unfortunate expression was repeated several times on national television and at prime time. The media went into overdrive. Television, radio, national newspapers and several web bloggers picked up on the unfortunate occurrence; linguists held forth about the fatal phrase, sociologists lectured about racism in the Danish police force, and a lively debate flourished about offence versus apology. The clip of the sergeant was shown over and over, while the man himself was put on involuntary gardening leave and sat at home swearing alternately at the Danish media and his new friends from the extreme right.

  However, the scandal had one positive outcome. In the wake of the semantic blunder, the discovery of the woman’s body was discussed throughout the media, since even the most simple-minded journalist could see that a murder investigation added extra piquancy to the racism debate, while at the same time providing evidence of the police’s embarrassing conduct.

  The media storm peaked in a news programme on the third day, where the story was served up to viewers under the headline Pressure mounts on National Police Commissioner, without it being made clear what the pressure amounted to or what steps the man was being forced to take. Even so his media adviser reacted promptly: that very same evening, she composed a sharp memo that recommended her boss must do something, it didn’t matter what, so long as he showed leadership dramatic enough to get through to the man in the street. The National Police Commissioner loathed the man in the street with all his heart, partly because he was always being held up as someone to be won over, and partly because it was exclusively the preserve of media consultants to interpret what that revolting man in the street was thinking. Nevertheless, the Commissioner took her advice. The for all intents and purposes non-existent investigation into the dead woman from the lake was, on his direct and absolute order, removed from Nordsjælland’s police and reassigned to the Copenhagen Homicide Department. He couldn’t think what else to do.

  CHAPTER 5

  Detective Superintendent Konrad Simonsen had arrived early for work at Copenhagen Police Headquarters to familiarise himself with the three piles of files on his desk that made up his newly enforced investigation – a resolution which, however, had to be postponed in favour of dealing with an email from the National Police Commissioner who, in extremely vague phrases, ordered him to circulate a memo to every member of the Homicide Department advising them of the appropriate terminology to use in their investigation into the murder of the African woman in Satan’s Bog. It was coming up for nine o’clock in the morning, and Konrad Simonsen had yet to comply with his boss’s instructions, when Arne Pedersen entered his office. Pedersen was his deputy and closest colleague, a man in his early forties, competent, and usually in a good mood. Today was no exception.

  ‘Hello, Simon. Now this is what I call a great day, I hear we’re going on a nice trip to the woods.’

  ‘They’re promising rain later on, so I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  ‘I detect a certain reluctance to be out and about on this beautiful morning.’

  ‘Shut up and give me a hand with this.’

  Arne Pedersen threw his jacket on the desk and positioned himself behind his boss.

  ‘I thought you’d come in early to read up on the “nignog” case.’

  ‘Don’t use that word, not ever! I’ve had an email from the top, and it’s not one of the more easily fathomable ones. Several cubic metres of hot air in fact, even worse than usual, but as far as I can gather, he’s saying we don’t need to break our backs on this new investigation so long as we tell the public we’re working hard to solve the case. And no matter what, we must never, ever use demeaning terms with racist over- or undertones, not internally or externally, whether speaking, writing, thinking or dreaming. Something which I’m expected to make crystal clear to every single one of my staff and, ideally, their families.’

  ‘So nig—’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Sorry, boss. But you’ll have your work cut out if you want to eliminate that word. Everyone is talking about the case whose name I mustn’t mention, using exactly that unmentionable word. You can’t prevent it, no matter what you do.’

  ‘Wrong. I can’t prevent that, no matter what you do.’

  Arne Pedersen flung out his arms in a gesture of exasperation.

  ‘You don�
�t mean that?’

  ‘I’m your boss, and what I say means whatever I want it to mean. Use some of our great leader’s own phrases, that’ll please him, but put them into a meaningful context. Then circulate the result in my name to everyone in Denmark who wears a uniform. I trust you, so I don’t need to approve whatever you come up with before you circulate it. Take your time, we’re not leaving for another couple of hours. I’ll borrow your office meanwhile. Please would you open the door for me?’

