The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 31

The psychologist Ernesto Madsen’s assessment was that Andreas Falkenborg would benefit from stewing behind bars for a few hours before questioning began. Simonsen followed the advice and therefore had plenty of time to accompany the Countess to a further meeting with the Oracle from Købmagergade. They walked there together, she half a step ahead of him on the pavement as if she wanted to lead the way now that she had convinced him to go along. A sultry high-pressure system hung over the city. Streets and people sweated, while the liberating thunderstorm that the weather prophets had promised still bided its time. Simonsen said, “I hope he doesn’t think we’re going into the greenhouse itself, because then we’ll melt. This is bad enough.”

The Countess had been asked to meet the Oracle in front of the Palm House in the Botanical Gardens. She had accepted without question; one place was as good as another.

“I doubt he does.”

Simonsen’s legs were tingling and itching; he felt clumsy. On top of that he was panting from the heat.

“We should have taken the car.”

“And driven around half an hour looking for a parking place? It’s good for you to walk a little. We can take a taxi back, if this drags on.”

“It won’t drag on. I have other things to get done, you know.”

The reproach was subtle, but it was there. She said, “I’m glad you came along.”

“I’ll be glad to get this over with.”

They went in at the gate to the Botanical Gardens; she held it open for him and closed it behind them. Soon the urban noise faded out to a background hum, and the Countess took Simonsen’s arm as if the calm legitimised intimacy. She said, “It’s pleasant in here, don’t you think? All the lovely plants… it’s almost semi-Mediterranean, and all so well tended.”

“Yes, it’s a nice place.”

Simonsen’s knowledge of field biology was limited to his ability to identify a dandelion with great certainty and a few other plants with a degree of difficulty. He stopped and scratched one ankle, then the other while he was at it.

“Tell me one thing, Simon. Your clairvoyant friend in Høje Taastrup, whom you consult now and then, how often is she actually right, if I may ask?”

“Why are you speculating about that now?”

“Oh, general interest.”

“She gets it right occasionally, mostly she’s not that useful. But don’t ask how she does it, because I’ve given up trying to figure that out.”

“But sometimes she helps?”

“As I said, yes.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Many years ago I had a case where a lunatic had stretched a thin wire across the street in a small provincial town. The purpose was to stop a handful of local moped drivers once and for all. They used to tear through the town on Saturday night, to the detriment of ordinary people’s sleep. Fortunately the lead driver was leaning down over the steering wheel, so he hit the wire with his forehead. Obviously he fell over and got some nasty scrapes, but the driver behind him was less fortunate. The wire broke, and the recoil tore the boy’s eye out.”

“Nasty.”

“Yes, not good, but the worst thing of all was that if the boys had been driving normally, they would probably have been decapitated, which was the intention. Well, in solving that case I was guided by my clairvoyant woman in Høje Taastrup, as you call her. She gave me a rather unusual name that proved to belong to the owner of a hardware store several hundred kilometres from the town. It was there the guilty party turned out to have bought his wire. He was a seventy-eight-year-old man, by the way, who had become sick and tired of the noise. Enough was enough, as he said. And now it’s your turn, Countess. Why are you suddenly so interested in clairvoyance? Spit it out.”

She told him about her brief but thought-provoking telephone conversation and noticed, when she was done, that she felt relieved. He walked for a bit in silence and then muttered, “Yes, she can be somewhat manic when it hits her. Well, we’re just about here.”

The Palm House towered before them, shining in all its glory in the hazy sunlight. The Countess searched in vain for her oracle, until a familiar voice made them both turn. Behind them, on the small patch of grass in the shadow of a “Water Lily” magnolia, sat Helmer Hammer.

The under secretary had shed jacket and tie, which lay neatly folded behind him, besides removing his shoes and socks. His white feet sticking out from under well-pressed Cerruti trousers gave a strange slant on informality. He smiled winningly as the Countess and Konrad Simonsen sat down opposite him, and then asked with a lively show of interest about their personal lives as well as about the investigation. Soon they were deep into a conversation that all three of them enjoyed.

This was one of Helmer Hammer’s many strong points; he could get people to relax in his company, in part because he acted as if he had all the time in the world just for them. When he was in that mode, courteous and concerned, he did not seem like a man tormented by complex affairs of state, but rather someone who was naturally open and honest, the kind of person you would like to have as a friend. The Countess slid off her shoes too. Helmer Hammer passed around cold water, which he had brought along in his bag, and laughed good-naturedly at Simonsen’s account of the photo search for the maids.

“So you thought that Malte Borup sold information from the police databases for G?”

“It sounded that way for a moment, and that made me furious. But the system was efficient enough: pictures of seven maids in less than half an hour is not bad going.”

“Yes, you should never underestimate informal systems. That’s one of the reasons I like this place so much. I have found many capable students for the ministries here… that is, without all the usual employment rigmarole. When there isn’t a university vacation, there are always a few promising young people here, reading or talking, so you get a proper impression of their potential.”

The Countess asked, “Do you come here often?”

“Not as much as I’d like, not any more unfortunately. But isn’t it lovely?”

Hammer threw out his arms as if he owned the garden, and continued.

“You should try coming here in early June when the magnolias are in full bloom. Then there’s the Palm House, a true architectural gem. It was finished in 1874, one of the first Danish buildings where exposed steel was used for the load-bearing construction, as with the Eiffel Tower. The architects were not even architects but gardeners, and the whole thing was due to beer.”

“Jacobsen the brewer was a patron, I believe?” queried Simonsen.

“He was, yes.”

Helmer Hammer let the rest of his mineral water slop around in small, centrifugal swirls, while he silently observed the movement inside the bottle. Then he continued speaking.

