“I have two teams that change three times every twenty-four hours.”
Troulsen asked, “Isn’t it a mistake not to keep as much control over him as we possibly can? It would be unbearable if he gives us the slip, just when we can nail him on Annie Lindberg Hansson. Keep in mind that Ernesto Madsen could not understand that episode with the pig, it fell outside the pattern, and suddenly it doesn’t any more. I don’t like the fact Falkenborg’s withdrawn so much cash either. That sounds like he’s planning to disappear.”
Simonsen said regretfully, “In an ideal world without budgets, I’d throw all the resources we have at him. But now the situation is obviously different, I’ll add two more teams.”
They went their separate ways, feeling considerably more uplifted than when they’d arrived. Simonsen called the Countess and told her about Arne Pedersen’s hypothesis. She too urged him to drive to South Zealand right away. For once she was flatly rejected.
That same evening Andreas Falkenborg slipped away from police surveillance. It happened in the heart of Copenhagen, where Frederiksborggade runs into N?rre Voldgade. Four unmarked police cars took part in the shadowing, so that two were responsible for staying ahead and two behind Andreas Falkenborg’s easily recognisable blue Mercedes the whole time it was apparently driving aimlessly around in the city. The other two were held in reserve, ready to intervene when the lead car missed the route. The job was easy, on the verge of boring. The man they were following drove calmly and sensibly, more often too slowly than too fast, and the officers were thus not particularly attentive when their subject, in complete accordance with traffic regulations, stayed in the inside lane at a red light alongside N?rreport Station. It was the second time within five minutes that they’d found themselves at this exact spot, which ought to have sharpened the officers’ attention. The last time however the light was green, so they’d followed the traffic and glided past the station. In contrast to now. One of the two officers in the following car said tiredly, “God, how long does he intend to drive around here?”
“We’ll see,” said his colleague in a bored voice. “At least this is more fun than sitting staring at the entry to his apartment. Here there’s a little variety, and . . . what the hell!”
The officer reacted quickly. He opened the car door without looking and it banged into a bus that had pulled up alongside the police vehicle. He squeezed out, wriggled past the other motorists and ran the fifty metres to the station as fast as he could. When his colleague saw that the Mercedes was empty, he understood and followed. But Andreas Falkenborg’s head start on them was too much, and both men arrived too late.
They conferred briefly, after which one ran down the stairs to the platforms while the second officer called the other surveillance teams. Soon eight officers were gathered at the scene, but to no avail. After a hectic fifteen minutes they gave up, and the leader of the surveillance operation reported the depressing news to the officer on duty at Glostrup Police, who promised to inform the Homicide Division immediately.
But the news arrived at the worst imaginable time.
While the desk sergeant was receiving the information about Falkenborg’s disappearance, his commissioner showed up alongside him wearing a serious expression. Kindly but firmly, he took the desk sergeant’s phone from him and interrupted the call. The explanation followed immediately.
“Your daughter just called.”
Anxiety came in waves. The desk sergeant nodded, he was in no condition to do otherwise.
“It’s your grandson. He’s been admitted to Herlev Hospital with meningitis. It’s serious, Mads. The boy is in a coma. She’s asking for you to go there.”
The commissioner drove him.
Almost twelve hours passed before Konrad Simonsen was notified that Andreas Falkenborg was beyond the supervision of the authorities and had been so for almost half a day.
CHAPTER 43