by Lotte Hammer
“I would like a copy of that list.”
“You’ll get it. There’s not much more to tell you now. The next day the base sent a large task force out to search the area, but in vain. She could have been buried a hundred metres from the DYE without them having a chance of discovering her. I’m assuming that at some point she was officially declared dead, but I haven’t been able to get that confirmed.”
“Do you know exactly where she is lying in relation to the station?”
“No, unfortunately not. We searched for a couple of hours yesterday to see whether we could find traces of it, but were unsuccessful. The Americans can be amazingly efficient so it’s not at all certain that we will find the exact location, but I intend to try again tomorrow with more people—if that’s acceptable to you?”
The request was directed at Simonsen.
“Of course. And I should add that the Nuuk police have done good work here. I’m impressed by all you’ve found out in such a short time.”
Trond Egede took the compliment with a smile. Then he peered down at the girl and said seriously, “I’ve seen a few murders in my time, but this one gives me the creeps and makes me afraid. I assume you feel the same way. That was probably why you stepped aside earlier?”
Simonsen answered heavily, “No, unfortunately it was something else that made me do that. But this is probably the right time to deal with the unpleasant part. Arne, you’re the youngest, do you mind crawling down to her? I want you to investigate her nails and tell us how they’re clipped.”
The two others instinctively looked down at the woman’s hands, but from where they were standing they could not make anything out. The Greenlander and Simonsen held Pedersen by the arms and took his weight so he could slide carefully down into the grave. He put his head alongside the dead woman’s thigh—first one side, then the other—before he reported.
“She hasn’t cut them herself . . . no woman would do it like that. It looks like it was done with shears, jerkily and fast. How could you know? Oh, no . . . ”
The Greenlandic constable had understood too. He stared gloomily down at the sight before him as Simonsen answered: “Because, unfortunately, this is the second time I’ve seen a young woman treated in this barbarous way.”
CHAPTER 3
The skies over Copenhagen were unsettled. Brief, torrential summer showers alternated with sunshine, which quickly dried the streets and enticed people outside—until the next shower drove them back again. The holiday season was ending, but there were still tourists in the city, easy to spot with their ambling gait and slightly too casual attire.
Simonsen was looking out of the window of his office in Police Headquarters, wondering whether he was clinically depressed. It was now forty-eight hours since he had stood on the Greenland ice cap observing the corpse of Maryann Nygaard, and ever since then he had not been himself. For the first time in his long career he was having difficulty concentrating on a case. Although he knew perfectly well that this state of mind resulted from the new case’s connection to another equally disturbing homicide, the circumstances of which now had to be reassessed, this insight did not help him much. He told himself over and over that his reaction was a sign of good mental health, evidence that he was not emotionally burned out, but the fact was that he was barely able to suppress his mental pain and attend to his daily workload. On top of that there was his bad health, which he was finding harder and harder to ignore. For the last couple of days his feet had tingled and ached unbearably; he had given in to cigarettes again; somehow he’d stuck to his diet.
Last night he’d been unable to sleep. Thoughts were still churning in his head when the first birdsong of the day mocked his sleeplessness. His feet—and this was almost the worst thing—would not keep still, no matter how he arranged them. All morning he had solemnly promised himself to schedule an appointment with one of the police psychologists, but like so many of his good intentions nothing had come of it. Instead he made another appointment to confront his guilt later that day. Then he must sink or swim.
“Should I call downstairs and say you’ve been delayed?”
The Countess, who was sitting observing him with a worried expression on her face, sounded determinedly calm. She was fresh-faced, optimistic, healthy. He looked and felt like something you baited a line with to catch fish. When he did not reply, she continued speaking.
“We can postpone the meeting for half an hour, that won’t do any harm. There’s no rush at this point.”
He snarled back, “Let them wait, damn it.”
“Yes, we’ll let them wait a little, serve them right.”
“Why on earth has this become such an attraction? It’s completely crazy. Originally it was simply intended to be an internal update. How can I work if anyone and everyone can just come running to my reviews?”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Stop agreeing with me! Can’t you think for yourself?”
The silence that followed was fraught with tension. Other people’s sweet concern . . . echoes of his own self-pity . . . what good was any of that to him? Anger bubbled inside him. He shut his eyes for a moment before collecting himself with an effort.
“Excuse me, Countess. I didn’t really mean that.”
“I know and it’s all right, I’m not made of glass.”
It was one of her good points that she didn’t launch herself into any argument that came along. If she did their closeness would have ended long ago. Now their relationship was tender, cautious. They were like two thirteen year olds edging slowly towards one other. Small steps, cautious steps, the whole time.
Simonsen said sadly, “I don’t know how many times I’ve said those words in the past four days. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me—soon I’ll be apologising to every other person I talk to. It must be unbearable for the rest of you.”
“You mustn’t worry about that, Konrad. Concentrate on yourself. Now I’m going to call and say you’ve been delayed.”
He let her do that, it was reasonable and sensible. When she was done, he reverted to the subject of the uninvited guests who had intruded on his review.
“Who is it by the way who is coming from the Foreign Ministry?”
