by Lotte Hammer
“How did she react to that kind of payment?”
“Well, what do you think? She whined and pleaded.”
“In front of the child?”
“Absolutely, and he would have to console her afterwards. It’s not so strange that he became a monster.”
“What other forms of abuse did you see? Did you have any impression that Andreas Falkenborg was sexually exploited? By either his father or his mother?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. The only one who was sexually abused in that house was me.”
“What about alcohol or drugs?”
“Nothing of that sort.”
“So the situation was not that Alf Falkenborg came home drunk and beat his wife?”
“Not at all. I don’t recall seeing either of them drunk. Maybe they were on some occasions, but it was definitely not something that characterised their home life. I remember that they always drank water with meals.”
“Why was Elisabeth Falkenborg beaten?”
Agnete Bahn thought briefly before she answered. “Except when there was trouble with Andreas, I don’t think there was any particular reason.”
“Was there a lot of trouble with him?”
“No, I can’t say that.
“But you said she was hit often.”
“Yes, she really was. At least once a month, but why I don’t know. Maybe he simply liked hitting her, who cares? I never thought that much about it, either then or later.”
“Why didn’t she leave him?”
“No idea. But where could she go?”
Simonsen shrugged and dropped the subject.
“You didn’t like Elisabeth Falkenborg?”
“I didn’t like any of them, not the husband, the wife or the son.”
“Because?”
“She was so unbelievably arrogant, along with the fact that nothing I did was good enough. I had to pay the price for her beatings. Among other things. And Andreas was a quick learner. Sometimes he sneaked up behind me to see whether I was cutting corners on the cleaning, for example, and then he tattled to his mother. That was one of his favourite pastimes.”
“What happened then?”
“She yelled at me. Yes, it doesn’t sound that bad, but she would degrade me so that I almost cried. She was also after me constantly about my appearance. I was supposed to wear this maid’s uniform with a silly little apron tied around my waist, and it was supposed to look laundered and ironed the whole day, even after I’d had it on for eight hours, and that was practically impossible. My hair was supposed to be set neatly, she checked that too.”
“What about makeup?”
“Totally forbidden.”
“And nail polish?”
“The same. That sort of thing was completely forbidden.”
Simonsen tried pausing in the hope that he had put relevant associations in motion. Agnete Bahn continued speaking.
“She was completely hysterical about my nails. They had to be cut short and completely clean, I had to show them to her often. That’s one of the things I remember best about the wife, how I stood in front of her looking down and showing my spread fingers for judgment. It was so humiliating.”
“Did she cut your nails if she wasn’t satisfied?”
“No, that wasn’t necessary, but she probably would have if she’d thought of it.”
“Did Andreas Falkenborg watch when you were being inspected?”
“He might have occasionally. It wasn’t something she tried to hide, if that’s what you mean.”
“You mentioned that you were sexually abused. I assume that it was by Alf Falkenborg.”
“Yes, that’s correct. The wife was not active in that way, but she knew what was going on. To that extent she was also involved in deceiving me, but I only understood that when I was older. Although—well, she was probably forced to, otherwise he would have beaten her.”
“How were you deceived?”
“I forged cheques, but not to steal. I didn’t swipe so much as a krone for as long as I was there. That would have been impossible anyway, because every øre was accounted for when I was done shopping, the wife made sure of that.”
She stopped talking then and Simonsen said, “You forged cheques?”
“Yes, eleven to be exact. On Fridays I was supposed to do the grocery shopping for the week, and the husband always wrote a cheque to me—for four hundred kroner, I recall, and that was a lot of money back then. The wife was gone that day. I don’t remember why, but that’s how it was. So one Friday he forgot to write the cheque, and he called from the factory and told me, but to avoid having to come all the way home, he asked me to write one myself. The first time he had to instruct me thoroughly, over the phone that is, about where the key to his desk drawer was, about the fountain pen and how to do it in general. But he took his time, the piece of shit.”
“What about his handwriting?”
“It wasn’t hard. He wrote in block letters, and his signature was neat cursive, probably for the same reason. Obviously I didn’t think for a moment that what I was doing was illegal. I mean, when he was the one who asked me to do it.”
“It wasn’t either, not something you would be convicted of.”
“Shut up! I was so naive. Well, I can’t do it over now, and later I learned a few tricks myself.”
“I believe that. Then I suppose at some point he accused you of forgery?”
“No, she did. The wife, that is.”
“She was the one who accused you?”
“Yep. She was the instigator. She had lined up all eleven cheques on the dining-room table and carefully ordered them. Well, all in all it added up to almost five thousand kroner, and that was a real fortune, don’t you follow me?”
“Yes, I follow you.”
“I protested my innocence and explained the circumstances. To start with I wasn’t worried, but when the husband came home and said he could not recall anything about any telephone calls—yes, he only called the first time, later it became a fixed routine—then I got really, really scared. But he said he couldn’t be bothered to listen to me and left, after which the wife twisted the knife in the wound by telling me about the punishment for forgery. The end of it was that I had to go to my room. She said she would see if she could placate her husband, so that there would be no scandal. Or that’s what she said.”
