The Hanging

by Lotte Hammer

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about whether or not I even want to be part of this. Risk my job and my career for an idea that is as illegal as it is personal, and personal being the operative word. The question now is why I would help you, Simon, when you don’t even help yourself.”

  He didn’t follow, but quickly caught up. She dismissed his objections.

  “I’ve been on the phone with Anna Mia many times. She hardly knows what to think and is very worried, which I understand very well. She loves you and maybe I do too, I think. So now the conditions. I am together with you and Arne in this, wherever this leads. You have to give your word to obey the following starting Monday: one—take your diabetes medication regularly; two—go to a dietician and follow the directives you are given; three—stop smoking. The choice is up to you, Simon, but don’t bother telling me that your personal life doesn’t concern me. You opened the bag and you’re eating the sweets.”

  It was a lot at one time, even for a mature man in his best years. Perhaps love was blind, but definitely not mute, at least in her case, and the romantic element was not immediately apparent in her carefully numbered conditions. Simonsen looked away and chose escape. At least an attempt.

  “Kasper Planck and I established the Climber’s identity today. His name is Andreas Linke. But we don’t know his present whereabouts so we have to see if we can’t coax him out. Exactly like before we knew his name.”

  The Countess’s surprise was marked. “You’ve found him? Why haven’t you said so? Where was he?”

  The retired homicide chief’s voice cut dryly through from the bedroom and was impossible to ignore: “He’s throwing out jewels in order to escape, just like Rolf Krake of ancient lore.”

  Simonsen peered bewildered toward the sound of the voice. He had thought that the old man was sleeping. Then he drew his finger in a circle at his temple to indicate to the Countess that his predecessor was mentally unstable. It didn’t help matters much because Planck’s next sentence was not lost in the mists of fairy tales.

  “He’s sleeping. Hold him steady, you batty woman.”

  Simonsen threw his arms in the air with irritation. He shouted back, “Express yourself like a normal person. We don’t talk to each other like that.”

  He glanced apologetically at the Countess, but his third attempt to circumvent the issue didn’t work.

  “I asked you a question, Simon. Please be so kind as to answer it.”

  A couple of hours later, Kasper Planck, Arne Pedersen, Pauline Berg, and the Countess were sitting around Simonsen’s sofa table as their host was out on the balcony, smoking. Arne Pedersen was holding a telephone line open to Anita Dahlgren, who was at the Dagbladet office.

  He recounted to the rest, “She is wearing a headset and can speak more or less freely. Her computer is hooked up to reflect Anni Staal’s screen but right now that is just blank because Anni Staal hasn’t arrived yet. It’s worrying her that the place is starting to empty out. Most people have gone home.”

  Simonsen tossed the cigarette aside and closed the door. Then he said, “Anni Staal is on her way there. Erik Mørk has just called her and he said that she would be contacted in the space of half an hour. Now you can begin to hope.”

  No one talked for a while and everyone waited tensely until the Countess broke the silence: “I have some good news. Simon will stop smoking as of Monday.”

  The others nodded approvingly and praised him, apart from Planck, who chuckled.

  At the same moment, something started to happen. Arne Pedersen related in a running commentary, “Anni Staal has arrived.”

  Some time went by until his next sentence. The others sat on pins and needles.

  “She’s turning on her computer and inserting the flash drive… one moment, it takes a second… she is maybe starting a movie. Anita is not completely sure, but yes, now she’s sure and it’s from the hangings. Anita has no sound but the man in the film is crying, she says it’s Thor Gran. Yes, it is Gran. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible, Anita says. Anni Staal has stopped the film. She’s making a call on her landline phone.”

  He held up for a moment. “She doesn’t seem to be making a connection.” Suddenly he called out, “Dammit, Anita, hang up! I’ll call you back.”

  Then he ended the call and took the next one. It had been indicated in the background of his mobile phone’s call-waiting plan. The others were impressed by his complete transformation: he sounded like thunder.

  “What the hell is this, Anni? Can’t you get it into your pea brain that you can never call me? Last time you promised me that it would never happen again, so what is your pathetic excuse this time?”

  He listened, then he sneered, “Now I don’t believe anymore, I’m just sure, but if you have doubts you should get yourself a better source.”

  Again he listened and then answered, “No, that was right. The sequence in the films was different. The first one who was killed was Jens Allan Karlsen, he was at the very front and to the left, and the last one was Frank Ditlevsen, who was in the middle. Tell me, why in the world would you want to know that?”

  Again a pause. Then he wrapped things up: “Yes, do that, and you can add a thousand to my fee and don’t contact me again. Do you understand?”

  He hung up and then called Anita Dahlgren back. The connection was reestablished.

  The next twenty minutes were uneventful, aside from the fact that Pauline Berg left, which she did without fuss. At the Dagbladet, Anni Staal was writing an e-mail about how her interview with Konrad Simonsen had found its way to an unauthorized individual. She suspected a certain secretary.

  Then suddenly there was action again. Arne Pedersen narrated, “Her cell phone is ringing.”

  At the same time, the copy phone rang. Simonsen picked it up and listened. At one point he wrote something down and when he stopped, everyone was starting intensely at him.

