The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 9

The day was productive, and for the first time since Greenland Konrad Simonsen felt as if the inquiry was on course. Even if the visit to Ingrid Thomsen had not gone terribly well, it felt as though a burden had been lifted from him once it was over. He had also talked to his daughter via video streaming for almost half an hour, and that too had put a charge in his rundown batteries. This evening he would pack his clothes and move in with the Countess for a while, which to his own surprise he was looking forward to. He threw himself into his work.

Bit by bit the mosaic of Andreas Falkenborg’s life was being pieced together and developed by Malte Borup as a website. The collaboration between the student and the homicide chief was going splendidly. Simonsen had feared he would be left out and not be the one in the middle gathering the threads spider-like, as with the old whiteboard method, but that worry quickly proved to be unfounded. The fact that Malte was never quite sure what was important and should be entered, and what should be filed as background material, possibly cross-referenced, meant that Simonsen had constantly to make decisions about the material, which kept him just as updated as he usually was in these situations. He was also freed from a number of practical tasks and could concentrate on more essential things, mainly prioritising their resources through Pedersen and Troulsen on a regular basis, and deciding which people were assigned which tasks.

Malte Borup briefed him on the timeline they had already established for Andreas Falkenborg.

“Born in 1955 in Hillerød, grew up in Holte north of Copenhagen, primary school with secondary school examination, graduated from Holte High School in 1972, the same year starts at Denmark’s Technical College, parentheses nowadays DTU. Graduated as an engineer in 1979 with a good degree and a specialty in audio. Is that okay? There are a lot of fancy words about his final project, do you want those included?”

“No, make a reference, and delete the parentheses about DTU.”

“Should I put the particular subject he graduated in into the timeline-that is, in his combined chronology?”

“Yes, excellent, but can you make the details less bold?”

“I’ll make them grey.”

Malte typed, Simonsen thought, and shortly thereafter their division of labour produced the day’s first bonus.

“Malte, there’s a gap in his student years in 1977,” said Simonsen, staring at the screen. “Is that an error?”

“No, he doesn’t pass any examinations then.”

“Email or text Arne, I want to know what Falkenborg was doing that year. All of his other exams sit regularly placed like pearls on a string, with excellent results, so something must have happened to him then.”

The student typed away.

“I’ve emailed and texted, and now the overview of his addresses is done.”

“Let me hear, but not the addresses, only the cities.”

“That would be Holte, that is, at home, until 1973, student residence in Lyngby until 1979, and then four different places in the Copenhagen area until today: Frederiksberg, Østerbro, Dragør, and finally Frederiksberg again. Do you want the years?”

“No, thanks, but write that down in the chronology, and make links to the actual addresses.”

“What about summer houses?”

“List those too. Houses, you say… did he have more than one?”

“One down at Præstø that he’s had for many years. It’s rented out. And then one in Liseleje and one in Sweden, but they were sold again.”

“Write down when he buys and sells them and then a note that refers to the addresses.”

“Yes, sir. And what about Greenland? Then he still has his apartment in Frederiksberg, the first one that is.”

“Make a special page on Greenland, note the date he leaves, and cross-reference.”

“I don’t know the date, nothing at all has come in from the Countess, but there is a strange thing about one house.”

“What’s that?”

“In 1986… no, sorry, 1996… in December 1996 he buys the second storey of a house in Rødovre and sells it again in January 1997, which costs him over forty thousand kroner. There are a lot of papers about it already scanned in.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting. Write house purchase and house sale on the line, refer to the papers, and then can you make a special page for unanswered questions? At the moment it should read interruption in studies 1977? and house in Rødovre 1996/97? ”

“I’ll do that.”

“Is there anything about workplaces besides Greenland? I mean, he must have earned money somehow.”

“He has his own company, and I have his tax information from 1973, that just came in, so I can tell you what he earned.”

“I would really like to know that. Later, when you’re not as busy, put the details in a spreadsheet and send me a bar chart for the whole time period.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Last year he had an income of just under nine hundred thousand kroner.”

Simonsen whistled.

“Is that standard or a one-off?”

“It varies a lot. Some years he’s above that, other years he earns almost nothing at all.”

“Can you see anywhere what kind of company he has?”

“In a little while I should be able to, but there’s something else… Poul Troulsen is on his way with a witness. And there’s news from Greenland.”

