The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 33

After the questioning of Andreas Falkenborg the mood in the Homicide Division was guardedly optimistic. It would soon change, however. For the rest of the day misfortunes rained down on Police Headquarters in Copenhagen in general, and Konrad Simonsen’s unit in particular, in one long, unbroken chain of news that seemed to go steadily from bad to worse.

With Ernesto Madsen’s assistance, Simonsen and Arne Pedersen went over the questioning of Falkenborg, and in no way did the psychologist share the detectives’ relative satisfaction with the results of the interview.

“This is not going to be easy for you. His childishness and spontaneous honesty, which he knows exactly when to use and when not to, provide him with effective protection. I am convinced that this is how he has managed his whole life when he’s faced difficulties. We are talking about deeply embedded habits that he doesn’t need to think about, not even in stressful situations. I assume you noticed how he glaringly avoided saying anything that he could not take back later.”

The question was aimed at Simonsen, who was well aware of the problem, but did not care for the word “glaringly” and thought there were bright spots besides.

“This is only the start, he will be questioned again and again. Besides, I think he said things that were incriminating. He did confess his guilt several times.”

“He almost confessed, but each time in a submissive manner, so the truth value depends to a high degree on whose eyes are looking at it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are his strict father, and he wants to please you in this situation. If I were called in for the defence, I would have some really good angles to exploit here.”

“You almost sound as if you think that’s how it was.”

“I do think so. He’s not play-acting, but just because he is infantile, he’s not unintelligent. He concentrates on not telling you at any point in time those very few things that only he and perhaps you know. The rest he lets go simply by reacting, as he feels compelled to at the moment. An extremely effective strategy, which also gives him a certain advantage during the questioning, because he does not need to focus on anything other than concealing his knowledge of the lipstick and then naturally where he buried Annie Lindberg Hansson.”

Simonsen looked downcast. Pedersen asked the profiler, “You sound like it’s guaranteed that he will retract his statement. Are you sure of that?”

“I firmly believe that he has calculated that, or else his lawyer will advise him to do so when she has familiarised herself with the tape. But you know the drill better than I do.”

Pedersen asked Simonsen, “I don’t know her, is she any good, Simon?”

“Absolutely, but she is also very honest. Tell me, where did she really come from? She showed up almost out of a clear blue sky. He can’t be the one who called her, because if so we would know that.”

Pedersen answered, “He didn’t, he didn’t even use his phone call.”

Simonsen asked, perplexed, “So it must be the press who informed her. They don’t usually get involved in that sort of thing. But there’s another thing I don’t understand: it may well be that his defences in an interrogation situation are more effective than I was immediately aware of, but on the other hand it would be far more sensible for him simply not to talk to us. However we twist and turn it, we now have a taped statement that does not exactly put him in a positive light.”

Madsen explained, “He doesn’t think that way. In his world it is more a struggle between the police and him. I’m sure he thinks that he has won, because he got through it without confessing anything irrevocable, and then you must not forget that he was rather frightened. He had absolutely no desire to annoy you, as he clearly showed.”

“What about the new girl he suddenly served up, Liz Suenson? Is she a lie or the truth?”

Pedersen was dead sure.

“She’s a lie, we’ve already done searches on her, and the Swedes have too. No one knows that name in connection with anyone who has disappeared. Besides, we and the Swedes were both very thorough the first time we reviewed women who could be his victims. But I must say that it was rather effective to toss her into the interrogation. I think that was the only time when he was the one setting the agenda.”

Ernesto Madsen was more concise in his assessment.

“Dig deeper, she’s real.”

Simonsen considered the contradictory assessments. Then he said, “We will all review the questioning a couple of times. We aren’t pressed because, no matter what, we don’t need to fear that he will be released in the near future.”

Simonsen was allowed to remain under this illusion for exactly one hour. The call from the police commissioner to present himself to her immediately left no doubt of the seriousness of the summons. Nor could her stern expression be overlooked when shortly afterwards he obeyed orders and stepped into her office.

She was a tall woman with a cold radiance that was grounded in modesty and not, as most assumed, in arrogance. Everyone agreed that she had a burning desire to do her job well, whereas there was heated discussion about whether or not she succeeded. One of her strong suits was that she normally listened to her subordinates and often adapted to their expertise, which was a clear advantage, for her knowledge of practical police work was nearly non-existent. Like her fashion sense. She regularly outdid herself in her choice of hopeless outfits. The colour combinations were catastrophic, and often she squeezed into garments that were far too small, giving her a tasteless, little girl look. Once she showed up at a party with four inches of bare belly. That was several years ago by now, but the story still flourished, especially among her female employees who told it with eyes rolling in contempt.

“Sit down, Simon, and listen. This is not good.”

The not-so-good part would have to wait, however, because she immediately seemed to have second thoughts and instead took the time to assure Simonsen how much she valued him, his work and his department. He observed the framed photograph of Queen Margrethe hanging on the wall behind her. Her Majesty was in full regalia with hair put up and diamonds dangling from suitable places. The rumour was that if the police commissioner was on duty on Christmas Eve, she hung up a cardboard elf on the picture, but he had never personally observed this alleged frivolity. When she finally fell silent, he inelegantly but effectively warded off her torrent of kindness.

“I’m busy. What is it you want from me?”

She sighed a trifle theatrically, after which she activated an icon on her computer screen, and soon the voices of Andreas Falkenborg and Poul Troulsen were heard from her speakers.

“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… ”

“Where’s that from?”

