Pedersen yawned widely as he got out of the vehicle. He opened his eyes toward the wind, letting the fresh air chase sleep from his head. Then he caught sight of one of the police surveillance vehicles on the other side of the street, and put a finger to his temple in greeting, without being able to see whether he personally knew any of the officers. He received a brief honk of the horn in response. The sound caught Troulsen’s attention, and he too gestured in greeting, without however receiving a response.
On their way up the stairs Pedersen commented, “I really hope we either find something incriminating or you and Simon manage to force a confession out of him, because in strictly legal terms we don’t have much to hang on him. Not in my view anyway.”
“Nor in the district prosecutor’s either. She reckons he’ll be held on remand for a maximum of three weeks. If the murders hadn’t hit the headlines already, I don’t think we would have been granted a search warrant at all.”
“So for once I’m hoping you get to soften him up properly.”
Troulsen was known for using force a bit too freely from time to time, which was not generally to Pedersen’s personal taste, but today was obviously an exception. That was the reason why Simonsen had chosen Troulsen in particular, to exploit the suspect’s marked childishness and hopefully give the police a solid mental advantage, before he was delivered for questioning at Police Headquarters. In the meantime Pedersen would get an overview of the extent of the search and then summon reinforcements when Falkenborg was taken away. The division of labour between the two men was already clear.
The nameplate on Falkenborg’s door was made of brass, and recently polished. Pedersen let a fingertip glide over it before he rang the bell. He rang twice in a row, after which he pounded hard on the door with his knuckles and rang the bell a third time.
A short time passed, then the door opened.
Andreas Falkenborg was revealed, barefoot in a bathrobe. It was obvious that they had woken him, his disoriented expression and dishevelled hair spoke for themselves. Pedersen began the procedure as he held up a piece of paper in front of the face of the half-asleep man and immediately stepped past him. Falkenborg moved to one side, but then called to Troulsen in a formal voice, “I ask that you identify yourself as a police officer.”
The request was presented without panic or aggression, but much louder than seemed necessary, like a scene from a bad comedy. Troulsen concluded that there might be a good reason for this behaviour. The combination of Falkenborg’s occupation, the cornerstone of which was eavesdropping, and his choice of words as if lifted straight from the national chief of police’s proclamation on identification of the police, reeked of their conversation being covertly recorded. He pulled the man outside onto the landing without a word and pressed him against the wall. Then he commanded authoritatively, “Stay there.”
Falkenborg complied, but at the same time called towards the open doorway, “Ow, ow . . . ow, that hurts! Oh, no, why are you doing that? Ow . . . ”
He was a miserable actor, and Troulsen answered calmly, “Shut your mouth, you’re not hurt, but if you try that nonsense again, you’ll get one on the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Andreas Falkenborg, the time is six-oh-eight a.m. and you are arrested, accused of the murder of nurse Maryann Nygaard in 1983, and physical therapist Catherine Thomsen in 1997.”
Troulsen called out to Pedersen, “I’m pretty sure our friend here has set up microphones in his own apartment. I thought you should know that.”
Pedersen’s face brightened.
“You don’t say? How ingenious. But I think I know some people who are good at tracing that sort of thing. Thanks, both of you.”
Troulsen led Falkenborg in through the apartment door and on into the bathroom, which he located at once. The man went along willingly and let himself be pressed down on the toilet seat without protest. Here he sat quietly while Troulsen quickly and expertly opened cabinets and drawers to make sure that nothing surprising or unpleasant was inside.
During the search Troulsen decided to take a chance. The probability that Falkenborg had also wiretapped his bathroom was not great, and if it later proved to be the case anyway, the recording could be deleted by a regrettable “accident”. Furthermore, the prisoner’s submissiveness and cowed, almost imploring eyes told him that he could probably go a bit further than he had intended to start with. He turned toward the man and said harshly, “Don’t you ever take a bath?”
“Yes, I do. Every single morning. Of course I do.”
“I don’t think you smell very good.”
“I do.”
“My nose is seldom wrong. And to be quite honest, with the sort of hygiene you practise, I wouldn’t want to be you if the boss doesn’t take to you.”
“Your boss?”
“Tell me, are you deaf or dumb? Yes, my boss. He can be very bad-tempered. Vindictive and mean. I don’t understand how but he gets away with it. So I hope for your sake that he likes you, although it’s not very likely.”
Falkenborg asked, terrified, “Why is that? What have I done to him?”
“Nothing . . . not yet.”
“What do you mean? You’re scaring me.”