The Hanging: A Thriller (25 page)

“I may as well say this straight off—if you’re planning to slaughter Simon you can go to hell, I don’t care how much power you have. But don’t count on me for one second.”

Mildly put, the man seemed to have no faith in the authorities.

Helmer Hammer answered calmly, “That’s not what this is about. Quite the opposite, as I explained on the phone.”

“I hate myself for going behind his back. What’s with all this secrecy?”

“Your boss is brilliant at leading investigations and lousy at dealing with the press. The last thing I need right now is having him let loose on the
Dagbladet
. And the police business can be dealt with on a lower level, by which I mean you.”

Poul Troulsen sensed that Hammer was telling the truth and relaxed a little.

“What is Simon doing right now? Where is he?”

“He’s in bed, sleeping, which he deserves and has a great need for.”

Poul Troulsen nodded. It was difficult not to like the man.

“How did you manage it?”

“I got lucky.”

They drove for a while in silence. Then Troulsen asked, “Why me? I can’t stand those filthy bastards either.”

“Because you may feel that way but you don’t bite. Because you know your place and you hold your tongue in a meeting. And because the one you call the Countess is in Odense.”

Troulsen gave a strained smile. They drove another couple of streets. This time it was Helmer Hammer who broke the silence.

“What are you thinking about?”

“That honesty can be abused. Are you always this direct?”

The executive did not have to answer. The news came on the radio and they both listened. The high point was an interview with the minister of justice in which even his most exquisite and fluid formulations were not sufficient to mask the fact that he knew absolutely nothing.

“What a fool,” Troulsen commented.

Hammer was less judgmental. The minister had been his only blunder, but that was what came from cutting himself off from the world.

“He is a survivor. Perhaps the most tenacious of them all.”

The taxi arrived at the destination. Troulsen said provocatively, “Well, I’ll be damned—a welcoming committee of the tabloid-press scavengers.”

Hammer gave him a shove. Without any effect.

“I’ll wring the teats off that stupid bitch.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll keep your mouth shut. Diplomacy is not for the likes of you.”

The taxi stopped. Hammer added, “And just so you know, bigger men than you have had to eat their words.”

Then he put on his most charming face and got out.

The two men were escorted to the conference room where Anni Staal had presented her videos Friday night. A woman in her thirties sat at the handsomely laden table and waited. The chief legal counsel of the
Dagbladet
stood up and shook their hands as she introduced herself, then she sat back down expectantly. Troulsen immediately felt a kind of kinship with her. It was clear that she, too, had been assigned a secondary role. The two leads chatted as they helped themselves to refreshments. Each of the women poured herself a glass of juice; Troulsen had a cup of black coffee. After three rolls and a croissant, the publisher finally began the meeting.

“Since you are the ones who called for this discussion, I think it would be appropriate if you could tell us what we can assist you with.”

Helmer responded with unexpected vehemence, “You can skip the pleasantries. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?”

Forgetting that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut, Troulsen fell in behind him: “This is a clear-cut case of withholding evidence, and you—”

Helmer Hammer stopped him with a hand movement, which he immediately obeyed, much to his own surprise. His sentence was left hanging in the air. But their host picked it up. He glanced invitingly at his accompanying employee.

“Perhaps we should discuss this matter of evidence first. Would you?”

His legal council wanted nothing more. For the next ten minutes she used lengthy legal phrases that no one listened to. She wrapped it up triumphantly: “And anyway we sent the video sequences with an accompanying letter to the Store Kongensgade police station on Saturday night. The material was delivered around two o’clock. In the letter it is made clear that the videos may have some bearing on the police investigation of the pedophile murders, which, for your information, we are not obligated to inform you of.”

“Do you have a copy of this letter?”

Faster than anyone could say “pro forma,” she found two copies in her file and handed them to her guests. Poul Troulsen and Helmer Hammer thanked her. The publisher smugly poured himself a cup of coffee and gallantly offered the coffeepot to his lawyer, who declined with a shake of her head. The guests read the letter. It was long, ornate, and unnecessarily complicated. What it should have explained in eight lines was stretched out over three and a half pages and only on the middle of page 2 did the reader have a reasonable chance of gaining an impression of what the letter was really all about.

Helmer Hammer finished first, and said, “Yes, with this you could have been sure it got put at the bottom of the pile. You haven’t even printed it on your own letterhead.”

The lawyer was halfheartedly apologetic: “That was an oversight. It was late. But as I see it, we have followed the law to the letter.”

“Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t.” Helmer Hammer answered her, but he was looking at the publisher. “To this point six people have been killed and we have no guarantee that this won’t continue. If it turns out later that this … shall we call it a
delay
?—can reasonably be claimed to have cost a person his life, then I promise you that your actions will be tried in a court of law and that it will be a very long and drawn-out affair.”

The publisher did not look like the kind of man who wanted a very long and drawn-out affair on his hands. He flinched uncomfortably. In direct contrast to his lawyer, who aired her chemically whitened teeth in a wide, expectant smile.

The next step belonged to Helmer Hammer. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Poul Troulsen saw that it was a handwritten note and not particularly long but could not read the contents.

The publisher read it, grew pale, and was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What do you want?”

Helmer Hammer took his paper back and said quietly but directly, “A recorded transcript of the conversations Anni Staal has with the readers at twelve o’clock as well as access to the contact information for those people who have relevant information about the victims. In addition I would like Anni Staal’s full and active cooperation with Poul Troulsen over the next few hours.”

The publisher’s face took on an unhealthy hue and his voice went up an octave as he replied, “That’s completely out of the question. We do not give out the names of our…” He stopped when Helmer Hammer took out his cell phone and started dialing. He turned helplessly to his legal counsel and said, “Thank you very much. You’ve been a lot of help.”

