“What do you think the chances are?”
“How would I know? Is there anything else?”
There wasn’t.
On her way up Str?get toward R?dhuspladsen Pauline Berg had a good feeling in her gut. The Falkenborg case was hers, she could sense it clearly.
CHAPTER 28
The parting on Monday morning between the Countess and Konrad Simonsen at Polititorvet in front of Police Headquarters was awkward. The Countess dropped her boss off before continuing on to her breakfast meeting. In the car she had explained to him in detail for the first time her parallel investigation around Bertil Hampel-Koch on which she had spent a good deal of time over the past week, including this morning, which meant that she was removed from the actual case. She still kept her peculiar phone conversation with Simonsen’s clairvoyant friend to herself. Even though it was her actual motivation—which she had admitted to herself early on—it was impossible for her to justify her actions based on that kind of metaphysical warning. But she told him everything else. Everything except the most important thing.
Simonsen was not impressed, primarily because he had a hard time seeing the purpose of her exertions. She had fallen for one of the classic temptations in detective work: namely to pursue a false track and uncover a story that may very well be exciting, but which had nothing to do with the relevant crime. He had experienced that many times before, and it was his job as chief to allocate her time in a more productive direction; well, after hearing her explanation he might say in a much more productive direction. The problem was that he didn’t, which—in all honesty—was because he was living with her now.
He opened the car door to get out, but had second thoughts and turned towards her. She anticipated him.
“I know what you’re going to say, Simon, and you’re right. What I’m doing is a little on the periphery of what we are otherwise occupied with. But I have a very strong intuition about it.”
“Combined with a very strong curiosity about matters of state that don’t concern us. That’s also why you spent the whole weekend Googling Greenland and talking with anyone and everyone on the phone.”
“The whole weekend is overstating it. I seem to recall that we were at the Louisiana museum and the theatre.”
“Granted, but when we get home, we have to find a way to get you back on track.”
“You promised me that I could have a week.”
He ignored his own promise as well as her imploring tone.
“A way that holds up.”
“Okay, I promise you, dear chief.”
That combination of words went straight to the heart of his dilemma, and he knew her well enough to realise this was no coincidence. So he left her and went to work, with the pointed comment that someone had to.
The Countess had invited the Oracle from K?bmagergade to breakfast. When he’d agreed, he requested a discreet location, a wish she did not accommodate however, for much could be said about the SAS hotel, Arne Jacobsen’s functionalist mastodon of a skyscraper in the heart of Copenhagen, but discreet it was not. On the other hand she had arranged a quiet meeting room just off the lobby, where a sumptuous morning buffet awaited them. Her guest was already enjoying the delicacies when she arrived. They greeted each other, and the Countess poured herself a cup of coffee. She was nervous, which surprised her. He asked in amazement, “Aren’t you going to have anything else?”
“No, unfortunately. It does look delicious.”
“It is delicious, but go ahead and start. I can listen and chew at the same time.”
She showed him the photograph of Bertil Hampel-Koch in Greenland. In the foreground was a young, crew-cut man in the process of lighting a pipe, while a pretty woman with black, wavy hair smiled into the camera from the background.
“Bertil Hampel-Koch, alias the geologist Steen Hansen, and Maryann Nygaard—the woman who was later murdered—photographed at the S?ndre Str?mfjord base on Saturday, the ninth of July, 1983. The picture is verified by her female friend at the time.”
Her guest finished chewing and said in his gravelly voice, “Well, it’s confirmed then. Bertil Hampel-Koch was in Greenland in July of 1983.”
He did not ask the question, but the subtext and what about it? was obvious. She resorted to her last card in a bid to get him to play along.
“The two freelance reporters in whose wake I’ve been sailing are political journalists, not crime correspondents.”
“I hope that isn’t a concealed threat that you would share your knowledge with the press.”
“No, but if they are also trying to find out what Hampel-Koch was doing in Greenland—”
He interrupted her.
“Also?”
She would have preferred to wait before she revealed her own research, but . . .
“Yes, I’ve been curious, and I actually think I’ve tracked down the truth, but of course I’ve had a considerable head start on them.”