by Lotte Hammer
The woman said sadly, “Do you have to punish him? He’s having a hard time. And yesterday I told him that I didn’t want to see him any more.”
She sounded as if the break-up was punishment enough. A few tears rolled down alongside her nose. Troulsen ignored her and left. Simonsen felt sorry for her. She was obviously under the illusion that the world was good, and would probably have to pay dearly on a regular basis for her positive view of life. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she seized it quickly.
“There are hundreds of police officers who will be ready to break every bone in his body when they hear this, so his continued employment with us is impossible.”
“You don’t need to tell anyone.”
She let out a little sniffle, which he did not respond to, and then another.
“Now I’ll make sure you get a ride home.”
He stroked her hair gently a couple of times and thought that some people you meet too late. Then he sent her away.
CHAPTER 54
The sharp light came on without warning and totally blinded the two women, so that the first they knew of Andreas Falkenborg’s presence was the cry of lament he let out as soon as he entered the room. As little by little they regained their sight, they saw him jumping around on the floor in front of them, waving his arms and legs like a child out of control. Occasionally he shouted furious reproaches at Pauline Berg for the calamity she had inflicted on herself.
“You shouldn’t have done that, you don’t understand anything, you stupid goose!”
His mask hung crookedly, and he made no attempt to straighten it. Pauline said nothing to start with. She had been jolted from a troubled sleep, and the pain in her scalp struck her again full force. She had bitten her lips bloody besides.
“You’re going to get a shock that will make you lose the rest of your hair, that’s what you deserve!”
Jeanette Hvidt twitched nervously when he heard him mention the electric prod, and stammered, “She did it herself. I told her not to, but she begged me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. But I’ll do what he says.”
Falkenborg straightened his mask and stood quietly for a moment while he observed Jeanette, who continued to protest her innocence. He commanded curtly, “She will be quiet.”
Jeanette fell silent immediately. Pauline said in a controlled voice, “You can torture me as much as you want, with your cowardly electric stick, but that won’t make my hair grow, Andreas. Maybe it would be a good idea to think about getting as far away as possible while you have the chance. Here in the Copenhagen area thousands of people are searching for you, and it’s only a matter of time before they find you. And in that connection there is a little unwritten rule within the police force that you probably aren’t aware of, but you soon will be in a very unpleasant way.”
To start with he ignored her bait. Soon however he asked, “What rule is that?”
“That anyone who tortures a police officer gets the exact same medicine from their colleagues when he is caught. And, believe me, you’re going to be caught.”
“You’re lying.”
“All right then. By all means keep on living in your dream world, I don’t care. Go and get your silly prod, if you want. I’m not half as scared of it as you will be when they use it on you. By the way, that couldn’t possibly be a substitute for your dick, little Andreas, could it? You know, I think it is. You’re impotent, aren’t you? Even there you can’t live up to your father, you miserable little creep.”
“Shut your damn’ mouth.”
“Certainly not. Aren’t you going out to get the prod? Just admit you can’t manage without it.”
“You can’t allow yourself to talk that way. As a police officer you have a duty to talk properly.”
“Andreas, there is no end to your childish idiocy. Go out then and get your prod, and let’s get it over with. I’m just going to say to you that whether or not you give me a shock, I’m going to say you did when we’re found. I’ll say the same thing too if you bother Jeanette, and it will be a real pleasure to see you writhing in pain while three of my colleagues hold you, and another one empties the whole battery into your forehead.”
Falkenborg pleaded.
“You mustn’t do that, that’s wrong.”
“Then see about getting away while you have a head start. Here in Hareskoven you don’t have a chance. They already started going through the bunkers yesterday, it’s standard procedure with kidnappings so I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Tick, tock, tick, tock, Andreas—can you feel time running out?”
Jeanette also sensed the new division of power and added, “Then you’ll get a taste of your own medicine, you pig. And if you kill me, I guarantee that sooner or later my boyfriend will find you and poke your eyes out.”
“She will keep quiet.”
“You keep quiet yourself, you psychopath.”
He turned on his heel and left the room without closing the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Jeanette’s fear got the upper hand again.
“Oh, no. If he gets the prod, I can’t bear that.”
Berg shushed her, and both of them listened for a long time. Finally Jeanette said, “Do you think he’s gone?”
“Yes, I think so, but I couldn’t hear a car.”
They waited a while without anything happening, and again it was Jeanette who broke the silence.
“And then someone will come and find us?”
“Yes, they will.”
“You said they were already starting to go through the bunkers. That it’s standard.”
“Yes, I’m sure they are.”
“How many are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying. It was a lie, right?”
“You were very brave, Jeanette. Your courage saved your life.”
This evasive manoeuvre of Pauline’s did not succeed. Jeanette insisted on the truth.
“Wasn’t it a lie?”
Pauline Berg answered harshly and angrily.
“Yes, it was a lie. A lie that means you are sitting here alive and not down in that hole while he shovels dirt and chunks of cement over you. Are you satisfied now?”
