The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 38

So as not to arrive late at the press conference, the Countess rushed back from her conversation with Bertil Hampel-Koch. The result was that she was the first to take her place on the podium. She was followed shortly afterwards by Konrad Simonsen, Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. The Countess nodded curtly to her boss with a meaningful look on her face when he arrived; the questioning of Hampel-Koch had gone as expected. He reciprocated with a raised thumb. Then she had plenty of time to form an impression of the gathering.

The press conference was well attended; altogether about fifty journalists and photographers participated. With satisfaction the Countess noted that no TV cameras were present. The two channels that had announced their arrival had been promised a special interview with Simonsen and herself immediately afterwards. The reason given for this was that the police wanted to prevent certain sensitive circumstances related to the investigation from being broadcast directly. The explanation had been accepted.

At the scheduled time voices in the room lowered to a soft murmur. The Countess straightened up in her seat and became serious. The conference began, and Simonsen was immediately fired upon from all sides. The day’s top story was twofold: partly the arrest and indictment of Andreas Falkenborg, partly the police’s interrogation methods during and after the arrest. Words like “fiasco” and “blunder” were heard, and the head of the Homicide Division had to take many digs, as he was not exactly well liked by the country’s crime reporters. Respected perhaps, but definitely not loved. Over the years he had withheld too many good headlines from them. For the most part however her boss managed fine, and on those few occasions where his temperament threatened to clear the next day’s front pages, Pedersen was capable of taking over.

The Countess herself said nothing. Instead she systematically scanned the journalists present and soon found the two she was looking for. They were sitting at the back of the room looking frankly bored. The older one was a big man with a shaggy black beard, who reminded her of the Hollywood version of a Cossack. The younger was pale with small, round glasses and a permanently suspicious expression, as if he didn’t really believe what he was hearing, no matter who was speaking, because that was his nature. She secretly observed them for a long time, while pretending to stare blankly into space whenever one of them turned their eyes towards her. It was their fault that the press conference was being held at all, and it was her task to fulfil the promise made in the Botanical Gardens to Helmer Hammer to get them interested in something other than Hampel-Koch’s Greenland trip in the late summer of 1983.

Gradually the inquisition lost momentum, and Simonsen’s responses began to be repetitive. She kept herself ready and finally came the question that she’d known was planted, just not with whom. She had guessed at a handful of suitable candidates, but completely missed the mark. Her cue was advanced by a veteran among the crime reporters, a man in his sixties from one of the smaller daily papers, the last person she would have thought would dabble in such things. His question was directed to Konrad Simonsen.

“You have questioned the Foreign Ministry director Bertil Hampel-Koch on several occasions in this case. Why is that?”

Simonsen seemed a trifle confused by the comment.

“Yes, well, we have. In relation to Maryann Nygaard, who was killed in Greenland. He is helping us produce information from the American… I mean, from other places. Besides, he personally visited the military base in Søndre Strømfjord in 1983, only a couple of months before the murder took place, so in that connection we have also shown… I mean, that part I haven’t… ”

He looked at Pedersen, who shook his head, and then at the Countess, who completed the answer.

“Bertil Hampel-Koch was at the base for four days in July, when he made a stopover en route to Station North, where he was going to participate in the activities of the Sirius patrol. At that time he was a clerk in the Defence Ministry, and the trip was a kind of bonus for good work. And it is correct that he has contributed information from his short time at the base, just as quite a few other people have done.”

The follow-up question came from a younger man in the first row.

“Four days in July? That is several months before Maryann Nygaard was murdered.”

“Yes, and as mentioned he is absolutely not the only one from the base we have spoken to. In addition, Hampel-Koch got to know Maryann Nygaard during his stopover.”

“Can it be said that Hampel-Koch has been involved in gathering concrete evidence in relation to your indictment?”

“It is not the job of witnesses to gather evidence, but it can be said that he has helped us a great deal. As I said, along with a number of other people.”

It was evident that the subject did not hold the gathering’s interest. Some comments were murmured but no one seemed concerned. This changed markedly with the next question, which came from the Cossack. His loud, sonorous voice reached all the way around the room when he asked, “Why did director Bertil Hampel-Koch travel to Greenland under an assumed name?”

The words “assumed name” made everyone prick up their ears. Perhaps there was a story within the story that was about to unfold. Vigilant eyes were directed towards the Countess as she explained the connection. She concluded elegantly, as she almost apologetically noted to Simonsen, “But I don’t know how relevant this is.”

She didn’t escape that easily, however. The Cossack followed up.

“It seems strange that at the same time he maintained he was a geologist. Can you also explain that to me?”

The Countess thought for a moment and began her response with the standard line that would attract the attention of any journalist. She said hesitantly, “I don’t think you need to write that.”

Then she told them about Hampel-Koch’s sudden opportunity to act like a bachelor again for four days, without fear of a long-lasting relationship.

Most of her audience agreed with her. It was uninteresting as well as personal. An alert female reporter guessed the connection and asked the tactless question, “Was it Bertil Hampel-Koch who got Maryann Nygaard pregnant?”

The Countess swooped on her without mercy. She pointed at the journalist with an accusing finger.

“That’s an incredible supposition that belongs in the gossip columns, I don’t think-”

Simonsen cut in authoritatively, “Now stop this prying into other people’s bedrooms! I have a murder case with at least two victims, and I don’t care to waste my time on such nonsense.”

The Fourth Estate pounced on Simonsen’s feigned slip of the tongue. The Countess sensed the hunger in the gathering before the questions mounted in an ugly cacophony. At least two women killed, what do you mean by at least two?

The Countess was forgotten, Bertil Hampel-Koch was forgotten, everything was as it should be. She looked towards her two journalists again. The suspicious one threw out his arms in despair, and shortly after that they both left the room. She did not feel any particular triumph as her eyes followed them to the door. She thought that was what you deserved when you habitually used words for your own ends and lied without quite saying an untruth. The world was reduced to a game, a game without joy. Then she thought about Simonsen, who had borne the full brunt of it, and about what she would make him for dinner.