The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  CHAPTER 81

  Bertha Steenholt, the Public Prosecutor, lived up to her nickname as she stood in Konrad Simonsen’s office, lightly clenched fists resting on her solid hips while she carefully studied the portraits on the Homicide chief’s wall.

  She’s the size of a primeval cow, Konrad Simonsen thought, and acknowledged in the same moment that he wasn’t entirely sure what such a creature looked like. He had positioned himself diagonally behind her, ready to answer her questions; he couldn’t help smiling stiffly although there was nothing much to smile about. He felt like a bellboy with a guest with no luggage. He ought to sit down rather than stand about uselessly and probably get on her nerves, though he was trying to be helpful. In her place he would have felt irritated, he thought, and yet he stayed where he was, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was a habit he had acquired many years ago as a young officer on guard duty, and which had now come back to him, though he couldn’t think why.

  There was a knock on the door and the Countess entered; she greeted the Public Prosecutor and was rewarded with a short, nasal sound and vague outburst, which could mean anything from hello to don’t disturb me. The Countess lined up to look at the pictures as well. Now three of them stood in silence. Behind Bertha Steenholt’s broad back Konrad Simonsen turned his frozen smile on the Countess. When he had heard the knock, he had assumed that it would be the Deputy Commissioner, who had an uncanny ability to turn up in the wake of the Public Prosecutor. Almost as if she were constantly lying in wait around the corners of the Homicide Department’s corridor, in order to ‘accidentally’ bump into her whenever the opportunity arose: Oh, my, are you here? Oh, how lovely. But today her vigilance appeared to have let her down. For now.

  Bertha Steenholt raised her head and nodded briefly at the female portrait at the very top.

  ‘I gather that’s the nignog?’

  It was impossible to say where Konrad Simonsen found the courage, but possibly it was the stirrings of a minor rebellion because he had been standing in attendance for so long and felt the urge to claim a little independence. Whatever the reason, he took a step forward, looked her in the eye and said, more sharply than was necessary:

  ‘Ifunanya Siasia. In here we call her Ifunanya Siasia!’

  He stressed the words in here clearly, almost aggressively. The big woman frowned, then she looked up again at the picture of the young Nigerian woman and said in a conciliatory tone:

  ‘Yes, fair enough. Ifunanya Siasia was her name and Ifunanya Siasia is what we’ll call her. I apologise.’ Then she asked in her professional voice, ‘Right, where are we? What’s the current state of the Hanehoved investigation? I gather it has turned into a major inquiry in record time.’

  The current state of the Hanehoved investigation . . . Konrad Simonsen recognised his own turn of phrase.

  ‘I’ve just sent you a lengthy memo about precisely the current state of my investigation.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m here because I can’t be bothered to read thirty-five pages when I can get you to give me the highlights in fifteen minutes.’

  The Countess grinned, this was proper plain speaking; she suggested they all sat down, which was met with approval. As they settled around Konrad Simonsen’s conference table, Bertha Steenholt expanded on the reason for her visit.

  ‘I’m also here because I’ve heard about your rogues’ gallery and I wanted to see it. While we’re on the subject, Simon – why are they on your wall? I assume none of them is anything other than peripherally involved in your investigation?’ She gave him time to confirm her assumption, before she continued. ‘Good, because I hope you know that they haven’t broken any laws – at least, none that I can prove.’

  It was the Countess who provided the answer. The clients of the African girl were on display because they deserved it. To be put in the stocks, that was why. And also because it was outrageous that none of them could be held responsible for Ifunanya Siasia’s life and fate, although each and every one of them shared in the responsibility for her death.

  The Public Prosecutor slammed a massive fist on the table, shaking it; she agreed with them, they shouldn’t think otherwise, but she wasn’t going to tilt at windmills. She made this admission with regret, and also when she added that she genuinely believed the Homicide Department’s time was better spent on people who could potentially be convicted, rather than those who couldn’t. It was an irrefutable argument, which also served as Konrad Simonsen’s cue to update her about his case seeing as she wouldn’t take the trouble to read his memo. He cleared his throat and began.