Falkenborg’s triumphant howl filled the room; he was standing in the open door. The mask was missing.
“I knew it, I knew you were trying to cheat, you cheater!”
He was gone again, only to return to the room soon afterwards, this time with his mask on and a pair of sturdy hearing protectors on his ears besides. In one hand he held the prod, in the other two pieces of fabric. The sight was ridiculous, but neither of the women laughed. He placed himself in front of Jeanette Hvidt and shouted, “She will open her mouth.”
The girl obeyed immediately, and he stuffed one piece of fabric in her mouth. Then it was Pauline Berg’s turn. She clenched her teeth, he raised the prod and held it a few centimetres from her neck without saying anything. Pauline opened her mouth, and the result was the same.
Falkenborg removed his hearing protectors and his mask. He set both down on the floor, and for the next hour Pauline had impotently to watch while he worked. Occasionally he left the room to get materials, tools, and whatever else he needed. A large plastic tub, two buckets of water, two sacks of concrete mix, masonry tools and a long concrete finishing trowel. From time to time he made small talk with her to mock her. Everyday things, indifferent comments, mixed with swear words and dark threats.
“In the old days you had to mix the concrete yourself. It was easy to remember anyway: one, two, three—one part cement, two parts sand, and three parts gravel or small stones—but no one bothers to do that any more. Today you buy it pre-mixed ready for use.”
Then he retrieved a small table and unfolded it by the side of the grave. Carefully he picked up his mask and set it on the table. He left and returned immediately with scissors, lipstick, a roll of duct tape and a plastic bag.
“First the concrete will have to set, then we can get started.
Meanwhile you can rot in that chair, and we’ll see whether anyone is looking for you. Yes, go ahead and cry . . . cry as much as you want. You made the bed you’re lying in. You should have stayed away from me, hussy.”
CHAPTER 55
A high-pressure system, which the weather reports predicted would last for the next few days, had announced its arrival, and the sun was now fierce against the windows of the Homicide Division after the morning’s grey drizzle. Inside Konrad Simonsen, the Countess, Poul Troulsen and Ernesto Madsen were holding a meeting in Simonsen’s office. All four of them were sweating, and the three men looked tired. Only the Countess appeared relatively healthy, primarily due to a good layer of makeup. Troulsen yawned and asked Simonsen, “What are we waiting for?”
“Nothing, I’m just trying to collect my thoughts.”
The older officer looked at his boss and thought that he seemed even more pent-up than the day before. He noted at the same time the sternness beneath the Countess’s careful facade. Not that this was surprising in any way, for with every minute that passed without finding the women—or at least Andreas Falkenborg—the chances of a happy outcome grew smaller, and that sort of strain told. He yawned again, this time without bothering to cover his mouth.
The Countess yawned too. The morning and most of the night before had been spent organising and carrying out the search for the two women, with crypts and chapels being given first priority. It was a slow process that required concentration and methodology. Now, with the planning over, they could not do much except wait; wait and hope. A quiver around her eyes revealed her state of mind, and she massaged her temples lightly while trying to convince herself that there was still a chance for the two women. She glanced at her boss, sitting with eyes squeezed shut, lost to the world. He had been working for three days straight and pushing everyone to give their all. He swept personal concerns tyrannically and consistently off the table with the result that the whole division was about to drop from exhaustion. The same must apply to him too, although he did not talk about it. Since the meeting last night he had withdrawn into himself and was hard to reach, even for her.
Finally he said, “We have only one item on the agenda, namely Falkenborg’s residence and warehouse, which in practice means news about his keys, his car and his computer, and the search for him in crypts and chapels which I initiated this morning. The car is your inquiry, Poul. What’s the status?”
Troulsen took out his notebook, browsed a little back and forth, and said, “Maybe I should start by saying that Pauline actually produced some solid pieces of evidence against Falkenborg before she . . . I have just spoken with a Vibeke Behrens, who was apparently Catherine Thomsen’s girlfriend back in 1996 and ’97, and it turns out that she knew Andreas—”
Simonsen said quietly, “His car, Poul. The rest doesn’t matter now.”
Troulsen seemed confused for a moment. Then he accepted the direction and said, “Yes, of course. Sorry, but I’m so damn’ tired. So, his car has been seen in over fifty places in the capital region since the hunt was announced, including fifteen times within the past two hours alone. That is, after we sent out the information that it’s now red. The most interesting observation happened at a parking lot not far from Skovlunde Station, about ten kilometres north—”
“We’re aware of where Skovlunde Station is. Do you know what he was doing there?”
“Yes, eating at a hot dog stand. A woman saw her chance to take a picture of both him and his car with her cell phone, and then she called us, but when we got there he was gone. But now at least we know that his car really is red.”
The Countess asked, “How long did it take before we were on the scene? That is, I mean in the form of a water-tight surveillance, not just the first officer.”
“Less than half an hour. It was the DSIS people, they’re very effective.”
“Half an hour? I’m not particularly impressed.”
