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.
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 S?ndre Str?mfjord 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.