Gradually the inquisition lost momentum, and Simonsen’s responses began to be repetitive. She kept herself ready and finally came the question that she’d known was planted, just not with whom. She had guessed at a handful of suitable candidates, but completely missed the mark. Her cue was advanced by a veteran among the crime reporters, a man in his sixties from one of the smaller daily papers, the last person she would have thought would dabble in such things. His question was directed to Konrad Simonsen.
“You have questioned the Foreign Ministry director Bertil Hampel-Koch on several occasions in this case. Why is that?”
Simonsen seemed a trifle confused by the comment.
“Yes, well, we have. In relation to Maryann Nygaard, who was killed in Greenland. He is helping us produce information from the American… I mean, from other places. Besides, he personally visited the military base in Søndre Strømfjord in 1983, only a couple of months before the murder took place, so in that connection we have also shown… I mean, that part I haven’t… ”
He looked at Pedersen, who shook his head, and then at the Countess, who completed the answer.
“Bertil Hampel-Koch was at the base for four days in July, when he made a stopover en route to Station North, where he was going to participate in the activities of the Sirius patrol. At that time he was a clerk in the Defence Ministry, and the trip was a kind of bonus for good work. And it is correct that he has contributed information from his short time at the base, just as quite a few other people have done.”
The follow-up question came from a younger man in the first row.
“Four days in July? That is several months before Maryann Nygaard was murdered.”
“Yes, and as mentioned he is absolutely not the only one from the base we have spoken to. In addition, Hampel-Koch got to know Maryann Nygaard during his stopover.”
“Can it be said that Hampel-Koch has been involved in gathering concrete evidence in relation to your indictment?”
“It is not the job of witnesses to gather evidence, but it can be said that he has helped us a great deal. As I said, along with a number of other people.”
It was evident that the subject did not hold the gathering’s interest. Some comments were murmured but no one seemed concerned. This changed markedly with the next question, which came from the Cossack. His loud, sonorous voice reached all the way around the room when he asked, “Why did director Bertil Hampel-Koch travel to Greenland under an assumed name?”
The words “assumed name” made everyone prick up their ears. Perhaps there was a story within the story that was about to unfold. Vigilant eyes were directed towards the Countess as she explained the connection. She concluded elegantly, as she almost apologetically noted to Simonsen, “But I don’t know how relevant this is.”
She didn’t escape that easily, however. The Cossack followed up.
“It seems strange that at the same time he maintained he was a geologist. Can you also explain that to me?”
The Countess thought for a moment and began her response with the standard line that would attract the attention of any journalist. She said hesitantly, “I don’t think you need to write that.”
Then she told them about Hampel-Koch’s sudden opportunity to act like a bachelor again for four days, without fear of a long-lasting relationship.
Most of her audience agreed with her. It was uninteresting as well as personal. An alert female reporter guessed the connection and asked the tactless question, “Was it Bertil Hampel-Koch who got Maryann Nygaard pregnant?”
The Countess swooped on her without mercy. She pointed at the journalist with an accusing finger.
“That’s an incredible supposition that belongs in the gossip columns, I don’t think-”
Simonsen cut in authoritatively, “Now stop this prying into other people’s bedrooms! I have a murder case with at least two victims, and I don’t care to waste my time on such nonsense.”
The Fourth Estate pounced on Simonsen’s feigned slip of the tongue. The Countess sensed the hunger in the gathering before the questions mounted in an ugly cacophony. At least two women killed, what do you mean by at least two?
The Countess was forgotten, Bertil Hampel-Koch was forgotten, everything was as it should be. She looked towards her two journalists again. The suspicious one threw out his arms in despair, and shortly after that they both left the room. She did not feel any particular triumph as her eyes followed them to the door. She thought that was what you deserved when you habitually used words for your own ends and lied without quite saying an untruth. The world was reduced to a game, a game without joy. Then she thought about Simonsen, who had borne the full brunt of it, and about what she would make him for dinner.
CHAPTER 39
“The criminal justice system is an overrated crock of shit.”
Poul Troulsen said that at every opportunity the next couple of days, and everyone was tired of listening. It was irritating, even though they all knew he didn’t mean it and that it served as an outlet for his frustration. Along with the rest of the Homicide Division he was slaving away at full steam to produce evidence that might connect Andreas Falkenborg to his crimes and thereby prolong his imprisonment. The returns so far were meagre. The key figure refused to be questioned, so it was not possible to continue that route. A large portion of the man’s current and past circle of acquaintances had been tracked down and questioned, an extensive but fruitless process. No one could contribute any information the police did not already know.
What remained was technical evidence, and here recovering possible DNA traces from Maryann Nygaard’s grave in the Greenland ice cap was their best chance. Theoretically such traces could be well preserved in frozen condition, even though almost twenty-five years had passed since the crime took place. Perhaps it was still possible to determine that a helicopter had once landed close by the grave. There was nothing wrong with optimism, but it had no basis in reality. On Friday afternoon Simonsen came back from a meeting with Kurt Melsing, head of the Forensics department. He went to the Countess’s office, where Troulsen, Pauline Berg and the Countess were eagerly waiting for him. One look on their boss’s face, however, told them that the meeting had not gone positively. Simonsen was clearly in a lousy mood, and their spirits plummeted before a word was spoken. The Countess commented, “It didn’t go too well, I see.”
Simonsen collapsed into a chair in despair.
“It went to hell. The technicians have nothing, and if they do come up with something, which is highly unlikely, it won’t be for a while. So good ideas are more than welcome.”
Berg tried half-heartedly.
“This morning I got the name of Catherine Thomsen’s friend slash lover. Her name is Vibeke Behrns, but unfortunately at the moment she is hiking in Finnmark with her two brothers and can’t be reached. They are coming home in less than a week. But I don’t know whether she even knew Andreas Falkenborg.”
Troulsen said despairingly, “We can’t make use of that here and now.”
Berg asked worriedly, as if the truth had still not occurred to her, “But what then? I mean, he’s not going to be released, is he?”
No one answered her, and she repeated the question. This time almost shrilly. The Countess cut her off.
“It doesn’t help to get worked up, and besides it’s not our decision.”
“But the judge can’t release a mass murderer into the community.”
“She quite certainly will, if we can’t produce further evidence. Or more exactly, any evidence whatsoever.”
She turned towards Simonsen.