by Lotte Hammer
Troulsen barged into the room. He was shooing an officer ahead of him whom he placed in the middle of the floor, as if he were a mannequin, after which he sharply commanded, “Tell them, and make it brief.”
Asger Graa told them everything. Simonsen and the Countess listened in disbelief, and afterwards for a minute or so none of them said anything, not even when Graa started begging their forgiveness.
“I’m sorry about this, I am truly sorry about this, and I realise that it means my chances for—”
Troulsen interrupted him callously.
“Be quiet.”
And then to Simonsen: “Do you have anything for him to do?”
Simonsen curtly shook his head. The Countess said to the contrite officer, “Go away.”
Asger Graa shuffled out with bowed head. Before he had closed the door, Troulsen started itemising the information he had from Pauline Berg’s home.
“The sequence of events is now established, but unfortunately there is not much to help us track them down.”
Simonsen agreed. It was what he had expected and feared. He said, “The Countess has a few things to see to that are urgent. Start with your conclusions. Do we think that Pauline and Jeanette Hvidt are alive?”
“Yes, most likely.”
Simonsen turned to the Countess. It was unnecessary, however. She was on her way out. Then he asked Troulsen, “Well, what happened?”
“Falkenborg’s fingerprints were found all over the house. He had basically been in every room, probably while Pauline was out though we don’t know where. Maybe in town to shop or something.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday morning or afternoon. A technician found his fingerprints on a carton of milk in her refrigerator, the date stamp confirms it. We’re in the process of investigating where and when she used her debit card.”
“A carton of milk? Why?”
“We don’t know. It looks like he went around rooting in everything.”
“What else?”
“He has manipulated her computer. It’s now being investigated, but the nerds aren’t done. Her TV is destroyed, apparently he short-circuited it.”
“Okay.”
“In the evening, about eleven o’clock, he chased her and locked her in a room. She managed to bring her pistol along but no ammunition.”
“That sounds strange.”
“That’s our theory at the moment, but maybe it will change in the hours ahead. I concentrated more on where she could have been taken than on what happened in the house.”
“Naturally, go on.”
“At some point she broke out of the room where she was locked in. He had put screws in the window frame outside, so she couldn’t open the window, but she smashed it.”
“Not too many details, Poul.”
“Sorry. Well, after she climbed out of the window, she made a kind of weapon out of a big shard of glass by folding some material around one end. We found it in her car, but unfortunately it wasn’t used. He was waiting for her in the back seat and pressed a rag soaked in chloroform against her face. The car has been taken for technical investigation.”
“What did he do with her then?”
“Carried her through the forest that is right by her house, and over to his car which was parked on the other side. The dogs could easily follow the whole way. Then we lose the trail.”
“Was it the commercial vehicle?”
“We found tyre tracks, they are also being examined, but an initial assessment from the technicians confirms that. You’ll be getting some complaints from them about me, I assume.”
Simonsen’s hand gesture clearly showed how much he cared about that kind of thing at the moment. He said, “What about the cat?”
“It was killed alongside her car, neck broken, then wrapped in plastic from Pauline’s kitchen. Just the head that is. Maybe that was to scare her.”
“While she watched?”
“We don’t think so, but it’s unclear. Maybe it was lying somewhere so she got a shock when she saw it.”
“Her car keys?”
“In the ignition.”
“And the extra keys?”
“Damn it, that was a mistake. I didn’t look for them.”
“Presumably that means nothing. Do we know positively that she was alive when she was carried through the forest?”
“No, but there’s a high probability of it.”
“Explain why.”
“Because we found a roll of duct tape—that’s his favourite tool—dropped by the side of her car.”
“You don’t tie up a corpse, and you don’t sedate a woman to kill her immediately afterwards, when you could just as well do it right away. Is that what the arguments are?”
“Yes, and I don’t think that’s wishful thinking.”
“Hardly. Do you have anything else?”
“I found a receipt for a pair of brown contact lenses corresponding to what the idiot from before told us about Pauline’s eye colour.”
“It doesn’t sound very interesting.”
“Yes, it is, because I couldn’t find the lenses.”
“You mean, she had them in?”
“No, the whole case was gone. It wasn’t in the waste basket either. I think Falkenborg took them. I’m terribly sorry to say that but it’s what I think.”
Simonsen said heavily, “She’s going to have them on when he kills her?”
“Yes, that’s the way it is. That’s what he’s going to do, Simon—kill both of them.”
CHAPTER 47
The anaesthetic had given her a headache, a condition that was seriously worsened by the infernal din that blasted at regular intervals and threatened to burst her eardrums. She could not see, and only gradually was she aware of her own situation. She noticed a rag in her mouth and a strip of tape around her neck holding the rag in place and pinching her cheeks when she moved her head, which was hard to avoid, every time another wave of noise hit her. Her face was covered with cloth that felt like the synthetic silk lining of a coat, but the covering was carelessly executed, because if she lowered her head and looked down she could see light below her and a small section of concrete floor. White, dry dust penetrated through the opening, several times causing coughing fits that threatened to choke her, because the rag in her mouth prevented normal breathing. The particles came in cascades in tempo with the noise, and she quickly learned to hold her breath when it was at its worst. The powerful stimuli from absent vision, maddening noise and intolerable white dust meant that she only belatedly showed an interest in her body. She was sitting on a chair whose legs did not move a millimetre when she tried to wriggle it. Her wrists were also linked to the armrests with cuffs on each side.
