The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 30

Twelve days after the German Chancellor’s glaciologist discovered the body of Maryann Nygaard on the Greenland ice cap, Andreas Falkenborg was arrested in Copenhagen.

The task was assigned to assistant detectives Arne Pedersen and Poul Troulsen and was carried out early on Wednesday morning, when he was unlikely to be awake. Konrad Simonsen’s hope was that the same applied to the Danish press corps, so the event could proceed without media attention-an argument that was not met with unconditional approval by his two subordinates, as they parked their car after an interrupted night’s sleep in front of Falkenborg’s residence in Frederiksberg.

Pedersen yawned widely as he got out of the vehicle. He opened his eyes toward the wind, letting the fresh air chase sleep from his head. Then he caught sight of one of the police surveillance vehicles on the other side of the street, and put a finger to his temple in greeting, without being able to see whether he personally knew any of the officers. He received a brief honk of the horn in response. The sound caught Troulsen’s attention, and he too gestured in greeting, without however receiving a response.

On their way up the stairs Pedersen commented, “I really hope we either find something incriminating or you and Simon manage to force a confession out of him, because in strictly legal terms we don’t have much to hang on him. Not in my view anyway.”

“Nor in the district prosecutor’s either. She reckons he’ll be held on remand for a maximum of three weeks. If the murders hadn’t hit the headlines already, I don’t think we would have been granted a search warrant at all.”

“So for once I’m hoping you get to soften him up properly.”

Troulsen was known for using force a bit too freely from time to time, which was not generally to Pedersen’s personal taste, but today was obviously an exception. That was the reason why Simonsen had chosen Troulsen in particular, to exploit the suspect’s marked childishness and hopefully give the police a solid mental advantage, before he was delivered for questioning at Police Headquarters. In the meantime Pedersen would get an overview of the extent of the search and then summon reinforcements when Falkenborg was taken away. The division of labour between the two men was already clear.

The nameplate on Falkenborg’s door was made of brass, and recently polished. Pedersen let a fingertip glide over it before he rang the bell. He rang twice in a row, after which he pounded hard on the door with his knuckles and rang the bell a third time.

A short time passed, then the door opened.

Andreas Falkenborg was revealed, barefoot in a bathrobe. It was obvious that they had woken him, his disoriented expression and dishevelled hair spoke for themselves. Pedersen began the procedure as he held up a piece of paper in front of the face of the half-asleep man and immediately stepped past him. Falkenborg moved to one side, but then called to Troulsen in a formal voice, “I ask that you identify yourself as a police officer.”

The request was presented without panic or aggression, but much louder than seemed necessary, like a scene from a bad comedy. Troulsen concluded that there might be a good reason for this behaviour. The combination of Falkenborg’s occupation, the cornerstone of which was eavesdropping, and his choice of words as if lifted straight from the national chief of police’s proclamation on identification of the police, reeked of their conversation being covertly recorded. He pulled the man outside onto the landing without a word and pressed him against the wall. Then he commanded authoritatively, “Stay there.”

Falkenborg complied, but at the same time called towards the open doorway, “Ow, ow… ow, that hurts! Oh, no, why are you doing that? Ow… ”

He was a miserable actor, and Troulsen answered calmly, “Shut your mouth, you’re not hurt, but if you try that nonsense again, you’ll get one on the head. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Andreas Falkenborg, the time is six-oh-eight a.m. and you are arrested, accused of the murder of nurse Maryann Nygaard in 1983, and physical therapist Catherine Thomsen in 1997.”

Troulsen called out to Pedersen, “I’m pretty sure our friend here has set up microphones in his own apartment. I thought you should know that.”

Pedersen’s face brightened.

“You don’t say? How ingenious. But I think I know some people who are good at tracing that sort of thing. Thanks, both of you.”

Troulsen led Falkenborg in through the apartment door and on into the bathroom, which he located at once. The man went along willingly and let himself be pressed down on the toilet seat without protest. Here he sat quietly while Troulsen quickly and expertly opened cabinets and drawers to make sure that nothing surprising or unpleasant was inside.

During the search Troulsen decided to take a chance. The probability that Falkenborg had also wiretapped his bathroom was not great, and if it later proved to be the case anyway, the recording could be deleted by a regrettable “accident”. Furthermore, the prisoner’s submissiveness and cowed, almost imploring eyes told him that he could probably go a bit further than he had intended to start with. He turned toward the man and said harshly, “Don’t you ever take a bath?”

“Yes, I do. Every single morning. Of course I do.”

