“But tell me something,” Simonsen continued. “We’ve had nothing so far on domestic partners, lovers, men, women, in-between, anything at all?”
Pedersen shook his head.
“I haven’t run into anything along those lines, and he’s always lived alone. Officially in any event.”
The Countess was on the same track.
“Nothing from me either. At the base he was well liked, helpful but not particularly social, and had no lovers that we know of. Some perceived him as slightly eccentric, but he wasn’t the only one, and no one I’ve talked to had anything against him. All in all I can’t contribute much about Andreas Falkenborg, but there were around nine hundred people at the base, and they were constantly being replaced, so I’m not even close to having exhausted witness possibilities. With respect to Maryann Nygaard it’s a little easier because she was a woman. There were so few of them that most remember her, mostly thanks to her appearance. But is it relevant to follow that trail further? Your call, Simon.”
Simonsen hummed absent-mindedly, which after a brief hesitation the Countess interpreted as encouragement for her to continue speaking. To give them an overview she started describing life at the S?ndre Str?mfjord base during the early eighties. Simonsen tuned out her words and observed her blouse. He thought that it was definitely bought at an ultra-expensive designer boutique, the sort that offered “collections” and “diffusion lines”. It was made of silk, patterned in light green and brown, and reminded him of autumn beech trees. His lapse in concentration was vaguely worrying. He pinched himself on the arm and recovered in time to answer her, though he had only heard half of her report.
The Countess asked, “What do you think? Shall we continue with them tomorrow? And should it be both him and her? That is, Falkenborg as well as Maryann Nygaard?”
“No, we’ll drop the base for the time being. There’s not much there, and we can always go back to it if things change.”
“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.”
Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in her voice, perhaps it was because he had so many years’ practice in reading other people, or perhaps it was because she had gained his permission to operate for a couple of days on her own. In any event, he thought it over and changed his mind.
“Do I understand correctly that you would like to dig a little deeper?”
If she was surprised by his intuition, she did not show it.
“It’s not something I can make an argument for, but one witness says that Maryann Nygaard’s behaviour changed the two or three weeks before she was murdered. Among other things she stayed away from parties and gatherings and that sort of thing, which she definitely had not done before. It’s aroused my curiosity, though as I said it’s probably not something we can use.”
“How will you investigate this more closely? Do you have a source?”
“I may have a line on a friend of hers, I’ll know tomorrow.”
“Okay, take a couple more days and see what emerges. Meanwhile let’s concentrate on some key dates. We have reason to assume that Andreas Falkenborg met Maryann Nygaard for the first time in a nursing home where his grandmother lived. This may have been in January or February 1982. Not until September the thirteenth, 1983, that is more than a year and a half later, does he murder her after having pursued her all the way to Greenland. The pattern is just as sinister in relation to Catherine Thomsen. They met by chance in June of 1996, and her murder happened about nine months later. Presumably after his having made enormous efforts to get her father’s fingerprints on a plastic bag, which—”
Simonsen got no farther than that. He was interrupted by a pale-faced Pauline Berg, who came rushing into his office without knocking. In her hand she held a photograph of a young woman—a young woman who resembled Maryann Nygaard. Or Catherine Thomsen. But was neither of them.
CHAPTER 10