The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

  They played a couple of moves, then Simonsen said, “When they carried the bodies out of the gymnasium, it was like back in the first couple of months after your retirement, and …”

  He paused and the pause grew too long.

  Planck commented sarcastically, “Take your time, the night is young.”

  “I would like to have had a strong conviction, something edifying, if you understand. For example, the confidence that I will be able to track the perpetrators down no matter what. But I imagine that mostly I just felt alone and it has not gotten better today, to put it mildly.”

  “Well.”

  Simonsen thought that it had been too long since they had last worked together. Now he remembered again—his former boss had never been particularly warm. Nor was he himself, for that matter. Nonetheless, he had been hoping for some support. He asked with some trepidation, “Did that sound stupid?”

  “Yes, extremely so.”

  “But for God’s sake, man, who in the world builds a podium in order to execute five people? And at a school of all places.”

  Planck nodded slowly. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Planck’s use of the plural warmed Simonsen’s heart. That was what he had been angling for. He took a sip of his cognac. That warmed, too. Then he refocused on the game.

  In the middle of the match, when their positions were as good as even, Planck casually injected, “Turns out, I made a new female acquaintance today.”

  “I see, and who would that be?”

  “I think you’ll be more interested in what she is.”

  “And what is she?”

  “A reporter at the Dagbladet; she was here for three hours this afternoon. You and I might make the front page tomorrow if we’re lucky.”

  Simonsen dropped the piece he had just won and had to leave his chair in order to pick it up. The interruption muted his immediate reaction and he reined in his irritation.

  “I wish you would communicate with me before you talked to the press.”

  “I would never dream of it.”

  “I know, but you should. So who is she and why is she interesting?”

  “Anita Dahlgren, a student reporter under—well, take a guess.”

  “Oh no, you don’t mean what I think you do.”

  “It may comfort you to know that she cares as little for Anni Staal as you do. Perhaps even less.”

  “That’s not possible. But why did she come here in the first place?”

  “Her boss knows that you’ve dusted me off. She wants to do a story about it.”

  Simonsen sighed. It wasn’t hard to guess the angle the article would take, but he would get over it. What was worse was that his department was apparently as open as a sieve. He said, sourly, “She certainly has her sources, that Staal woman.”

  “Yes, and she is always working on acquiring more.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Anita said that she was preparing a proposition for that young guy, Pedersen, about some tax-free bonus money in exchange for a first page smacker now and then.”

  “Are you talking about Arne Pedersen?”

  “Yes, Arne Pedersen. Rumor has it that he could do with a little extra income.”

  Simonsen shook his head. “She’ll get nothing out of him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “You’re wrong. Arne isn’t like that. But what else did you talk about, you and the girl?”

  “Everything between heaven and earth. She liked being here.”

  “What gives you that impression?”

  “It was obvious.”

  Simonsen did not look convinced.

  Planck took a long, dramatic pause before he went on: “And because she told me so. In fact, she’s going to come back and see me again in a couple of days.”

  He smiled from ear to ear; his opponent grunted.

  “Keep telling yourself that, you vain old rascal.”

  The game neared its end. Simonsen was down by a page but improved his position step by step, minimized his disadvantage, then recovered the lead and waved away his opponent’s suggestion of a rematch.

  For a while Planck let the game be.

  “I have been reading, have looked at pictures, talked with Arthur Elvang, and there is one thing that I’m starting to feel sure of and that is that the people behind these executions are media hounds, as we called them in my day. Today it’s called a compulsion of self-exhibition, but the essence is that they want to tell a story. It’s warm and cold at the same time; logic and passion.”

  “So your little cub reporter is well planted, Meister Jakel?”

  “She came to me, not the other way around. So in the best-case scenario I’m just taking advantage of a bit of good luck and you should too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Perhaps Pedersen could be convinced to be a little less principled.”

  Simonsen answered hesitatingly, “Up front it sounds like a terrible idea.”

  “I see it differently.”

  It was not a bad argument.

  “Let me think it over. You were going to say something else.”

  “They want to tell a story, I said. And you’re overlooking the obvious, Simon.”

  Planck fell silent and Simonsen reflected on this. He disliked Planck’s affinity for riddles.

  “Can I help you with what this story may consist of?”

  He hid his irritation behind silence.

  “Of words.”

  “And words are important. Isn’t there a word that you’ve stumbled over? Because there should be. It was used in today’s press conference without anyone reacting to it. Twice, even, and the media is using it relentlessly. I think it is exactly what our horrible men wish, so this word is a key. Forget the identities, the transportation, the platform; you’ll find out all of this sooner or later, but think about this word. I have used it many times this evening without hearing any objection from you. And recently.”

  Planck’s eyes were shining. Simonsen was at a loss; he didn’t speak and could not come up with anything. His opponent struck like a snake: one move and his pawn structure was shattered. The game was lost. He resigned to his fate and gave up.