Before Simonsen could respond, Troulsen came in escorting a tall, thin man.

“I have something you should hear, Simon. It’s quick, but important. Please sit down there.”

The latter was directed at the thin man, who bashfully scuttled over and sat down at the little conference table at the back of the office. Simonsen followed suit without raising any objection, although his stomach was starting to tell him that it was time for lunch. Troulsen wasted no time.

“Will you please tell the head of homicide, Chief Inspector Konrad Simonsen, what you told me before?”

Simonsen’s long title clearly made the impression Troulsen had hoped. The man looked deferentially at the Chief Inspector and opened his mouth to speak. Then his shoulders slumped a little.

“Yes, but this is a bit personal,” he objected. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of.”

Simonsen followed the man’s gaze towards Malte Borup, lost in his tapping at the keyboard.

“Malte, you can take a break. Go out and charm some of the young constables.”

Malte left willingly. He was used to being thrown out according to his boss’s whims. Troulsen helped the man along.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, not at all. You haven’t done anything illegal. Besides, we’ve heard a lot of things in here, and we don’t judge people.”

The man found his tongue, and this time was pleasingly precise.

“Two years ago I had a suspicion that my wife at the time was having a relationship with another man while I was away travelling. I’m a project manager all over the world and often away from home for months on end. For example, at the moment I’m working on the construction of a new domestic terminal at Dubai Airport. I’m only back in Denmark for three days. Well, I turned to Andreas Falkenborg, someone I knew was an expert in dealing with that type of problem. We had a meeting and agreed on the conditions, which primarily meant that he would conduct surveillance on my wife while I was abroad. His price was sixty thousand kroner per week, with three weeks payable in advance, and it was not open to negotiation. The money was to be paid in cash without receipts or papers of any kind.”

Simonsen interjected, “That was a stiff price.”

“He’s regarded as one of the very best, extremely discreet and very reliable. That type is always expensive. Besides, I had the means. I’m very well paid too.”

“You say that Falkenborg is regarded as an expert. How did you find that out?”

The man raised his hands limply and let out a small, sorrowful sigh.

“There are plenty of others with the same problem as I had. I’ve never been good at attracting women, but just because you’re ugly doesn’t mean you’re stupid.”

“There may be something to that, of course, if you think that’s the way it is, but how did you come into contact with Andreas Falkenborg? Could you explain that in more detail?”

“I’m part of a group on the Internet, an exclusive group you might say, and I wrote around and enquired. Then I was given his name and telephone number.”

“What kind of group is this?”

“People with prestigious positions and major responsibility in their jobs. It’s mostly men, and you have to be recommended by two members to be able to join.”

“What is the group’s purpose?”

“To help each other when we can. It’s a kind of virtual lodge.”

“Okay, I see. Where did you and Falkenborg meet?”

“At a restaurant in Lyngby Centre.”

“How many times?”

“Three in all. An introductory meeting, one where I paid his advance, and a concluding one, where he submitted his results and we settled up.”

“Same place all three times?”

“Yes, same place.”

“What impression did he make on you?”

“A very pleasant impression, perhaps a trifle… childish is the word, I guess, but very pleasant. As I’m sure you can imagine I was not particularly pleased about the situation I found myself in, and especially during our first meeting I was somewhat nervous, but he was quickly able to get me to relax. That is, he kept the whole thing very subdued, and while I told him about my wife, it was almost as if we were sitting making small talk. I mean, he didn’t take any notes or anything. He also explained to me that in the majority of cases where a man has suspicions like mine, they are later proved to be correct, and unfortunately he was right about that. Also during our last meeting, which was not fun for me, he was very honest. The assignment only took sixteen days and he wanted to pay me back a good fourteen thousand kroner, but I wouldn’t take it. All in all I was very satisfied with his efforts, and if I were ever to get into a similar situation-heaven forbid-then I would definitely use him again.”

Simonsen thought that he wouldn’t, unless he wanted his wife ending her days in a plastic bag. He briefly considered delving a little into the childish element in Falkenborg’s character, but decided to leave that to Troulsen. He lumbered heavily to his feet and said in farewell, “I’m sincerely happy that you-”

He got no further, as Troulsen said, “There’s something else, Simon, that’s why we came in right away. I think you should sit down again.”

Simonsen did so. The man asked a trifle uncertainly, “It’s that thing about the access card, isn’t it?”

Troulsen nodded.

