The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  ‘And the only people who knew where this woman lived and that Jan Podowski’s USB stick might be hidden somewhere in her house . . .’

  Melsing didn’t need to complete his sentence. Konrad Simonsen finished it for him:

  ‘. . . are police officers.’

  CHAPTER 65

  The National Police Press Office had been set up in record time. Just under three years ago the National Police Commissioner had decided that in addition to a communications consultant, he also needed a press officer. The other top executives, to whom he compared himself, all had one of those, so a press officer was duly hired. It went without saying that this was unnecessary, but then again it wasn’t the end of the world either. At least not initially. But in no time at all one press officer had turned into three, and the original staff member had to be promoted to chief press officer. A year later those three had turned into seven and been given their own offices as well as their own oval in the organisational chart where they were shown to be reporting directly to the National Police Commissioner. By now there were nine employees and they were all working flat out, so more press officers were expected to be hired in the near future.

  Konrad Simonsen’s own attitude to press briefings had always been ambivalent. On the one hand he acknowledged their usefulness, when, for example, an investigation could benefit from help from the public. On the other hand, he fundamentally disliked them, and often despised crime reporters, whom he – with very few exceptions – regarded as idle and ignorant.

  His feeling about the National Police Press Office were equally mixed: most of the time it suited him that others dealt with the media, sparing him the trouble; whenever he did want to speak to the press, he would consistently ignore the new rules that all external communication, as it was called in the shiny, new internal folder, must go through the National Police Press Office. The chief press officer would consequently call him and blow his top, while emphasising his own many areas of responsibility. Konrad Simonsen honestly couldn’t care less, something he would also tell the man, which enraged him even more, and that was the end of it. There was never any follow-up.

  *

  The murder of Silje Esper caused a stir in the media, and a press conference was arranged for Tuesday morning at ten o’clock at Police Headquarters, but unfortunately not in the National Police Press Office’s new offices, which were still being renovated. The chief press officer was annoyed. If only the murder had happened a week later, then . . . but alas, the offices would have to be baptised on another occasion.

  At nine-thirty, a fuming deputy chief press officer turned up in Konrad Simonsen’s office. The Homicide chief was sitting behind his desk and glanced up from his papers as the woman practically fell into his office, showing every sign of stress in her pretty, telegenic face. No one could tell from looking at him that he had been expecting her for the last half hour. The deputy chief press officer’s voice was shrill.

  ‘What’s this I hear that you won’t be attending the press conference?’

  ‘I prioritise my time, and I have the utmost confidence in delegating that type of briefings to you, the professionals. Also, it says in one of your folders that . . . hang on . . .’

  He found the leaflet, which happened to be lying to hand on his desk, and flicked through it. She interrupted him with a hiss:

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of the contents of our folders, but what on earth do you think we can tell the press? Are you aware that they’re already lining up their cameras?’

  He answered her as accurately as possible.

  ‘I haven’t thought about your first question, and no, I didn’t know about the cameras.’

  ‘But this is sabotage; you’re working directly against us.’

  ‘Not in the least, I’m only following your rules. You write yourselves . . .’

  He flicked through the booklet again; she gave up. Her attitude changed and she became more contrite.

  ‘Please will you help us? We don’t know anything about the Karlslille murder.’

  ‘Of course I will. Take a look at these, then you’ll know exactly what happened.’

  He handed her a stack of photographs. She paled at the first, turned over to the next picture, paled even more and suppressed a gulp. The photographs slipped from her hand and onto the floor.

  Konrad Simonsen was at her side in a moment. ‘Come on, put your head between your knees, and if you need to be sick, then be sick.’ He grabbed her shoulders and pressed her head down, while he kicked away the pictures in her immediate field of vision. Slowly she regained control of herself. Meanwhile, one of the photographs caught his attention. It showed the dog run outside Silje Esper’s back entrance, which until now had been of little interest to him.

  The deputy press chief sat down on a chair; she was upset, but not so much that she couldn’t speak. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

  He picked up the photographs.

  ‘Shut up, please. I promise to help you, but right now you need to . . . well, just shut up.’

  She did as he had asked her. He stared vacantly at the window for a few seconds, then he called Arne Pedersen, who appeared in his office almost immediately. Simonsen gave his orders absentmindedly, his attention elsewhere.

  ‘Go and help out with that press conference, Arne. And take the Countess with you, if you like.’

  ‘She’s in Karlslille heading the search for that USB stick.’

  It was as if Konrad Simonsen didn’t understand the message, replying, ‘Yes, she is, that’s great.’ A strange, misplaced reply.

  ‘I’m going out for a couple of hours.’

  Arne Pedersen, who knew his boss and recognised when he needed time on his own, promised to handle the press conference. Konrad Simonsen wasn’t even listening.

  The Countess was pleasantly surprised to see her husband in Silje Esper’s studio, where she was busy giving orders to three men. She finished her instructions, but waited until the officers had left the room before she asked:

  ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to be here until the afternoon?’

