by Lotte Hammer
“Where did you sit in the car?”
“Beside him, but I didn’t dare do anything except look. He had his prod and . . . well, you know.”
“How many times has he given you shocks?”
“Once when he caught me, it was in my uncle’s garden, and then twice down here one after the other, because I was crying and using ugly . . . shouted at him, called him names and such. No, three times down here. He made me scream after I sang for you.”
“Tell me, were there people on the path?”
“No, but it was raining.”
“Do you think that was why?”
“I don’t know . . . no, I just don’t think very many people go this way.”
“So it won’t help to cry out for help?”
“No, I think no one can hear us.”
“Can you tell me anything else about our bunker?”
“It’s called an air raid shelter, and you can rent them for thirteen hundred kroner a month plus electricity.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
“He told me. I don’t know if it’s true.”
“Why did he say that?”
“To humiliate me, I think. When I came there were bags in here, he carried them into another room. He said the price, when he said that he had paid three years in advance, and that no one except him ever came here. But that’s not correct.”
A little light bulb came on for Berg.
“What do you mean? Has anyone else come while you’ve been here?”
“Yes, you.”
“Well, yes, but besides me?”
“No, only you.”
Berg thought for a moment and said, “If he’s rented this bunker, it’s only a matter of time before they find us. They are trawling through his entire life at the moment. Every single day he’s been alive.”
“He didn’t rent it in his own name, he bragged about that. He also said what he called himself, but I can’t remember.”
“Did you see anything else on your way in?”
“Yes, there was a red square in the grass. I don’t know what it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“The grass was red there. I don’t know why.”
“How big a square? What colour red? Tell me.”
Jeanette Hvidt told her. When she was done, Pauline Berg asked, “Tell me, what colour was his car, can you remember that?”
“Red too. The same colour, now that you mention it. Do you think he painted it?”
Berg made light of it. Her fellow prisoner was afraid enough already, there was no reason to worry her further. But this was not good. Her colleagues were searching for a white car, not a red one, a detail that could be decisive. She tried to sound optimistic.
“Okay, let me think over what we’ll do.”
“Don’t we need to smell and taste?”
“No, we’ve done enough for now.”
Pauline thought intently for a long time, trying with all her might to think of something that might prevent the death that Falkenborg had threatened her with when he came back. Then suddenly she had an idea, and the more she thought about it, the better it seemed. She pushed as far to the left and up on one side as she could because of her handcuffs, while at the same time she curled up and pressed her head down toward Jeanette Hvidt’s manacled hand. Her many hours of ballet exercises had made Pauline limber and paid off now; she sensed that the process had almost succeeded. Jeanette Hvidt asked, “What are you doing?”
“Jeanette, see whether you can stretch your fingers and feel my hair . . . in a moment, when I say to.”
She twisted and curled up again toward the girl’s hand. When she was in place, she said with difficulty, “Now, Jeanette.”
“I can, but why should I touch your hair?”
Pauline sat back in place. It was impossible to hold the position very long at one time.
“In a moment, when I’m down again, you will twist a tuft of my hair around your finger and hold as tight as you possibly can. And you should only take a little bit of hair. When that has happened, say so, do you follow me?”
“Yes, if that’s what you want.”
They both performed the exercise. Jeanette said, “Now I have a tuft.”
Pauline jerked her head upward with all her might. An awful pain in her scalp told her the result. Even though she was prepared, she groaned out loud.
“What happened there, did I pull your hair out? Yes, I did, I can feel it!”
“Yes, you did. That was the idea. Now you will try the same, bend over towards my hand as much as you can.”
“No, why should I do that?”
Berg explained about the girl’s grandmother and Andreas Falkenborg’s psychological profile and a few other things she made up. She concluded, “It’s our only chance. If we’ve pulled out our hair or maybe only part of it, he’ll let us be. Then we’re not interesting to him any more.”
“Do you want to pull all your hair out?”
“As much as I can.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Only a little, it was nothing.”
“I don’t believe that, you screamed.”
“That was the first time. Besides we can take it in tiny little bites, there’s enough time before he comes back.”
“But then he’ll be furious when he sees it. We’ll get the prod, both of us. We’ll get the prod lots of times. I don’t want to.”
“Would you rather be in the bag?”
Jeanette started sniffling again, but shortly after she said, “I’ll try as you say.”
Pauline heard the girl groan as she bowed forward. She herself extended her fingers upward, as far as her handcuffs allowed, but their exertions were of no use. Jeanette tried as best she could, each time in a different position according to Pauline’s instructions and encouragement, but nothing helped. At last they gave up. Jeanette was simply not limber enough.
“Jeanette, you should pull my hair out, then we’ll think of something else for you later.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You have no choice.”
“I won’t do it. Do you think I’m stupid, or what? Then he’ll take me instead of you. I don’t want to die so that you can live.”
