The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  In return he was rewarded with two findings that sent him almost into ecstasy: a flint axe head, beautifully polished and almost intact, and on the second day, a belt buckle, which without hesitation he classed as being from the Germanic Iron Age, and which would need to be logged with the National Museum, if he wanted to keep it legally.

  But in terms of the investigation, the result was poor. Apart from a fair amount of rubbish, especially where the forest bordered the road, the miserable reward for all their efforts amounted to a rotting umbrella, a cardboard box containing three wheel caps, which baffled everyone, an ancient mobile phone that quickly proved to be of no relevance, and a wine bottle, an elastic hairband and a condom, all found in the same place.

  As usual Konrad Simonsen was walking with Adam Blixen-Agerskjold, a dozen metres behind the men searching the very last stretch, which was the deciduous forest in the south-western corner towards the manor house. The forest undulated in regular waves approximately five metres apart. Adam Blixen-Agerskjold explained:

  ‘We’re walking on ancient farmland – this is how Danish fields used to look. The level fields we know now are a modern phenomenon from the start of the nineteenth century. Since the introduction of the plough thousands of years ago, we would plough our fields in waves, so that they would drain more effectively.’

  Konrad Simonsen had learned quite a lot of Danish history from the Chamberlain in recent days. Now he changed the subject and ventured carefully:

  ‘Your estate bailiff, Frode Otto.’

  The Chamberlain froze, the amicable mood instantly evaporating.

  ‘Yes, what about him?’

  ‘I would like you to tell me about him. His work, his family, his background, his habits. Perhaps when we’re done here, if you have the time.’

  Adam Blixen-Agerskjold didn’t reply immediately and Konrad Simonsen didn’t press him. It was clear that Frode Otto was more than just a hired hand to the Chamberlain. They’d crossed another three waves before Simonsen got an answer.

  ‘I’m uncomfortable discussing Frode behind his back.’

  ‘I completely understand and respect that. But I’m investigating a murder, so personal loyalty no longer counts. Deep down I think you know that.’

  The Chamberlain swiped his stick angrily across a cluster of tender stinging nettles, before he gave in.

  ‘Dine with us tonight, we can talk afterwards. Lenette needs to be there when you interrogate me.’

  ‘Interrogate is a strong word, but thank you for the invitation.’

  Adam Blixen-Agerskjold felled another cluster of stinging nettles, then hurled his stick into the distance. Konrad Simonsen let himself fall a few steps behind. But soon afterwards they were walking side by side again, Simonsen could tell from his voice that the Chamberlain had composed himself:

  ‘Perhaps you could do me a favour in return?’

  ‘That’s not quite how it works, but go on. What is it?’

  Adam Blixen-Agerskjold was silent for several minutes.

  ‘You seem like an agreeable man, Konrad. The kind of person one would like as a friend. Except when you’re being a detective superintendent, then you’re arrogant and often unpleasant. Don’t worry about the favour, forget it.’

  Konrad Simonsen was hurt and had to restrain himself from snapping back. The situation was getting to him. The last three days with the Chamberlain had been pleasant, despite the fruitless search of the forest. He said quietly:

  ‘I don’t know the name of the dead African woman, where she came from, let alone why she was killed and ended up in your lake. But I do know that she’s the only one who really matters to me. Because she has no one else. And it’s Simon, not Konrad. Now tell me about that favour, Adam.’

  Adam Blixen-Agerskjold told him. It concerned his grandmother, Victoria Blixen-Agerskjold, a woman in her late-eighties who lived in a care home in Holbæk, and who was convinced that she had important information about the murder investigation, information she absolutely refused to tell her grandson as he didn’t have the relevant security clearance.

  ‘My grandmother suffers from dementia, she gets the past and the present mixed up. She was in the Second World War as a young woman. Worked for the Special Operations Executive, the British intelligence service, and from 1941 to 1943 she was a radio operator in France, a high-risk job only very few survived. She was awarded the George Cross by Winston Churchill in 1952 during his second term as Prime Minister. Only five women have ever been awarded that distinction.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  They straddled some wild raspberry bushes. The Chamberlain stomped on the plants whenever he got the chance. Suddenly he sounded outraged.

  ‘In the Paris Metro there are still seats reserved for war veterans. Young men, who have sacrificed their limbs for France, should at least be able to . . .’

  He didn’t complete his sentence, but returned to the subject a few steps later.

  ‘Here in Denmark we don’t know how to look after our injured soldiers properly, when they come home. They’re made to queue up for help like every other disabled person. And the waiting lists themselves are a disgrace, but to make young people, who have sacrificed their health for Denmark, wait for years . . .’

  Again his indignation simmered. Konrad Simonsen asked:

  ‘What exactly can I do for your grandmother?’

  ‘Do you read French?’

  ‘No, but my wife does.’

  ‘I want to lend you a book about what my grandmother and other SOE women achieved during the war. But what you can do is accompany me to Holbæk and have the privilege of meeting a woman like her.’

  ‘That’s a deal.’

  ‘In uniform?’

  ‘Definitely in uniform.’

