by Lotte Hammer
‘Is he refusing to talk about her?’
In addition to the official interviews, Konrad Simonsen had visited Henrik Krag in Vestre Prison several evenings in a row in an attempt to get to know the young man. The lawyer wasn’t present during these conversations, as Konrad Simonsen had convinced Henrik Krag that they weren’t interviews, just chats in order for him to better understand the background to the events. Henrik Krag had accepted this, seemingly happy for the break in his monotonous day. However, he had made it a condition that he wasn’t recorded, which the Homicide chief found reasonable. Konrad Simonsen said:
‘Oh, no, you can’t shut him up. He adores her. He’s proud of her, but if I ask about anything that might compromise her in the slightest, he clams up like an oyster. And he’s incredibly skilled at knowing exactly when to keep his mouth shut.’
The Countess said:
‘We can’t be sure that we’ll ever know all the answers to our outstanding questions.’
She had spoken to her husband at home and already knew how fruitless Konrad Simonsen’s efforts had been.
What remained was a long list of potential charges and possible convictions of people who, in various ways, had been involved in Svend Lerche’s and Karina Larsen’s business. And here things didn’t look good.
The long list shrank every single day. None of the many clients of the African prostitutes that the police had contacted were willing to testify in court, so only two of the host families could be prosecuted, of which one was the family of the banker from Vedbæk, whose young wife filed for divorce and declared herself more than willing to testify against her future ex-husband the moment she was granted a residence permit.
The other was a couple from Gammel Holte, where the husband had been stupid enough to keep records of the income he got from his au pair girl, a set of accounts his wife had snatched and handed over to the police after a major fight. The couple had since separated.
Added to that, the Public Prosecutor for Financial Crime, aka the fraud squad, had given up trying to get its hands on Svend Lerche’s and Karina Larsen’s assets, comprising of their holiday home, their house in Rungsted and three expensive cars. Charges against the couple in absentia were dropped. The chances of a conviction after a protracted and expensive court case were quite simply too small. The court subsequently suspended the freezing of the couple’s assets, and ownership of these was transferred to their daughter, who had incontestable documentation for her authority in this respect. The bottom line was that only six potentially successful prosecutions in the case remained: Henrik Krag, two women from the Integration Ministry and possibly three people who had provided homes for two au pairs. It wasn’t much, some might even deem it a failure and a waste of taxpayers’ money, but this was where the National Police Commissioner’s Press Office proved its worth.
In a brilliant campaign, they convinced the public that police had spared no expense in order to solve the case of the poor Nigerian girl who had been killed and thrown into the lake in Hanehoved Forest. The story featured all over the media, the Danes loved such stories: here in Denmark, all murders were treated equally, regardless of cost or skin colour, as it said in a tabloid newspaper. The National Police Commissioner was happy and praised Konrad Simonsen, who objected.
‘But we haven’t closed the case yet.’
‘No, but go on and do that, Simon. You have my permission. Brilliant work.’
CHAPTER 94
The home of Public Prosecutor Bertha Steenholt and her daughter was exactly as sinister and forbidding as the Countess had been told it would be: a monstrosity of a house with a beautiful copper-roofed turret on one side, no less. It lay set back from the street in the Humlebyen area of Frederiksberg, the overgrown garden, practically a jungle, enclosed by a tall fence. After she had let herself in at the gate, the Countess looked curiously through the undergrowth at the house. All that was missing was a moat and drawbridge, or even better, a barge with a hunchbacked ferryman and then the picture would be complete, she thought, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a cat sitting nearby on a crumbling stack of logs snarled at her.
Bertha Steenholt received her in a much friendlier manner than the Countess had feared would be the case, and though she didn’t have an appointment, she was invited into a dining room with a high ceiling, where Bertha and her daughter were having a late supper. The Public Prosecutor fetched cutlery and a plate without asking, insisting that the Countess should taste her daughter’s ragoût as it was delicious. She wasn’t asked the reason for her visit; that had to wait until after supper. The Countess thought, I’m a dead woman, and then ate to her heart’s content. She hadn’t had time to have dinner yet, and the Public Prosecutor was right, the food really was delicious. It wasn’t until the daughter had cleared the table and Bertha Steenholt had lit a cigar that she said:
‘Not many people visit me privately to discuss business. I must say, I’m looking forward to this.’
It was the moment of truth for the Countess and she launched herself into it, quoting from memory: ‘Anyone who has intercourse using violence, or threats of violence, is guilty of rape and liable to imprisonment of up to eight years. Violence also includes rendering the victim in a state where they are unable to resist the act.’
‘Section two hundred and sixteen of the Penal Code, the rape section. Why are you reeling that off?’
‘Because of her.’
The Countess took out seven A5 photographs from her bag, which she had gone to the trouble of laminating. She handed them to Bertha Steenholt, who studied each one carefully. The pictures all showed Ifunanya Siasia in everyday situations and at different ages. Her first day at school where, grinning proudly from ear to ear, she posed with her satchel on her back in her new blue and white uniform. A picture of her feeding her baby brother, who had food smeared all over his face and was turning his head away as she approached with the spoon. Her tenth birthday when she and her brother had both been given bicycles that her father and uncle had fixed up. Several pictures of the everyday, the ordinary.
