The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  She shrugged. It was irrelevant. These ideas were just her thoughts about the future. There was nothing that could be set in motion right now.

  ‘Is that right? So Jan was wrong when he told me that your business plan runs to over twenty pages and is ready to be rolled out? It’s nothing but fancy business-school theory, nothing that could ever be put to the test?’

  His irony stung, but she didn’t try to duck the question.

  ‘As you quite rightly point out my parents are a problem, which I can’t solve. I’m perfectly aware of that. So for the time being, my business model is just a theory. But I’m not the only one of us with a problem.’

  ‘If you’re thinking that I’m in need of a competent replacement for Jan to keep an eye on your parents, then I’m hoping that problem will be solved tonight.’

  ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your goodwill, money in a personal account, the right to screw up from time to time.’

  ‘Smart girl.’

  It grew late and they were both quite drunk by the time they left the restaurant. The night smelled of spring and petrol from Østerbrogade, the neon lights gleamed enticingly around them, the stars above. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen grabbed him and laughed.

  ‘You have to support me, my legs are like jelly and it’s your fault. What do we do now?’

  He put his arm around her; she rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘We walk around the lake and enjoy the evening. Then we find a bar where we drink a cheap whisky or two, and afterwards I put you in a taxi and send you home.’

  He removed his hand from her neck, took her by her shoulders and revolved her ninety degrees so that she was facing the lake. Then he added:

  ‘Unless you get too amorous, then I’ll put you in a taxi right away. You’re perfectly capable of walking on your own.’

  They agreed a compromise whereby she looped her arm through his as they followed the path along the lake. He was whistling quietly but with remarkable skill ‘My Heart Will Go On’. She was surprised.

  ‘You’re good at that. Do you do requests?’

  ‘You would have fitted right in on the Titanic. Perhaps you were born a century too late.’

  ‘Perhaps, who knows? Let me think about a melody for you.’

  He never found out which tune she thought would be right for him.

  Suddenly a small gang of drunk, aggressive teenagers blocked their path. Hey, a fucking pensioner and a lousy whore, how about you give me some money, you rich bastard? A knife flashed in the street lamps, while a girl shouted out a few metres ahead of them that she didn’t want any fucking hassle and the boys should come with her now. Bjarne Fabricius handed over his wallet with a short, stiff nod, and never took his eyes off the knife as he firmly pushed Benedikte Lerche-Larsen in front of him, past the other two boys. A few steps further ahead, he put his arm around her neck. Behind them, they heard a commotion, some blows and a couple of muffled cries; Fabricius would appear to have had some of his men with him, discreet and at a distance – she hadn’t noticed them. She wanted to turn her head, but could feel his fingers holding it firm.

  ‘What a shame, I was looking forward to my melody, but the moment has passed. I want you to think about something else instead. Frode Otto. That was the name of the moron who rang me up and threatened me, wasn’t it?’

  Quick footsteps reached them. She glanced at him, still unable to see what was going on behind them, but she noticed him reach out his free hand and return his wallet to his inside pocket. With no words, as if his shoelace had come undone and he had tied it again, no big deal.

  ‘Yes, his name is Frode Otto. What you want me to think about?’

  ‘How you’ll solve the problem, something I understand you’ve told your father that you’ll handle. I presume you’ll need my help?’

  ‘Yes, that was what I had in mind.’

  ‘Let’s say you have free rein. I want to see what you can do.’

  He released his hold on her head; she caught his hand and pulled it around her waist.

  ‘Free rein sounds like a dream.’

  ‘Then start dreaming.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Many little rituals were associated with a Homicide Department investigation, some created by Konrad Simonsen, others inherited. Thus it was the custom that pictures relating to an investigation, including those of witnesses and suspects, were displayed on a large noticeboard in his office to the left of the door. Also that blue or red cotton string would be used to illustrate connections between people on the board, red for a proven connection, blue for an uncertain one still to be proved.

