In the small hours between Tuesday and Wednesday Konrad Simonsen snatched a restless sleep in his desk chair. He had taken off his shoes, put his legs on the desk and—mostly for peace of mind and out of habit—used his jacket as a kind of duvet. At five o’clock in the morning he was wakened by the phone. An officer told him that he had a witness he ought to interview personally. The man sounded tired, but Simonsen recognised his name and knew that he was experienced. Not the type to disturb you for no reason, and definitely not at that time of day, so he agreed to the questioning without objection, after which he fell asleep again. Shortly after the officer was in the room escorting a woman in her twenties.
Simonsen collected himself. After five minutes in the bathroom, where some cold water on his head chased away the worst of his fatigue, he felt reasonably functional. When he returned the officer introduced the woman.
“This is Juli Denissen from Frederiksv?rk, and she encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening. She also has important information about his car.”
The officer placed a thin report on the desk and stood to attention expectantly. Simonsen skimmed it and noted that the witness had been questioned twice before. Both times during the night. He turned to the woman.
“Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”
He had to repeat the request before she understood, after which she left the office without argument. She left her lovely multicoloured bag behind. He noted that her gait was unusual, as if her upper body was not quite synchronised with her legs. He closed the door behind her.
As soon as she was outside, the officer asked, “Do you want a summary? I can see that you’re really tired.”
“No, but I want to know whether she is reliable. Or rather, I assume that you’ve checked her thoroughly.”
“As thoroughly as we could during the night, and nothing indicates that she is . . . mental.”
“What’s your own assessment?”
The answer came with conviction.
“She’s as normal as you and me. Otherwise I wouldn’t involve you.”
Simonsen mumbled inaudibly, sent the officer away and showed the woman in again. They sat opposite each other at his desk. He browsed through her papers again and said matter-of-factly, “You are twenty-four years old, divorced, attend the Technical School in Frederiksv?rk, live alone with your two-year-old child.”
The woman confirmed this and suppressed a yawn, which she excused with a lovely smile. Involuntarily Simonsen smiled back. It was hard not to.
“Can you tell me a little about your daughter?”
If she was surprised by the question she did not show it. Without hesitation she complied with the request, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to talk about her child at five-thirty in the morning to the head of the country’s most-discussed investigation. While she spoke, he observed her thoroughly, which did not seem to embarrass her. She was slender, below average height, with long dark hair and high, soft cheekbones; definitely pretty in her particular way. She had a surplus of charisma, but her eyes made the greatest impression. They were brown, happy and trustful when they met his, without submission but also without arrogance. He discovered to his surprise as she was speaking that he liked hearing her voice, and he let her continue a bit beyond the point where he felt convinced she was not concealing any pathological defects. At last however he interrupted her.
“You think you encountered Andreas Falkenborg on Monday evening, on the local train to Frederiksv?rk?”
“Yes, I think so. And I also saw him on the S-train to Hiller?d. He got on at N?rreport Station.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Where should I start?”
“You were in Copenhagen. What were you doing there?”
“I had been in London for two days and came from the airport . . . ”
Her explanation was thorough and precise; the times fitted with Falkenborg’s disappearance from his attendants, and she could also describe his clothing. At Hiller?d Station they both changed trains, and by chance they were sitting so that she could see his reflected image in the window. In Grimstrup, four stations from Hiller?d, she and Falkenborg were the only passengers who got off, and he had walked to a small parking lot next to the station where his car was parked. She had watched as he drove away.
“Can you describe the car?”
“Yes, it was a red Volkswagen Multivan.”
“You are quite certain. Do you know about cars?”
“My father is a car mechanic. I grew up with cars.”
“Do you know why you’re sitting here?”
She nodded, almost apologetically.
“Because his car was red.”
He nodded too. Then he found a photocopy of a drawing in her papers and placed it before her.