The Hanging: A Thriller (21 page)

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.

“What is this? Can you answer me, you disgusting pervert?”

The unfortunate man answered as best he could but was not particularly convincing. In part because he had the handicap of the merciless grip on his neck.

“It’s not my video. I borrowed it from one of my friends who’s a cop. And I’ve never seen it before. Fuck, you
know
me.”

His last remark was regrettable. Neither of the two men wished to be reminded of their acquaintance.

“A cop. Since when did the police start lending out child pornography?”

The distrust was massive and impossible to overcome.

“You like little kids? Then we have something in common. I do too, just not in your way.”

A shockingly hard and brutal blow struck the man in the region of his kidneys and he screamed in pain. A kick that was aimed at his groin missed its mark and hit his thigh. The next one was more precise. The neighbor who lived one floor below called the police.

CHAPTER 36

The meeting in Lokale Viggo at the
Dagbladet
was postponed three times. The editor in chief was a busy man and Anni Staal had no choice other than to accept the delays with irritation and a hope that the new arrangement would hold. It got very late before it finally took place.

Along with Anni Staal in the meeting room were the editor in chief and the new senior legal counsel. An overhead projector displayed the contents of a computer on a large screen at one end of the table, and in the bottom right-hand corner it indicated a time of 10:41
P.M.
A tray of sandwiches struggling not to dry out was placed before the three participants, but no one felt tempted. The editor in chief pried the cap off his beer with a little
plop
. He used his lighter. Anni nodded approvingly and he opened one more, then slid it over to her. Then the door opened and a man in his early sixties rushed in. He—the publisher and executive editor—tossed his coat onto a chair and sat down. He greeted each of them as he grabbed a beer. In contrast to his colleagues, he took a plastic cup and inspected it against the light before he ponderously poured himself a glass. Only when the glass was filled did he begin.

“Sorry for the delay but it wasn’t easy for me to get here. And, Anni, this had better be damn important. I can’t remember when I last attended a meeting without knowing the agenda and definitely not at this time of day.”

Anni Staal wasted no time.

“You can judge for yourself. This afternoon I received an anonymous e-mail from a sender by the name of Chelsea. I have no idea if this refers to the girl’s name, the city, or the soccer club. There was a video file attached to the e-mail. The whole video lasts about ten minutes and consists of smaller segments spliced together. You don’t have to be an expert to see that. On Monday I received another e-mail from the aforementioned Chelsea, also with an attached video file that I unfortunately at the time did not realize the significance of. We’ll see the video from Monday first, it won’t take long.”

No one else said anything and Anni started the video.

A face with a measuring gaze and a too-red mouth filled the screen. Anni Staal said, “This is taken inside a vehicle, probably a van, and I don’t think he knows he is being filmed.”

A monotone voice floated out of the speakers: “Well, what’s it going to be? Isn’t there something that tickles the gentleman’s fancy?”

The man’s expression remained unaffected for a few seconds, then turned serene. He licked his lips and answered eagerly, “I think I’ll take this one, this tasty little morsel, number three.”

The video stopped but the words hung in the air and only dissipated slowly.

The publisher’s plastic cup shattered. He had squeezed it beyond its breaking point. The beer spilled out over his arm and down one pant leg. He broke the tension for all of them by bursting out, “Jesus Christ—what the fuck?”

The lawyer sprang up with a bunch of napkins but was waved away. The outburst was not regarding the spilled beer and the executive editor didn’t bother trying to dry his clothes. He simply moved to another chair. No one had heard him swear before.

The managing editor asked Anni softly, “Do you know what he’s looking at?”

“No, but it isn’t that hard to figure out.”

“A menu of children,” the publisher snarled. He waved at the screen, where the man’s face was still frozen. “Get rid of him, Anni. I simply can’t stand it.”

“Then it’s time to see what happened to him.”

The projector displayed the man’s face again. This time the camera was handheld and the quality poor, out of focus from time to time. Occasionally a diffuse white object covered the screen. When the camera pointed down, which it did once, one saw that the man was naked and apparently had his hands tied behind his back. There were bloodstains on his cheek and down across one shoulder, and around his neck was a sturdy blue rope. He spoke haltingly but clearly and with great intensity.

“No child shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his or her privacy, family, or correspondence, nor to…”

Anni paused the video on his face and distributed three packets of papers. On the first page was the same picture as that on the projected screen.

“His name is Thor Gran and he lived in Århus. The picture that I gave you is from the police. I got it this afternoon and then my informant gave me his name. The photograph was taken after his death, and after some specialists repaired his facial features. Thor Gran is one of the five murdered men from the Langebæk School in Bagsværd, and the film that we see is a record of the execution. It also shows three additional executions. I have two more positive matches that you can verify in a moment.”

The managing editor’s reaction was inarticulate and almost sputtering. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or excited. “Are you completely out of your mind? For the love of God, this is … this is—”

The publisher interrupted sharply, “Be quiet and listen to what she has to say.”

Anni Staal went on. “What we have here is an exclusive. None of our colleagues from other media—I have made inquiries—have received anything like it. Not even the police.”

She resumed the video and the man on the screen continued his speech.

“… Nor to unlawful attacks on his or her honor and reputation…” The camera angle changed abruptly. It was clearly a cut. “The child has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.”

The publisher asked Anni Staal, “What is he talking about?”

She paused the video again and explained, “He is reading excerpts from the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. I believe that the photographer is holding a piece of paper that he is reading from. From time to time it crosses in front of the camera but not here. By the way, this information has cost me twelve thousand kroner.”

The publisher did not hesitate for a second. “Granted, go on,” he said.

“A child has the right to be protected from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury or abuse, neglect or negligent treatment, maltreatment…” The man’s chin quivered as if he was cold, and tears streamed from his eyes. There was another cut. “… Or exploitation, including sexual abuse, while in the care of parents, legal guardians or any other person who has the care of the child.”

An audible click followed, then the face disappeared from the frame and was replaced by the blue rope. The camera panned down. Thor Gran looked surprised as he swung back and forth, the image coming into focus only every other second. Anni Staal paused the video once more and set the counter to zero.

“There are three more that you are going to see.”

CHAPTER 37

The pub was three-quarters full, the air dense and thick. People were drinking beer but no one was boisterously drunk. Cigarette smoke swirled like playful blue snakes under the low ceiling, where it was caught in the spotlight that illuminated the woman on the stage. She was singing and playing guitar. Her voice was deep and raw with a rousing quality all its own, which easily reached the back of the room and the audience. Most of the patrons were listening and even the bartender behind his shiny bar was showing some interest. She was singing “The Crying Game,” from the film of the same name—a tragic number that suited her voice—and she interpreted the song with great feeling and a fitting amount of anguish.