  He confirmed, yes, it was what they had agreed, but . . . he didn’t elaborate. Instead he asked:

  ‘Have you come across a stool or something similar around the house?’

  ‘There is a small stepladder in the kitchen.’

  ‘Please could you keep your men away from the dog run for five minutes?’

  The wooden fence around the dog run was roughly two metres high. It consisted of nine posts, of which two were corner posts, and two were placed as close to the house as the foundations would allow. Between the posts, two rows of horizontal beams had been fixed, one at a height of 1.8 metres, and one just thirty centimetres from the ground. Planks had been nailed vertically to the horizontal beams. Ninety per cent of the wooden fence had been painted red, and that had happened recently. It was the unfinished paintwork that had caught Konrad Simonsen’s eye when he glanced at the picture in his office an hour ago. Having stared intensely at the fence for a minute or two, he decided that he would have picked one of the two posts nearest the house, of which one was unpainted. He put up the stepladder next to the other one and climbed it.

  The black USB stick had been wedged into the space between the post, the horizontal beam and the first plank. He fished it out with a little difficulty, using his pen, before wrapping it in his handkerchief and stuffing it in his pocket.

  In the living room four officers were working diligently. The Countess was sitting on a chair at the dining table, but got up when he entered. He whispered to her:

  ‘I’ve found it.’

  She patted his upper arm without saying anything.

  ‘But carry on looking for it as you otherwise would have done.’

  ‘Of course we will.’

  ‘I’ll go and see Melsing and get him to check it for fingerprints, but I won’t log it with an evidence number. Not now, but possibly later. This is about keeping our mouths shut.’

  Sh
e couldn’t agree more and quietly asked him if he had informed the Department for Public Prosecution about their presumed leak. He had; he had spoken to the deputy director, who would form a small group of competent colleagues to investigate the matter. It was standard procedure, but in contrast to what the public tended to believe, being questioned by such a committee was absolutely no joke. On the contrary, internal matters were pursued both consistently and zealously.

  There was nothing more to discuss and she gave him a quick kiss goodbye. As he left, she watched his back and thought that at times he was a brilliant head of investigation. She also thought that she loved him, and that he was growing old. That although he now – in contrast to earlier years – took regular exercise, there was something laboured, something weary, about his gait that used not to be there.

  However, someone else watched Konrad Simonsen as he left, and he didn’t think that the chief was ageing. It was the mole, the man who had told Svend Lerche about the search.

  He was squatting on his haunches, looking through some braille books in his hunt for the USB stick, something he dearly hoped would not be found or else that he would be the person to find it. Last Friday afternoon he had been assigned to take part in the search, which was scheduled for Monday. Rumours were already spreading by that point that they were going to Karlslille to look for a USB stick. That was bad news for him, as he had a very unpleasant suspicion about the contents of the stick and was only too familiar with the man whose picture was being circulated by the Homicide Department. He didn’t know the name Jan Podowski, but he had met the man on several occasions and spoken to him on the phone even more frequently in order to buy himself a night with one of the lovely African women who worked as maids in Nordsjælland.

  On his way home from work that day he had called the number he usually rang and insisted on being put through to the boss, without knowing who the boss was. After some discussion, he was told to hang up and wait. Soon afterwards he was called by a woman who introduced herself as Mrs Larsen. He had told her what was in the offing, and given her the address of the house in Karlslille, while crossing his fingers that the USB stick hadn’t been found already. He had never in his wildest imagination thought that his tip-off would lead to the blind woman’s murder. But what was done could not be undone, he couldn’t change that, and he was now very, very scared of the man who had just left the living room.

  CHAPTER 66

  Konrad Simonsen took the USB stick to Malte Borup.

  After being hired just under three years ago, the student intern had been moved around several times, but in the last two years he had shared an office with Pauline Berg. The two of them got on well – Malte Borup tended to get on well with pretty much everybody – and neither of them seemed to mind that space in the office was at a premium when they were both there. Besides they were rarely there at the same time, but they were both there this Tuesday lunchtime when their boss entered. Without making small talk, he said:

  ‘Two things. One: under no circumstances mention this USB stick to anyone. It’s vital that you don’t.’

  Pauline Berg promised him to keep her mouth shut, not one word would pass her lips, even in her sleep. Konrad Simonsen grunted and continued.

  ‘Two: Malte, it’s locked. I need some sort of password, I think. Can you read it without one? I mean, unlock it or whatever the term is.’

  Malte Borup glanced fleetingly at the USB stick. Yes, he could probably do that. He held out his hand.

  ‘I’ll need about half an hour, so if you have something you want to do in the meantime . . .’

  The intern hated people looking over his shoulder when he was trying to work. When he first started this would have been a problem, as he would never have dared to speak to his boss so bluntly. Today he had grown more courageous. Konrad Simonsen promised to go to the canteen and have his lunch. It wasn’t a great sacrifice to make.