“Exactly. It would be helpful if you would also talk about that again.”

“Well, at home I had a security system installed, and according to experts it’s supposed to be one of the best on the market. It was very expensive too. Sirens, sensors, video monitoring, super-secure access control and central connection to the security company. It was guaranteed to be as safe as a bank. It’s not that I’m more afraid of burglaries than other people are, but I have a handful of paintings that are worth a bit of money and if I don’t take proper care of them I can’t get them insured. So you mustn’t believe that I’m paranoid or anything.”

“It’s not paranoid to protect your valuables.”

“No, I don’t think so either. Well, at the same time that the security company installed all that hardware, they also changed the locks to my outside doors, so instead of an ordinary key I use a card. You’re familiar with the system, of course.”

Both of his listeners nodded to show that they were so he continued speaking.

“At our first meeting Andreas Falkenborg asked about getting a card, and I brought it to him the next time.”

Simonsen asked, “You barely knew him, but you felt secure giving him free access to your home?”

“Yes. Perhaps that seems naïve to you. But bear in mind he would destroy his own business if he helped himself to my things. I mean, you don’t easily get people to vouch for you like they did for Falkenborg. It must have taken him years to build up his reputation, and reliability is a necessary prerequisite.”

“Did he say what he was going to do at your place?”

“I didn’t ask, but it wasn’t too hard to guess.”

“No, of course. So you gave him an access card?”

“Yes, or I thought I did, but later I found out that it didn’t work. I happened to give him a card that was cancelled. I only discovered that when the whole thing was over, and he had returned the card besides.”

“Well, that was unfortunate. What did he say about it?”

“Nothing, he didn’t comment on it at all, but I’m quite sure that it didn’t work because I tried it when I got home.”

Simonsen had a hard time seeing the point of this piece of information. He looked at Troulsen, who simply said, “We’re almost there.”

The witness continued talking.

“The surprising thing was that he gained access without a card. Normally that should be impossible, or so I had been promised. At our last meeting he showed me some film clips and played a couple of conversations concerning my wife… ”

He looked imploringly at Simonsen.

“I would rather not relate them in detail.”

“There’s no reason to.”

“No, but then I realised that he must have set up cameras and microphones in at least five different rooms in my house. That is, the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the bathroom and, well, our bedroom too. But everything had been removed again, I’ve assured myself of that with two separate inspections.”

“How did he show you this material?”

“On a laptop computer, and he only played the beginning. The other parts he was content just to refer to. It was very thoughtful of him to spare me like that.”

“Didn’t you get the recordings delivered to you?”

“I got the whole thing on a flash drive, and I think it was the only copy. He made a big fuss about the fact that there was no way for me to get an extra one.”

“Do you still have the flash drive?”

“I have the drive, but I deleted the contents. I didn’t see the point of keeping them.”

His listeners agreed and had no other questions.

When Troulsen had shown the witness out he returned to Simonsen’s office, where his boss was in the process of methodically munching through a large plate of vegetables. Malte Borup had returned and resumed work. Simonsen complained between mouthfuls, “I’ve grown used to the taste and basically I don’t miss my old diet, but I never get used to the time it takes to eat. You really have to work to feel full and healthy. Interesting witness by the way. It’s disturbing to imagine Andreas Falkenborg with a job that primarily consists of eavesdropping on women, but it fits hand in glove with the listening devices found in Catherine Thomsen’s apartment. On the other hand it seems strange to me that he didn’t remove those. We’ll have to look into that in the next few days. Another thing I can’t get to add up either is that his annual income, or what he has declared, is quite significant, compared with his requirement for cash payment. That reeks a long way off of under-the-table work. Do you know anything about that?”

“His father was a manufacturer of microphones. Had a factory in Valby. In the early 1970s the operation was restructured from production to importing and distribution, still of microphones. Then his father died in a shooting accident in 1983. That is, while Andreas Falkenborg was in Greenland. Mother and son continued the operation, but little by little the product range was changed to what can best be described as amateur spy equipment. They served as wholesalers and sold to mail order companies, later on the Internet. It’s a more or less suspect enterprise where you can buy everything you need to spy on your neighbour or perhaps have a long look through his daughter’s bedroom window.

“The business was not very big; in that period there were from three to ten employees, all of whom were fired in 1992 when Falkenborg’s mother died and he became sole owner. Currently he doesn’t have anything other than a VAT number and presumably a customer database. At the present time I don’t know more than that, but I have a couple of men on the case, and hopefully they will produce a more detailed account before the day is through.”

