The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

  “We can’t stand people like that.”

  “No, that appears to be a trend these days, but in the eyes of the law there is no difference who the owner of the offending video was. What may make a difference is the fact that your abused friend does not wish to press charges. He claims that he understands you, and I have to say that he must be an unusually tolerant person.”

  A small spark of hope was lit in the man’s eye.

  “He doesn’t want to press charges?”

  “He doesn’t, no. He is hoping that you can come to an agreement about a reasonable restitution for the damages his home has suffered, but don’t get too excited. Your prayers won’t help you because if he isn’t willing to press charges, I will. That is to say, formally it will be the public prosecutor but practically speaking he will act on my orders. And I may as well add this—you will be regarded as lost cause. We are talking about an extreme act of violence that was premeditated and took place in the victim’s own home, which will count as strongly incriminating. My educated guess is that you stand to get at least six years in prison but that will be up to the judge. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and get away with five.”

  The prediction was wildly exaggerated. She pressumed the man to be fairly ignorant of the law and she was right. Her talk about six years hit him like a ton of bricks. Pleading and confused, he managed to get out, “But when the charges have been dropped, why do you want to put us in prison? You know it was an accident. You know we aren’t thugs.”

  She got up and walked behind him, satisfied with the way things were going.

  “Why do I want to press charges? What I should give you right now is a speech about justice and vigilantism and that kind of thing. But truth be told, it’s because I’m in a bad mood.”

  “Because you’re in a bad mood?”

  “You heard me. When my mood is bad, I get very unpleasant. If I’m not feeling good, I don’t want others to. That may strike you as small-minded but such is life and it is awfully unfair that I should have to be in a bad mood, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course, but… but …”

  “You haven’t even asked me why I’m in such a bad mood.”

  “Oh no, sorry. Why are you in such a bad mood?”

  “It’s thoughtful of you to ask and I will tell you why I feel this way. Yesterday I interrogated a woman who as a child was sexually abused by her own father. It was a stinky job but someone had to do it, and it fell to me. In addition, I’m in a foul mood because of the newspapers. I can’t stand what they write. And last but not least, I’m in a terrible mood about the fact that I can’t go home and relax because I’m tied to a big case that I wrestle with day and night. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

  “Yes, of course. I feel bad for you.”

  The big man looked more like someone who felt sorry for himself.

  The Countess sat down in her chair and continued. “This morning I thought I had a good idea that would make me happy again. Namely, I’ve got a lead on a… gentleman, shall we say. He is from Fredericia and in contrast to your poor friend his sexual preferences are clearly directed at the younger age bracket. Much younger, when he can manage it. If he wishes, there is no doubt that he could help me and tell me things that would otherwise take me a very long time to find out. So I’ve requested some reports on him: name, pictures, and such.”

  She allowed her hand to fall on a dossier that lay on the table between them.

  “Actually I had been planning to go out to the Gudme Sports Complex to see if I couldn’t get somewhere with him. There’s a youth-wrestling tournament and he’s planning to be in the audience, but I’ve given it up. The problem is that whatever I ask him, and even though it is in his best interest to cooperate with me, I know that he will not help me one bit. He will clam up like an oyster and just wait for me to give up and leave. What I want is for him to get a stroke of inspiration. That he would suddenly realize that he ought to do his duty as a citizen and give me information from his… environment. That would make me happy.”

  Her listener was somewhat slow on the uptake. “That would make you happy?”

  “Yes, you can bet it would. Simply the thought that there is someone who might be able to convince him to meet with me puts me in a decidedly better mood.”

  “So you want us to—”

  She interrupted him sharply: “I have nothing to do with the specifics of who talks to whom. But, as I said, it would make me happy if he—unharmed and unmolested—were to be enticed to have a little chat. Please make a special note of that phrase: ‘unharmed and unmolested.’”

  “Unharmed and unmolested. Sure, I get it, as gentle as a lamb. We won’t hit him. Never again, never ever again.”

  “That sounds very sensible, but oh my goodness—look at the time. I really don’t have time to sit here chatting with you. Wait until you see the Dagbladet and then you’ll understand what I am up against. And tonight the GOG women are playing against Randers with a home-court advantage. That’s a game I simply have to see now that I’m in Odense. First handball and then a cup of coffee in the cafeteria after the game. From a quarter past ten.”

  The Countess stood up.

  “I’m going to go and ask if the guardsman is ready to release you. During this conversation I have come to realize that I would like to think a little more about this matter before I decide to press charges. Now, remember not to look in this file while I’m gone.”

  She locked the door behind her and mumbled, “Lucky bastard.”

  Chapter 44

  The police station in Copenhagen was a powerful and monumental building. From the outside it appeared hard and forbidding, with its gray, dirty walls of rough plaster and mortar and its lack of adornment, if one didn’t count the entrance, where two solid iron cages flanked the colonnades. Striking and heavy-handed symbols that were covered with oversize golden morning stars in case there was any doubt about the symbolism. The rest of the building ran in straight lines along the streets with window after window that all opened inward in order not to break the strength of the facade.

