“You make a living by spying on other people. Do you like doing that?”
Surprisingly enough, the suspect answered honestly and without the slightest embarrassment.
“Yes, I think it’s fun. I’ve always thought that, ever since I was a kid.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, it’s just the way I am.”
“You like watching people without them knowing it?”
“Yes.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“Yes.”
“Preferably on women?”
“Sometimes it’s men, it depends on who wants my help, and I also sell things… microphones, cameras, computer software and that kind of thing.”
“Would you call that spying equipment?”
“Yes, that describes it well, but it’s completely legal.”
“No one is saying it isn’t. Tell me, when you are spying on strangers, do you prefer them to be women or men?”
“Definitely women, I do best with them.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s easier. Women talk more than men, and I also think it’s more fun.”
“Why is it more fun?”
“I don’t really know, I’ve never thought about it, but I guess it’s because I’m normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes, that is, like other men. I’m not abnormal.”
“It’s not normal to kill three women. That’s extremely abnormal.”
This time Falkenborg seemed ashamed. He lowered his eyes and answered, “I know that.”
“What you have done is very serious.”
“Yes, when you put it that way.”
“It almost sounds as if you’re sorry.”
“I am.”
“Well, that’s a start anyway. Tell me, why did you kill Maryann Nygaard?”
Andreas Falkenborg hesitated, trembled slightly and pulled back.
“I did not kill Maryann Nygaard. I didn’t do that.”
Simonsen noticed how he bent his neck and lifted one arm, as if he was going to sniff his own armpit.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing… it’s nothing.”
“You’re lying to me. Why did you kill Maryann Nygaard?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know why I killed her.”
“What about Catherine Thomsen, don’t you know why you killed her either?”
The man shook his head. Simonsen said, “The suspect Andreas Falkenborg is shaking his head. Please say that out loud.”
“Excuse me, I forgot. I don’t know why I killed Catherine… Catherine Thomsen.”
“You waited for her in your car at Roskilde Station on April the fifth, 1997?”
“Yes, we had an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement was that?”
“Catherine was abnormal, she liked other girls but that was a secret. She was also very Christian. Maybe I said that I could help her.”
“With what?”
“She was made wrong… it’s embarrassing… I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So tell me instead how you killed the women. First Maryann Nygaard, how did you kill her?”
And then suddenly they were back where they started. Falkenborg asked timidly, “But should I say that I killed them when I didn’t do that?”
Simonsen was beginning to sense a pattern. To start with he refrained from answering, but he could hardly ignore it when Falkenborg added, “Will you be angry if I tell you that I didn’t kill them?”
“Did you kill Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen or didn’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, if that’s all right with you?”
Simonsen swore to himself; this could be far more difficult than he’d first expected. He decided to change focus. First however he leaned across the table, stared his prisoner in the eyes and said uncompromisingly, “When we’re sitting here making small talk, you seem like a pleasant person, Andreas. But I also see something else: I see a young girl cast her head back and forth in a desperate attempt to suck in air while her eyes are about to pop out, and you just sit alongside and enjoy the view. And thinking about that makes me so angry.”
Falkenborg’s face twitched. Simonsen took a print from his folder and set it in front of the suspect, noticing how he pulled back in his seat, as if he wanted to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and the photograph.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared of her?”
“Yes, a little-I don’t like that type of woman.”
“What type is that?”
“One like her.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“It’s hard. Just someone like that, they scare me. Won’t you take her away?”
“No. Do you recognise her?”
“Yes, her name is Rikke, but back then she was young. She isn’t any more. She can’t be.”
“Rikke Barbara Hvidt, and you’re right, this picture is of her when she was young. It was taken in 1976, when she was twenty-three years old. When did you meet her?”
“A long time ago. It was in 1978, I think.”
“Could it have been 1977?”
“Yes, that fits.”
“Where did you see her for the first time?”
“On the ferry from Rørvig to Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Both of us were on bikes. That is, they were tied to a railing on the deck of the ferry. Then she came over to me and asked if I would help her fix the chain on hers. So I did that.”
“You weren’t afraid of her at that point?”
“Yes, very.”
“Why didn’t you leave or tell her she could get help from someone else?”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
“For the next six months you pursued her as often as you could. You interrupted your studies and moved into the Hundested Inn.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid of her, I guess.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I know that. But you mustn’t be angry with me. I can’t explain it.”
“I won’t be angry, but I would really like to understand. What did you want with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“Maybe I wanted to go out with her.”
“Did you want to go out with her?”
“No.”
“So stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
Again Falkenborg sniffed himself, this time however without being tormented by spasms or other uncontrollable muscle movements. Simonsen continued.
“You made a scene when she cut her hair.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You shouted and wept and carried on, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I shouted and wept and carried on.”
“Where was that?”
“At her hair salon… the salon was on the main street in Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s not much to tell, I followed her that day-”
“Which you had done on many other days?”
“Yes, that’s why I was there, to follow her, and then I saw that she was going into the hair salon to get her hair cut short, and so I went in too and… shouted and screamed and carried on. They called the police. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“But after that day you stopped pursuing her, why is that?”
“Because she had cut her hair. But I didn’t stop completely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was up watching her again after a few years. To see whether she still had short hair, but she did. It was maybe in 1980, and then she didn’t notice me.”
“You were only interested in her if she had long hair?”
“Yes, their hair should go down to their shoulders.”
“Their hair? Who are they?”
“The women I’m afraid of, those types. They breed. They bring new ugly cuttings into the world. You have to deal with them at once.”
Simonsen felt a cold shudder pass through him and asked sharply, “What do you mean by that? What do you mean, breed?”