by Lotte Hammer
“I don’t drink beer at this time of day. What do you want? I’m on break.”
Anni smiled ironically. “I actually don’t either.”
“Then why did you buy them, for God’s sake?”
“Because this is personal, and because we are Danish. We don’t talk about personal things without beer, do we?”
Anita realized the logic of this. One had to honor one’s cultural heritage. She gave in and took a swig, but without any kind of toast. That would have been too much. Anni also drank. Afterward, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
It was a silly question. They both knew the answer and it came curtly: “No, I don’t like you. You are good at what you do and I can learn from you but I don’t like you.”
“Well, you aren’t the only one. I’ve learned to live with it over time.”
“In the best, most arrogant way.”
“If you say so. I didn’t come here to quarrel with you.”
“Then why?”
“You have a really good source in the Homicide Division, isn’t that true?”
“Did you really think that I would answer that question?”
“Please note that I have not asked who it is, only if you have one. But, all right, it’s fairly easy to guess who it is so you don’t have to say anything. I’ll assume that is how it is.”
“You have your own sources.”
“Let’s put that aside for the moment. What is your opinion on the pedophilia murders?”
“You already know.”
“Come on, don’t be so contrary. Give me the quick rundown.”
“Sure. My employer is setting a new record low in appealing to vigilantism and mob rule. This witch hunt for child molesters is disgusting and we don’t stop at anything to help make it worse. The politicians are lining up to express themselves in a suitably diluted manner so that the real message doesn’t miss even the most ignorant voter. Five, six… ten, twenty, two hundred, one thousand, they are animals, not people, let us exterminate them. Where is it I’ve heard this before?”
This angered Anni against her will and also hurt a bit, which was an unfamiliar emotion. But the girl’s historical parallel pierced her otherwise impervious surface. She took care, however, not to sound too upset.
“I’m not advocating violence, but I also am not going to stand for the rape of children. And definitely not for children being ordered as if they were consumer goods. I don’t think even you can ignore that video?”
Anita made a gesture of helplessness. The discussion was futile.
“And how do you think we make our living? Have you taken a look at the latest sales figures?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been reading stories about beatings and bands of thugs from across the entire country, but we’ll probably choose to downplay those in tomorrow’s paper, on account of space restrictions.”
Irritation oozed out of her.
“Tell me, why don’t you find another job?”
“How do you know I’m not looking?”
“I don’t. Have you seen our new opinion poll? It was posted on the Web site yesterday.”
“No, luckily.”
“Question: Do you truly wish that the pedophile crimes will be solved? Do you want to take a guess?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Sixty-four percent no, twenty-eight percent don’t know, eight percent yes. We’re putting it on the front page.”
“That I can well imagine. We’re feeding the dog its own bile.”
“What do you mean?”
Anita did not answer immediately. She finished her beer first. It had disappeared alarmingly fast. An occupational hazard at such a young age. The selfreproach was exaggerated and she smiled a joyless little smile.
“It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you tell me what you want from me?”
“Your help. I’ve been thinking that the biggest problem for the police right now is public opinion. The Homicide Division doesn’t just have an investigation to perform, it also has a PR problem. To put it another way—if they can’t change public opinion, their job will get harder and harder and sooner or later they will realize this.”
“And where do I enter this picture?”
“I want an exclusive interview with Konrad Simonsen.”
“You do?”
“Yes, me. And it has to be with him, not one of the people he shoves to the front when the public needs to be informed about something. If we can overcome our personal antipathy, this arrangement could be mutually beneficial.”
Anni underscored her logic by tapping a finger on the table. She didn’t mention that the idea had come in the mail from a reader. A couple of borrowed feathers wouldn’t hurt. Anita was thinking it over and coming to the conclusion that her boss was right.
“And this is something that you want me to pass along? Why so complicated? Why don’t you just call and ask him?”
“I’ll think about that.”
“Rubbish. You think fast. Tell me if you’re going to do it or not.”
The answer was arrogant and dismissive: “Maybe, maybe not. You’ll find out.”
Anita stood up. “Thanks for the beer.”
Anni watched her leave.
“You’re welcome, you little bitch.”
Chapter 54
“Selfish bitch.”
Poul Troulsen snarled at Emilie Mosberg Floyd. Arne Pedersen and Pauline Berg glanced at him, then exchanged looks. This reaction wasn’t like him. Normally he was calm and balanced—at least when he was among his colleagues—but the woman had apparently gotten under his skin.
All three of them were sitting in a narrow cubicle behind interrogation room 4 at the police headquarters in Copenhagen. The pane of glass between the two rooms filled most of one wall. On the other side it looked like a mirror, a standard arrangement in police stations around the world that allowed others to participate in the sessions without being seen or heard. This was at least how it was envisioned, but the concealed speakers that carried the sound were from the Stone Age so the acoustics were terrible and the voices took on a metallic and highly irritating echo. From time to time they dropped out entirely. The Countess’s voice in particular was distorted. She sounded like a cartoon character. Being deeper, Konrad Simonsen’s voice came through more intact.
