by Lotte Hammer
“Have you ever heard of a church called Lilies of the Field?”
“No.”
“We received a letter from a minister there. Catherine Thomsen had sought her out in complete confidence, torn between her religion and her sexuality. Lilies of the Field specialises in counselling people undergoing crises of faith. I recall that we went through our photo material from Catherine Thomsen’s burial, this time with a focus on younger female participants, and there was actually one woman we never managed to identify. We prepared a report—”
“There is no such report.”
Pauline Berg had dared to interrupt her boss.
“Shut your mouth, Pauline, and listen. We prepared a report, but when Carl Henning Thomsen died, and the case was closed, I believe my predecessor moved it over into the Petersen file because the minister had breached her promise of secrecy. Which she felt very bad about, even though Catherine Thomsen was dead.”
“The Petersen file?”
He looked encouragingly at the Countess, who however shook her head slightly. There wasn’t time.
“I’ll tell you about it if you call me in fifteen minutes. I have to go now, but I think you should continue to follow the track you’re on,” Simonsen told Pauline.
CHAPTER 16
The man must be close to retirement age. The Countess observed him without making any secret of her interest. He was on the chubby side, with warm-looking eyes and a friendly manner. He wore an old-fashioned charcoal grey three-piece suit, and had trimmed his moustache and exuberant sideburns so that they were neatly restrained. He could probably best be described as sober-looking. Calm and considered would also apply.
For over ten years he had been chief administrative officer in the Ministry of Finance with a brilliant career behind him and in all likelihood an even more spectacular one to look forward to. Then suddenly, from one day to the next, the stress of the job broke him. It was all very unpleasant, mainly for him but also for his colleagues. If someone like him could be so badly affected, one day they might be the ones who went down. After his convalescence it was clear that reinstatement at the Ministry was out of the question, after which a job was found—or rather, created—for him in the National Bank.
Here he sat now in the coin department, officially called the Royal Mint, with an address in Brøndby. His workplace was on Købmagergade, however, at Marskalgården, an eighteenth-century Baroque palace, and if you wanted to you could visit the Post & Tele Museum on your way up. His coin-related duties were manageable to say the least, so for most of his working day he did as he pleased, which was mainly to advise any colleagues or associates in need of a little insider guidance to the highways and byways of Slotsholmen. His knowledge was considerable, and his good advice to anyone and everyone who passed by his little garret office correspondingly insightful. He was called the Oracle from Købmagergade in bureaucratese, and there were more than a few who in the course of time had discreetly consulted him. High and low, student assistants, department heads, they all came here. Even cabinet members occasionally.
The Countess had been interrupted in her introduction by her cell phone, which she had forgotten to turn off. She quickly ended the call and apologised.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but that was my boss.”
“Your boss, your lodger, your lover . . . a dear child has many names.”
His voice was slow and characterised by an oddly displaced phrasing, as if his words and sentences were not coordinated. She concealed her surprise with a brief laugh and said, “As usual you are exceptionally well informed. Well, where was I?”
“Telling me that Helmer Hammer visited your lodger at Police Headquarters, half an hour after Bertil Hampel-Koch left you in anger.”
The Countess reported further on how Konrad Simonsen now summarised the murder case in daily emails to the general director of the Foreign Ministry. When she was done, she paused; her host noticed her hesitation and said quietly, “These are very influential people you’re talking about. If I’m going to help you, it’s a good idea to tell me the whole story.”
His argument was irrefutable; she pressed on.
“I believe that Bertil Hampel-Koch was in Greenland in 1983 and impregnated the girl who was later murdered on the ice cap.”
He gave himself time to digest the statement then said neutrally, “That is a theory of a quality I don’t hear every day. Now you’ve made me curious. But if you think he killed that girl, you’re mistaken.”
“No, he hasn’t killed anyone, I know that perfectly well. Besides I’m still not sure about the other thing. As I said, it’s just something I believe.”
“Do tell.”
The Countess told him about the conversation with Allinna Holmsgaard and then about her theory.
“When the professor told about Steen Hansen’s voice, or more exactly Maryann Nygaard’s unknown lover’s voice, it struck me that I had heard a voice like that recently, namely Hampel-Koch’s. Obviously it’s all speculative, but the connection between the director and Chief Administrative Officer Helmer Hammer made me think, not to mention Hammer’s peculiar interest recently in Homicide Division cases . . . Yes, it makes more and more sense, the longer I think about it.”
The man asked curtly, “You don’t think their involvement makes sense otherwise?”
“First Bertil Hampel-Koch almost forces his way into our investigation, by citing international complications between the Americans, Greenlanders and even the Germans. Then he stalks out of the first meeting he attends, after which Helmer Hammer shows up faster than you can say agreed in advance. I refuse to believe that the realm has a top executive in the Foreign Ministry who behaves so impulsively, not to say foolishly.”
The man smiled briefly.
“That’s what I like about you police people. It’s harder to pull the wool over your eyes than it is with most people. But the rest of us can also put two and two together, and Bertil’s voice is simply not enough to go on. You must have something more or you wouldn’t be sitting here. Have you taken a close look at him?”
