The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

  “No, not really. Do you have any earphones?”

  “Do you mean headphones?”

  Anita smiled with exaggerated sweetness. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Will you please lend me some?”

  That her response had not provoked so much as a snarl meant that the computer contained something very special, a fact that was underscored by Anni’s next sentence: “Kiss my ass.”

  The words were sent straight out into the air without a final address. Anita leaned backward to take a look. But she couldn’t. Anni might have been absorbed in her own affairs but she was not completely oblivious to the outside world. She quickly turned the screen, and this time she snarled.

  The next few hours were hectic but also productive. Anni called her new police source, well aware of the fact that he would be exasperated. Only two days ago she had solemnly sworn that the contact would always go from him to her and never the reverse. This was a rule that was clearly important to him. Now she was breaking it at the very first opportunity. That would cost her, and she would pay eight thousand—a sum that was among the highest she had ever paid to an informant. Officially the Dagbladet did not pay for its news but almost all journalists made exceptions from time to time. Often in the form of a discreet hundred-kroner note or two, and preferably to the lowest members of society. A bit of grease that was later covered up in the books. But this time she had crossed over the limits of acceptability and was forced to charge the amount to her own account. A temporary measure, she hoped, unless the story was a hoax. It was a gamble and, in contrast to her source, she was not one to place bets.

  Anni Staal and Arne Pedersen met in the arcade by the Rådhuspladsen. His envelope was brown, hers white, and they exchanged them. But she was the only one who said thank you. Pedersen let the money disappear into the inner pocket of his coat and said, “There are three pictures. Two of them will be made public this evening. You’re paying for something that you will get for free in a couple of hours anyway.”

  He had said the same thing on the phone after she had talked him down in price. Anni Staal thought that in that way he showed integrity. He did not want to cheat her.

  “Yes, I understand perfectly. Remember to call if you get more names. That’s included in the price.”

  “I’ll call, but you won’t. Never again.”

  He turned his back to her and left before she could reply.

  When she arrived back at the newsroom, the IT department had retrieved her deleted e-mail from Tuesday, just as she had demanded. All that remained was to go back and review, and the excitement shot her pulse up into the danger range. It quickly subsided again, however. There was no doubt that three of the men from her most recent e-mail matched the pictures in the envelope and one was also identical to the face from the first e-mail.

  She had watched the Tuesday video with sound, which caused a spontaneous outburst: “Well, I have no pity for you. You got what you deserved—not that one can say that kind of thing aloud.”

  The culture-and-arts editor who sat nearby looked up from his paper and asked kindly, “Why are you doing that, Anni?”

  Anni locked her computer and went straight to the editor in chief, hoping that she would be lucky enough to find him available. He was not. She was effectively stopped by a secretary who watched diligently over access to her lord and master.

  She nodded toward the locked door at the very back of the room and asked, “When is he free?”

  “It may take a long time. It’s financial.”

  “Listen here, my love, why don’t you go in there for a second and tell him that he has a meeting with me in Lokale Viggo at six o’clock, and then find the director and her new legal scam artist—”

  “Senior legal counsel.”

  “Whatever. Make sure that they come along as well. At the same time, arrange for a computer with speakers and an Internet connection. Oh, and some sandwiches, beer and water, of course.”

  “Do you understand what you’re asking of me? What should I say this meeting is about?”

  “Nothing. Now make sure that they’re there regardless of what other plans they have. I know you can do this if you want.”

  “And why would I want to?”

  “Look, I’m well aware that anything other than a damn good reason would have me strung up by my ears.”

  The secretary peered at her seriously over her gold-rimmed glasses. She was most comfortable when things proceeded in an orderly and predictable manner, which they never did. Nonetheless, she struggled day after day to establish a bare minimum of order in her boss’s day. Anni Staal’s highly irregular suggestion fit poorly in this context.

  “Not just your ears, he’ll have your whole hide, Anni.”

  “I know. Just make sure they come.”

  The secretary nodded halfheartedly. Then she added in an unfriendly tone, “You can get your food yourself. I’m not in the catering business. The technology is already in place. Tell me, don’t you read your Internal mail?”

  Anni Staal drew back, smiling broadly. She had not for a moment thought that the secretary would take on any of the practical arrangements, but in her experience difficult requests went down better if the other party had something to refuse.

  Chapter 34

  Konrad Simonsen sat at his desk and tried to make his way through the stack of reports that had accumulated in remarkable number over the past couple of days. The task was impossible but he tried as well as he could, skimming mostly and crossing his fingers that others would have a better eye for the details. After a couple of hours of intense work his eyes started to water, which added to the difficulties of his work and also made him feel old. He adjusted his desk lamp and tried to continue for a while without his glasses. Neither helped. Then he found a stack of tissues at the back of his desk drawer and continued to read, wiping away his tears at regular intervals and cursing his colleagues’ inability to express themselves succinctly. In this way he managed to make his way through another five files and had just grabbed the sixth when there was a knock on the door and Arne Pedersen entered the room, almost before he had time to look up.

  “Are you busy, Simon?”

