by Lotte Hammer
Instead he called another contact in the Prime Minister’s office; his name was Helmer Hammer, and he reported directly to the Permanent Secretary. Simonsen hoped Helmer Hammer could pull a few strings to speed up the paperwork.
And indeed when Hammer heard what it was about, he asked the chief of the Homicide Department to meet him in the Foreign Ministry right away and not to do anything else in the meantime. The last point was emphatically reiterated. Helmer Hammer claimed he couldn’t stress enough how important it was. In fact he could, because although Konrad Simonsen got the message he didn’t follow the instructions completely and before he left Police Headquarters, he stopped by the Deputy Commissioner’s office very briefly to inform her. In the corridor on his way out, he met the National Police Commissioner in the company of some bureaucrats from the Justice Ministry. The National Police Commissioner slapped him on the shoulder.
‘How is the case going, Simon?’
He loved being informal, Simon rather than his title, followed by a matey slap. It was how the National Police Commissioner worked, especially when he had guests.
‘Up and down.’
There was nothing else he could say. It was how he saw the investigation.
‘Excellent, that’s the way to go, Simon.’
Konrad Simonsen looked after them. One of the bureaucrats turned around and nodded graciously. Everyone was glad that everything was going so well.
CHAPTER 43
The Danish Foreign Ministry, a seven-storey glass-and-concrete monolith, is located on Asiatisk Plads in Copenhagen with the engineering tower on Knippelsbro Bridge as its nearest neighbour: architecture at its worst and its best, side by side. Konrad Simonsen walked from Police Headquarters, a trip that had to constitute that day’s exercise.
Helmer Hammer had already arrived. He had borrowed an office and offered Konrad Simonsen coffee, but he was clearly in a hurry, so the introductory small talk wasn’t particularly friendly, and they quickly turned to the real reason for the meeting. Konrad Simonsen methodically explained the situation, told him about Frode Otto and showed Helmer Hammer a printout of the estate bailiff’s telephone records with any calls made or received by the Russian Ambassador circled in red.
Then he told him about Arne Pedersen’s brief conversation with Bepa Rozhdestvenskaya and noticed how tiny beads of sweat formed around the man’s nostrils when he heard about the call. Yet he didn’t interrupt. When Simonsen had finished speaking, they reviewed everything carefully from start to finish at Helmer Hammer’s insistence, something Konrad Simonsen found rather excessive, although he went along with it nevertheless.
‘Very few Danes have that number.’ Helmer Hammer said. ‘I don’t even have it myself. Or ever have had that sort of access.’
He made it sound like an accusation, as if the police had obtained the number without being entitled to it. And perhaps that was how he saw it. Konrad Simonsen stayed silent. Helmer Hammer continued.
‘You need to be aware that regardless of whether or not Ambassador Rozhdestvenskaya is involved in your case, you have no chance of interviewing her, or even speaking to her, unless she herself agrees to it.
‘Even if she has committed a crime, and I’m stressing that we’re speaking here about a purely hypothetical and highly unlikely situation, even if it were the case, you have no right to confront her. That applies to you and indeed to all Danes, as it happens.’
Konrad Simonsen confirmed that he understood the situation. Helmer Hammer then explained the procedure. First he would make enquiries with his boss to see if he could contact the Ambassador about the case. If he were given permission, and that was by no means certain, he would speak to some people here in the Foreign Ministry, after which he would contact the Russian Embassy and ask if Mrs Rozhdestvenskaya would like to assist the Danish Police in this respect.
‘Again: maybe she will, maybe she won’t. That’s entirely up to her.’
They went their separate ways with Helmer Hammer promising to keep him informed of any progress. It wasn’t until he was heading back to the office that Konrad Simonsen began to question the nature of the meeting. He had never imagined that Helmer Hammer would involve himself personally, only that he would pull a few strings to get the ball rolling. However, Helmer Hammer had volunteered his help and had gone straight from the Prime Minister’s office to the Foreign Ministry, which seemed remarkable. ‘Very remarkable indeed,’ Konrad Simonsen said out loud, and wondered whether it was simply his inherently suspicious nature that made him think that.
