Pedersen was dead sure.
“She’s a lie, we’ve already done searches on her, and the Swedes have too. No one knows that name in connection with anyone who has disappeared. Besides, we and the Swedes were both very thorough the first time we reviewed women who could be his victims. But I must say that it was rather effective to toss her into the interrogation. I think that was the only time when he was the one setting the agenda.”
Ernesto Madsen was more concise in his assessment.
“Dig deeper, she’s real.”
Simonsen considered the contradictory assessments. Then he said, “We will all review the questioning a couple of times. We aren’t pressed because, no matter what, we don’t need to fear that he will be released in the near future.”
Simonsen was allowed to remain under this illusion for exactly one hour. The call from the police commissioner to present himself to her immediately left no doubt of the seriousness of the summons. Nor could her stern expression be overlooked when shortly afterwards he obeyed orders and stepped into her office.
She was a tall woman with a cold radiance that was grounded in modesty and not, as most assumed, in arrogance. Everyone agreed that she had a burning desire to do her job well, whereas there was heated discussion about whether or not she succeeded. One of her strong suits was that she normally listened to her subordinates and often adapted to their expertise, which was a clear advantage, for her knowledge of practical police work was nearly non-existent. Like her fashion sense. She regularly outdid herself in her choice of hopeless outfits. The colour combinations were catastrophic, and often she squeezed into garments that were far too small, giving her a tasteless, little girl look. Once she showed up at a party with four inches of bare belly. That was several years ago by now, but the story still flourished, especially among her female employees who told it with eyes rolling in contempt.
“Sit down, Simon, and listen. This is not good.”
The not-so-good part would have to wait, however, because she immediately seemed to have second thoughts and instead took the time to assure Simonsen how much she valued him, his work and his department. He observed the framed photograph of Queen Margrethe hanging on the wall behind her. Her Majesty was in full regalia with hair put up and diamonds dangling from suitable places. The rumour was that if the police commissioner was on duty on Christmas Eve, she hung up a cardboard elf on the picture, but he had never personally observed this alleged frivolity. When she finally fell silent, he inelegantly but effectively warded off her torrent of kindness.
“I’m busy. What is it you want from me?”
She sighed a trifle theatrically, after which she activated an icon on her computer screen, and soon the voices of Andreas Falkenborg and Poul Troulsen were heard from her speakers.
“There are two prisons you should avoid at all costs. You see, there’s an iron-clad pecking order among the cons there, and you’ll come in at the very bottom, partly because you have a tendency to smell, and partly because you’ve killed women. Both are looked down on by the tough nuts . . . ”
“Where’s that from?”
The police commissioner put the dialogue on pause and answered, “From the car in which Poul Troulsen drove the suspect Andreas Falkenborg from his residence to HS.”
“How could that be?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“How do you know it’s from the car?”
“By listening, it comes out clearly later. Besides, the file has been sent around under the name Car ride with the police.”
“Sent around where?”
“YouTube and other Internet sites. But it gets even worse. I’ll fast forward a little. Listen to this.”
“Tell me, have you ever been thrashed really nastily, for example with a stick or a baton?”
“No, I never have.”
“And you’ve never seen anyone who has? I mean, hear how they cry out and beg for their poor hide?”
“I’ve experienced that.”
“Good enough, so you know how much it hurts. In the worst prisons it’s much, much worse. You’ll be beaten to a pulp every single day, simply because the others don’t like you. Three hold you and two hit . . . that sort of thing is normal. I’m telling you, it’s disgusting to see such a bloody back afterwards.”
The police commissioner stopped the conversation and resumed her own with Simonsen.
“A little later Poul Troulsen frightens the prisoner with someone he calls the boss. That couldn’t possibly be you, could it?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“The connection is unambiguous. If the poor fool doesn’t confess to you, then you’ll put him in a place where he’ll be beaten up. What are you thinking now?”
“That we’re in the shit.”
“We’re in complete agreement.”