The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 37

Questioning the witness Bertil Hampel-Koch turned out to be one of the more remarkable experiences of the Countess’s career.

The conversation was arranged hurriedly and took place in Kastrup Airport, where the director could spare an hour before he had to board his flight to Brussels. The Countess would clearly have preferred to wait until Monday for the interview, but that was impossible. The meeting was Part One of Helmer Hammer’s carefully outlined plan to deflect the searchlights of the Danish press from Hampel-Koch’s visit to Greenland in 1983. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a very small part of the Danish press, as only two journalists had shown interest until now, but that was evidently enough for the under secretary. The second phase of the two-stage rocket would be fired according to plan at Simonsen’s press conference at five o’clock.

In the car en route, on the Øresund highway, the Countess thought that she could not remember her boss ever before having voluntarily called a press conference, if you could characterise his participation in Helmer Hammer’s project as voluntary. She also thought about what in the world she would question Bertil Hampel-Koch about, unless their chat became purely pro forma, which on the other hand she hoped it would not, for that would force her to fabricate for the journalists. So preferably an interview that had no purpose related to the investigation. And, if it were up to her, without too much openness between the two of them that could easily turn awkward. It would be more like half an hour of mutually agreed play-acting.

She turned off the highway and drove slowly into the parking area, curious to know whether the director had as much control of the logistics as his secretary maintained while instructing the Countess simply to park her car and then she would be contacted. The airport area was under greater than average surveillance, and hidden eyes presumably already followed her car on various monitors. An unpleasant thought. She rotated the rear-view mirror and quickly ran a brush through her hair.

Inattention made her brake a little too hard when a young woman suddenly materialised out of nowhere in her path. The woman looked like a spread from a teen magazine; with her whitened smile and designer clothes, she posed for a few seconds in front of the car, smiling from ear-ring to ear-ring to show her joy at nearly being run over. Then she got in on the passenger side and introduced herself fervently by her first name. Beate, she said. The Countess decided to kill her as soon as she got the chance.

On Beate’s instruction they drove around the terminal buildings and through a gate where the guard waved them on, before they stopped by one of the pavilions in the domestic area. Beate strode ahead, clip-clopping with her boot heels the final stretch into the building and over to a door, which was indicated with a wide smile, after which Beate clip-clopped off. The Countess knocked and opened the door.

Inside it looked like an inexpensive but pleasant hotel room. It was small, with more furniture than its size justified. Along one wall was a bed and parallel to it an oblong table with a chair set at either end. An armoire, hand basin and TV were also squeezed in. The walls were painted pale blue and were bare apart from two framed pictures of almost identical sunsets, decorative and indifferent, one over the table, the other the bed. Bertil Hampel-Koch was sitting in the chair farthest away, facing her. He closed his laptop, stood up and edged around the furniture to receive her. The Countess had only met him once before, and then he had behaved repellently, but it quickly became clear to her that this was not an approach he intended to repeat. His welcome was friendly, his posture open and positive.

The Countess set her handbag down on the bed, while Hampel-Koch edged back to his chair. They sat down at the table and looked awkwardly at each other.

She had tried her best to prepare for the start of their meeting in particular, and he had obviously done the same. He said, “I hope we can get this over in an hour, otherwise I would very much like to know now so I can arrange a later departure. But I would prefer to avoid that if possible.”

“An hour is fine.”

She wanted to say more than enough, but thought better of it.

“Thanks, I’m happy about that. I ordered coffee, but I think they’ve forgotten me.”

“That’s no problem, I’ll manage without.”

He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, focused on her and then said with emphasis, “I am sincerely sorry about all this mess, which I can only blame on myself. The arrangement that your boss should regularly brief me about your investigation was my idea. My bad idea, unfortunately. I thought I could combine a personal interest in that way with a… non-personal one. That was stupid, almost counter-productive. Someone in my ministry has wondered about my role and put a couple of journalists on my trail. At least, I suppose it must have happened that way. I don’t know who tipped off the press, presumably personal enemies of mine, but that doesn’t matter. In any event, I ought to have foreseen there’d be fall-out. Besides, I should have told the police long ago about my stay at the Søndre Strømfjord base in the summer of 1983, which to put it mildly I have had ample opportunity to do. But I didn’t, which has made a lot of extra work for me now. You’ll have to excuse that, and please pass on my apology.”

The Countess took note of this and appreciated his honesty, which seemed genuine enough. On the other hand she immediately noticed his wildly fluctuating tone of voice and it struck her that he was just as uneasy about their meeting as she was, a fact that did not make the situation any less awkward. She started with a question based purely on curiosity.

“How do you know that one of your own employees tipped off the press, as you put it? Couldn’t the source be the police? It would definitely not be the first time.”

He nodded, as if to acknowledge her point, and then interjected, “The journalists in question have acquired a picture of me as a thirty year old, and it is a copy of a photograph in my personnel file that can be found on our intranet, if you have access. There are other things too that point to an inside source, though I can’t be certain. Does that have any significance?”

“No, probably not. Let’s get started, shall we? Unfortunately I forgot my Dictaphone, so I’m just going to take a few notes, if that’s acceptable?”

She pointed to the pad in front of her, and he nodded.

