The police commissioner smiled across the table at her homicide chief. She was dressed in a brown dress with grey-white flounces and resembled a muffin. She looked nervous to find herself in such company. Simonsen smiled back. Director Bertil Hampel-Koch suggested himself as keeper of the minutes and noted down his assignment before anyone could object, after which out of respect for the hierarchy he gave the national chief of police the floor.
The chief was a handsome man, well-proportioned with a classic profile and a mass of silver-grey hair, which always seemed to be freshly trimmed. He habitually wore a serious expression that meant few could relax in his company. Added to that were his expensive, gold-rimmed glasses, which he removed when he thought his viewpoints were especially important, basically every time he opened his mouth. In writing he was either a genius or an idiot. At Police Headquarters and all over the country his subordinates cursed his vague orders, which always left plenty of room for interpretation and correspondingly released him from any responsibility if something went wrong later.
This evening he surprised them however, not only by keeping his glasses on but also by giving the floor in turn to Konrad Simonsen without unnecessary preamble.
“I hope that this meeting will be as brief as possible,” the homicide chief began. “I acknowledge your right to be informed of our progress, but I also believe you will understand that every minute I’m sitting here takes away from time spent on locating police detective Pauline Berg and the student Jeanette Hvidt, and time is the most critical factor at the moment. So if this meeting does not proceed both quickly and constructively, you will have to manage without me and my associates.”
There was no ambiguity about this declaration, and given Simonsen’s comparatively low rank it was also slightly provocative, but the majority of the participants nodded their acceptance. Only the Minister of Justice’s secretary commented sourly, “I’m sure others can take over from you in the meantime.”
She was a younger woman with short, light hair and a pair of large, red plastic earrings that, oddly enough, suited her. Simonsen sent her an angry look without quite knowing how else he should respond. Support came from an unexpected quarter. The head of DSIS, who was not known for his forbearance, growled curtly, “Nonsense. Simonsen is right. Let’s get started.”
The ball was once again in Simonsen’s court. He made a brief status report of the police’s immediate efforts. A detailed presentation was out of the question, but on the other hand he concealed nothing, not even Pauline Berg’s unauthorised questioning of her kidnapper, or that Andreas Falkenborg had succeeded in breaking into Arne Pedersen’s, the Countess’s and even his own home and eavesdropping on them, with catastrophic consequences for Jeanette Hvidt. None of those present reproached him for that however. Instead the national chief of police removed his glasses and asked, “You say that you can use the microphones to set a trap for him, how is that?”
Again the head of DSIS broke in.
“There is no reason for us to know. The last time Falkenborg was pressurised a little, it became a hell of a problem for us with the media, but the truth is that perhaps it could have prevented the mess we’re in now if the police had been allowed to get on it when they had him.”
The subject was dropped, which suited Simonsen fine, as neither he nor anyone else had yet succeeded in finding a plausible pretext that might lure Falkenborg out into the open. The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice summarised.
“In other words, Falkenborg’s white commercial vehicle, and the warehouse you assume he has some place or other, and where he possibly is now, are the best options with regard to tracking him down?”
Simonsen’s reply was unambiguous.
“Yes, and not only the best, basically the only concrete ones. Furthermore we have initiated a series of general measures, such as heightened surveillance at financial institutions, petrol stations, ATMs, hotels, restaurants, swimming halls, community centres, camping grounds, traffic junctions, Internet cafés, libraries, and so forth—”
The Minister of Justice’s secretary interrupted and asked, “You are also guarding his home, aren’t you?”
Bertil Hampel-Koch, who was sitting next to her, whispered something that made her ears turn the same colour as her earrings. Simonsen continued without answering.
“However we perhaps have one clue that may lead us further. When we searched Andreas Falkenborg’s apartment, we photographed a key which we believe may be to the warehouse he obviously keeps somewhere in the capital region. The key has a series of numbers prominently engraved on it. None of the lock specialists can identify it, so we’ve released it to the press and expect it to be shown widely in newspapers and on TV as of early tomorrow. This sort of thing almost always produces a result. Someone must know what the numbers mean, and perhaps even what the key is to.”
The chief administrative officer from the Ministry of Justice asked sharply, “Why isn’t this already being done in the news broadcasts this evening?”
“Because we didn’t get to them in time.”
“But you said yourself that time was of the essence.”