It took a moment before the woman realized that she was being asked to leave. When the penny finally dropped, she quickly stood, gathered her papers, and left the room with a sullen air and without saying goodbye. The men waited until she was gone.

As soon as the door banged shut, Helmer Hammer also got to his feet.

“I think I’ll be going as well and I’ll let you take care of implementing these arrangements. I’m certain that you will find a reasonable solution. Poul, can you call me in half an hour when you’ve come to an agreement?”

His sharp arrogance had effect. The publisher was absolutely not accustomed to being treated like one who implemented arrangements. In the absence of viable alternatives, however, he had no choice but to submit.

CHAPTER 42

Konrad Simonsen’s contribution to the events of Sunday morning were exactly zero. He slept. Given the pace of his work the preceding week, no one could have held this against him, especially when one took his age into account. Which is exactly what his daughter, Anna Mia, did when she stole into his bedroom and turned off his alarm clock, which was set to six. The moon was shining outside the window and its reflected light fell on his face. She sat for a long time on the edge of his bed and looked at him. His breathing was alarming, heavy and panting. Occasionally he gasped for air. The sounds pained her and she promised herself she would take his diabetes treatment in hand. And his smoking. After a while he fell into a more peaceful sleep. She stroked him gently on the cheek and smoothed his pillow before she left.

It was past ten o’clock when the groggy and confused chief inspector walked into his living room, where his daughter and former boss were patiently waiting with breakfast.

The old man and the young woman had divvied up the roles between them beforehand and Anna Mia began, before her father had really even opened his eyes.

“A lot has happened this morning but we have banded against you and let you sleep. That is to say, Kasper and that Hammer.”

She handed him a cup of coffee and lit his cigarette. The latter had never happened before. Simonsen inhaled greedily while Kasper Planck carried on.

“The victims are now all identified with a one-hundred-percent degree of confidence. There has even been a press conference, but first read here.”

Anna Mia laid the
Dagbladet
in front of him. She had been sitting on it. Simonsen stared, openmouthed. They gave him some time to read, knowing what his first question would be, knowing he was not yet fully awake.

“Why didn’t I know anything about this?”

Kasper Planck explained without mincing his words, “You have been in temporary quarantine. Considered likely to make a fool of yourself; in short—you’ve been passed over, put in the corner.”

“That’s starting to become clear to me. What else?”

“Helmer Hammer called me this morning, or rather, it was still nighttime, and we agreed that it would be best for all parties concerned if you could concentrate on rest. You are going to have a long day. Then I called Anna Mia and was lucky enough to find her here. You went to the movies last night, I understand. I hope it was a good one.”

Anna Mia was the one who answered.

“Yes, it was. I cried, and Dad slept.”

Simonsen grunted and stood up.

“I want to see these videos.”

“Shouldn’t you eat something first, Dad? We’ve bought some poppy-seed buns for you.”

But he refused.

When he returned to the table he did not comment on what he had seen, but the gravity of the contents was plain to read on his face. They ate, while Kasper Planck reiterated the events of the morning in greater detail. Simonsen listened without interrupting, and both his guests noted with relief that he smiled when he learned that Anna Mia had interfered with his alarm clock. They had not expected this reaction. When they heard him whistling in his bath a little while later they declared success and drank a toast with coffee. Anna Mia cleared the table. Kasper Planck sat down at the computer and played the videos one more time. He wasn’t much use at cleaning up.

Anna Mia said goodbye when Simonsen returned fully clothed. Both men got a kiss and Kasper Planck insisted on giving her a coupon for a taxi from a booklet he had picked up at the accounting department at police headquarters because in his opinion the usual patrol cars did not live up to the standards of old.

When the two men were alone, they sat back down at the table.

“You’ve taken this very well, Simon.”

Simonsen did not reply at once. He looked out the window, upward, as far as the eye could see. A dark gray mass from the west was gobbling up the blue sky on top of him. It would rain soon. He thought that for the first time in a long while he was looking forward to the workday. Sleep was a good thing. Then he focused on his uninvited guest.

“I like Helmer Hammer,” he said, “but you two have not exactly given me many chances. As far as I can figure out, you also have several hours’ head start on me.”

“Yes, I guess so. But enough of that. What do you think of the videos?”

“I have many thoughts but the first is that they should never have been published. They are in every way shape and form disgusting.”

“That’s an adjective I’ve encountered a couple of times now. As well as related terms such as
detestable, perverse, abominable, nauseating, repulsive,
to name just a few.”

“Encountered where?”

“In comments from readers. There are hundreds already.”

“Most people don’t care for murder. That shouldn’t surprise you. What’s your point?”

“That the outrage is not directed at the murders but almost exclusively at Thor Gran for his … selection of the third child. Even your daughter had that reaction.”

Simonsen nodded doubtfully and felt helpless. As the leader of the investigation he could hardly be responsible for the reaction of the public, and what could he put up against a collective distortion of perspective other than hope that it would correct itself? Or else just get to work. He said simply, “Well, that’s horrible to hear.”

Kasper Planck dropped the subject and said optimistically, “Well, now we finally have something concrete to work with, so let’s get go down to the HS. My honest opinion is that you’ve run a superb investigation so far, even if the coming days are the ones where you will have to show what you really go for.”

“I’m not planning to show anything of the kind, and now that I’ve been kept in the dark all morning, another half an hour will hardly make a difference. You can spend this next bit of time by telling me what you get out of drinking beer at the immigrant kiosk on Bagsværd’s main street. One can hardly claim that you have been particularly communicative, and the few times I’ve had time to call you’ve sounded halfway drunk. But you probably didn’t want to spend so many hours out there unless there was something to be had, I assume. I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time and now is probably as good a time as any.”

Planck nodded respectfully.