The Hanging: A Thriller (22 page)

Pauline Berg rubbed her eyes, which were irritated by the smoke. She sipped her beer and looked at the Countess, who sat beside her, absorbed in the song. This was the first time that they were working together on a major task and the Countess had revealed aspects of herself during the day that Pauline had not seen before. Her colleague could be a very dominating person when the situation called for it. As happened that afternoon when they arrived at the brothers’ residence on the outskirts of Middelford.

The house was a stately two-story affair with a full basement and an attic as well as a gazebo and a shed. Allan Ditlevsen had lived on the upper floor, his brother Frank below. Seven police officers were ransacking the place. On the Countess’s orders, she and Pauline started with a quick tour to get an initial impression, first upstairs and then downstairs. They ended in Frank Ditlevsen’s kitchen, where the leader of the operation was waiting for them. He was a taciturn man in his early fifties.

The Countess began, mainly addressing Pauline Berg, “Two well-kept homes and a high standard of quality with a pocketbook generous enough to accommodate all reasonable requests. Perhaps a bit more decorative than comfortable, but that is my taste.”

“Agree. Everything here is nice and expensive, nothing is old. That is, no heirlooms. You know, mahogany sideboards, china cabinets, Amager shelves, that type of thing.”

The Countess nodded appreciatively.

Pauline Berg enjoyed the nonverbal praise and tried to follow up her success with a preliminary question to the leader of the operation: “Frank Ditlevsen was a consultant and had a good income, but what about Allan Ditlevsen? How much does one make as a hot-dog vendor in Middelford?”

“Allerslev, not Middelford, six kilometers from Odense, and he also had a paper-delivery route there. Allan Ditlevsen made two hundred fifty thousand and Frank Ditlevsen half a million as reported on their income tax returns this past year. An expert in
information management
with courses and companies bringing in the money. The guys in Fredericia are preparing a report that you will be able to read when ready.”

The two women exchanged glances. The operations leader was clearly no master of the spoken language and the content of his message was also rather unremarkable. Nonetheless, he looked pleased.

The Countess took over.

“You have seven men under your command. That is not enough. Are there more on the way?”

“Eight. One is away picking up a child but he’ll be back once his wife gets home. But my people would really like to get home, for the weekend and such. Some of them are also saying that the case is … well, it’s just that they want to get home. You understand.”

“Frank Ditlevsen owned this house and his younger brother lived with him. They did not have shared finances, we’ve looked at the bills. His mail is in a packet on the kitchen table, probably gathered by the other. Copenhagen said that we should look for travel brochures or receipts or money transfers from the bank, and there’s nothing like any of that. And Frank Ditlevsen’s passport is gone. For now.”

He took a deep breath, then picked up and went on just as haphazardly.

“Allan Ditlevsen has been apprehended twice, once for the grave sexual abuse of a minor. We are looking into whether his older brother is also a pervert, that’s important. Illegal pictures and that sort of thing. Both brothers had lots and lots of videos, tapes and diskettes, so that’s been divvied up between my team members—the ones who had the time. But my list shows who got what and so I can cross it off and keep track of it. There are war films and action films according to the covers but no one knows what’s on the inside. That’s what we’re going to have a look at.”

The Countess stuck her cell phone in her inner pocket, and now the narrative became slightly more coherent.

“We’re also taking a look at the computer. Allan Ditlevsen doesn’t have one. We are very careful as one should be and a specialist will soon be arriving. But there’s nothing illegal on that computer as far as we can tell. Just letters and that kind of thing. No pictures. And I’ve interrogated Frank Ditlevsen’s ex-wife about his pedophilia but there’s nothing much to be had there because she doesn’t want to cooperate in any way and the daughter is gone.”

Then he was finished and the Countess thanked him coldly, whereafter she left and let Berg remain with the him in uncomfortable silence.

