The Girl in the Ice aka A Price for Everything

CHAPTER 39

“The criminal justice system is an overrated crock of shit.”

Poul Troulsen said that at every opportunity the next couple of days, and everyone was tired of listening. It was irritating, even though they all knew he didn’t mean it and that it served as an outlet for his frustration. Along with the rest of the Homicide Division he was slaving away at full steam to produce evidence that might connect Andreas Falkenborg to his crimes and thereby prolong his imprisonment. The returns so far were meagre. The key figure refused to be questioned, so it was not possible to continue that route. A large portion of the man’s current and past circle of acquaintances had been tracked down and questioned, an extensive but fruitless process. No one could contribute any information the police did not already know.

What remained was technical evidence, and here recovering possible DNA traces from Maryann Nygaard’s grave in the Greenland ice cap was their best chance. Theoretically such traces could be well preserved in frozen condition, even though almost twenty-five years had passed since the crime took place. Perhaps it was still possible to determine that a helicopter had once landed close by the grave. There was nothing wrong with optimism, but it had no basis in reality. On Friday afternoon Simonsen came back from a meeting with Kurt Melsing, head of the Forensics department. He went to the Countess’s office, where Troulsen, Pauline Berg and the Countess were eagerly waiting for him. One look on their boss’s face, however, told them that the meeting had not gone positively. Simonsen was clearly in a lousy mood, and their spirits plummeted before a word was spoken. The Countess commented, “It didn’t go too well, I see.”

Simonsen collapsed into a chair in despair.

“It went to hell. The technicians have nothing, and if they do come up with something, which is highly unlikely, it won’t be for a while. So good ideas are more than welcome.”

Berg tried half-heartedly.

“This morning I got the name of Catherine Thomsen’s friend slash lover. Her name is Vibeke Behrns, but unfortunately at the moment she is hiking in Finnmark with her two brothers and can’t be reached. They are coming home in less than a week. But I don’t know whether she even knew Andreas Falkenborg.”

Troulsen said despairingly, “We can’t make use of that here and now.”

Berg asked worriedly, as if the truth had still not occurred to her, “But what then? I mean, he’s not going to be released, is he?”

No one answered her, and she repeated the question. This time almost shrilly. The Countess cut her off.

“It doesn’t help to get worked up, and besides it’s not our decision.”

“But the judge can’t release a mass murderer into the community.”

“She quite certainly will, if we can’t produce further evidence. Or more exactly, any evidence whatsoever.”

She turned towards Simonsen.

“Isn’t there anything positive at all?”

“No.”

“What have you done with Arne? Wasn’t he there with Melsing?”

“He went round to see the prosecutor, to convince her to try to get the arrest extended. But she’ll never go along with that. We have nothing new, and she doesn’t like to be made a fool of, for which you can’t blame her.”

Troulsen said, “There are still a couple of days. We’ve got to try and pick up the pieces and then hope for a miracle. Should we do a status report and divide up the tasks?”

Simonsen agreed, without enthusiasm.

“Yes, we’d better do that, but let’s wait for Arne. Pauline, I have a special task for you. You will go to Hundested and speak with Jeanette Hvidt. I want her either out of the way or concealed. And go up there this evening. If you have other plans, then cancel them.”

Pauline Berg nodded. Although it clashed with her personal plans, it was obvious that she had no choice. Instead she said carefully, “Can’t we hold him for other things? Maybe tax evasion. What about the fact that his customers always pay in cash and without an invoice?”

“The Al Capone model.”

It was Troulsen trying to be witty. The Countess shook her head despondently.

“The idea is actually not that bad. It’s just way too late. We have no earthly chance of producing something sustainable before Sunday. But I have thought of a different possibility. We know that he bought half of a house and arranged a move, just to get Carl Henning Thomsen’s fingerprints on a plastic bag. Isn’t that correct?”

Simonsen confirmed that half-heartedly.

“Know is perhaps saying too much, but we strongly assume that. He spares no efforts once he has selected a victim. Where are you going with this?”

“He places the plastic bag he later murders Catherine Thomsen with over his Mozart bust, after which her father sets his fingerprints on it during the move.”

“Yes, that’s what we believe. And what he more or less confirmed during his interview. Why is that interesting now?”

“Because the Mozart bust is connected to Falkenborg, and the plastic bag is connected to the murder of Catherine Thomsen… ”

She let the sentence remain open. Simonsen concluded hesitantly for her.

“And if we can connect the plastic bag to the Mozart bust, we have him. The idea is interesting, go on.”

“There’s not much more to say. I am thinking that the fingerprints are logically dependent on the surface on which they are placed, or in this case pressed against. Maybe the contours of the bust can be found on the impressions. Or maybe the technicians can find unambiguous traces of the bust on the inside of the bag. Because I assume that it still exists in some archive or warehouse.”

The others nodded. It was the best suggestion they had so far been given on how they could move ahead. Although time was very short.

Troulsen asked the obvious question.

“Why didn’t you say this before?”

The Countess answered him without hesitation.

“Because I just happened to think of it now.”

The three others looked at Simonsen. He concluded, “In any event, it’s worth asking Melsing about. Call him, Countess. Get hold of him no matter where he is. Poul, you find out where the bag is. And make sure someone can deliver it, if we’re going to use it this evening.”

Fifteen minutes later the Countess was back with good news from Melsing.

“There are some chances of linking the bust to the plastic bag. Melsing had a couple of ideas, which I did not completely understand. He and his department are ready to get started, as soon as they have both objects. The problem is time. Twenty-four hours is far from enough for the ongoing investigations. A week is more realistic, and then only if they work around the clock, but… ”

She smiled. Simonsen and Berg were hanging eagerly on every word.

“If they can find traces of plaster inside the bag, and they can determine that tonight, Melsing is willing to talk up his findings to the judge. And that will guarantee us a week more to work with.”

Simonsen struck a clenched fist against the tabletop and exclaimed, “Yes!” Then he added, “So we got our miracle after all.”

It lasted for five minutes. Then Troulsen came back, almost exuding frustration.

“The plastic bag no longer exists, it was destroyed. I’ve spoken with the Næstved police, and Catherine Thomsen’s murder was considered solved, so in 2002 when they got new space for the archives-”

Simonsen interrupted him.

“I don’t care what happened. Is it certain that it’s gone?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”