Most of this information was known to the Homicide Department already, and yet Konrad Simonsen had allowed the female officer to find her stride. At her latter remark, however, Pauline bristled.
‘If the guy’s abusing young girls, it’s hardly unimportant.’
Klavs Arnold agreed. He was facing front on a chair he’d turned backwards, his head leaning against the wall, and had looked like he was falling asleep. The officer clarified:
‘No, of course not, if that were the case. But there’s nothing at all to indicate any abuse defined by criminal law. Nothing in the slightest. I’m not even sure there’s a sexual motive to his hanging around with these girls. If there is, though, they’re all above age and either consenting or, more likely, procured. But like I said, we’ve got plenty of other things to allocate resources to.’
Simonsen noted a slight hesitation in the officer’s description of Jesper Mikkelsen’s escapades – if that was the word.
‘So you don’t think he’s exploiting these girls in any way?’
Her reply was indirect.
‘I hear all sorts of stories about all kinds of depravity. They come in all the time. A lot of them are horrendous, and terrifyingly similar. But I’ve never once heard anything like that in connection with Jesper Mikkelsen and I’ve been on the scene getting on seven years. I’d be surprised if word hadn’t reached me he was…’
Her voice trailed off.
‘Are there drugs in this club of his?’
‘Bound to be, like everywhere else. But the place has CCTV and the manager and staff aren’t turning any blind eyes. I don’t think either of them’s involved in drugs, definitely not. But there were rumours at one point, probably based on the fact that Jesper Mikkelsen goes round with a minder, preferably two, whenever he’s on the town at night. In the daytime as well, sometimes.’
Klavs Arnold woke up.
‘Minders? How do you mean?’
‘Gorillas. Big blokes with muscle. Biker types, only without the bikes.’
‘Professionals?’
‘Nothing like.’
‘Are they armed?’
‘I don’t think so. Or rather, no, they’re not. Knuckledusters at most, maybe.’
Their discussion continued for another half-hour or so without leading anywhere in particular. Afterwards, Klavs Arnold went up to his room for a lie-down.
‘What do you want to do now?’ Pauline asked her boss.
Simonsen didn’t know yet. Perhaps go for a little drive to begin with. Pauline said she’d go with him. Much to his an-noyance.
Rainbow Six was in the centre of town on Gabrielsgade, leading off Jomfru Ane Gade. Simonsen, Pauline Berg and Klavs Arnold stared across the street at the frontage. It was just past eleven at night, and the weather was cold. Pauline Berg shivered. She’d already uttered a succession of mildly impatient noises, all of which Simonsen had ignored. He looked across at the discotheque’s entrance. A vulgar portal had at some point been erected, jutting halfway out on to the pavement and incorporating a neon sign in the shape of a rainbow, each colour flashing in turn with a fraction of a second in between. It was hideous, but no doubt did its job of catching the eye. Somewhat further back was the entrance door itself, in front of it two bouncers bathed in a bluish light akin to that of an emergency vehicle. It lent the men a sickly, almost poisonous appearance. Both of them were dressd in black, the word Security printed in large white letters on the back of their t-shirts.
Youngsters were arriving in clusters, patiently joining the queue and waiting for the bouncers to let them in. Simonsen noted how the occasional guest would be waved past the line and into the club without being checked. Everyone else had their bags searched and their ID carefully inspected before being allowed in. Twice, guests were turned away, the first time when two girls tried to jump the queue, only to be promptly dismissed by a gesticulating doorman. The second instance was more serious and might easily have led to unpleasantness. Three lads were turned away, part of a group of eight or ten young men Simonsen had immediately spotted as potential troublemakers. The club enforced a dress code, and hoodies, baseball caps and tracksuit bottoms were apparently banned. A raucous argument ensued, the two bouncers on the door quickly being aided by four colleagues from inside, prompting the lads to beat a retreat and head off somewhere else instead.
‘They’re young, aren’t they?’ asked Arnold.
Pauline Berg explained: the club’s clientele differed depending on whether it was Thursday, Friday or Saturday. There was an age limit that varied: on Thursdays it was seventeen, on Fridays twenty and on Saturdays twenty-three. Since most clubbers wanted to party with people their own age or older, not many of this evening’s guests would be older than seventeen.
‘Can’t I join the queue now? My feet are absolutely freezing,’ she said by way of conclusion.
Simonsen accepted: she may as well go in now. After she left them he commented drily to Klavs Arnold:
‘I thought you said she’d blend in? She no more blends in than we do.’
‘How was I to know it was teenage night?’
‘All right, I’ll let you off this time. Are you armed, by the way?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If the muscle at the door wants to frisk you, flash them your ID and make yourself known. I don’t want any trouble. We stick out like a sore thumb as it is, so it’s hardly going to matter much if we tell them where we’re from.’
Simonsen’s idea had been for them discreetly to gain an impression of the place before going upstairs and confronting Jesper Mikkelsen. If he was in the club, that is, which they had no way of knowing. However, that part of the plan had pretty much gone down the drain now. He stuck to his running order nonetheless, and ten minutes after Pauline had been let in, he crossed the street and prepared for his first visit to a discotheque in thirty years. Klavs Arnold followed on behind.
The doormen were apparently already clued up and they were immediately waved forward before they got a chance to join the queue.
‘What do you want?’ the youngest of them asked Klavs Arnold.
‘In.’
The man conferred with his colleague, who turned to give them the once over before jerking a thumb towards the door and letting them pass.
They stepped into a dimly lit space with a tall black counter on the left-hand side, behind which a woman took entrance money: eighty kroner a head, Simonsen noted. Once a person had paid, he or she was given a stamp on the wrist. He paid for them both, but declined the stamp with a shake of his head. Klavs Arnold checked their coats into the cloakroom while Simonsen studied a framed certificate from the fire services that hung on the wall. The premises was approved for a maximum of 150 persons. The cloakroom attendant squinted at him with concern, more so when Simonsen held Arnold back and they stood for a moment leaning against the black-painted counter while studying the kids as they went up and down a broad but short flight of steps leading to the toilets. Mainly these were girls wanting to freshen up their lip gloss or mascara.
They moved on, stepping through an arched opening into a large space half-filled with revelling kids. The girls were in super-short skirts over bare legs, their feet planted in high-heeled shoes most of them had difficulty walking in. The lads had wax in their hair and were wearing jeans and button-down shirts, preferably with some cheap bling glittering about their chests. The interior was drab: brown wallpaper with a golden floral pattern, soft lighting from a number of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. One side of the space was a lounge area with leather-covered furniture and heavy wooden tables. Klavs Arnold made a beeline and found them a sofa that was free at the far end of the room. They sat down and soon had the table to themselves, a pair of teenage lads quickly leaving them to it. The dance floor loomed in front of them like the darkest of caverns. A DJ they couldn’t see, but whose inane patter between records they had no difficulty hearing, made sure the music was almost continuous, though the noise level was thankfully a lot lower than Simonsen had feared, tolerable even. A handful of youngsters writhed about on the dance floor, some with partners, some without. Every now and again they were enveloped in white smoke that had a peculiar, rather sickly smell Simonsen was unable to put his finger on.