The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

Then it was done, and the miracle complete. Troulsen sat down.

  Simonsen resumed the proceedings. He had pumped the Countess as well as Arne Pedersen about the janitor. Neither of them had made any objections but he knew they were wondering what he was up to. For others, the work and the presentations could well have waited until the morning, as Pedersen had so correctly observed, but Simonsen had insisted.

  “On to Per Clausen. The fact that I didn’t detain him is nagging at me. Perhaps it was a mistake, and although I know all too well that you believe I am attaching too great an importance to him, I think you are wrong. Time will tell. Our main priorities right now are clear: to establish the identities of the victims, how they ended up at the school, and why they were hanged. Nonetheless, Clausen is our best angle for the moment. Arne, Countess: you have done some fine work, and much faster than I believed could be accomplished.”

  Pedersen commented, “It is because we don’t have to wait, regardless of whom we ask for what. Overtime at headquarters will increase exponentially if this goes on.”

  “Which is not your problem, so forget about it. I see that you have prepared a complete little sideshow. We’re all waiting with bated breath.”

  The Countess took over, but surprisingly did not start with Clausen’s life.

  “Tomorrow I will get some computer assistance from a new co-worker. That is to say, our student intern. His name is Malte Borup. Be nice to him.”

  She parried Simonsen’s evident surprise rather elegantly.

  “As you recall, I was given permission to recruit him. Now he has been freed of his other duties so we should all be happy. He is an IT genius and you’ll love him, although he is a little rough around the edges.”

  She beamed like a little girl at having gotten her student. It was something she had been working on for a long time.

  Simonsen introduced a sour note into her happiness. “If he doesn’t fit in, he’ll be out the door before you can say ‘fatal error.’ Now tell us about Per Clausen.”

  “Per Monrad Clausen was born in 1941 in Copenhagen,” the Countess began. “His parents were Anette and Hans Clausen. His father was a carpenter and later a master carpenter, his mother a housewife. In 1947 the family moved from Bispebjerg to Charlottenlund, where Per Clausen grew up, and in 1948 his little sister, Alma Clausen, was born. The family had no other children. Clausen did very well in school and his father was convinced to let him go on in his studies. He passed his university entrance in 1959, the same year that his father was made master carpenter. The family finances were in good order. After his examinations, Clausen worked in his father’s workshop for one year and then matriculated at the Statistical Institute at Copenhagen University in 1960. The following year, in 1961, he was given a scholarship spot at the Valkendorf College in downtown Copenhagen, which is only afforded the most gifted students. Clausen graduated in 1965 with high honors, tending toward the exceptional. He received the university’s gold medal for his thesis on spatial statistics and the distribution of prime numbers.”

  While she was speaking, Pedersen supported her presentation with images or bullet points on the computer screen. The Countess took a sip of water, then went on.

  “From 1965 to 1969, Clausen worked at Boston University in Massachusetts, but in the fall of 1969 he returned to Denmark, where he was employed by the insurance company Union. He married Klara Persson in 1973. She is Swedish. She became a Danish citizen at the time of her marriage and was able to work as a dental hygienist. The couple settled in Bagsværd at Clausen’s current address and in 1977 they had their only child, Helene Clausen. Clausen’s salary increased steeply and was soon among the top fifteen percent in the nation. In 1987 the marriage collapsed because Klara Clausen fell in love with a childhood sweetheart. The divorce was difficult and characterized by bitterness. Mother and daughter moved to Sweden the same year; Clausen remained in Bagsværd. In 1988 his parents died and Clausen and his sister inherited almost nine hundred thousand kroner each. The following year he become embroiled in a controversy with the tax authorities as he donated half a million dollars to charitable organizations and wanted to be able to deduct the entire donation. In 1992 he was ticketed for speeding on the Hillerød motorway. In January 1993 Helene Clausen moved back in with her father and starteded ninth grade at the Tranehøj secondary school in Gentofte, and half a year later she started the Auregaard grammar school, also in Gentofte. In the summer of 1994, Helene Clausen drowned in a swimming accident at Bellevue Beach in Klampenborg.”