“I said that we’ll think of something else for you.”
“What is that? I want to know first.”
Pauline leaned over and bit the girl hard on the upper arm. She screamed with pain.
“Ow, that really hurt, why are you doing that? I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Just get started, and now. Without discussion.”
“I don’t want to, you crazy bitch. I hope he roasts you with his prod.”
This time Pauline bit twice, the first time as hard as she could. Jeanette howled in fear and pain.
“Do it, or should I bite a chunk out of you until you realise that this is serious?”
Jeanette was bitten four times before she gave in and obeyed orders. Tuft after tuft disappeared from Pauline Berg’s head; soon she noticed blood flowing down her cheek and then her neck. The pain was unbearable for a long time, until at last she did not think it really concerned her any longer. Jeanette cried unhappily, but obediently held tight, when she was asked to. After a long time, half crying, half sniffling she said, “I can’t get hold of any more now, will you please stop biting me?”
Pauline did not answer her. On her left side she could still feel hair against her cheek. She straightened up in the chair, after which she turned her head and alternately began to pound and grind it against the coarse bunker wall behind her. It hurt even more than before if possible, and she was soon moaning with pain. In spite of that she kept on and on and on.
CHAPTER 53
In the small hours between Tuesday and Wednesday Konrad Simonsen snatched a restless sleep in his desk chair. He had taken off his shoes, put his legs on the desk and—mostly for peace of mind and out of habit—used his jacket as a kind of duvet. At f
ive o’clock in the morning he was wakened by the phone. An officer told him that he had a witness he ought to interview personally. The man sounded tired, but Simonsen recognised his name and knew that he was experienced. Not the type to disturb you for no reason, and definitely not at that time of day, so he agreed to the questioning without objection, after which he fell asleep again. Shortly after the officer was in the room escorting a woman in her twenties.
Simonsen collected himself. After five minutes in the bathroom, where some cold water on his head chased away the worst of his fatigue, he felt reasonably functional. When he returned the officer introduced the woman.
“This is Juli Denissen from Frederiksværk, and she encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening. She also has important information about his car.”
The officer placed a thin report on the desk and stood to attention expectantly. Simonsen skimmed it and noted that the witness had been questioned twice before. Both times during the night. He turned to the woman.
“Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”
He had to repeat the request before she understood, after which she left the office without argument. She left her lovely multicoloured bag behind. He noted that her gait was unusual, as if her upper body was not quite synchronised with her legs. He closed the door behind her.
As soon as she was outside, the officer asked, “Do you want a summary? I can see that you’re really tired.”
“No, but I want to know whether she is reliable. Or rather, I assume that you’ve checked her thoroughly.”
“As thoroughly as we could during the night, and nothing indicates that she is . . . mental.”
“What’s your own assessment?”
The answer came with conviction.
“She’s as normal as you and me. Otherwise I wouldn’t involve you.”
Simonsen mumbled inaudibly, sent the officer away and showed the woman in again. They sat opposite each other at his desk. He browsed through her papers again and said matter-of-factly, “You are twenty-four years old, divorced, attend the Technical School in Frederiksværk, live alone with your two-year-old child.”
The woman confirmed this and suppressed a yawn, which she excused with a lovely smile. Involuntarily Simonsen smiled back. It was hard not to.
“Can you tell me a little about your daughter?”
If she was surprised by the question she did not show it. Without hesitation she complied with the request, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to talk about her child at five-thirty in the morning to the head of the country’s most-discussed investigation. While she spoke, he observed her thoroughly, which did not seem to embarrass her. She was slender, below average height, with long dark hair and high, soft cheekbones; definitely pretty in her particular way. She had a surplus of charisma, but her eyes made the greatest impression. They were brown, happy and trustful when they met his, without submission but also without arrogance. He discovered to his surprise as she was speaking that he liked hearing her voice, and he let her continue a bit beyond the point where he felt convinced she was not concealing any pathological defects. At last however he interrupted her.
“You think you encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening, on the local train to Frederiksværk?”
“Yes, I think so. And I also saw him on the S-train to Hillerød. He got on at Nørreport Station.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Where should I start?”
“You were in Copenhagen. What were you doing there?”
“I had been in London for two days and came from the airport . . . ”
Her explanation was thorough and precise; the times fitted with Falkenborg’s disappearance from his attendants, and she could also describe his clothing. At Hillerød Station they both changed trains, and by chance they were sitting so that she could see his reflected image in the window. In Grimstrup, four stations from Hillerød, she and Falkenborg were the only passengers who got off, and he had walked to a small parking lot next to the station where his car was parked. She had watched as he drove away.
“Can you describe the car?”
“Yes, it was a red Volkswagen Multivan.”
“You are quite certain. Do you know about cars?”
“My father is a car mechanic. I grew up with cars.”