*
Two days later Konrad Simonsen and Helmer Hammer met again. They were in Kristianiagade outside the Russian Embassy on Østerbro in Copenhagen. Helmer Hammer pointed to the building.
‘You’re aware that the moment you step inside, we’re on Russian territory. And I mean that literally. Legally speaking, it makes no difference whether you go to Moscow, Vladivostok or visit a Russian Embassy.’
Konrad Simonsen was already aware of this and confirmed it curtly; he was getting a little tired of being lectured to on his lack of authority in this case.
‘And there will be no follow-up questions, so please bear that in mind. When Ambassador Rozhdestvenskaya has told us what she wants to tell us about the case, we say thank you and then we leave.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
‘This isn’t an interview, is that clear?’
Konrad Simonsen sighed to himself and parroted:
‘That’s clear.’
Helmer Hammer eyed him suspiciously, clearly wondering whether the reply had been sarcastic, then he added:
‘If Ambassador Rozhdestvenskaya wishes to speak in Russian, then I’ll translate.’
‘That’s a good strategy.’
Konrad Simonsen’s face was stiff with gravitas.
Entering the Embassy they underwent a very thorough and lengthy security check. They were then taken to the Ambassador’s office on the third floor, where they were made to wait in an anteroom, before they were finally admitted to see Bepa Rozhdestvenskaya.
She was a petite woman, barely taller than 1.55 metres, though it was hard to tell as she was sitting behind an oversized mahogany desk that did nothing for her. She was expensively dressed in an international, slightly dull style, and welcomed the two men with just enough courtesy to avoid any impression of rudeness. She gestured with a slim hand towards a couple of chairs in front of her desk. Her guests were permitted to sit. Once they had done so, she zeroed in on Konrad Simonsen and, in Danish, said in a neutral tone:
‘I want you to explain the case.’
Konrad Simonsen had prepared carefully, going through his presentation at home and putting his few papers in order, which was unnecessary because the case was straightforward enough. He explained briefly about Frode Otto, and showed her a photograph of the estate bailiff. She studied it closely without reacting, before nodding stiffly at him to signal that he could continue, which he did by placing a printout of a call log from Frode Otto’s mobile phone provider in front of her. Her number had been highlighted with a yellow marker pen, Konrad Simonsen said superfluously:
‘I would like to know what your connection with Frode Otto is.’
As with the picture, she scrutinised the printout in detail. Then she said:
‘I have never seen or spoken to this man.’
It was an unequivocal reply, but also exceedingly unsatisfactory. Absolutely the worst possible outcome. And even worse, he only managed to pipe up a feeble ‘But . . .’ before Helmer Hammer slammed him down like a nail.
‘Thank you so much for your reply, Your Excellency, and thank you for your time.’
The senior civil servant from the Prime Minister’s office rose, the head of the Homicide Department stayed put. Bepa Rozhdestvenskaya furrowed her brow.
‘Was there anything else, Mr Simonsen?’ she asked coldly.
‘Just a small thing, if you’ll allow me.’
He turned his head a fe
w degrees away from Helmer Hammer, aware that the bureaucrat’s gaze was trying to laser him in half. Then he reached into his bag, took out a book and placed it on her desk.
‘Please would you sign this?’
Bepa Rozhdestvenskaya didn’t look at the book. Instead she studied him closely with a tiny smile on her lips, a small smile which gradually widened into a big one.
‘You’re interested in chess, Simon? Yes, my staff tell me you like being called Simon, rather than Konrad. It’s unusual, I’ve never heard anyone do that before.’
Helmer Hammer sat down again. The Ambassador ordered tea.
