The Hanging Girl

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  They looked around the living room. There wasn’t much to write home about. Unopened bills in the fruit bowl, piles of dusty Danish easy-listening CDs, furniture from discount stores, ugly ashtrays and vases in peeling ceramic. They let her lie there for a short while to come around, her stony eyes directed at the ceiling, while they went out to the kitchen where abnormally ugly tiles from the seventies sucked the light out of the room many Danes called the heart of the home. Even Carl could see that that description by no stretch of the imagination matched the owner’s ramshackle chaos of a room.

  “We can’t be hard on her, not in her state,” Rose whispered. “If we go gently, we can always come back tomorrow.”

  They both noticed that Assad didn’t seem to agree. “Come in here,” June shouted with a weak voice.

  “You started this, Carl, so I think it should be you who says it to her. And tell it like it is, okay?” said Rose.

  He was just about to point his finger at her but felt Assad’s hand on his arm. Then he walked in to the woman and looked her straight in the eye.

  “We’re here to inform you that your son is dead, June. But that’s not all, unfortunately. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he took his own life. At approximately four o’clock, according to the medical officer.”

  She sucked in her cheeks and sat a moment as though looking at herself in a mirror and trying to pull back the years from its merciless image of reality.

  “Four o’clock?” she whispered, stroking her arm up and down. “Oh God, that was just after I called and told him about his dad.” She tried to swallow a couple of times, held her throat, and then said no more.

  When they’d sat with her for half an hour, Carl nodded to Rose. She could let go of the woman’s hand now so that they could get going.

  They had only just made it through the living room before Assad started.

  “Would you mind if I asked you something just before we go?” he said. “Why didn’t you go up to your son yourself and tell him about his dad, June? Did you really hate your husband so much that you never asked yourself if your son felt the same way? Did you think he wouldn’t care if his dad was dead or alive? I’d like to know.”

  Rose beat Carl to it in firmly grabbing Assad’s arm. What on earth did he think he was up to?

  Empathy wasn’t normally one of his weaker points.

  Trembling, June looked down at the floor, as if everything in her wanted to grab Assad’s throat and squeeze.

  “Why do you want to know that, you ugly ape?” she said with a muffled voice. “What’s that got to do with you? Was it your life that bastard Christian took from you? Take a look around, would you? Do you think this was what I said yes to when that once handsome man kneeled in front of me on the grass out in Almindingen forest?”

  Assad held his chin in his hand. Maybe to keep his mouth shut after her degrading tirade, maybe to show her that he was prepared to take the next round if it could help the case.

  “Are you going to answer or what?” spat out from her hateful face.

  Assad pulled free of Rose’s grip and stepped forward. Unusually for him, his voice was slightly shaky.

  “I’ve seen worse houses than this, June. And I’ve seen people who’d sacrifice their arm or leg for your ugly dilapidated roof over their heads and your bloody awful junk food in the fridge. I have, and I’ve known people who’d kill for your dress and the half pack of smokes lying there. But no, now that you ask: I don’t think it was what you dreamt of. But aren’t dreams something you have to fight for? As I see it, it isn’t only Christian Habersaat’s fault that you’re sitting here and your son is lying in the morgue. Something doesn’t add up in this story. For example, why did your son write Sorry, Dad in his little suicide note? Why doesn’t he say sorry to you instead?”

  This time it was Carl who grabbed Assad’s sleeve. “What the hell’s gotten into you, Assad? Come on, we’re going.”

  June raised her arm toward them as she hoisted herself up from where she was lying. It wasn’t just that the information about the suicide note shocked her, but they could see that she also refused to believe it. That it was absurd. That it belonged to another world than hers.

  “It isn’t true what you’re saying, you evil liar,” she said with clenched fists. “It isn’t true.”

  Rose nodded affirmatively that it was, as Carl pulled Assad out with him.

  When the group had reached the van on the other side of the road, Carl and Rose turned quizzically toward Assad.

  “Is there something going on inside you that you ought to tell us about, Assad?” Carl asked. “This must be striking a chord or why on earth would you pull a stunt like that in there? What good did it do?”

  “Clown!” was Rose’s only comment. Surprisingly concise.

  A thud came from behind as June banged the gate wide open.

  “Now I’ll answer you, you little shit!” she shouted as she crossed the road.

  “Bjarke had nothing to say sorry to me for, just so you know,” she spat out at Assad.

  She turned to Carl and Rose. The tears streamed from her but the face was stone-cold. “We had a good life without Christian. How should I know why Bjarke would write that? He’s just a bit complicated.” She stopped, realizing her slip of the tongue. “Was complicated,” she corrected herself, her lips beginning to tremble.

  Then she grabbed Rose’s arm. “Do you know the story about Alberte?”

  Rose nodded.

  She looked surprised and let go of her grip. “Well, good. Then there’s no more to say.” She dried her eyes on the back of her sleeve. “My husband was obsessed with her. Ever since the day he found her body, he no longer existed in our world. He became loathsome, spiteful, and creepy. He disgusted me. Have you heard what you came for now?”

