by Lotte Hammer
“A particular good friend with connection to Gammel Hellerup High School, but otherwise not Danish.”
“American?”
“That almost speaks for itself.”
“We’re going to meet again tomorrow, I’ll call and tell you where and when.”
The Countess answered hesitantly, “I’ll try to—”
“Trying is not good enough. Make sure you’re available.”
CHAPTER 29
The telephone call did not come as a surprise to Konrad Simonsen. He had expected it, but not until later in the day. To top it off it was from Agnete Bahn herself and not, as he had anticipated, from one of her many lawyers. The woman was sputtering with anger, obviously her default mood, and the dialogue was thus quite a one-sided performance, as she showered him with invectives in gutter language of the worst sort, some of which Simonsen had never heard before. He listened with interest for a while and hung up when she started to repeat herself. Arne Pedersen, who had just shown up for work and as usual started the day by stopping off at Simonsen’s office, asked with curiosity, “Was that the Bahn woman? Yes, Pauline called yesterday and told me about her.”
“At full throttle. Did you get any sleep?”
“Most of the weekend, so I’m completely rested. Thanks for your help, by the way.”
Simonsen nodded. Pedersen asked, “What did she say?”
“She was scolding me. Couldn’t you hear? Do you happen to know what a rumpledick is?”
“I have no idea. But what have you done to her, Simon?”
Simonsen said affably, “Nothing, nothing at all. Besides taking good care of her.”
“Which means?”
“A couple of patrol cars, or is it three, in front of her garden gate.”
“Since when?”
“As of Friday afternoon.”
Pedersen grinned.
“And this has not improved business ?”
“Apparently not, which is actually surprising. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with a good professional massage, but many customers obviously chose a different form of relaxation when they saw our cars. Actually all of her customers, from what I’ve been told.”
“How long do you intend to maintain your siege?”
“Well, I had to ask higher up. This is a slightly alternative way to use our hard-pressed resources, but so far I’ve been given five days, and maybe I’ll get five more, if I ask nicely. Although I don’t really think it will be necessary.”
“So why did you hang up on her?”
“Her tone was starting to bore me, and she’ll call again when she finds out that not even the most expensive super-lawyer can stop us making our own decisions about where we want to park in a public space. I should really write some of those swear words down before I forget them.”
Pedersen answered, “I know what you mean. I’ve been brooding the whole weekend, that is when I haven’t been sleeping, because there’s something important that I’ve forgotten.”
“You’re speaking in tongues.”
“Yes, the wife and I were at a parents’ meeting at the twins’ school on Friday. As I had managed to sleep for a couple of hours, it went pretty well, but imagine scheduling that kind of thing for a Friday evening, I don’t know what they’re thinking. Well, the twins have a new teacher, and it’s not going well with her and the class, so it was almost a crisis meeting. But there was something the teacher said, just some throwaway comment or other, and it made me think of something in our case . . . something significant . . . that I forgot about right away because a hotshot who is chairman of the board of governors, and also a conceited ass, drew attention to himself with his insufferable self-satisfaction. He really pisses me off.”
“Yes, I hear that.”
“And now I can’t remember what it was. Either what the teacher said or what it was she made me think of. Only that it was important to us.”
“The best thing you can do is stop thinking about it, and then as a rule it comes back of its own accord.”
Pedersen nodded uncertainly but did not look like someone who could take that advice.
The phone rang. Simonsen glanced at the display.
“It’s her again.”
He picked up the receiver and said calmly, “Welcome back, Ms Bahn, and now listen—either we talk calmly and quietly together or else I’m hanging up. It’s your choice. But I don’t have time for another monologue on your part, and I also think I’ve had my quota of swear words here this morning, so if you will please try to observe a basic level of civility, I would be very grateful.”
He listened and then said sharply, “Until you go bankrupt or until you tell me about your time in the house with the Falkenborg family back in 1965, and you will not get a krone, only the joy of conducting yourself like an upstanding citizen.”
Shortly after that he hung up.
“Ms Bahn is ready to see me in private in half an hour.”
“Should I go with you?”
“No, I’ll deal with her alone. The more of us there are, the greater the possibility that she will revert to her default frame of mind. She’s only just managing to control herself.”
“That’s too bad, I really wanted to meet her. So Pauline was right. With Bahn greed outweighs everything else.”
“Yes, evidently. But can you gather people together for a meeting this afternoon? I’m seriously thinking about bringing Andreas Falkenborg in tomorrow or the day after. We have him under close surveillance, as you know, but of course I don’t like the fact that he’s on the loose. On the other hand we don’t have much on him as yet, so I would like to discuss the situation with all of you before I make my final decision.”
“How democratic.”
“Go to your perch and do what I ask.”
“Yes, sir, I’m gone already.”
