“I don’t doubt that you have. Can you call up that list?”
Malte typed a command. Shortly after that a list of female names came up on his screen.
“There were eleven of them in the period from 1956 to 1967. Most of them were employed for one or two years, some for only a month. Should I see how many of them are still living?”
“Yes, please.”
“You’ll have to wait for the result, it may take a long time.”
A long time in Malte Borup’s universe was three minutes. The computer said that two of the maids were dead.
“Can you find out how old they were when they were employed by the Falkenborg family?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to wait again. If you’d said that before, I could have done it in one swoop.”
“We don’t mind waiting.”
This time however the student was cheated; the data appeared at once.
“That’s strange, they must have stored my records in a buffer. Maybe they’ve improved the system.”
Simonsen’s focus was elsewhere. “All aged nineteen to twenty-three… this looks promising. Malte, can you get us the current addresses and possibly telephone numbers too?”
“If they live in Denmark, that’s no problem. Otherwise it’s hard.”
“And then there is the very big question: what about pictures of them?”
Malte looked down at the corner of the screen, towards his computer’s clock, and answered hesitantly, “Pictures are not that easy.”
“But?”
“If they have a passport or driver’s licence or, well, something else, then there will be a picture, but normally it’s not digital, and then… it’s not that easy.”
“So what do you do in that case?”
The student squirmed, but buckled under the pressure of a meaningful pause left by Simonsen.
“Well, we have a service and return system.”
“Who is we?”
“A lot of us who work with computers on a daily basis. If we help each other out, we earn points. Or the other way around. Well, we call them Guilt or simply G. The system’s very efficient, and I have a lot of G.”
Simonsen could not conceal his dismay.
“You’re not telling me that you trade information from the police for G?”
“No, the Countess says that-”
“I don’t care what the Countess says. I say that under no circumstances do you sell data from our registries, regardless of whether you settle up in G or any other currency.”
“I don’t do that, I’m well aware that it’s strictly forbidden. I’ve earned every G I have by helping other people with computer problems and never by anything else.”
Simonsen cooled down.
“I’m very happy to hear that. What about the pictures?”
“Maybe I can get someone to scan the girls’ pictures and send them to me, and then we can run them through the LifeCycle program if you want an impression of how they looked when they were employed with the Falkenborg family. But that will only be an indication, remember, because the source will certainly not have much information.”
“What are we talking about in terms of time, Malte?”
“Half an hour to an hour. Anita will skin me alive.”
“I’ll talk to her, you get started in the meantime.”
“Okay, I'll call you when I’m ready. I mean, maybe you could use the time better… ”
They understood what he meant, and left him alone.
Twenty minutes later Malte called his audience back. The G system had again proved effective. The detectives had used the waiting time to chat together. Simonsen had started in on a large portion of salad after turning over the job of calling Malte Borup’s girlfriend to Pauline Berg. The two women were still talking, but by now it was about clothes and good, inexpensive stores, so everyone assumed the student would be let off the hook when he saw Anita. Meanwhile on the computer screen seven of the nine maids had been given a face, even if their digital rejuvenation had in several cases given them a bizarrely animated appearance. Nonetheless it was obvious which of the seven manipulated images was the most interesting. Poul Troulsen said the name.
“Agnete Bahn.”
Konrad Simonsen agreed.
“It’s a bit grainy and strange, but it’s close enough, even though the three murdered girls and Jeanette Hvidt resemble each other more than they resemble her.”
Malte explained, “Her real appearance may deviate quite a bit from what you see here. The driver’s licence photo is small and does not contain much information.”
Simonsen asked, “How old was Andreas when she was employed?”
“Ten when she was first hired, and then eleven.”
“Where does Agnete Bahn live now?”
“Copenhagen. In Østerbro it appears.”
“Let’s go out and visit her.”
Pauline Berg’s reaction was quite different when shortly afterwards she saw the picture and the name of the Falkenborg family’s old housemaid.
“Oh, no-this can’t be right. Does she have anything to do with this case? I mean, was she in the house back then?”
Simonsen sensed problems.
“Do you know her?”
“Do I know her? The whole of Vice Squad does. This is Brothel Bahn.”
“Let me take a guess as to her occupation.”
“A madam on a large scale, treats her girls awfully, is more money-grubbing than Scrooge McDuck, and she despises the police. She has a lawyer in attendance at all times and consistently refuses to say anything at all to anyone at all. On top of that she is uncommonly unsympathetic unless she can see any advantage to herself in behaving better. In that case she can be quite pleasant, but I’ve only experienced it once.”
“You make it sound like she wears horns.”
“Maybe not, but she’s going to meet someone who does, and the sooner the better.”
“We’d like the opportunity to question her first.”
“You can forget that. She won’t say anything to the police, if for no other reason than to annoy us. And don’t think that you can appeal to her conscience, because she has none.”
“But I assume that she has a brothel. Is she still active? She must be over sixty.”
Malte interjected, “Sixty-four. Should I see if she has a criminal record?”
Pauline Berg answered, “She has a catalogue of crimes longer than your arm. Her establishment is on Gudhjemgade, a side street off Nordre Frihavnsgade, she lives on the second floor-and, I promise you, she is active. She won’t let go of the reins until the day the devil calls her down.”
“It sounds like we have a good way in here. A madam’s business rarely withstands close scrutiny from the police, and she loses nothing by helping us, if she can.”
“She calls her business a massage centre, of course, and forget about pressuring her-that’s been tried many times. She keeps everything in meticulous order: accounts, so-called employment, VAT, you name it-even the fire department couldn’t find anything when we set them on her once.”
“And you’ve met her personally?”
“Several times. The hag usually offers me employment. On the other hand that’s the only thing she likes to talk about.”
The slightly dirty grin this received from the men did not go unobserved by Pauline. She snapped, “And she’s like that with everyone. It’s one of the many ways in which she harasses people.”
“Will it help if you talk to her, do you think? Or would a strange face be better?”
“I don’t think it matters, but I would really prefer not to.”
Simonsen sent his troops out. Malte was released for further clothes-shopping with his girlfriend, Troulsen got the interview with Agnete Bahn, and Pauline Berg covered the remaining maids. To start with they would be contacted by phone in order to get a general picture of life in Andreas Falkenborg’s childhood home. Simonsen himself went to the Foreign Ministry, and what he had to do there he did not say.
By later that afternoon a picture had started to form of the environment in which Andreas Falkenborg had grown up. The summary took place in Simonsen’s office, though he was the last to arrive. He turned up ten minutes after the scheduled time, drenched after a summer shower but in a sunny mood.