“Except what you call legal niceties, I call human rights.”
Pauline appealed to the Countess.
“I don’t follow you. What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about torture, my friend. Or more specifically the US rendition programme, where in the best management style the torments are outsourced to executioners all around the world. Mistreatment by proxy, please. And don’t believe that Denmark isn’t involved. Kastrup Airport has been visited many times by the torture jet, but it’s poor political form to point that out. For your information, torture affects alleged, but never convicted, terrorists.”
Troulsen shrugged his shoulders provocatively.
“If it saves innocent lives, I’m not one to lose sleep over it.”
Simonsen entered the fray.
“I know how many witches were burned in Denmark in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries-there were about a thousand-and the interesting thing is that almost all of them were guilty, because by far the majority confessed their crimes after being on the rack for a while. The truth is that torture, besides being deeply repulsive, is also counterproductive. You simply can’t rely on the results of such interrogation.”
Pedersen was the first to finish his beer. The discussion was about to become a trifle too heated for his taste. To be conciliatory he said to the Countess and Simonsen, “You always make it sound so easy, and sometimes I wish I had your sense of ethics or whatever it’s called. But I also know that if someone threatened my family, I would damn’ well not shrink from anything.”
He glanced at his watch and added, “I’ll buy the next round and then I’m heading home.”
CHAPTER 11
It was difficult to trace the woman who went by the nickname “Six Feet of Love” twenty-five years before at the American military base at Søndre Strømfjord in Greenland. And when, ironically, after many twists and turns, the Countess finally did find the woman’s real name, it turned out that she had emailed the Homicide Division two days earlier, because she thought she had information about Maryann Nygaard that might interest the police. The email included the data it had taken the Countess hours to find out a different way. The woman’s name was Allinna Holmsgaard, and the nurse Pauline Berg had interviewed in the car between Roskilde and Viby was not far off in her prediction that the woman’s career probably had something to do with books. Allinna Holmsgaard was Professor of Rhetoric at the University of Copenhagen.
The Countess responded to the email and tried the listed cell phone number a few times, but without success. A call to the Institute for Media, Perception and Communication, which she did not expect much from as the autumn term had not yet started, produced unexpected dividends. A friendly secretary said that the professor was at work, but she did not know exactly where. The building was on Njalsgade at the Iceland Wharf, which as the crow flies was less than a kilometre from Police Headquarters and thus within acceptable walking distance-a good excuse for the Countess to enjoy the summer weather, and a suitable way to prove to herself that she could walk where she wanted, regardless of whoever she risked running into.
The city smiled at her, and she smiled back. Until a woman walking towards her with a pushchair made her turn her back to the street and inspect a random shop window until the danger had passed. One wheel squeaked, which irritated her. How hard was it just to put a few drops of oil in the hub, so other people were not disturbed? She saw her reflection in the shop window and felt ugly. Thickset, wrinkled, fifty in a few years. Soon it would be almost two years since she’d last slept with a man. She’d been invited to a confirmation ceremony and could not decline, although her ex-husband and his live-in were also coming. She had hired an escort; the thought of going to the party alone had been unbearable. Later she paid him to take a week-long vacation with her, which she was not exactly proud of afterwards. It had been divine at night and catastrophic during the day. The man proved to be as self-centred as he was untalented at anything but sex, which was saying a lot. Now she had a man again-in her house in any event. The rest would come eventually, little by little. She turned, looked around carefully and walked on.
Allinna Holmsgaard had aged gracefully; she was in her mid-forties and still lovely. A tall woman with a lightly lined face and graceful movements, standing by the board while she alternately wrote and gestured. The Countess had quietly slipped into the classroom where the witness was teaching, and received a few minutes of free coaching plus time to observe the professor as well as her students. There were only five of them in the class, all young women, sitting in the front row taking notes on their laptops. One woman was recognisable as a TV host and another as a politician. When Allinna Holmsgaard caught sight of the visitor she interrupted her teaching and went up to the Countess, who briefly introduced herself. The professor looked her over from head to toe and said, “Do you have any ID?”
The Countess found her identification card and showed it to her. Allinna Holmsgaard studied it carefully, after which she said apologetically, “Sorry, but for a moment I suspected you were from the press. A couple of journalists have called. It was almost impossible to get rid of them.”
“It’s quite all right. Actually I ought to show my ID routinely.”
The other woman nodded her acceptance of this.
“I assume that it is about Maryann?”
“Yes, it is. Do you have time to speak?”
“I will very soon. What about you, are you in a hurry?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do you know Kulturhuset down on Bryggen?”
“Yes, very well.”
“Why don’t we meet down there when I’m through here? As I said, it won’t be very long. There’s no reason to stay inside on a day like this.”
Half an hour later the two women were sitting on a bench at Gaswerkshavnen with a view over Kalvebod Brygge. The distorted reflection of a glass facade caught the sun at an unfortunate angle and momentarily blinded them. From time to time one of the broad canal excursion barges passed; then they had to smile and wave, while tourists from far and near photographed them for their scrapbooks, and the tour guide’s school English interrupted their conversation. The two women hit it off from the start. For instance, even when they were ordering something to drink, they both agreed that it was too early in the day for white wine, after which they each ordered a glass anyway. They talked about architecture; it was a difficult subject to avoid when they were sitting where they were, and they could have talked for a long time about everything under the sun if the situation had been different. They both felt that way. The Countess took hold of herself first; she was in the midst of a murder investigation after all.
“Were you and Maryann Nygaard friends in Greenland?”
“We were, yes. Very close. It hit me hard when she died, or disappeared rather, but we knew perfectly well what that meant. For a long time I hoped against all the odds that she would be found alive, even though deep down I knew that wouldn’t happen.”
“But you didn’t suspect she was the victim of a crime?”
“Absolutely not. It came as a shock when I read that, and I’m still pretty upset. It’s disgusting to think about, but hard not to.”
“Yes, unfortunately it is disgusting. In your email you said you have information that you think might interest us. Would you like to tell me about it?”
Allinna Holmsgaard drummed her fingers on the table. Her nails were cut short, but nevertheless the sound irritated the Countess.
“When I sent the email, I meant it. But after thinking things through I’m not so sure how important it is.”