Ms Agnete Bahn’s appearance surprised Konrad Simonsen. He had expected an old harpy in cheap, gaudy clothes and with the cold manner of a whore, but instead he was met by a presentable older woman dressed in a demure tailor-made suit. She had an attractive, middle-aged face only lightly enhanced with makeup and—if not absolutely accommodating—a business-like attitude. It was difficult to recognise the hetaira who less than an hour ago had gathered a thistle bouquet of the worst words in the language for him. She led him to a couch and fetched a can of cold juice, which she placed before him along with a glass. Then she got to the point.
“Do we have an agreement that you will remove the three cars parked in front of my home if I tell you about when I worked in the household of factory owner Alf Falkenborg?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get going. We’re both interested in getting this conversation over with as quickly as possible.”
Simonsen got his Dictaphone ready and placed it between them. Agnete Bahn looked distrustfully at the machine and said, “And we’re only going to talk about back then?”
“Only about back then, yes, I am completely indifferent to what you’ve been doing otherwise, Ms Bahn.”
“Fine, and just call me Agnete, it’s simpler. What do you want to know?”
Simonsen told her about the murders and his suspicions about Andreas Falkenborg without elaborating on the concrete evidence he had. She was not unduly concerned to hear the accusations against the child she had cared for long ago. Apart from nodding occasionally as a sign that she understood, she showed no interest in the story. Simonsen continued.
“Do you have a picture of yourself when you were young that I can take with me?”
The woman’s surprise was unfeigned.
“What the hell do you want that for?”
He had made up his mind that it was unlikely she would go to the press. He answered her honestly.
“I think that your appearance as a young woman has imprinted itself on Andreas Falkenborg’s mind, and later he has chosen his victims based on the way he remembers you.”
Simonsen thought that perhaps she would be angered by his supposition, so he spok
e quietly, almost earnestly. Agnete Bahn remained unaffected.
“My looks then are the role model for the girls he’s butchered. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, it is, apart from the fact that he hasn’t butchered anyone.”
She thought briefly and then said, “It’s going to take a little time. I have to go up in the attic and take one of my employees with me, I’m not that young any more. But if it’s necessary . . . ”
“It’s necessary.”
“All right, I’ll call for one of them, they’re just sitting around anyway. You can pass the time by going below and—”
Simonsen cut her off.
“No, thanks.”
Her laughter was dry and joyless, almost scornful.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say, although you would be surprised how many men there are in positions higher than yours who wouldn’t refuse—”
She glanced at the Dictaphone again.
“—a turn on the couch, so long as they don’t have to pay the bill for it afterwards.”
“I believe that.”
“You’d better. But what I meant was that you can go down and get a newspaper or two in reception, so you have something to do while I’m in the attic. And I forbid you to snoop around my home.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I have some papers I can read in the meantime.”
She shrugged her padded shoulders and left.
The photograph she set before him a good half an hour later left no remaining doubt as to where Andreas Falkenborg had acquired his taste for a certain female type. Rikke Barbara Hvidt, Maryann Nygaard, Annie Lindberg Hansson and Catherine Thomsen were all a copy of the young Agnete Bahn. She said, “I was twenty-one, this was taken on my birthday.”
“Brilliant, thanks very much.”
“I was pretty, wasn’t I?”
Her voice, previously crisp and businesslike, had taken on an insinuating tone which, combined with a misplaced hand that squeezed his arm, made Simonsen’s flesh crawl.
“Yes, definitely, very pretty.”
The compliment obviously was not enough. She sighed and said, “No matter where I went in those days, I was always the prettiest.”
He could not make himself praise her appearance further, and besides she had managed her Norn-given talents poorly. He turned on the Dictaphone, which he had turned off when she went to the attic, and said dryly, “Well, the years catch up with all of us.”
She released him and returned to her normal tone of voice.
“Shall we continue?”
“Yes, let’s. Can you remember approximately when you were employed by Falkenborg?”
“It was in 1964 and 1965. I started right after school summer holidays, it must have been in August, and I stopped just over a year later, one happy day in October.”
“What were you employed as?”
“Young girl in the house, I think it was called.”
“You say a ‘happy day’, didn’t you like being there?”
“No.”
She made no attempt to expand on this, and Simonsen took the opportunity to outline their agreement again.
“It’s not enough that we’re talking. I also demand a certain degree of willingness to answer on your part, so I’ll ask you again: didn’t you like being there?”
He made a rolling gesture with his hand; she was expected to be more expansive. It helped.
“No, I definitely did not. It was an awful family, festering like the clap from one end to the other. Alf Falkenborg was an asshole, his wife . . . I can’t even remember the old lady’s name . . . ”
“Elisabeth Falkenborg.”
“Yes, that’s right. She was a cowed old hag, constantly on my ass to find something to complain about in my work, and Andreas was an annoying little prick who should have had a good thrashing a few times a week.”
“That sounds a lot to put up with.”
“It was way too much, every word of this is true, and actually there was quite a bit that was worse than that—filthy petit-bourgeois, pissing on everything and everyone, including each other.”
“Could you make your vocabulary a little less flowery?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Stop swearing so much.”