  She turned to Assad. “And to you I’ll say that despite what you think, you know nothing of my dreams or about how I’ve fought to make them come true, do you?”

  Something happened to her in that moment. As if she didn’t know the answer herself. As if standing on the road in the twilight knocked her down a gear.

  It was at this moment Carl saw her properly for the first time. Not just a scorned woman over sixty, but a woman who in her mind had missed out on a huge chunk of life, while her body deteriorated. Just now, she seemed to find herself in that state of limbo that from time to time Carl wished he could bury himself in.

  And then she pointed to Assad, collecting herself before opening her mouth again.

  “I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” she almost sang. “But it don’t snow here, it stays pretty green . . .” She looked like she’d continue in her own train of thought, but gave up, her expression changing as she got back on track and remembered her aversion toward the dark curly-haired man standing in front of her.

  “So just keep your mouth shut about my dreams,” she said and let her hand fall. “And you took the liberty to ask me why I didn’t go to my son and tell him about his dad instead of just calling. Do you really want to know?”

  Assad nodded.

  “You see, that’s exactly why I won’t tell you.”

  She moved step by step backward over the road, observing them individually with contempt. “And now get out of here. I won’t open the door for you a second time, if you hadn’t already worked that out!”

  * * *

  They sat down in the hotel dining room with Rose’s PC in front of them. It was dark outside now, so they agreed to wait until the day after to meet with the substitute accountant representing Listed Community Hall. There were a few questions and impressions that needed to be processed first. The woman who’d heard about the death of her son and ex-husband on the same day without totally losing it still haunted them.

  “Why did she say that about the river she wanted to skate on?” said Assad. “Do we know if she’s had a stay in
the laundry bin?”

  “Loony bin, Assad, the other is for sorting out your clothes!” Rose chipped in. “And you appear to be the loony after the scene you made today.”

  “Well, it worked, didn’t it? What does it say about her?”

  “That she worked for many years in Brændegårdshaven Amusement Park, now known as Joboland. Make sense of that if you can. In the winter she works as a waitress in various places, so I don’t see any obvious gaps in her life that point to any sort of nuthouse.”

  “When we go to Listed tomorrow to see Christian Habersaat’s house and the community hall, we might meet someone or other who can help us try to understand the Habersaat family better, so leave it for now. Shall we get going with the DVD?” Carl turned to Rose. “Are you sure you want to stay and watch, Rose?”

  She looked puzzled. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve gone to police academy, too, you know, and seen pictures of corpses before.”

  “Fair enough, but these aren’t photos. As far as I know, it’s a very clear recording of a man who shoots himself in the temple. It isn’t quite the same.”

  “I’m with Carl, Rose,” said Assad. “Be careful. It can make you quite noxious when you see it the first time.”

  Carl shook his head. Some words were obviously harder than others. “This time it’s actually nauseous, Assad. And yes, Rose, it can be really unpleasant.”

  If he imagined that she was finished protesting, then the following minute-long tirade about how absolutely ridiculous they both were convinced him that any further shielding of Rose’s mental well-being was useless.

  He pressed PLAY.

  “According to the meager report we have to date about the event, the recording was filmed by one of Habersaat’s acquaintances who lived on the same road,” Carl said. “A guy known by everyone on the island as Uncle Sam. As far as I know, it was Habersaat’s own camera, so Sam wasn’t too hot at handling it in the first few minutes.”

  The last part was certainly true. There were some panning shots around the room, filmed with the speed of an Afghan hound and as shaky as a Lars von Trier Dogme film. It didn’t make for pleasant viewing if you were prone to motion sickness.

  The room wasn’t exactly full. According to the list, there was the chair of the civic association and her substitute accountant, who had seen to the formalities. Then there was the police commissioner, the local representative from the police union, Police Superintendent Birkedal, the neighbor from one door down, Uncle Sam, a retired sexton from Nexø, a former cooperative manager, the village handyman, and one further individual who felt sick and left early.

  “A poor turnout to honor someone,” Assad grunted. “Maybe that’s why he blew his brains out.”

  “He shot himself because Carl couldn’t be bothered to listen to him,” came the dry response behind him.

  “Thanks, Rose. It’s impossible for us to know that. Now, can we continue?”

  It was only after a few minutes, and after Habersaat had poured the white wine, that Uncle Sam worked out how to use the video camera. Now the camera panned slowly around in the lofty run-down hall with a couple of doors leading out to smaller rooms, then to a single hatch in the wall, probably opening out to the kitchen for serving on more festive occasions, and over the walls where a series of paintings hung of different merit and size.

  Habersaat stood in his finest clothes at the end of the hall in front of the windows overlooking a road that Carl took to be Hans Thygesens Vej, with the sea somewhere in the background. Okay, the dress uniform wasn’t exactly modern, but then neither was Carl’s. In their line of work, there was seldom cause for dusting down formal wear.

  “Thanks for coming,” began Habersaat. He seemed surprisingly calm, as if he had not given a thought to what he was about to do.

