by Lotte Hammer
The police commissioner smiled across the table at her homicide chief. She was dressed in a brown dress with grey-white flounces and resembled a muffin. She looked nervous to find herself in such company. Simonsen smiled back. Director Bertil Hampel-Koch suggested himself as keeper of the minutes and noted down his assignment before anyone could object, after which out of respect for the hierarchy he gave the national chief of police the floor.
The chief was a handsome man, well-proportioned with a classic profile and a mass of silver-grey hair, which always seemed to be freshly trimmed. He habitually wore a serious expression that meant few could relax in his company. Added to that were his expensive, gold-rimmed glasses, which he removed when he thought his viewpoints were especially important, basically every time he opened his mouth. In writing he was either a genius or an idiot. At Police Headquarters and all over the country his subordinates cursed his vague orders, which always left plenty of room for interpretation and correspondingly released him from any responsibility if something went wrong later.
This evening he surprised them however, not only by keeping his glasses on but also by giving the floor in turn to Konrad Simonsen without unnecessary preamble.
“I hope that this meeting will be as brief as possible,” the homicide chief began. “I acknowledge your right to be informed of our progress, but I also believe you will understand that every minute I’m sitting here takes away from time spent on locating police detective Pauline Berg and the student Jeanette Hvidt, and time is the most critical factor at the moment. So if this meeting does not proceed both quickly and constructively, you will have to manage without me and my associates.”
There was no ambiguity about this declaration, and given Simonsen’s comparatively low rank it was also slightly provocative, but the majority of the participants nodded their acceptance. Only the Minister of Justice’s secretary commented sourly, “I’m sure others can take over from you in the meantime.”
She was a younger woman with short, light hair and a pair of large, red plastic earrings that, oddly enough, suited her. Simonsen sent her an angry look without quite knowing how else he should respond. Support came from an unexpected quarter. The head of DSIS, who was not known for his forbearance, growled curtly, “Nonsense. Simonsen is right. Let’s get started.”
The ball was once again in Simonsen’s court. He made a brief status report of the police’s immediate efforts. A detailed presentation was out of the question, but on the other hand he concealed nothing, not even Pauline Berg’s unauthorised questioning of her kidnapper, or that Andreas Falkenborg had succeeded in breaking into Arne Pedersen’s, the Countess’s and even his own home and eavesdropping on them, with catastrophic consequences for Jeanette Hvidt. None of those present reproached him for that however. Instead the national chief of police removed his glasses and asked, “You say that you can use the microphones to set a trap for him, how is that?”
Again the head of DSIS broke in.
“There is no reason for us to know. The last time Falkenborg was pressurised a little, it became a hell of a problem for us with the media, but the truth is that perhaps it could have prevented the mess we’re in now if the police had been allowed to get on it when they had him.”
The subject was dropped, which suited Simonsen fine, as neither he nor anyone else had yet succeeded in finding a plausible pretext that might lure Falkenborg out into the open. The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice summarised.
“In other words, Falkenborg’s white commercial vehicle, and the warehouse you assume he has some place or other, and where he possibly is now, are the best options with regard to tracking him down?”
Simonsen’s reply was unambiguous.
“Yes, and not only the best, basically the only concrete ones. Furthermore we have initiated a series of general measures, such as heightened surveillance at financial institutions, petrol stations, ATMs, hotels, restaurants, swimming halls, community centres, camping grounds, traffic junctions, Internet cafés, libraries, and so forth—”
The Minister of Justice’s secretary interrupted and asked, “You are also guarding his home, aren’t you?”
Bertil Hampel-Koch, who was sitting next to her, whispered something that made her ears turn the same colour as her earrings. Simonsen continued without answering.
“However we perhaps have one clue that may lead us further. When we searched Andreas Falkenborg’s apartment, we photographed a key which we believe may be to the warehouse he obviously keeps somewhere in the capital region. The key has a series of numbers prominently engraved on it. None of the lock specialists can identify it, so we’ve released it to the press and expect it to be shown widely in newspapers and on TV as of early tomorrow. This sort of thing almost always produces a result. Someone must know what the numbers mean, and perhaps even what the key is to.”
The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice asked sharply, “Why isn’t this already being done in the news broadcasts this evening?”
“Because we didn’t get to them in time.”
“But you said yourself that time was of the essence.”
For the third time the head of DSIS broke in.
“It’s people who conduct investigations, not machines, and just because a matter is time-critical, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t take time to investigate. But perhaps you think that the Homicide Division has been sitting around HS playing cards? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“I don’t need to put up with that from you.”
“Then stop asking silly questions.”
“I’ll decide for myself what is silly and—”
Simonsen struck his hand on the table, so that the noise resounded.
“I don’t have time for bickering, and I don’t have time to explain why one thing hasn’t happened before another either. You can set up a commission to find that out afterwards, if the two women are killed.”