“Well, Assistant Detective of the First Degree Nathalie von Rosen, I’m not the only one who is interested in Danish history.”

The formal address was meant jokingly, but set things on a business footing. Surprisingly enough, it was Simonsen who responded.

“Both of us are interested, and it’s easy to explain why but hard to understand.”

“Okay then. Can I at least try?”

The power relationship between the homicide chief and the under secretary was as unequal as could be, and on top of that the police investigators’ historical research was ill-timed, to put it mildly. None the less Konrad Simonsen crumpled Helmer Hammer like a piece of used sandwich paper: first he described the Countess’s ominous Høje Taastrup telephone call without a trace of apology, then reviewed two specific examples of clairvoyance that had proved to be useful to the police, including the story about the moped drivers, this time narrated in spell-binding fashion. The Countess thoroughly enjoyed his performance, not least his lively descriptions and the way he refused to pour scorn on any of her actions. No one in his right mind would have done anything different if they had been warned in the same way, he implied. Obviously not, that would almost be dereliction of duty. Helmer Hammer was effectively up against the wall, a fact he quickly realised and humbly adapted to.

“I didn’t see that coming. Yes, it is a little hard to discuss this with you when you have mediums in your back pocket. Stick to him like a burr, what a great sentence, and it must be admitted you have done just that, Countess. And to top it off, with great competence. You have my unreserved admiration.”

The Countess nodded without saying anything. She felt more vindicated than ever about conducting her alternative investigation after Konrad Simonsen had described it in such glowing terms. He was right, it was simply something she had to do.

Helmer Hammer continued, still primarily addressing the Countess.

“Perhaps for a moment we could call what you think you’ve found out about Bertil Hampel-Koch’s trip to Greenland in 1983, truth number one. I give it a number because I also have a truth in that connection, which we can suitably call truth number two.

“In the seventies and eighties it was established custom in the Defence Ministry to invite capable young officials to go along on the Sirius patrol for a few weeks-you know, the sled dog team that enforces Denmark’s sovereignty in North and East Greenland during the winter. It was considered an honour to be invited and looked very good on a résumé besides, so almost everyone who received the offer accepted. In 1983 it was Bertil Hampel-Koch’s turn, but here a problem arose. Bertil had very little desire to go to Greenland under his own surname, due to the fact that from 1978 to 1994 his uncle, Tyge Hampel-Koch, was defence chief. And that is easy enough to understand. It wouldn’t have been the easiest starting point for him with the other men on the expedition. Completely without precedent, his chief administrative officer therefore gave Bertil permission to use the name Steen Hansen on his journey, or rather journeys, because there were two. How the job title geologist came into the picture, I don’t really know.”

Simonsen asked, “He made two trips, you say?”

“Yes, the first was in the summer of 1983, when he flew to Station North all the way up in Northeast Greenland in Crown Prince Christian Land. Here he met some of his future Sirius comrades and also helped set out stockpiles for the winter expeditions. It was on that trip that he made a stopover in Søndre Strømfjord, but you know that. The other time was for the sled trip itself in February 1984, and that is obviously not very interesting to us.”

The Countess asked with surprise, “So he did not go to Thule-”

Helmer Hammer interrupted her amiably but firmly.

“Now, now. This is my truth, I am formulating it. It is undeniably correct that on his journey to Station North in 1983 Bertil Hampel-Koch made a stop at the military base in Søndre Strømfjord. And in that connection I have a problem, which I hope perhaps you will help me with.”

Simonsen replied first.

“We’re all ears.”

“It’s no secret that I prefer truth number two – that is, my own interpretation-which I promise you is reliable through and through. I should not conceal either that it is also preferable for my boss and his many predecessors. Truth number one on the other hand-seen from our perspective-still needs to be kept under wraps twenty, thirty years before it is carefully examined.”

His use of the plural form was nicely judged. His two listeners were now painfully aware of what they were up against, if they did not play this Hammer’s way, and both of them silently consented. He smiled winningly.

“My wife and my daughter always tell me that I should rely more on other people, and they’re right of course. Will you help me in spreading truth number two? It would have the greatest effect, of course, coming from you. Besides, I never forget a favour.”

Simonsen answered hesitantly, “What did you have in mind?”

He explained and again they accepted, the Countess however with a touch of resentment.

“In other words: no Thule, no book, and no letter?”

The under secretary shook his head apologetically.

“No Thule, no book, and no letter. That is unfortunately correct, but I well understand if you-in addition to doing what you have to do-have become a trifle fascinated by the story. That letter in particular is quite amazing. It is a real masterpiece and should be printed on the back of every single employment document in Slotsholmen, under the heading Read and Learn.”

He looked at his watch and reached for his shoes, but then had second thoughts and carried on speaking.

“So, the US government asks Denmark about the country’s attitude towards atomic weapons in Greenland. A simple, straightforward question. The response, on the other hand, is anything but simple. On the contrary, it is outstanding in its artfulness, and all down to one of Bertil’s predecessors-Nils Svenningsen was his name. To start with, the reply establishes that the American Ambassador presented no specific plan for the introduction of atomic weapons in Greenland, which is completely true. Governments have generals for specific military plans. Also, atomic bombs are rewritten to ammunition supplies of a particular type. And then what is completely fabulous-director Svenningsen has his prime minister answer based on the absence of specific plans: I do not think that your comments give reason for any comments on my part.”

He gestured eagerly.

“Translation: you may by all means introduce all the atomic bombs you want-although we officially forbid that-so long as we know nothing. I do not think that your comments give reason for any comments on my part… and this to the US government! That is damned ingenious.”

This time it was Simonsen who looked at his watch. He had a double murderer to question, and besides, he had a hard time appreciating where evasiveness ended and ingenuity began.