“In June 1983 you travelled to Greenland in connection with your participation later that year with the Sirius sled patrol. Your trip was to Station North in Northeast Greenland, and en route you had a stopover at the American military base in Søndre Strømfjord. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You spent four days, more precisely from Thursday, July the seventh to Sunday, July the tenth, at Søndre Strømfjord, while you waited for good weather so you could continue.”

“Yes, that’s right too. The weather can be pretty rough that far north, even in the summer. Going home I flew by way of Mestervig on the east coast, and there were no problems.”

That was the first hurdle. Now she had heard about the trip directly from the source and could pass that on later with a reasonably clear conscience. That Søndre Strømfjord was not the only stopover on his trip to Station North, and the actual reason for why they were sitting here, remained unsaid. She wrote meticulously on her pad. When she was finished, she said, “Did you make your trip under the name Steen Hansen?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why was that?”

He spoke about his uncle, who at that time was Danish defence chief, and about his fear of the negative impact the family relationship might have on his companions during the sled journey. The Countess thought that the explanation sounded convincing and was presumably true. Then she asked the only question to which she did not know the answer in advance.

“You also maintained that your position was that of geologist. Why is that?”

Bertil Hampel-Koch’s cheeks took on a pink glow, and he did not answer immediately. Not until he had regained his normal colour did he say, “Yes, that’s also a little embarrassing.”

The Countess interjected soothingly, “Don’t worry about that. Regardless of what you tell me, I’ve certainly heard it before. Besides, it’s not my task to judge you. And definitely not on something that happened twenty-five years ago.”

The words helped. He told her in a low voice, “At that time I was newly married, and we were expecting our first child. That was good news, of course, but also a little frightening. So I suddenly got the opportunity to be anonymous on that base, and I thought that if on top of that I lied about my job, no one could trace me when I left. Although… well, that proved not to be the case.”

She didn’t respond, letting him dig himself deeper.

“In that way I could be a bachelor for a couple of days, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I’ve got the point.”

“Good Lord, I was twenty-eight years old. I would never behave that way now.”

He looked imploringly at her, and she discovered to her surprise that he was angling for sympathy. She said casually, “No? Married men’s way of thinking usually grows a bit more relaxed over the years. You met a nurse, Maryann Nygaard.”

He lowered his eyes.

“Yes, and I got her-”

The Countess interrupted him quickly.

“Now, now, you don’t need to go into detail. This has no relevance to me. I’m only interested in the big picture.”

She thought that she might just as well have said that from there on she was only interested in passing the time, until she could reasonably maintain that he had been questioned. He answered, relieved, “Well, then. I guess you are.”

He was a miserable witness, which did not make the next twenty minutes any easier. To put it mildly, he could not remember much about his stay at the base, and not a thing that the Countess could use. She concluded by presenting him with a picture of Andreas Falkenborg from the year 1983.

Bertil Hampel-Koch looked at the picture for a long time. There was no doubt that he really wanted to help, but was unable to.

“No, unfortunately.”

“His name is Andreas Falkenborg, but he went by the nickname Pronto.”

He shook his head apologetically.

“Falkenborg was a trained engineer and employed at the base as an assistant electrician. He also flew helicopters.”

Again a pause, and again a shake of the head.

“So you don’t know about any connection between him and Maryann Nygaard either?”

“Unfortunately not. The only thing I know is that there was a kind of group around Maryann and her Greenlandic friend. I can’t remember the name of the girl, but she was just as pretty as Maryann and… that is, Falkenborg was not part of that group.”

Not part of… The Countess wrote down the information in block letters followed by four exclamation points. Then she thought that she should stop while the going was good. She closed her notebook.

“You have been a great help. Thanks very much for sparing me the time.”

He frowned and scratched his neck thoroughly with one finger. Then he said seriously, “I truly hope you catch Maryann’s murderer. When I heard that she had been killed, I was both shocked and relieved at the same time. It’s a very strange feeling that I’ve never had before. For many years I believed that she… died because of me. That wasn’t the case, but… ”

He stopped short, and she waited politely until he continued.

“I can’t find any words that are suitable, so I’d better not try. In any event I won’t forget this, I can promise you that. I hope one day to be able to reciprocate.”

The Countess didn’t want his gratitude; she had her own problem. Simonsen’s medium had insisted that she should cling firmly to Bertil Hampel-Koch, alias Steen Hansen. She had clung and clung for the past seven days. It was a matter of life or death, she had been told. Yet she had ended up in a dead-end and wasted a lot of time to no obvious benefit. Until the last she had hoped for a revelation that had not come. Now she was left empty-handed. And regardless of how much she twisted and turned even the most impossible scenarios, where the director perhaps played a role in the murder of Maryann Nygaard, none of them was even remotely probable. So what now? The answer was obvious-nothing, it was over. Nonetheless she tried to hold a door open.

“I hope to be able to come back to you another time, if I have further questions.”

It was clear that the comment puzzled him, but she received his non-committal, polite confirmation. Then she gathered together her things, shook hands with him and deliberately stepped out of her role as she took her leave.

“Now you be sure to greet our common acquaintance the prime minister from me when you see him.”

Bertil Hampel-Koch feigned a smile and agreed.