“Why should I, are you getting queasy?”
Simonsen dropped the idea of explaining how exaggerated use of strong language could weaken a witness statement in certain circles, thus removing the focus from what was important, namely the truth. It was many court sessions ago that he had last believed in watertight compartments between form and content. Maybe Lady Justice was blind but she was not deaf, and at some point a transcript of this woman’s questioning would end up in the hands of Andreas Falkenborg’s defence counsel. Simonsen gave her the short version.
“Yes.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks, that would be kind. Tell me, if you were so dissatisfied with the conditions there, why didn’t you give notice? Or simply leave? I mean, what could they have done about that?”
“My mother was employed at Alf Falkenborg’s factory, she might have been fired. That would be like him, the filthy pig . . . yes, excuse me, but he was one. It would have been just like him to take it out on her, if he couldn’t get at me. Actually I have no doubt he would have done that, but it’s not something I can prove.”
“Was that the only reason you stayed?”
“Yes, and then the pay was good. Strangely enough, although—well, obviously they weren’t short of money.”
“There were no other reasons?”
“No.”
Simonsen held her gaze.
“And you’re quite sure of that?”
She hesitated and then asked despairingly, “You’ve spoken with the other maids, right?”
“Yes.”
“I happened to run into someone who had also been employed with the family, my predecessor by the way, and she was subjected to exactly the same treatment as me. The thought had simply not occurred to me. For many years afterwards I dreamed of killing him . . . for example, coaxing him into a solid case of syphilis of the throat. That wouldn’t have been impossible. And then hope, naturally, that he would pass it on to his wife, although that was unlikely. But though I’d have liked my revenge, I didn’t kill him.”
“I know that.”
“Sometimes I regret that I didn’t. Even so many years later. He would have deserved it, the old . . . libertine. Do you understand?”
“Yes, easily. But let’s leave that story for a moment and come back to it later. Can you tell me how the Falkenborg family functioned on an everyday basis? You said that Elisabeth Falkenborg was cowed, and the family in general was awful. I would like you to expand on what you experienced.”
Surprisingly enough Agnete Bahn ignored the encouragement and suddenly said, like lightning from a clear blue sky, “I know why that perverse animal has a mask on when he kills. I know exactly why, now that I know it was him . . . Andreas Falkenborg, that is.”
Simonsen straightened up on the couch and said sharply, “Mask? I haven’t told you about a mask.”
“No, but it says so on the Dagbladet website, I just read it, and I’m sure they’ll give it a lot of space in the newspaper tomorrow. The journalist spoke with a girl whose mother was once attacked by him. Or was it grandmother? And the thing about the mask fits brilliantly, although . . . maybe I’m the only one who knows that, besides Andreas Falkenborg himself.”
This was both good and bad news for Simonsen. The phone call to Police Headquarters could not be postponed. He got hold of Poul Troulsen, told him about the situation and asked him to assess the risk of the leak and provide Jeanette Hvidt with any necessary protection. Finally he took the opportunity to call off the blockade of the brothel. Agnete Bahn, who had followed his calls with interest, revealed her overly white teeth in a broad smile when she heard that her business could look forward to a normal turnover for t
he rest of the day. He wiped the smile off her face as soon as he ended the call.
“Bear in mind that I can resume my surveillance of your house in the space of ten minutes.”
She accepted this without visible annoyance.
“I’ll keep my part of the agreement.”
“That sounds sensible. Now the mask you mentioned . . . you can work out for yourself that this is not just something the newspapers made up, and I am very interested in what you can tell me about it, but I would prefer to take things in sequence.”
“Okay, but tell me what you asked about last. I’ve forgotten.”
“Tell me about conditions within the Falkenborg household, as you experienced them.”
“So, first and foremost, Alf Falkenborg decided everything. He was totally high-handed when he chose to be. But often he was indifferent to the way things were going at home, although you could never really tell which way he’d jump. One day Andreas would have to stand there and talk about his scouting trips, what merit badges he had earned and which ones he still hadn’t finished, how many kilometres he had walked without complaining, and so on in the same vein. The next day the kid might be completely neglected.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy for a boy.”
“Definitely not. It was bad for him, though I couldn’t see that then. The truth is that I was delighted when his father took things out on him. I couldn’t stand the kid.”
“Was he beaten or punished severely in any other way?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. His mother never hit him, he was almost her only consolation, and occasionally his father gave him a slap, but very seldom. He also got slapped around at school now and then, but you couldn’t say he was beaten up exactly. No, it was much worse for the mother. Alf hit her so often she had to wear sunglasses all the time. I’m sure you know the type.”
“Yes, I do. Was Andreas Falkenborg present when his father was violent towards his mother?”
“Yes, and I was too. The old man was not too particular, he always did as he pleased. He didn’t hesitate to beat her if the son had been up to mischief. Andreas’s conduct was her responsibility, and if he didn’t live up to his father’s expectations, she could expect to pay for it immediately.”