Troulsen looked at Simonsen, who was diligently chewing his cud and thereby limited to non-verbal communication.

“Unfortunately, I also have an unpleasant announcement to make,” continued Troulsen.

His boss twirled a finger in the air, which Troulsen had no difficulty interpreting.

“The listening devices that were found at Catherine Thomsen’s are gone, or more exactly at the moment no one can find them, and the only thing we have in writing is a meaningless note that mentions finding of listening devices. That is, no details whatsoever. They are searching high and low in the archive, but no one knows whether they’ll find it.”

“Damn it!”

“Yes, it’s the pits. If we can’t get him solidly connected to the other murder, then it’s even more doubtful we can put together something that will hold up in court. Greenland is a long time ago, and I seriously doubt we’ll arrive at anything there that will carry an indictment. I also have to admit that I would like to confirm that Falkenborg at least knew Catherine Thomsen, mainly for my own peace of mind. Even though I’m quite convinced we are only searching for one killer, I still am not quite certain Falkenborg is our man, despite his business and the listening devices in the apartment. This time we really have to get it right. I feel bad when I think about Carl Henning Thomsen, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

Simonsen continued chewing without showing any desire to corroborate this. His relationship to Troulsen was mainly professional, a fact he did not wish to change, and as Troulsen had nothing more to say, he went on his way.

During the course of the afternoon one small breakthrough followed another, while the gaps in the Homicide Division’s knowledge of Andreas Falkenborg’s life became smaller and smaller. Simonsen commandeered Malte Borup as if the student were an extended version of the computer he controlled so easily.

“Malte, you entered his applications to Greenland a couple of hours ago. Look those up and tell me when they were sent.”

A couple of clicks later came the answer.

“You mean his applications to Greenland Contractors?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I have them here. Do you want all the dates? There are seven applications. Apparently he applied for any available position.”

“No, just give me the first one.”

“It’s dated the eleventh of March, 1982, and it was for a position as a receptionist.”

“Good. And when did Maryann Nygaard go to Greenland? Do you have that date anywhere?”

“She is employed as of the fourth of March, 1982. I don’t know when exactly she goes up there.”

“Direct from her position at the nursing home?”

“Yes, if you mean that she didn’t have another job in the meantime, but not all the case files on her have been digitised.”

“I’m aware of that. Get Pauline to find out more about Falkenborg’s helicopter course. It seems like a very short time to get his pilot’s licence. Has anything arrived yet from the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“No, but there’s another thing. Do you want to hear it?”

“Definitely.”

“It seems that Carl Henning Thomsen-you know who I mean?”

Simonsen sighed and forced himself to answer calmly.

“Absolutely. What about him?”

“Carl Henning Thomsen apparently did some moving for Andreas Falkenborg.”

“Apparently?”

“I can’t really figure out what they mean. Well, wait a moment… now I see. Carl Henning Thomsen had a transfer from a warehouse in Herlev to Bækkevang 19 in Rødovre, but Bækkevang 19 doesn’t even exist, the road only goes to 17. The next house in the row, which should have been number 19, is a corner house with an address on Bakkehøjvej 45, which Bækkevang runs into.”

“The half of the duplex that Andreas Falkenborg bought and sold again right away?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the date of the purchase and also the date Catherine Thomsen disappeared.”

“His share of the house was bought on the fourth of December, 1996; Catherine Thomsen disappeared on the fifth of April, 1997.”

“Get Arne and the Countess in here.”

Simonsen took advantage of the wait to study the picture of Andreas Falkenborg he had received half an hour ago and immediately put up on his bulletin board. An amiable man in his early fifties smiled back at him. There was something anonymous about his face, and Simonsen thought that it could serve as representative of the general Danish public in any advertisement.

Pedersen was the first to arrive; he brought positive news with him and was in a good mood besides.

“We’ve found a witness who makes a link between Falkenborg and Catherine Thomsen more than probable, actually a double witness, namely a Jehovah’s Witness witness.”

The witticism was lost on Simonsen, and the Countess, who had just come in, did not seem inclined to joke either. Pedersen hurried on.

