by Lotte Hammer
“I’m a new, ugly cutting. Is that how it is?”
“Yes, that’s how it is.”
Jeanette Hvidt started crying, and Pauline Berg held her quietly. Before she drove the girl home, they decided on Helsingør. She never made it to the party.
During the drive back to Copenhagen Pauline Berg daydreamed about the honour and prestige she would achieve if she could pressure Andreas Falkenborg into irrevocable confessions. Information he could not retract, and that would hold up in court. She had the means, if she dared. But it had to succeed, because if it did not . . . “Then the shit will hit the fan, Then the shit will really hit the fan,” she chanted to herself.
It was an expression she had learned from her grandfather, and she liked saying it. It sat well on the tongue.
When she hit Lyngby, she called Simonsen. After some difficulty she got hold of him on the landline in his own apartment where he was picking up a few things. She informed him that Jeanette Hvidt would go to stay with her uncle in Helsingør, and about the funds needed for various academic support arrangements, which he immediately accepted with the comment that he too could count. After the call she decided to stop by Police Headquarters briefly, after which she intended to devote the rest of the evening to Ernesto Madsen, although she’d had to reduce her plans considerably after she was sent to Hundested.
At Police Headquarters she ran into Arne Pedersen, who was happy to see her. And surprised.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was going to use some data.”
“Then you could have called. You knew I was here.”
“Hmm, it’s . . . Well, it’s somewhat personal. It’s for a girlfriend.”
“You’re well aware that it will cost you your job if you’re caught doing that sort of thing? It’s actually illegal, and logs are kept.”
She shrugged, unconcerned.
“Malte showed me how to get around the log months ago.”
“That doesn’t make it legal, but of course that doesn’t concern me.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t concern you.”
She smiled and had a desire to kiss him. Instead she tossed her hair back and laughed without really knowing why.
“Has anything happened?”
“No, unfortunately. I have people who are busy with Elizabeth Juutilainen alias Liz Suenson, but we won’t find her right away, not to mention link her to Andreas Falkenborg. Yes, and I’ve talked with Simon, he told me about your work in Hundested, but you know that yourself. That was a good result, by the way.”
“Thanks. Was that all?”
“Hello, you haven’t been gone more than three hours. What did you really expect?”
“Nothing, but one can always hope.”
“Oh, by the way, we have received a long official report from the Americans. It’s a bang-up piece of work they’ve done, and it must have cost a bundle, but there’s nothing sensational. We can now definitely connect Falkenborg to that helicopter trip. On the other hand it turns out that unfortunately DYE-5 was in possession of two snowmobiles, which expands the inhabitants’ action radius considerably.”
“The helicopter and the distance between DYE-5 and Maryann Nygaard’s body were otherwise the only thing that really damaged him.”
“Yes, but that part is weakened by those snowmobiles, although it’s hard to imagine that you can transport two people on such a machine.”
“We don’t have much.”
“Almost nothing. The fact is, we need a miracle, if we’re going to hold him.”
“And the fact is also that we’re not getting anywhere, isn’t that right, Arne?”
“Yes, it is. Are you coming in tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately not until Monday, I have a hair appointment in the morning and a family gathering the rest of the weekend. Simon gave me time off, unless something earthshaking happens.”
“We’ll cross our fingers for that. How did Jeanette Hvidt take it?”
“Reasonably. She cried a little, but she’s a strong girl. And then she said something that I keep thinking about: Someone has to stop him.”
Pedersen sounded almost desperate when he answered.
“Well, that’s what we’re working on.”
She gave him an affectionate farewell hug, thinking that life was full of compromises.
CHAPTER 41
In police circles Asger Graa was a frequent topic of conversation. There were many stories about him in circulation among his fellow officers, each more amazing and absurd than the other, most of which were pure invention. But it was an established fact that more than anything he wanted to be a detective in the Homicide Division and for that reason regularly made enquiries to Konrad Simonsen, who did not want to make use of his talents. It was likewise fair to say that Asger Graa was not always an easy person to associate with, primarily due to his know-it-all attitude and awkward manner, which among officers who didn’t know him was wildly exaggerated. Before she came to the Homicide Division, Pauline Berg had worked with him sporadically on a vice case and found him to be a good deal more accommodating than his reputation. When she called him, he remembered her right away and agreed to her plan without many questions.
They met as agreed on Saturday evening at Polititorvet outside Police Headquarters. He was waiting for her, but looking in the wrong direction, so she had plenty of time to observe him. The man was in uniform and it suited him. He was big, which would be an advantage if Andreas Falkenborg ran amok as expected. He was almost a stereotype; he looked like a born police constable and virtually radiated authority. Berg, on the other hand, did not look like herself. Earlier that day she had had her hair cut to resemble a rough drawing she had done. It was dyed black too. From an optician she had purchased a pair of brown contact lenses that proved to be easy and straightforward to put in.