  Kasper Planck set the pace across the courtyard and Simonsen slowed his steps, which gave him time to enjoy the architecture. He had always liked the HS’s sober style, which in his eyes was harmonious and appealingly restrained. The interior, however, struck him as confused and nonfunctional—a Spanish monastery with mock bourgeois ornamentation and art deco lighting in the bathrooms; the famous round interior courtyard with its many faux-antique double columns and its redundant third-floor balustrade, which he found outright ugly. The circular yard had the unfortunate side effect of creating curved hallways of differing lengths that made orientation for newcomers a near impossibility.

  Simonsen moved through his place of work with familiar ease. On the way, he lost Planck, who bumped into an old colleague. Soon he was at the Division of Criminal Investigations, where he banged on the door to Arne Pedersen’s office and walked in without waiting for an answer.

  Pedersen stood at the back of the room. He was talking on the phone but interrupted himself when his boss entered. Simonsen tossed his jacket onto the coat rack in the corner.

  “Give me an update, Arne.”

  “We have now secured the identities of the five victims, and more information is streaming in.”

  Pedersen gestured to the notice boards behind him and added with a boyish grin, “What about you? I hear you are well rested.”

  Simonsen ignored the comment and turned around. There was a big piece of paper on the middle board, fastened with pins in each corner, which hung slightly askew. Simonsen took his time to point this out, then he took a step back and concentrated on the content.

  Thor Gran

  (Mr. Northwest)

  Unmarried

  Architect

  54 years

  Århus

  Palle Huldgård

  (Mr. Northeast)

  Widower

  Office manager

  63 years
<
br />   Århus

  Frank Ditlevsen

  (Mr. Middle)

  Divorced

  Consultant

  52 years

  Middelford

  Jens Allan Karlsen

  (Mr. Southwest)

  Married

  Retired

  69 years

  Århus

  Peder Jacobsen

  (Mr. Southeast)

  Divorced

  Shoemaker

  44 years

  Vejle

  Over each name was a photograph of the deceased. In two cases it was possible to discern the panic-stricken expressions of the faces from the videos, while the three others were normal, smiling portraits.

  Pedersen commented, “Elvang and his team of experts slaved away for days to re-create their faces and then we get the whole thing given to us in a matter of hours.”

  Simonsen shrugged. “That’s how it goes. And don’t forget that we found three of the names ourselves.”

  “And we were only sure of one.”

  “Yes, yes, but that’s beside the point now. Anything else?”

  “Yes, lots. New information is streaming in constantly. There are about ten officers for each victim, with the exception of Frank Ditlevsen, of course. All teams have a sponsor here at HS and the local police chief is the coordinator, but you should feel free to reorganize as you like.”

  “No, that sounds fine. Any prior record of pedophilia or other kinds of sexual abuse directed at children? I want that confirmed today. Or unconfirmed, if possible. For all of them.”

  “Peder Jacobsen was charged but then the case was dropped and that’s twelve years ago. For the others we still don’t have anything but we’ll get it by the end of the day. All the teams are focused on that issue.”

  Simonsen grabbed a marker and put a thick red mark by Frank Ditlevsen’s name.

  “Remember Jens Allan Karlsen? His wife told us all about his hobby, that is, sleeping with children.”

  Simonsen began to make another mark, then decided to hold off. “It’s not enough. I want something from his wife. The same goes for Peder Jacobsen. Dropped charges are not enough.”

  “Okay, I’m sure it’s coming. What about me? Should I go to Århus?”

  “No; in fact I’d like the Countess back from Middelford by tomorrow at the latest. Pauline can stay where she is, if she likes. That is, if the Countess agrees. You’ll take care of that. Have we found out if the victims were planning to go on vacation? And if so, have we confirmed where they were headed?”

  “We know that they were going on vacation. We know that they were headed overseas and we know that the trip was going to last three weeks and that it was most likely they were traveling to Thailand, but no travel brochure or anything like that has been found in their homes. We’re assuming that their holiday started in the minivan early Wednesday from a place in Århus and we’re guessing that they were headed to Kastrup International Airport. But there are no booked plane tickets that went unused, at least as far as we can tell.”

  “Assumptions and guesses—we’ve been doing that for almost a week. What about the Great Belt Bridge? I’m assuming you’ve put a team on investigating what they have from last Wednesday morning.”

  “Yes, naturally. Two experienced guys from Korsør, but… well, there’s some …” He was searching for his words, which was unusual for him in a workrelated context. “Maybe I should start at the other end. Did you see the opinion poll on the home page of the Dagbladet?”

  Simonsen tried his best to conceal his irritation. He had been in sore need of sleep, he now realized. That he was not yet fully brought up-to-date on every last detail was an unavoidable consequence. He said sourly, “I have been sleeping, you know. And sleep gets in the way of my reading.”

  Pedersen caught the sarcasm and said, “It asks people if they would want to help the police in their investigation of the pedophile murders—they’re calling them that. That is, assuming they had valuable information. Sixty-four percent said that they would not.” He raised his voice a notch. “Fucking sixty-four percent, Simon. It’s outrageous. And then there’s a link to a lecturer at the law school who gives pointers for how to withhold information from us, the simplest and most effective of which is not to remember anything, however brain damaged, feebleminded, and untrustworthy one might appear.”