  “Yes, as you can see.” He let a hand fall heavily onto the stack of reports, deliberately singling out the wrong stack, one he had already read but that was now taller than the one he had not yet read.

  Arne Pedersen nodded indifferently and asked, “Why are you crying?”

  “My eyes aren’t what they once were. Tell me, does tissue paper have an expiration date? These are not very absorbent.”

  He gathered up the used tissues that lay scattered in crumpled wads around his desk and swept them into the trash.

  Pedersen replied, “They can be good or poor quality but I don’t think they have a sell-by date if that’s what you are asking. Maybe you should consider getting stronger glasses. You should go to an optometrist and get a check-up.”

  “Thanks for the advice. What do you want? Is it important?”

  “No, nothing special. I have something on that child-abuse e-mail that you asked me to take a look at, but I can send you my notes.”

  “No, thank you, spare me any more notes. Sit down and tell me about it. It’ll be a good time for me to take a break.”

  Pedersen sat down while his boss stood up to stretch his legs. He paused by the window for a short time and looked down over the city. The sun was going down and there was a strong wind. He turned back to his place and trained his eyes on his subordinate with a grim expression.

  “Now that you’re here, there is one thing that we may as well get over and done with. One thing that I expect you to adhere to in future.”

  His tone was more telling than his words and indicated that Simonsen was wearing his boss’s cap. Pedersen sat up in his chair.

  “From now on I expect you to keep your amorous escapades separate from your work, and especially from my crime scenes, which you can define as the entire school building for now.”

 
“But—”

  “And you can put away your aggrieved attitude. I have much better things to do with my time than convince Kurt Melsing to… shall we say, refrain from certain forensic investigations surrounding Per Clausen’s death.”

  He held a hand out as a stop sign while he continued.

  “And I do not want to know whether it was necessary or not. What I do wish, however, is that I will not be placed in a similar situation. Do we understand each other?”

  Pedersen’s thin defenses collapsed. “Yes, we do. It won’t happen again.”

  They sat in silence for a while, then Simonsen said, “So, what about that e-mail? What have you found out?”

  “The server is German. Its physical location is in Hamburg and you can probably guess who accessed it. Or, rather, signed up for Web hosting on it.”

  “Per Clausen?”

  “Naturally. He’s had the account for a year and paid for it online with a credit card. The American e-mail addresses were uploaded there over the summer in several rounds from the library computer at the Langebæk School, so it is Per Clausen again, but the interesting thing is how the mail distribution was started. It was started from a cell phone that has been traced back to a transmitter erected where the Jyllingevej crosses Motorring 3, that is, in Rødovre. The IT nerds are writing a report right now that you’ll get Monday at the latest.”

  “Cell phone, you say. What was the telephone number?

  “The SIM card in question was sold at a Statoil station—we don’t know which one yet—but we’re working on it. In addition, the mail addresses were purchased from one or several sites. There were around five hundred twenty thousand, so it can’t have been cheap. There are a couple of folks working on that one as well.”

  “Okay, Arne. I’m making a note that the e-mail mailings are linked to the crime through Per Clausen, which naturally is of interest but is also what we would have guessed. Clausen has also been taken to Rødovre to… oops, no, of course he hasn’t. For good reasons. I knew I was getting too old and tired for this job.”

  Pedersen smiled crookedly and concluded on his behalf, “So Rødovre is a place that we should keep in mind in case it pops up in another context.”

  “Yes, so far I’m with you. Anything else? Anything new with the identifications?”

  “Not a thing. No one is missing these five, at least not yet, but Jens Allan Karlsen from Århus is of course about to get a visit. Also, the Countess and Pauline are in Middelford. Elvang’s pictures have been released, so the three remaining victims will be identified within a short period of time, even if we have to deal with the usual.”

  “And what is the usual?”

  “Yes, well, we have to assume we’re going to get a flood of wrong information. It would not surprise me if we spend most of tomorrow separating the wheat from the chaff. There are many who don’t want to see us clear this up.”

  “That part is slowly becoming clear to me. Have some people ready to check the names. There’s not much else we can do. Did you find out why it was so urgent for Anni Staal to get the photographs a couple of hours before everybody else?”

  “No, but maybe I can ask her this evening. I’ve promised to call her as soon as we can confirm a couple of the identifications.”

  “Try that. And what about Clausen’s funeral?”

  “Well, it was thoroughly photographed, as you know. But there were a lot of guests and we don’t know who most of them are so without a comparative basis we have nothing to go on. I have put a halt to the task of identifying the attendees.”

  “With what motivation?”

  “It requires too many resources in relation to the expected return. Not least because most of them can’t be expected to be cooperative. But I e-mailed you about it yesterday.”

  “Hmm, I’m a little behind on my e-mail, but that sounds reasonable. Do you have anything else?”

  “No, nothing of any significance.”

  The conversation was over and Pedersen should have made a move to leave but he did not. Instead he squirmed on his chair, preparing to utter words that never came.