  Konrad Simonsen was standing ready and waiting with the case files in his arms.

  ‘Not on your nelly. Do it yourself!’

  So he did, using his elbow and a couple of fingers, since his subordinate proved so unwilling.

  It took Arne Pedersen about an hour to carry out his new mission, and the result was, all things considered, reasonable. After reviewing it a couple of times and making a few tweaks, he decided that it was good to go, and circulated it in the name of Konrad Simonsen, as he had been told. Then he drank the rest of his coffee, which by now was cold rather than lukewarm, and logged onto an online newspaper to get an idea of the last twenty-four hours’ news.

  He couldn’t think of anything else to do now that his own office was occupied. He’d managed a quick scrutiny of three national newspapers before he was interrupted by the Countess, who entered her boss’s office, having knocked first as she was supposed to, but without awaiting his reply. She was her mid-forties, skilled and respected, and in a relationship with Konrad Simonsen who had moved into her house in Søllerød about a year ago. Her real name was Nathalie von Rosen, but everyone called her Countess because she was rich and her surname sounded posh. If she was surprised by Arne Pedersen’s presence, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Hello, Arne. Are you busy?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. The financial crisis and the sports section can wait, but if you’re looking for Simon, he’s in my office reading reports.’

  ‘Actually I wanted to talk to you too, but why have you switched offices?’

  This gave Arne another opportunity to moan about his enforced assignment, though it fell on deaf ears. The Countess shared the general view of the National Police Commissioner.

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea to remind everyone to be sensitive, and you’re undoubtedly better at phrasing such things than Simon.’

  Her praise was water off a duck’s back.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You can’t change the way people speak, and it pisses me off that everything always has to be so politically correct. It’s become almost impossible to open your mouth these days without the language police going in off the deep end on behalf of some of offended group or other.’

  ‘Nonsense, Arne – and you know it. Of course you can discuss other people respectfully without losing your integrity.’

  ‘You may be right, but surely it’s worse if we don’t bother solving the case, no matter what we’re calling it. That, if anything, would be racist.’

  ‘Surely one doesn’t exclude the other. And why wouldn’t we bother?’

  Again Arne Pedersen explained, and again the Countess sided with the National Police Commissioner, which wasn’t always the case. She was known for not flattering anyone either above or below her in rank, which had earned her respect on both sides.

  ‘I’m sure that what he meant was that we should use our resources realistically. Hillerød police carried out an excellent investigation and there’s no point in us repeating their work if we haven’t anything new to add. This isn’t about the dead woman being from Africa. However, we can bring all that speculation to an end by finding the person or persons who killed her.’

  The Countess smiled and he smiled back. When she put it like that, how hard could it be?

  Arne Pedersen took the opportunity to change the subject and satisfy his curiosity. The whole station knew the Countess had been to a meeting this morning about her personal finances, and there was speculation in every corner as to whether or not the meltdown of the financial markets would send her to the poor house. Although he knew it was none of his business, he asked her directly since it was the only way with her.

  ‘So now what, Countess – has your fortune evaporated? Or are you still filthy rich?’

  ‘My fund manager is an arch-conservative, doom-mongering old fogey, who has never believed in making a quick buck. That would appear to benefit me now . . . but enough about me. I came to talk to you about Pauline – she won’t be coming with us after all.’

  The subject was a sensitive one, they both knew why. He asked tentatively:

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she won’t feel safe in a forest. She’d like to, she really would, but it’s no good.’

  Arne Pedersen nodded without commenting. It was just the way it was.

