At last she turned to face him, and he saw there were tears in her eyes. For a brief moment he was afraid she was about to have one of her attacks. But then he realised she was simply moved by what she’d been looking at and apparently had no desire to hide her emotion as she spoke:
‘I understand why you want to find her, and I’m glad you let me stop by. It feels good seeing it all again, and of course especially because… because I didn’t get scared.’
‘Did you think you would?’
It was a stupid question, and she didn’t answer.
They sat down on a pair of chairs Simonsen had pinched from one of the Countess’s many rooms. He stared absently at the exercise bike next to them and distractedly batted the nearest pedal with his hand, causing it to spin seamlessly round while Pauline dried her eyes.
‘A colleague from Aalborg phoned and confirmed Pia and Jesper Mikkelsen’s story, so there seems to be little doubt now,’ he said after a while.
‘They pick up young girls in trouble and help them get back on their feet again, is that it?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘What about Jesper Mikkelsen’s minders?’
‘A simple matter of protection. Not everyone thinks the girls he and his wife come to the aid of deserve a new start in life.’
Pauline nodded. It was just about what she’d worked out for herself.
‘But they won’t talk about Lucy. Do you think they killed Jørgen Kramer Nielsen?’
‘Maybe,’ Simonsen said. ‘I don’t know. But one of the four did, I’m certain of it.’
‘We need to talk to the woman in Norway.’
‘Helena Brage Hansen. Yes, we do.’
Their second interview with Hanne Brummersted took place at Copenhagen’s Police HQ on Friday 7 November 2008 at five in the afternoon, this time without the kid gloves. Both the Countess and Simonsen himself were curious to find out if she’d come on her own or with a solicitor. Simonsen guessed the latter, the Countess the former, and she it was who came out on top: Brummersted was alone. Tight-lipped, she took a seat and awaited their questions. While by no means looking like she was enjoying the situation, she certainly didn’t seem to be on the verge of breakdown either. Simonsen began by holding up a clear plastic evidence bag in front of her.
‘Can you guess what this is?’
‘A cigarette end.’
‘Exactly. More specifically, your cigarette end.’
It didn’t take her many seconds to work out where he was going.
‘You’ve no right! That cigarette end belongs to me. It’s against the law.’
‘You’re wrong. And what’s more, you’re too late. This is the analysis of the DNA we’ve taken from your cigarette end, and here’s the corresponding analysis of the saliva extracted from the stamp on Lucy Davison’s postcard to her parents, sent by you in ninteen sixty-nine.’
‘Do you really think you can scare me with this? You’ve no permission to extract my DNA profile. Can you show me a warrant?’
‘We haven’t got one. But you can see the results of the analyses. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you know something about these things.’
He placed two documents in front of her.
‘I’ve no wish to see them. You’ve got no permission, and in that case they’re as good as non-existent.’
‘Oh, but they most certainly do exist. Perhaps you’d care to note where the analyses were conducted?’
She glanced down and exclaimed with surprise:
‘Sweden!’
‘That’s right. More exactly, Lund University, which has an excellent laboratory, as good as any we have here, and now the Swedes would very much like to have a word with you. The legal experts are discussing the matter as we speak, but all indications are that our neighbours will be wanting you extradited. Murder cases, as I’m sure you’re aware, are exempted from any time-ban.’
Hanne Brummersted said nothing. They could see she was digesting the information, most of which was complete fabrication, trying to work out a suitable move. Unfortunately for them, she found one.
‘I’m willing to go to Sweden, and if it can be proved I licked that stamp, then I suppose I must have done. I can think of all sorts of perfectly natural explanations, but then I’m not the investigator here, am I? As I told you last time we met, I can’t remember anything. That’s what I’m saying to you now, and it’s what I’ll tell the Swedes.’
‘Orsa post office is a five-hundred-kilometre drive from here. Not exactly a trip you’re likely to forget.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. My DNA links me to the stamp, not to Orsa, unless I licked something there as well.’
‘Would you care to enlighten us with some of your perfectly natural explanations as to how this might have occurred? We can only think of one, you see.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. That would be highly speculative, and speculation is your department, not mine.’
Simonsen sensed his arsenal rapidly depleting, without Brummersted in any way as yet having been hit. Twice he had bent the truth, now he resorted to another lie.
‘The UK police took fingerprints off that postcard at the time. There were quite a number, as was to be expected, but all of them could be accounted for. Apart from one. We’d like to take your fingerprints now, if you don’t mind.’
Again, Hanne Brummersted gave the matter some consideration before answering.
‘Of course. Anything to oblige.’
‘There are also some prints on the staircase at Johannes Lindevej in Hvidovre we’re unable to identify.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Are you quite sure about that? Doesn’t it ring a bell? Jørgen Kramer Nielsen lived at that address until February this year, when you killed him.’
‘That’s not true. I’ve never killed anyone.’
‘You’re a strong woman, and a woman with a knowledge of anatomy. A headlock from behind, a quick snap, and you could shove his body down the stairs.’
‘I never killed anyone, and my fingerprints are neither on that postcard nor that staircase.’
She raised her hand to pre-empt interruption before continuing:
‘And before you start getting your hopes up that I contradicted myself saying my fingerprints aren’t on the postcard when I already said I can’t remember, I’d like to remind you of the fact that you just accused me of murder. Anyone can make a slip-up in that situation.’
Simonsen ventured a number of other questions, all of which were likewise skilfully parried. The Countess took over.
‘We’re playing a game, aren’t we, Hanne? You’re lying; you know you’re lying; we know you’re lying; and you know that we know you’re lying. And don’t pretend you don’t understand, because you do.’
‘I understand perfectly well, and I’m not lying. There are great chunks of my life about which I have absolutely no recollection, I admit that. But I did not kill anyone. And don’t get chummy with me. It’s Doctor Brummersted to you.’
‘What kind of upbringing are you giving your children, Doctor Brummersted?’
‘My children aren’t relevant to this.’
‘My guess is as normal as possible. Nice and secure, lots of love, decent, healthy values: don’t tell lies, be good to other people, be responsible for your own actions, recognise your mistakes and learn from them. Would I be right?’
‘Like I said, my children aren’t relevant to this discussion.’
‘And yet all the time here you are, lugging your terrible secret around with you, unable to unburden yourself, no matter what. You’re the exact opposite of what you’re teaching your children. Every single day is a lie. Your morals, your ethics, your common sense, even the feelings you’re gradually beginning to share with your eldest, all of it’s a great big lie.’
‘My children aren’t relevant here.’
Her voice trembled: all three of them were aware of it. The Countess pressed on.