by Lotte Hammer
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“No, unfortunately. It’s crazy, Pauline may have to die because we will protect a psychopath who has murdered five women. If I was the one to decide, then . . . well, obviously it’s not fun to think about, but better that than Pauline dying.”
“It won’t happen.”
“That she dies?”
“That’s not what I meant, but let’s talk about something else.”
“What would that be? That Falkenborg guy is just driving around and around, when he’s not snoring in his hotel room. I don’t understand why we’re going to keep on sitting and staring at that. I can’t stand being down in the control room or whatever you’re calling it, it’s like being at a funeral. And I just don’t understand why we’re letting him be.”
The Countess thought that the vast majority at Police Headquarters would agree with him. Simonsen was having a harder and harder time maintaining that surveillance of Andreas Falkenborg was the right strategy, even though she and the head of DSIS were doing everything in their power to support him. But he needed time to get his under-the-table agreement with Marcus Kolding completely in place.
“Maybe something will happen today.”
“What would that be? Do you know something?”
“Wait and see, Malte.”
“They say it’s going to be just as hot as yesterday, and that’s not good either, right?”
“No, that’s not very good.”
“It’s hard to drink anything yourself, when you think about her. But actually I came over to ask you if I could slip home for a couple of hours during the day. It’s Anita’s birthday, and I haven’t even bought her a present.
“No, Malte, you have to stay here. We may need you at short notice. In return you can do what you want while you’re waiting, so long as you keep your cell phone on.”
Half an hour later frustration at Police Headquarters over Simonsen’s delay hit a high point in the form of a dozen officers who forced their way into the homicide chief’s office, some in uniform, most in civilian clothes, all with serious expressions on their faces. Simonsen was sitting behind his desk, fighting off sleep, when the group arrived and quickly filled the office.
An older officer, known for his controlled manner and with broad support in all camps, was the spokesman for the group. He stood quietly by the door and waited until everyone was inside. Then he said, coolly but clearly, “This can’t go on any longer, Simon. It will soon be twenty-four hours since we have known where Falkenborg is, and it is obvious to everyone besides you that he does not intend to return to the place where he has hidden the two women. So either you arrest him, or we will—with or without orders.”
Simonsen stared at him and the other man held his gaze without wavering. The chief inspector picked up the phone, got hold of the Countess and ordered in a clear voice, “Arrange for the national chief of police to come down to my office as quickly as possible.”
Then he took a report at random from his desk and started reading it. The waiting men became more and more restless. One left the office, another attempted an explanation but was stopped by Simonsen’s raised hand.
Less than a minute later the national chief of police arrived, and Simonsen asked, “From what I understood at the meeting yesterday, I have operational responsibility for the Falkenborg investigation. Or perhaps I’ve misunderstood?”
For once the national chief of police spoke clearly.
“No, you have definitely not misunderstood. It is your responsibility, and yours alone.”
He looked around at the gathered police officers, slowly removed his glasses and added angrily, “What’s the problem? Is there anyone here who hasn’t understood that? Or perhaps still can’t accept it?”
“That I don’t really know. But if it is the case, do I have your support to suspend them until this is over?”
Again the national chief of police observed the men, this time with an expression like thunder. Then he hissed, “You have my permission to fire them without pension if they put any obstacles whatsoever in your way.”
Simonsen looked up at him and said quietly, “Thanks. I’ll manage the rest myself.”
The national chief of police put his glasses back on and left, the homicide chief concentrated on his report again, and soon he was alone in the office.
A short time later Simonsen, the Countess, the head of DSIS, Madsen and the police commissioner met. The head of DSIS had also brought a secretary along, an impeccably dressed young man who said nothing but efficiently tapped on his noise-reduction keyboard, even before the meeting had started. Everyone was tired of the wait, which seemed to lead nowhere but to a steadily increasing state of frustration. Only the police commissioner seemed fresh. She was in a gaudy tailor-made suit that made you think of a street juggler or a parrot. She looked at the secretary and asked the head of DSIS, “I thought this was an informal conversation, why have you brought someone to take minutes?”
“You and Simon are using a lot of my resources at the moment. It’s bad enough that my budget is shot to pieces without me having the slightest thing in writing later on.”
“But this meeting is not about finances at all.”
“Everything is about finances.”
“What a lot of nonsense.”
“It’s about how my resources are being used, I have to be able to document that at the end of the year.”
Anyone who knew the police commissioner could see that she was angry, but she was able to maintain her composure. She said flatly, “I want the minutes for review before they are distributed.”
The head of DSIS agreed, and the meeting could begin. Simonsen was first to speak.
“I know that we’re all tired and frustrated. The last few days have been hard, and none of us thinks it has been fun to sit and watch that screen without being able to do anything, while knowing that Pauline’s situation is perhaps getting more and more—”
He stopped mid-sentence and thought to himself that this was the most miserable introduction he had ever given a meeting, and that basically he didn’t care. Then he continued.
