“You made this portrait of Andreas Falkenborg, as you sat on the train to Frederiksv?rk. Why did you do that?”
“I always draw people on the train. It’s a habit. I draw them if I think they look interesting, or simply to pass the time.”
“Why were you in London?”
“To draw an ancient wall.”
“That sounds strange.”
“I want to be an architect.”
“Where was your daughter while you were in England?”
“With her father.”
“What shade of red was Falkenborg’s car?”
“It was dusk at the time, and then colours are hard to determine. But it was like the Danish flag, I think.”
“Did you draw other people on your train ride?”
He switched between topics, back and forth, to confuse her; she managed every single question with honest, simple answers. Except for the last.
“You live in Frederiksv?rk. Why did you get off in Grimstrup?”
“That’s not important, and I’ve promised not to talk about it.”
She emphasised the word promised, as if now they didn’t need to talk any more about it.
“Who did you promise?”
“Someone I know.”
“Did anyone else see the car besides you?”
“Not quite so well.”
“Who?”
“Someone I know.”
Simonsen sighed and quietly explained.
“You called us four times yesterday evening. Then you came on your own initiative here to Police Headquarters at night, where you insisted on making a statement. This is the third time you’re being questioned, which means that we take your testimony seriously, which I’m sure you’re well aware of. But I don’t have room for mistakes. At the moment two women are in extreme danger at best, so there is no room here for keeping secrets, regardless of what you’ve promised whom. Furthermore, I don’t understand why you didn’t call until almost a full day after your train ride. I would also like an explanation for that.”
Juli Denissen thought deeply and came up with the wrong answer.
“I guarantee that the car was red. You have to believe me. The rest has no significance.”
Simonsen swore to himself and considered whether he should take the time to talk sense into her. He decided it was not worth wasting the energy. He tried the silent treatment for a short time, until he firmly shook his head. Then he called for Poul Troulsen and felt miserable about it. She deserved better.
After Juli was picked up, he had a hard time getting her out of his mind, and he was very relieved when a good hour later Troulsen returned and hustled her back to her former place, while he explained.
“She was picked up by her lover at Grimstrup Station, and together they drove to his summer house in Asserbo. He has a wife and children and according to Juli keeps his affairs as far away from the rest of his life as possible. For example, he didn’t want to meet her in Hiller?d for fear that someone would recognise him. Both of them saw Falkenborg’s car, he however only fleetingly, but he hasn’t contacted us, although he maintains the opposite with respect to his . . . with respect to Juli.”
He referred to the woman, who sat with bowed head looking sad.
“When the announcements in the media kept referring to a white commercial vehicle, she stepped in herself, and . . . well, the rest you know. Her acquaintance, by the way, is one of us. That is, still according to Juli.”
Simonsen felt anger bubbling up and made no attempt to subdue it. His voice resounded in the office.
“I hope for his sake that he’s not. Who are we talking about?”
Troulsen said the man’s name. Simonsen knew who he meant; a middle-aged, competent man he had worked with numerous times. He asked, perplexed, “The police constable?”
“Yes, if we’re to believe Juli. He denies any acquaintance with her whatsoever. I just spoke to him, and he was quite definite about it. He says he has never met her, she has never been in his summer house, he has never picked her up at any station, and so on and so forth. Never to everything I said. I’ve ordered phone information on them both. Unauthorised, but we don’t have time for anything else. It will take about an hour before we have them, and—”
Juli Denissen interrupted him then.
“Did he say that he doesn’t know me?”
The question was directed at Simonsen.
“Yes, and now I really am having doubts about your story. You are going to remain here a while longer, until I find out which of you is lying.”
A film of moisture passed over her eyes, which she quickly blinked away before it formed tears. She tightened her jaw for a couple of seconds and regained control. Then she fished her cell phone out of her bag and started working the keys while she said, “I have some pictures. Just a moment . . . my phone isn’t working, it has a mind of its own, but I can’t afford to buy a new one.”
The two men waited until her phone worked properly. It took time, but she was successful at last. She explained, “The first ones are from the summer house, the others were taken at my place.”