Pauline Berg followed in Catherine Thomsen’s footsteps five times. Slowly and systematically she wandered from one platform, down through the tunnel and up on to the other, as she tried to take in everything around her at the same time. The rain was splashing down, and the butterfly roofs of the platforms provided only partial protection. Her jeans were wet, but she was too preoccupied to notice.
In 1997 Andreas Falkenborg owned a silver-grey Saab 900. He might have parked either in front of or behind the station area. But what could persuade a twenty-two-year-old woman to interrupt her journey and follow a middle-aged man to his car? Seen from Falkenborg’s point of view, this place was almost the worst imaginable if he was going to use violence or threats. There were far too many witnesses around. Pauline sat down in the station cafeteria with a cup of coffee and cemented the conclusion she had reached several days ago: Andreas Falkenborg and Catherine Thomsen already knew each other. But an acquaintanceship did not fully explain the circumstances either. The two platforms and tunnel were a strange setting in which to feign a coincidental meeting and offer a ride. The sequence of events only made sense if they had a prior agreement. If Catherine Thomsen of her own free will had gone to Falkenborg’s car, where he sat waiting for her.
In the train back to Copenhagen Pauline Berg visualised the meeting. She imagined how the young girl, half-soaked and bent over against the wind, had jogged the final metres to Andreas Falkenborg’s Saab. Did he reach out and open the passenger door himself, when he saw her coming? Yes, he probably did. Nice to see you, can you believe this weather, there are tissues in the glove compartment. Her path to the morgue was paved with friendliness. No, constructed of friendliness sounded better. And what was their drive like? Pauline Berg daydreamed further and shivered with joy. She loved her job.
At Copenhagen’s Central Station she called Konrad Simonsen and informed him of her conclusions. Her boss was interested, if far from as enthusiastic as she was. But he agreed she should continue her research. That was enough for her. She had contacted Simonsen over the weekend as if it were the most natural thing in the world, just like Poul Troulsen, the Countess and Arne Pedersen did when they were on to something important. And she would just continue, as he had said. Just continue.
This led her two hours later to Gammel Torv in Copenhagen.
The day before she had contacted the National Association for Gays and Lesbians and asked for help in tracing Catherine Thomsen’s unknown girlfriend. After being transferred a few times, she ended up with a woman who neither rejected nor agreed to her proposal, but however agreed to listen to her. They had arranged to meet at the Caritas Fountain, Christian IV’s beautiful Renaissance mineral spring from the early seventeenth century.
The woman proved to be in her late forties, which surprised Pauline Berg. On the phone she’d sounded younger. In addition Pauline was almost sure she had met her before, without being able to recall where and in what connection. Only that, as far as she remembered, she didn’t like her.”
They introduced themselves. The other woman was tall and gangly with a self-aware gaze and red hair that was coloured a shade too harshly for Pauline Berg’s taste. She did not want to see identification, and limited her introductory polite phrases to a minimum. With a curt “Come”, she led them across the square to a bench, where they sat down. She also took the lead in their conversation.
“What do you know about the National Association?”
The question took Pauline Berg by surprise. What significance did that have? Besides it was asked with an air of authority, as if she were taking a test and the other woman was the examiner. Pauline briefly considered not answering, but thought better of it.
“Not much. You were founded in 1948 as one of the first organisations of its type in the world. You work with the public in an advisory capacity as well as lobbying for sexual equality. In general terms that’s what I know.”
The woman was obviously satisfied with the answer. In any event she abandoned the subject and commanded instead, “Show me the picture, and repeat your explanation from yesterday.”
Pauline Berg complied with the request. Suddenly, while she was speaking, she recalled where she had met her witness before. In a courtroom—the woman was a judge. Years ago she had skewered the prosecution lawyer and released defendants on the spot in a case that had taken Pauline Berg and her colleagues of the time weeks to build up. Today she was probably sitting in the High Court.
The woman studied the picture of Catherine Thomsen’s presumed girlfriend thoroughly in Malte Borup’s age-progressed version, before she said, “You say she’s a lesbian?”
“It’s likely, but I’m not certain.”
“Does she live here in Copenhagen?”
“I don’t know that either. Only that she lived here ten years ago.”
“Do you have a digital version of her picture?”
Pauline Berg handed over a flash drive and a card with her cell-phone number on it.
“We’ll search for her on the Internet. Facebook, our email list and our website. That’s probably the most efficient way. I’ll contact you if we find her.”