The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

  “My daughter is coming to visit me. Is it Thursday today?”

  “It is Tuesday today. Your daughter is coming over the weekend. It’s a long time until then,” she snapped without wanting to.

  The woman reacted immediately.

  “Call my daughter. She should come now. Is it Thursday today?”

  “Shut up, you senile old fool.”

  The old one wept heartrendingly.

  Jørgensen couldn’t recall having struck a patient before. Never ever, not even a light slap like the one just now. She needed something to calm herself down, a pill or a drink or both. This was a stressful time.

  Chapter 17

  Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg strolled along the sidewalk. They got along well with each other and liked to break off alone when given the chance, as in this case, although they were very busy. Berg was in a bad mood so there wasn’t much conversation but they did stroll. Perhaps it had become a habit.

  In contrast, Pedersen’s mood was wonderful. The meeting at Forensic Pathology had given the investigation if not a full-blown breakthrough then at least a new dimension, and on top of it he was a cheerful sort. He differed in this way from his companion, who walked half a step in front of him and looked like a scolded child. All his experience with women told him that it was best not to talk to her and to let time work on her mood instead of trying to intervene. Sooner or later she would be back to normal, that was almost always the way, so in the absence of conversation he took the opportunity to admire her backside. It was not such a bad alternative and he slowed down a little more.

  When they reached the corner, where Berg’s car was parked, they found a ticket on the windshield and, what was worse, the citation officer. He stood a couple of cars ahead of them, making note of a new offense. Pedersen decided to study the price list in the window of a laundromat, already firm in his decision not to get mixed up in the situation—a position he abandoned when Berg’s objections quickly escalated from a discussion to a disagreement, and the color of her face indicated a continued escalation. He forced her away from the parking officer, managed to get the keys from her after some work, and hastily drove them away.

  For a time neither said anything. She was the one who finally broke the silence.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you want to drive?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  They continued a bit farther in silence, then Pedersen reached for the newspaper between them. He propped it up on the steering wheel and said, “Listen to what that journalist Staal says about Simon.”

  Berg looked disapprovingly at him. To read while driving did not seem a sensible combination.

  “I would like to arrive in one piece.”

  He let her finish, then read, “Chief Detective Inspector Konrad Simonsen was more for decoration than substance at the press conference. He had clearly been muzzled. The leader of the investigation sat as meekly as a lamb on the outer—”

  He got no further.

  “Stop it, Arne. I feel terrible. It’s like the whole thing’s gone wrong and I feel like a complete failure.”

  He tossed the newspaper into the backseat with an attitude of defeat, then placed a hand on her thigh.

  “Don’t you think you just need a man?”

  “Why do you behave like a simple swine when you’re not?”

  She sounded upset. He removed his hand and regretted his words. He tried something closer to the truth.

  “Because you’re silly, Pauline. Simon took the psychologist from you for the simple reason that you weren’t managing her well enough. That’s all. You’re in a homicide unit, not a weekend trip with your girlfriends, and you may recall that Troulsen was missing, so it seems to me that you’re making far too much of yourself by playing reprimanded or glum or whatever you are. Whatever it is, Simon hasn’t got time for your childish games. That is to say, if he knew you had them, but he doesn’t because he’s not a mind reader. And remember that in the situation you broke down completely and went along with his decision without protest although they hadn’t helped you. But you chose to get upset afterwards and ten minutes ago you tried to reduce Denmark to a banana republic when you tried to use your police status to get out of a parking ticket. For heaven’s sake, Pauline, what kind of society do you want to live in? And now you’re blubbering as if you were thirteen and I was your dad, which I am not. So all in all, I’m more attracted to your body right now than your spirit.”

  She didn’t answer, staring glumly into the traffic while she tried to shake off her bad mood. She had to admit that it wasn’t the end of the world and after a couple of kilometers she had more or less collected herself. She thought about suggesting that they split the ticket—that would be fair—but on the other hand she knew he was always in financial straits so she decided against it. She smiled sweetly, which required effort. Then she made her voice an octave deeper and asked, “Do you want to know what I dreamed last night?”

  Pedersen noted that she had regained her equilibrium, which was good, although the question was less so. Normally he was fairly honest but in this situation he did not dare tell her that there was hardly a man in possession of his senses who willingly listened to women tell their dreams—if one excepted therapists, who were, after all, paid.

  “Yes, of course. But we’re going to be there soon.”

  “Do you remember our summer party?”

  He remembered it very well. Their unit threw parties with Narcotics, but unfortunately also with administration personnel and the executives. It was rarely much of a laugh. There were too many chiefs and too few Indians for that. At the last event they had rented space in the city. The party room was fancy and had high ceilings. Very high. The architect had indulged himself without paying any attention to maximizing usable space or taking heating efficiencies into consideration. Five floors had been taken out and replaced with glass, with gigantic inch-thick windows overlooking the water. A glass ceiling floated above them, which gave a clear view of the starry sky as the evening progressed. Unfortunately, he had to leave early as the twins were sick and he had promised not to be too late. It was a little frustrating. He had wanted to introduce Berg—completely new at that time—a bit more thoroughly to the rest of the unit. His noble intentions had to give way to familial duties. Later, he had introduced her during their trip to Skanderborg. Two times, in fact.