  ‘We’re close to tracking down the henchmen, or the employees, if you like, of Karina Larsen and Svend Lerche. Including those who used to work for them, but don’t do now, which is just as significant. One of them took part in the murder of Ifunanya Siasia on the nineteenth of March 2008 in Hanehoved Forest, together with Jan Podowski, who you already know about. I don’t think it’ll be long before we know the identity of his accomplice. A couple of weeks, maximum, would be my guess. Whether we also manage to find enough evidence to convict him – only time will tell.’

  ‘And the other murder, the blind woman in Karlslille, how is that going?’

  ‘It’s part of the same investigation if the killer is also on the couple’s payroll, and he might very well be. Again I think uncovering that too is only a matter of time. And here we do have excellent DNA evidence, so it’ll be difficult for the killer to talk his way out of that.’

  ‘Might it be the same killer?’

  ‘Easily, but we’re not able to prove that for the time being.’

  She accepted that and he moved on.

  ‘Then there’s the scam with the prostituted au pairs. Here we have made significant progress.’

  Konrad Simonsen spent the next ten minutes explaining how Karina Larsen’s customers bought access to her prostitutes. The customer first needed to register with her, and she only accepted them if they came recommended by two existing customers. Once registered, you could get access to a woman by buying a card that usually cost five thousand kroner. There were two types of cards, green and red; one gave access to a specific woman, the other a free choice.

  Once you had bought a card of any colour, you logged in to Karina Larsen’s homepage using the unique card number, where you could view a list of women available and book the time you wanted. These cards could be bought in a variety of ways, of which the simplest was to visit the Skovridderkroen Restaurant in Klampenborg any night between six and seven, where one of Karina Larsen’s staff would be waiting to sell them. Payment was always in cash, and the au pairs made sure to get the card back when the men visited them. A range of discounts and special offers was available to regular clients. Would she like him to explain those? The Public Prosecutor shook her head.

  ‘How did you get this information?’

  ‘From clients. Several are very keen to co-operate if we promise to keep their names out of the media. They weren’t difficult to track down. We also have quite a few of these cards as some men bought five or ten at a time. These are currently being examined by Forensic Services.’

  ‘For fingerprints?’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes.’

  Konrad Simonsen then briefed her on the host families and the staff from the Integration Ministry who had taken bribes to approve the au pair applications. He went on to summarise the poker players and the activities of the Poker Academy. The Public Prosecutor didn’t interrupt. When he had finished, it was the Countess who asked the next question, which took them both aback.

  ‘When do we strike?’

  Konrad Simonsen and Bertha Steenholt turned to her in surprise. Then the Public Prosecutor repeated, ‘Yes, when do you?’

  This was already a major dilemma for Konrad Simonsen and he had absolutely no need to have it so directly exposed in front of Bertha Steenholt. He looked at the Countess. Thank you, darling wife, I could have done without that. She responded with a beaming smile. He waffl
ed: it was difficult to say, there were many factors to take into account, some were for, others counted against. The Public Prosecutor pounced immediately; this was exactly the kind of talk you could not get away with in front of her.

  ‘You can save that rubbish for the airhead. Tell me the truth!’

  This was a reference to the Deputy Commissioner.

  Konrad Simonsen thought that it wasn’t complete rubbish. In complex cases like this one, knowing when to draw the line and decide that the police had watched the suspects for long enough was invariably a problem. If you went in too early, you risked not having enough evidence for a trial, and if you kept the surveillance going for too long, there was a danger that it would be discovered and the culprits could get away.

  ‘The Data group dealing with the poker players say they need at least another month; the Host family group dealing with the host families would also like more time; the Au pair group would like us to strike now, today rather than tomorrow. It’ll be a compromise, I guess.’

