“I didn’t even know that you had called a press conference. Is that something Ms Ice & Cold ordered you to do?”
“Speak respectfully about her, she always speaks respectfully about you. And no—I decided on the press conference this morning, so it’s not about the eavesdropping on Poul Troulsen, although that will come up of course. Actually I would really like the two of you to participate, if you have time? So the photographers have something to aim at, and I have someone to pass the unpleasant questions on to.”
They agreed, although they were surprised. Everyone expected the boss to be rattled by the treatment he had been subjected to, but instead he seemed more satisfied than he had been in a long time.
“Anything else?”
Pedersen briefly informed him.
“We’ve obtained serial numbers on some of the notes Falkenborg has withdrawn, but obviously that has no major significance now.”
Simonsen agreed and ignored the information.
“Anything else?”
Berg and Pedersen shook their heads. Neither of them had anything else. On the other hand Malte Borup did. He had just blundered into the office with the day’s final blow for the Homicide Division. The student asked, out of breath, “Have you heard what he got? Andreas Falkenborg, that is.”
They all shook their heads.
“I’ve seen it on the Internet. He got four days.”
Pedersen corrected him tolerantly. “You mean, four weeks?”
“No, days. Four days. Until Sunday morning, I’m quite certain. He was not taken into protective custody. The judge was content to extend the arrest, whatever the hell the difference is.”
They sat like statues, looking doubtfully at each other. The student lowered his head. With his unruly hair and sorrowful eyes he resembled a whipped dog. He had expected praise for bringing the information so fast. Simonsen was the first to pull himself together. He said in annoyance, “The difference is that we don’t get the weekend off. Among other things.”
CHAPTER 37
Questioning the witness Bertil Hampel-Koch turned out to be one of the more remarkable experiences of the Countess’s career.
The conversation was arranged hurriedly and took place in Kastrup Airport, where the director could spare an hour before he had to board his flight to Brussels. The Countess would clearly have preferred to wait until Monday for the interview, but that was impossible. The meeting was Part One of Helmer Hammer’s carefully outlined plan to deflect the searchlights of the Danish press from Hampel-Koch’s visit to Greenland in 1983. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a very small part of the Danish press, as only two journalists had shown interest until now, but that was evidently enough for the under secretary. The second phase of the two-stage rocket would be fired according to plan at Simonsen’s press conference at five o’clock.
In the car en route, on the ?resund highway, the Countess thought that she could not remember her boss ever before having voluntarily called a press conference, if you could characterise his participation in Helmer Hammer’s project as voluntary. She also thought about what in the world she would question Bertil Hampel-Koch about, unless their chat became purely pro forma, which on the other hand she hoped it would not, for that would force her to fabricate for the journalists. So preferably an interview that had no purpose related to the investigation. And, if it were up to her, without too much openness between the two of them that could easily turn awkward. It would be more like half an hour of mutually agreed play-acting.
She turned off the highway and drove slowly into the parking area, curious to know whether the director had as much control of the logistics as his secretary maintained while instructing the Countess simply to park her car and then she would be contacted. The airport area was under greater than average surveillance, and hidden eyes presumably already followed her car on various monitors. An unpleasant thought. She rotated the rear-view mirror and quickly ran a brush through her hair.
Inattention made her brake a little too hard when a young woman suddenly materialised out of nowhere in her path. The woman looked like a spread from a teen magazine; with her whitened smile and designer clothes, she posed for a few seconds in front of the car, smiling from ear-ring to ear-ring to show her joy at nearly being run over. Then she got in on the passenger side and introduced herself fervently by her first name. Beate, she said. The Countess decided to kill her as soon as she got the chance.