  “Of course I do.”

  “In my dream I am dancing with you. It is about half past eleven, the party is at its peak, and we are one couple among many, twisting and turning around each other. Everyone is smiling and happy; some are wasted but not us. From the outside we look like all the other dancing couples but I have a plan, a plan you don’t know about. Suddenly we find ourselves in front of the stairs. That is the plan, or to be more precise, part of it. I have deliberately, step by step, led us to it. Do you remember the stairs?”

  He did. It was a broad, winding staircase placed in one corner, which was connected to a bridge running across the length of one wall right under the ceiling. A chain marked this as a closed area. He nodded and wondered where she was going with this.

  “I take you by the hand and drag you up the stairs. At first you are skeptical at this idea but you follow along, and each time we go around we get farther and farther away from the others. The music gets weaker, we can talk without shouting. I’m in my red Thai silk skirt—or, no, wait a minute, that’s wrong—I have borrowed a cheeky little thing in a flippy bordello-colored velvet that shows a bit too much thigh but is nice and cool when I dance. Halfway up, I step out of my shoes. I’m not used to high heels. I bend over and set them aside.”

  He braked hard at a pedestrian crossing. She made no comment, but continued.

  “From the top of the stairs we walk across the bridge where solid-glass panels are attached to the railing. That is a good thing because it’s a long way down and I’m staying close to the wall. I can see and hear everyone down below. The music i
s old Gasoline and many of our colleagues are waving at us. Everyone is happy, with the exception of the little red-haired one from the secretarial pool—you’ve helped her out on a couple of occasions, she is sulky. I wave kindly to her but she doesn’t acknowledge me. Perhaps she doesn’t care for the food, even though she doesn’t look like someone who is picky.”

  She stole a glance at him and saw that he was still listening.

  “At the end of the bridge I stop. The large glass panels are nailed to the bridge but are not attached at the wall, and between the closest wall and the last panel there is enough room to squeeze by. I put aside my shoes and slip in and now I am standing on a little ledge intended to secure the structure. It’s not without danger because it is eighteen meters down. When for a brief moment I let go of the railing, you also press through and place a strong arm around my waist while holding firmly to the railing with the other. You are taking care of me, which I am grateful for. And here we are, just you and me, somewhere between heaven and earth.”

  She had closed her eyes and leaned her head back as if she was reliving the dream.

  “Under there is light, music, socializing, and colors; over us, the eternally cold night sky. You show me Orion’s Belt and explain to me that Venus is not a star, it just looks like one. You are so smart and strong. I lean my head in towards your face while I brush my hair aside and you kiss me tenderly on the ear, don’t you?”

  His answer came without hesitation.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course you do. Well, below us more and more people have noticed us standing on the ledge. Someone is pointing and others try to call up to us but we can’t hear anything so after a while they lose interest. I send a kiss down to Troulsen, who is sitting where I left him, drinking beer. Next to him is my purse, which he has promised to watch for me because it would be embarrassing if anyone opened it. My cheeks turn red just thinking about what is lying uppermost inside the bag, and you know it too since I removed my shoes on the stairs. My panties.”

  He confirmed this knowledge, without her having asked him to do it.

  “Then I slowly rub my buttocks over your crotch. Back and forth, side to side, and both of us notice how you gather strength. You protest, but I override you. You should know that when a man says no he always means yes and your virility proves me right. Without forcing it, I bring my hand to help. First simply a finger, then more. I loosen your belt and unzip your fly while my other hand is holding your pants up. From down below, everything looks proper. You have coaxed the new girl in the unit to a remote corner of the room, everyone has noticed that, but how far you have led her astray is hidden by my body. I drag the front of your underpants down until the elastic holds them up, then I turn my feet so that my thighs part before I pull up my dress a bit and push you up into me. You groan in my ear, warnings, but also sweet things and other words that simply don’t exist. Your arm muscles tighten and your grip on me grows stronger but it is a just a start because now comes the fun.”

  She smiled brightly without opening her eyes.

  “I tell you that I am going to let your pants fall and now you find yourself in a dilemma. You are holding on to the railing with one hand, the other is around me, and you don’t have another one around to hold your pants up so that they don’t end up around your ankles. In front of the eyes of all your superiors and all of your co-workers, who will talk about you for all time to come so that your reputation, your career, your modesty—all is at stake. When I let go of your pants you have already escaped me and I put my arms around your back as far as I can while I focus. I’m thinking about what I have learnt again and again in ballet class. Flexibility, power, posture, control, these are the four key words. I loosen my hold on you and slowly let my body glide around in tiny circles. You call out my name even though we are so close, though not as close as before. Our bodies parted. Almost. Now it is all or nothing. The rotation gets bigger and bigger. Flexibility, power, posture, control. I get braver and braver, centimeter by centimeter until at last I find the outermost unstable balance. Then I hold up my arms in triumph toward the stars while I alternate between stretching on my tippy-toes and falling back onto my feet.”

