The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  “If you say so. But what about a receiver, or whatever it’s called? I mean, there should be something that stores the conversations.”

  “In his apartment he used his computer, or more precisely one of his six computers. But we found a brochure, and those mini-microphones can communicate with a small battery-driven box that forwards the signal over the mobile network, and a box like that is not much bigger than a matchbox, so it’s not difficult to hide. Four of his computers are password-protected, incidentally, and our technicians are working on those at the moment. One of them, the one with the picture of Jeanette Hvidt, they’ve got control of. There is a lot to suggest his expertise is not confined to audio and microphones. Advanced computer knowledge is also part of his repertoire.”

  “So it’s not certain that the rest of his computers can be investigated, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oh, no, it’s only a matter of time . . . and hardly more than two or three days. I’m just saying, he’s also skilful with a PC. And by the way, we’ve uncovered how he did his trick of breaking into the house of the witness who by bad luck had given him an old access card. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes, I do. How did Falkenborg do it?”

  “He had computer access to the security company, access he presumably stole in connection with their using him for a short time as a consultant. Is that something we should pursue further?”

  “Have we informed the company?”

  “Yes, and they’ve changed their systems.”

  “Excellent, so there’s probably nothing more to do. What about a warehouse? Doesn’t he have some place for the equipment he sells?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he does, but we don’t know where. The only thing we do know is that it doesn’t need to be large. A garage would be sufficient.”

  Simonsen concluded gloomily, “We haven’t got much out of this search. Do you have anything else?”

  “We can’t find his car. That is, one of them. He has two: a blue 2001 Mercedes E210 and a white 2004 VW Multivan, both registered as personal vehicles. The VW is a commercial vehicle with sliding doors, and that’s the one we can’t locate.”

  “Put a search out for it.”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not a scrap, but we’re not finished. Should I head out again?”

  “No, I would rather have you help Poul with Liz Suenson.”

  “The Swedish ghost girl, who exists only in the imagination of Andreas Falkenborg and Ernesto ‘Che’ Madsen?”

  “Yes, the Swedish girl who perhaps is the breakthrough we so desperately need.”

  “Who, if she exists, has been shovelled into a grave in a forest in Sweden, and there are quite a few of them there. I have a hard time seeing that as a breakthrough.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion, and don’t insult her.”

  “Okay, no offence intended, I’ll find Poul. How did he take the situation, by the way? I mean, with the media and all that shit.”

  “He’s doing his job.”

  “Stop pretending you’re indifferent because I know perfectly well you’re not. I’m guessing you backed him against the sea witch on the top floor. By the way, have you seen that she’s coming out with a statement this afternoon?”

  Simonsen stood up. Surprisingly enough he didn’t feel particularly tired, and even the itching on his ankles had stopped. On the other hand he was craving a cigarette.

  “No, I’m not indifferent, but I prioritise double murders higher than things I can’t do anything about. Yes, of course I backed him up, what else would you imagine I’d do? No, I haven’t seen that the police commissioner intends to make a statement, and to get to your next question in advance—no, I don’t know what she will say. Now I’m going into my office to review the interview with Falkenborg again. See if you can’t produce some good news, I need it.”

  Simonsen got barely ten minutes alone before Pedersen had, if not good news, at least something new to tell. He slogged into his boss’s office with a taciturn Poul Troulsen in tow. Simonsen took off his earphones and gestured to the two men to sit down. A superfluous gesture, as neither of them waited for permission.

  “That was quick. Well, is she real or not?”

  Pedersen looked at Troulsen and then answered as his elder colleague made no move to.

  “There is still nothing official to be found, and this is the third time now that we’ve trawled through the registries. Even Malte is starting to get a little tired of us.”

  “But?”

  “But we have looked at the entryways on Vesterbrogade across from the City Museum. ‘Across from’ can be interpreted with a lot of goodwill as nine entryways. Of those only three have an elevator, and only one housed a dentist in 1992. Now he has his practice in Ballerup, but he confirms that Andreas Falkenborg was one of his patients when he had a clinic in the city.”

  “I hope you have more than that.”

  “Maybe. Vesterbrogade number sixty-two—does that ring a bell?”

  Simonsen smiled broadly for the first time that day.

  “Snotfather? Alias Doctor Cold?”

  Finally Troulsen joined in.

  “Exactly, he lives on the fourth floor, but you probably know that already?”

  “Oh, yes, I know that. Have you contacted him?”

  “No, I was thinking that perhaps you would go there yourself. He’s home at the moment.”

  “He’s always at home. And he’s still as active as ever?”

  “To the highest degree. He is one of the three kingpins the national chief of police really wants to get. But it’s been more than fifteen years since he last did time, so you can’t say that the outcome matches the desire.”

  “Unfortunately not. Do you have anything specific in relation to the Swedish woman?”

  “No, it’s only a guess.”

  Simonsen considered the proposal, but in reality he had already made his decision.

  “Okay, I’ll go over there and talk to him.”

