“It seriously weakens our case against Andreas Falkenborg.”
“Yes, I would think so, but fortunately that part is not my headache. My primary problem is that I can already read a transcript of the tape on the website of a number of newspapers and TV channels, and I’m not just talking about the sensationalist ones, but also the serious, opinion-forming ones.”
“The rotten Internet!”
“Yes, that’s right, Simon—blame it all on the Internet. I’ll shut it down tomorrow, if it bothers you.”
Simonsen did not answer her, and she regained her normal controlled coolness.
“This is not the first time Poul Troulsen has got carried away. Actually this has happened often in his career. There must have been a dozen episodes, depending on how you count. And this time is one too many. What went on in the car with Andreas Falkenborg is completely over the line. Poul threatens him directly with a beating if he doesn’t confess.”
“Not too many months ago I had a car ride with a prisoner myself, and I was a good deal harder on him than Poul was with the suspect today.”
“Maybe, but for one thing your car ride was not recorded on tape, and for another it’s not about ‘being hard on him’, as you say, but about delivering specific threats to achieve a confession. Simon, I know he’s going to retire in five months, but you are going to suspend Troulsen. I see no other way out.”
“No!”
She set a memo in front of him.
“Then try reading the transcript yourself, it’s completely shocking. The poor man did not have a chance.”
“The idea was that he shouldn’t have a chance. That’s how we work sometimes, whatever you and the general public think. I was the one who asked Poul Troulsen to pressure him. And don’t forget now, this ‘poor man’ has killed at least two and probably four women.”
“So you say.”
“Yes, and I guarantee you that he has.”
“So you won’t make the suspension yourself?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“I can’t prevent you.”
Silence crept up on them. Neither of them wanted to pursue this to its logical conclusion. It was the police commissioner who reluctantly put it into words.
“What will you do with it?”
“You know full well.”
Simonsen’s voice was subdued, he had no intention to puff himself up, and nevertheless the response had an ominous quality that gave no possibility for compromise.
“I was afraid you would say that. Thanks, because you don’t threaten me in the least.”
“You are welcome.”
“Simon, both of us know that you have particularly influential friends. Would you please . . . ”
She had a hard time formulating her request. He did not help her out.
“ . . . wait to inform the others about this . . . this conversation, that is, in relation to your own job, until . . . that is, there was some stupid nonsense . . . Damn it, Simon, what in the world do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you do, if you were me? I would like to hear that.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not much help.”
“I’m not a police commissioner.”
She shook her head and sighed. Simonsen threw out his arms in a friendly gesture, the only backing he would give her. He liked her, but he had plenty of problems of his own without worrying about other people’s. She sighed again and wiped her brow with the back of her hand in an exaggerated gesture that made him smile.
“You’re smiling.”
“I am smiling.”
“If only I had your sense of humor, as strange as it seems to me. In any event I have to think this over for a while, and the last thing I need is Helmer Hammer or Bertil Hampel-Koch on the line with good advice. Or the Minister for the Environment, for that matter.”
“The minister! Where in the world did you conjure her from? Don’t you think you’re overestimating the size of my fan club?”
“No, but I’m certain that you underestimate it.”
“Let’s not argue about that. But if you think I call around asking for back-up, you don’t know me very well.”
“I know perfectly well that’s not what goes on. Well, off with you, you’re not going to help me anyway. We’ll talk later.”
Simonsen left. Without feeling sorry for her.
Back at his desk he found Poul Troulsen’s resignation on his chair. He caught his co-worker in his office, packing his few personal things in a plastic bag. Simonsen poured the contents back on the desktop and threw the bag in the waste basket.
“You can forget that, Poul. What in the world are you thinking?”
Troulsen’s voice was bitter but steady.
“I don’t want to be a burden on you and the department.”
“Why are you behaving so foolishly? Can you see about getting started on identifying Liz Suenson instead of bothering yourself with things that don’t involve you, and which are my job besides. Tell me, don’t you trust me?”
“Yes, of course. But I don’t want—”