  She was speaking more loudly.

  “Flexibility, up on my toes, power, down again, posture, up, control, down.”

  Suddenly she opened her eyes and her voice changed.

  “Oh, we’re there.”

  They had reached the parking lot in front of the Langebæk School. They had been there for quite a while.

  She took her bag from the floor. Pedersen protested.

  “No, wait a minute. What happened then?”

  “Happened? Happened where?”

  “Well, in your dream, of course.”

  “Oh, that. I can’t remember exactly. I think I turned into an angel and flew away.”

  “An angel?”

  “Yes, an angel. When I was little, my dad often used to called me angel and when I was naughty I was an angel with dirt on my wings—isn’t that poetic? But it may also be that I woke up.”

  She released the buckle on the seat belt.

  “Don’t get mad, Arne darling, dreams can’t last forever.”

  Without blushing she reached down between his legs.

  “But I think you need your wife.”

  Chapter 18

  The two men across from the Countess looked like what they were, namely shamefaced lugs, whose careers were hanging by a thread. In their defense, it had to be stated that they had not tried to make themselves look better and that they had related the facts of Per Clausen’s disappearance precisely and without elaboration, just as they had not offered any stupid excuses. It was a sensible approach, as the Countess would have skewered them for the slightest attempt at such a thing. Now she’d been given no reason. She inspected them from head to toe as if she were about to grade their performance. Both hunched under her gaze but said nothing and then she let mercy go before right.

  “If you hurry up, you’ll be able to get away before a very large and very angry man comes in, someone you absolutely do not want to meet.”

  To her surprise, they didn’t move. She waited a couple of seconds for a question that never came. Then she held her thumb and pointer finger in front of her eye and said, “I see in my crystal ball two colleagues sorting through the lost-and-found because they did not get to safety in time.”

  That helped.

  Simonsen did not share the Countess’s penchant for mercy and his enthusiasm was limited when he had to settle for hearing the story secondhand. In the absence of a better alternative, however, he sat down in a chair, ready to listen.

  The Countess looked down at her notes and then related the distressing news.

  “At about twelve o’clock Per Clausen was buying groceries at the local supermarket, where he filled his cart with everyday items as well as wine. After checking out he put his items back into the cart and started walking down toward Bagsværd’s main street. At another shop he bought four sandwiches and two beers that he also placed in his cart, and at the kiosk he bought a box of cigarettes. Before he goes into these shops he covers his cart each time with his raincoat so that passersby can’t easily view his purchases. The next stop is the hardware store at Bagsværd Hovedgade 266A. The business is located in the ground floor of a residential building with three floors and eight entrances. At this point he is under surveillance by five officers as well as a backup unit in a car.”

  Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg entered the room and Simonsen shot them a sour look. They handily avoided making any eye contact; it was very clear to them that the boss was in a foul mood and that it was best to mind their own business. The Countess filled them in quickly before she continued.

  “At the hardware store he inspects some shelves at the very back, then he suddenly walks into a back room and slams the door shut, having first stuck a match into the lock. From the store there is an exit to a parking lot behind the building but also—by
way of a staircase—access to a storeroom in the basement, and before he heads down he jams the door shut with a wedge. The storeroom has an emergency exit to the basement corridor under the building and he walks through the basement, which, as I mentioned, is connected to eight different entrances. At the very end of the corridor there is a bicycle room where he has planted a stroller with a change of clothes, a kind of black, Muslim whole-body covering, easy to throw on over his regular outfit.”

  “Shit.”

  Simonsen sighed.

  “Simple, but effective. With a stroller and his new outfit—I think it is called a niqab or a chador—he walks around the building and past the noses of his pursuers. Many of them remember him very well. Then he walks calmly up the main street and turns down toward the Bagsværd Station. With the stroller, he takes the S-train at twelve thirty-nine toward Copenhagen, but he gets off at Buddinge Station. He leaves the outfit and the stroller in an elevator and from the taxi stand he gets a ride to the Ballerup mall. Here we lose all trace of him.”

  Simonsen hit the flat of his hand against the wall and said, “I should have held him yesterday; his behavior was so odd that it was irresponsible to let him go. And even more irresponsible to turn him over to a couple of chumps who can’t manage a simple job.”

  The Countess, who still feared the worst, watched him apprehensively.

  Pedersen tried to be constructive: “We should be able to get a search warrant to his home.”

  His boss latched on to this with a spark of hope in his voice: “That’s true. The pizzas and his disappearance are enough. Follow up on it, Arne. Go!”

  But the Countess extinguished all light: “Unfortunately, his house is in flames. A fire truck is on the scene but can’t quell it. I got the news ten minutes ago. You can see the fire from the window, if you like.”

  No one did. The atmosphere was dark and depressed; Simonsen appeared almost groggy and said nothing. Again it was Pedersen who rallied. He tried to gather up the remnants: “At the very least we can put out an alert for him for suspected arson.”