The Hanging: A Thriller (40 page)

Anni smiled, pleased. This was a promising beginning.

“Yes, I’d like that, and I hope that you will. We are useful to each other.”

“Maybe you are right, even though I admit that it took me a while before I saw the sense in this alliance. And I should clarify that I can’t stand your line of work in general and that I despise your treatment of my investigation in particular.”

She circumvented his disapproval with a short, cloying laugh and said, “But you have concluded that the police have an image problem?”

“That you have played a part in creating.”

“So it will be good to get your angle out there.”

“I guess so, but I have a few conditions and it is a take-it-or-leave-it situation. There will be no negotiating.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I want a formal, legal document signed by both you and me, your editor in chief, and someone from the executive level, that says that you can’t publish a single line of the interview before I have read through it and given you my written permission. You may also not print any of the information that I will give you whether directly or indirectly, and if you do, it will cost you a five-million-kroner donation to the Red Cross.”

Anni did not have to reflect on his proposition very long before she said, “You don’t have much faith in us.”

“I think that the only thing you have respect for is money, especially money out of your own pocket.”

“You’ll have your document to your home address by courier by the end of the day.”

“That’s great, push it through the mail slot, I’ll be out. Tomorrow at ten at the
Dagbladet
?”

“What about at your home? That’s more private.”

“You are sick.”

“Not completely. If you want to reach the people you have to invite them to your home. That gives me a better opportunity to present you in a more human way—that is, not just brains but also heart. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Anni crossed her fingers. The thought was apparently appalling to him but her arguments had struck a chord. It took a long time before he answered.

“At my home, ten o’clock, no photographers.”

“Wonderful. Ten o’clock at your place, and the photographer will simply take a single picture of the two of us as we are talking and then he’ll leave. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Simonsen waved his hand in an irritated gesture, which she took as his assent. They parted without warmth.

*   *   *

No one could accuse Anni Staal of resting on her laurels. The solo interview with Konrad Simonsen was an enormous triumph but back at the office she pushed the thought aside and the following hours she concentrated on the next day’s edition, rejecting a proposal for an article from her intern and paying her back for her lack of telephone manners earlier in the day. She smoothed a folded piece of paper on her desk.

“You can throw this away.”

Anita Dahlgren looked up furiously. The rejection did not come as a surprise. “Did you even read it? His forehead was carved up while he was unconscious.”

Anni Staal’s voice was cold and her choice of words more cynical and provocative than she actually felt. She’d had her interview now so there was no reason to thank the girl more.

“I don’t care if they cut his dick off. What you have written is not our line and you know that very well. It’s not what people want to read and, my sweet … it is not getting into print.”

Anita stood up and her voice was shrill. “I am not your
sweet
and you should pay better attention too. Things are not always as they appear. If it turns out that the motive of your poison pen is a little less noble than hanging pedophiles up as a deterrent—well then, this whole thing will blow up in your face. Just wait until your beloved people go looking for another scapegoat. I know at least one who will have to eat crow.”

Anni Staal stiffened but her warning bells were going off and several colleagues were watching. Even in a workplace where the language was direct and salty, her intern’s speech exceeded the acceptable limits. But it was not the insult that bothered the star journalist.

“What do you mean? Try to explain yourself.”

That was not something that Anita wanted to do. “I’m protecting my sources.” She took her bag and left.

Anni Staal kept working, but Anita’s comments proved difficult to shake off and it gnawed at her the rest of the day. For a while it bothered her so much that she seriously thought about contacting her police source even though she knew he would be furious. But it never went further than a thought because that evening he called of his own accord, with a message that felt like a déjà vu from the morning.

“The parking lot by the civic building in Nansensgade in half an hour and make sure you have some cash on you.”

She hardly had time to confirm before he hung up.

When she arrived, Arne Pedersen was dozing in his car. She got in and sat down next to him.

“Good evening, my little songbird. You’re out late. Are your personal finances squeezing you again?”

Her words stung and Pedersen thought that he hated her more than was reasonable.