  “Where is she buried?” Simonsen interrupted.

  The Countess glanced at Pedersen, who shook his head, whereafter she shrugged apologetically.

  “At this time Clausen was fifty-three years old, and after the death of his daughter his personal life and his social standing both took a turn for the worse. In 1996 he changed jobs from chief statistician at Union to janitor at the Langebæk School. The job came through some assistance from his boss at Union, who knew the school superintendent in Gladsaxe. Clausen was a problem by this time: he drank copiously, behaved badly, and stopped taking care of his personal hygiene. However, despite misgivings, he managed this job better than expected, even if he ended up taking the occasional sick day and was occasionally indisposed due to alcohol abuse. He is generally well liked, but keeps to himself most of the time and never speaks of his private life. The last few years he appears to have gained a reasonable control over his alcohol consumption. Half a year ago he told the headmaster that he suffered from colon cancer and was given time off to receive sixteen doses of treatment at the Gentofte Hospital. He was often gone for one or two times per day but the hospital has no record of this treatment.”

  Simonsen got up and stood for a long time staring at the whiteboard as if he wanted to draw out additional details from the Countess’s keywords. No one said anything; only the soft hum of the computer’s internal fan could be heard. Finally their boss came back to life.

  “I thought we were the only ones he was lying to. Where is he now?”

  “At the pub. Surprise, surprise,” Troulsen answered.

  “Do we have any officers there?”

  “Two inside, and two outside. Stop worrying, Simon.”

  Simonsen shifted his thoughts from the janitor and said, “One more thing. I’ve talked Kasper Planck into helping us with this thing.”

  He looked around. All four of them nodded and no one made any further comment.

  The Countess drove Simonsen and Troulsen home. She listened to the latest news update, her boss dozed, and Troulsen talked about pizzas. The two others let him talk.

  When the radio news was over, the Countess turned it off and poked Simonsen, who was sitting in the front passenger seat.

  “Why have you posted guards? Isn’t that overkill?”

  “If you mean the officer in front of the school, he’s there to learn.”

  “To learn what? That it’s cold at night in October?”

  “To treat people nicely.”

  Troulsen elbowed his way between them from the backseat.

  “Look, you two, you’ve got to listen to me. If none of us ordered the pizzas and none of the teachers did, then who was it? Someone must have done it. They were all paid for and the bill was over two thousand kroner. You have to agree it’s a bit mysterious.”

  The Countess tried to placate him by agreeing that it was strange. She wanted to hear more about the guard.

  “Listen, the pizzas were apparently ordered for a party, and we sure wouldn’t have ordered them for a party. The staff doesn’t know about any party either. The school secretary was sure about that.”

  Simonsen suddenly became alert and almost shouted, “A party, you say. When was the order placed?”

  “Well, at first I assumed it was sometime today but the delivery boy said they were out of pineapple, so three of the pizzas were different than ordered, and that indicates that they were ordered earlier. Otherwise they would have had to choose something other than pine
apple when the initial order was placed.”

  “Look into it, Poul. You, personally. Find the pizzeria, where it is, when they open.”

  Troulsen had been struggling all evening to get his pizzas taken seriously, and now they were being taken almost too seriously. He answered meekly, “Okay, Simon. I will.”

  The Countess wasn’t on board.

  “What’s all this about?”

  “About criminal foresight, I believe. But let’s wait for further discussion until the morning.”

  Which made no one the wiser.