“Sorry, I’m tired, and I got tongue-tied, but I'm sure you understand what I mean.”
They did, and Simonsen went on.
“It’s clear that if nothing happens soon, we will be forced to do something. The question is what, and we will clarify that at this meeting. There are various possibilities, but to begin with we need a brief status report.”
He looked at the head of DSIS, who took over.
“There is not much beyond what you already know. At the moment he’s having breakfast at his hotel in Herlev. Yesterday he drove around more or less aimlessly. Occasionally he connected his laptop and looked for anything new from his eavesdropping, and other times he surfed around on the Internet and read news, mainly about himself. To top it off he wrote an entry to a blog, in his own name besides, but it was vague and harmless.”
“How closely is he being covered?”
It was the police commissioner who wanted to know.
“Very close. As closely as possible. We have people around him all the time, and a transmitter has been placed on his car besides, so we can constantly follow where he is. That is what you see on the screen as a blue circle.”
He pointed towards the big screen on the wall, which showed a map of Herlev with a stationary blue circle in the middle of the image.
The Countess asked, “The transmitter won’t fall off?”
“Of course it won’t, it’s specially designed for the purpose, located on the inside of the fender over the right rear wheel and attached with powerful magnets. You can get it loose if you pull on it firmly, but ordinary movements from the car don’t affect it.”
“What about his cell phone and hotel room? Are they being bugged?”
The head of DSIS sent Ernesto Madsen an irritated look, as if he wanted to tell him that he was there as a psychologist and should keep his mouth shut when po
lice-related subjects were discussed. Nevertheless he answered curtly, “Falkenborg has three SIM cards, but does not use his cell phone. And yes, his room is bugged.”
The psychologist did not let himself be cowed.
“But don’t we risk him playing hide-and-seek with all that bugging? He is an expert in the field.”
The head of DSIS snorted.
“He’s no expert! Our instruments are at least two generations on from the trash he peddles, and the technicians we have are light years ahead in both knowledge and experience. He’s an amateur, we’re professionals, don’t forget that.”
This torrent of words closed the mouth of Ernesto Madsen and at the same time concluded the review by the head of DSIS. Now it was Simonsen’s turn again.
“Which brings us to the serious part. That is, what do we do now? There are only two options: go on like yesterday or else bring him in. Neither of these is enticing, and I will not go along with the first one. We are about to reach the length of time a person can go without water, and we have to allow ourselves time to work on him. For that reason I will arrest him today, no later than noon, unless he breaks the pattern from yesterday. This is not up for discussion.”
Madsen said darkly, “You shouldn’t count on him letting himself be questioned. I’m almost certain he won’t.”
The police commissioner added, “And we have no way of forcing him to speak, but you’re aware of that, Simon.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“I should tell you that when he is in our custody, I’ll be assigning some people to assure me that no irregularities occur. I know that Pauline Berg is our colleague, and I know how you feel, so I intend to ensure that everything is done correctly.”
The Countess asked sarcastically, “Don’t you trust us?”
“No.”
Madsen threw up his arms in despair and exclaimed, “This is a load of shit.”
The head of DSIS was straight on him.
“Your personal opinions are of no interest.”
Then the police commissioner got involved.
“The man is right.”
“The man should contribute something constructive for his nine hundred kroner an hour.”
Madsen blushed, and Simonsen said quietly, “There is perhaps a third possibility that could be tried?”
The Countess gave him the pre-arranged cue.
“What possibility is that, Simon? All of us would like to hear it.”
“I am thinking that perhaps a person can get close to Falkenborg and gain his trust. He is in many ways very naive and gullible. It’s worth a try, if we compare it to the alternatives.”
The head of DSIS thought quickest.
“It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, I’d like to hear more about it. Is this something we should brainstorm or do you have it wrapped and ready for us?”
“Brainstorm.”
The Countess was also quick on the trigger, and the police commissioner smiled proudly; what capable people she had.
“If it were me, I know what I would do.”
Simonsen said, “Do tell.”
“That notorious key that we believe is to the padlock to his warehouse . . . somehow we’ve acquired the original, right?”
It was the head of DSIS who answered her.
“We took it from his bunch of keys in the hotel room yesterday and replaced it with a copy we had made. The original has been sent for technical investigation; we can’t definitively conclude whether it has been used recently, but the thumbprint was made within the last two days, so we will proceed from that. You got the report a long time ago.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it, but I haven’t read it closely yet. Simon, we are responsible for the surveying of cellar rooms, how intensive is that investigation?”
“As intensive as we can possibly make it. The Home Guard and others are helping us. They are going from cellar to cellar everywhere, and attics too naturally, to see whether they can find the matching lock. There are also photographs of a similar lock in the newspapers, with a call for private citizens to help. But so far without result, apart from the fact that we have found twenty-three padlocks from the same manufacturer, which doesn’t help at all.”