  Carl observed the timer on the recording. In less than four minutes it would happen because that was when the recording ended. If it had been one of Carl’s acquaintances who killed himself as Carl was filming, he’d also have had enough after a couple of minutes. A damn hellish thought.

  He glanced over at Rose. No doubt she was noting the timer, too, her eyes already half closed. There was certainly no protest from him if they were.

  Habersaat toasted his guests and talked calmly to them, while the cameraman panned past the expressionless faces of the assembled group. He mentioned his time as a country copper in the good old days and apologized that he couldn’t have stayed as he once had been. At this point the cameraman zoomed in on his pain-filled eyes, and publicly and without any sentimentality Habersaat apologized for allowing himself to be consumed by the infamous Alberte case that had robbed him of his former life. Then he directed his attention to his colleagues in the force and gave vent to his frustration and shame about the work that had been carried out.

  “I wouldn’t mind if he’d zoom out now so we could see what’s happening,” Assad said.

  Rose said nothing. She simply sat shaking her head.

  Protests could be heard from the man the report stated was the police union representative at the reception, but that didn’t seem to faze Habersaat in the slightest. However, it did inspire Uncle Sam to zoom out so that Habersaat and the wall behind him were in full view.

  Rose gave a start when he pulled the pistol out and pointed it at the two superior officers standing right in front of the cameraman. You’d be forgiven for thinking they both had a very dark belt in judo or a similar sport with advanced falling technique because both men flew instantaneously to the side in a roll worthy of the best circus performer. Birkedal’s assertion that he’d checked first to see if it was a dummy was revealed for what it was now.

  “This is it,” mumbled Assad as Habersaat without the least hesitation put the pistol up to his temple and fired.

  The recording just caught the head being hurled to one side together with the undefined white and red mass that lashed to the left of the room. Then the man collapsed as the camera also fell to the floor.

  Carl turned to Rose but she was no longer there.

  “Where did she go?” asked Carl.

  Assad pointed over his shoulder to the staircase. It was too much for her after all.

  “There you have it, then,” said Assad without the least sign of emotion. “Turns out Habersaat was left-handed.”

  How could someone get through something that terrible so casually and analytically?

  7

  September 2013

  By the way the man’s voice was trembling on the phone, he revealed himself to be not only nervous but totally shaken and unsure of himself. Pirjo noticed it immediately.

  He could be worth his weight in gold.

  “Your name is Lionel, you say. That’s a nice name,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Yes, as I said, my name is Lionel and I’d like to be a singer.”

  Pirjo smiled. Another one of those. Great.

  “I know my voice is good but the minute I have to prove it to someone else I clam up. That’s why I’m calling.”

  There was a short pause. He just needed to collect himself.

  She thought it best then not to ask him if he even had the voice to fulfill the dream.

  “Have you tried to shut the world out, Lionel? To find nature inside you and let your primeval force direct calm, concentration, and happiness through singing?”

  “I don’t really know . . .”

  “I’ve heard this so many times before, you see. When you want something so badly, as I understand you do, it’s easy to be thrown off-balance. You swing, so to speak, against your own energy. I think that’s what’s happening to you when your voice clams up. But do you experience the same sort of insecurity when you do other things, Lionel? Because if that isn’t the case, then I have to advise you to seek out one of the bioacoustic treatment methods or maybe even grounding body fission, which I can refer you t
o once we’ve ascertained what would be best and safest for you.”

  “That sounds complicated, but if it works, then . . .”

  “Listen to me, Lionel. Spiritual growth is difficult but there are methods to achieve it and develop a more specific, collective karma. It demands a lot of work, of course, but it’s good to remember the bodhisattva vow ‘We will not rest until each and every being has been saved from suffering,’ and that’s how it will be for you in your case. To put it briefly, I’m sure we can find a passable way for you, too.”

  There was a deep sigh, Lionel was caught in the net. Yes, it would be expensive.

  Sitting there, as stoic as a vestal before the eternal fire, keeping guard over the lives and lifestyles of weak people, was where Pirjo was at her best. Her insufficient upbringing may have emphasized that you should never take someone for a ride, but why have scruples about that when from time to time you could lift a person’s life up toward higher levels by choosing to have your thumb on the scale?

  When people called her asking for a little insight into the road to a better future, why shouldn’t they have it? When they fed her with information about their trivial day-to-day lives, banal dreams, and sad hopes, and she subsequently interpreted it so that they had something to look forward to, what could be wrong with that, if they only made the right effort? Hadn’t she seen several times what it could mean when her clients received something to prop them up? And wasn’t it true that a few people on earth were better skilled to predict things and organize the fates than others? It was certainly a skill she had. Atu had convinced her of that long ago.

  Pirjo smiled. These phone advice sessions were, in all their simplicity, ingenious and lucrative, and, what was better, it was her idea and all her own income. On Mondays she was the psychologist on one number and on Wednesdays she took on the role of the therapist on the other line, which she’d suggested they should call when the results of the first conversation needed further attention. A voice generator meant that on Mondays she sounded light and ethereal and on Wednesdays professionally dark and authoritative. You’d really have to know better to figure out what she was up to. It certainly wasn’t possible to recognize the voice.