The Countess asked in wonder, “Who hangs pictures in stairwells?”
“It’s not really a picture but a kind of decoration. Its purpose was to cover a window into a bathroom, and don’t bother asking me why such a window was even made because I don’t know. The picture depicts a horse, by the way. One of the men took a photo of it. He’s the meticulous sort.”
“Is it possible that the other potential Jehovah’s Witness partners can confirm that they haven’t visited the place? I mean, so that Catherine Thomsen is the only possibility?”
“That’s being worked on, but bear in mind that when you do outreach you visit a good number of addresses every day. And the episode is over ten years ago.”
“What about a date?”
“Not exact, but it would have been within the first three weeks of June, 1996, and he is sure of that.”
“That is, over nine months before she was killed?”
“Yes, that must be right.”
The Countess shuddered.
“But tell me something,” Simonsen continued. “We’ve had nothing so far on domestic partners, lovers, men, women, in-between, anything at all?”
Pedersen shook his head.
“I haven’t run into anything along those lines, and he’s always lived alone. Officially in any event.”
The Countess was on the same track.
“Nothing from me either. At the base he was well liked, helpful but not particularly social, and had no lovers that we know of. Some perceived him as slightly eccentric, but he wasn’t the only one, and no one I’ve talked to had anything against him. All in all I can’t contribute much about Andreas Falkenborg, but there were around nine hundred people at the base, and they were constantly being replaced, so I’m not even close to having exhausted witness possibilities. With respect to Maryann Nygaard it’s a little easier because she was a woman. There were so few of them that most remember her, mostly thanks to her appearance. But is it relevant to follow that trail further? Your call, Simon.”
Simonsen hummed absent-mindedly, which after a brief hesitation the Countess interpreted as encouragement for her to continue speaking. To give them an overview she started describing life at the Søndre Strømfjord base during the early eighties. Simonsen tuned out her words and observed her blouse. He thought that it was definitely bought at an ultra-expensive designer boutique, the sort that offered “collections” and “diffusion lines”. It was made of silk, patterned in light green and brown, and reminded him of autumn beech trees. His lapse in concentration was vaguely worrying. He pinched himself on the arm and recovered in time to answer her, though he had only heard half of her report.
The Countess asked, “What do you think? Shall we continue with them tomorrow? And should it be both him and her? That is, Falkenborg as well as Maryann Nygaard?”
“No, we’ll drop the base for the time being. There’s not much there, and we can always go back to it if things change.”
“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”
Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in her voice, perhaps it was because he had so many years’ practice in reading other people, or perhaps it was because she had gained his permission to operate for a couple of days on her own. In any event, he thought it over and changed his mind.
“Do I understand correctly that you would like to dig a little deeper?”
If she was surprised by his intuition, she did not show it.
“It’s not something I can make an argument for, but one witness says that Maryann Nygaard’s behaviour changed the two or three weeks before she was murdered. Among other things she stayed away from parties and gatherings and that sort of thing, which she definitely had not done before. It’s aroused my curiosity, though as I said it’s probably not something we can use.”
“How will you investigate this more closely? Do you have a source?”
“I may have a line on a friend of hers, I’ll know tomorrow.”
“Okay, take a couple more days and see what emerges. Meanwhile let’s concentrate on some key dates. We have reason to assume that Andreas Falkenborg met Maryann Nygaard for the first time in a nursing home where his grandmother lived. This may have been in January or February 1982. Not until September the thirteenth, 1983, that is more than a year and a half later, does he murder her after having pursued her all the way to Greenland. The pattern is just as sinister in relation to Catherine Thomsen. They met by chance in June of 1996, and her murder happened about nine months later. Presumably after his having made enormous efforts to get her father’s fingerprints on a plastic bag, which-”
Simonsen got no farther than that. He was interrupted by a pale-faced Pauline Berg, who came rushing into his office without knocking. In her hand she held a photograph of a young woman-a young woman who resembled Maryann Nygaard. Or Catherine Thomsen. But was neither of them.
CHAPTER 10
When the work day was over, Konrad Simonsen sometimes treated them to beer-which did not happen often, so was greatly appreciated when it did.
This took place by established custom at Copenhagen’s Bodega, an unpretentious bar opposite Glyptoteket that was mostly patronised by police officers. The Countess, Arne Pedersen and Poul Troulsen sat down at the same table as their boss. Their remaining colleagues found other places and did not disturb them, except for occasionally raising glasses towards their table. The establishment was half full, the mood upbeat without excessive hilarity, with muted pop classics playing and a quick-witted bartender who charmed everyone with his contagious smile. Shortly after they’d sat down Pauline Berg joined them. She had been out on an unexplained errand and had returned with a bag from Illum, which despite the Countess’s inquisitive gaze she shoved under her chair. Everyone made toasts in draft beer, and Simonsen said a few predictable things about good work, that no one heard. Then the conversation flowed. “God knows how many people he’s killed! Maybe we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg,” said Pauline Berg, disregarding the convention of not mixing details of an investigation with a social gathering.
Troulsen immediately picked up on this remark.
“There may be a lot, worse luck. It’s not enough to review our own lists of missing persons. There may be tourists who never returned home or he may have murdered on his own holidays, not to mention that young women with black hair are perhaps only one of his preferences. Maybe he also has an eye for red-haired boys-who the hell knows? I hope you’ve got him nicely contained, boss, until we’re ready to put him in the hole.”
Simonsen answered gruffly, “I’m taking good care of him with the resources I have.”
“Maybe those can be extended a little in this case. Or else use our pension fund. Just so long as he isn’t running around loose.”
“The most unpleasant thing is that he looks so ordinary. And then of course the faces of those girls in the bags… What a way to die! There should be the death penalty for such a psychopath.”
It was Pauline speaking again.
Troulsen nodded agreement. The Countess shook her head, clear about where this was headed. “And summary trial, I assume? And royal permission for painful interrogation, like in the old days? I understand that sort of thing is popular with our major ally at the moment.”
It was like pushing a button, and she knew it. Pedersen shook his head, and Troulsen replied sharply, “We didn’t have three thousand of our countrymen murdered at a stroke. To be honest, I can well understand why many Americans aren’t too concerned about the legal niceties where those behind the massacre are concerned.”