“Some bigwig . . . as far as I know a director. I don’t know his name, or more exactly—I can’t remember it. But the rumours are that the national chief of police’s office is up in arms about it. They see his presence as ill-timed political involvement, but someone must have overruled them.”
“That’s also a little strange. What’s the motivation? Is it that story about the chancellor again? I don’t believe it, it just can’t be true.”
“The Germans, the Americans, the Greenlanders—all guesses, no one knows exactly.”
“Could you take a look at this, Countess? I would really like to know what’s going on in my own investigation.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
He broke into the first smile of the day then said almost cheerfully, “I asked you about that yesterday too, didn’t I?”
“A good order can’t be given too often.”
Their laughter eased the atmosphere. He sat down heavily in his chair.
“You know perfectly well what the conclusion will be.”
“All of us have read the case files for the Stevns homicide, and no one is in any doubt about how hideous it must have been for those of you who were there—especially for you.”
“Yes, hideous.”
“Mistakes happen. We’re humans, not gods.”
“A dog! She couldn’t even make herself call me a cur . . . ”
“I don’t know what you mean, and now you’re scaring me. Arne or I can take over if you can’t manage it.”
“No, I’ll try on my own. That’s probably best.”
“Maybe.”
“The truth is that I’m afraid of what will happen if I give up and throw in the towel.”
“This isn’t a boxing match, Simon, and you have to be caref
ul. Some things you simply can’t grapple with all on your own. You have to get help, professional help.”
“I know that. Tell me, what are you doing this afternoon?”
“That depends on what you assign me to do.”
“Do you want to take a drive with me? To visit a woman whose husband committed suicide in 1998.”
The Countess did not reply, and he did not hurry her. After a while she said, “You want to tell her that you were wrong?”
“That I was wrong?”
“That you and a lot of others were wrong?”
“She believed in her husband the whole way through, never doubted his innocence for a moment, and she called me a dog. Just think, that was the strongest expression she would allow to cross her lips even though I’d destroyed her life, or more precisely the final remnants of her life, after her daughter had been assaulted and strangled.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea to visit her?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot, and yes, I really think it is. Besides it’s the least I can do, after making her husband a judicial victim.”
“He was never convicted.”
“He would have been, the evidence was overwhelming.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“Suicide was hardly a better option.”
“I’ll go and see her with you. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes, we’re supposed to be in Haslev at four o’clock.”
“If things don’t go as you expect, I'll drag you away, regardless of whether you whine or howl. Now you know. Believe me, I’ll get you out of there if I have to.”
He shrugged slightly and asked, “Will you do one more thing for me? I have an appointment in Høje Taastrup later today with . . . a woman. Can I ask you to call and cancel it? Then I’ll just have time to go and freshen up a little.”
She nodded sympathetically. He wrote a telephone number on a slip of paper and gave it to her.
“Thanks, let’s go down in five minutes.”
He left, and the Countess phoned. She knew exactly who she was calling. Simonsen’s propensity for occasionally discussing his cases with a psychic from Høje Taastrup was the Homicide Division’s worst-kept secret, although in front of the boss all the officers had the good manners to act like they knew nothing. The Countess had no particular feelings about clairvoyance herself, so the form the call took frightened her.
Hold on to Steen Hansen, Baroness, don’t let him go, no matter what. Stick to him like a burr, nothing must shake you off. This is a matter of life and death. No matter what . . . no matter what, Baroness, there is nothing more important than that.
She had been given no explanation, nor any context for these remarks—only the insistent request. Like a call for help, twice, three times, five times, she did not remember how many, only that dry, rasping voice even after she’d promised to do as she was asked. And then the form of address—Baroness—was close, unpleasantly close. She stared meditatively into space for a while and decided two things. First, that she would say nothing to Simonsen about the call, he had enough to deal with; and second, she would go and freshen up a little too.
There was so much they hadn’t had time to talk about that once the opportunity finally presented itself, en route to the lecture hall, Simonsen abruptly came clean. He said carefully, “I’m afraid of starting to cry when I talk about her. A blubbering homicide chief—that would really be weird.”
“What if you take the first half of the review and then leave the rest to Arne? You need to rest, I can see that.”
“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”
The answer was so surprising coming from him that she had to clear her throat to hold back all the arguments she’d held in reserve.
They passed one of the cleaning staff. With a colourful feather duster attached to a long bamboo pole she was capturing spider’s webs from the ceiling. As if by mutual agreement they fell silent as they went past. The woman smiled at them fleetingly while with sparing movements she continued her work. When they were out of earshot, the Countess continued.
“And then you should consider coming home with me and staying for a week. I think that will be good for you.”
The proposal was surprising. They had not yet reached this point. Or so they thought. But Simonsen did not even hesitate. “I’d like that,” he said.
Sometimes life was no more complicated than you made it. She held him back with a gentle touch on his arm. Normally they never kissed at work and seldom even in private. Now it happened: chastely, at a proper distance, with pursed lips, like characters in a vaudeville act.
