The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 27

The weather changed on Saturday afternoon. The sultry heat that had settled over Copenhagen was released in thunderstorms and rain as the train approached Roskilde. Pauline Berg found the outburst liberating, although it made no difference in the coach where her clothes still clung to her body. She looked out of the window and saw the faraway cathedral with its twin towers lit by sharp flashes of lightning under the leaden sky. Shortly after that the rain hit the train and obscured the view.

For a while she observed the irregular tracks of the water down the window and wondered why some drops remained in place while others pelted across the glass at a furious speed. Then she turned towards her neighbour and fellow passenger. He was a soldier, and in Copenhagen she had just beaten him in the race to get to the window seat first. Since then he had tried to initiate a conversation the whole way, but she had rejected him with monosyllabic answers or else simply ignored him. Now he was one of the first passengers to stand up, obviously eager to get away. She smiled at him, which she had otherwise been careful not to do during the journey, and noticed how he considered sitting down again. It remained just a thought, however. He returned the smile and left.

Roskilde station was the oldest in the country. Opened in 1847, it was constructed to serve Denmark’s first railway between Copenhagen and Roskilde. Pauline Berg had prepared herself on the Internet. On Saturday, 5 April, 1997 just after nine o’clock, Catherine Thomsen arrived on the regional train from Copenhagen. Several other passengers had seen her and could confirm that she was travelling alone. In Roskilde she got off at platform one, closest to the station, which was also confirmed by witnesses. From here she would take a short walk through a tunnel that led under the tracks and up on to platform six, where the train to Næstved by way of Haslev would arrive in seven minutes. No passengers had seen her on the Næstved train, and most likely she never got on. The weather that day had been rainy and windy with temperatures in the mid-forties. So it was unlikely that she left the station area, unless she had an errand to run.

Pauline Berg followed in Catherine Thomsen’s footsteps five times. Slowly and systematically she wandered from one platform, down through the tunnel and up on to the other, as she tried to take in everything around her at the same time. The rain was splashing down, and the butterfly roofs of the platforms provided only partial protection. Her jeans were wet, but she was too preoccupied to notice.

In 1997 Andreas Falkenborg owned a silver-grey Saab 900. He might have parked either in front of or behind the station area. But what could persuade a twenty-two-year-old woman to interrupt her journey and follow a middle-aged man to his car? Seen from Falkenborg’s point of view, this place was almost the worst imaginable if he was going to use violence or threats. There were far too many witnesses around. Pauline sat down in the station cafeteria with a cup of coffee and cemented the conclusion she had reached several days ago: Andreas Falkenborg and Catherine Thomsen already knew each other. But an acquaintanceship did not fully explain the circumstances either. The two platforms and tunnel were a strange setting in which to feign a coincidental meeting and offer a ride. The sequence of events only made sense if they had a prior agreement. If Catherine Thomsen of her own free will had gone to Falkenborg’s car, where he sat waiting for her.

In the train back to Copenhagen Pauline Berg visualised the meeting. She imagined how the young girl, half-soaked and bent over against the wind, had jogged the final metres to Andreas Falkenborg’s Saab. Did he reach out and open the passenger door himself, when he saw her coming? Yes, he probably did. Nice to see you, can you believe this weather, there are tissues in the glove compartment. Her path to the morgue was paved with friendliness. No, constructed of friendliness sounded better. And what was their drive like? Pauline Berg daydreamed further and shivered with joy. She loved her job.

At Copenhagen’s Central Station she called Konrad Simonsen and informed him of her conclusions. Her boss was interested, if far from as enthusiastic as she was. But he agreed she should continue her research. That was enough for her. She had contacted Simonsen over the weekend as if it were the most natural thing in the world, just like Poul Troulsen, the Countess and Arne Pedersen did when they were on to something important. And she would just continue, as he had said. Just continue.

This led her two hours later to Gammel Torv in Copenhagen.

The day before she had contacted the National Association for Gays and Lesbians and asked for help in tracing Catherine Thomsen’s unknown girlfriend. After being transferred a few times, she ended up with a woman who neither rejected nor agreed to her proposal, but however agreed to listen to her. They had arranged to meet at the Caritas Fountain, Christian IV’s beautiful Renaissance mineral spring from the early seventeenth century.

The woman proved to be in her late forties, which surprised Pauline Berg. On the phone she’d sounded younger. In addition Pauline was almost sure she had met her before, without being able to recall where and in what connection. Only that, as far as she remembered, she didn’t like her.”

They introduced themselves. The other woman was tall and gangly with a self-aware gaze and red hair that was coloured a shade too harshly for Pauline Berg’s taste. She did not want to see identification, and limited her introductory polite phrases to a minimum. With a curt “Come”, she led them across the square to a bench, where they sat down. She also took the lead in their conversation.

“What do you know about the National Association?”

The question took Pauline Berg by surprise. What significance did that have? Besides it was asked with an air of authority, as if she were taking a test and the other woman was the examiner. Pauline briefly considered not answering, but thought better of it.

“Not much. You were founded in 1948 as one of the first organisations of its type in the world. You work with the public in an advisory capacity as well as lobbying for sexual equality. In general terms that’s what I know.”

The woman was obviously satisfied with the answer. In any event she abandoned the subject and commanded instead, “Show me the picture, and repeat your explanation from yesterday.”

Pauline Berg complied with the request. Suddenly, while she was speaking, she recalled where she had met her witness before. In a courtroom-the woman was a judge. Years ago she had skewered the prosecution lawyer and released defendants on the spot in a case that had taken Pauline Berg and her colleagues of the time weeks to build up. Today she was probably sitting in the High Court.

The woman studied the picture of Catherine Thomsen’s presumed girlfriend thoroughly in Malte Borup’s age-progressed version, before she said, “You say she’s a lesbian?”

“It’s likely, but I’m not certain.”

“Does she live here in Copenhagen?”

“I don’t know that either. Only that she lived here ten years ago.”

“Do you have a digital version of her picture?”

Pauline Berg handed over a flash drive and a card with her cell-phone number on it.

“We’ll search for her on the Internet. Facebook, our email list and our website. That’s probably the most efficient way. I’ll contact you if we find her.”

“What do you think the chances are?”

“How would I know? Is there anything else?”

There wasn’t.

On her way up Strøget toward Rådhuspladsen Pauline Berg had a good feeling in her gut. The Falkenborg case was hers, she could sense it clearly.