“I won’t do it. Do you think I’m stupid, or what? Then he’ll take me instead of you. I don’t want to die so that you can live.”
“I said that we’ll think of something else for you.”
“What is that? I want to know first.”
Pauline leaned over and bit the girl hard on the upper arm. She screamed with pain.
“Ow, that really hurt, why are you doing that? I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Just get started, and now. Without discussion.”
“I don’t want to, you crazy bitch. I hope he roasts you with his prod.”
This time Pauline bit twice, the first time as hard as she could. Jeanette howled in fear and pain.
“Do it, or should I bite a chunk out of you until you realise that this is serious?”
Jeanette was bitten four times before she gave in and obeyed orders. Tuft after tuft disappeared from Pauline Berg’s head; soon she noticed blood flowing down her cheek and then her neck. The pain was unbearable for a long time, until at last she did not think it really concerned her any longer. Jeanette cried unhappily, but obediently held tight, when she was asked to. After a long time, half crying, half sniffling she said, “I can’t get hold of any more now, will you please stop biting me?”
Pauline did not answer her. On her left side she could still feel hair against her cheek. She straightened up in the chair, after which she turned her head and alternately began to pound and grind it against the coarse bunker wall behind her. It hurt even more than before if possible, and she was soon moaning with pain. In spite of that she kept on and on and on.
CHAPTER 53
In the small hours between Tuesday and Wednesday Konrad Simonsen snatched a restless sleep in his desk chair. He had taken off his shoes, put his legs on the desk and-mostly for peace of mind and out of habit-used his jacket as a kind of duvet. At five o’clock in the morning he was wakened by the phone. An officer told him that he had a witness he ought to interview personally. The man sounded tired, but Simonsen recognised his name and knew that he was experienced. Not the type to disturb you for no reason, and definitely not at that time of day, so he agreed to the questioning without objection, after which he fell asleep again. Shortly after the officer was in the room escorting a woman in her twenties.
Simonsen collected himself. After five minutes in the bathroom, where some cold water on his head chased away the worst of his fatigue, he felt reasonably functional. When he returned the officer introduced the woman.
“This is Juli Denissen from Frederiksværk, and she encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening. She also has important information about his car.”
The officer placed a thin report on the desk and stood to attention expectantly. Simonsen skimmed it and noted that the witness had been questioned twice before. Both times during the night. He turned to the woman.
“Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”
He had to repeat the request before she understood, after which she left the office without argument. She left her lovely multicoloured bag behind. He noted that her gait was unusual, as if her upper body was not quite synchronised with her legs. He closed the door behind her.
As soon as she was outside, the officer asked, “Do you want a summary? I can see that you’re really tired.”
“No, but I want to know whether she is reliable. Or rather, I assume that you’ve checked her thoroughly.”
“As thoroughly as we could during the night, and nothing indicates that she is… mental.”
“What’s your own assessment?”
The answer came with conviction.
“She’s as normal as you and me. Otherwise I wouldn’t involve you.”
Simonsen mumbled inaudibly, sent the officer away and showed the woman in again. They sat opposite each other at his desk. He browsed through her papers again and said matter-of-factly, “You are twenty-four years old, divorced, attend the Technical School in Frederiksværk, live alone with your two-year-old child.”
The woman confirmed this and suppressed a yawn, which she excused with a lovely smile. Involuntarily Simonsen smiled back. It was hard not to.
“Can you tell me a little about your daughter?”
If she was surprised by the question she did not show it. Without hesitation she complied with the request, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to talk about her child at five-thirty in the morning to the head of the country’s most-discussed investigation. While she spoke, he observed her thoroughly, which did not seem to embarrass her. She was slender, below average height, with long dark hair and high, soft cheekbones; definitely pretty in her particular way. She had a surplus of charisma, but her eyes made the greatest impression. They were brown, happy and trustful when they met his, without submission but also without arrogance. He discovered to his surprise as she was speaking that he liked hearing her voice, and he let her continue a bit beyond the point where he felt convinced she was not concealing any pathological defects. At last however he interrupted her.
“You think you encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening, on the local train to Frederiksværk?”
“Yes, I think so. And I also saw him on the S-train to Hillerød. He got on at Nørreport Station.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Where should I start?”
“You were in Copenhagen. What were you doing there?”
“I had been in London for two days and came from the airport… ”
Her explanation was thorough and precise; the times fitted with Falkenborg’s disappearance from his attendants, and she could also describe his clothing. At Hillerød Station they both changed trains, and by chance they were sitting so that she could see his reflected image in the window. In Grimstrup, four stations from Hillerød, she and Falkenborg were the only passengers who got off, and he had walked to a small parking lot next to the station where his car was parked. She had watched as he drove away.
“Can you describe the car?”
“Yes, it was a red Volkswagen Multivan.”
“You are quite certain. Do you know about cars?”
“My father is a car mechanic. I grew up with cars.”
“Do you know why you’re sitting here?”
She nodded, almost apologetically.
“Because his car was red.”
He nodded too. Then he found a photocopy of a drawing in her papers and placed it before her.
“You made this portrait of Andreas Falkenborg, as you sat on the train to Frederiksværk. Why did you do that?”
“I always draw people on the train. It’s a habit. I draw them if I think they look interesting, or simply to pass the time.”
“Why were you in London?”
“To draw an ancient wall.”
“That sounds strange.”
“I want to be an architect.”
“Where was your daughter while you were in England?”
“With her father.”
“What shade of red was Falkenborg’s car?”
“It was dusk at the time, and then colours are hard to determine. But it was like the Danish flag, I think.”
“Did you draw other people on your train ride?”
He switched between topics, back and forth, to confuse her; she managed every single question with honest, simple answers. Except for the last.
“You live in Frederiksværk. Why did you get off in Grimstrup?”
“That’s not important, and I’ve promised not to talk about it.”
She emphasised the word promised, as if now they didn’t need to talk any more about it.
“Who did you promise?”
“Someone I know.”
“Did anyone else see the car besides you?”
“Not quite so well.”
“Who?”
“Someone I know.”
Simonsen sighed and quietly explained.
“You called us four times yesterday evening. Then you came on your own initiative here to Police Headquarters at night, where you insisted on making a statement. This is the third time you’re being questioned, which means that we take your testimony seriously, which I’m sure you’re well aware of. But I don’t have room for mistakes. At the moment two women are in extreme danger at best, so there is no room here for keeping secrets, regardless of what you’ve promised whom. Furthermore, I don’t understand why you didn’t call until almost a full day after your train ride. I would also like an explanation for that.”