by Lotte Hammer
“It was only a few slices.”
“A few slices? With a chainsaw!”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“The truth is probably that the chainsaw took over. Once I started it was hard to stop and then I wanted to show Frank what was going to happen with him after he died. If you understand.”
It was not completely true. He had performed the last mutilation long after he had disassembled the scaffolding and carried it out to the van, before he had cleaned the floor.
Mørk accepted the explanation without digging deeper. It was what he had imagined, and in any case, done was done. From a marketing standpoint it was of course incredibly unfortunate—that kind of thing was hard to sell—but there was nothing to do about it now. He therefore simply nodded, and the Climber elaborated.
“I had the most intense desire to flay his crotch before he died.”
“But you didn’t do it?”
“No, strangely enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
They didn’t have anything else to talk about. The Climber did not ask about the campaign, and Erik Mørk preferred to remain ignorant of the other details of the murders.
People arrived to the church in a steady stream, either by themselves or in small clusters. Many were young. Some of them dropped off bouquets of flowers, then left again. Some of them placed their bouquets on the church steps and a few lit candles they had brought with them from home. There was still some time to go before the actual ceremony.
Mørk tried to fill the time.
“Four hundred years ago they burned witches in this country,” he said.
The Climber did not reply. Instead, he stared at the tree by the church entrance. He squinted because of the sun. It was a horse chestnut, and a few brown spiky capsules still clung to the upper branches, waiting to fall to earth.
Mørk went on: “They took the farmer’s children in the night and flew them to the witches’ sabbath. After the rack, their confessions corroborated each other’s so there was no question of their guilt. But the minister appealed on their behalf and called for the gallows as opposed to the stake. That almost cost him his frock and his life because the masses went ballistic. And they got the stake. In front of this very church, in the year 1613. I find it uplifting to think about.”
The Climber turned his head and became alert. “You are a strange man, Erik. What about those poor women?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but I’m not thinking of the women. I’m thinking of how everyone came together in a unified front against evil. What common fear and rage can lead to.”
The conversation ran out because the Climber didn’t respond. Soon the church bells started to ring and the guests went into the church. There were many of them.
Mørk commented on it: “I don’t think that any of our five will get as fine a funeral.”
“Six.”
“Six? What do you mean?”
“There are six now. There’s been an addition to the group.”
It took a second for Mørk to understand, but when he finally grasped the meaning he jumped up. He screamed. Without thinking about discretion. A couple of latecomers who were trotting hastily up to the church cast concerned glances in his direction.
“Tell me, have you gone completely mad? You’re completely sick in the head.”
The Climber remained calm. “Take it easy. There’s a perfectly reasonably explanation and I would have tried to find you to tell you personally if we hadn’t met up here. It’s the reason I’m here at all. I came to this funeral on a whim, since I was out in these parts anyway.”
Mørk wasn’t listening. “You can’t just go around killing people,” he said.
The Climber smiled and said softly, “Allan Ditlevsen, you know, the hotdog guy, came down with gallstones the night before our event. Frank—Allan’s older brother—found a replacement. But when the younger brother found out that his sibling was going to hell and not to heaven, the police wanted to… Well, you can figure it out for yourself.”
Mørk regained control over himself and nodded curtly, and the Climber told him about the hot-dog vendor from Allerslev who no longer was. Then he asked, “And Allan Ditlevsen never had any suspicions?”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s well known that he was not the sharpest tool in the shed and he also wasn’t one to stay out of the way of the cops. I called him at the hospital and asked about his health. Talked about summer, cheap drinks, kids, and sent greetings from his brother, who unfortunately couldn’t come to the phone, and that last part was true.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was afraid that Per would call the whole thing off.”
“Hmmm. At least you’re honest. And what was that business with the tree all about?”
“Believe me, it was the most fitting funeral bouquet he could have had.”
“Can’t you give me a real answer?”
“Yes. It was just my way of battling the forces of evil.”
Chapter 32
The net was pulled tighter around the liars. The three women from the suburbs soon had enough evidence to ensure that justice was going to be served. He had sworn falsely when he took his Hippocratic oath and he deserved no mercy, regardless of what sex he was.
Pauline Berg devoured the end of the medical novel. The youngest member of the homicide unit had snuck away to spend her lunch break in her favorite café on Hovedbanegården. Like the others in the unit, she had a secret hideaway where she sometimes indulged in a half hour’s retreat from death, murder, and the more bestial aspects of human nature. Or so she thought.
The Countess had appeared at her table and cleared her throat at least three times without being noticed. Now she laid a hand over the magazine.
“Hello, world calling Pauline. Are you completely gone?”
Finally Berg looked up and blushed ear to ear, caught in the act like a fat person digging into the pastries. She frantically folded up the magazine and stuffed it into her bag. It sounded as if the Countess had noticed neither her choice of reading material nor her red cheeks.