CHAPTER 44
The Kingdom of Denmark had awoken from its winter hibernation and spring had taken a serious hold. March and April had been chillier than usual, but this May Friday was warm and pleasant.
White clouds drifted across a fresh, blue sky, and though there was still a risk of frost at night in the usual exposed areas, the Danes took to their gardens or sunned themselves in city courtyards. According to them Denmark was once more the best country in the world, inhabited by the best people in the world, with summer holidays and long nights not so far away now.
People are hornier in the spring, Karina Larsen claimed. Her turnover had risen by sixteen per cent in the last two weeks. She made this observation every spring, and every year she managed to make it sound as if it were a unique sociological insight.
‘Well spotted, Mum. You would almost think it has rubbed off on the animals – they seem to be copulating with greater enthusiasm than in the winter.’
As usual Benedikte’s irony went over Karina Larsen’s head.
‘But isn’t that normal? Don’t they usually?’
The two women were sitting on the terrace in the garden in Rungsted. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and several amateur sailors had set out to enjoy the day on the short, choppy waves of the Øresund. They were now scattered across the strait, easily visible with their bobbing, white sails.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had attended a lecture at Copenhagen Business School that morning before returning home. Karina Larsen had just got out of bed; she was in her dressing gown and enjoying the first cup of tea of the day, a blanket wrapped around her legs in order to stay warm. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen studied her; Karina had yet to apply make-up and the sunlight mercilessly exposed her. She thought that her mother was growing old, old and ugly.
‘What did you want, Mum?’
Karina Larsen explained that a banking executive of some sort, who lived on Vedbæk Strandvej, wanted to buy one of her girls, in order to have her permanently to himself. He already acted as the girl’s host family, so he wasn’t just an ordinary client.
‘I thought that perhaps you could drive over there and discuss it with him.’
Her mother always referred to the prostituted women as hers, and Benedikte Lerche-Larsen loathed it. If it really was essential to determine ownership, she could at least say theirs; they weren’t her mother’s sole property, God dammit. However, she also knew it was impossible to teach her mother new tricks. She had tried, for a time tenaciously, but had been forced to admit defeat. Possibly because her mother was quite simply too stupid; it would certainly seem so.
‘So he’s not going to rent her out himself, and become our competitor? Are we sure about that?’
‘Yes, it’s true love.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Fifty, would be my guess. Why? What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Nothing, of course, I just wanted to know. But why don’t you negotiate with him yourself? You don’t normally leave that side of things to me.’
Karina Larsen squirmed on her chair, her embarrassment easy to read. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen pretty much guessed the answer before it came.
‘I know him a bit from the old days.’
‘Back when you used to turn tricks? Is he a former client?’
She loved it when the topic came up and had spoken in a loud voice. Her mother hushed her frantically.
‘Be quiet, Benedikte. Mind the neighbours . . . this is a nice neighbourhood, you know.’
Karina Larsen’s mobile rang. She answered it with a knowing look at her daughter. Then she straightened up in her garden chair with an ‘Oh, no,’ which she, unimaginatively, repeated soon afterwards. When she had finished the conversation, she looked upset.
‘It’s happened again. One of our girls has committed suicide. Havana, the one in Birkerød, she had been hoarding paracetamol.’
She waited for Benedikte Lerche-Larsen’s reaction and, when none came, expanded on the misfortune.
‘What do we do now? I’ve a hairdresser’s appointment at two o’clock. Svend and I have a premiere to go to tonight and I can’t possibly show up looking like this. How selfish of her . . . and I’ve just spent over nine hundred kroner on lingerie for her! We need to get a qualified replacement in place before tonight. The deputy chief executive of the local council is due to visit her, and we can’t say no to a man like him.’
Karina wrung her hands in despair. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen got up; she didn’t want to get involved if she could avoid it. Suicides invariably meant an awful lot of hassle and administrative problems, both for her mother and the girl’s host family.