  “He passed her test with the order of the hangings, and they are going to meet tomorrow.”

  Cheering followed this news. Even Kasper Planck made a fist.

  “Kongens Kringle at Hindstrup Hovedgade, eight kilometers east of Middelford at exactly twelve o’clock.”

  The Countess gently squeezed his arm. Then she asked, “Did he give her a name?”

  Simonsen purred like a hungry cat.

  “He did, in fact. He said that she could call him the Climber.”

  Chapter 71

  Stenholm Castle dated back to the middle of the 1500s, when the county’s baroness Lydike Rantzau had the Renaissance water fort built. At that time, Skipper Clement and his peasant mob’s abuses of the Jutlandish gentry under Count Fejde was still fresh in people’s minds and so the new home of the baroness was fortified to withstand a rebellious horde—strong and formidable, with thick double walls, countless embrasures, machicolations, and a moat and a drawbridge. The most attractive feature of the castle was without a doubt the old rhododendron garden in the month of May and the castle park, which was maintained in a natural English style with winding paths and superfluous little bridges arched over artificial ponds. The property stretched all the way down to Gamborg Fjord and continued into the Hind fir-tree nursery.

  Below the castle lay Hindstrup, a smaller province town that had an excellent yacht marina, a number of small niche industries, and a central square and adjoining pedestrian zone where a handful of stores struggled for survival. To call it a bustling town would be an exaggeration but people managed to get by, and although most of them were employed in Middelford or Odense, the village was far from dead. Mainly because the house prices were reasonable and the stream of tourists in the summer was substantial.

  In Hindstrup, Konrad Simonsen added “trespassing on private property” to the long row of sins he had compiled over the past few days. Luckily he was simply invading a woodshed and luckily the house it belonged to was currently for sale and unoccupied, but he really had no legitimate grounds for his presence there whatsoever. On the other hand, the spot was
almost perfect.

  He had arrived at night and begun by surveying the main street, a luminous white autumn moon making this possible. Diagonally across from the bakery Kongens Kringle was a library with an informational poster that promised access at eight o’clock the next day. He called the Countess and recounted this to her. She confirmed it groggily. Shortly afterward he found the shed behind a house on a side road off the main street. It was unlocked and filled with firewood, nylon packets with wooden blocks of irregular size piled from floor to ceiling, against one whole wall. Only the long sides of the shed were made of brick. The other two were made with horizontal lathing fitted with wide spaces so that the firewood could dry out in the wind. He made his way past the wood by laboriously moving bag after bag to the opposite wall and realized, once part of the wall had been freed, that this was the place he had been searching for.

  To the right he had an excellent view out to the bakery and straight ahead up the hill he saw the outline of the castle. The woods at the end of the castle grounds lay a few degrees to the left, and even with the naked eye in the moonlight one could see most of the edge of the forest. It didn’t get better than this. He fetched blankets and his travel bag from the car. He made himself as comfortable as possible on top of the woodpile and set his alarm. Right before he shut his eyes he shot a last, long look up at the forest and said quietly, “Good night, Climber. I’m going to get you tomorrow.”

  Then he fell asleep.

  Five hours later, his alarm clock chimed and he started his day as he had finished it the day before, by peeking out between the slats up toward the forest and the castle. In the dark the grade had appeared steeper but the scene was not much different from what he had imagined back home when the Countess—with the aid of some scissors, tape, and a printout from the Internet—had created an excellent map of Hindstrup and its environs. They had placed it on the dining-room table and studied it as intensely as a general’s map before a battle. After a while, Arne Pedersen had suggested a systematized approach, slapping the flat of his hand over different areas of the map as he spoke.

  “Okay. Village, castle, castle grounds that run up against the woods, the water, and tree nursery. The woods and the castle are high up, the village below. Let’s imagine that we’re the Climber. Where will he have the best overview of the situation? It’s almost a given.”

  He let his finger run along the edge of the woods.

  “Here he has an unobstructed view down to the main street. At least on the one side and I’ll bet five rum balls that that’s where Kongens Kringle is.”

  The Countess agreed: “Apart from the fact that betting no longer has a place in your repertoire, that fits very well. The building over here is probably the nursing home and it has an odd number. The bakery is probably opposite but he may also live in the village or have access to the castle. The view from there is even better. What is it being used for?”

  “A school for children with learning disabilities. I don’t think the possibility is very likely. His retreat would be hampered if—”

  Simonsen had been looking at the map for a long time. Now he broke in. “It’s the woods. He feels safe among the trees. He sets up in there and lurks around until the coast is clear. I can feel it. He’s probably already there before it gets light. Remember that he waited half the night by the hot-dog stand in Allerslev.”

  Planck shook his head. The Countess gave him an anxious glance and Pedersen said, “I suggest eight to ten plainclothes officers in the village, ideally from PET, and then thirty to forty men in the woods and the nursery. That will create an iron ring that he doesn’t have the chance to escape.”

  He went on, turned directly toward Simonsen: “Call in the special forces if you can. Those boys are supertalented and we have enough time to organize it.”

  Simonsen shook his head. “How many people want him to get away? Half of the population? Twenty percent? Ten percent? Give me a guess.”