“Hello, Anni. I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I find it embarrassing.”

She apologized, clear over the fact that she had made a mistake: “That wasn’t my intention, you’ll have to forgive me. But do tell … what do you have for me?”

“It’s going to cost you five thousand and you have to clear it with Simon before you print anything. My boss has started keeping his cards close to his chest. He doesn’t seem to trust anyone, even me, only Kasper Planck. It’s totally paranoid. This case is about to crack him and the mood at HS is at a new low.”

He thought that the description was not completely off. “Five thousand is a lot of money.”

“Maybe, but I’ll tell you what’s worth even more. Five vacation trips to Thailand at twenty-four thousand a pop, plus five times twenty thousand in pocket money, that’s only two hundred fifty thousand. Add to that three cash cards where the original owner was more than willing to share the pin codes when they got going with the chainsaw—another one hundred ten thousand. Furthermore, Frank Ditlevsen’s account in Zurich has been tapped for around two million, so the total sum is about two-point-three million, and these are only preliminary findings. New information is coming in all the time. I have account statements from two of the victims with me going back three weeks so that you can see for yourself. Remember that they died fourteen days ago and look closely at the dates from the last withdrawals, but then give the documents back to me. If you put this in the paper I’ll be nailed quicker than quick.”

Anni Staal looked through the bank statements. Her voice sounded excited when she was done.

“What does this mean?”

“It was a murder-heist.”

“What are you talking about? A heist?”

“Forget everything about a noble revenge and all the commotion, that’s just a blind alley and smoke. The motive was simply greed.”

“But that’s terrible. Are you sure?”

“No, only about eighty percent, but yes, that’s what I’m saying. You can try to have Simon confirm it but I can give you another piece of information for free. He is going to give you an interview. He told me just a little while ago.”

“He’s already been in touch. I’m going to meet him tomorrow morning.”

“Well then, that’s arranged. Do you also know that he’s going to Riga this weekend? The traffickers who were working with the hot-dog vendor are from the Baltic mafia, but he tried to double-cross them. The Latvian police nabbed one of them yesterday and I don’t think it’ll take them long to get him to talk. Their police methods are somewhat more robust than ours.”

Anni Staal frowned. She was far from stupid. “Why keep it secret?”

“Simon is quietly gathering evidence while everyone else thinks the motive is … shall we say, about sexual politics. Not even Helmer Hammer has been informed about this, I know that for sure. I think that Simon wants to give the country a lesson. Nothing less. Let the beast step in its own shit. That’s a direct quote. That’s what he told Kasper Planck the other day, but I didn’t get it when he first said it. I think I do now. And of course he wants to be one-hundred-percent sure before he goes public since our credibility is so low and half of the country believes that we’re concealing information about the victims being pedophiles.”

“But, but … I have a hundred questions. Per Clausen, the janitor, how does he fit in?”

Pedersen had been waiting for this question. He answered calmly, “He was a useful idiot but he finally understood the truth. At that point it was too late. The corpses were on the stretchers and the traffickers were gone. Why do you think he committed suicide?”

Anni Staal nodded grudgingly. “What about the hot-dog man? He killed his own brother?”

“They hated each other with all their hearts and were both equally emotionally stunted.”

“But then why did the hot-dog guy get killed? I mean … the whole business with the tree—what was that good for? Everyone’s been wondering about that.”

He smiled slyly and thought until his head hurt. It had been an oversight. “You may not be familiar with the Latvian proverb but those who are understand that message.
A flower is bestowed upon the steadfast, the branch waylays the traitor.
The original source comes from the Russian Orthodox tradition, but tell me—isn’t this worth five thousand?”

She didn’t answer at once. Tried thoughtfully to gather up the threads. Finally she said, “My goodness, heads are going to roll. Yes, it’s worth five thousand.”

Pedersen smiled quietly.