  In a major case it could be a complicated jigsaw puzzle to arrange people and their individual relationships as meaningfully as possible so that the noticeboard gave the viewer the best possible overview, and the board would often have to be reorganised in the course of an investigation – a job which was the preserve of the chief of the Homicide Department and no one else unless they fancied a major bollocking. When the Countess and Arne Pedersen entered his office, Konrad Simonsen was standing with a picture of Frode Otto in one hand and a small plastic box of pins in the other. The Countess pointed to the photograph in his hand.

  ‘We were just coming to talk to you about him.’

  They sat down at the desk at the far end of the room. The Countess began.

  ‘We’ve now been able to establish without a doubt that Frode Otto was in Nordjylland in June 1992 when Hannelore Müller was sexually assaulted.’

  Konrad Simonsen’s inner alarm bells started ringing. Their somewhat formal behaviour and their determined manner, which left little room for chit-chat, combined with the fact that there were two of them . . . they wanted to talk him into something. Something he didn’t want to do. He interrupted them.

  ‘We were able to confirm that a week ago.’

  The Countess refused to be railroaded.

  ‘Indeed we could.’

  She made this sound significant. Then she showed him a couple of pictures from a plastic folder, both of Frode Otto as a younger man. One computer-animated where he had been made to look years younger than he was today, the other a grainy black-and-white one, reproduced from a newspaper page.

  ‘Frederiksværk Weekly News, popularly known as the doormat, the sports section from third of February 1993, when Frode Otto won the Sjælland Wrestling Championship eighty-four-kilo class. At that point he was a member of AK Heroes, the local wrestling club.’

  The picture was in profile and not all that useful for identification purposes; the other was better, but there was always the risk that the picture of the wrong man had been put in the paper by mistake. Konrad Simonsen studied it briefly and nodded without knowing why; Arne Pedersen took over.

  ‘Hannelore Müller, the girl he raped . . .’

  ‘. . . is alleged to have raped.’

  ‘She lives in Wandsbek today; it’s a Hamburg suburb.’

  Konrad Simonsen got the message.

  ‘You want me to go to Hamburg, is that it?’

  Simonsen had an old friend in Germany, Bastian Jancker was his name, who had retired in 2008. Prior to that he had been the Polizeivizepräsident, the second-in-command of Hamburg police, and much earlier a CID detective in Flensburg, where he was born and brought up as a part of the Danish minority living in Schleswig. As a result he spoke very good Danish and had excellent connections within the German police. Konrad Simonsen gave it some thought.

  ‘What’s wrong with Interpol or an official request to Germany? Their administrative systems work very well, I’ll have you know, in case you had any doubts.’

  They all three knew that a short, personal trip to Hamburg would be much quicker and probably also more effective, despite the excellent, official German police systems. The Countess, who knew Simonsen better than anyone, could see that he had already made up his mind. She smiled.

  ‘As I recall, you’ve already promised me
that you would go. I’ve packed your suitcase, it’s in the back of the car, Arne will organise a train ticket for you, you leave Copenhagen Central Station in two hours.’

  ‘What amazing efficiency, my staff are truly skilled. But how about I start by calling Bastian to make sure that he’s at home?’

  He wanted to sound ironic, but he failed. The Countess got up.

  ‘I did that yesterday. He’ll have Currywurst mit Pommes ready at seven o’clock, and you’re staying with him; he wouldn’t hear talk of a hotel room.’

  Konrad Simonsen’s next remark about how he had been looking forward to a trip that same evening to the Reeperbahn also fell flat. She waved as she left, wishing him a pleasant journey and don’t forget to call, Simon. Arne Pedersen hurried out at her heels.

  Three days later Konrad Simonsen let himself in through his front door in Søllerød. It was early evening but not dark yet, the days were getting longer. The Countess welcomed him with a warm embrace. She felt guilty for not having picked him up at Copenhagen Central Station, but Operation X was on the television, a documentary she was obsessed with, so he had been left to take a taxi.

