The Girl in the Ice
Page 22
He was a miserable actor, and Troulsen answered calmly, “Shut your mouth, you’re not hurt, but if you try that nonsense again, you’ll get one on the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Andreas Falkenborg, the time is six-oh-eight a.m. and you are arrested, accused of the murder of nurse Maryann Nygaard in 1983, and physical therapist Catherine Thomsen in 1997.”
Troulsen called out to Pedersen, “I’m pretty sure our friend here has set up microphones in his own apartment. I thought you should know that.”
Pedersen’s face brightened.
“You don’t say? How ingenious. But I think I know some people who are good at tracing that sort of thing. Thanks, both of you.”
Troulsen led Falkenborg in through the apartment door and on into the bathroom, which he located at once. The man went along willingly and let himself be pressed down on the toilet seat without protest. Here he sat quietly while Troulsen quickly and expertly opened cabinets and drawers to make sure that nothing surprising or unpleasant was inside.
During the search Troulsen decided to take a chance. The probability that Falkenborg had also wiretapped his bathroom was not great, and if it later proved to be the case anyway, the recording could be deleted by a regrettable “accident”. Furthermore, the prisoner’s submissiveness and cowed, almost imploring eyes told him that he could probably go a bit further than he had intended to start with. He turned toward the man and said harshly, “Don’t you ever take a bath?”
“Yes, I do. Every single morning. Of course I do.”
“I don’t think you smell very good.”
“I do.”
“My nose is seldom wrong. And to be quite honest, with the sort of hygiene you practise, I wouldn’t want to be you if the boss doesn’t take to you.”
“Your boss?”
“Tell me, are you deaf or dumb? Yes, my boss. He can be very bad-tempered. Vindictive and mean. I don’t understand how but he gets away with it. So I hope for your sake that he likes you, although it’s not very likely.”
Falkenborg asked, terrified, “Why is that? What have I done to him?”
“Nothing . . . not yet.”
“What do you mean? You’re scaring me.”
“That’s really not the idea, partner. Look, forget it. Let’s just wind things up here then I can get home and hit the sack.”
“No, what do you mean? I really want to know.”
Troulsen let him sweat while he pretended to think about it. Then he said casually, “So, you’ll end up in prison for the rest of your life for double murder, that goes without saying, but I’m sure you’re prepared for that, in one place or another?”
Falkenborg answered gloomily, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You’d better be. Your biggest problem now is where you end up. Tell me, do you know much about Danish prisons? I mean, have you been convicted before?”
“No, never, and I haven’t killed anyone either.”
“Stop right there! Of course you have, we both know that, but I don’t care what you’ve done with those two bitches. That’s not my business, especially not if they annoyed you, I know what a pain that type can be. Well, forget about that, I’m just the one who brings you in, and the only thing I’m interested in is that you get completely clean. Otherwise I risk the boss getting mad at me, and I have absolutely no desire for that to happen, so you’re going to take a bath, do you follow me?”
“I would like to, but can’t you tell me more about the prisons?”
Troulsen looked at his watch and pretended to consider the suggestion. Then he said, “Andreas, my friend, we can make a deal: you promise to be thorough in the bath, so I don’t get into trouble for delivering you unwashed. Then I can tell you which prisons you should avoid, if the boss even gives you the option. What do you say about that? Something for something.”
Falkenborg accepted, eager to avoid incurring the boss’s anger, it seemed.
After his bath Andreas Falkenborg followed instructions like a lamb and let himself get dressed under expert guidance. Troulsen commented in detail on his choice of clothing and rejected three ties before finally forbidding him from putting one on at all, since it would only be taken away from him in prison. He also got involved in everything from the man’s choice of underwear to his shoes. He gave only the vaguest information about Danish prisons, while stroke by stroke painting a terrifying picture of Konrad Simonsen—the cop any sensible prisoner had best not antagonise. Falkenborg said nervously, “You promised to tell me about the prisons.”
“That will have to wait until we’re in the car, I don’t like being recorded.”
“May I take my cell phone with me? I have the right to a telephone call at the police station.”
“That’s okay, so long as it’s turned off.”
“It is, see for yourself.”
Falkenborg meekly held out his phone.
In the car Troulsen put handcuffs on his prisoner, but placed him in the front passenger seat, although that was not normal practice. He wanted to see the man’s face during their conversation, which he started bluntly as soon as they drove off.
“There are two prisons you should avoid at all costs. You see, there’s an iron-clad pecking order among the cons there, and you’ll come in at the very bottom, partly because you have a tendency to smell, and partly because you’ve killed women. Both are looked down on by the tough nuts and . . . ”
Troulsen continued in the same vein without mercy most of the way to Police Headquarters. Maliciously he told Andreas Falkenborg in detail about how he would be tormented and tortured in prison. That is, if the boss took against him and decided to recommend one of the harsher places. And the lies worked. His prisoner was intimidated.