  ‘You guess? I thought you were in charge?’

  ‘Not entirely. There are so many resources involved that I can’t ignore the wider cost implications. And if I decide to do so, senior management will undoubtedly want to teach me a lesson.’

  Bertha Steenholt scratched her upper lip with her thumb and forefinger, while mulling this over.

  ‘Today is Wednesday; let’s say another ten to twelve days, so that’ll make it Monday, the sixth of July when you bang up anyone who needs banging up. Or the Tuesday, if that suits you better, but no later than that. What do you say?’

  Konrad Simonsen said it sounded fair. She promised to get their agreement confirmed with his bosses and then got up with a remark about having somewhere to be. On her way out, she stopped again in front of the men’s photographs on the wall. It was obvious that they fascinated her. The Countess said:

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame. They’ll go free, only to find other women to ruin.’

  Bertha Steenholt didn’t comment on that, instead she said:

  ‘Don’t expect miracles – procuring and economic crimes are lengthy and complicated cases. And if the prostitutes and the clients don’t want to testify, and they rarely do, it usually ends in virtually nothing. That is to say, with a very light punishment or even none at all. And that’s the good option. I’m afraid that’s the truth.’

  The two police officers knew that only too well, as Konrad Simonsen said on behalf of both of them. The Public Prosecutor responded but they couldn’t hear what she said, she was still staring at the men as if struggling to tear herself away. She said pensively: ‘I know several of them.’

  The Countess replied quietly:

  ‘I don’t care. Responsibility, ethics, morality or common decency don’t apply to them. They’ve paid to escape all of that, and with the blessing of society. So I don’t care if you do know them.’

  Big Bertha broke into one of her rare smiles. She looked as if she had spied a particularly delicious piece of meat on her plate.

  ‘I don’t care either.’

  CHAPTER 82

  The Countess had a well-developed system of those to whom she owed a favour, and those from whom she could expect one, and she knew the balance of this mental bookkeeping exactly. In recent years she had expanded her system to include her husband. So if Konrad Simonsen had done someone a favour, she regarded herself as entitled to collect one in return from that person, should the need arise.

  It was the way things worked when you shared your household finances with someone, she thought. And there could be no doubt that Konrad Simonsen had done Helmer Hammer a massive favour by removing him from Jan Podowski’s database. Even if paying for sex were legal, it would look very bad if Helmer Hammer’s name appeared on such a list, circulated internally at Police Headquarters. She called him privately and asked him outright.

  ‘Tell me, don’t you owe us a massive favour after what Simon did for you last week?’

  Helmer Hammer made no attempt to wriggle out of it; it was impossible to deny.

  ‘Are you free to speak?’

  No, not really, but they could meet at ten o’clock, if she was prepared to drive to Copenhagen. He mentioned a restaurant that stayed open until midnight. She promised to be there, although it wasn’t terribly convenient.

  Three hours later they sat each with a glass of white wine in a discreet corner of a nearly deserted dining room. Apart from an elderly couple at the other end who were finishing their dessert, there was no one in sight.

  ‘You look tired.’ The Countess sounded almost concerned.

  Helmer Hammer slumped another centimetre. It was part of his image never to look tired, but this past week had been unusually hectic, even by his standards. At first he merely nodded, but then elaborated in a flat voice.

  ‘Yes, I could do with a few days off, not to mention a lovely, long holiday. But the best I can hope for right now is a decent night’s sleep. So let’s talk fast, then I can go home and hit the sack. What do you want me to do? Because I agree that I owe you.’

  ‘Perhaps I should start by telling you that you never had the pleasure of meeting the Nigerian girl who was killed in Hanehoved Forest. I gather Simon promised you this information.’

  Helmer Hammer thanked her and looked relieved; he briefly flashed her his normal obliging smile, which the Countess thought it was nice to see.