  CHAPTER 16

  The three days spent in Hanehoved Forest turned out not to be quite as fruitless as Konrad Simonsen had initially feared. The forensic examination of the hairband that was found along with the wine bottle and the condom proved that it had belonged to the murdered woman.

  The other items were older and irrelevant, but two tiny hairs from the elastic matched the victim’s DNA. The hairband was black and tangled up, with fraying ends sticking out everywhere, and looked like a cheap supermarket purchase. With the evidence contained in a small plastic bag, Konrad Simonsen handed it to Pauline Berg in the corridor outside his office, where he had bumped into her and Klavs Arnold on their way to the canteen for lunch.

  ‘Please would you find out where it was made, which shops sell it, and so on?’

  Pauline Berg nodded briefly. Then she pulled the hairband out of the plastic bag, gathered her hair with much difficulty into a small ponytail, wrapped the band around it a couple of times and left. The plastic bag she stuffed into her pocket. Konrad Simonsen was left speechless. Klavs Arnold said irritably:

  ‘I’ll handle it, but seriously, couldn’t you have asked anyone else but her?’

  It was then that the penny finally dropped for the Homicide chief. He muttered curses under his breath and apologised.

  When Pauline Berg had been kidnapped, she had lost most of her hair under the most distressing circumstances – being forced to pull it out so as not to fuel the obsession of the man who had captured her. It had never regained its former fullness. Simonsen had forgotten about this when he gave her the hairband, and could see now that he had screwed up. He apologised again and felt like an idiot, while the Jutlander, as usual, merely shrugged and raced after Pauline Berg. Why the hell did everything have to be so complicated with her? It wasn’t like he was a doctor or psychologist.

  Klavs Arnold struggled to keep his word and ‘handle it’, as he sat facing Pauline Berg at a table in the canteen. He tried several times:

  ‘Take out that hairband and return it to the bag. It’s evidence, Pauline, and you know it.’

  She raked one hand through a strand of hair until it slipped out of the band and then repeated the movement, while smiling invitingly at him. She mana
ged to eat with her other hand, using her fork to cut her sandwich into bite-size pieces. He wondered if she had always been like this.

  ‘So you’re coming with me on Saturday? I’ve a three o’clock appointment in Asserbo with the forester who found her.’

  ‘Her’ was the young woman whom Pauline Berg was adamant had been murdered. Klavs Arnold realised that he couldn’t even remember the victim’s name.

  ‘Yes, I’m coming with you. We were talking about the hairband, Pauline. Now take it out and put it into the bag where it belongs.’

  ‘Afterwards we can drive home to my place and have dinner.’

  ‘That’s kind, but no thanks.’

  ‘Do you think my hair looks nice? It’s getting long again, isn’t it? What about my eyes? I have contact lenses at home . . . do you think I’d be better-looking with brown eyes? Or green? A lot of men prefer me with green eyes.’

  He started getting annoyed then and knew that was her intention, she was trying to rile him. But he was saved when the Countess sat down next to them with her tray. She held out one hand, knocked on the table with the other in front of Pauline Berg, who mutely gave her the hairband and then the plastic bag. The Countess put the hairband into the bag and pressed it shut.

  Pauline Berg pointed at Klavs Arnold and said in a thick voice, with tears in her eyes: ‘The Jutlander won’t go out with me.’

  ‘The Jutlander is spending five hours of his weekend on you, and you can come back to my place Saturday evening so we can talk. Simon is out so we’ll have the house to ourselves.’

  Klavs Arnold felt annoyed at the way this dinner invitation between the two women was settled, without quite knowing why.

  CHAPTER 17

  The walls in Svend Lerche’s office were covered with steel engravings from the beginning of the nineteenth century. He was a collector, but he didn’t collect just anything. The subject must be ‘naughty’ was the way he explained it to any guest expressing an interest; he would then wink and his audience would struggle not to smile.

  Svend Lerche was sitting behind his desk reading a memo. In his early fifties, with silver hair, a firm chin, alert blue eyes and exquisite manners, he could often be charming and inspire trust, but he also had a violent temper, which in certain situations would boil over and cause problems. He glanced up. Across the desk Benedikte Lerche-Larsen waited impatiently for him to finish. She was sitting back to front on a chair, with the back of it facing him, while she studied the wall behind him with disapproval. Her father thought it did the girl no harm to wait.

  Finally he was done. He put the memo away, then from his top desk drawer he took out a magazine, which he slid in front of her. It was entitled Poker Player, and the entire front page was taken up by a picture of his daughter. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen dismissed it with a sneer. She showed no other reaction; he tried to suppress his rage when he said:

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I have no control over who photographs me in public places, or what pictures are shown in the newspapers. We have a free press in this country.’

  ‘Did you have to be tarted up like that?’

  ‘Tarted up? Excuse me. We were at a casino, I couldn’t very well be dressed like a librarian. I had to make some effort to blend in.’

  ‘And pose for the cameras, did you have to do that too? You’re aware that your name is mentioned inside the magazine?’

  Benedikte flapped her hand indifferently and he carried on.