“That’s due to ignorance, because you should be. If we had conducted that action ourselves, it would have been at least—”
Simonsen said, “Okay, okay. Go on, where else has he been seen?”
“At 8.35 a.m. at the hot dog truck and later at Buddinge lumberyard, it’s next to Buddinge Station. Here he bought two sacks of pre-mixed concrete and paid cash. This happened at 9.16 a.m.”
Madsen asked, “What would he do with that?”
It was Simonsen who answered. The information was not new to him, so he’d had had time to think it through.
“A realistic suggestion unfortunately is that he is going to repair a cellar floor. You can figure out for yourself why.”
The psychologist said, “Yes, I can easily figure that out, but perhaps this is good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think he will kill either of them before everything is ready, and that means that the time for his first killing at a minimum is pushed ahead to this morning. That’s something anyway. Then perhaps his other murder will not happen until tomorrow.”
Troulsen expressed what they were all thinking.
“If it makes any difference since we have to find him first. But however that may be, we have another indicator of where he has been today, and this is quite fresh. I discussed it with Malte, and it’s just a matter of calling his audio server, or whatever it’s called.”
The Countess said, “Audio server? I don’t follow.”
“Yes, it’s something technical, and I can’t really explain it, but it’s where he stores the audio files from the surveillance of your and Simon’s home. His microphones and transmitters are connected with some networks, and you’ll have to talk with Malte about the other details. However that may be, he logged in on his server from a PC in Lyngby at 12.41 p.m., a good half an hour ago, but unfortunately this was done via an unprotected wireless network, and also . . . ”
Troulsen leafed through his notes.
“The IP address is unknown but being worked on, whatever that means. But we can say with certainty that he was at Ulrikkenborg Plads in Lyngby at twenty minutes to one.”
Simonsen asked, “Do we know if he has been on his server earlier today, and how often he goes in and checks?”
“That data is being generated. It hasn’t been easy to trace him. It only became effective when Interpol started monitoring directly in England, where the server is physically. He has circumvented the barriers here by going across the US. I admit I’m just echoing here what others have tried to explain. I apologise.”
“It doesn’t matter, so long as you can tell us what the result will be.”
“That we can see where his laptop computer has been, and as he presumably has it in his car, then where he and his car have been, under the assumption however that he has regular contact with the server.”
“When?”
“They promised it within an hour, and it’s been almost that long, but it doesn’t help to pressure them. They’re working as fast as they can.”
“Pressure them anyway.”
Troulsen obeyed. He took out his cell phone and went outside. Shortly after that he was back.
“Five minutes, then we’ll have a map and a list, they’re sending it up.”
Simonsen ordered, “Tech has a woman who is expert in geographic information systems, I think it’s called. She can extract relevant conclusions—”
Troulsen interrupted. “She is already waiting in my office along with two mathematicians from the University of Copenhagen.”
“Brilliant. Then I have something to say about the key, but unfortunately it can’t be done quickly. The number on the key’s rivet goes with a corresponding padlock, and the set was sold by a hardware chain about ten years ago. The product was obviously intended for people who have a lot of padlocks in one place, but sadly it doesn’t help us find that place.”
There was a knock on the door; the Countess opened and received an envelope from an officer. She pulled out the contents, unfolded a map of the capital region on the
table, and quickly read through the accompanying list while the others studied the map. Troulsen said, “It’s unbelievable that he can drive around like this when everyone is searching for his car. I mean, it’s not just us. There are taxi drivers, postal workers, bicycle couri-ers . . . anyone with eyes in their head.”
Simonsen said, “It’s just a matter of time. Maybe he’s been lucky so far. Some of the calls we’ve received certainly tally with our map here. How many points are there?”
The Countess checked her list and answered, “There are sixteen, five of which are from today.”
“Ernesto, what is he doing basically? He drives around, as if he thinks he’s invisible, apparently aimlessly. Can you explain that?”
The psychologist attempted.
“So long as he has not killed the women, he presumably is not thinking about anything else, including his own safety. What he will do afterwards is hard to predict. I don’t think he knows that himself, but presumably there will be a phase where he is more or less confused, and as long as that lasts, he is not likely to move far from the places he knows.”
“And when he is no longer confused?”
“He will probably flee. My guess is to Sweden, which he apparently has visited before. But how long—”
Simonsen’s cell phone rang. He said, “Be quiet, they’re only calling if it’s top priority.”
They were silent while he listened and shortly afterwards said thank you. Then he said, quietly and without discernible joy, “We have him, and DSIS has set up an iron ring he won’t slip out of.”
“Where?”
“The bank in Lejre. He has returned his mask. There is a team of technicians en route, but this is bad . . . on the inside he puts marks, red marks with lipstick. Four of the marks are old, but one mark is quite fresh. It was put there very recently.”
Troulsen asked quietly, “You mean that one of the women is dead?”
The police officers looked at Madsen, who stammered, “Yes, one of the women has been killed in his usual manner. I thought that he would totally distance himself from—”