  Chapter 10

  Helle Smidt Jørgensen doesn’t scream. It doesn’t help any. Instead she whimpers like an abused puppy, a soft little Labrador with black fur; she buries her face in the fur to hide; the dog sleeps with her; the dog always sleeps with her, it’s her dog; she dreams that she wakes up; she’s drenched in sweat and her nightgown is damp; she tosses the pillow aside, she has no use for it; one Sunday in summer, a family breakfast in the community garden; the table is set outside in the beautiful weather; the flag is raised; everyone is happy except her, her and the dog; they have to wake up and go; they have to get out of bed and find the pills; psychopharmaceuticals; fear is a normal reaction; Uncle Bernhard is sitting at one end of the table; the children are playing on the grass; she is not playing; she is grownup; fifty-three years old, a fully trained nurse, nurse Helle Smidt Jørgensen, that’s what it says on the name tag; anxiolytika; fear is made up of psychic, bodily, and behavioral symptoms; she hunches over and smiles because she is an adult, a grownup nurse; Uncle Bernhard is assistant mayor, a grownup assistant mayor; the dog lies down next to her; the dog is hers; you can bury your face in a dog; benzodiazepine; fear is an important survival mechanism when the organism is faced with danger; she is not in danger; she has the rest of the group; Stig Åge Thorsen and Erik Mørk protect her; Per Clausen slays fear; the Climber murders the night; Grandfather suggests that they sing, everyone loves to sing; she tells Grandfather that he is dead; and Uncle Bernhard is dead; and the dog is dead; her dog who sleeps next to her; and everyone is enjoying themselves; and Uncle Bernhard gets the banjo; Lexotan; anxiety disorders can be mitigated with psychopharmaceutical treatment.

  They sing; Uncle Bernhard sings baritone; everyone likes Uncle Bernhard; Uncle Bernhard sings beautifully; Uncle Bernhard becomes mayor; Uncle Bernhard is handsome; everyone knows that Uncle Bernhard is handsome; three milligrams three times a day; she wakes up, goes out into the kitchen, the glass is on the shelf, she has to have three milligrams, three times three milligrams, three times three times three hundred milligrams, now! quickly, as soon as she wakes up; before the singing, she has to get up before the singing; everyone is quiet; everyone is looking at her; Uncle Bernhard is smiling, Uncle Bernhard smiles sweetly; Uncle Bernhard is nice when he smiles; Uncle Bernhard sings her song; it is a foreign song; only she and her uncle Bernhard understand foreign; Uncle Bernhard sings her foreign song; only she and Uncle Bernhard understand her song.

  Be my life’s companion and you’ll never grow old.

  She is grown. Fifty-three years old.

  I’ll love you so much that you’ll never grow old.

  She is a nurse. She is strong.

  When there’s joy in living you just never grow old.

  She doesn’t need to be afraid. She has pills.

  You’ve got to stay young, ’cause you’ll never grow old.

  The song reaches out for her; the song embraces her; the daughters of the night rage in the sunlight; the song drives the dream away; the sun disappears, and the flag, the table, Grandfather, everything disappears; the bed is gone; the nurse is gone; it is dark; it is quiet; there is fear; she hides her face in the dog; she hears steps; she is so little and the steps are so heavy; panic can be mitigated with psychiatric or psychotherapeutic treatment.

  Therapy chases away the anxiety; Uncle Bernhard chases away the dog.

  She feels his moist breath on her neck; she can smell his brilliantine.

  She hears him panting; she feels his fingers open her.

  Helle Smidt Jørgensen doesn’t scream. It doesn’t help.

  Chapter 11

  The young man’s fingers flew over the keys so fast that it sounded like a strip of cardboard in the spokes of a child’s bicycle wheel. The Countess looked up from her reading and watched him surreptitiously as he worked. He was a curly-haired youth with blue eyes and an open face; he had a slender build, with a fashion sense that she could characterize only as unique. His downy upper lip held the beginnings of a mustache, but when he smiled it was difficult to suppress an urge to stroke his curls and want to rescue him from a cruel world that at best offered him only minimal chances for survival. Or so it seemed to her.

  Malte Borup looked up as if he felt her gaze, and his hands hovered above the keyboard.

  “That good-looking one, is she also a cop?”

  “Her name is Pauline, and yes she is. As she told you.”

  “That’s true, she did. I was using my eyes more than my ears.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “What about the other one? The one with… well, the other one.”