Agnete Bahn poured herself a glass of juice and took a sip before continuing.
“So I sat there alone, shaking, and every time I heard a car on the road, I thought it was the police coming to get me. Not until a long time after that did Mrs Falkenborg ring for me, and then she told me that they would temper justice with mercy if in return I would sleep with her husband. No beating about the bush or anything, it was straight from the hip. Sunday evening, without any whining, which the factory owner didn’t like, and then in return he would forget about the cheques and cover the loss. What do you make of that? Cover the loss! They had eaten every krone of that money.”
“But you went along with the agreement?”
“What else could I do? It was terrible. I recall that I threw up afterwards, but prison would have been worse.”
“Yes, I’m sure it would.”
“Five years or spread your legs, that was the choice. Bear in mind I was no more than twenty-two, and the wife was very convincing. And the next Sunday evening he came to me, and it was revolting—he was affectionate, said sentimental things and even acted shy, while he drooled and sighed and unwrapped me like I was a Christmas present. Damn, how I hated that.”
“When was that? More or less?”
“Sunday, the fifth of December, 1964, at eleven-thirty.”
“And how long did this go on?”
“Until I left the family. I don’t believe he skipped a single Sunday, except naturally when it couldn’t be otherwise. But I couldn’t cheat, because the wife kept close track of my periods. Gradually at least I got him out of the affectionate crap, and thank God for that, because tha
t was the worst. And then the anxiety every month about being pregnant because he didn’t use a rubber, the pig. I’ve often thought that he must have produced a few bastard children at the office. I mean, if there were many others like me. Well, finally it was all by schedule, so he came home on the hour and screwed me like I was a cylinder, then left again.”
Simonsen speculated about whether her dubious career might have a connection to Alf Falkenborg’s assaults. He did not ask, however, but said instead, “You mentioned that you knew something about a mask. What did you mean by that?”
“It was a Sunday evening and as usual he was there, but that evening it went completely wrong. Tell me, do you remember Belphégor?”
Simonsen felt a stab of anxiety when he heard that name. A long-forgotten feeling of disgust was suddenly brought back to life after lying dormant for years. Only a split second later he remembered what the name referred to.
“You mean the TV series?”
“Yes, it was broadcast in the summer of 1965 and emptied the streets, as they say. There were four episodes, and they were scheduled for Saturday evening. I got permission to watch them in the living room with the family.”
“I remember the film well, it was French. I was a little afraid of that Belphégor spirit, when he wandered around at night in the Louvre and smothered his victims.”
“She, the spirit was a woman, it turned out.”
“I didn’t remember that, but how does Belphégor come into the picture?”
“Andreas, the little idiot, loved to scare me. He did that often, and it had nothing to do with Belphégor. He hid some place or other and ran out and said ‘Boo’. A few times I got so scared I was on the verge of hitting him.”
She clenched her fist before she continued.
“After he had seen that film, he made a Belphégor mask of black cardboard and papier-mâché, with fabric along the sides of the head. Well, it’s hard to explain, but maybe you remember what the spirit looked like?”
“Yes, it was Egyptian-looking, and I remember very well how scary everyone thought it was.”
Agnete Bahn confirmed that, and let out a little sigh before she continued.
“Well, one Sunday evening, when Alf Falkenborg was there to get his usual, Andreas sneaked out with the mask on and peeked in my window while shining a flashlight at himself to scare the life out of me. He succeeded. I screamed like an animal when I saw him. That is, while I was riding his father. I tell you, he froze up against the window, or to be more exact the mask did, as if he couldn’t think how to get away. And that was right when the father got going.”
“Alf Falkenborg discovered his son with the mask on?”
“Of course he did. I was howling with anxiety and pointing at the window, until . . . well, it didn’t take long before I figured out that it was Andreas. The father went raving mad, and in no time had pulled the mother out of her bedroom and dragged her outside, after which he beat her so hard that it echoed in the night, and this time with a stick. I had never before seen her take such a beating. He was so angry, called Andreas everything imaginable . . . Peeping Tom, pervert, deviant, that sort of thing.”
“What did Andreas do in the meantime?”
“He sat huddled up by the window wearing his crazy mask.”
“You said that you were riding Alf Falkenborg. Would you please elaborate on that?”
“Tell me, do you like hearing that sort of thing?”
“No, but it may have significance . . . ”
“So I was riding him, how hard is that to understand? I was sitting on top of him and pumping up and down. What the hell more do you want me to say?”
“Can you remember whether you had any clothes on your upper body?”
“No, not at all, but I probably didn’t. Or, wait a moment . . . not so long before I left them he was indifferent to what I had on, so long as he could come in. So maybe I had my nightdress on.”
“And a bra? Can you remember that?”
“No bra—he tore one in two once, so I never had one on when he came in, because I had to buy a new one myself.”
“What about panties? Were you naked below, when you had intercourse?”
“Yes, what the hell do you think?”
“I don’t think anything, but I would really like you to think it over before you answer.”