This torture lasted a long time, but gradually she could also distinguish other sounds: a tool that rattled when the noise stopped, occasionally the characteristic swish of a broom, and then the scraping of a shovel, besides footsteps on a hard floor. There were also occasional outbursts from a person who was working hard, and once a brief, angry sentence, the meaning of which she was unable to catch. Later the infernal noise was replaced with more digging sounds, but by that point she was well aware of what was going on. Andreas Falkenborg was preparing her final resting place, which apparently was to be below a concrete floor. Strangely enough she did not feel overwhelmingly afraid. Not even when she suddenly noticed that he had put her contact lenses in while she was anaesthetised.
Her sense of time had gone. She had difficulty determining how many hours passed before hands carefully removed the covering from her head and the gag from her mouth. The white, glaring light in the room blinded her. She blinked and little by little recovered her full vision. Her kidnapper had the mask on. Otherwise he was wearing shorts and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The combination was bizarre. He was sweating profusely. Immediately in front of her, only a couple of metres away, a hole in the floor had been excavated as expected, a good metre-and-a-half parallel with the wall. The
room she was in was clearly a cellar with bare, greyish-white concrete walls. Opposite her a three-foot-tall wooden cross painted black was set up, and a single, bright bulb shone from the ceiling. To the left was a red-painted metal door and not much else, apart from herself and the chair she was sitting on. She looked down and saw that it was attached to the concrete floor with sturdy plates. Only then did she discover that there was another person present in the room. To her right, with her chair jammed against Pauline’s, sat Jeanette Hvidt, also tied up.
Andreas Falkenborg stood watching them for a long time through his mask. Pauline Berg heard Jeanette struggle with tears in small, smothered sobs, and thought that regardless of their hopeless situation it was crucial not to show anxiety. Even so she could not think of anything reasonable to say. Suddenly Jeanette said, “Won’t he just kill the cop? I’ll do what he says. Always. I’ll always do what he asks me to.”
The words came out surprisingly clear, and Pauline realised that they made sense. She had not thought about it herself, but Jeanette was right, the grave was hardly meant for two, it was too small for that. She also registered the girl’s form of address and naturally noticed her lack of solidarity, which under the circumstances Pauline shouldn’t blame her for, but did anyway. She said neutrally, “May I have some water?”
Falkenborg was over her like a hawk.
“She says, Will he give her some water?”
“If I’m going to be the first to die, that’s the way it is, but I’m thirsty. Can’t you give me something to drink? I really need it. Why are you letting me suffer like this? It’s just not your style.”
She was careful not to provoke him. She was convinced that he intended a gruesome death for both of them, the question was when and in what order. On the other hand he was not a sadist. He would not cause her unnecessary pain for his own enjoyment.
He answered her angrily.
“She’s talking wrong, she won’t get any water.”
A quick deliberation made her give in.
“Will he give me a drop of water? I’m very thirsty.”
Falkenborg considered while he adjusted his mask. She thought that with the material along the sides and his limited air intake it must be hot and uncomfortable. Finally he said, “She will ask for it again.”
“Will he give me some water to drink?”
“She can have water, but she has to wait.”
He left the room. The heavy iron door echoed behind him, but Pauline was able to see a corridor outside the cellar room, whatever use that would be to her. When he was gone, Jeanette said in a whisper, “You mustn’t antagonise him or we’ll get the staff. It’s terrible.”
Pauline Berg remembered the so-called staff both from the video on her computer and Falkenborg’s empty threats in her study.
“What kind of staff are you talking about?”
“He gives a shock with it, it hurts like crazy.”
“An electrical prod? Like for cattle?”
“I don’t know, I think so. It’s horrible, you can’t imagine how bad it is.”
“I don’t see any prod.”
“He doesn’t have it here, it—”
The door opened again, and Jeanette Hvidt fell silent. Falkenborg returned with a pitcher of water. He set it in front of Berg.
“She will open her ugly mouth.”
She opened her mouth and tipped her head back. Carefully he poured the water, pausing at times so she could get air. She drank greedily without thinking of leaving any for Jeanette. Only when she couldn’t drink any more, and the pitcher was almost empty, did she ask, “Will he give Jeanette the rest?”
Falkenborg poured the rest of the water into Jeanette’s mouth, then he set the pitcher on the floor and said, “He will draw lots on who will go into the bag first. That is how he wants it to be.”
She asked quickly, “Will he tell us when it will happen?”
“Tomorrow one will go into the bag. Tomorrow, when he has cement for her grave.”
“And the other, what will he do with the other?”
“He will also get her into the bag. That’s what he will do. Both of them will go into the bag, first one, then the other. Then the other will be afraid.”