  When, sated and content, he came back to Pauline Berg and Malte Borup about forty minutes later, they were both seated behind the intern’s computer, gazing at the screen. Pauline Berg with curiosity, Malte Borup with his head turned, half looking at the screen, half peering to the side. Konrad Simonsen looked with them: two naked people. A middle-aged white man thrusting in and out of a young African woman. From time to time he would turn his bloated, red face to the camera; the woman stared at the ceiling, scratched her cheek and looked bored. The quality of the film was poor, the people moved in jerks, above and beyond what the situation required. Malte Borup explained.

  ‘This is an access file, it means it’s a database. It’s full of men with black girls. The entries are listed according to the men’s data, that is to say, their name, title, picture, and then one or more film clips associated with them. The women have no surnames, only first names such as Iben, Frida, Carmen and so on.’ He paused the film. ‘We have muted the volume, if you want it on, you need to . . .’

  Konrad Simonsen interrupted him:

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Do you know how many entries, i.e. men, we’re talking about?’

  ‘Just under six hundred, but we’ve only watched a few of them, obviously.’

  Pauline Berg pointed to the screen where the man had been caught with his mouth open, as if he were about to eat the woman’s face. She said dryly:

  ‘I never did like him much as a TV presenter.’

  At Konrad Simonsen’s request, Malte Borup printed out a list with the names and titles of the five hundred and ninety-one men on the database. He arranged the names in three columns and reduced the font size, but still the printout took up four pages. Then he followed his boss to his office, and showed him how to operate the database. It wasn’t difficult. When the intern had left, Konrad Simonsen skimmed the names on the printout. Sometimes he would emit a small noise of recognition or an affirmative snort as if to say that he wasn’t surprised. The names weren’t listed alphabetically, and he had reached the second to last column on the final page, when he froze and sat looking perturbed. Then he scrolled through the data on his computer, as Malte Borup had shown him, to confirm that no mistake had been made.

  He called the intern, who immediately came to his office. Once he was inside, Konrad Simonsen locked his door, something he didn’t remember ever doing before. Malte Borup looked rather alarmed, as if he had been taken hostage.

  ‘Can you delete an entry from the database? And I mean remove it so that no trace of it remains?’

  CHAPTER 67

  Konrad Simonsen left the day-to-day management of the investigation into the murder of Silje Esper to Arne Pedersen, but he was present in the big conference room when his second-in-command reviewed the current status of the investigation and delegated tasks to his fellow officers. Konrad Simonsen noticed how Arne Pedersen was far more willing than he was to let individual officers voice their concerns or suggestions. It was time-consuming, and in most cases a waste of time, but Simonsen never intervened, merely listened, and on the two occasions when Arne Pedersen asked him if he thought this or that, he simply returned the ball with a brief, that’s up to you.

  On their way out of the room, he said to Arne Pedersen:

  ‘We’ll meet in my office at six. There are some issues you have yet to be briefed on. You’ll also give me a super-condensed review of the state of your Silje Esper murder.’

  Arne Pedersen noticed the small your, which placed the responsibility for the investigation squarely on his shoulders. His boss was notorious for delegating, and then being unable to let go when push came to shove, but not, it would appear, in this case. This suited Pedersen fine and made him feel a little proud. It also made him a very busy man.

  ‘Yesterday I thought this was a professional killing, but now I’m almost convinced that it wasn’t.’

  ‘Killings rarely are, but save your powder until six o’clock. I’ll see you later.’

  The inner circle had gathered around the conference table in Konrad Simonsen’s office: the Countess, Pauline Berg, Klavs A
rnold and Arne Pedersen waited excitedly for their boss to begin, which he did by showing them the USB stick and explaining its contents. He finished off:

  ‘. . . but it’s obviously important that we keep in mind all the time that the six hundred clients haven’t done anything illegal, unless we can prove that some of the women were under eighteen. And even if we can, then we’re talking about minor offences punishable by fines, as none of the women is a minor, if you get my drift.’

  His audience did. Klavs Arnold said darkly:

  ‘These men bought and paid for sex, that’s entirely legitimate and above board. How lucky for them that they didn’t get caught buying a suspiciously cheap B&O TV, then we could get them for buying stolen property, because they ought to have known that the price couldn’t be right. But even the most dim-witted man must have known that those women wouldn’t willingly submit to this unless . . .’

  He couldn’t think of a suitable image and muttered grimly that this didn’t bear thinking about, but he already knew that.

  No one disagreed with the Jutlander, and all five of them wished that the politicians would get their act together and ban sex for money, and more importantly criminalise the customers rather than the women. Such legislation would undoubtedly have its downsides, but none that cancelled out the definite benefit of crushing the market for sex trafficking in Denmark. Besides, men’s entitlement to buy sex from imported foreign women wasn’t a right enshrined in the Danish constitution. Konrad Simonsen said:

  ‘Pauline and Klavs, you’ll be joined by a craniologist tomorrow. She’s on loan from Melsing, and is the only one apart from him who knows that we’re in possession of Jan Podowski’s database. Find somewhere you can work undisturbed, and then compare the images we have of the victim from the Hanehoved investigation with the prostitutes in the database. I had a brief go at it myself, and it’s an extremely difficult job, but the craniologist is convinced it can be done. It will just take time.