“That was quick. Well, is she real or not?”
Pedersen looked at Troulsen and then answered as his elder colleague made no move to.
“There is still nothing official to be found, and this is the third time now that we’ve trawled through the registries. Even Malte is starting to get a little tired of us.”
“But?”
“But we have looked at the entryways on Vesterbrogade across from the City Museum. ‘Across from’ can be interpreted with a lot of goodwill as nine entryways. Of those only three have an elevator, and only one housed a dentist in 1992. Now he has his practice in Ballerup, but he confirms that Andreas Falkenborg was one of his patients when he had a clinic in the city.”
“I hope you have more than that.”
“Maybe. Vesterbrogade number sixty-two—does that ring a bell?”
Simonsen smiled broadly for the first time that day.
“Snotfather? Alias Doctor Cold?”
Finally Troulsen joined in.
“Exactly, he lives on the fourth floor, but you probably know that already?”
“Oh, yes, I know that. Have you contacted him?”
“No, I was thinking that perhaps you would go there yourself. He’s home at the moment.”
“He’s always at home. And he’s still as active as ever?”
“To the highest degree. He is one of the three kingpins the national chief of police really wants to get. But it’s been more than fifteen years since he last did time, so you can’t say that the outcome matches the desire.”
“Unfortunately not. Do you have anything specific in relation to the Swedish woman?”
“No, it’s only a guess.”
Simonsen considered the proposal, but in reality he had already made his decision.
“Okay, I’ll go over there and talk to him.”
Pedersen asked, “Obviously I’ve heard of Doctor Cold, but why do you call him Snotfather?”
His boss and Troulsen laughed. Simonsen said, “We called him that in the old days, but apparently it’s gone out of style. Because of his nose, which is strikingly large, and because the nickname annoys him, which unfortunately is the only way he has been harassed by us for years. Would you like to go along and meet him?”
Both of his detectives shook their heads. Troulsen said, “I’d rather go home. Journalists keep calling me, and my wife is also getting questions. I need to be with my family.”
He looked at his watch. Technically it was still too early for him to leave the office, even though he had started his working day while most others were asleep. Simonsen sensed his hesitation and said, “Yes, journalists are a meddlesome rabble. But go home then, if I have your word that you will show up for work tomorrow, regardless of this inconvenience?”
“Yes, I promise. If I’m not fired first.”
“You won’t be fired, and the press attention will stop at some point, it always does. Refer them to me if it helps you.”
“I won’t need to do that.”
“Then stop whining, and say hello to your wife from me.”
CHAPTER 35
The man who opened the door to Konrad Simonsen was well dressed, with good manners and cold, crafty fish eyes. His name was Marcus Kolding and he was a trained medic, thus the nickname Doctor Cold. It suited him well. Better than Snotfather, thought Konrad Simonsen, not without a trace of disappointment.
If the man was surprised to see his guest, he did not show it.
“The homicide chief himself, I see. To what do I owe this honour?”
Simonsen made no attempt at flattery. That would be a wasted effort.
“I need your help.”
“Then speak up, but we’ll stay right here. I don’t want you inside my home. It’s nothing personal, just a principle I have when dealing with the police.”
“Completely all right with me. Liz Suenson, does that name mean anything to you?”
The man thought about it and then answered guardedly, “Maybe. Why?”
Simonsen showed him two photographs.
“Does she resemble these two women?”
He looked and considered again, this time more briefly.
“Maybe. Why?”
Simonsen showed him yet another photograph.
“Because perhaps she ended her days like this, and because you yourself have a grandchild the same age. That’s why.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Is Liz Suenson her real name?”
“No.”
“Then I want to know what her real name was, and what she did for you.”
Kolding thought about this with a distrustful expression on his face. Finally he said, “She was Finnish, and she travelled back and forth between Denmark and Sweden . . . not one of my important employees.”
“Courier?”
The man nodded.
“What did she do here with you?”
He answered affably, “She was pretty.”
“Yes, she was. Her real name?”
“I can’t remember, Finns don’t have names, they just have letters in random order. But I can get it, if it’s important.”
“It’s important. What happened to her?”