  “And what does this apparent desire to return to the laws of the jungle have to do with the Great Belt Bridge?”

  “I’m afraid that it isn’t just the Dagbladet readers who are turning a blind eye. And that videotaped scene with… you know the one where he chooses the boy… I mean, that hasn’t exactly made things better. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “Yes, I have. And the Great Belt Bridge?”

  “Yes, right. All of the recordings that track traffic across the bridge in the time frame that we’re interested in have mysteriously been misplaced or possibly erased by mistake. Then there’s the issue that all of the employees at the bridge have had a collective memory lapse. Most of them, at any rate. No one can apparently remember a single thing.”

  Simonsen reflected darkly on this and then pushed his thoughts away. The scope of this phenomenon was unclear and therefore meaningless to speculate about further.

  “We’ll take it as it comes. Troulsen says that Anni Staal received two short videos from the minivan that were not uploaded to the Web. What about them?”

  “That’s correct. I wouldn’t exactly call them videos, more like picture sequences. Each image lasts no longer than a second and is taken from the inside of the vehicle through a window. Technicians have established these as authentic, without any image manipulation or the like. The first one shows the back side of the gymnasium but we don’t know where the other one was shot. You can see a bare field and a sliver of forest in the background.”

  “God knows what that’s all about. Some kind of message?”

  “I’ve wondered about that, but don’t have a good take on it. Not that I’ve had a free minute to think about it. There’s just been no time. Reports have been welling in. The volume of paperwork related to the case is increasing precipitously and no one has time to even skim the information. My overview is sporadic at best.”

  “Better than no information.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “You take the minivan, Arne. The departure from Århus, the exact time and place, the vehicle type and registration, the location of the other video, et cetera. I will take over responsibility for the units in Jylland.”

  “Then this may be something for Arne.”

  They both turned.

  Planck had snuck in. He was holding a cell phone.

  “You must be the most difficult man in Denmark to reach at the moment, Simon. They’ve created a special access for you where one has to dial three different numbers before you even come on the line.”

  “It’s to separate the fools from the idiots. Otherwise I wouldn’t do anything except talk on the phone. It’s bad enough as it is.”

  “Well, this man is neither a fool nor an idiot and he was turned away nine times.”

  Simonsen waved his arms in a theatrical gesture. “I wish you would respect the systems. He gets one minute. Tell him that.”

  Planck introduced him: “The chief inspector is ready for you now. Take your time.” Then he held out the phone.

  Simonsen took the phone, grunted his name, and listened. One minute grew to five. From time to time he asked a short question. Pedersen tried unsuccessfully to decode the conversation since it was obviously important. He did not, however, get further than a guess. Simonsen placed the cell phone on a desk without turning it off.

  “I believe that the final destination of our minivan has been found.” He pointed to the phone. “Take him along with you, Arne. You’re going to Frederiksværk. And you’ve got your hands full.”

  Chapter 45

  Simonsen’s orders that any criminal records of the victims, specifically
charges of child molestation, should be uncovered as quickly as possible spread like rings in the water across the nation, and despite the loud objections of many officers regarding the weekend work, the police machinery worked smoothly and yielded results. Troulsen gathered the threads together. Just back from the Dagbladet, he had a good knowledge of the victims. When he felt there was enough evidence to establish a sexual orientation toward children, he went to his boss. Simonsen waited in his office, where the poster of the victims now hung, stolen from Pedersen. The next red checkmark went to Jens Allan Karlsen from Århus, alias Mr. Southwest.

  Troulsen explained, “Bags of videos in the crawlspace under the house, several diskettes with fingerprints belonging to Allan Ditlevsen—that is, the hot-dog vendor from Middelford. He was also active on KidsOnTheLine.dk. At least four meetings with young virtual friends and unfortunately very real meetings. Also, he was thrown out of the Danish Boy Scouts. Would you like that story?”

  Simonsen shook his head and hung up.

  Peder Jacobsen—Mr. Southeast—was much more difficult to pin down as a child molester. The matter was inherently sensitive and none of the man’s friends could or would put this label on him. In his personal effects there was also nothing that pointed to a sexual attraction to children. The police worked hard and long without results and finally the matter was resolved in a hamburger joint in Brabrand.

  A fourteen-year-old boy and a man in his forties were sitting at a table by the window. Two plainclothes policemen walked over to them and one of them stuck his police badge under the nose of the man.

  “Scram.”

  The other grabbed the man’s coat and pushed it into his lap. He added, “Now!”

  The man left without protest and the two officers sat down.

  “When did you last get something to eat, Tommy?” The snarl in the officer’s voice was gone.

  “Think it was yesterday.”

  “What would you like?”

  “A cheeseburger would be good.”

  “We’ll buy you two, once we leave.”

  The officer who was sitting next to the boy took out a photograph from his jacket. It was rolled up into a cylinder and he had to smooth it out against the edge of the table a couple of times before it lay flat.