  She didn’t ask about Hamburg until Konrad Simonsen had eaten. They had spoken on the telephone while he was away, but only touched upon his work sporadically; there were other more personal considerations that took priority and the case could wait until he came back. The Countess asked darkly:

  ‘So no luck with Hannelore?’

  ‘Yes and no, mostly no. The poor woman’s life is ruined. She’s suffering from the full spectrum of PTSD: memory and concentration problems, trouble sleeping and nightmares, depression, anxiety, shame, you name it, she’s just like . . . well, you know.’

  He was referring to Pauline Berg, and yes, his wife did know. She nodded, and thought it must be almost the worst thing that could happen to you. Afterwards people you knew and perhaps counted on eventually began to distance themselves from you because the repercussions were too stressful also for them. Her husband continued speaking.

  ‘I hate rape cases, and now I feel just like you. I would love nothing more than to put him away for what he has done – Frode Otto, I mean.’

  ‘But we can’t?’

  ‘No, that was always unlikely. There’s no chance of Hannelore Müller giving evidence in a Danish court. She didn’t want to, nor would she be able to.’

  Before she was shown pictures of Frode Otto, her brother, a doctor, had been called. He had shut down the interview immediately when Hannelore had a serious panic attack the moment she glanced at the first picture and couldn’t breathe. Konrad Simonsen said:

  ‘I have it on video, it’s horrible to watch, but as evidence, it’s useless.’

  ‘Did she recognise him?’

  ‘She nods fiercely on the video, but like I said, she couldn’t breathe, so any defence lawyer would be able to show reasonable doubt about her reaction. Her brother called me later to confirm that she had recognised Frode Otto as her attacker, and I have his signature on a solemn document on official letterhead from Hamburg Police with stamps and italics and the whole caboodle, but it’s still only hearsay, so it counts for pretty much zilch. And she can’t sign it herself because she quite simply can’t cope with hearing about the case. Possibly one day in the future, but it’s highly unlikely. So all in all, it was relatively depressing, although it was good to see Bastian.’

  The Countess spent fifteen minutes reading Konrad Simonsen’s document and watching the video of the interview with Hannelore Müller. When she finished, she had made up her mind.

  ‘I’ll visit Big Bertha tomorrow if she’ll agree to see me. If we’re very lucky, we might get a warrant for his phone records.’

  Her husband was sceptical.

  ‘No one is ever lucky with Big Bertha. That’s how she got the name in the first place.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Bertha Steenholt, commonly known as Big Bertha when she was out of earshot, was the Public Prosecutor for Copenhagen and Bornholm.

  Despite her sixty-four years, she was a truly impressive sight with her grey curls and a heavy face reminiscent of a cross between Simone Signoret and Leonid Brezhnev; she exuded an air of power in an almost primal form. She lived in a sinister house on Frederiksberg with her daughter and an unknown but considerable number of cats, and rumour had it that you should never visit because you would not get out alive but would be put down and turned into cat food. Her daughter was a defence lawyer and boasted the third-best law exam result ever achieved at the University of Copenhagen, exceeded only by the legendary left-wing lawyer Carl Madsen and her own mother. When mother and daughter clashed in court, as they did from time to time, it was standing room only.

  The Countess wasn’t a woman who scared easily, but Big Bertha was the exception that proved the rule. Especially when the Countess didn’t have her legal argument fully in place, something which the Public Prosecutor rarely failed to pick up on. But still, she had to try.

  The office of the Public Prosecutor was in Jens Kofods Gade, a side street to Store Kongensgade. The Countess walked from Police Headquarters in the lovely spring weather, arrived a few minutes before the appointed time, and was shown in immediately. She’s expecting you, please go straight through. The secretary had pointed to a closed door, the Countess preferred to knock first.

  Bertha Steenholt listened without interrupting, and together they watched the video of Hannelore Müller’s breakdown. When it was evident that the Countess had no further information to show her, the Public Prosecutor said:

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to charge him. If so, you can get lost.’