The police commissioner put the dialogue on pause and answered, “From the car in which Poul Troulsen drove the suspect Andreas Falkenborg from his residence to HS.”

“How could that be?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“How do you know it’s from the car?”

“By listening, it comes out clearly later. Besides, the file has been sent around under the name Car ride with the police.”

“Sent around where?”

“YouTube and other Internet sites. But it gets even worse. I’ll fast forward a little. Listen to this.”

“Tell me, have you ever been thrashed really nastily, for example with a stick or a baton?”

“No, I never have.”

“And you’ve never seen anyone who has? I mean, hear how they cry out and beg for their poor hide?”

“I’ve experienced that.”

“Good enough, so you know how much it hurts. In the worst prisons it’s much, much worse. You’ll be beaten to a pulp every single day, simply because the others don’t like you. Three hold you and two hit… that sort of thing is normal. I’m telling you, it’s disgusting to see such a bloody back afterwards.”

The police commissioner stopped the conversation and resumed her own with Simonsen.

“A little later Poul Troulsen frightens the prisoner with someone he calls the boss. That couldn’t possibly be you, could it?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“The connection is unambiguous. If the poor fool doesn’t confess to you, then you’ll put him in a place where he’ll be beaten up. What are you thinking now?”

“That we’re in the shit.”

“We’re in complete agreement.”

“It seriously weakens our case against Andreas Falkenborg.”

“Yes, I would think so, but fortunately that part is not my headache. My primary problem is that I can already read a transcript of the tape on the website of a number of newspapers and TV channels, and I’m not just talking about the sensationalist ones, but also the serious, opinion-forming ones.”

“The rotten Internet!”

“Yes, that’s right, Simon-blame it all on the Internet. I’ll shut it down tomorrow, if it bothers you.”

Simonsen did not answer her, and she regained her normal controlled coolness.

“This is not the first time Poul Troulsen has got carried away. Actually this has happened often in his career. There must have been a dozen episodes, depending on how you count. And this time is one too many. What went on in the car with Andreas Falkenborg is completely over the line. Poul threatens him directly with a beating if he doesn’t confess.”

“Not too many months ago I had a car ride with a prisoner myself, and I was a good deal harder on him than Poul was with the suspect today.”

“Maybe, but for one thing your car ride was not recorded on tape, and for another it’s not about ‘being hard on him’, as you say, but about delivering specific threats to achieve a confession. Simon, I know he’s going to retire in five months, but you are going to suspend Troulsen. I see no other way out.”

“No!”

She set a memo in front of him.

“Then try reading the transcript yourself, it’s completely shocking. The poor man did not have a chance.”

“The idea was that he shouldn’t have a chance. That’s how we work sometimes, whatever you and the general public think. I was the one who asked Poul Troulsen to pressure him. And don’t forget now, this ‘poor man’ has killed at least two and probably four women.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, and I guarantee you that he has.”

“So you won’t make the suspension yourself?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“I can’t prevent you.”

Silence crept up on them. Neither of them wanted to pursue this to its logical conclusion. It was the police commissioner who reluctantly put it into words.

“What will you do with it?”

“You know full well.”

Simonsen’s voice was subdued, he had no intention to puff himself up, and nevertheless the response had an ominous quality that gave no possibility for compromise.

“I was afraid you would say that. Thanks, because you don’t threaten me in the least.”

“You are welcome.”

“Simon, both of us know that you have particularly influential friends. Would you please… ”

She had a hard time formulating her request. He did not help her out.

“… wait to inform the others about this… this conversation, that is, in relation to your own job, until… that is, there was some stupid nonsense… Damn it, Simon, what in the world do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What would you do, if you were me? I would like to hear that.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not much help.”

“I’m not a police commissioner.”

She shook her head and sighed. Simonsen threw out his arms in a friendly gesture, the only backing he would give her. He liked her, but he had plenty of problems of his own without worrying about other people’s. She sighed again and wiped her brow with the back of her hand in an exaggerated gesture that made him smile.

“You’re smiling.”

“I am smiling.”

“If only I had your sense of humor, as strange as it seems to me. In any event I have to think this over for a while, and the last thing I need is Helmer Hammer or Bertil Hampel-Koch on the line with good advice. Or the Minister for the Environment, for that matter.”

“The minister! Where in the world did you conjure her from? Don’t you think you’re overestimating the size of my fan club?”

“No, but I’m certain that you underestimate it.”

“Let’s not argue about that. But if you think I call around asking for back-up, you don’t know me very well.”

“I know perfectly well that’s not what goes on. Well, off with you, you’re not going to help me anyway. We’ll talk later.”

Simonsen left. Without feeling sorry for her.

Back at his desk he found Poul Troulsen’s resignation on his chair. He caught his co-worker in his office, packing his few personal things in a plastic bag. Simonsen poured the contents back on the desktop and threw the bag in the waste basket.

“You can forget that, Poul. What in the world are you thinking?”

Troulsen’s voice was bitter but steady.

“I don’t want to be a burden on you and the department.”

“Why are you behaving so foolishly? Can you see about getting started on identifying Liz Suenson instead of bothering yourself with things that don’t involve you, and which are my job besides. Tell me, don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, of course. But I don’t want-”

His boss interrupted him rudely.

“Get on to Liz Suenson… now! I have a double murderer about to slip away from me, and I don’t have time for your navel-gazing. Let’s get a move on! I’m out of my office briefly. When I get back, I expect you to have some results for me.”

Simonsen stalked out. On his way he crumpled up the resignation and threw it next to the plastic bag.