The Countess winced. The man was right, she did have something else, which she would have preferred to keep to herself.
“Bertil Hampel-Koch gave Maryann Nygaard his cap. Or I think he did anyway. He maintained that it was knitted by his mother, but the label inside referred to a little shop in Holte called Witch Knitting. The store was only in existence for a year and a half, from 1982 to 1983, and was run by three friends. Bertil Hampel-Koch’s wife was one of them.”
Her interlocutor’s eyes narrowed, but he did not comment on this statement. Instead he said, “It’s obvious that there are no foreign affairs implications in this case. Not in the slightest, and definitely not at Hampel-Koch’s level.”
“If I’m right, that opens up a whole range of interesting questions.”
“Well, maybe it does. One of them is what you yourself will achieve by turning over too many stones. This obviously has nothing to do with your murder investigation. Have you discussed your theory with Simon?”
She reacted to the name. He had called him by his nickname, which only his friends used.
"Do you know him personally? I didn't know that."
“Yes, a little, but you’re not answering me.”
“I haven’t told him anything, I only want to do that when I’m certain that Bertil Hampel-Koch really is the unknown Steen Hansen.”
“That’s probably where your theory falls down. If I recall correctly, in the early eighties Bertil was in the Ministry of Defence, and that actually fits very well with a trip to Thule, but he would never, ever use a false identity. You don’t do that in Slotsholmen, not twenty-five years ago and not today. Although. . .”
He drew out the word, and even if it was unnecessary, the Countess could not help pressing him.
“Although?”
“Although, at that time, Bertil was a bit of a fop, even an ass . . . a brilliantly talented ass. Since they polished off the r
ough edges, now he’s only brilliantly talented. It could be a personal initiative, with a bold line under could be. But that’s clearly what you are in the process of finding out for yourself, which brings me back to the question—what do you want to achieve? And what do you want me to help you with?”
The Countess felt put on the spot but forced herself to answer calmly.
“I don’t like it when powerful people like Bertil Hampel-Koch and Helmer Hammer play games and no one else really knows what’s going on. I’m afraid that the Homicide Division is getting caught up in some political game or other that we have no influence over.”
“Do you fear the implications for Simonsen?”
“Yes.”
“I think that the risk for him is far greater if you start muddying the waters and perhaps stir up things that don’t concern you. So the best advice I can give you is: drop it, and forget it.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . . But I’m not the only one interested in whether Hampel-Koch was in Greenland in 1983. When I called to make an appointment at Knud Rasmussen’s House to look through the Greenland pictures, it turned out that two journalists had tried the same thing yesterday.”
The Oracle’s eyes flashed, and his voice suddenly became sharp.
“From where?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I hope these journalists aren’t just figments of your imagination.”
She shook her head, but did not comment. The Oracle said hesitantly, “Perhaps you ought to know a little more about the State Department.”
“Please.”
“It ought really to be called the Ministry of Lost Causes. This is where all matters that can’t be resolved elsewhere end up, and there is no higher place to pass them on to. The buck stops here . . . that was a sign President Truman had on his desk, but it could just as well be written over the entrance to the State Department. The Ministry itself is small, with barely more than a hundred employees, but the majority are hand-picked from other ministries, and no one refuses a posting there if they are asked to join. It is considered something of a public duty. There are four divisions, namely foreign, administrative, economic, and climate. Helmer Hammer is head of the administrative division. He was appointed three months ago, after campaigning for the position for a long time. Which by the way makes him an under secretary and not, as you said before, chief administrative officer. He negotiates at the highest level in Slotsholmen. There are four under secretaries in all and they either receive their assignments direct from the Prime Minister or have certain knowledge that he wants a matter resolved in a particular way, but simply does not wish to be involved in it himself. Perhaps not even to hear about it. You should also know that Helmer Hammer’s daily work hours are unreasonably long, and for him weekends are a rarity. To put it briefly, he is unbelievably busy.”
The Countess tried to sum up their meeting.
“So the newly appointed under secretary does not show up at Police Headquarters simply because it is pleasant to meet Simonsen, or because a director in the Foreign Ministry had an old personal relationship? The latter naturally under the assumption that my supposition is correct.”
The Oracle did not answer directly but said, “There are two things that supercede any others in our bureaucracy. One is issues of security. The other is any threat to the prestige of the office of prime minister. And by that I mean not only the present prime minister’s prestige but that of all his predecessors, regardless of party.”
“That sort of thing could definitely get Helmer Hammer out of his chair?”
“I can promise you that.”
“And which of the two possibilities do you imagine—”
He interrupted her.
“I cannot know at the present time, but what I do know is that you should be extremely cautious in your handling of this case. I hope you’re clear about that. If you find the picture you’re looking for, then you will invite me to a discreet lunch one of these days and show it to me. If on the other hand you cannot prove that Bertil was in Greenland then the journalists presumably can’t either, and in that case you would do best to drop the matter.”
The Countess reacted almost instinctively to this warning.
“And why should I be so eager to protect Helmer Hammer?”