‘She lived in a village in the Yenagoa province and attended a Catholic school three kilometres from her home. Everyone liked her, her parents loved her, as parents always do, her teachers praised her, she was especially good at English and Maths.’
Bertha Steenholt wasn’t unmoved. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she murmured. The Countess didn’t comment on the outburst, but continued talking.
‘On the fifth of June two thousand and seven Ifunanya Siasia was offered a lift to school in a car driven by a former schoolmate. He anaesthetised her with ether and drove her to Lagos almost five hundred kilometres from her home. Here he sold her to a brothel, where she was beaten and raped repeatedly until she learned to welcome the brothel customers. At that point she was, according to her parents, fifteen years old, although her passport fraudulently lists her as older. After six months, she was sold on and trafficked to Europe, initially to Madrid and later to Copenhagen. In Denmark, she worked first in a massage parlour in Skælskør, then she was bought by Karina Larsen and became an au pair and prostitute in Gammel Holte. All entirely of her own free will, of course.’
The Public Prosecutor said in a low voice:
‘If you’re hoping I can get the men on Simon’s wall convicted of rape, you’re very much mistaken. I can’t get them convicted of anything, and you know it. If I didn’t know you better, I would think you were wasting my time.’
‘I might be. But is it legally possible to interpret their actions as rape? I mean: the girl was under duress and the men knew it. Or they must have known that there was a very big chance that she was. They’re all educated and must have heard of human trafficking unless they’re deaf and blind. And yet they had sex with her.’
The big woman thought about it carefully. The smoke from her cigar wafted around her; the cat meowed in the garden, sounding like a troubled child.
‘It would be hell to prove, but yes, I suppose I could try.’
‘What would happen? Why, they would be released again, of course. I would be overruled by the Director of Public Prosecutions or the Justice Ministry, and quite rightly so.’
‘I meant what would happen to you?’
‘To me?’ the Public Prosecutor replied in surprise. ‘Nothing, I guess. Admittedly, it’s an offence to bring charges that I know won’t stand up in court, but . . .’
Her daughter, who was sitting in an armchair at the other end of the room, interrupted them:
‘Then I promise to defend you, Mother. I would love the chance.’
Bertha Steenholt shook her head; it would hardly come to that.
‘Ultimately I would just be reprimanded, that is if anyone can be bothered, given that I retire in three months . . .’
She stopped and smiled like a wolf smelling meat. The Countess gave her time to savour the idea, but the Public Prosecutor soon shot down the unspoken suggestion.
‘It won’t work. The moment the officers tasked with the arrests start talking about what’s going on, the Director of Public Prosecution will issue counter orders.’
The Countess replied, quietly and without theatricality. Even so, both women felt that the air in the room practically quivered with intensity.
‘You give written orders for the arrests to me and I’ll find fifty officers who won’t say a word until those men are at Police Headquarters.’
‘Fifty officers! Tell me, how many of the men do you plan to arrest?’
This was easily answered.
‘All of them.’
CHAPTER 95
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s interview was postponed twice; her lawyer called Konrad Simonsen to inform him that she was unable to attend and they would have to reschedule. When the interview finally took place on the morning of Tuesday, 30 June, it descended into pure farce.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen arrived at Police Headquarters in tailor-made, navy blue silk trousers with pleats and a simple white shirt. An Hermés Birkin bag in the fashion house’s signature gold colour dangled from her arm. She looked like a million dollars, and not a million dollars that was in any way intimidated at being interviewed. Her lawyer was a man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed and dry as a bone. He announced to Konrad Simonsen and the Countess, just as he had previously told Arne Pedersen, that Benedikte Lerche-Larsen would say nothing about matters pertaining to her parents or her husband. And in the current circumstances this applied in the broadest possible terms. He savoured his choice of words and Arne Pedersen, who was sitting behind the one-way mirror observing the interview, grinned. Konrad Simonsen was sorely tempted to slap the lawyer. Instead he began the interview by recording the formalities for the benefit of the videotape before asking Benedikte Lerche-Larsen his first question.
‘Henrik Krag, your husband, tells us that he turned himself in on your suggestion. Why did you encourage him to do that?’
The lawyer said that Benedikte Lerche-Larsen wouldn’t answer that. It related to her husband and, as mentioned in his earlier statement, she could not be compelled to testify against him, neither in court, nor to the police.
‘Then tell us if you have heard anything from your father or your mother.’
The Countess asked the question this time but the lawyer gave her the same spiel.
They tried another seven questions and in response to every one, the lawyer chanted his mantra, editing it to fit the occasion. Even when the Countess asked the witness if it was correct that she studied at Copenhagen Business School, she was told by the lawyer that Benedikte Lerche-Larsen wouldn’t be answering that question. The Countess asked irritably:
‘How does that in any way relate to her parents or her husband?’
‘I will explain that in court, should it become relevant.’
It was hopeless. Konrad Simonsen asked sarcastically:
‘What do you think about the weather we’ve been having recently?’