  Pedersen asked, “Obviously I’ve heard of Doctor Cold, but why do you call him Snotfather?”

  His boss and Troulsen laughed. Simonsen said, “We called him that in the old days, but apparently it’s gone out of style. Because of his nose, which is strikingly large, and because the nickname annoys him, which unfortunately is the only way he has been harassed by us for years. Would you like to go along and meet him?”

  Both of his detectives shook their heads. Troulsen said, “I’d rather go home. Journalists keep calling me, and my wife is also getting questions. I need to be with my family.”

  He looked at his watch. Technically it was still too early for him to leave the office, even though he had started his working day while most others were asleep. Simonsen sensed his hesitation and said, “Yes, journalists are a meddlesome rabble. But go home then, if I have your word that you will show up for work tomorrow, regardless of this inconvenience?”

  “Yes, I promise. If I’m not fired first.”

  “You won’t be fired, and the press attention will stop at some point, it always does. Refer them to me if it helps you.”

  “I won’t need to do that.”

  “Then stop whining, and say hello to your wife from me.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The man who opened the door to Konrad Simonsen was well dressed, with good manners and cold, crafty fish eyes. His name was Marcus Kolding and he was a trained medic, thus the nickname Doctor Cold. It suited him well. Better than Snotfather, thought Konrad Simonsen, not without a trace of disappointment.

  If the man was surprised to see his guest, he did not show it.

  “The homicide chief himself, I see. To what do I owe this honour?”

  Simonsen made no attempt at flattery. That would be a wasted effort.

  “I need your help.”

  “Then speak up, but we’ll stay right here. I don’t want you inside my home. It’s nothing personal, just a principle I have when deali
ng with the police.”

  “Completely all right with me. Liz Suenson, does that name mean anything to you?”

  The man thought about it and then answered guardedly, “Maybe. Why?”

  Simonsen showed him two photographs.

  “Does she resemble these two women?”

  He looked and considered again, this time more briefly.

  “Maybe. Why?”

  Simonsen showed him yet another photograph.

  “Because perhaps she ended her days like this, and because you yourself have a grandchild the same age. That’s why.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Is Liz Suenson her real name?”

  “No.”

  “Then I want to know what her real name was, and what she did for you.”

  Kolding thought about this with a distrustful expression on his face. Finally he said, “She was Finnish, and she travelled back and forth between Denmark and Sweden . . . not one of my important employees.”

  “Courier?”

  The man nodded.

  “What did she do here with you?”

  He answered affably, “She was pretty.”

  “Yes, she was. Her real name?”

  “I can’t remember, Finns don’t have names, they just have letters in random order. But I can get it, if it’s important.”

  “It’s important. What happened to her?”

  “She disappeared suddenly, it was in 1992 or maybe 1993, but she didn’t take anything with her that belonged to me, so we thought she had gone back to Finland.”

  “You didn’t search for her?”

  “No, not particularly. She was, as I said, not . . . trusted.”

  “How did she travel for you? I mean car, train, bus, airplane?”

  “Train, and I will also give you the name of a town. It’s so long ago that it lacks significance. I won’t say anything more.”

  “And that town is?”

  “Hässleholm.”

  “Where did she live when she was in Denmark?”

  “No idea, maybe with a friend, maybe at one of my hotels. I’ll find that out.”

  Simonsen gave the witness his card.

  “That sounds good. Call me about the name, and whatever else you find. It’s urgent.”

  “Within half an hour. Was it that psychopath you have in custody who took her?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  With small circular movements the man massaged his gigantic nose, a bad habit that had earned him one of his nicknames among the police. Then he said, “I don’t like that he’s taken one of mine, I really do not like that. He almost deserves a taste of his own medicine . . . maybe after a little fun with a blowtorch.”

  “He deserves to be in prison, and so do you.”

  “Then I hope you’re more effective at containing him than you were with me. Is there anything else?”

  “No, but thanks for the help.”

  The man closed the door without another word.

  CHAPTER 36

  Misfortunes were still piling up on Wednesday. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg informed Konrad Simonsen about the latest events when their boss returned to Police Headquarters. Berg went through a short but unpleasant list.

  “The gangster king you just visited called. You weren’t here, of course, so he was transferred to me. Liz Suenson’s real name is Elizabeth Juutilainen, and we’ve retrieved a mug shot from 1988, when she was arrested for drug smuggling in Tampere. She was twenty-five years old in 1992, when she disappeared. The Finns are sending more data as soon as possible, but unfortunately she fits Falkenborg’s female preferences, so it is quite probable that she is his fourth victim.”

  Simonsen muttered, “Yes, that doesn’t surprise me. What else do you have?”

  “A message from Anna Mia, your daughter that is—”

  “And?”

  “You can’t make connection with her until tomorrow. It had something to do with cell-phone coverage and atmospheric disturbances in the region.”

  The information annoyed Simonsen more than he cared to admit. He would have enjoyed talking with Anna Mia as a brief respite from what was turning into a lousy day. He tried only half-heartedly to conceal his disappointment as he asked grumpily, “How can she call and say that she can’t call? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Pauline Berg thought quickly.