  ‘Our business success is founded on discretion. I didn’t think I had to tell you that.’

  ‘It’s the foundation for your business success.’

  ‘Oh, really, so who pays your bills?’

  She got up, turned the chair around and sat down again. Then replied to him sharply:

  ‘Are you, of all people, going to lecture me on discretion? I’m not the one with an injunction against them, preventing them from turning up at the town hall. So how discreet does that make you, Svend?’

  She had identified his Achilles heel, and it needled him. A month ago he had lost his temper with some bureaucratic nobody in the tax office, screamed and shouted, and unfortunately also made personal threats against her. It was a massive faux-pas. Especially given the negligible amount of tax he had to pay – a trifle really. Besides he hated it when Benedikte addressed him as ‘Svend’ rather than Dad, which she pretty much always did. He changed the subject:

  ‘What were you and Bjarne Fabricius talking about last Saturday? Your mother tells me you spent a long time together in the greenhouse.’

  ‘If ten minutes is a long time, then Mum is right. We talked about orchids.’

  ‘About which you know nothing.’

  ‘And about which Bjarne knows a lot. All I had to do was listen.’

  ‘Bjarne, is it, so you’re on first-name terms now?’

  ‘So it appears.’

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Benedikte? Because if you are, you’re being remarkably successful.’

  She backed off, as she always did when he got angry. At first she straightened her dress unnecessarily by pulling it a few extra centimetres neatly over her knees, then she burst out laughing, revealing rows of pearly white teeth and throwing back her head apparently spontaneously. He thought with dismay that no one else in all the world could turn on and switch off their moods like she could.

  ‘Dad, we spoke about orchids. And I’m perfectly aware that any information Bjarne Fabricius needs about our business must come from you. Besides, I don’t think he would listen to me moaning about you, if that’s what you’re worried about. He would merely brand me disloyal.’

  ‘So him calling me, lecturing me on how you’ll soon be ready for more responsibility, is just a coincidence?’

  ‘I’d no idea that he’d called. But you can do what you like. You’re the boss.’

  They both knew this wasn’t true. The reality was his business depended on a successful partnership with Bjarne Fabricius. He said in a deadpan voice:

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘So how about it? Will I be given more responsibility?’

  He never knew where he was with her. On the one hand, it might be better if she moved out, learned to stand on her own two feet and got a regular job. It would benefit all parties in many ways, and he wouldn’t mind helping her get a flat and giving her a monthly allowance. On the other hand, she knew a lot about his activities, and though they disagreed profoundly about his business strategy, she contributed considerably to its daily management. She was especially strong when it came to finances, and though he had yet to give her full financial insight, she relieved him of many hours of work every week. He paid her generously for this, but it would be difficult, not to say impossible, to replace her while he also had to train a replacement for Jan Podowski.

  ‘Yes, possibly. Let’s return to that later. But that wasn’t the reason I wanted to talk to you.’

  If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. On the contrary, she was dutifulness personified.

  ‘So what do you want, Dad?’

  ‘For you to stay away from Jan’s funeral.’

  ‘Fine, I wasn’t going to go anyway. But why?’

  ‘Because about a year ago Jan was involved in an incident where one of our African employees got hurt.’

  ‘And what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing, Benedikte. And that’s how I would like it to stay.’

  She met his eye, but looked away after a second. Then she said:

  ‘If I take on more responsibility, I want a pay rise.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Svend Lerche’s business consisted of two elements: one part prostitution, the other poker.

  Almost forty women worked for him, and the number had steadily risen as he and his wife, Karina Larsen, found new, suitable host families. The women all came from Africa, and had officially been brought to Denmark to work as au pairs. They each lived with the family that had hired
them – they had nice rooms with their own entrance and separate lavatory and bathroom, which was one of many conditions that must be met in order for the family to be approved. Another condition was that the women could only do hoovering, cleaning and other domestic work for a maximum of one hour a day, and must otherwise be free during the daytime and every single weekend. Apart from their real work, of course, which was to service clients, but never more than one man a day.

  Svend Lerche believed in quality rather than quantity. The profits were split equally between him and the host family. However, the host family had to pay their ‘au pair’ three thousand kroner each month, plus provide board and lodging; to this extent the legislation concerning the au pair arrangement was fully complied with. Other conditions were ignored when Svend Lerche’s contacts in the Integration Ministry approved the family’s applications. The girls were replaced at least once a year.

  The second part of Svend Lerche’s business was poker playing. He had hired about fifty poker players, the majority single young men, who, four times a week, played online for him. And for themselves. That was the deal. On a working night they played for six hours: three for themselves and three for Svend Lerche. Whichever session proved to be the most lucrative was then regarded as work, whereupon the winnings – or, on rare occasions, losses – were neatly entered into the business’s accounts. Losses for private gaming, however, were covered with an envelope of cash on the first of every month. If a player made a profit playing privately one evening, he could keep the winnings. The result was that Svend Lerche was free to launder much of the money he and his sleeping partner, Bjarne Fabricius, earned from prostitution.