CHAPTER 64

The Countess sat deep in thought and studied the whiteboard. It hung right next to her desk and she had pushed her chair to the side, the better to see the four names that she had written in her neat, somewhat impersonal, schoolgirl handwriting:
Per Clausen, Stig Åge Thorsen, Helle Smidt Jørgensen, Erik Mørk.

“Are you sure, Countess?”

She turned around, flabbergasted. Konrad Simonsen had come in without her hearing him. He looked incredibly exhausted. She didn’t give a thought to the fact that one could easily have said the same of her.

“Yes, I’m sure. For several reasons but first and foremost due to Helle Smidt Jørgensen’s diaries that she has kept for twenty years. The Mayland calendar, the same one year after year, with only a variation in the color. Poul has gone through them in great detail.”

“It was a bit of a blow that she was dead. Are we sure it was from natural causes?”

“Yes, completely sure. It was a heart attack, probably brought on by stress, alcohol, and pills. We arrived two days too late. But there’s no question that she played a part in the murders, and Poul agrees.”

“I heard he went home.”

“
Crawled
would be a better word for it. He looked like a corpse; he should have stayed in bed yesterday. But what about you? You look tired. Are you going to make sure you get something proper to eat?”

Simonsen shrugged. He had been to dinner at Planck’s yesterday but the last time he’d eaten at home there had been frozen pizza on the menu, which he had forgotten about after it went in the oven with the result that it tasted like cardboard.

He pointed to the names and said, “Can you settle for giving me the conclusions? I have a meeting in the city in less than twenty minutes but I’ll be back again tonight so I can read your report.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Simon, but I have trouble imagining what could be more important than this. And while we’re on the topic, what’s happened to our investigation meetings? At the moment you’re the only person who has an overview of the situation. All the rest of us can only see a piece of it. Is that your new leadership style? Because if it is, I don’t much care for it.”

Her words were sharper than her voice, which was closer to sounding a little sad. When he didn’t answer right away and instead pulled up a chair and sat down, she regretted that she had talked to him in that way.

“It’s really only partially true, this fragmentation,” he said. “But you are right. There is something I haven’t told you yet and it’s because I know you would be totally against it. You’ll find out about it shortly, but since you’re asking, this might as well be the moment. Can you come in again this evening? Late, say around twelve. You can bring Pauline, if she wants to come.”

The Countess decided to back off. Whatever it was, it could wait. It was more important that he get some sleep. He wasn’t getting too much of that these days.

“I could, but tomorrow would be just as good, so you’re free to take back your offer.”

Simonsen frowned, somewhat bewildered by the sweet-and-sour exchange in which he didn’t know if he was being criticized or defended.

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m coming back here anyway.”

“The anonymous computer expert who has taken over for Malte? And who has special permission from you to run around more or less alone?”

It was a pointed question.

“Not really. He and Malte keep to themselves, but I’m going to read reports.”

“I think I’ll resume the investigation a little later.”

He dropped the subject and pointed to the whiteboard.

“Give me the main points before I leave. You’ve included Erik Mørk in the vigilante group, I see.”

The Countess smiled at his choice of words. It was reasonably inclusive. Then she grabbed one of Helle Smidt Jørgensen’s pocket calendars and looked at a couple of the pages that Poul Troulsen had flagged with yellow Post-its.

“May sixth 2005,
at Per’s, eight
P.M.
October eleventh, 2005,
at Per’s, 7 thirty
P.M.
November second, 2005,
at Erik’s eight
P.M.
, and so on and so on. There are sixty-three such notations, about one a week apart from the vacation periods. The first is from February third, 2005, and the last is September twenty-sixth of this year, and since the summer the meetings increased in frequency. She only ever records the first name and it changes. At Per’s, at Erik’s, and at Stig’s. If the meeting takes place at her home she only writes in a star, which happened nine times. There are of course many other evenings with arrangements and first names but nothing else of this regularity. Then there is the matter of Jeremy Floyd. His name is recorded twenty-two times, just eighteen months before the meeting notations begin—that is, from the spring of 2003 until the first part of 2004. She always writes him in as ‘PF.’ It fits perfectly. I’ve made a list.”