“Correct, apart from the fact that it’s called Kikhavn. Yes, the Stevns case was played up in the newspapers in the same way as today, and what she read about Catherine Thomsen’s fate made her remember what she had gone through herself. I contacted Planck, but a couple of days later Catherine’s father was arrested and charged, and I never heard anything from the inquiry team. But someone must have made a note because otherwise you would not have contacted me today.”
Pedersen was surprised.
“I thought it was you who contacted Simon.”
“No, it was one of your students who got in touch with me originally. Apparently they found a cross-reference. Tell me, don’t you talk to each other in Copenhagen? Or perhaps that’s out of style in the capital?”
The man had a point, thought Pedersen.
“As a rule we do, but I must have misunderstood something in this case. So didn’t it surprise you that the woman was never questioned?”
“No, because by that time everyone thought the perpetrator was the Stevns girl’s father, mainly because his fingerprints were on the plastic bag. It seemed pretty obvious. How do you explain that, by the way? The fingerprints, I mean.”
“We think that the perpetrator tricked Catherine’s father into carrying something around with a protective plastic bag around it during a move. A fragile vase, for example. Or maybe one of those busts on plinths that people sometimes have. But that’s still just speculation. Tell me, do you have anything against looking at a couple of pictures and telling me whether you think they resemble Rikke Barbara Hvidt, as she looked in 1977?”
“Not in the least, but I wonder if she herself has a picture from back then, so you can just compare your photographs with that. It will probably be easier because there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.”
“I would really like your assessment to start with, if-”
Pedersen was interrupted by a hollow, howling sound that resounded twice over the harbour. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked tensely out over the basin, where the ferry from Rørvig was about to make close contact with a pleasure boat. Hans Svendsen got up.
“Look at those idiots, what are they thinking? A ferry like that can’t just change course in an instant. So much for getting out of the way, mate… no, it looks like he’ll manage it. Sometimes people are just too stupid. He has children on board too.”
He sat down heavily.
“Out with the pictures then, I’ll take a look.”
Pedersen placed the photographs on the table before him. Maryann Nygaard, Catherine Thomsen and Annie Lindberg Hansson, three smiling, pretty women with a remarkable resemblance to one another. Hans Svendsen took a quick glance at them and said, “Yes, they look very like Rikke did back then.”
“You remember her so clearly?”
“Rikke has a grandchild. The girl is not quite the age of these women yet, but she resembles them very strongly.”
“And the granddaughter looks like her grandmother did at that age?”
“That’s what people say, and also what I recall. She’s a very pretty girl anyway. They often take walks together, Rikke and she, so you will probably meet her later.”
Pedersen took the opportunity to show him a picture of Andreas Falkenborg also. Without saying anything. This time too Hans Svendsen answered without reservation, although after taking a slightly longer time to consider it.
“Yes, that’s the culprit. Even after all these years, I have no doubt that’s the man I removed from the hair salon. Is that the type he goes after? That is, pretty young women with black, wavy hair?”
“We assume so, but his taste is a bit more rarefied than that and the victims have to meet it in every respect. In addition there is reason to believe he does not go after his victims, as you put it. He does not actively seek them out. They have to come to him. But when that happens, he strikes. At least that’s how we see the cases at the moment, but there are still a lot of unknowns.”
Hans Svendsen nodded seriously.
“I assume that this time you have the right man in your sights.”
“We do. The problem will be proving it. But tell me one thing: how much of what we have talked about now did you explain to Konrad Simonsen on the phone?”
Pedersen raised his hand to forestall any objection from Svendsen. “And I’m well aware that I ought to know that myself, but I really don’t.”
“Okay, okay, no offence taken. I can easily imagine that you have an awful lot on your plate, but the answer is, almost nothing. We talked together for about one minute, and the rest he left to this meeting.”
“I don’t think he’s aware of how significant our meeting Rikke Barbara Hvidt could be. I intend to call him at once and get him up here to take part. I think he should prioritise that over everything else.”
To Pedersen’s surprise Hans Svendsen did not seem too keen on the idea. He scratched his beard thoughtfully and said, “I don’t really know… maybe that’s not so smart.”
“Why? What harm can it do??”
“Because two strangers may be one too many. Rikke is a very nervous sort. About two years ago she was the victim of a horrible accident, in which her daughter was killed and she herself became blind. A car drove right through the front window of her bookshop when she and her daughter were setting out a new display. The driver was drunk and unable even to brake before he ran into them. He was killed too. Since that day she has been very nervous and withdrawn, even with people who know her well. I don’t know how she will react if two strangers suddenly turn up to question her. It’s possible she won’t manage to talk with you.”
“I understand.”
“Why don’t I see if I can get hold of her granddaughter? It will depend on how she is doing, of course. You know, some days are better than others.”
Svendsen got up and disappeared into the restaurant. It was twenty minutes before he reappeared.
“It’s okay to try, but you should be prepared for the questioning to take time. It will be best if only one of you asks questions. The granddaughter is taking a walk with her at the harbour in an hour, and Simon is en route.”
“You called him?”
“I thought I might just as well, since I was on the phone anyway. Do you play billiards?”
“You mean that game with long sticks and balls on a table?”
“Exactly. It sounds like I’ve found myself a good mark. Let’s go in and see if it’s available.”
“Okay, post and play, you can set up.”
“Now you’re sounding more like a shark than a mark, but let’s see what you’re good for.”
CHAPTER 15
“What was the dyke angle, Simon?”
The door to Konrad Simonsen’s office stood open and Pauline Berg marched straight in. She could see that her boss and the Countess were on their way out. She had no idea where to. Shortly before this she had been informed that the scheduled psychological review of Falkenborg had been cancelled. Why she did not know. She felt irritated and left out. Hence her question, spoken without any introduction and in an aggressive tone. Which to her own surprise she did not regret.
Simonsen observed her curiously. He had never seen Pauline this way before. She was standing with her arms folded, actually blocking the doorway. He had to hold back a smile. The last thing he wanted was to puncture her self-confidence, and especially not her persistence. The expression “dyke angle” he remembered well; he had simply forgotten ever using it himself. As far as he remembered, it was Kasper Planck, his old boss, who had come up with the phrase. Simonsen answered Pauline while with exaggerated obviousness he glanced at his watch.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. Shouldn’t you be leaving?”