“He is going to tell me where he buried one of his victims. Her name is Annie Lindberg Hansson, and he killed her in 1990.”
“Okay, but if you don’t get anywhere, I also want a chance to try. I often make an impression on perpetrators.”
“That almost sounds like you mean to put the screws on me.”
“It wasn’t meant that way, but if this goes wrong and gets out, you’re not the only one who’ll get your knuckles rapped, so it’s reasonable for me to have a chance too.”
Pauline Berg pretended to consider this, and then said, “It’s a deal. Come on.”
The walk through Police Headquarters was more hair-raising than Berg had imagined. Although the jail was far from the Homicide Division offices, and Police Headquarters was a big building, she feared running into someone she knew. Worst of all of course would be Arne Pedersen or Konrad Simonsen, who presumably were somewhere in the building. For this reason she took a roundabout route, which proved to be a good idea as the only person they met was a police cadet they didn’t know, who took no notice of them. Graa said, “I’ve never seen your jail. Is it big?”
“There is room for twenty-five, but it’s almost never full.”
“Who do you have in there? It’s the worst of the worst, I hear.”
“Then you’ve heard right.”
“I can see why you’re keeping him there.”
“It’s not like that. He’s in there only because he will be released tomorrow, unless we succeed in a little while. It wouldn’t pay to move him, or he would have been. He’s not violent in that way. On the contrary he’s been isolated from the other prisoners for his own safety.”
“Okay, I see. Tell me, how do we actually get in?”
“We’ll be let in, what did you think?”
“Well, I mean, how have you arranged it? That is, without your boss knowing?”
“There won’t be any problems, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid, I was just thinking—”
“Stop that.”
Pauline Berg was right that they would be let into the jail block without problems. An older guard, who looked like he was counting the hours to retirement, led them at a shuffling pace to Falkenborg’s cell and unlocked it for them.
The room they entered was small, ten square metres sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a desk with chair, wardrobe and small refrigerator, all fastened to the floor or walls. A window at the back allowed a pale light into the cell. Andreas Falkenborg got up from the bed as the two officers came into the room. He had been reading a book, a travel account from India, Pauline Berg noted. To begin with it was Asger Graa who with his uniform and size attracted the man’s attention. She believed for a moment that Falkenborg would not react at all to her appearance, but when he saw her, he stiffened and stood stiffly to attention. His jaw dropped and a trickle of saliva dribbled out of one corner of his mouth.
Graa took the opportunity to rig up his Dictaphone, which he placed on the desk, and then asked formally, “Andreas Falkenborg, do you have anything against talking with us for a few minutes?”
The officer received no answer and asked again, but with the same negative result. He shrugged his shoulders and handed over to Berg, sitting down on the bed and waiting. Falkenborg reacted like a frightened animal when Asger Graa was no longer standing between him and Pauline Berg. He fled to the farthest corner of the cell, where he sank down into a crouch. She walked backwards and positioned herself by the door, aware that the situation could easily get out of control. From his crouching position the man guardedly followed every one of her movements, but the increased distance stabilised him. He closed his mouth. Anxiety was no longer the only emotion on his face—undisguised hatred almost steamed toward her.
“Andreas, you killed Annie, tell me how.”
He did not answer, nor did she expect him to. The sound of intermittent aggressive breathing through his nostrils filled the cell.
“Do you want me to come over to you?”
The threat struck him like a blow. He threw back his head and looked imploringly up at Asger Graa, who said, “You had better answer her.”
Falkenborg half stuttered, half snarled, “She must . . . must . . . must not be here.”
“Then tell us what you’ve done, damn it, and she’ll go away. How hard can it be?”
Berg added, “Yes, tell me about Annie. Then I’ll leave.”
For the first time he broke away from her gaze and looked down at the floor in front of him instead. It felt like an eternity, but shortly after that he turned towards Asger Graa.
“Annie was like her, she forced herself on me, what should I do?”
Berg answered him harshly: “I’m not interested in what you should do, but in what you actually did.”
“Killed her, you know that. She deserved it. And you do too, you witch.”
Graa warned him, “Watch what you’re saying now.”
“I hate her.”
“Tell us about your murders, as she requests.”