  The Countess answered reluctantly, understanding where he was headed, “It is hard to say. Public sentiment is about to swing again, I think, but for the moment we have what is almost a media war. The press coverage is unpredictable and much of the so-called news reporting is manipulative or strongly biased.”

  “A speech, Countess. You may want to write it down. Is it ten percent?”

  “No, that is too optimistic. Much too optimistic, unfortunately.”

  Simonsen turned to Pedersen. “Arne, you’re good at estimating. To assume a low estimate, let us say five percent. What are the chances of selecting seventy people where no one—not a single one—divulges the plans before they are under way?”

  It was an irrefutable point and neither Pedersen nor the Countess made any objections when their boss concluded, “Our task force tomorrow consists of the three of us. I’ll take off soon and you, Countess, will turn up at eight A.M. At that time I will have scouted out a place for us both. Arne, you follow Anni Staal, but in a car other than your own.”

  No one had any reasonable alternatives to offer Not even Kasper Planck. Pedersen asked, “What if he calls back and changes the location? That’s something I would do.”

  “You’ll take the copy phone and we’ll have to improvise, but I know that he will be hiding in that forest until they meet. That’s how he is. The woods are his best friend and his worst enemy.”

  This time even Pedersen grew worried.

  But Simonsen, in the woodshed, was not worried. Without any sense of urgency, he ate his liverwurst sandwiches and washed them down with a big gulp of water from his water bottle. Coffee and a morning smoke would have to wait, which turned out to be easier than he had feared. A pleasant tingle of anticipation went through his body and made him at once relaxed and restless. He took out his weapon from his service bag. It was years since he had been armed, and he had to spend a little time adjusting the straps of the shoulder holster to accommodate his current size. Immediately thereafter, his cell phone rang.

  It was half past eight and Pedersen had arranged a phone meeting. His voice came through clearly: “I’ve pulled over at a rest stop outside Korsør. There’s nothing of interest from Anni Staal’s telephone, apart from the fact that she hasn’t left yet. I hope they haven’t changed the meeting place to Valby, for example, because in that case we’ll be screwed. I’ve rented an Audi, by the way, a sweet car. I’m going to switch now and am anxious to see if you can hear me.”

  The Countess answered. She was whispering, but also came through clearly: “Bookworm here, and I can hear you loud and clear, Audi. I’m reading the paper and have an excellent view of the café but not much else. My only problem is the head librarian, so I’m going to limit my communication to what is absolutely necessary—as long as she is in the reading room.”

  It was Simonsen’s turn. He had wedged his cell phone between two of the sacks of firewood close to his head so that he had his hands free. His message was brief: “I hear you, but let’s concentrate.”

  Arne Pedersen answered, “Audi here. I have nothing to concentrate on except a half-empty freeway. What are you doing, Simon? Shouldn’t you have a code name as well?” He grinned.

  It was the Countess who answered, still whispering, “I think we should call him Nimrod.”

  She was not smiling. Nor was Simonsen.

  “I’m working, so stop with the nonsense.”

  They were silent.

  Simonsen hunted. Slowly, methodically, and with the utmost concentration he searched for his prey by scouring the edge of the forest. The fall colors made it easy to differentiate among the trees. The sun was behind him and its pale light filled his sight with clear red, yellow, orange, and green shades. Here and there were trees that had lost all their leaves and broke the palette with their black branches and naked twigs. Like witches’ fingers. From time to time a cloud obscured the sun and the woods changed character to an inscrutable mass, uniform and compact. But hardly a minute would go by before the sun came out again. He used these pauses to tra
in the binoculars down on the main street or on the freestanding trees of the castle grounds. He did not bother to look at the castle itself.

  Not much happened. At one point, a gardener came to a halt on one of the many small white bridges in the garden. He stared out in front of him for almost ten minutes, unmoving, as if he were sucking up groundwater. The man was over fifty and presumably of no interest. Nonetheless, Simonsen drew a sigh of relief when he finally decided to continue with his life and slowly shuffled off down to the village, where he disappeared. Two men appeared, occupied with surveying, but they also disappeared after a while. No other human activity was discernible.

  “I hope you’re inside somewhere, Simon.”

  It was the Countess and her voice was normal. The head librarian must have left.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “The weather, of course. We’re going to get a real shower in a little while, or what do you think? You are the one who has the better view, unless there’s something I’ve misunderstood.”

  There was nothing she had misunderstood but Simonsen had a view only of half the sky. He put the binoculars down, crawled down from his seat, and made his way to the door of the shed.

  Out over the water, the sky was covered with leaden thunderclouds and lightning flashed at the horizon. He watched the storm with fascination. Turbulent air flow and currents on the underside of the weather system tore off gray wisps of clouds and hurled them toward the water. Darkness won out and approached. Suddenly there was a waterspout, then another and, a little farther, a third. Curved, thicker at the top and slender at the bottom, the three giant fangs drifted toward the coast in an uncertain dance. But the phenomenon lasted only a short while. Immediately upon reaching land, the three columns were consumed by the earth, while a rumble rolled in over the village like a casual burp. Then the rain started to fall.