“I don’t think you smell very good.”

“I do.”

“My nose is seldom wrong. And to be quite honest, with the sort of hygiene you practise, I wouldn’t want to be you if the boss doesn’t take to you.”

“Your boss?”

“Tell me, are you deaf or dumb? Yes, my boss. He can be very bad-tempered. Vindictive and mean. I don’t understand how but he gets away with it. So I hope for your sake that he likes you, although it’s not very likely.”

Falkenborg asked, terrified, “Why is that? What have I done to him?”

“Nothing… not yet.”

“What do you mean? You’re scaring me.”

“That’s really not the idea, partner. Look, forget it. Let’s just wind things up here then I can get home and hit the sack.”

“No, what do you mean? I really want to know.”

Troulsen let him sweat while he pretended to think about it. Then he said casually, “So, you’ll end up in prison for the rest of your life for double murder, that goes without saying, but I’m sure you’re prepared for that, in one place or another?”

Falkenborg answered gloomily, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You’d better be. Your biggest problem now is where you end up. Tell me, do you know much about Danish prisons? I mean, have you been convicted before?”

“No, never, and I haven’t killed anyone either.”

“Stop right there! Of course you have, we both know that, but I don’t care what you’ve done with those two bitches. That’s not my business, especially not if they annoyed you, I know what a pain that type can be. Well, forget about that, I’m just the one who brings you in, and the only thing I’m interested in is that you get completely clean. Otherwise I risk the boss getting mad at me, and I have absolutely no desire for that to happen, so you’re going to take a bath, do you follow me?”

“I would like to, but can’t you tell me more about the prisons?”

Troulsen looked at his watch and pretended to consider the suggestion. Then he said, “Andreas, my friend, we can make a deal: you promise to be thorough in the bath, so I don’t get into trouble for delivering you unwashed. Then I can tell you which prisons you should avoid, if the boss even gives you the option. What do you say about that? Something for something.”

Falkenborg accepted, eager to avoid incurring the boss’s anger, it seemed.

After his bath Andreas Falkenborg followed instructions like a lamb and let himself get dressed under expert guidance. Troulsen commented in detail on his choice of clothing and rejected three ties before finally forbidding him from putting one on at all, since it would only be taken away from him in prison. He also got involved in everything from the man’s choice of underwear to his shoes. He gave only the vaguest information about Danish prisons, while stroke by stroke painting a terrifying picture of Konrad Simonsen-the cop any sensible prisoner had best not antagonise. Falkenborg said nervously, “You promised to tell me about the prisons.”

“That will have to wait until we’re in the car, I don’t like being recorded.”

“May I take my cell phone with me? I have the right to a telephone call at the police station.”

“That’s okay, so long as it’s turned off.”

“It is, see for yourself.”

Falkenborg meekly held out his phone.

In the car Troulsen put handcuffs on his prisoner, but placed him in the front passenger seat, although that was not normal practice. He wanted to see the man’s face during their conversation, which he started bluntly as soon as they drove off.

“There are two prisons you should avoid at all costs. You see, there’s an iron-clad pecking order among the cons there, and you’ll come in at the very bottom, partly because you have a tendency to smell, and partly because you’ve killed women. Both are looked down on by the tough nuts and… ”

Troulsen continued in the same vein without mercy most of the way to Police Headquarters. Maliciously he told Andreas Falkenborg in detail about how he would be tormented and tortured in prison. That is, if the boss took against him and decided to recommend one of the harsher places. And the lies worked. His prisoner was intimidated.

Although he had an explicit prohibition from Simonsen about doing any definite questioning, Troulsen nevertheless tried, shortly before they arrived. The temptation was simply too great.

“And bear in mind now that the most important thing is not to start sweating with anxiety, because then you’ll smell again and that makes the boss hopping mad. It’s much better to put your cards on the table right away.”

“I’ll try not to sweat.”

The man was already sweating like a pig, but was possibly not aware of it himself. Troulsen continued casually, “By the way, the girl down in Præstø, what was her name again? The one who disappeared?”

“Annie.”

“Yes, exactly. Or was that her name… are you quite certain? Wasn’t it Lone instead?”

“No, I’m sure, Annie Lindberg.”

“Okay, you would know, so it’s Annie now-where did you bury her?”

“But I haven’t done that.”

“Why drag this out?”

“But it’s the truth, I haven’t done that.”

The man sounded sincere in his own childish, naive way. Troulsen dropped the subject without any real annoyance, knowing full well that Konrad Simonsen would soon be conducting a full-scale interrogation.