  ‘No, I want a warrant to access his phone records.’

  ‘Get out of here, they’re long gone.’

  ‘And I want it with no restrictions.’

  The Public Prosecutor mulled this over. The Countess herself was normally an expert at obtaining telephone records, but only from major providers. Frode Otto’s mobile was provided by the relatively young telecommunications company NewTalkInTown, where the Countess had no contacts. She waited expectantly.

  ‘Is this about the “nignog” case?’

  The Countess nodded.

  ‘And did he also kill that poor girl in the lake?’

  ‘Unlikely, but he’s our only lead.’

  ‘Hmm, tell me, why did you come to me? This could easily have been dealt with elsewhere.’

  Elsewhere was clearly further down the system, so why bother her? The Countess answered truthfully.

  ‘Because I only stand a chance with that warrant if the request comes from you.’

  She deliberately avoided getting tangled up in any form of flattery, Bertha Steenholt loathed that sort of thing. The Public Prosecutor nodded briefly again.

  ‘No, it’s not enough. Bring me more, then I’ll try.’

  It was disappointing, but the Countess accepted it. She made no attempt to persuade the woman to change her mind, knowing it would have been futile. She got up, thanked her for her time and left the office.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Countess and Konrad Simonsen couldn’t remember when they were last in uniform at the same time, if indeed it had ever happened, and they watched each other, smiling, unable to shake off a carnival feeling at being in matching outfits. But it didn’t matter because Victoria Blixen-Agerskjold was clearly delighted when she saw the two officers, which was the whole point.

  The old woman was sitting in an armchair by the window with a knitted blanket covering her legs; the others were seated around her. In addition to the two officers, Adam and Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold were there. It was a tight squeeze, and the mood was somewhat awkward as Victoria Blixen-Agerskjold was able to sustain a normal conversation only for short segments of time. Occasionally she would appear to doze off for a minute or two, and when she woke up, it was as if she experienced the situation from the beginning. Then she would cheer up again. Besides, she was alternating between Danish and French, sometimes halfway thr
ough a sentence, which meant that Konrad Simonsen and Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold understood only half of what was going on. Simonsen thought it probably didn’t matter. Yet he was determined to stay there for as long as the old lady was enjoying herself, which was to the Countess’s credit. As she had read aloud to him, in Danish, selected extracts from Femmes en guerre, he had developed a considerable amount of respect, bordering on awe, for the old lady.

  Victoria Blixen-Agerskjold scolded the Countess:

  ‘Your French is bad, your accent gives you away. You must be careful. We won’t protect you.’

  The warning was underlined by a crooked finger pointing at the ceiling. The Countess promised to be careful.

  ‘Mieux vaut perdre une bête plutôt que de voir tout le troupeau dévoré.’

  The Countess looked quizzically at the Chamberlain, there were limits to her French. He translated.

  ‘Better to lose one animal than see the whole herd eaten.’

  She had a point; the Countess smiled obligingly and was sharply admonished by the old lady. This was no laughing matter, this was serious. It was the little details that gave you away.

  ‘That’s how Juliet was caught, and Josephine and . . . Now what was her name, the one with the freckles? You remember, Hans-Henrik? The one they caught at Saint-Augustin, where I managed to get away?’

  ‘I’m Adam, Grannie. Hans-Henrik is dead, don’t you remember? I thought that girl was called Émilie?’

  He could have saved himself the trouble, his grandmother was dozing off again. Lenette Blixen-Agerskjold looked sideways at her husband, warning him that they couldn’t very well take up much more of the two officers’ time. He nodded and got up. As did his wife and Simonsen. The Countess remain sitting. She caught the Chamberlain’s eye and asked: ‘Saint-Augustin?’

  ‘Do you have time for this?’

  The Countess nodded firmly, Konrad Simonsen sat down again, the other two followed suit. Adam Blixen-Agerskjold told them the story.