CHAPTER 4
The first combined review of the investigation was held in one of the large lecture halls at Police Headquarters. This was not due to the number of participants but to the availability there of an enormous screen that could display two images at once, extremely useful for photographic comparison. And parallel images of two different female murder victims made up the weight of this morning’s message. How the Homicide Division would re-open the old case would have to await discussion in a closed forum, though today’s meeting was originally intended to clarify the procedure. But that had been before the Foreign Ministry announced its interest in attending, and since then the office of the national chief of police as well. The rest of the attendees were Homicide Division people, of whom Pauline Berg and Arne Pedersen were among Konrad Simonsen’s closest associates. In addition the department’s student employee and resident computer genius Malte Borup controlled the images from an operator booth set at second-storey level behind the rows of seats. He was also in charge of the technical aspects of the presentation.
Simonsen arrived twenty minutes after the scheduled start time and nodded curtly at his audience. Mostly they occupied the first or second row of seats, Berg and Pedersen with a bit of space around them out to one side. The Countess took a vacant seat alongside Pedersen, but got up again when the man from the Foreign Ministry went after her boss before he had even started.
“Let me say right now, Chief Inspector Simonsen, that this is absolutely the last time you arrive late to an appointment with me. I hope you understand that.”
The man was relatively short, middle-aged, and appeared harmless enough at first glance, dressed in a scruffy suit and with his hair badly in need of a comb. Strange, considering his place of employment. But something understated and ominous in his tone suggested that normally he was obeyed without any objection being raised. Not even his peculiar high-pitched voice, which sounded almost like a child’s, detracted from the impression that this was someone you did not want to pick a fight with. Perhaps it was the calm way in which he spoke, the conviction with which he made the subtle threat.
The Countess tried to take the blame for the delay. You didn’t need to be a fortune teller to predict that an unstable homicide chief and a conceited bureaucrat were not a good mix. Rescue came, however, from an unexpected quarter in the form of a secretary from the front office of the national chief of police, who was usually known for her friendly manner. With a completely unaccustomed show of aggression she spoke up, and there was no doubt as to whom she was addressing, even if she pointedly remained seated.
“The national chief of police asked me to say that you are a guest here, and if you can’t behave properly, you can shove off. The last is a direct quote, which he specifically asked me to use, and afterwards to apologise for the fact that unfortunately he has not been schooled in diplomacy.”
The Foreign Ministry representative got to his feet and left the room in dignified silence, ignoring the slide of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue, which Malte Borup had conjured up on the big screen like lightning. Immediately afterwards the secretary also left, saying her presence was no longer required.
As the door slammed behind her, Pedersen spoke for them all.
“Well, that was edifying. Without our visitors’ presence we might even get something done . . . and then we’ll have to face the mus
ic later, because there will be trouble. That gnome isn’t to be trifled with. Malte, you could get five years’ deportation.”
Simonsen, who had not said anything throughout, suddenly took control.
“Then we’d better make good use of the time we have. Malte, give me the first images. The floor is open if anyone has anything sensible to contribute. No need to stand on ceremony.”
Images of the two dead women quickly dampened the group’s high spirits. The photographs had been carefully selected from the hundreds taken at each crime-scene, so that camera angle and distance were near-identical, further underscoring the similarities between them. Simonsen expanded on this.
“The woman to the left is Maryann Nygaard. She was killed on the thirteenth of September, 1983 at the DYE-5 station on Greenland’s ice cap, and found just over a week ago in circumstances I’m sure you have heard about. The woman to the right is Catherine Thomsen. She was killed on the fifth of April, 1997 at Nordstranden outside Stevns’s Klint. Her body was discovered some eight months later by two amateur archaeologists, who picked up her bracelet with their metal detectors. There is a long list of similarities between the two murders, which means, I believe, that we are dealing with the same perpetrator. I still want you to listen with an open mind and maintain your usual healthy scepticism, though. You all know how fatal to an investigation it can be to jump to the wrong conclusions early on.”
There were nods of agreement. Simonsen continued.
“Both women’s hands were secured with duct tape to their thighs, just above the knees. The ankles likewise were tied together with duct tape. This was done before death. Both women were dressed only in panties and undershirt. Both had their breasts exposed or partly exposed, their clothing torn in front. We know that Catherine Thomsen wore a bra, so that was removed. We do not have corresponding information on Maryann Nygaard. Both women’s nails had been clipped, in all probability by the perpetrator. Both were buried immediately after their death—Maryann Nygaard in ice and Catherine Thomsen in gravel, close enough to the sea that her body was regularly covered with chalky water and thereby to some degree kept partially intact. Bright red lipstick has been applied to the mouths of both women before their death. In their mouths and throats textile fibres have been found—the result of a rag having been stuffed into their mouth. Specifically in the case of Catherine Thomsen some of these fibres contained microscopic traces of lipstick, while others did not, from which the technicians conclude that the perpetrator put the lipstick on while she had the rag in her mouth. We won’t know if the same approach was used on Maryann Nygaard until we get the final autopsy report, and that won’t be ready for a couple of days. Last but not least, both women were suffocated by pulling a transparent plastic bag over their heads and fastening it around their neck. The rag in their mouth was removed prior to that.”