  “Maybe the ship was just about to sail into the atmospheric disturbances. I’ve never been in the Caribbean, so what do I know?”

  Pedersen interjected drily, “Don’t shoot the messenger, Simon.”

  “Yes, obviously. But did she say anything else?”

  Berg looked briefly at Pedersen, who behind his chief’s back rolled a finger around in front of his mouth as a sign that here a slightly creative interpretation was permissible. She took the hint.

  “Well, she said she was doing well, but also that she missed you a lot and was looking forward to coming home. And she sends greetings.”

  Simonsen lapped up the words, and Pauline Berg could continue with her list.

  “Yes, then there’s one more thing. That is, maybe you, Arne, should . . . ”

  Pedersen took the opening.

  “You have been given a public rebuke by the police commissioner. She was at a press conference ten minutes ago and denounced the department’s methods concerning your instructions to Poul.”

  In glaring contrast to what his subordinates had expected, Simonsen’s mood visibly brightened.

  “Really! And what else happened? What about Poul?”

  “Nothing. She made a point of saying that he can’t be reproached. It was you and you alone who bore responsibility—you’ve been over-eager, she maintained—and she herself, of course, as your immediate superior. She will summon you for a serious talk, as soon as this investigation is over, and the leadership in general will not comment on the eavesdropping case. But she emphasised that if anyone was interested in hearing more detailed information on the matter, they could attend your press conference at five o’clock.”

  “Was that all? What about further questions from the press?”

  Berg said, “No questions. After she read the statement she left, arrogant as an ice queen. If you ask me, I think it’s really unfair of her to treat you like that.”

  “Sticks and stones. It doesn’t bother me.”

  Pedersen stared at his boss in surprise.

  “I didn’t even know that you had called a press conference. Is that something Ms Ice & Cold ordered you to do?”

  “Speak respectfully about her, she always speaks respectfully about you. And no—I decided on the press conference this morning, so it’s not about the eavesdropping on Poul Troulsen, although that will come up of course. Actually I would really like the two of you to participate, if you have time? So the photographers have something to aim at, and I have someone to pass the unpleasant questions on to.”

  They agreed, although they were surprised. Everyone expected the boss to be rattled by the treatment he had been subjected to, but instead he seemed more satisfied than he had been in a long time.

  “Anything else?”

  Pedersen briefly informed him.

  “We’ve obtained serial numbers on some of the notes Falkenborg has withdrawn, but obviously that has no major significance now.”

  Simonsen agreed and ignored the information.

  “Anything else?”

  Berg and Pedersen shook their heads. Neither of them had anything else. On the other hand Malte Borup did. He had just blundered into the office with the day’s final blow for the Homicide Division. The student asked, out of breath, “Have you heard what he got? Andreas Falkenborg, that is.”

  They all shook their heads.

  “I’ve seen it on the Internet. He got four days.”

  Pedersen corrected him tolerantly. “You mean, four weeks?”

  “No, days. Four days. Until Sunday morning, I’m quite certain. He was not taken into protective custody. The judge wa
s content to extend the arrest, whatever the hell the difference is.”

  They sat like statues, looking doubtfully at each other. The student lowered his head. With his unruly hair and sorrowful eyes he resembled a whipped dog. He had expected praise for bringing the information so fast. Simonsen was the first to pull himself together. He said in annoyance, “The difference is that we don’t get the weekend off. Among other things.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Questioning the witness Bertil Hampel-Koch turned out to be one of the more remarkable experiences of the Countess’s career.

  The conversation was arranged hurriedly and took place in Kastrup Airport, where the director could spare an hour before he had to board his flight to Brussels. The Countess would clearly have preferred to wait until Monday for the interview, but that was impossible. The meeting was Part One of Helmer Hammer’s carefully outlined plan to deflect the searchlights of the Danish press from Hampel-Koch’s visit to Greenland in 1983. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a very small part of the Danish press, as only two journalists had shown interest until now, but that was evidently enough for the under secretary. The second phase of the two-stage rocket would be fired according to plan at Simonsen’s press conference at five o’clock.

  In the car en route, on the Øresund highway, the Countess thought that she could not remember her boss ever before having voluntarily called a press conference, if you could characterise his participation in Helmer Hammer’s project as voluntary. She also thought about what in the world she would question Bertil Hampel-Koch about, unless their chat became purely pro forma, which on the other hand she hoped it would not, for that would force her to fabricate for the journalists. So preferably an interview that had no purpose related to the investigation. And, if it were up to her, without too much openness between the two of them that could easily turn awkward. It would be more like half an hour of mutually agreed play-acting.

  She turned off the highway and drove slowly into the parking area, curious to know whether the director had as much control of the logistics as his secretary maintained while instructing the Countess simply to park her car and then she would be contacted. The airport area was under greater than average surveillance, and hidden eyes presumably already followed her car on various monitors. An unpleasant thought. She rotated the rear-view mirror and quickly ran a brush through her hair.