“So you didn’t believe that?”
“Not really, but I didn’t say anything about it. In 1983 the Cold War was still being conducted, so it wasn’t so strange if there were things going on that the public shouldn’t know about.”
“You may be right about that. Tell me, the picture of the man you mentioned, what should I do if I really want to see it?”
Allinna Holmsgaard thought about it, then she threw out her arms regretfully.
“It won’t be easy. I can’t even remember who Maryann got it from.”
The Countess waited, there was more to come.
“You do understand that he had left for home a long time before Maryann died?”
“Completely, but I would still like to see his picture.”
“Maybe there is a chance, although it’s slight. Do you know Knud Rasmussen's House?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“It’s a museum in North Zealand, Gribskov Municipality, I think. The former museum director collected personal photos from both bases. It was a kind of hobby for him. I have also sent him copies of my own pictures.”
“This sounds like a real uphill climb, especially since I don’t know what Hansen looks like. Can I convince you to assist me a little?”
The Countess waited patiently while Allinna Holmsgaard considered. Finally she said, “Tomorrow my husband and I are leaving for Zurich. This trip has been planned for a long time, and I would be loath to cancel or postpone it. On the other hand I owe Maryann, and society for that matter. Only you can decide if it it’s important enough for me to cancel.”
It was tempting, but the Countess controlled herself.
“No, go on holiday, it’s not that important.”
“I’m happy to hear that, but I can easily assist you over the Internet. If I send you an email this evening about the exact period of time when our friend was at Søndre Strømfjord then there won’t be very many pictures to investigate, if there even are any… ”
Together they went over the details. When it was decided, the Countess had only one thing left to do. From her bag she took a picture of Andreas Falkenborg in 1983, and set it in front of the professor.
“Do you recognise him?”
“Yes, it’s Pronto, of course, that childish soul. What do you want to know about… oh, no… ”
The Countess questioned her closely but Allinna Holmsgaard could not contribute anything groundbreaking.
CHAPTER 12
While the Countess was enjoying her white wine at Islands Brygge, her immediate associates in Homicide were en route in two cars to South Zealand. Konrad Simonsen and Poul Troulsen took the lead, with the older man at the wheel. Following right behind them were Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. Troulsen squinted out and looked distrustfully at the summer weather, which already by late morning was hot and sunny, then glanced at his boss in the passenger seat, reading a memorandum.
“I don’t understand how you can stand it, Simon. The sweat is running off me even though I only have a T-shirt on, and you’re sitting there in a jacket as if the heat doesn’t bother you in the least. Have you heard the weather forecast?”
Simonsen looked up briefly and observed his colleague, not without envy. Despite his age there was not much surplus fat on Troulsen’s well-trained body, and the muscles of his upper arms bulged nicely out of the sleeves of his T-shirt. A faded pin-up girl, from the days when Nyhavn was raunchy, preened on his forearm. Simonsen’s own temperature regulation varied more than it should. Sometimes he sweated when there was no reason to; other times, like now, he almost didn’t sweat at all. Both situations were a consequence of his diabetes. He said teasingly, “Yes, it’s going to be hot.”
Troulsen dropped the subject with a sigh and said instead, “Yesterday the wife and I babysat the grandchildren and I didn’t have a minute to spare, so unfortunately I don’t really have a good grasp of what we’re doing right now. I was wondering if you would care to give me a run-through.”
Simonsen consented; the alternative was that they change roles so that he drove while Troulsen read, and he had no desire for that. Besides, he could hardly reproach the man for having a personal life. Normally he was well prepared, and rarely complained about his hours.
“Where should I start?”
“Preferably from the beginning.”
“Okay. Annie Lindberg Hansson, age twenty-four from Jungshoved on Præstø, disappeared on the fifth of October, 1990. She worked at an office in Vordingborg, from where she took the bus in the evening towards Præstø and got off at her usual stop four kilometres from home. Her bicycle was waiting for her on the hard shoulder. Since then no one has seen her. The reason that she is interesting to us now is her appearance. Have you seen her picture?”
“Yes, I got that far. She resembles Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen.”
“She does, yes. Same black hair, same brown eyes, body build and pretty face with fine features and high cheekbones.”
“And Andreas Falkenborg lived in the area at the time she disappeared?”
“In August 1990 he bought a summer house in Tjørnehoved, which is less than five kilometres from Annie Lindberg Hansson’s home, and you must allow for the fact that this is a sparsely populated area, so five kilometres is not that much, if you see what I mean. Besides, the area is not a typical place at all for a summer house.”
“How did she disappear?”
“Basically as I told you. There’s not much more to say. She got off the bus at eight o’clock in the evening, and since then she’s been missing.”
“What about her bicycle?”
“Never found, but if you stop interrogating me, I’ll tell you about the circumstances at my own pace. I do believe I’m capable of covering all the essentials.”
“Sorry, it’s in my genes, as you know. And then the heat-it’s almost unbearable.”
Simonsen’s sympathy was lukewarm, he had his own concerns. A couple of sores on his ankles were itching like hell, small, bright red blotches that would not heal, and made him feel ridiculous, almost embarrassed. In contrast the morning’s usual round of sweating had not materialised, probably due to the nutritious breakfast the Countess had served him. All in all moving to Søllerød had worked out beyond his expectations. He had most of the second storey in the big house to himself. The Countess helped him unpack, showed him around, insisted on taking care of the practicalities, and not least-the awkward episodes he had feared in advance would arise between them had quickly faded into quiet cosiness, yes, even laughter. He enjoyed it, not least being fussed over a little. It had been a long time since he’d really laughed, and it had also been a long time since he’d slept so well. Not until now in the car did regret for his past mistakes around the murder of Catherine Thomsen gnaw its way in again and with that the longing for a cigarette. He leaned over to scratch his sores, thought better of it, and concentrated on updating Poul Troulsen.
“Annie Lindberg Hansson lived with her father, who is a bit of a social case, reading between the lines, but we’ll soon find that out. Their house is isolated, out by Jungshoved Church, a place where there’s not much besides sheep, water, and then the church and Lindberg Hansson’s little homestead. This meant that Annie had to bike alone most of the way home from where she got off the bus, and you can hardly imagine a more perfect route on which to assault a young girclass="underline" dark, deserted, and a bicycle light you can see from far off.”
“I’m liking this case less and less.”
“We don’t get paid to enjoy ourselves. Well, where was I? Yes, that evening the father reported his daughter missing and again the next morning. A search was put out for her, but the police efforts were pretty half-hearted, and I think I’m being kind saying that.”