These words created quiet and a brief stand off until the public prosecutor coolly intervened. “Since no one else wants to say it, I will. The kidnapped detective works in your department, and you and your co-workers are presumably strongly personally affected. Would it be an advantage to transfer the ongoing investigation to DSIS?”
Simonsen had expected the question and decided that he would not comment on it if it arose. The proposal was not unreasonable, however unwelcome it was. It must be left to others to assess whether it should be put into effect. From the mood around the table, it seemed the prosecutor’s words had not fallen on stony ground. However Helmer Hammer, who until now had not made a peep, said curtly, “No! Konrad Simonsen is the operational leader, and everyone backs him up in his actions. Period.”
As no one wished to challenge the authority of the Prime Minister’s office, the matter was decided. Hampel-Koch departed from the topic and asked instead, “Have the two women already been killed?”
Helmer Hammer gave him a sideways glance. Hampel-Koch’s timing was perfect, like a magician deflecting the audience’s attention from his hat by conjuring a dove from his outstretched hand. Now it could be shown in the minutes that everyone was in agreement with Simonsen’s continued leadership of the case, in that no one had openly expressed disagreement with the decision.
Simonsen let Hampel-Koch’s question go to Ernesto Madsen, who said, a little nervously, “I don’t know, but there is no doubt that if he has not already killed them, he will, and will do it very soon. He does not intend to hold them prisoner longer than absolutely necessary.”
“And what would delay him? I mean, is there any cause for hope at all?”
“I don’t know about that, but with respect to the first part of your question it may be that he has to prepare the ritual he conducts when he murders.”
“Is that important to him?”
“Extremely important, he will not deviate from it a millimetre. Everything must be done exactly like his previous murders, all the way down to the slightest detail. F
or example, we know that he pretends to cut the nails of the women who don’t have long—”
Simonsen interrupted him.
“Not so many details.”
The Minister of Justice’s secretary gave a counter-order.
“Yes, I would like to hear that.”
Ernesto Madsen complied with Simonsen however and concluded, “Everything should be just like it always is.”
The gathering needed a few seconds to absorb the message, then Hampel-Koch asked, “But what preparation is there that may take time?”
“Unfortunately almost nothing, but for example he must have a red lipstick, and if he doesn’t have one, then he’ll have to find a shop and buy one.”
Everyone could see how quickly that could be done, but Simonsen pointed out, in a feeble attempt at optimism, “Bear in mind now that he’s being searched for everywhere, so maybe it’s not quite as straightforward for him as it sounds.”
The psychologist added, “He will certainly also have dug their grave before he kills them. Maybe that is delaying him. He threw himself into these two kidnappings without his customary time for preparation. In all other cases where he has killed, he has been able to arrange the whole thing long before he seized his victims. That could hardly have been the case this time.”
Doubtful looks were exchanged around the table. The odds were not in the women’s favour.
There were several questions for Ernesto Madsen.
“Could it perhaps help to appeal to him, I mean via TV? Perhaps an appeal from someone he knows?”
It was the national chief of police, this time with his glasses on. The idea was both close at hand and constructive, but Madsen shot down the proposal.
“It wouldn’t help in the least.”
The head of DSIS wanted to know, “Will he kill them together or separately?”
Madsen misunderstood.
“Do you mean in the same plastic bag?”
The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice grinned scornfully, but was quickly subdued by an angry look. The head of DSIS did not let himself be shaken, he simply said, “That was poorly worded, I’m sorry. I mean, whether perhaps he will allow some time to pass between the two killings.”
Simonsen said honestly, “That’s a good question, I should have asked it myself.”
Ernesto Madsen answered hesitantly, “I haven’t really speculated about that, but now that you mention it . . . Everything must be as it always is, otherwise the whole thing is ruined for him. That is a good point . . . actually I would think he will not kill them at the same time. He will presumably be completely finished with one before he goes to work on the other. Yes, two at a time is not probable. He will perhaps let a day go by between the killings, to deal with the practicalities, although perhaps that is more my wishful thinking than anything psychology tells me.”
The Minister of Justice’s secretary asked crossly, “When you find him . . . that is, if you find him . . . I understand that the idea is he should be shadowed and not arrested. Is everyone in agreement with that decision?”
The question was aimed directly at Simonsen, who answered.
“No, certainly not, but that’s how it will be done. My assessment is that our best chance of rescuing the women is if we follow him to his hiding place. But I admit that I’m in doubt. It also depends on when we find him, and he will not be allowed to move around for days. On the contrary we are convinced that he will refuse to talk to us when he is first captured, and then we are seriously up against the wall.”
The head of DSIS picked up the thread and carefully addressed the gathering.
“If it becomes necessary, I wish that we could pressurise him into telling us where his victims are. Especially if one, or both of them, is still alive.”