“You’re going to Middelford, my dear.”
“Alone?”
“No, with me. We have identified two of the men. Mr. Middle no longer exists. He has been replaced by Frank Ditlevsen, fifty-two, a systems analyst from Middelford. Mr. Southwest is very likely the retired manufacturer Jens Allan Karlsen from Trøjborg in Århus. He was sixty-three years old. Arne is taking him on. Jens Allan Karlsen was identified twice over, as it happens. Only five minutes after we received the results of the DNA test, Skejby Hospital—where his heart was checked four times a year—called, just as Elvang had predicted.
“Five minutes too late to be of any use.”
“Well, you can say that. By the way, are you the one who called Allan Ditlevsen ‘Mr. Extra’ on the notice board? If so, you are in for a lecture from Simon about respect.”
“No, that was …” She caught herself midsentence. “That wasn’t me.”
“Good for you.”
The sinner in this case was Arne Pedersen. Berg had seen him write it… and even worse, she had laughed. She quickly switched to a safer topic.
“Is Frank Ditlevsen brother to the hot-dog seller?”
“Yes. Frank is the older brother and the one in the gymnasium; Allan, the little brother, in the hot-dog stand.”
“And he was killed by a tree?”
“Not exactly. The technicians are sure that he was killed with a branch shortly before the tree crashed on his head. But that’s a minor detail. The fact is that someone went to great lengths to fell that tree and the felling itself was done with professional expertise. But it was not done to accomplish the killing itself since he was already dead.”
“Why on earth?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does Simon say?”
“He says that you shoul
d finish your coffee already so we can get started. The brothers live—or rather, lived—at the same address in Middelford. Everyone is working like crazy to gather more information and we’ll be kept briefed along the way.”
“Good news. So we finally got our breakthrough.”
“Seems like it, and there’s more. We now have good photographs of Mr. Northwest and Mr. Northeast that will be broadcast in the media tonight unless we manage to identify them beforehand. In a gentler way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those are Simon’s words. To get a picture like that shoved in your face by a TV screen without advance warning is pretty awful if you’re next of kin, but we don’t really have a choice. If there is a crazed killer on the loose picking off child molesters, time is of the essence.”
The words were jarring in Berg’s ear. There were people she felt more strongly about protecting.
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
The Countess picked up on her tone of hesitation and reacted with unexpected vehemence.
“I assume that you’re in complete agreement with me, otherwise you might as well stay home… and put in for a transfer while you’re at it.”
She had no formal authority but both women were very aware that there was real force behind her words. Berg quickly adjusted her attitude.
“Of course I agree with you, one hundred percent.”
The Countess accepted this assurance and smiled.
Berg returned the smile and said, “So, we’re on our way to Fyn?”
Their assignment did not come as a surprise to her. It was clear that as soon as they received certain identifications they would have to go out in the field and earn their daily bread regardless of where that might be. Already yesterday she had seen where things were heading and had asked a neighbor to look after her cat.
“Yes, we are, and as I mentioned, there is not a moment to lose. We’ll drive by your place so that you can pick up some clothes. I assume you’ve already packed some?”
“Yes. Arne said that we would in all likelihood travel all around the country, wherever he got that from.”
“It was an educated guess. But perhaps you’re disappointed that you are paired with me and not with him?”
Her voice was cheery but there was a definite sober undertone. Berg chose to take the question at face value and answered honestly, “No, I’m not. The thing between us… I don’t know that it’s going to amount to much, nothing messy at any rate.”
“If you say so.”
“I mean, he’s in a good situation already. With his kids and all.”
“You’ll have to ask him about that. If you can sleep with each other, you should be able to talk a little.”
“But I’m asking you.”
“You want my honest opinion?”
Berg nodded.
“Arne would never leave his children and he won’t in this case and you shouldn’t try to get him to. Nothing good will come of it. But we’ve got to get going now and I’m in a hurry.”
Berg, who was familiar with the Countess’s great disdain for parking tickets, did not let herself be chased off immediately with these words. Instead she calmly finished her coffee. She had confirmed something that she really had known all along, and although her colleague had not exactly minced her words it was still a relief to hear. She dropped the subject and asked, “How did you know where I was? And why didn’t you call?”
“I did call. Four times, with no answer, so either your cell phone ringer is set too low or else you’ve turned it off, but Simon said you were most likely in here, reading women’s magazines.”
Color flooded back into Pauline Berg’s cheeks. “How can he know that?”
The Countess smiled. Without much empathy. “How can I know it?”
Then she added in a more conciliatory tone, “Simon’s network of contacts within the corps is extensive and you have chosen to hide in one of Denmark’s most frequently patrolled neighborhoods, so I think you’ve been spotted. Probably by a male colleague. They tend to notice you. Do you come here frequently?”
Berg grabbed the straw and ignored the question and said, “Yes, someone must have blabbed. So damn typical of men.”