Pauline Berg responded to Asger Graa’s formal handshake, and instructed her new partner on how the conversation with Andreas Falkenborg should proceed. She graciously allowed Graa to thank her profusely for his big chance. He did not comment on her changed appearance.
She asked, “Did you bring the Dictaphone?”
“Yes, and it’s working, I’ve checked it several times.”
“When you start it, I want you to skip the introductory format. You know, where you give the time, place and our names.”
“Yes, ma’am, but that’s highly irregular.”
“I don’t want him to know my name.”
“Can I say my own and omit yours?”
“No, and now stop discussing this with me. In the Homicide Division we know what we’re doing.”
“Yes, of course. That’s not what I meant.”
“Good, so we’re in agreement on that. Besides, you’re not going to say anything at all, Only I will speak with him. He may get scared when he sees me, but just ignore that. You should do something if he attacks me, and in that case just hold him back so we can get out. Under no circumstances must he be harmed, do you understand that?”
“Yes, every word. So I’m mainly along to protect you?”
“You could put it like that, but bear in mind that I’m more than capable of protecting myself. Of course he’s a man, but I’m half his age and in excellent shape. And I wouldn’t say it’s probable that he will attack me.”
“I’ll get between you in a flash. That is, without injuring him.”
“Just what I had in mind. You’re easy to work with. I’ll tell Simon that.”
“Simon? Do you mean Chief Inspector Konrad Simonsen?”
“Yes, but we call him Simon.”
She said that to impress him and had not counted on his reaction.
“He doesn’t know about this, does he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Chief Inspector Simonsen has no idea that in a little while we’ll be questioning Andreas Falkenborg. Isn’t that right?”
Pauline Berg realised she had underestimated the man. She answered carefully, “
It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.”
“And your new look, is that to pressurise the murderer? You resemble his victims.”
This was something between a question and a statement.
“If the interview goes well, then you’ll have something to tell your grandchildren, and if it doesn’t, we’ll leave. No harm done, as they say.”
“What about the prisoner’s lawyer, does he know we’re coming?”
“It’s a woman, and no, she doesn’t. But she knows, and we know, and everyone knows, that he has killed four young women, and that early tomorrow morning he will be released, unless someone does something.”
The argument made an impression, and she continued quickly along the same lines.
“It’s not like we’re going to beat him to a pulp or anything. We’re just going to talk to him, and the whole thing will barely take more than ten minutes, but maybe we’ll save a young girl’s life, who knows?”
Asger Graa considered this.
“What do you want him to confess?”
“He is going to tell me where he buried one of his victims. Her name is Annie Lindberg Hansson, and he killed her in 1990.”
“Okay, but if you don’t get anywhere, I also want a chance to try. I often make an impression on perpetrators.”
“That almost sounds like you mean to put the screws on me.”
“It wasn’t meant that way, but if this goes wrong and gets out, you’re not the only one who’ll get your knuckles rapped, so it’s reasonable for me to have a chance too.”
Pauline Berg pretended to consider this, and then said, “It’s a deal. Come on.”
The walk through Police Headquarters was more hair-raising than Berg had imagined. Although the jail was far from the Homicide Division offices, and Police Headquarters was a big building, she feared running into someone she knew. Worst of all of course would be Arne Pedersen or Konrad Simonsen, who presumably were somewhere in the building. For this reason she took a roundabout route, which proved to be a good idea as the only person they met was a police cadet they didn’t know, who took no notice of them. Graa said, “I’ve never seen your jail. Is it big?”
“There is room for twenty-five, but it’s almost never full.”
“Who do you have in there? It’s the worst of the worst, I hear.”
“Then you’ve heard right.”
“I can see why you’re keeping him there.”
“It’s not like that. He’s in there only because he will be released tomorrow, unless we succeed in a little while. It wouldn’t pay to move him, or he would have been. He’s not violent in that way. On the contrary he’s been isolated from the other prisoners for his own safety.”
“Okay, I see. Tell me, how do we actually get in?”
“We’ll be let in, what did you think?”
“Well, I mean, how have you arranged it? That is, without your boss knowing?”
“There won’t be any problems, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid, I was just thinking—”
“Stop that.”
Pauline Berg was right that they would be let into the jail block without problems. An older guard, who looked like he was counting the hours to retirement, led them at a shuffling pace to Falkenborg’s cell and unlocked it for them.
The room they entered was small, ten square metres sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a desk with chair, wardrobe and small refrigerator, all fastened to the floor or walls. A window at the back allowed a pale light into the cell. Andreas Falkenborg got up from the bed as the two officers came into the room. He had been reading a book, a travel account from India, Pauline Berg noted. To begin with it was Asger Graa who with his uniform and size attracted the man’s attention. She believed for a moment that Falkenborg would not react at all to her appearance, but when he saw her, he stiffened and stood stiffly to attention. His jaw dropped and a trickle of saliva dribbled out of one corner of his mouth.
Graa took the opportunity to rig up his Dictaphone, which he placed on the desk, and then asked formally, “Andreas Falkenborg, do you have anything against talking with us for a few minutes?”