Twenty minutes later, eight men were either sitting or standing in Frank Ditlevsen’s living room, staring at the Countess’s backside. The atmosphere was tense and the two women from the capital would not have won many votes had it been a popularity contest. But that was not their job. Nonetheless, they reacted in very different ways to the negative vibrations. Berg smiled apologetically at every opportunity and wished herself far, far away. The Countess simply worked.

She was on her knees on the floor with a screwdriver, and at her side was Frank Ditlevsen’s dismantled computer. A mess of wires hung from the bookshelf. The computer had been connected to a video machine, and an external CD burner and a forty-two-inch wide-screen LCD television commanded attention from the middle of the room. With a couple of strong sidelong blows she loosened the computer chassis, wedged it open, then lit a miniature flashlight and methodically inspected the electronic bowels. Her cell phone rang and she handed it over her shoulder to the operations leader without a word. He took the call and left the room.

When he returned, she stood up and delivered her orders in a clear voice.

“A detective inspector from Århus will be here in an hour and he will take over command. No one should do anything else before he arrives. Twenty-five additional officers are also on their way from various locations in Glostrup and Århus. They will join us as soon as they’re able.”

A younger officer was lounging on a sofa with a mug of coffee and clearly had an attitude problem. He protested, “So, lady, we’re supposed to lie around staring at nothing for an hour?”

The Countess turned ferociously in his direction, but the soon-to-be-deposed leader was faster. Perhaps he would never be a great lecturer and perhaps his investigation methods were not world class, but he knew how to protect his people. He whispered something inaudible and the officer stood up and apologized, even as if he meant it. The Countess generously let the matter drop. She waved a couple of electronic gadgets in the air.

“The big one is a hard drive, the little one is called a reborn card. Is there anyone who found anything like these when they were searching?”

The men looked and shook their heads.

“Then you know what you’re looking for. Somewhere in this house there will be a hard drive. Find it when you get back to work.”

“Excuse me, but how can you know that?” It was the young man again, who this time was on his feet.

“Dust—or rather, the lack thereof. Frank Ditlevsen habitually changed out his hard drive. That is also the best and simplest way to maintain privacy on one’s computer.”

She looked around for additional questions but there were none.

“I’m leaving now but will be back this evening, so we’ll all see each other again. And I mean all of you.”

She swept out of the room. The men started to mumble to one another, clearly antagonized by her authoritarian manner. Berg smiled meekly and shuffled off in the Countess’s wake.

*   *   *

The two women used the next two hours to track down Frank Ditlevsen’s daughter, which eventually led them to the inn where they now sat. At this point it became clear to the Countess and Berg that truculent colleagues were the least of their problems. Officers who put in only superficial effort were one thing, an uncooperative community was something else entirely.

Many people clapped when the singer finished. During the applause a man walked up onto the stage and handed her a note. She read it and excused herself into the mike, then jumped down with some agility while soft, nondescript music seeped out of concealed loudspeakers.

The Countess and Berg praised the singer when she sat down at their table. She thanked them in a reserved manner. The bartender brought her a glass of juice and she took a sip while the Countess began her line of questioning.

“You are Frank Ditlevsen’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” The voice that had seemed sensual in song now sounded raw. Harsh and spent.

“My name is Nathalie and this is Pauline. We’re from the police. Would you like to see our badges?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“And you know what’s happened?”

“My father and uncle are dead? Yes, I know that. The whole country does.”

“They were killed.”

“Yes, that’s what you say.” The woman tried to appear indifferent but her voice quavered.

Pauline jumped in: “Your mother said that you were on vacation. Why did she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“She lied?”

“I’m not responsible for my mother. You’ll have to talk to her about that.”

Berg thought to herself that she had to agree. The problem was that it was difficult to extract a single word out of her mother and the few that came out were patently untrue. Like her claim that her daughter was in London, or Birmingham, or was it Liverpool? The mother hadn’t even bothered to hide her fabrication.

The Countess changed the subject. “Aren’t you sorry that your father is dead?” It was a question.

“I didn’t see him much.”

“Why not?”

“That’s just how it was.”

“How old were you when your parents split up?”

