“If you say so. But what about a receiver, or whatever it’s called? I mean, there should be something that stores the conversations.”
“In his apartment he used his computer, or more precisely one of his six computers. But we found a brochure, and those mini-microphones can communicate with a small battery-driven box that forwards the signal over the mobile network, and a box like that is not much bigger than a matchbox, so it’s not difficult to hide. Four of his computers are password-protected, incidentally, and our technicians are working on those at the moment. One of them, the one with the picture of Jeanette Hvidt, they’ve got control of. There is a lot to suggest his expertise is not confined to audio and microphones. Advanced computer knowledge is also part of his repertoire.”
“So it’s not certain that the rest of his computers can be investigated, is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, no, it’s only a matter of time… and hardly more than two or three days. I’m just saying, he’s also skilful with a PC. And by the way, we’ve uncovered how he did his trick of breaking into the house of the witness who by bad luck had given him an old access card. Do you remember him?”
“Yes, I do. How did Falkenborg do it?”
“He had computer access to the security company, access he presumably stole in connection with their using him for a short time as a consultant. Is that something we should pursue further?”
“Have we informed the company?”
“Yes, and they’ve changed their systems.”
“Excellent, so there’s probably nothing more to do. What about a warehouse? Doesn’t he have some place for the equipment he sells?”
“Yes, I’m sure he does, but we don’t know where. The only thing we do know is that it doesn’t need to be large. A garage would be sufficient.”
Simonsen concluded gloomily, “We haven’t got much out of this search. Do you have anything else?”
“We can’t find his car. That is, one of them. He has two: a blue 2001 Mercedes E210 and a white 2004 VW Multivan, both registered as personal vehicles. The VW is a commercial vehicle with sliding doors, and that’s the one we can’t locate.”
“Put a search out for it.”
“I’ve done that.”
“Anything else?”
“Not a scrap, but we’re not finished. Should I head out again?”
“No, I would rather have you help Poul with Liz Suenson.”
“The Swedish ghost girl, who exists only in the imagination of Andreas Falkenborg and Ernesto ‘Che’ Madsen?”
“Yes, the Swedish girl who perhaps is the breakthrough we so desperately need.”
“Who, if she exists, has been shovelled into a grave in a forest in Sweden, and there are quite a few of them there. I have a hard time seeing that as a breakthrough.”
“This isn’t up for discussion, and don’t insult her.”
“Okay, no offence intended, I’ll find Poul. How did he take the situation, by the way? I mean, with the media and all that shit.”
“He’s doing his job.”
“Stop pretending you’re indifferent because I know perfectly well you’re not. I’m guessing you backed him against the sea witch on the top floor. By the way, have you seen that she’s coming out with a statement this afternoon?”
Simonsen stood up. Surprisingly enough he didn’t feel particularly tired, and even the itching on his ankles had stopped. On the other hand he was craving a cigarette.
“No, I’m not indifferent, but I prioritise double murders higher than things I can’t do anything about. Yes, of course I backed him up, what else would you imagine I’d do? No, I haven’t seen that the police commissioner intends to make a statement, and to get to your next question in advance-no, I don’t know what she will say. Now I’m going into my office to review the interview with Falkenborg again. See if you can’t produce some good news, I need it.”
Simonsen got barely ten minutes alone before Pedersen had, if not good news, at least something new to tell. He slogged into his boss’s office with a taciturn Poul Troulsen in tow. Simonsen took off his earphones and gestured to the two men to sit down. A superfluous gesture, as neither of them waited for permission.
“That was quick. Well, is she real or not?”
Pedersen looked at Troulsen and then answered as his elder colleague made no move to.
“There is still nothing official to be found, and this is the third time now that we’ve trawled through the registries. Even Malte is starting to get a little tired of us.”
“But?”
“But we have looked at the entryways on Vesterbrogade across from the City Museum. ‘Across from’ can be interpreted with a lot of goodwill as nine entryways. Of those only three have an elevator, and only one housed a dentist in 1992. Now he has his practice in Ballerup, but he confirms that Andreas Falkenborg was one of his patients when he had a clinic in the city.”
“I hope you have more than that.”
“Maybe. Vesterbrogade number sixty-two-does that ring a bell?”
Simonsen smiled broadly for the first time that day.
“Snotfather? Alias Doctor Cold?”
Finally Troulsen joined in.
“Exactly, he lives on the fourth floor, but you probably know that already?”
“Oh, yes, I know that. Have you contacted him?”
“No, I was thinking that perhaps you would go there yourself. He’s home at the moment.”
“He’s always at home. And he’s still as active as ever?”
“To the highest degree. He is one of the three kingpins the national chief of police really wants to get. But it’s been more than fifteen years since he last did time, so you can’t say that the outcome matches the desire.”
“Unfortunately not. Do you have anything specific in relation to the Swedish woman?”
“No, it’s only a guess.”
Simonsen considered the proposal, but in reality he had already made his decision.
“Okay, I’ll go over there and talk to him.”
Pedersen asked, “Obviously I’ve heard of Doctor Cold, but why do you call him Snotfather?”
His boss and Troulsen laughed. Simonsen said, “We called him that in the old days, but apparently it’s gone out of style. Because of his nose, which is strikingly large, and because the nickname annoys him, which unfortunately is the only way he has been harassed by us for years. Would you like to go along and meet him?”
Both of his detectives shook their heads. Troulsen said, “I’d rather go home. Journalists keep calling me, and my wife is also getting questions. I need to be with my family.”
He looked at his watch. Technically it was still too early for him to leave the office, even though he had started his working day while most others were asleep. Simonsen sensed his hesitation and said, “Yes, journalists are a meddlesome rabble. But go home then, if I have your word that you will show up for work tomorrow, regardless of this inconvenience?”
“Yes, I promise. If I’m not fired first.”
“You won’t be fired, and the press attention will stop at some point, it always does. Refer them to me if it helps you.”
“I won’t need to do that.”
“Then stop whining, and say hello to your wife from me.”
CHAPTER 35
The man who opened the door to Konrad Simonsen was well dressed, with good manners and cold, crafty fish eyes. His name was Marcus Kolding and he was a trained medic, thus the nickname Doctor Cold. It suited him well. Better than Snotfather, thought Konrad Simonsen, not without a trace of disappointment.
If the man was surprised to see his guest, he did not show it.
“The homicide chief himself, I see. To what do I owe this honour?”
Simonsen made no attempt at flattery. That would be a wasted effort.
“I need your help.”
“Then speak up, but we’ll stay right here. I don’t want you inside my home. It’s nothing personal, just a principle I have when dealing with the police.”