“Well, what was her name then?”
“Her name was Catherine, she was very religious.”
Simonsen considered taking a break. The man’s accommodating and compliant language would not be convincing in court, if the testimony he’d just given were withdrawn. It was difficult to decide whether he cynically and consciously took refuge in naiveté, or whether he simply was like that. Conversely, Simonsen was afraid that his prisoner would demand a lawyer or refuse further questioning if he had a chance to think it over.
Falkenborg’s next statement decided the dilemma.
“It was Liz who hit, you have to excuse that. But I would prefer not to talk about her.”
The new name triggered a spontaneous outburst from Simonsen.
“Oh, no.”
“I’m sorry about that, but you mustn’t get angry with me.”
The latest turn the interview had taken, combined with the casual way Andreas Falkenborg had leaped from the attack in Kikhavn in 1977 to the murder of Maryann Nygaard in 1983, meant that Simonsen did not feel he had control of this encounter, which as time passed was moving randomly in all directions. He wrote a message to Ernesto Madsen, who was following the interview through a one-way mirror in the adjacent room, and held up the paper to the mirror. Shortly afterwards the Countess came in and retrieved it. Then he pushed Agnete Bahn’s photograph over next to Rikke Barbara Hvidt and placed a picture of Maryann Nygaard in front of Andreas Falkenborg.
“Her name is Maryann Nygaard, and she was murdered in 1983.”
“I know her well. That’s Maryann.”
“Were you the one who killed her?”
“It almost must have been.”
“Was it or wasn’t it?”
“It was me, I’m sure of that. Who else could have done it?”
“Where did you know her from?”
“From Greenland.”
“And where did you meet her the first time?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Stop these evasions. Tell me how you met her.”
“She took care of my grandmother at the nursing home. Maryann was a nurse, but then she went to Greenland. It was at the American military base in S?ndre Str?mfjord. It’s not there any more, they’ve closed it.”
“And you followed her to Greenland?”
“All the way to Greenland, yes.”
“You learned to fly a helicopter up there.”
“Yes, I became a helicopter pilot, the Americans were very nice.”
Simonsen struck his hand on the table and said slowly, “On September the thirteenth, 1983 you flew Maryann Nygaard to a radar station on the ice cap called DYE-5. There you attacked her, bound and gagged her, put her in your helicopter so no one could find her, and on your way back you landed on the ice, killed her and buried her. Is that correct?”
“I guess I did.”
“I’ve been to Greenland to see the place where you killed her.”
“It’s an amazing country, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely, but there is one thing that puzzles me. How you made her grave in the ice. It’s very hard.”
“You can hack down into it with a pneumatic drill, then it’s easy.”
“And you had such a pneumatic drill with you in the helicopter?”
“Otherwise it’s impossible, the ice is hard as stone.”
“Did you have a mask on when you hauled her out on the ice?”
“Yes, to scare her.”
“Did she watch while you made her grave?”
“She was scared, you better believe she was. It was nice. That’s the way it should be.”
“What did you do with her, right before you pulled the plastic bag over her head?”
“Cut her nails.”
“You did something else.”
“Said that he wanted to cut her nails. That was just to scare her even more.”
“Who is he?”
“Belphégor, the demon from TV.”
“But you did one other thing. Tell me about it.”
Falkenborg made a dismissive gesture, but did not answer.
“What else did you do? I want to know!”
“We’re not going to talk about that.”
“Yes, we are. Out with it.”
“No, please, no. I don’t want to.”
Simonsen got a message in return, it was blessedly brief. Pressure him about the breasts, and nail him with the lipstick. He’s not play-acting, but knows full well what he shouldn’t talk about specifically. N.B.: Arne Pedersen has found a bust of Mozart in his apartment.”
Andreas Falkenborg asked, “What kind of notes are those? I don’t like them, they make me uncertain.”
“There won’t be any more. See, now we’ll put the picture of Maryann Nygaard over by your demon and let her wait a moment. I have another picture here, who is that?”
“Catherine, we’ve talked about her. She was the one we thought was praying.”
Simonsen ignored the evasion.
“I am wondering about what you look at most when they are dying. Is it their half-naked breasts, or is it their lips, which are stuck to the plastic? Tell me where the bag came from, the one you used to smother Catherine Thomsen, and stop lying to me.”
This time the intimidation did not work. Falkenborg’s answer was almost dismissive.