“There is a man who possibly partnered Catherine Thomsen in the movement’s door-to-door campaign, and he is quite sure that he has spoken with Andreas Falkenborg. Not because he remembers his face but the officers spoke to him in the stairwell of the apartment block where Falkenborg lived at that time, and he clearly recalls seeing a picture hanging on the wall outside the main door-a picture he looked at for a long time while his partner spoke with the inhabitants of the apartment. Unfortunately he is not equally certain who his partner was that day. It was probably Catherine Thomsen, but he is not completely sure.”

The Countess asked in wonder, “Who hangs pictures in stairwells?”

“It’s not really a picture but a kind of decoration. Its purpose was to cover a window into a bathroom, and don’t bother asking me why such a window was even made because I don’t know. The picture depicts a horse, by the way. One of the men took a photo of it. He’s the meticulous sort.”

“Is it possible that the other potential Jehovah’s Witness partners can confirm that they haven’t visited the place? I mean, so that Catherine Thomsen is the only possibility?”

“That’s being worked on, but bear in mind that when you do outreach you visit a good number of addresses every day. And the episode is over ten years ago.”

“What about a date?”

“Not exact, but it would have been within the first three weeks of June, 1996, and he is sure of that.”

“That is, over nine months before she was killed?”

“Yes, that must be right.”

The Countess shuddered.

“But tell me something,” Simonsen continued. “We’ve had nothing so far on domestic partners, lovers, men, women, in-between, anything at all?”

Pedersen shook his head.

“I haven’t run into anything along those lines, and he’s always lived alone. Officially in any event.”

The Countess was on the same track.

“Nothing from me either. At the base he was well liked, helpful but not particularly social, and had no lovers that we know of. Some perceived him as slightly eccentric, but he wasn’t the only one, and no one I’ve talked to had anything against him. All in all I can’t contribute much about Andreas Falkenborg, but there were around nine hundred people at the base, and they were constantly being replaced, so I’m not even close to having exhausted witness possibilities. With respect to Maryann Nygaard it’s a little easier because she was a woman. There were so few of them that most remember her, mostly thanks to her appearance. But is it relevant to follow that trail further? Your call, Simon.”

Simonsen hummed absent-mindedly, which after a brief hesitation the Countess interpreted as encouragement for her to continue speaking. To give them an overview she started describing life at the Søndre Strømfjord base during the early eighties. Simonsen tuned out her words and observed her blouse. He thought that it was definitely bought at an ultra-expensive designer boutique, the sort that offered “collections” and “diffusion lines”. It was made of silk, patterned in light green and brown, and reminded him of autumn beech trees. His lapse in concentration was vaguely worrying. He pinched himself on the arm and recovered in time to answer her, though he had only heard half of her report.

The Countess asked, “What do you think? Shall we continue with them tomorrow? And should it be both him and her? That is, Falkenborg as well as Maryann Nygaard?”

“No, we’ll drop the base for the time being. There’s not much there, and we can always go back to it if things change.”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”

Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in her voice, perhaps it was because he had so many years’ practice in reading other people, or perhaps it was because she had gained his permission to operate for a couple of days on her own. In any event, he thought it over and changed his mind.

“Do I understand correctly that you would like to dig a little deeper?”

If she was surprised by his intuition, she did not show it.

“It’s not something I can make an argument for, but one witness says that Maryann Nygaard’s behaviour changed the two or three weeks before she was murdered. Among other things she stayed away from parties and gatherings and that sort of thing, which she definitely had not done before. It’s aroused my curiosity, though as I said it’s probably not something we can use.”

“How will you investigate this more closely? Do you have a source?”

“I may have a line on a friend of hers, I’ll know tomorrow.”

“Okay, take a couple more days and see what emerges. Meanwhile let’s concentrate on some key dates. We have reason to assume that Andreas Falkenborg met Maryann Nygaard for the first time in a nursing home where his grandmother lived. This may have been in January or February 1982. Not until September the thirteenth, 1983, that is more than a year and a half later, does he murder her after having pursued her all the way to Greenland. The pattern is just as sinister in relation to Catherine Thomsen. They met by chance in June of 1996, and her murder happened about nine months later. Presumably after his having made enormous efforts to get her father’s fingerprints on a plastic bag, which-”

Simonsen got no farther than that. He was interrupted by a pale-faced Pauline Berg, who came rushing into his office without knocking. In her hand she held a photograph of a young woman-a young woman who resembled Maryann Nygaard. Or Catherine Thomsen. But was neither of them.