“Nine.”

“Nine years old. That must have been a shock.”

Tiny beads of sweat appeared on the woman’s upper lip and forehead. Onstage she was attractive, up close like this almost ugly, and her self-control was close to cracking. Even if the questions were not unreasonable, just hard.

“I don’t know. Can’t you let me be? I don’t know anything, I didn’t see either my dad or my uncle, okay?”

Berg was not without sympathy. “Your father and uncle were murdered. We can’t let you be,” she said.

“I haven’t killed anyone.” She was having trouble getting the words out.

The Countess shook her head and for a moment she considered waiting until the morning. The location was the worst possible for an intimate conversation but she pushed this thought aside. They had been in Allerslev right before coming to the inn, and the shattered hot-dog stand was an argument against giving anyone extra time. Whoever it was who was on a rampage out there could return to strike again at any time.

“I am aware of that, but I have to ask you this: did your father abuse you as a child?”

It was the last straw. The answer was a cry of desperation: “Why are you doing this to me?”

People turned, and their sympathy was not with the police. The woman was crying quietly.

A muscular bouncer got up from a neighboring table. He placed a protective hand on the singer’s shoulder and said softly, “Perhaps you should leave.”

The Countess took out her badge and held it out under his nose. “Is that a threat?”

The man remained calm. “No, it’s not a threat. I’m not stupid enough to mess with the police but perhaps you should leave anyway. She doesn’t want to talk to you and if you stay here she won’t be able to talk to you. And anyway, you already got your answer. Look at her, for fuck’s sake. Can’t you put it together for yourselves?”

The women looked at each other. Then they got to their feet. The Countess pulled out a card and laid it on the table. She nodded toward the weeping singer.

“In case she changes her mind, or if anyone else can help.”

The bouncer still remained calm. “I don’t think so. We can’t stand child molesters in this town.”

People clapped as they made their way to the exit.

CHAPTER 38

In Kregme, at Arresø, Stig Åge Thorsen was following the police car with his eyes as if slowly crawling up the country lane and he smiled when he saw it stop at the fire. He used the extra time to review his instructions once again.

Avoid long answers, only answer when you are asked a direct question. Don’t say anything if there’s any doubt in your mind. Don’t say anything if you are confused and ignore any kind of a threat. Silence is your friend, these lines are your message.

He could almost hear Per Clausen’s voice and his smile widened. He wasn’t nervous, which surprised him a little, and he walked out into the yard to greet them. A pale afternoon sun emerged from the heavy skies. It was chilly and he shivered.

The patrol car rolled into the driveway. He nodded to the driver and watched as he parked the car parallel to the farmhouse, close to the stone wall as if anything but ninety-degree angles and straight lines were an insult. To his annoyance, he realized that he knew the officer. It was an old classmate. Or had he been in another class in the same year? He couldn’t remember but would have preferred it otherwise, it would have been easier. The policeman stepped out of the car and walked over to him. He was in uniform.

“Hey there, Stig Åge.”

“Hello.”

“I’d like to talk to you about that bonfire of yours out in the field. We’ve had a complaint.”

It wasn’t a question, so he remained silent.

The policeman glanced uncertainly at him when it became clear that no answer was coming, and he retreated almost imperceptibly before he tried again: “What is it you’re burning out there?”

“A stranger turned up and gave me twenty thousand so he could dig a hole on my property. He wanted to set fire to his minivan. I dug the hole and made sure there was a good oxygen supply. Drove out the fuel, sacks of coal, wood and kerosene, before I went on holiday. When I came back, I tended to the fire twice a day. That was the deal.”

He said his piece loud and clear without trying to conceal that he had prepared it ahead of time.

The policeman took another step back and stared at him with skepticism. The word
minivan
had triggered something and he was thinking hard—apparently in vain—while he scratched the back of the head as if he wanted to scratch it out. Finally he said, “What is it you’ve gotten yourself involved in, Stig Åge? Is this the minivan they’re looking for in Bagsværd?”