Surprisingly enough she followed his advice, and having thought about it, doubt arose.
“Now that you mention it, I may very well have had panties on. In the beginning he liked to take my clothing off, but towards the end he just wanted in without a lot of fuss. Maybe he pulled my panties to one side to make room, I won’t deny it, but I can’t remember that.”
Simonsen asked, “Tell me, when you were sitting on him, did you get any enjoyment out of it yourself? And the reason I’m asking is that I would like to know in detail how Andreas Falkenborg saw you, when he was looking in at the window.”
She consented, and answered him frankly.
“I hated every breath, but I made it sound as if he was divine because that made it go faster. I discovered that long before. So if you want it spelled out completely, I obviously sighed and moaned and threw myself back and forth in wild ecstasy, which I didn’t feel so much as a trace of.”
“Thanks, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Yes—one more thing. You said before that makeup was forbidden, so you had no lipstick on?”
She thought about it.
“I don’t know if I had any on that evening, but I may very well have had. Sunday was my day off, and often I’d been out, so that’s clearly a possibility.”
“Did you use any particular colour of lipstick?”
“Red, always red. As red as possible, if I may say so. Red suits me.”
“Splendid, splendid.”
“Thanks. Tell me, is there any chance that I can get a reward for this?”
“No. What did you do while this scene was going on?”
“Well, I’m not proud of this, but by then I hated all three of them so much that I enjoyed it. Hearing her yell and plead while he thrashed her hide, that was music to my ears. And Andreas, that little piece of shit . . . I thought every second of his torment served him right, standing frozen at the window, as if he wasn’t there. I went up to him on the other side of it and pressed my face against the glass, while I laughed right into his stupid mask.”
“Could you see how he reacted? I mean, because of the mask.”
“Easily, he had made holes for his eyes.”
“So how was he reacting?”
“He was crying.”
CHAPTER 30
Twelve days after the German Chancellor’s glaciologist discovered the body of Maryann Nygaard on the Greenland ice cap, Andreas Falkenborg was arrested in Copenhagen.
The task was assigned to assistant detectives Arne Pedersen and Poul Troulsen and was carried out early on Wednesday morning, when he was unlikely to be awake. Konrad Simonsen’s hope was that the same applied to the Danish press corps, so the event could proceed without media attention—an argument that was not met with unconditional approval by his two subordinates, as they parked their car after an interrupted night’s sleep in front of Falkenborg’s residence in Frederiksberg.
Pedersen yawned widely as he got out of the vehicle. He opened his eyes toward the wind, letting the fresh air chase sleep from his head. Then he caught sight of one of the police surveillance vehicles on the other side of the street, and put a finger to his temple in greeting, without being able to see whether he personally knew any of the officers. He received a brief honk of the horn in response. The sound caught Troulsen’s attention, and he too gestured in greeting, without however receiving a response.
On their way up the stairs Pedersen commented, “I really hope we either find something incriminating or you and Simon manage to force a confession out of him, because in strictly legal terms we don’t have much to hang on him. Not in my view anyway.”
“Nor in the district p
rosecutor’s either. She reckons he’ll be held on remand for a maximum of three weeks. If the murders hadn’t hit the headlines already, I don’t think we would have been granted a search warrant at all.”
“So for once I’m hoping you get to soften him up properly.”
Troulsen was known for using force a bit too freely from time to time, which was not generally to Pedersen’s personal taste, but today was obviously an exception. That was the reason why Simonsen had chosen Troulsen in particular, to exploit the suspect’s marked childishness and hopefully give the police a solid mental advantage, before he was delivered for questioning at Police Headquarters. In the meantime Pedersen would get an overview of the extent of the search and then summon reinforcements when Falkenborg was taken away. The division of labour between the two men was already clear.
The nameplate on Falkenborg’s door was made of brass, and recently polished. Pedersen let a fingertip glide over it before he rang the bell. He rang twice in a row, after which he pounded hard on the door with his knuckles and rang the bell a third time.
A short time passed, then the door opened.
Andreas Falkenborg was revealed, barefoot in a bathrobe. It was obvious that they had woken him, his disoriented expression and dishevelled hair spoke for themselves. Pedersen began the procedure as he held up a piece of paper in front of the face of the half-asleep man and immediately stepped past him. Falkenborg moved to one side, but then called to Troulsen in a formal voice, “I ask that you identify yourself as a police officer.”
The request was presented without panic or aggression, but much louder than seemed necessary, like a scene from a bad comedy. Troulsen concluded that there might be a good reason for this behaviour. The combination of Falkenborg’s occupation, the cornerstone of which was eavesdropping, and his choice of words as if lifted straight from the national chief of police’s proclamation on identification of the police, reeked of their conversation being covertly recorded. He pulled the man outside onto the landing without a word and pressed him against the wall. Then he commanded authoritatively, “Stay there.”
Falkenborg complied, but at the same time called towards the open doorway, “Ow, ow . . . ow, that hurts! Oh, no, why are you doing that? Ow . . . ”