“How did he show you this material?”
“On a laptop computer, and he only played the beginning. The other parts he was content just to refer to. It was very thoughtful of him to spare me like that.”
“Didn’t you get the recordings delivered to you?”
“I got the whole thing on a flash drive, and I think it was the only copy. He made a big fuss about the fact that there was no way for me to get an extra one.”
“Do you still have the flash drive?”
“I have the drive, but I deleted the contents. I didn’t see the point of keeping them.”
His listeners agreed and had no other questions.
When Troulsen had shown the witness out he returned to Simonsen’s office, where his boss was in the process of methodically munching through a large plate of vegetables. Malte Borup had returned and resumed work. Simonsen complained between mouthfuls, “I’ve grown used to the taste and basically I don’t miss my old diet, but I never get used to the time it takes to eat. You really have to work to feel full and healthy. Interesting witness by the way. It’s disturbing to imagine Andreas Falkenborg with a job that primarily consists of eavesdropping on women, but it fits hand in glove with the listening devices found in Catherine Thomsen’s apartment. On the other hand it seems strange to me that he didn’t remove those. We’ll have to look into that in the next few days. Another thing I can’t get to add up either is that his annual income, or what he has declared, is quite significant, compared with his requirement for cash payment. That reeks a long way off of under-the-table work. Do you know anything about that?”
“His father was a manufacturer of microphones. Had a factory in Valby. In the early 1970s the operation was restructured from production to importing and distribution, still of microphones. Then his father died in a shooting accident in 1983. That is, while Andreas Falkenborg was in Greenland. Mother and son continued the operation, but little by little the product range was changed to what can best be described as amateur spy equipment. They served as wholesalers and sold to mail order companies, later on the Internet. It’s a more or less suspect enterprise where you can buy everything you need to spy on your neighbour or perhaps have a long look through his daughter’s bedroom window.
“The business was not very big; in that period there were from three to ten employees, all of whom were fired in 1992 when Falkenborg’s mother died and he became sole owner. Currently he doesn’t have anything other than a VAT number and presumably a customer database. At the present time I don’t know more than that, but I have a couple of men on the case, and hopefully they will produce a more detailed account before the day is through.”
Troulsen looked at Simonsen, who was diligently chewing his cud and thereby limited to non-verbal communication.
“Unfortunately, I also have an unpleasant announcement to make,” continued Troulsen.
His boss twirled a finger in the air, which Troulsen had no difficulty interpreting.
“The listening devices that were found at Catherine Thomsen’s are gone, or more exactly at the moment no one can find them, and the only thing we have in writing is a meaningless note that mentions finding of listening devices. That is, no details whatsoever. They are searching high and low in the archive, but no one knows whether they’ll find it.”
“Damn it!”
“Yes, it’s the pits. If we can’t get him solidly connected to the other murder, then it’s even more doubtful we can put together something that will hold up in court. Greenland is a long time ago, and I seriously doubt we’ll arrive at anything there that will carry an indictment. I also have to admit that I would like to confirm that Falkenborg at least knew Catherine Thomsen, mainly for my own peace of mind. Even though I’m quite convinced we are only searching for one killer, I still am not quite certain Falkenborg is our man, despite his business and the listening devices in the apartment. This time we really have to get it right. I feel bad when I think about Carl Henning Thomsen, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
Simonsen continued chewing without showing any desire to corroborate this. His relationship to Troulsen was mainly professional, a fact he did not wish to change, and as Troulsen had nothing more to say, he went on his way.
During the course of the afternoon one small breakthrough followed another, while the gaps in the Homicide Division’s knowledge of Andreas Falkenborg’s life became smaller and smaller. Simonsen commandeered Malte Borup as if the student were an extended version of the computer he controlled so easily.
“Malte, you entered his applications to Greenland a couple of hours ago. Look those up and tell me when they were sent.”
A couple of clicks later came the answer.
“You mean his applications to Greenland Contractors?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I have them here. Do you want all the dates? There are seven applications. Apparently he applied for any available position.”
“No, just give me the first one.”
“It’s dated the eleventh of March, 1982, and it was for a position as a receptionist.”
“Good. And when did Maryann Nygaard go to Greenland? Do you have that date anywhere?”
“She is employed as of the fourth of March, 1982. I don’t know when exactly she goes up there.”
“Direct from her position at the nursing home?”
“Yes, if you mean that she didn’t have another job in the meantime, but not all the case files on her have been digitised.”
“I’m aware of that. Get Pauline to find out more about Falkenborg’s helicopter course. It seems like a very short time to get his pilot’s licence. Has anything arrived yet from the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“No, but there’s another thing. Do you want to hear it?”
“Definitely.”
“It seems that Carl Henning Thomsen-you know who I mean?”
Simonsen sighed and forced himself to answer calmly.
“Absolutely. What about him?”
“Carl Henning Thomsen apparently did some moving for Andreas Falkenborg.”
“Apparently?”
“I can’t really figure out what they mean. Well, wait a moment… now I see. Carl Henning Thomsen had a transfer from a warehouse in Herlev to Bækkevang 19 in Rødovre, but Bækkevang 19 doesn’t even exist, the road only goes to 17. The next house in the row, which should have been number 19, is a corner house with an address on Bakkehøjvej 45, which Bækkevang runs into.”
“The half of the duplex that Andreas Falkenborg bought and sold again right away?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the date of the purchase and also the date Catherine Thomsen disappeared.”
“His share of the house was bought on the fourth of December, 1996; Catherine Thomsen disappeared on the fifth of April, 1997.”
“Get Arne and the Countess in here.”
Simonsen took advantage of the wait to study the picture of Andreas Falkenborg he had received half an hour ago and immediately put up on his bulletin board. An amiable man in his early fifties smiled back at him. There was something anonymous about his face, and Simonsen thought that it could serve as representative of the general Danish public in any advertisement.
Pedersen was the first to arrive; he brought positive news with him and was in a good mood besides.
“We’ve found a witness who makes a link between Falkenborg and Catherine Thomsen more than probable, actually a double witness, namely a Jehovah’s Witness witness.”
The witticism was lost on Simonsen, and the Countess, who had just come in, did not seem inclined to joke either. Pedersen hurried on.
“There is a man who possibly partnered Catherine Thomsen in the movement’s door-to-door campaign, and he is quite sure that he has spoken with Andreas Falkenborg. Not because he remembers his face but the officers spoke to him in the stairwell of the apartment block where Falkenborg lived at that time, and he clearly recalls seeing a picture hanging on the wall outside the main door-a picture he looked at for a long time while his partner spoke with the inhabitants of the apartment. Unfortunately he is not equally certain who his partner was that day. It was probably Catherine Thomsen, but he is not completely sure.”