The Countess nodded; she had seen the cap herself. It was lying beside Maryann Nygaard’s corpse, and quite involuntarily she thought that Allinna Holmsgaard had been right—it really wasn’t very pretty. She dropped the subject and asked instead, “And you have no idea why he used a false name?”
“No, unfortunately. Maryann maintained that he really was a geologist, and he was there to negotiate some sensitive concession agreements with the Americans on extraction of underground minerals. At first that didn’t sound completely off the wall. There were a number of disagreements between Danish and Greenlandic atomic power opponents on the one hand and GGS and Ris? on the other. This visit allegedly concerned extraction of uranium and perhaps thorium from the Kvane field in Narsaq, and the subject was sensitive to say the least, but . . . well, it wasn’t logical. I mean, what was he doing in Thule in that case? The American Air Force was not involved in mining operations, and Thule Airbase is almost two thousand kilometres from Narsaq.”
“So you didn’t believe that?”
“Not really, but I didn’t say anything about it. In 1983 the Cold War was still being conducted, so it wasn’t so strange if there were things going on that the public shouldn’t know about.”
“You may be right about that. Tell me, the picture of the man you mentioned, what should I do if I really want to see it?”
Allinna Holmsgaard thought about it, then she threw out her arms regretfully.
“It won’t be easy. I can’t even remember who Maryann got it from.”
The Countess waited, there was more to come.
“You do understand that he had left for home a long time before Maryann died?”
“Completely, but I would still like to see his picture.”
“Maybe there is a chance, although it’s slight. Do you know Knud Rasmussen's House?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“It’s a museum in North Zealand, Gribskov Municipality, I think. The former museum director collected personal photos from both bases. It was a kind of hobby for him. I have also sent him copies of my own pictures.”
“This sounds like a real uphill climb, especially since I don’t know what Hansen looks like. Can I convince you to assist me a little?”
The Countess waited patiently while Allinna Holmsgaard considered. Finally she said, “Tomorrow my husband and I are leaving for Zurich. This trip has been planned for a long time, and I would be loath to cancel or postpone it. On the other hand I owe Maryann, and society for that matter. Only you can decide if it it’s important enough for me to cancel.”
It was tempting, but the Countess controlled herself.
“No, go on holiday, it’s not that important.”
“I’m happy to hear that, but I can easily assist you over the Internet. If I send you an email this evening about the exact period of time when our friend was at S?ndre Str?mfjord then there won’t be very many pictures to investigate, if there even are any . . . ”
Together they went over the details. When it was decided, the Countess had only one thing left to do. From her bag she took a picture of Andreas Falkenborg in 1983, and set it in front of the professor.
“Do you recognise him?”
“Yes, it’s Pronto, of course, that childish soul. What do you want to know about . . . oh, no . . . ”
The Countess questioned her closely but Allinna Holmsgaard could not contribute anything groundbreaking.
CHAPTER 12
While the Countess was enjoying her white wine at Islands Brygge, her immediate associates in Homicide were en route in two cars to South Zealand. Konrad Simonsen and Poul Troulsen took the lead, with the older man at the wheel. Following right behind them were Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg. Troulsen squinted out and looked distrustfully at the summer weather, which already by late morning was hot and sunny, then glanced at his boss in the passenger seat, reading a memorandum.
“I don’t understand how you can stand it, Simon. The sweat is running off me even though I only have a T-shirt on, and you’re sitting there in a jacket as if the heat doesn’t bother you in the least. Have you heard the weather forecast?”
Simonsen looked up briefly and observed his colleague, not without envy. Despite his age there was not much surplus fat on Troulsen’s well-trained body, and the muscles of his upper arms bulged nicely out of the sleeves of his T-shirt. A faded pin-up girl, from the days when Nyhavn was raunchy, preened on his forearm. Simonsen’s own temperature regulation varied more than it should. Sometimes he sweated when there was no reason to; other times, like now, he almost didn’t sweat at all. Both situations were a consequence of his diabetes. He said teasingly, “Yes, it’s going to be hot.”