When the work day was over, Konrad Simonsen sometimes treated them to beer—which did not happen often, so was greatly appreciated when it did.
This took place by established custom at Copenhagen’s Bodega, an unpretentious bar opposite Glyptoteket that was mostly patronised by police officers. The Countess, Arne Pedersen and Poul Troulsen sat down at the same table as their boss. Their remaining colleagues found other places and did not disturb them, except for occasionally raising glasses towards their table. The establishment was half full, the mood upbeat without excessive hilarity, with muted pop classics playing and a quick-witted bartender who charmed everyone with his contagious smile. Shortly after they’d sat down Pauline Berg joined them. She had been out on an unexplained errand and had returned with a bag from Illum, which despite the Countess’s inquisitive gaze she shoved under her chair. Everyone made toasts in draft beer, and Simonsen said a few predictable things about good work, that no one heard. Then the conversation flowed. “God knows how many people he’s killed! Maybe we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg,” said Pauline Berg, disregarding the convention of not mixing details of an investigation with a social gathering.
Troulsen immediately picked up on this remark.
“There may be a lot, worse luck. It’s not enough to review our own lists of missing persons. There may be tourists who never returned home or he may have murdered on his own holidays, not to mention that young women with black hair are perhaps only one of his preferences. Maybe he also has an eye for red-haired boys—who the hell knows? I hope you’ve got him nicely contained, boss, until we’re ready to put him in the hole.”
Simonsen answered gruffly, “I’m taking good care of him with the resources I have.”
“Maybe those can be extended a little in this case. Or else use our pension fund. Just so long as he isn’t running around loose.”
“The most unpleasant thing is that he looks so ordinary. And then of course the faces of those girls in the bags . . . What a way to die! There should be the death penalty for such a psychopath.”
It was Pauline speaking again.
Troulsen nodded agreement. The Countess shook her head, clear about where this was headed. “And summary trial, I assume? And royal permission for painful interrogation, like in the old days? I understand that sort of thing is popular with our major ally at the moment.”
It was like pushing a button, and she knew it. Pedersen shook his head, and Troulsen replied sharply, “We didn’t have three thousand of our countrymen murdered at a stroke. To be honest, I can well understand why many Americans aren’t too concerned about the legal niceties where those behind the massacre are concerned.”
“Except what you call legal niceties, I call human rights.”
Pauline appealed to the Countess.
“I don’t follow you. What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about torture, my friend. Or more specifically the US rendition programme, where in the best management style the torments are outsourced to executioners all around the world. Mistreatment by proxy, please. And don’t believe that Denmark isn’t involved. Kastrup Airport has been visited many times by the torture jet, but it’s poor political form to point that out. For your information, torture affects alleged, but never convicted, terrorists.”
Troulsen shrugged his shoulders provocatively.
“If it saves innocent lives, I’m not one to lose sleep over it.”
Simonsen entered the fray.
“I know how many witches were burned in Denmark in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—there were about a thousand—and the interesting thing is that almost all of them were guilty, because by far the majority confessed their crimes after being on the rack for a while. The truth is that torture, besides being deeply repulsive, is also counterproductive. You simply can’t rely on the results of such interrogation.”
Pedersen was the first to finish his beer. The discussion was about to become a trifle too heated for his taste. To be conciliatory he said to the Countess and Simonsen, “You always make it sound so easy, and sometimes I wish I had your sense of ethics or whatever it’s called. But I also know that if someone threatened my family, I would damn’ well not shrink from anything.”
He glanced at his watch and added, “I’ll buy the next round and then I’m heading home.”
CHAPTER 11