  “She is a psychologist who will be participating in the discussion.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “Nothing. How is my laptop doing?”

  “It’ll be ready soon. I’ve sent a text message to the one with the beard. The strange one… one moment… I’ve got him here.”

  Her address book popped up on the screen. The computer worked as a natural extension of his thoughts.

  “Poul Troulsen. I’ll have to learn these names. He went to McDonald’s, isn’t that right?”

  “A pizzeria. What did you write?”

  “I just asked if he wanted to bring a couple of sodas back with him. Was that bad? I’ll pay him back.”

  “No, that’s all right, but I don’t think he reads his text messages.”

  He glanced at the screen, realized there was no help to be had there, and shrugged.

  “We’ll go back to HS tomorrow. There’s a canteen there where you can buy soda.”

  “Sweet. Will I meet the boss? That fat guy. I saw him on TV.”

  “You’ll meet him today, but don’t call him fat.”

  “Not fat. I meant slightly overweight.”

  “Don’t call him fat, and don’t call him overweight.”

  “Okay.”

  “His name is Konrad Simonsen and he’s in the gymnasium with a guest. Maybe we can catch him before he heads back to the city.”

  Malte Borup stiffened. Like a frozen computer screen.

  “I’d rather not see any corpses. I really don’t want to, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “And you won’t. The bodies were transported to lab a long time ago.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  It turned out that it was a matter of opinion if the dead were completely gone. A woman who turned up in a taxi brought a whole new perspective on the matter.

  Simonsen was stubbing out his cigarette in an ugly black streak on the exterior wall of the gymnasium when he saw the car. He was on edge, almost irritable. The night had been too short and his head was about to run over with information that he was expected to handle. Big and small all mixed in together and every time something left his hands something new turned up to take its place. It was always that way in the beginning of a case, especially something of this nature, which was, mildly put, a high-profile case, but knowing this was hardly a consolation. On top of this, he had forgotten to call Anna Mia yesterday although he had gone to great lengths to promise her, and he had forgotten to thank the Countess for the chess book, which he had gone to great lengths to promise himself. But he had not been able to remember either of these, and as if that were not enough, he had, in a fit of terrible dietary planning, decided to subsist on a bowl of yogurt for breakfast, so now he was also famished. He tried on a smile that was far
from genuine and walked up to meet his guest.

  She was a weathered little woman who blended into the asphalt. They greeted each other formally. Her voice was dry as talc and without inflection as she started to dissect his current desires—and as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “I sense a strong attraction to fish filets.”

  He knew she was teasing him. Sometimes she used her special abilities to stir up his rational world, just because. He had been through it before.

  “Thoughts don’t make you fat. That’s just how it is.”

  Simonsen was a rational man. He did not believe in the Klabautermann, in the power of crystals or of earth power lines, and his window box had to make it through the winter without iron as a precaution against supernatural creatures, so when he nevertheless incorporated the little woman’s talents into his regulated universe it was because she regularly produced precise, correct, and relevant facts that lay miles beyond what simple guesswork could have produced. However, from time to time she was wrong and at other times she had nothing to say. How she came by her information he had long since given up trying to understand.

  They usually met in her home in Høje-Taastrup, where she and her husband managed a lucrative but discreet consulting business. Her husband called himself Stephan Stemme and produced strange stories for online advertising. Once in a while Simonsen received an e-mail with an audio clip from him. He usually deleted these. When he consulted with the woman he always brought an object related in some way to the case in which he was seeking assistance. That was crucial. Like a police dog, she had to have some material to work from, but in this forensic investigation he had no physical objects to present to her. The agreement was that she would simply walk around the scene and see if the spirits were willing.

  It turned out that the spirits not only were willing, they were lining up to have a chance to speak.

  The second after she stepped into the gymnasium she tentatively stretched out her hand and glanced alternately at the ceiling and the floor, as if it were raining. Whatever it was she saw, it contorted her face.