He held her gaze as he said, “Because otherwise you stand to lose more than you gain.”
She maintained eye contact as she told him, “There is another way to decide whether my theory is correct.”
“Which is?”
“Whoever the anonymous Steen Hansen was, he left behind an excellent DNA trace on the ice cap.”
The sentence hung in the air. It took a moment for it to sink in. When that finally happened, the man leaned across his desk and took hold of the Countess’s wrist. She winced at the touch, but did not withdraw her arm.
He said slowly, “Do not even think about that.”
CHAPTER 17
At first glance Konrad Simonsen seemed relaxed when he arrived at Hundested Harbour a good hour after he had spoken with Hans Svendsen. Arne Pedersen knew that it must have taken a major reorganisation of his workload for him to arrive so quickly. It was not difficult to imagine whose head would be on the line if the conversation with Rikke Barbara Hvidt did not bring any solid chunks of gold home to Copenhagen. Simonsen started by confirming Pedersen’s thoughts.
“Hi, Arne. Yes, I cancelled the psychologist again.”
Hans Svendsen lightened the mood. True to form, he took control in his own cheerful manner.
“Welcome, Simon, my old friend. It’s very nice to see you again. The jungle telegraph says that you’re about to hit the bull’s eye or win the lottery, or however you put it.”
Simonsen’s cheeks grew red, but he said nothing.
“Hell, I think you’ve lost weight too. More of a middleweight than a heavyweight these days.”
“Unfortunately I’m not even close to what I should be, but good to see you too, Hans.”
The two men shook hands and patted each other’s back.
“Come on, let’s go over to the other side of the harbour, I’ve reserved a table for us.”
Svendsen smiled and took Simonsen with him. Pedersen trotted behind, crossing his fingers for luck.
Their reserved place proved to be a combined table-and-bench set, placed so that a picnic could be eaten undisturbed while enjoying the view of the fjord. Two women were sitting waiting for them there, and the investigators from Copenhagen nodded briefly to each other when they saw Rikke Barbara Hvidt’s granddaughter. The men sat down, and Hans Svendsen spoke.
“Hi, Rikke, it was nice of you to come.”
At the same time he reached across the table and gave the young woman a pat on the arm. He was acknowledged with a smile from both women. The older one turned her blind eyes towards him and said, “Good afternoon, Mayor. We were almost family, remember?”
The young woman blushed.
“That we were, that we were. And who wouldn’t want to be part of your family? But that Mayor business, that was many years ago now. We’ve had a municipal merger, remember?”
He sat down next to her, and they talked for a while about old times, without worrying about the others in the party. Hans Svendsen gave Rikke plenty of time, and Pedersen felt anxious on his boss’s behalf. After all, he had not been dragged to this out of the way place in Zealand, however beautiful and idyllic it might appear in the summer haze, to listen to small talk. Simonsen himself did not seem to be bothered by the long-winded preamble. He sat observing the sunlight, which through the staggered planks of the table surface struck the asphalt in distorted parallelograms. Finally Svendsen returned to the present. Carefully he said, “I’ve brought two friends with me. They are from the police in Copenhagen, and one of them would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Two of them, Hans? Am I that interesting?”
“You’ve always been a popular girl, Rikke. Is it all right if he talks to you
now? He is a bit busy, you know, they always are in the big city.”
“That’s fine, Jeanette explained to me what they want. But I would prefer not to talk about . . . that other thing, you know.”
“We all understand, Rikke. And he is only interested in the assault.”
He nodded to Simonsen, who echoed Svendsen’s tone and approach exactly.
“My name is Konrad, but my friends all call me Simon. That’s because my last name is Simonsen. May I call you Rikke?”
Simonsen could be very intuitive. Without at any point forcing the conversation, he spoke quietly and calmly to the nervous blind woman, whose voice soon returned to its normal range. Only once did he make a mistake, when he happened to call her granddaughter Pauline instead of Jeanette, but that misunderstanding was quickly smoothed over and forgotten. Only after Pedersen had looked at his watch numerous times, and even Hans Svendsen showed signs of impatience, did he tackle the subject he had come to broach.
“Rikke, will you tell me about back in 1977, when you were attacked?”
“Yes, I’ll be happy to, Simon. I was living out in Kikhavn with my parents along with . . . Jeanette’s mother, who was little at that time, and then one evening I was home alone. It was a Tuesday in May, I recall, and the others were at the movies. Suddenly there was a man standing behind me in the kitchen, and before I had time to do anything, he shoved me down across the table with my arms behind my back. I don’t know if I screamed, I must have, but it was a long way to the nearest neighbour’s so no one could hear me. He tied my hands together with that wide, shiny tape . . . What’s it called again?”
“Duct tape?”
“Yes, exactly. Then he stuffed a rag in my mouth so I couldn’t call out. The whole thing happened very quickly, and I was paralysed with fright. It was so terrible, I peed my pants in fear. He had a mask on.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, and I am very interested in that mask. Can you remember what it looked like?”
“Dreadful . . . like a ghost. But it was homemade: black and made out of cardboard, I think with holes for the eyes.”