  “Devil. Tell me, what’s the word?”

  “Figure it out for yourself. You youngsters always think you get things for free in this world. Do you want to play again?”

  “No, thanks all the same. One word, you say—do you mean ‘execution’?”

  “Good work, Simon. A little slow but good. Even though it cost you a game of chess.”

  Chapter 22

  The wood shop at the Langebæk School was not a romantic place, and Pauline Berg eyed the row of work benches critically. At the very back of the room there was a band saw. She shook her head firmly and pushed Arne Pedersen away, which gave her only a brief respite. His fingers soon wandered wayward again. Her storytelling in the car was apparently weighing on his mind, and having made her bed she now had to lie in it. Or so she thought and gave in to his persistence.

  “Let’s at least go up to that classroom with all the cushions.”

  Her suggestion was accepted.

  They walked hand in hand through the hallways. Outside, the wind was gusting in the late-autumn evening and they had to raise their voices to talk to each other. Pedersen asked, “How was the house?”

  Pauline Berg shook her head in exasperation. What kind of question to ask was that? He could have chosen a more romantic topic, given the situation. She thought back. The scene of the fire had been a depressing sight. Only the outer walls remained. The roof had caved in and blackened structural beams lay in disarray like a multidimensional game of mikado. A putrid stench of soot and smoke hung like a thick pillow over the place and she had coughed up phlegm. She answered him, half sourly.

  “Horrible, I couldn’t stand being out there. They were still working on the final stages of extinguishing the fire and a couple of times the walls collapsed with a
bang like a pistol shot. It was unpleasant.”

  “What did the fire-forensics team say?”

  “That it was arson and that no one was inside. He had poured gasoline in all the rooms and then placed the can on a stove plate and set the timer. Do you think we’ll find him?”

  “I don’t know. In any case we have an enormous net out there. I talked to the Countess. She is leading the investigation from headquarters and he’s the top priority for every single patrol unit this evening and night. Even the cemetery where his daughter is buried is under surveillance, as well as the beach where she drowned. We’ve also got the word out in the media with pictures and everything, but, as I said, I don’t really know.”

  “Where is Simon?”

  “With Kasper Planck.”

  “Did he call?”

  “Yes, I talked to him before you arrived.”

  “Did he say anything interesting?”

  Pedersen paused. The conversation had mostly concerned Anni Staal from Folkets Formiddag and had been completely perplexing. It had also involved his personal affairs, although Simonsen had been tactfully oblique. He answered her in a somewhat cryptic way: “He sent greetings from Kasper Planck. Tell me, did you spend three hours at the house?”

  “No, luckily only a quarter of an hour. But we may have found a witness. Two little boys were in the vicinity of the school on Wednesday. The kids were running around collecting the little metal tops on beer and soda bottles. Whatever it is they’re called. But one of the boys is in a preschool class at the school. Unfortunately he is somewhat developmentally delayed so we got nothing out of him, but his friend who is his cousin is fairly normal. He’s five years old and lives in Roskilde. I’m going to talk to him this evening.”

  “That sounds more promising than my day. Simon is sending me to Sweden.”

  “Per Clausen’s daughter?”

  “Yes, and I agree that it’s sensible to take a closer look at her, but why I can’t take care of it over the phone, I don’t know. That’s one of Simon’s weaknesses—to send us out without it being completely necessary. If you ask me, that is.”

  Berg squeezed his hand.

  “Have you found out anything about that platform?”

  “The school had one on hand for performances and that kind of thing. Something that could be set up and taken down. Now it’s gone—the one they used—but we’ve known that for a while.”

  “Then what have you been doing?”

  “Killing time. That is, until now.”

  “Downtime is a part of work. How many times have I heard you say that? But maybe that applies to other people’s time?”

  “Yes, of course it does. This school is nothing but a pain in my neck. If Per Clausen inserted the trapdoors in the podium at this location he certainly cleaned up well after himself. I’m happy that we’re based primarily out of headquarters as of tomorrow because today has been a bit of a trial. Four hours in the gymnasium, the janitor’s room, and the woodwork room, where I am expected to discover what someone or other may have overlooked.”

  “And have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Discovered anything?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  As soon as they were in the classroom, Pedersen started to disrobe methodically, placing each item of clothing neatly folded in a stack on a desk. He even folded his socks. Pauline Berg fell back into the pillows.

  “Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”

  “Does that mean that we’re skipping the foreplay?”

  She sounded more sulky than sarcastic; then she pulled her shirt off.

  “Ouch, what was that?”

  Something had jabbed into her elbow and at first she thought, despite the time of year, that it was a wasp. Then she moved a pillow and found—for the second time in the span of twenty-four hours—Per Clausen.

  Chapter 23

  It was one o’clock in the morning before the technicians were done and Per Clausen’s body could be removed.