‘Maybe he’ll fancy her in her current state? It’s not unknown. Why don’t you ring him up and ask? Who knows? Today might be your lucky day.’
Karina gave the matter serious consideration as her daughter made a quick exit.
CHAPTER 45
‘If we’re to talk, I need to see you take off your shirt and vest and put them back on, then we’ll go for a walk. This is not up for discussion.’
The man nodded, he understood completely: she was scared of hidden microphones, that he might be a police informant or whatever they were called. He was sitting on the sofa and next to him sat the girl this was all about. They were holding hands; she was smiling constantly, revealing bright, white teeth and empty, beautiful eyes. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen nodded.
The truth was she wasn’t worried about hidden microphones. The police would never waste resources on the conversation they were about to have; the probability of a conviction was far too small and the sentencing guidelines would suggest only a fine. However, the trick she had learned from her mother was to make the demand in the first place. It was about psychology. If one party to a negotiation started by obeying orders, including an order of a relatively intrusive nature, it invariably affected the ongoing negotiation process. In short: she would have the upper hand.
They left the girl and went for a walk in his garden, which was of a sufficient size for this not to feel ridiculous.
‘It’s love, we’ve fallen in love. And I want to marry her, of course.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen congratulated him. It was always beautiful when this happened, and across age, race and culture, it could hardly be more romantic. He thanked her, seeming touched.
‘So you’re going to live in Nigeria?’ she asked.
He stopped in his tracks.
Eh? No way, he wouldn’t dream of it.
‘So you’ve chosen Sweden, well, that’s lovely too.’
Of course he wasn’t moving to Sweden, why on earth would he want to do that? She explained to him: Denmark’s firm but fair immigration policy, one of the most restrictive in Europe, made it pretty much impossible for his future wife to be granted leave to remain, let alone Danish citizenship. On the contrary, she would be sent home the moment her au pair permit expired, which was in approximately two months. In Sweden, however, they had a somewhat different view of their citizens’ right to choose a spouse, an arrangement which many Danes took advantage of. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen said:
‘Firm but fair hasn’t really made much of an impact over in Sweden yet.’
She let him stew for a while. Not surprisingly, he started talking immigration policy, every Dane’s favourite hobbyhorse. He was certainly in favour of border control, so the country’s soci
al coffers weren’t depleted by hordes of greedy foreigners. She had to know that, of course he was. But this was different, he could support both of them, his girlfriend would never be a burden to the taxpayer. It wasn’t fair. She cut through his whingeing.
‘It’s completely irrelevant whether she’s a burden or an asset, she won’t be allowed to stay. But there may be another option.’
He clung to the lifeline she had thrown him. She explained that her mother could apply for another temporary work and residence permit every eighteen months, when the old one expired. It would be issued legally, they weren’t talking fraud here, but he mustn’t ask any further questions. The man shook his head, he didn’t care how it was done. She carried on.
‘It’ll cost you, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the cost of moving, especially now, when house prices have plummeted. And then there’s your lovely garden, it would be a shame to have to leave it.’
They negotiated a price. First a one-off payment for the girl, then a fee every time her papers needed renewing. He was a better negotiator than she had expected. Love might have made him blind, but not to numbers. At length, however, they agreed a price acceptable to them both. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was a little annoyed. She would have liked to return home with a big win; now she would be coming back with a decent result, but not much more than that. He offered her a glass of white wine, and she accepted it reluctantly.
‘Do you think I’m making a mistake in marrying her?’ he asked.
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen considered this, uncertain of her reply. What did her opinion matter? Nevertheless, he had asked her. She ventured cautiously:
‘If it doesn’t work out, and your feelings go off the boil over time, then it might not be so practical. But you can always get divorced – marriage isn’t for life.’
He could see that she had a point. If he tired of his girlfriend or just wanted to try something else, then of course it wasn’t so convenient. Perhaps it was better just to live with her to begin with. They could always marry later.