It was a feeler, everyone knew that, and everyone also knew that this subject was extremely controversial. Simonsen had long since worked out his own attitude. He would do everything in his power to get Jeanette Hvidt and Pauline Berg back alive. A situation where Andreas Falkenborg was in jail and steadfastly refused to speak, while his victims rotted in some secret place, was simply unacceptable. For that reason he was particularly interested in the others’ opinion. Carte blanche from above to go beyond the boundaries of normal questioning would affect to a great degree his decision about letting the man be shadowed in favour of arresting him immediately. Overall this meeting had developed far more productively than he had foreseen.
The prosecutor asked the head of DSIS carefully, “Do you mean physical pressure?”
The man confirmed, “Yes, that’s what I’m talking about.”
The national chief of police reached to remove his glasses, had second thoughts apparently and let them stay where they were, while he tried to avoid answering the question. “We can take a position on that problem if it becomes relevant.”
The police commissioner and the chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice were in agreement, Hampel-Koch frowned, after which Helmer Hammer, in crystal-clear turns of phrase, shot the tacit proposal to the ground. He spoke slowly and ominously.
“You can use all lawful means, including those that go to the edge, such as the episode that was reported in the press last week, but torture in any form whatsoever is completely ruled out regardless of the situation. If it does happen, the perpetrators will be prosecuted and their superiors held accountable, under their professional sanctions and the Penal Code.”
He looked directly first at the police commissioner and then at the national chief of police, and added slowly, “And that responsibility goes all the way up, don’t be in the slightest doubt about that.”
A short pause allowed his words to sink in, after which he clarified, “Denmark does not use torture, period. And torture is torture regardless of various linguistic circumlocutions of the word. No one should imagine that there are limitless opportunities for interpretation. This is a direct signal from my boss, and I can assure everyone present that it is deeply felt, both politically and personally.”
He was looking straight at Konrad Simonsen now.
“As long as Andreas Falkenborg is in the custody of the state, he will not be physically harassed.”
Then he turned to Bertil Hampel-Koch, in his capacity as minutes-keeper.
“What I just said should be stated unambiguously in the minutes, including that responsibility does not stop at operational level in the case of any incidence of torture. Please read back what you’ve noted.”
Hampel-Koch read, and Helmer Hammer confirmed it. Again he looked at the police commissioner and the national chief of police, who both nodded acknowledgment. Only then did Hammer let the meeting continue.
Hampel-Koch immediately took the floor and in his high-pitched voice directed an extremely surprising question to Helmer Hammer.
“If this concerns the two women’s lives, and the serial murderer is not in the custody of the state, will you then admit that it may be necessary to use questioning of a particular type?”
The head of DSIS added, “That is, as a very last resort.”
Helmer Hammer shook his head with irritation and answered, “You are not specifying what form of questioning, so I do not think that your comments give reason for any comments on my part.”
Simonsen noticed sweat break out at the bottom of his back and feverishly loosened a few buttons on his shirt. Suddenly it was crystal clear to him why he was sitting here; why indeed the meeting had been called at all. Helmer Hammer’s comment was word for word synonymous with the sentence he had praised in such glowing terms in the Botanical Gardens less than a week ago—a sentence that now gave Simonsen permission to do the impermissible. The Countess also understood what had happened. They had just been given the green light to do whatever they wanted with Falkenborg when he was captured, so long as no one found out about it. Her jaw dropped open, a little trickle of saliva escaping from one corner of her mouth. The head of DSIS handed her a napkin without looking at
her. Instead he turned to Ernesto Madsen and asked, “What do you think, based on your professional insight, the probability is that Falkenborg will let himself be questioned by the police if he is captured?”
“It is slight.”
“How slight?”
Simonsen could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Ernesto Madsen answered, sounding mystified, “That I couldn’t say, just slight.”
The time had come for Simonsen to take the lead. He wanted DSIS people added to his surveillance effort, and thought that perhaps he had gained an unexpected ally in the form of the head of DSIS himself. The man was evidently quite clear about the under secretary’s underlying message. Presumably the only listener here besides the Countess, Simonsen and Bertil Hampel-Koch who was. Simonsen turned to him.
“I could use a large number of your people to help with our surveillance effort. They are better trained for that sort of thing than mine are.”
A miracle happened, the head of DSIS gave a positive response.
“Excellent, but under my command.”
“Yes, but you’ll report to me. An investigation doesn’t have two leaders. That’s a recipe for disaster.”
The police commissioner backed up Simonsen and plunged into a long rigmarole about unclear paths of command, which in her view was a disaster on a par with the plague and marginal tax pressure. She was interrupted by the head of DSIS, who growled, “I can live with Simon . . . that is, Konrad Simonsen . . . as chief for a couple of days.”
The matter was now settled. The final decision however lay with the national chief of police. He said hesitantly, “Yes, well, it could be that way, we should consider—”
He got no farther. The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice made things awkward.
“This is a bad idea, which my boss opposes. The security of the realm must not be weakened by this diversion of resources.”
The Minister of Justice’s secretary added cynically, “This concerns only two human beings, after all.”