  Simonsen had sent Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg home when he arrived. There was no reason for them to stay, and he wanted them to go. In addition, Pedersen had been significantly shaken over their find, which surprisingly did not apply to Berg. He did not give any thought to the fact that he himself was also superfluous and would serve the investigation best by catching up on some sleep. Instead, he sat down behind the desk far enough away so that no technician felt compelled to order him out of the room. And then he waited patiently for the body to be ready to be removed. From time to time he nodded off and dozed for some brief moments. In front of him on the table was a receipt for a Canon SX100 camera, which was the only thing of interest that he had found in the dead man’s wallet. It had been bought that same day—or more precisely, yesterday—at a photo shop in downtown Copenhagen. It had cost 2,450 kroner. Where the camera was he did not know, nor did he know what it had been used to photograph. The only thing he felt relatively sure of was that Per Clausen had not retained the receipt by accident. He had intended it to be found.

  At one point he must have dozed off again because he was startled when a female technician gingerly touched him on the shoulder and said, “So are we good to go? May I call the ambulance staff?”

  A couple of seconds went by before he pulled himself together and said, “No, I want to take a look at him.”

  “But the people are tired; everyone wants to go home.”

  Simonsen stood up and cut her off: “You asked me a question and you got your answer. I want to have him to myself now, but it won’t be more than ten minutes.”

  “Okay, fair enough. Will you come out when you’re ready?”

  The question was foolish. He swallowed his sarcastic reply about whether she really thought he wanted to spend the night in there, and said only, “Yes, of course.”

  She left and locked the door behind her. He rolled his chair over next to Per Clausen’s body. Then he sat down and studied the dead man for a long time, as if this would help him penetrate his secrets. The eyes and mouth were open, so the rotten teeth and dull pupils smiled grotesquely up at him—a final taunting grin from the other side.

  When he had been sitting for a while he said, “You are a strange man, Per. You make everything that could be simple as difficult and complicated as possible. You could have taken your life yesterday morning at home in peace and quiet, but that was too easy for a man of your caliber. You wanted to show me what you went for first. Pizzas, arson, your absurd interrogation, your carefully planned disappearance, and now, here, your suicide in a room of pillows. And I’m not even sure I’m remembering everything.”

  He stooped and closed the dead man’s eyes.

  Chapter 24

  Five pedophiles murdered execution-style in Denmark.

  The title of the e-mail message cut straight to the chase and the contents were an unholy mess of facts and fiction. First, that the Danish state was apparently hiding the fact that the five murdered men in Copenhagen were pedophiles, in order to protect the country’s export of child pornography, which aligned rather nicely with the fact that Denmark allowed and supported pedophilic associations and Web sites and steadfastly refused to collaborate with the police in other member states of the European Union. Moreover, the legal consequences for the sexual abuse of children were ridiculously minimal and functioned largely as an official sanction of the phenomenon. Two concrete examples were then cited and analyzed. In conclusion, the recipient was urged to forward the message to others and also to write a letter of protest addressed to the Danish embassy in Washington, D.C.

  Half a million letters were sent to various American post-office addresses on Tuesday night. The choice of destination had been Per Clausen’s, and his arguments had not invited any objections. It had been a spring day in May, and the group was enjoying the sun and a glass of white wine on Erik Mørk’s terrace as they planned the e-mail campaign.

  Per Clausen said, “The United States is the locus of cons
piracy theories par excellence and has a long history of being a breeding ground for bizarre theories. Aliens from Roswell; manipulated moon landings; not to speak of the country’s intelligence service, which—as everyone knows—is constantly popping off presidents, movie stars, and famous musicians, when they can spare the time away from their substantive LSD production. We can be certain that hundreds of warped minds or strange groups will forward the message, and naturally from their own perspective as the incontestable truth, which can only be doubted by complete idiots or dubious state-sanctioned leaders.”

  The Climber, Erik Mørk, Stig Åge Thorsen, and Helle Smidt Jørgensen nodded comprehendingly. None of the others felt compelled to go along with Per Clausen. Nonetheless, he continued to bang on the door that was already open.

  “And Danes look up to the United States. They may not want to admit it, but what happens in the USA sets the agenda in our media, and whatever garbled rumors have taken hold there will be much more long-lived than fifty thousand pieces of junk mail in Danish letter boxes. Whether it is the truth or a lie or—as in our case—a little of both, is beside the point. If there is a discussion on the matter in the United States, it will rub off on Denmark.”

  It was Stig Åge Thorsen who ended Per Clausen’s monologue. He said haltingly, “You know, Per, that’s all very well and fine to send e-mails to the USA, but… uh… I saw a show about the moon landing that they claimed took place and …”

  Per Clausen smiled broadly. Erik Mørk waved his arms and said, “We all get your point. How many e-mail addresses would you say I should get a hold of?”