  Pauline Berg was a sergeant in her early thirties and one of Konrad Simonsen’s closest colleagues. Two years ago, however, she had endured a traumatic experience when she was kidnapped by a serial killer and imprisoned in an isolated bunker in the middle of a forest. She had witnessed him asphyxiate a fellow female prisoner and had almost lost her own life. Since then she had struggled with a number of things, including entering a forest. Last winter she had finally been given the diagnosis Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome by the doctor who lectured the Homicide Department about the condition, while offering no helpful suggestions as to how they should relate to a colleague whose behaviour was unpredictable, often downright unnerving, and who could no longer do her job properly. Or manage her private life for that matter. In addition to this, Pauline Berg had developed an obsession with the death of a young woman who had died under tragic but natural circumstances. At times this case – which Pauline consistently referred to as a homicide – was the only part of her job that commanded her attention.

  Arne Pedersen asked quietly:

  ‘What does Simon say?’

  The Countess lowered her head and studied the carpet, a somewhat vexed expression on her face. Then she straightened up, and answered him briskly.

  ‘The same as you . . . nothing, but that’s completely unacceptable. The truth is, Pauline is a massive problem for us, and has been ever since she came back to work, but every time I try to discuss it with you or Simon, all I ever get is evasions and nonsensical answers.’

  She jabbed her finger at him accusingly, to reinforce her irritation. He focused on her nails; they were short and the movement made her clear nail polish reflect the light from the window.

  ‘How long do you think this can go on for? Three years . . . four . . . five?’

  Arne Pedersen had no answer. Years ago he had had an affair with Pauline Berg, and for a time had been genuinely in love with her, but he hadn’t wanted to leave his children and the affair had ended. Today he missed her, as she used to be, but he avoided her whenever he could get away with it, without making it too obvious. He suppressed a sigh.

  ‘What do you want to do – sack her? Which, incidentally, is impossible. There’s a memo from the National Police Commissioner saying that no matter how she performs her duties, there can be no employment consequences for her. I know because I got it when I was in charge, and I presume it still applies.’

  Arne Pedersen had been acting head of the Homicide Department at the time, while Konrad Simonsen recovered from heart surgery. The Countess brushed this off.

  ‘Of course I’m not going to fire her, what good would that do? But we’re going to have to talk to her. It’s no use pretending everything is rosy when it’s not.’

  ‘Why do you suddenly care about it now? She’s been like this for ages. Why don’t we talk to Simon about it?’

  The Countess shook her head.

  ‘Brilliant idea, genius thinking, Arne, talk to Simon about it – how did you come up with that? We’ll have plenty of time in the car going to Kolleløse, so please do talk to Simon about it. I’m happy to back you, so let’s call that a plan.’

  He didn’t try and protest. What was the use when she was i
n that mood? He flung out his arms, impotently, and she left. He wondered if someone’s back could look arrogant.

  CHAPTER 6

  They took the Countess’s car for the drive from Police Headquarters to Hanehoved Forest. Arne Pedersen ended up behind the wheel without him quite knowing how that had happened, but the Countess herself had got straight into the back and left the driving to one of the three men, not caring which one. Konrad Simonsen also chose the back, and seeing as the fourth member of the group, Klavs Arnold, was still a novice to the streets of Copenhagen and no one wanted to listen to a synthetic Satnav voice, Arne Pedersen was the only option.

  He chose the route through the city towards the Hillerød motorway, while he debated with himself whether he should make good on his half promise to the Countess and bring up the Pauline Berg dilemma. However, the Countess beat him to it and lectured the three men on the subject in a lengthy speech, which she made no attempt to hide that she had been saving up for some time. A strained silence ensued until Klavs Arnold leaned forward and peered up through the windscreen at the sky above them.

  ‘I think it’s going to rain.’

  The provocation was obvious, and the tension in the car worsened when the Jutlander addressed the Countess directly.

  ‘I think we should focus on our investigation for now. Then we can consider your monologue about Pauline at a later, more suitable time.’

  Arne Pedersen held up a hand between his face and the rear-view mirror, the Countess snorted, and Konrad Simonsen snapped shut the case file, only too aware that he couldn’t avoid being dragged into the dispute. To everyone’s surprise, he sided with Klavs Arnold; the problem of Pauline Berg would have to wait.