The lawyer replied, deadpan, that he found the question irrelevant, and if it were an expression of some kind of misplaced humour, he would strongly recommend that the police kept this kind of thing internal.
Konrad Simonsen threw in the towel and ended the interview.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen left Police Headquarters. During the interview she had not said a single word, and all that Konrad Simonsen gained from the non-conversation was that he had to agree with Arne Pedersen: the interviewee – or rather the non-interviewee – was seriously attractive.
The evening turned out to be another disappointment for Konrad Simonsen. It started with a call from the chairman of the committee set up by the deputy director of the Department of Public Prosecution to identify the source of the leak within the police force of the planned search of Silje Esper’s house. The group had just finished its meeting, and had decided to suspend its work because although it had a prime suspect, it was unable to secure any evidence, and thought it was impossible to make further progress. Konrad Simonsen expressed his appreciation for the call, and concealed his irritation.
Later, he and Arne Pedersen had driven to Elsinore Chess Club, which was to be visited by chess genius Vladimir Kramnik, no less, as part of its anniversary celebrations. Simonsen had booked his friend and subordinate in plenty of time to take part in a simultaneous chess tournament, and was looking forward to watching how Pedersen would do against the master. However, when they arrived, the master had fallen ill and was in his hotel room with a temperature, and that evening’s games had had to be cancelled. Simonsen drove home to Søllerød, feeling thoroughly annoyed. Then, however, something quite remarkable happened.
As he was taking off his shoes in the hallway, the door to the living room opened and out stepped Anni Staal, a crime reporter from Dagbladet. Anni Staal was formerly an object of hatred for him, though it had diminished slightly after she had helped him, albeit involuntarily, in a major investigation. She greeted him amicably on her way to the toilet. His jaw dropped. Anni Staal here? In his home! He marched into the living room, but stopped and stood gawping like an idiot. Around the coffee table, in an exuberant mood, sat the Countess, Stella Arnold, the Deputy Commissioner and Bertha Steenholt. The three guests greeted him and then the Countess said:
‘This is a closed meeting, Simon.’
CHAPTER 96
Bertha Steenholt’s exit from a long working life in the legal profession became the stuff of legend as she left with a bang that echoed for a long time afterwards and successfully secured her reputation.
It happened on Tuesday, 7 July at Police Headquarters in Copenhagen, more specifically in the newly renovated offices of the National Police Commissioner’s Press Office on the ground floor, to the right of the building’s main entrance. The rooms were still empty, but the walls were freshly painted in the new colours of the police force, an optimistic spring green, a competent steel blue and an extrovert egg-yolk yellow. The floors had also been sanded down and varnished, though just with ordinary varnish, which did nothing to promote the force’s new values. However, the press officers had yet to move into their new home, and the Countess had, ably assisted by the National Police Commissioner’s secretary, been given permission to borrow the offices for the first two days of the week.
The previous day she had discreetly equipped the place with the few items she would need, namely a workstation with a computer at one end of the larger room and a few props in a smaller, adjacent one; she had also decorated the walls in both rooms. Nothing else was needed. The Deputy Commissioner had helped with the decoration. It wasn’t in the original plan that she would have an active involvement with events, but she couldn’t help herself and had sneaked in.
When the two women had finished their work, they took a few minutes to study the result, pleased with their efforts. All the way around the previously dull, soon to be ‘communication-facilitating’ walls were now pinned pictures of Ifunanya Siasia, enlarged from the
family photographs the Countess had obtained thanks to Helmer Hammer.
She had had the pictures Photoshopped by a graphic designer who had done an excellent job by consistently highlighting Ifunanya Siasia’s face in every picture, letting it stand out sharp and in full colour, while the rest of the picture was in muted, slightly blurred greyscale. The graphic manipulation made the pictures intriguing, and as a spectator you now lingered a little longer on them than strictly necessary, possibly even asking yourself – a little uncomfortably – what does that girl want from me?
With a confident eye and true to form, the Deputy Commissioner had chosen to set this month’s record in poor fashion choices: a far too short silk dress with elbow-length black sleeves and a white front patterned with black polka dots. She looked like an overgrown, spotty penguin, and the Countess thought that her terrible dress sense, combined with her often overfamiliar, flowery personality meant that you couldn’t help but warm to her. She was entirely her own woman and good for her. The respect seemed to go both ways. On her way out of the door, the Deputy Commissioner commented:
‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Countess . . . I mean you taking social issues as seriously as you do. After all, you lack for nothing, why trouble yourself with other people’s misfortune?’
The statement took the Countess by surprise, and she didn’t know how to reply.
‘I don’t always feel like this.’
It was the best she could come up with, but the Deputy Commissioner was satisfied. Sometimes is better than never. She smiled her pretty smile. The Countess felt like throwing the penguin a herring.
The Countess dispatched her pairs of officers. All wore uniforms and drove an ordinary patrol cars and each pair was assigned one person to arrest. They had prepared on the quiet, and all had a good idea of where they could contact their suspect, in most cases their place of work. Across Copenhagen and Nordsjælland, men of all ages, all successful and in important positions, were arrested, handcuffed and taken away in police cars. Often to the astonishment and disbelief of colleagues and employees.