Troulsen did not turn his head when he asked, “Aren’t you two going somewhere?”
Berg stood up as if she had been given an order.
Pedersen asked, “Why are you so angry with her?”
“I don’t really know. Maybe because I don’t think for a moment that she was planning to turn to us if we hadn’t found her. Maybe because I’m dead tired of this halfhearted cooperation from the public. In the best case. If it were up to me, we would simply replace people with a newer and better model, as the poet so excellently suggested to the powers that be. I haven’t had such a tough time in my job since I stood guard at the American embassy during the Vietnam demonstrations in 1967. And a couple of hours ago I took it out on a greasy little bureaucrat at the Gentofte city hall, which irritates me and will probably give us an unnecessary and silly complaint.”
Pedersen fell into a similarly despondent mood and started thinking about his own troubles. “I know what you’re saying. On Friday one of my boys was bullied by his classmates because of my job, and now we have to go to a meeting at the school because he gave one of his tormentors a bloody nose. Normally I try to teach my kids to handle things without violence but this time I made an exception and told him I was proud of him. I wish the pride went both ways. Unfortunately that’s not the case right now, even though he doesn’t say anything directly.”
He could have added that he was also thoroughly tired of having to deliver tasty morsels from the investigation to the Dagbladet, just because a retired old crank had a feeling. But he said nothing about any of that.
“Why don’t you ask to be switched to …”<
br />
Berg’s comment was kindly meant. She was having problems, too. But their faces brought her to silence.
“And leave him all alone with this shit?” Troulsen’s sweeping gesture toward Simonsen was almost reverent.
Pedersen stood up and pushed Berg along in front of him. He excused her inwardly, she was from another generation. Maybe less masochistic, maybe just a little dumber.
On the other side of the glass, the interrogation of Emilie Mosberg Floyd was proceeding well. She was cooperative. Without complaining, she repeated what she had already explained to Troulsen. She took her time in the telling, and tried to convey feelings or mood when asked. From time to time—if she found a question difficult—she thought long and hard. But there was nothing painful about these silences, and both Simonsen and the Countess waited patiently. So they were doing at the moment, even though the pause was unusually long. In return, she gave an extensive report.
“I really don’t think that it’s particularly relevant if he stopped drinking. Per was an alcoholic when I found him, there was no doubt about that. He only barely managed his job and was indifferent to everything. His life went to pieces when he lost Helene and he punished himself by destroying his health and his psyche. But the conversations between him and Jeremy had an effect. As I mentioned, I often picked him up in Bagsværd and often drove him back again. Apart from at the beginning of this process, he was never drunk or even half drunk. How he managed in between these times I don’t know. It could be two weeks at a stretch before we would see each other. That’s why I can’t tell you if he stopped drinking, but I can say definitely that he changed. He stopped being indifferent and became present, much more present.”
She searched for the right words.
“And… what shall I say?… very clear. Per could be an exceptionally… electrifying person, almost dominating. No, not almost dominating, very dominating. And very intelligent in his own quiet way. It was as if he managed to be humble and arrogant at the same time. A rare characteristic. For better or for worse, Jeremy was very fascinated by him in the beginning and convinced him to tell his story to the other patients.”
“Or was it the other way around?” the Countess asked.
“I don’t understand.”
She did not have a chance to elaborate, as Simonsen’s next question trumped hers: “Did you and Per Clausen have a sexual relationship?”
Only years of training made it possible for the Countess to conceal her amazement. An amorous connection between this woman and the janitor was the last thing she would have imagined and the age difference alone made it rude to ask. And then there was the difference in lifestyle. To her great astonishment, Emilie Mosberg Floyd did not dismiss the thought out of hand, nor was she selfconscious in the least.
“No, not sexual, not in the traditional sense of the word. We have never been to bed with each other. Per would never have agreed to anything like that.”
“But you had a relationship?”
“Yes, you could say that. We did.”
For the first time during her questioning, the woman was reticent, and the Countess sent silent thoughts of gratitude to her boss. When he was good, he was very good. The psychiatrist’s weak link had obviously been his wife. This was beginning to make sense. She slipped in the next question: “When you drove him home, did you stay with him?”
“In the beginning we talked in the car. Later on we went into his place and talked, sometimes all night. Or I slept while he lay next to me. My marriage was very rocky at that time. My husband was always at work and he expected me to do everything at home. To top it off, he had other women on the side and he often took his vacation by himself. Per helped me. He told me which battles I should take on and when and which I should put aside until later. He consulted Jeremy, I consulted him, and in the end we all won. That is, before these… crimes occurred. Per died and the newspaper wrote all kinds of things about him. That was hard. I was frustrated and angry and sad at the same time, and I miss him so terribly, much more than I miss Jeremy, but I couldn’t get away to go to his funeral so I had to settle for putting a bouquet on his grave the next day.”
