In the train back to Copenhagen Pauline Berg visualised the meeting. She imagined how the young girl, half-soaked and bent over against the wind, had jogged the final metres to Andreas Falkenborg’s Saab. Did he reach out and open the passenger door himself, when he saw her coming? Yes, he probably did. Nice to see you, can you believe this weather, there are tissues in the glove compartment. Her path to the morgue was paved with friendliness. No, constructed of friendliness sounded better. And what was their drive like? Pauline Berg daydreamed further and shivered with joy. She loved her job.
At Copenhagen’s Central Station she called Konrad Simonsen and informed him of her conclusions. Her boss was interested, if far from as enthusiastic as she was. But he agreed she should continue her research. That was enough for her. She had contacted Simonsen over the weekend as if it were the most natural thing in the world, just like Poul Troulsen, the Countess and Arne Pedersen did when they were on to something important. And she would just continue, as he had said. Just continue.
This led her two hours later to Gammel Torv in Copenhagen.
The day before she had contacted the National Association for Gays and Lesbians and asked for help in tracing Catherine Thomsen’s unknown girlfriend. After being transferred a few times, she ended up with a woman who neither rejected nor agreed to her proposal, but however agreed to listen to her. They had arranged to meet at the Caritas Fountain, Christian IV’s beautiful Renaissance mineral spring from the early seventeenth century.
The woman proved to be in her late forties, which surprised Pauline Berg. On the phone she’d sounded younger. In addition Pauline was almost sure she had met her before, without being able to recall where and in what connection. Only that, as far as she remembered, she didn’t like her.”
They introduced themselves. The other woman was tall and gangly with a self-aware gaze and red hair that was coloured a shade too harshly for Pauline Berg’s taste. She did not want to see identification, and limited her introductory polite phrases to a minimum. With a curt “Come”, she led them across the square to a bench, where they sat down. She also took the lead in their conversation.
“What do you know about the National Association?”
The question took Pauline Berg by surprise. What significance did that have? Besides it was asked with an air of authority, as if she were taking a test and the other woman was the examiner. Pauline briefly considered not answering, but thought better of it.
“Not much. You were founded in 1948 as one of the first organisations of its type in the world. You work with the public in an advisory capacity as well as lobbying for sexual equality. In general terms that’s what I know.”
The woman was obviously satisfied with the answer. In any event she abandoned the subject and commanded instead, “Show me the picture, and repeat your explanation from yesterday.”
Pauline Berg complied with the request. Suddenly, while she was speaking, she recalled where she had met her witness before. In a courtroom-the woman was a judge. Years ago she had skewered the prosecution lawyer and released defendants on the spot in a case that had taken Pauline Berg and her colleagues of the time weeks to build up. Today she was probably sitting in the High Court.
The woman studied the picture of Catherine Thomsen’s presumed girlfriend thoroughly in Malte Borup’s age-progressed version, before she said, “You say she’s a lesbian?”
“It’s likely, but I’m not certain.”
“Does she live here in Copenhagen?”
“I don’t know that either. Only that she lived here ten years ago.”
“Do you have a digital version of her picture?”
Pauline Berg handed over a flash drive and a card with her cell-phone number on it.
“We’ll search for her on the Internet. Facebook, our email list and our website. That’s probably the most efficient way. I’ll contact you if we find her.”
“What do you think the chances are?”
“How would I know? Is there anything else?”
There wasn’t.
On her way up Strøget toward Rådhuspladsen Pauline Berg had a good feeling in her gut. The Falkenborg case was hers, she could sense it clearly.
CHAPTER 28
The parting on Monday morning between the Countess and Konrad Simonsen at Polititorvet in front of Police Headquarters was awkward. The Countess dropped her boss off before continuing on to her breakfast meeting. In the car she had explained to him in detail for the first time her parallel investigation around Bertil Hampel-Koch on which she had spent a good deal of time over the past week, including this morning, which meant that she was removed from the actual case. She still kept her peculiar phone conversation with Simonsen’s clairvoyant friend to herself. Even though it was her actual motivation-which she had admitted to herself early on-it was impossible for her to justify her actions based on that kind of metaphysical warning. But she told him everything else. Everything except the most important thing.
Simonsen was not impressed, primarily because he had a hard time seeing the purpose of her exertions. She had fallen for one of the classic temptations in detective work: namely to pursue a false track and uncover a story that may very well be exciting, but which had nothing to do with the relevant crime. He had experienced that many times before, and it was his job as chief to allocate her time in a more productive direction; well, after hearing her explanation he might say in a much more productive direction. The problem was that he didn’t, which-in all honesty-was because he was living with her now.
He opened the car door to get out, but had second thoughts and turned towards her. She anticipated him.
“I know what you’re going to say, Simon, and you’re right. What I’m doing is a little on the periphery of what we are otherwise occupied with. But I have a very strong intuition about it.”
“Combined with a very strong curiosity about matters of state that don’t concern us. That’s also why you spent the whole weekend Googling Greenland and talking with anyone and everyone on the phone.”
“The whole weekend is overstating it. I seem to recall that we were at the Louisiana museum and the theatre.”
“Granted, but when we get home, we have to find a way to get you back on track.”
“You promised me that I could have a week.”
He ignored his own promise as well as her imploring tone.
“A way that holds up.”
“Okay, I promise you, dear chief.”
That combination of words went straight to the heart of his dilemma, and he knew her well enough to realise this was no coincidence. So he left her and went to work, with the pointed comment that someone had to.
The Countess had invited the Oracle from Købmagergade to breakfast. When he’d agreed, he requested a discreet location, a wish she did not accommodate however, for much could be said about the SAS hotel, Arne Jacobsen’s functionalist mastodon of a skyscraper in the heart of Copenhagen, but discreet it was not. On the other hand she had arranged a quiet meeting room just off the lobby, where a sumptuous morning buffet awaited them. Her guest was already enjoying the delicacies when she arrived. They greeted each other, and the Countess poured herself a cup of coffee. She was nervous, which surprised her. He asked in amazement, “Aren’t you going to have anything else?”
“No, unfortunately. It does look delicious.”
“It is delicious, but go ahead and start. I can listen and chew at the same time.”
She showed him the photograph of Bertil Hampel-Koch in Greenland. In the foreground was a young, crew-cut man in the process of lighting a pipe, while a pretty woman with black, wavy hair smiled into the camera from the background.