Shortly after that he hung up.
“Ms Bahn is ready to see me in private in half an hour.”
“Should I go with you?”
“No, I’ll deal with her alone. The more of us there are, the greater the possibility that she will revert to her default frame of mind. She’s only just managing to control herself.”
“That’s too bad, I really wanted to meet her. So Pauline was right. With Bahn greed outweighs everything else.”
“Yes, evidently. But can you gather people together for a meeting this afternoon? I’m seriously thinking about bringing Andreas Falkenborg in tomorrow or the day after. We have him under close surveillance, as you know, but of course I don’t like the fact that he’s on the loose. On the other hand we don’t have much on him as yet, so I would like to discuss the situation with all of you before I make my final decision.”
“How democratic.”
“Go to your perch and do what I ask.”
“Yes, sir, I’m gone already.”
Ms Agnete Bahn’s appearance surprised Konrad Simonsen. He had expected an old harpy in cheap, gaudy clothes and with the cold manner of a whore, but instead he was met by a presentable older woman dressed in a demure tailor-made suit. She had an attractive, middle-aged face only lightly enhanced with makeup and-if not absolutely accommodating-a business-like attitude. It was difficult to recognise the hetaira who less than an hour ago had gathered a thistle bouquet of the worst words in the language for him. She led him to a couch and fetched a can of cold juice, which she placed before him along with a glass. Then she got to the point.
“Do we have an agreement that you will remove the three cars parked in front of my home if I tell you about when I worked in the household of factory owner Alf Falkenborg?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get going. We’re both interested in getting this conversation over with as quickly as possible.”
Simonsen got his Dictaphone ready and placed it between them. Agnete Bahn looked distrustfully at the machine and said, “And we’re only going to talk about back then?”
“Only about back then, yes, I am completely indifferent to what you’ve been doing otherwise, Ms Bahn.”
“Fine, and just call me Agnete, it’s simpler. What do you want to know?”
Simonsen told her about the murders and his suspicions about Andreas Falkenborg without elaborating on the concrete evidence he had. She was not unduly concerned to hear the accusations against the child she had cared for long ago. Apart from nodding occasionally as a sign that she understood, she showed no interest in the story. Simonsen continued.
“Do you have a picture of yourself when you were young that I can take with me?”
The woman’s surprise was unfeigned.
“What the hell do you want that for?”
He had made up his mind that it was unlikely she would go to the press. He answered her honestly.
“I think that your appearance as a young woman has imprinted itself on Andreas Falkenborg’s mind, and later he has chosen his victims based on the way he remembers you.”
Simonsen thought that perhaps she would be angered by his supposition, so he spoke quietly, almost earnestly. Agnete Bahn remained unaffected.
“My looks then are the role model for the girls he’s butchered. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, it is, apart from the fact that he hasn’t butchered anyone.”
She thought briefly and then said, “It’s going to take a little time. I have to go up in the attic and take one of my employees with me, I’m not that young any more. But if it’s necessary… ”
“It’s necessary.”
“All right, I’ll call for one of them, they’re just sitting around anyway. You can pass the time by going below and-”
Simonsen cut her off.
“No, thanks.”
Her laughter was dry and joyless, almost scornful.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say, although you would be surprised how many men there are in positions higher than yours who wouldn’t refuse-”
She glanced at the Dictaphone again.
“-a turn on the couch, so long as they don’t have to pay the bill for it afterwards.”
“I believe that.”
“You’d better. But what I meant was that you can go down and get a newspaper or two in reception, so you have something to do while I’m in the attic. And I forbid you to snoop around my home.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I have some papers I can read in the meantime.”
She shrugged her padded shoulders and left.
The photograph she set before him a good half an hour later left no remaining doubt as to where Andreas Falkenborg had acquired his taste for a certain female type. Rikke Barbara Hvidt, Maryann Nygaard, Annie Lindberg Hansson and Catherine Thomsen were all a copy of the young Agnete Bahn. She said, “I was twenty-one, this was taken on my birthday.”
“Brilliant, thanks very much.”
“I was pretty, wasn’t I?”
Her voice, previously crisp and businesslike, had taken on an insinuating tone which, combined with a misplaced hand that squeezed his arm, made Simonsen’s flesh crawl.
“Yes, definitely, very pretty.”
The compliment obviously was not enough. She sighed and said, “No matter where I went in those days, I was always the prettiest.”
He could not make himself praise her appearance further, and besides she had managed her Norn-given talents poorly. He turned on the Dictaphone, which he had turned off when she went to the attic, and said dryly, “Well, the years catch up with all of us.”
She released him and returned to her normal tone of voice.
“Shall we continue?”
“Yes, let’s. Can you remember approximately when you were employed by Falkenborg?”
“It was in 1964 and 1965. I started right after school summer holidays, it must have been in August, and I stopped just over a year later, one happy day in October.”
“What were you employed as?”
“Young girl in the house, I think it was called.”
“You say a ‘happy day’, didn’t you like being there?”
“No.”
She made no attempt to expand on this, and Simonsen took the opportunity to outline their agreement again.
“It’s not enough that we’re talking. I also demand a certain degree of willingness to answer on your part, so I’ll ask you again: didn’t you like being there?”
He made a rolling gesture with his hand; she was expected to be more expansive. It helped.
“No, I definitely did not. It was an awful family, festering like the clap from one end to the other. Alf Falkenborg was an asshole, his wife… I can’t even remember the old lady’s name… ”
“Elisabeth Falkenborg.”
“Yes, that’s right. She was a cowed old hag, constantly on my ass to find something to complain about in my work, and Andreas was an annoying little prick who should have had a good thrashing a few times a week.”
“That sounds a lot to put up with.”
“It was way too much, every word of this is true, and actually there was quite a bit that was worse than that-filthy petit-bourgeois, pissing on everything and everyone, including each other.”
“Could you make your vocabulary a little less flowery?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Stop swearing so much.”
“Why should I, are you getting queasy?”
Simonsen dropped the idea of explaining how exaggerated use of strong language could weaken a witness statement in certain circles, thus removing the focus from what was important, namely the truth. It was many court sessions ago that he had last believed in watertight compartments between form and content. Maybe Lady Justice was blind but she was not deaf, and at some point a transcript of this woman’s questioning would end up in the hands of Andreas Falkenborg’s defence counsel. Simonsen gave her the short version.