Although he had an explicit prohibition from Simonsen about doing any definite questioning, Troulsen nevertheless tried, shortly before they arrived. The temptation was simply too great.
“And bear in mind now that the most important thing is not to start sweating with anxiety, because then you’ll smell again and that makes the boss hopping mad. It’s much better to put your cards on the table right away.”
“I’ll try not to sweat.”
The man was already sweating like a pig, but was possibly not aware of it himself. Troulsen continued casually, “By the way, the girl down in Præstø, what was her name again? The one who disappeared?”
“Annie.”
“Yes, exactly. Or was that her name . . . are you quite certain? Wasn’t it Lone instead?”
“No, I’m sure, Annie Lindberg.”
“Okay, you would know, so it’s Annie now—where did you bury her?”
“But I haven’t done that.”
“Why drag this out?”
“But it’s the truth, I haven’t done that.”
The man sounded sincere in his own childish, naive way. Troulsen dropped the subject without any real annoyance, knowing full well that Konrad Simonsen would soon be conducting a full-scale interrogation.
CHAPTER 31
The psychologist Ernesto Madsen’s assessment was that Andreas Falkenborg would benefit from stewing behind bars for a few hours before questioning began. Simonsen followed the advice and therefore had plenty of time to accompany the Countess to a further meeting with the Oracle from Købmagergade. They walked there together, she half a step ahead of him on the pavement as if she wanted to lead the way now that she had convinced him to go along. A sultry high-pressure system hung over the city. Streets and people sweated, while the liberating thunderstorm that the weather prophets had promised still bided its time. Simonsen said, “I hope he doesn’t think we’re going into the greenhouse itself, because then we’ll melt. This is bad enough.”
The Countess had been asked to meet the Oracle in front of the Palm House in the Botanical Gardens. She had accepted without question; one place was as good as another.
“I doubt he does.”
Simonsen’s legs were tingling and itching; he
felt clumsy. On top of that he was panting from the heat.
“We should have taken the car.”
“And driven around half an hour looking for a parking place? It’s good for you to walk a little. We can take a taxi back, if this drags on.”
“It won’t drag on. I have other things to get done, you know.”
The reproach was subtle, but it was there. She said, “I’m glad you came along.”
“I’ll be glad to get this over with.”
They went in at the gate to the Botanical Gardens; she held it open for him and closed it behind them. Soon the urban noise faded out to a background hum, and the Countess took Simonsen’s arm as if the calm legitimised intimacy. She said, “It’s pleasant in here, don’t you think? All the lovely plants . . . it’s almost semi-Mediterranean, and all so well tended.”
“Yes, it’s a nice place.”
Simonsen’s knowledge of field biology was limited to his ability to identify a dandelion with great certainty and a few other plants with a degree of difficulty. He stopped and scratched one ankle, then the other while he was at it.
“Tell me one thing, Simon. Your clairvoyant friend in Høje Taastrup, whom you consult now and then, how often is she actually right, if I may ask?”
“Why are you speculating about that now?”
“Oh, general interest.”
“She gets it right occasionally, mostly she’s not that useful. But don’t ask how she does it, because I’ve given up trying to figure that out.”
“But sometimes she helps?”
“As I said, yes.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Many years ago I had a case where a lunatic had stretched a thin wire across the street in a small provincial town. The purpose was to stop a handful of local moped drivers once and for all. They used to tear through the town on Saturday night, to the detriment of ordinary people’s sleep. Fortunately the lead driver was leaning down over the steering wheel, so he hit the wire with his forehead. Obviously he fell over and got some nasty scrapes, but the driver behind him was less fortunate. The wire broke, and the recoil tore the boy’s eye out.”
“Nasty.”
“Yes, not good, but the worst thing of all was that if the boys had been driving normally, they would probably have been decapitated, which was the intention. Well, in solving that case I was guided by my clairvoyant woman in Høje Taastrup, as you call her. She gave me a rather unusual name that proved to belong to the owner of a hardware store several hundred kilometres from the town. It was there the guilty party turned out to have bought his wire. He was a seventy-eight-year-old man, by the way, who had become sick and tired of the noise. Enough was enough, as he said. And now it’s your turn, Countess. Why are you suddenly so interested in clairvoyance? Spit it out.”
She told him about her brief but thought-provoking telephone conversation and noticed, when she was done, that she felt relieved. He walked for a bit in silence and then muttered, “Yes, she can be somewhat manic when it hits her. Well, we’re just about here.”
The Palm House towered before them, shining in all its glory in the hazy sunlight. The Countess searched in vain for her oracle, until a familiar voice made them both turn. Behind them, on the small patch of grass in the shadow of a “Water Lily” magnolia, sat Helmer Hammer.
