“What about Catherine Thomsen, don’t you know why you killed her either?”
The man shook his head. Simonsen said, “The suspect Andreas Falkenborg is shaking his head. Please say that out loud.”
“Excuse me, I forgot. I don’t know why I killed Catherine . . . Catherine Thomsen.”
“You waited for her in your car at Roskilde Station on April the fifth, 1997?”
“Yes, we had an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement was that?”
“Catherine was abnormal, she liked other girls but that was a secret. She was also very Christian. Maybe I said that I could help her.”
“With what?”
“She was made wrong . . . it’s embarrassing . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So tell me instead how you killed the women. First Maryann Nygaard, how did you kill her?”
And then suddenly they were back where they started. Falkenborg asked timidly, “But should I say that I killed them when I didn’t do that?”
Simonsen was beginning to sense a pattern. To start with he refrained from answering, but he could hardly ignore it when Falkenborg added, “Will you be angry if I tell you that I didn’t kill them?”
“Did you kill Maryann Nygaard and Catherine Thomsen or didn’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, if that’s all right with you?”
Simonsen swore to himself; this could be far more difficult than he’d first expected. He decided to change focus. First however he leaned across the table, stared his prisoner in the eyes and said uncompromisingly, “When we’re sitting here making small talk, you seem like a pleasant person, Andreas. But I also see something else: I see a young girl cast her head back and forth in a desperate attempt to suck in air while her eyes are about to pop out, and you just sit alongside and enjoy the view. And thinking about that makes me so angry.”
Falkenborg’s face twitched. Simonsen took a print from his folder and set it in front of the suspect, noticing how he pulled back in his seat, as if he wanted to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and the photograph.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared of her?”
“Yes, a little—I don’t like that type of woman.”
“What type is that?”
“One like her.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“It’s hard. Just someone like that, they scare me. Won’t you take her away?”
“No. Do you recognise her?”
“Yes, her name is Rikke, but back then she was young. She isn’t any more. She can’t be.”
“Rikke Barbara Hvidt, and you’re right, this picture is of her when she was young. It was taken in 1976, when she was twenty-three years old. When did you meet her?”
“A long time ago. It was in 1978, I think.”
“Could it have been 1977?”
“Yes, that fits.”
“Where did you see her for the first time?”
“On the ferry from R?rvig to Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Both of us were on bikes. That is, they were tied to a railing on the deck of the ferry. Then she came over to me and asked if I would help her fix the chain on hers. So I did that.”
“You weren’t afraid of her at that point?”
“Yes, very.”
“Why didn’t you leave or tell her she could get help from someone else?”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
“For the next six months you pursued her as often as you could. You interrupted your studies and moved into the Hundested Inn.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid of her, I guess.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I know that. But you mustn’t be angry with me. I can’t explain it.”
“I won’t be angry, but I would really like to understand. What did you want with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do know.”
“Maybe I wanted to go out with her.”
“Did you want to go out with her?”
“No.”
“So stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
Again Falkenborg sniffed himself, this time however without being tormented by spasms or other uncontrollable muscle movements. Simonsen continued.
“You made a scene when she cut her hair.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You shouted and wept and carried on, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I shouted and wept and carried on.”
“Where was that?”
“At her hair salon . . . the salon was on the main street in Hundested.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There’s not much to tell, I followed her that day—”
“Which you had done on many other days?”
“Yes, that’s why I was there, to follow her, and then I saw that she was going into the hair salon to get her hair cut short, and so I went in too and . . . shouted and screamed and carried on. They called the police. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“But after that day you stopped pursuing her, why is that?”
“Because she had cut her hair. But I didn’t stop completely.”