Again he adjusted his mask and then started reciting a nursery rhyme as he tentatively touched the two women’s knees.
“Ohn Dohn Dehn, Mamma Futta Fehn . . . ”
She interrupted him scornfully.
“Can you stop groping my thigh, you lecherous old pig? Tell me, have you no upbringing, Andreas?”
He leaped back. Pauline Berg was hoping for a miracle. The insult was an expression of desperation, she knew that, but she had to try something, and she could not think of anything else. Falkenborg was shaken for a moment.
“Sorry, I didn’t want . . . I, he . . . He says ugh to her repulsive thighs. She will not say such things, and he says ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh, he says.”
He shouted as he left, this time leaving the door open. Jeanette Hvidt sobbed in terror.
“Now he’s getting the staff. You have to beg for forgiveness, promise to behave. Oh, no, I’m afraid.”
Falkenborg was soon back, and sure enough he was holding a cattle prod in his hands. Jeanette Hvidt pleaded.
“Not me. She was the one who was bad. She was misbehaving, she should have the staff for her impudent mouth, but not me. I’ll do everything he says, everything he asks for.”
Berg noticed how Falkenborg’s formulations were encoded in Jeanette’s language, then her body exploded in a quivering, white pain that tensed her like a spring and sent unbearable spasms through her from head to toe. She screamed with the full force of her lungs, it was impossible not to. Jeanette Hvidt was right, the pain was indescribable.
Her tormentor took a step back while Jeanette shouted, “She deserves more, she was very bad, but not me. I’ll do what he says, she should have my shock.”
Falkenborg did not immediately follow Jeanette’s suggestion. Instead he said, directed at Berg, “She can scream as much as she likes. Scream, like she does on her way to the witches’ Sabbath, on her way to Blocksberg, and when she is burning for Saint John’s.”
Jeanette Hvidt pleaded.
“Yes, let her scream, she said bad things to him . . . ”
“She will keep quiet.”
Jeanette fell silent immediately. Then he aimed the prod again towards Pauline Berg, who tried in vain to avoid it, but the jolt never came. He only struck her lightly on the knee and again started his selection process, as he let the prod move from knee to knee with each new syllable.
“Ohn Dohn Dehn, Mamma Futta Fehn, Futta Fehn, Futta Fehn, Ohn Dohn Dehn.”
CHAPTER 48
In Høje Taastrup the Countess was at her first clairvoyant consultation ever. It took place on the fourth floor of an apartment complex not far from the station. She had expected a different setting, perhaps a gloomy villa with a tower room and ravens on the roof, but that was not the case. The nameplate on the door said Stephan Stemme & wife, and it was the husband who answered when she rang the bell. He was a skinny old man with a starved, bony face and deep-set eyes that drew things in but gave nothing back. They settled accounts in the entry, cash and no receipt. He carefully put the money in a worn, black pouch he removed from a bureau drawer. Then he locked the drawer, took the key and knocked on a door immediately to one side.
“You may call her Madame.”
His voice was dark bordering on rusty, and his French-sounding Madame grated gutturally, almost sternly, as he opened the door for the Countess.
The room she entered was light and pleasant, all philistine comfort as a shield against life’s shocks and spills, from the peach-coloured curtains to the collection of well-scrubbed and combed grandchildren whose portraits decorated the light-green walls. There was however a glaring surplus of mahogany, which the Countess found unbecoming, yes, ugly actually, although it was intended to be pretty.
Madame received her from the Biedermeier ch
aise-longue where she was reclining when her guest arrived. She did not get up, but was content to extend a limp, white hand in welcome and straighten herself up a little from her couch. She was a small, almost fragile woman in her late fifties, well-dressed in a modern, grey tailor-made suit and with an artfully draped white shawl around her spindly shoulders. Her face looked tired, mouth hanging partway open; only her glass-clear, sparkling eyes made an impression. She did not use makeup or wear any jewellery it seemed. The Countess sat down in a chair opposite her. The woman said, “You are busy, you have a meeting later this evening.”
Her voice was oddly flat and almost without intonation, as if she was reporting a series of numbers. The Countess asked sceptically, “Is that something you see?”
“It is something I know. Konrad just called. Apparently you turned off your cell phone. You should be back at Police Headquarters by seven-thirty and certainly no later than quarter to eight. I promised to give you the message.”
“Thanks, that was good of you.”
“This is the first time you’ve been here, and I sense in you a certain distrust of my abilities. That doesn’t matter, it’s how it usually is with newcomers. Basically it’s healthy. A person must be uncommonly gullible not to doubt me to begin with.”
The Countess did not really know what to say to that. She was content to shrug her shoulders and hold up her hands in mock surrender. She was privately sure that the woman always used this self-deprecating introductory speech. Anyway she had a little account to settle now that she was here. She asked, “A few days ago you insisted on the phone that I should hold on tight to Steen Hansen, as you put it. What good would that do?”
“How in the world should I know? But you have obviously encountered a person by that name, I see?”
“It’s a very common name.”