“Do you know why you’re sitting here?”
She nodded, almost apologetically.
“Because his car was red.”
He nodded too. Then he found a photocopy of a drawing in her papers and placed it before her.
“You made this portrait of Andreas Falkenborg, as you sat on the train to Frederiksværk. Why did you do that?”
“I always draw people on the train. It’s a habit. I draw them if I think they look interesting, or simply to pass the time.”
“Why were you in London?”
“To draw an ancient wall.”
“That sounds strange.”
“I want to be an architect.”
“Where was your daughter while you were in England?”
“With her father.”
“What shade of red was Falkenborg’s car?”
“It was dusk at the time, and then colours are hard to determine. But it was like the Danish flag, I think.”
“Did you draw other people on your train ride?”
He switched between topics, back and forth, to confuse her; she managed every single question with honest, simple answers. Except for the last.
“You live in Frederiksværk. Why did you get off in Grimstrup?”
“That’s not important, and I’ve promised not to talk about it.”
She emphasised the word promised, as if now they didn’t need to talk any more about it.
“Who did you promise?”
“Someone I know.”
“Did anyone else see the car besides you?”
“Not quite so well.”
“Who?”
“Someone I know.”
Simonsen sighed and quietly explained.
“You called us four times yesterday evening. Then you came on your own initiative here to Police Headquarters at night, where you insisted on making a statement. This is the third time you’re being questioned, which means that we take your testimony seriously, which I’m sure you’re well aware of. But I don’t have room for mistakes. At the moment two women are in extreme danger at best, so there is no room here for keeping secrets, regardless of what you’ve promised whom. Furthermore, I don’t understand why you didn’t call until almost a full day after your train ride. I would also like an explanation for that.”
Juli Denissen thought deeply and came up with the wrong answer.
“I guarantee that the car was red. You have to believe me. The rest has no significance.”
Simonsen swore to himself and considered whether he should take the time to talk sense into her. He decided it was not worth wasting the energy. He tried the silent treatment for a short time, until he firmly shook his head. Then he called for Poul Troulsen and felt miserable about it. She deserved better.
After Juli was picked up, he had a hard time getting her out of his mind, and he was very relieved when a good hour later Troulsen returned and hustled her back to her former place, while he explained.
“She was picked up by her lover at Grimstrup Station, and together they drove to his summer house in Asserbo. He has a wife and children and according to Juli keeps his affairs as far away from the rest of his life as possible. For example, he didn’t want to meet her in Hillerød for fear that someone would recognise him. Both of them saw Falkenborg’s car, he however only fleetingly, but he hasn’t contacted us, although he maintains the opposite with respect to his . . . with respect to Juli.”
He referred to the woman, who sat with bowed head looking sad.
“When the announcements in the media kept referring to a white commercial vehicle, she stepped in herself, and . . . well, the rest you know. Her acquaintance, by the way, is one of us.
That is, still according to Juli.”
Simonsen felt anger bubbling up and made no attempt to subdue it. His voice resounded in the office.
“I hope for his sake that he’s not. Who are we talking about?”
Troulsen said the man’s name. Simonsen knew who he meant; a middle-aged, competent man he had worked with numerous times. He asked, perplexed, “The police constable?”
“Yes, if we’re to believe Juli. He denies any acquaintance with her whatsoever. I just spoke to him, and he was quite definite about it. He says he has never met her, she has never been in his summer house, he has never picked her up at any station, and so on and so forth. Never to everything I said. I’ve ordered phone information on them both. Unauthorised, but we don’t have time for anything else. It will take about an hour before we have them, and—”
Juli Denissen interrupted him then.
“Did he say that he doesn’t know me?”
The question was directed at Simonsen.
“Yes, and now I really am having doubts about your story. You are going to remain here a while longer, until I find out which of you is lying.”
A film of moisture passed over her eyes, which she quickly blinked away before it formed tears. She tightened her jaw for a couple of seconds and regained control. Then she fished her cell phone out of her bag and started working the keys while she said, “I have some pictures. Just a moment . . . my phone isn’t working, it has a mind of its own, but I can’t afford to buy a new one.”
The two men waited until her phone worked properly. It took time, but she was successful at last. She explained, “The first ones are from the summer house, the others were taken at my place.”
Neither of the officers said anything for a while. Then Simonsen whistled.
“Bring that creep in here, Poul. Tell him on the way that the Ministry of Justice must have his resignation by the end of the day. And if he makes the slightest bit of trouble . . . Well, I hardly need to tell you. But first of all get him to confirm the colour of Falkenborg’s car, and if he does, call and change the search description. Make sure that our own cars and all taxis get the message right away.”
Troulsen answered tiredly, “It actually tallies with the five calls we’ve already received from witnesses who have seen Falkenborg in a red car. But it has been yellow too of course, and . . . ”