The Countess nodded.
“Couldn’t agree more. But let’s get going. I’m going to tell you a cute little story on the way about how a mayor sent a psychologist to a psychologist.”
Chapter 33
Anni Staal was sitting at her desk at the Dagbladet and waiting patiently for her cub reporter to be ready. Anita Dahlgren leafed through her papers without rushing, well aware that this glacial pace irritated her boss.
The relationship between the two had gone from bad to worse in the past couple of days and it was now clear to both of them that they could not stand each other. Reluctantly, however, each had to grant the other a fairly high level of professional competence. Anni Staal had been in the limelight ever since Monday, when the murders in Bagsværd were discovered. Her subject matter took up a large part of the paper and there were many indications that this pattern would continue for a while. Despite the considerable stress, she was thoroughly enjoying the situation. Like a rat in a sewer, Dahlgren thought, who also grudgingly admitted to herself that she could learn a great deal from her appointed mentor. If she discounted the woman’s total cynicism and a disturbing lack of objectives other than advancing herself, her boss was a spectacular journalist.
For her part, Staal was not blind to the talents of her student. The girl was quick-witted, hardworking, intuitive, and above all she had some exceptionally creative approaches, all of which made her highly usable. That on a personal plane she appeared too soft to navigate the real world was less important. Staal had many co-workers with the opposite characteristics and she could live with the fact that the girl was churlish and unbearably didactic. Her shoulders were broad and she had encountered far worse.
The fact was that their work together was going very well.
Anita Dahlgren’s timing was perfect and Anni Staal’s words about getting her ass in gear stuck in her throat.
“You asked me for a report on the reaction from secondary schools around the country. Generally speaking, throughout the day there have been a multitude of examples of adult-education or secondary-school classes boycotting their regular instruction in favor of various studies that in one way or another relate to the sexual abuse of children. It’s hard give you a firm estimate, but my tentative conclusion is that about one-third or half of the secondary schools in the country have been affected. There are, however, large regional differences. The phenomenon is strongest in Copenhagen and the larger cities. These activities will most likely continue on Monday, and intensify. Probably creeping into the upper classes of the middle schools. That has already happened in individual instances.”
“What do they want to achieve? And who is behind all this?” Anita asked.
“Your last question is easy to answer. No one is behind it. It is spontaneous and spreads from one institution to the next, but there is no doubt that the abuse ad from yesterday set this whole thing off.”
Anita nodded.
“As well as the rumors about the mass murder. But what the students are doing varies. In some places they are investigating the number of children that are abused on a daily basis, like the ad urged them to. In some places, children are telling others of their own abuse and in other places pedophilia is simply the agenda of the day. Their distribution channels vary: blogs, posters, or the community board at the local supermarket—you name it—flyers, happenings, letters to the editors, to name a few. There’s a lot of creativity.”
“They must have a goal, dammit.”
“If so, it remains rather vague. One could say that the intention is to put a spotlight on child abuse—that is, to press society into taking stronger measures against abuse, something along those lines. But those are my words. I get varying explanations depending on whom I ask.”
“All of us are
against child abuse, there’s nothing new there, so if there is a message it’s one that’s preaching to the choir.”
Anita leafed through some more papers. This time without unnecessary slowness. She had written a couple of sentences that could later go into an article if she was asked to write one. She read aloud, “‘Many young high-school students say that they have now found a common cause. In a world where they are indoctrinated on a daily basis about the unyielding demands of globalization in order to develop a competitive and competent intellect, and where the devil mercilessly harvests the mediocre, it is easy to understand that a comprehensible antimolestation message is a gift from the gods. Even higher is the Ministry of Education. The opposition to the adult world that for years has condoned the practice of child abuse is obvious and sparks a feeling of standing united with the same noble purpose, even as the real reason recedes into the distance.’”
Anni nodded thoughtfully. Then she said, “ ‘Young high-school students’ is redundant. Replace ‘sparks’ with ‘gives rise to’ and strike ‘noble,’ as well as the final clause. And then use a few more periods, for God’s sake. I’m assuming you also have a few stories from a personal point of view.”
“Of course. Among others, one about two sisters at Virum High School. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
As Anita read the account aloud, Anni took the opportunity to sift through her mail. Normally, Anita would not have accepted such denigrating treatment, but she knew from experience that her boss belonged to that rare class of people who are capable of doing several things at once, not simply in word but in actuality. Unfortunately, she did not yet possess this capacity herself. She therefore went on as if nothing had happened and kept reading from her papers. It was only when she had the opportunity to focus on her listener that she discovered she wasn’t listening. Anni sat with an expression of incredulity, staring at her computer screen.
“Tell me, are you the least bit interested in what I am saying?”
Anni turned her attention back to her young charge for a moment. She sounded slightly absentminded when she answered. But at least she was honest.