  When the silence became embarrassing, Simonsen said, “Well, what is it? Come on, out with it, Arne. I don’t have oceans of time and you don’t either.”

  “No, I know that… it’s just that… I’ve always thought it unpleasant to be reprimanded by you.”

  “That’s the damn point. It should be unpleasant. But that’s over now. What’s your point? Hopefully not that I should feel sorry for you.”

  “No, of course not. Not like that. But I was thinking about Pauline… I mean, it’s my responsibility… I mean, I was the one who led the way to the classroom where we found Clausen and—” He stopped short again.

  “And what?”

  Finally he came out with it: “And I would hope that you wouldn’t feel the need to say anything to her. That is, I hope it’s enough to have talked with me.”

  Simonsen had not even considered confronting Berg about the matter. Now he frowned and stared down at his folded hands and nodded thoughtfully like a stern but just father who in this matter should consider letting mercy go before justice. Unfortunately, his expression stayed intact only until he looked up at Pedersen. Then he broke into a grin.

  “In the first place, it took me a long time to summon the nerve to discipline you and—whether or not equal treatment is called for—this is the extent of it. I’m not going to get involved in who is together with whom except for the fact that you have orders to treat Pauline decently because I like her. In contrast to some of the others you’ve thrown yourself over.”

  The atmosphere lightened; the boss was gone. Man-talk could resume. Pedersen said with relief, “I know it’s bad, Simon. With my family and my kids and all that. But I’m kind of into her. It’s like someone’s given me a present that I didn’t deserve.”

  “Hm, I think you’ve gotten a number of packages before Christmas, from my recollection …”

  Simonsen never finished his sentence. Suddenly he was struck by the thought that he had received a present recently. A book on chess, a book he had never expressed any thanks for. He struck his hand against the table with irritation and flushed alarmingly.

  Pedersen asked with curiosity, “What is it? Tell me.”

  But Simonsen did not obey this injunction. He pointed to the door.

  “Absolutely not. It’s a private matter. Go on, get going.”

  Chapter 35

  The woman in the stairwell explained with barely suppressed fury, “The door doesn’t lock. As you can see, the mechanism isn’t working. He asked me to keep an eye on his place while he was gone, as if someone would wander up to the sixth floor for a burglary. But I said yes, I did, in order to be a good neighbor and I’m glad I did. I walked up the stairs twice to take a look and make sure everything was fine but the second time I heard sounds and went in and it turned out to be the television. He had forgotten to turn off his video. Go in and see what your friend was up to, that animal.” A stern finger pointed at the door.

  One of the men protested halfheartedly, “We don’t know him that well, we can’t just walk in.”

  “Look at his film first and you’ll think the better of it. What about Angelina?”

  A sudden gust of wind blew through the stairwell. The door behind the woman opened. The girl’s black hair fluttered in the wind. Silently, without looking right or left, she glided past the men and pushed the neighbor’s door open with her finger. Steadily, without words, she turned around and withdrew with singular dignity, taking her mother with her. The breeze ceased and the twins stared at the locked door. It said EA KOLT JESSEN. She was their cousin. Their at times very insistent and unceasingly demanding cousin, who had called and asked them to come. They entered the apartment without saying anything.

  The woman was right. All their hesitation vanished when they saw the video. They sat down heavily on the sofa and waited in a mood of apprehension.

  “Do you think Angelina
was afraid of us? She didn’t say hello or anything.”

  They were used to people being nervous at their appearance. They were both enormous and had powerful, coarse features. In addition, each of them had a droopy eyelid—something they’d had from birth—that gave them a menacing appearance. Then there was their dark biker-style leather clothing—a warm and practical choice for a professional sheep shearer on his way to work, but which was perhaps frightening to a four-year-old girl.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t seem like it.”

  They sat for a while in silence.

  “To hell with it, I can’t stand it.”

  They had set the video on Pause but the frozen image was unpleasant enough.

  The one brother stood up and pulled a cloth from the sofa table, causing a vase to tumble and smash against the floor. He draped the cloth over the television screen. There were two framed posters on the wall behind them. WELCOME TO DISNEYLAND in large boisterous letters over a smiling Mickey Mouse, most likely a souvenir from a trip. The other was a reproduction of Edvard Munch’s portrait of Friedrich Nietzsche with the philosopher’s famous pronouncement GOD IS DEAD in black text over the art. The brother who was standing grabbed a chair and smashed it against one of the pictures. The glass splintered diagonally and a large piece fell to the floor while the actual poster remained intact. He cut a tear into it with the sharp edge of the glass and held up the result: half a mouse and the torn NEYLAND had no meaning, so he moved on to the next poster. His brother walked into the bedroom to relieve himself.

  The owner of the apartment was not a small man and was in excellent condition but he didn’t stand a chance. The brothers were simply too powerful.

  Without allowing themselves to be derailed by his wild protests, they grabbed his head and forced him in front of the screen. The cover of the video had fallen to the floor. It claimed that the film was about the siege of Leningrad—false advertising unless one counted the introduction. His clothes were removed and a firm grip on his red hair made sure that he stared at the naked children.