The under secretary had shed jacket and tie, which lay neatly folded behind him, besides removing his shoes and socks. His white feet sticking out from under well-pressed Cerruti trousers gave a strange slant on informality. He smiled winningly as the Countess and Konrad Simonsen sat down opposite him, and then asked with a lively show of interest about their personal lives as well as about the investigation. Soon they were deep into a conversation that all three of them enjoyed.
This was one of Helmer Hammer’s many strong points; he could get people to relax in his company, in part because he acted as if he had all the time in the world just for them. When he was in that mode, courteous and concerned, he did not seem like a man tormented by complex affairs of state, but rather someone who was naturally open and honest, the kind of person you would like to have as a friend. The Countess slid off her shoes too. Helmer Hammer passed around cold water, which he had brought along in his bag, and laughed good-naturedly at Simonsen’s account of the photo search for the maids.
“So you thought that Malte Borup sold information from the police databases for G?”
“It sounded that way for a moment, and that made me furious. But the system was efficient enough: pictures of seven maids in less than half an hour is not bad going.”
“Yes, you should never underestimate informal systems. That’s one of the reasons I like this place so much. I have found many capable students for the ministries here . . . that is, without all the usual employment rigmarole. When there isn’t a university vacation, there are always a few promising young people here, reading or talking, so you get a proper impression of their potential.”
The Countess asked, “Do you come here often?”
“Not as much as I’d like, not any more unfortunately. But isn’t it lovely?”
Hammer threw out his arms as if he owned the garden, and continued.
“You should try coming here in early June when the magnolias are in full bloom. Then there’s the Palm House, a true architectural gem. It was finished in 1874, one of the first Danish buildings where exposed steel was used for the load-bearing construction, as with the Eiffel Tower. The architects were not even architects but gardeners, and the whole thing was due to beer.”
“Jacobsen the brewer was a patron, I believe?” queried Simonsen.
“He was, yes.”
Helmer Hammer let the rest of his mineral water slop around in small, centrifugal swirls, while he silently observed the movement inside the bottle. Then he continued speaking.
“Well, Assistant Detective of the First Degree Nathalie von Rosen, I’m not the only one who is interested in Danish history.”
The formal address was meant jokingly, but set things on a business footing. Surprisingly enough, it was Simonsen who responded.
“Both of us are interested, and it’s easy to explain why but hard to understand.”
“Okay then. Can I at least try?”
The power relationship between the homicide chief and the under secretary was as unequal as could be, and on top of that the police investigators’ historical research was ill-timed, to put it mildly. None the less Konrad Simonsen crumpled Helmer Hammer like a piece of used sandwich paper: first he described the Countess’s ominous Høje Taastrup telephone call without a trace of apology, then reviewed two specific examples of clairvoyance that had proved to be useful to the police, including the story about the moped drivers, this time narrated in spell-binding fashion. The Countess thoroughly enjoyed his performance, not least his lively descriptions and the way he refused to pour scorn on any of her actions. No one in his right mind would have done anything different if they had been warned in the same way, he implied. Obviously not, that would almost be dereliction of duty. Helmer Hammer was effectively up against the wall, a fact he quickly realised and humbly adapted to.
“I didn’t see that coming. Yes, it is a little hard to discuss this with you when you have mediums in your back pocket. Stick to him like a burr, what a great sentence, and it must be admitted you have done just that, Countess. And to top it off, with great competence. You have my unreserved admiration.”
The Countess nodded without saying anything. She felt more vindicated than ever about conducting her alternative investigation after Konrad Simonsen had described it in such glowing terms. He was right, it was simply something she had to do.
Helmer Hammer continued, still primarily addressing the Countess.
“Perhaps for a moment we could call what you think you’ve found out about Bertil Hampel-Koch’s trip to Greenland in 1983, truth number one. I give it a number because I also have a truth in that connection, which we can suitably call truth number two.
Simonsen asked, “He made two trips, you say?”
“Yes, the first was in the summer of 1983, when he flew to Station North all the way up in Northeast Greenland in Crown Prince Christian Land. Here he met some of his future Sirius comrades and also helped set out stockpiles for the winter expeditions. It was on that trip that he made a stopover in Søndre Strømfjord, but you know that. The other time was for the sled trip itself in February 1984, and that is obviously not very interesting to us.”
The Countess asked with surprise, “So he did not go to Thule—”
Helmer Hammer interrupted her amiably but firmly.
“Now, now. This is my truth, I am formulating it. It is undeniably correct that on his journey to Station North in 1983 Bertil Hampel-Koch made a stop at the military base in Søndre Strømfjord. And in that connection I have a problem, which I hope perhaps you will help me with.”
Simonsen replied first.
“We’re all ears.”
“It’s no secret that I prefer truth number two — that is, my own interpretation—which I promise you is reliable through and through. I should not conceal either that it is also preferable for my boss and his many predecessors. Truth number one on the other hand—seen from our perspective—still needs to be kept under wraps twenty, thirty years before it is carefully examined.”