“No, but it’s the story I could start with if I met Falkenborg. Some officer who had behaved rudely because the police wanted to look through my cellar. Maybe talk about the key, and definitely about all the people who are working on the case, and see how he reacts.”
Ernesto Madsen’s assessment was not encouraging.
“He will not react, because he won’t even talk about it.”
The head of DSIS said, “That is to say, that you recommend it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you say nothing about the fact that it may do harm, and if it doesn’t succeed, there’s no downside, so we’re right where we already are.”
Ernest Madsen said, a little confused, “That’s right, of course, but in any event it should not be—”
The head of DSIS interrupted him.
“You should know, Ernesto Madsen, that my own profilers have great respect for your work, and they are quite impressed by your report about Falkenborg’s relationship with his parents. Personally I too think you hit the nail on the head, although I do not have the professional background for an informed critique. I got a lot out of your revelations about his mother in particular. If you could please give us an outline of that, so it’s fresh in my mind, I’d be grateful.”
Simonsen noticed that the head of DSIS was well prepared. He added, “That’s a good idea, but make it brief, Ernesto.”
Madsen spoke, and the Countess in particular listened intently. At one point she interrupted politely, “Please explain that again. So you’re saying that if I behave submissively and arrogantly at the same time, I have the greatest chance of making friendly contact with him? But how will I do that in practice? Let’s say, for example, that I just sat down at the table where he is eating, then to whom am I being arrogant and how should I be submissive?”
“Well, for example, you could be arrogant to the waiting staff, especially if they’re young.”
The head of DSIS exclaimed enthusiastically.
“Well thought out, Ernesto. Perhaps we can arrange for a young waitress, that can be done, if we know the place in advance.”
“But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
“Well, no. Good point. What would you recommend otherwise? Don’t hold back.”
The Countess was on the same track.
“Yes, who would you advise me to be submissive to?”
Simonsen added, “This is brilliant! Weaving the Countess’s role into your survey of his psychological relationship to his mother . . . that makes it relevant while also saving time.”
The police commissioner herself joined in the chorus of praise, and Madsen did all the weaving he could manage. The keeper of the minutes did his job, and neither the police commissioner nor the psychologist realised that they had been drawn into the head of DSIS’s carefully thought out agenda.
CHAPTER 60
Andreas Falkenborg decided to have lunch at the highway cafeteria in Solrød south of Copenhagen. The Countess managed to slip into the line at the till two places ahead of him. The microphone, placed like a beautiful brooch in the lapel of her tailor-made suit, was connected to a transmitter in her handbag, and the sound came through clearly on the speakers in the control room at Police Headquarters, Copenhagen. Everyone present listened tensely. The police commissioner gestured sympathetically when she heard the way the Countess belittled the woman at the till in a bad-tempered onslaught about the quality of the food versus its price. And waiting to go into the cafeteria with her tray until shortly after Falkenborg had taken a seat was obviously successful too, for a little later they heard the Countess ask:
“May I sit down here?”
“Yes, if you like. But there are plenty of vacant tables.”
“I like company.
Tell me, did you hear that stupid goose?”
“I heard her.”
“Wasn’t she rude? You’d have to go a long way to find a girl as stupid as that.”
“Yes, maybe she was.”
“Don’t you ever get mad at that sort of girl? I almost can’t control myself when I’m treated that way. But maybe it’s just me?”
“No, I know what you mean, they are irritating.”
“You can say that again. Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks she shouldn’t be employed at a place like this.”
“No, I can see your point.”
“Excuse me, could you please keep an eye on my food while I visit the bathroom?”
“Yes, sure. I’ll do that.”
“Thanks. My name’s Nathalie by the way, what’s your name?”
“Pronto is what people call me.”
“Such a nice name. Pronto—I like that.”
The head of DSIS said, “What in the world is happening? Where is she going with this?”
Simonsen, who by now was starting to admire the acting abilities of the head of DSIS, kept strategically quiet, so Poul Troulsen, who to begin with did not like the man and had already had two minor encounters with him, answered acidly, “Maybe she’s going to pee.”
“Nonsense, she would have taken care of that in advance.”
Shortly afterwards the Countess’s voice was heard again:
“I’ve gone out to the parking lot, actually I’m squatting behind his car, but that’s because it’s parked closest. This has failed completely, I think he knows he’s being watched. He keeps looking around furtively all the time, and he seems to have suspicions about two of the agents. As you can hear, I’m in the process of making contact, but the close surveillance has fallen through.”
The head of DSIS stood up, slightly red in the face. Without raising his voice but in an ominous tone he asked Troulsen, “You’re not sleeping with her, so now I’m asking you—is she capable? That is—does she know what she’s talking about, or is she just one of those paranoid female cops who let themselves get carried away and see ghosts when things heat up?”