The officer received no answer and asked again, but with the same negative result. He shrugged his shoulders and handed over to Berg, sitting down on the bed and waiting. Falkenborg reacted like a frightened animal when Asger Graa was no longer standing between him and Pauline Berg. He fled to the farthest corner of the cell, where he sank down into a crouch. She walked backwards and positioned herself by the door, aware that the situation could easily get out of control. From his crouching position the man guardedly followed every one of her movements, but the increased distance stabilised him. He closed his mouth. Anxiety was no longer the only emotion on his face—undisguised hatred almost steamed toward her.
“Andreas, you killed Annie, tell me how.”
He did not answer, nor did she expect him to. The sound of intermittent aggressive breathing through his nostrils filled the cell.
“Do you want me to come over to you?”
The threat struck him like a blow. He threw back his head and looked imploringly up at Asger Graa, who said, “You had better answer her.”
Falkenborg half stuttered, half snarled, “She must . . . must . . . must not be here.”
“Then tell us what you’ve done, damn it, and she’ll go away. How hard can it be?”
Berg added, “Yes, tell me about Annie. Then I’ll leave.”
For the first time he broke away from her gaze and looked down at the floor in front of him instead. It felt like an eternity, but shortly after that he turned towards Asger Graa.
“Annie was like her, she forced herself on me, what should I do?”
Berg answered him harshly: “I’m not interested in what you should do, but in what you actually did.”
“Killed her, you know that. She deserved it. And you do too, you witch.”
Graa warned him, “Watch what you’re saying now.”
“I hate her.”
“Tell us about your murders, as she requests.”
“I waited for Annie to come on her bike. It was dark. Then I caught her and put her in a bag.”
Anxiety, hatred, defiance, it was hard to tell which emotion was uppermost in Andreas Falkenborg then. His abrupt confession, made without a proper caution, could not be used for anything. Neither of the two officers was in any doubt about that. Nor that his comments were meant as provocation.
“It was nice, and now she’s gone for ever.”
Quietly and calmly, as if she had all the time she needed, Pauline Berg found a hand mirror in her bag, and critically inspected herself without paying the slightest attention to the two men. Then she fished out a tube of bright red lipstick and slowly unscrewed it. She inspected it, holding it up towards the light. She heard Falkenborg gasp, but withstood the temptation of looking at him. Instead she started putting lipstick on.
“You know perfectly well what you should tell me. No need for any irrelevant talk. Well, what will it be?”
While she waited for his reaction, she continued working on her lips, and when no answer came, she added, “Well, get going, I don’t have all day. Where did you kill Annie? And above all, where did you bury her? And be sure to include everything, little Andreas, or else I may come over there and give you a kiss.”
“She mustn’t do that, I can’t stand her. She mustn’t talk that way.”
Pauline Berg was quicker this time.
“I’m waiting, Andreas—but not for long.”
“Yes, I will, yes, I will. You stay where you are.”
“Where did you kill Annie?”
“On the terrace in my summer house. I swear it was there.”
“Her bicycle?”
“Næstved Station, I put it in the bike rack.”
“And where did you bury her?”
“But it wasn’t that way.”
Berg looked at him for the first time since she had started wi
th the lipstick, and saw how he was suffering. Casually, as before, she put her things back in the bag and took a step forward, more threateningly.
“Yes, Andreas, that’s how it was. And I want to know where.”
One step more.
“Where, Andreas? Tell me where.”
It was Asger Graa who answered her.
“Uh, I don’t think he can, look at him, he’s almost . . . gone.”
Andreas Falkenborg was trembling uncontrollably. His eyes spasmodically rolled up in his head. He was obviously in no condition to continue. You did not need medical knowledge to see that he was balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Pauline Berg was close to crying from disappointment as she left the cell.
Outside she heard Asger Graa make his own attempt to question the suspect.
“Detective Pauline Berg is leaving the room. Listen here, my good man, the game is up. Please tell me where you buried the deceased.”
It took a few seconds before it occurred to her what had happened. A cold chill ran down her spine as, surprisingly calmly, she realised that her attempt had gone as badly as it possibly could.
CHAPTER 42
On Sunday morning at six o’clock Andreas Falkenborg was released from the jail at Police Headquarters. He was led out of a back entrance to avoid the waiting journalists and on Hambrosgade was released on his own recognisance, as the court and judge had decided. Konrad Simonsen showed up for the occasion, if you could call it that, feeling that it was wrong to stay home and sleep while a serial killer was set free. Afterwards he went to his office to mine away at the heaps of paperwork that always piled up in investigations like this.
At nine o’clock Arne Pedersen also arrived at work and shortly after him Poul Troulsen. The three men put their heads together in Simonsen’s office. Pedersen asked Troulsen, “Why didn’t you take the weekend off?”
The older man shrugged his shoulders.
“You were here, and I think I owe you a little extra effort. I wasn’t too active on Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.”
Pedersen teased him.
“Not too active? You’re joking. You were far too active last Wednesday.”