  ‘I want two things. Number one: I have the name and a picture of a young Nigerian woman about whom I want to know as much as possible. How she got to Denmark, what happened to her in Nigeria, where she grew up, her background, possible education, family and so on. I’ve written down my questions and I imagine that, with your unique contacts, you can get our embassy in Lagos to assist me. I have enclosed twenty thousand dollars to cover any expenses incurred, and if there’s any money left over, I want the embassy to give it to her family – if she has any, that is. Otherwise they can find some deserving charity to give it to. I don’t want any receipts, only results, and ideally quickly. Do you think you can manage that?’

  Helmer Hammer nodded:

  ‘The capital of Nigeria is called Abuja, not Lagos, and Denmark has no embassy in that country, only in Ghana, and that’s some distance away. But the Swedes have an embassy in Abuja, as far as I recall, and I wonder . . . Yes, you can rely on me. I’m not sure if your money will be needed, but perhaps it’ll speed things up, seeing it’s a matter of urgency. I’ll take it, and then we’ll have to see.’

  He took her envelope and put it in his inside pocket.

  ‘That was your first request, what was the other?’

  ‘Three residence permits.’

  He shook his head. No, it was out of the question. Even for him. Especially for him. It was far, far too . . . politically sensitive. The Countess argued that she had good reason to ask. If the investigation was to have any hope of convicting the ringleaders, it was essential that some of the African prostitutes were prepared to give evidence, and a basic premise for their co-operation was that they would be granted leave to stay. He insisted that it couldn’t be done.

  ‘So we’re happy to let those women be abused for months, while official Denmark closes its eyes, but to grant three of them leave to stay is way beyond our abilities. Have I understood you correctly?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Quite right. Just imagine if millions of young African women suddenly choose to come here, to be degraded and exploited, in order that later they would be given leave to stay in our wonderful country . . . Is that the thinking behind this insanity?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘OK, can you get me just one?’

  He finished his wine and sat for a while mulling it over, then he said tentatively:

  ‘Possibly, I’m not making any promises. I will try, but then we’re even.’

  The Countess thought that they really weren’t, and that he had given her nothing except what common decency should allow. But common decency had be
come a rare and expensive commodity in the Kingdom of Denmark this past decade. She didn’t say that, however, and it irritated her all the way home to Søllerød.

  CHAPTER 83

  Forensic investigators found a match between the DNA collected from Silje Esper’s living room and one of the cards that had been bought as an entry pass to Karina Larsen’s prostitutes. This provided Klavs Arnold with his big breakthrough in the investigation into the murder of the blind woman. And it wasn’t just that: there was also a nice thumbprint on the card that matched one in the police database. The Jutlander cheered and made a beeline for his boss’s office.

  In there he found Arne Pedersen in a meeting with two colleagues the Jutlander didn’t know. He interrupted them, joyfully announcing his news, and finished with the name.

  ‘Jimmy Heeger, aged thirty-six, with an extensive criminal record. Stabbings, assault, beatings, burglaries, two robberies, handling stolen goods – a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work. I can’t wait to get that bastard. I hope they lock him up for good.’

  Arne Pedersen and his guests shared Klavs Arnold’s joy; you had to look long and hard for a killing as sadistic as the one in Karlslille.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’ Arne Pedersen asked.

  ‘So far, I know nothing except what I’ve told you. I just had to share the news with someone.’

  ‘Call Simon. If he doesn’t answer his mobile, then find out where he is. And if he’s in a meeting, then drag him out of it.’

  Two hours later Klavs Arnold knew a lot more about Jimmy Heeger. The man had the background of a classic offender: his parents had split up, he came from an abusive home where he was brought up by an illiterate mother with a series of ever-changing boyfriends, had had major issues at school, then youth institutions, open as well as closed, and several suspended sentences, until the trap finally shut in 1994, when he served three years for the armed robbery of a petrol station and actual bodily harm. From then on there was no let up, one crime after another.