The Countess observed quietly, “Perhaps it was also because you had guessed at the connection and didn’t wish to get involved.”
Emilie Mosberg Floyd glanced at the tape recorder and managed a nod. They let it stay at that.
Simonsen said, “It’s hard to imagine that the two of you never talked about how things were going with his therapy. The two of you, as well as your husband and you.”
“We did but only a little. Per preferred to keep those two things separate. Jeremy did too. He hated the fact that I was talking with Per but he had no choice but to accept it. When I told him about it he was furious and threatened to stop Per’s treatment but then for the first time I stood up for myself. I told him in that case I would take the children and leave. He backed down at that and it was my first victory. Later there were others.”
“But from time to time his name must have come up.”
“Yes, it did. When the one-on-one sessions between Jeremy and his patients were over he liked to place them in self-help groups. How long it took for a patient to be paired with that kind of group could vary a lot from case to case. It could be anything from six months to a year. Jeremy was very very careful about constructing groups that he thought would be successful, including taking geographic locations into account if he could. His patients often came from far away, some even from Jutland. A group usually consisted of four to six individuals and in the beginning they met with Jeremy under his direction. After a while they were supposed to continue on their own without him; they were—so to speak—kicked out of the nest, a process that took a couple of months but could also vary from group to group.”
“And Per Clausen joined this kind of group?”
“That was the problem. I talked with Jeremy a couple of times about it. He had some reservations about ending Per’s treatment in that way. For his part, Per very much wanted to join a group. He told me so at several different times and I put a lot of pressure on Jeremy to give him what he wanted.”
She stared sadly out into the room, then parted with her last bit of information.
“Yes, I forced him to do it, I’m afraid, and Jeremy probably also wanted to be done with Per. Push him out of our lives, so to speak. It was hard for him to separate the personal and professional in Per’s case.”
“Why did he have reservations? Was it because Per Clausen had not been abused himself?”
“No, it was something else. In part he was afraid that Per would dominate the group and there was some ground for his apprehension. As I mentioned, Per had an incredible manipulative strength, but that wasn’t the problem. It was more that Per… Per just hated pedophiles. With a red-hot, glowing hatred. We talked about Helene’s stepfather once, that he was seriously ill. Per told me that and was overjoyed. I don’t know where he had heard it. Another time there had been one of those terrible cases where a child had been killed. Per’s reaction was pathological. Not that he seemed beside himself, it was more the opposite. He was very… controlled, and at the same time he managed to frighten me without really saying very much. It’s difficult to explain. He was… I don’t know how to explain so that you will understand. He was… creepy. It was a side of him I didn’t like but perhaps it was his real self if we have something like that. Jeremy said once that there was not enough coal in the world to paint a true picture of Per’s soul, but it was during an argument so he was exaggerating.”
Neither of her listeners was convinced of this detail but both refrained from comment. On the other side of glass, Troulsen shook his head in vexation. Her story was substantially different from the one she had told only a short while ago.
Simonsen asked, “So the result was that Per Clausen joined a group?”
“Yes, he did, and Jeremy gathered together a group of people that he felt could offer Per a certain resistance, who had strong p
ersonalities themselves. The whole thing was quite an undertaking for him.”
“But you never got the names? Either from your husband or Per Clausen?”
“No, no, I never did.”
She hesitated.
There was something else and the Countess gave her the classic opening: “But …”
“But… there were some… some episodes. Per commented one time that one could say a lot about pedophiles but their victims spanned the social spectrum. Something like that, and then he added, a nurse, a farmer, an advertising executive, a janitor, and a climber. That was right after his group was formed.”
“A climber. What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I wondered that myself when I had time to think it over. In that situation I figured he meant Jeremy, who was a mountain climber in his spare time, but he probably meant someone else. Per would hardly refer to Jeremy as a climber but paradoxically enough I think that that’s the reason I can recall the phrase at all, indeed, that I can remember the order. Of course, I have no idea if he mentioned all of them.”
“You never saw them?”
“Never, none of them, apart from Per, of course. He always came a little early and sat with me in the kitchen and had a cup of coffee. That is to say, those times when I didn’t pick him up. After that he would go down to Jeremy. The others used the basement entrance.”
The Countess let her arms fall helplessly to her side. The woman misunderstood this gesture and preassumed it indicated a lack of respect for the patient’s right to anonymity. She suddenly sounded sharp and professional.
“A violation of anonymity at the wrong time can often mean the difference between success and failure in this kind of therapy. I don’t think you really understand what sexual abuse in childhood does to people and how deeply it scars their souls. Did you know that some victims have to go to special dentists for the rest of their lives because they have such an intractable resistance to opening their mouths for others?”
This was a side of her they had not yet seen. It was the cardiologist commanding the nurse. The Countess didn’t bother to explain herself, she simply apologized. That was the easiest. Simonsen brought the conversation back to the matter at hand.