The Hanging: A Thriller (41 page)

“Last names, addresses, telephone numbers, e-mails?”

“Nothing, unfortunately. Poul has been through all the calendars four times and I’ve been through them twice. Here and there a page has been torn out. It could be covering her tracks.”

“What about the one we’re calling Climber? No meetings at his place? Or references?”

“No, nothing, which could either mean that he didn’t have a place of his own or that he lived too far away. Stig Åge Thorsen in Kregme has only hosted three times, possibly because of the distance. But there are two notations of particular interest. The weekend of September eighth through tenth of this year:
digging at Stig’s, cooking
, and December tenth, 2005,
Christmas dinner (Erik paying) reserve table for five seven
P.M.
at Hjørnekroen, Nørrebrogade 23
. I thought that the fifth participant might have been the doctor so I called and spoke with Emilie Mosberg Floyd. It was a little embarrassing. He would apparently never have participated in a private event with his clients, which was something I was hoping and assuming she would say, but he had also been dead for several months at that point.”

Simonsen waved his right hand as if he had singed his fingers. Then he checked his watch and the Countess speeded up.

“Erik Mørk is the one who took out the ad about being sexually abused as a child and his company runs WeHateThem.dk, which they do with supreme professionalism. Almost a quarter of a million visitors to this point and the portal is constantly being updated, though the tone is very aggressive.
You shouldn’t be embarrassed, they should be embarrassed. You shouldn’t hide, they should hide. You shouldn’t be afraid, they should be afraid,
and so on and so on. Among other things they have uncovered the advertisement for the victims’ sex vacation to Chiang Mai in Thailand that we found in Thor Gran’s secret bag and it is probably worth checking carefully into where they got it. My guess is that Erik Mørk had it beforehand and has made it himself.”

“Exciting. Anything else?”

“Mørk has restructured his whole company into a hate group with a mission to incite the public against pedophiles.”

“We’ve known that for a while.”

“Yes, it’s nothing new. What is new is that Poul and I can link him to the crime, and one of the most important ways is this, take a look. This is a list of customers of child pornography that we found on Frank Ditlevsen’s hard drive. The three other ones are lists that Mørk’s company has allegedly sent to particularly active members who support his mission. Supporters who appear to know exactly what to do with pedophiles in their area when they receive names and addresses. This is the main reason for the violence. But take note of the spelling errors.”

Simonsen scrutinized the list while the Countess explained, “Bjarne Anton
Adersen
instead of
Andersen
. Hans
Orne
Nielsen instead of Hans
Arne
Nielsen.
Pale
Henriksen instead of
Palle
Henriksen. These are the same lists, Simon, and what’s even better is that it is hard to explain away in a court of law.”

“You’re right. It seems convincing.”

“You should also know that WeHateThem.dk is doing all it can to publicize Stig Åge Thorsen’s online appearance tomorrow evening. It wouldn’t surprise me if it became a national event.”

“It may be an opportunity. He may have joined the … movement.”

“Yes, but there’s more. We have a printout of the telephone numbers from which calls have been made to the Langebæk School in the past week—that is to say, when people were still willing to help us, so it’s valid. Mørk called Per Clausen’s work phone twice and Stig Åge Thorsen once. They are also an advertising executive and a farmer respectively so they both fit perfectly with the list of occupations that Emilie Mosberg Floyd got from Per Clausen.”

“Okay, I believe you. This is well done both by you and Poul. Make sure that you inform Arne and maybe have him assist you in writing up the report.”

“I’ve already talked to Arne but I can’t find Planck, so I’ve left an update on his answering machine. Where is he anyway?”

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. He’s sick. Or rather, tired. He doesn’t have the energy to come in anymore and there’s not much I can say about that.”

“No, of course not. But what do you think—should we bring in Erik Mørk?”

Simonsen did not answer immediately. He wanted to stay awhile and chat with her about this and that, if for no other reason than to break up his tight schedule, which was his own fault. Perhaps a function of pride, a manager’s classic overinflation of his own importance. He glanced at his watch again and let go of the illusion. And how could he know that she would be up for it? She had her own affairs to manage.

“Sorry, I dropped the thread,” he said.

“I’m wondering if we should have Mørk brought in?”

The thought of physically getting his hands on one of the people who had photographed his daughter left its trace. Simonsen’s mouth longed for licorice. He took out his Piratos. The bag was almost empty. He took the last three and concealed his enraged gaze from her by looking down. Then he answered, “No, I don’t want anyone else brought in unless I have a charge that holds. Next time they won’t be able to go home for a long, long time. But I do want you to send Pauline to Hjørnekroen pub on Nørrebrogade and say a little prayer that our advertising executive paid with a credit card.”

“Hm, all right. that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The Countess stared after him for a long time. Maybe he was overwhelmed, maybe he was getting involved more deeply than was good for him, but his head was certainly screwed on right.

CHAPTER 65

A young woman was sneaking around at the plaza in front of city hall in downtown Copenhagen, taking cover behind passing pedestrians, billboards, and parked cars. She finally managed to slink into a doorway quite close to the man that she wanted to surprise, and when he turned his head and looked away, she sprinted the last ten meters behind him. She placed a finger on his neck.

“Bang! You’re dead.”

Malte Borup twirled around. “Hello, Anita. Where did you come from?”

“I dropped down from the heavens. You are a terrible police spy, you know, given how I can sneak up on you like that without any trouble.”

“I’m not a police spy.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t last many hours. But come on, and remember that we’re a couple.” She put an arm around his waist and dragged him along.

It was a good eight hours since they’d been introduced to each other and it seemed to Anita that she had known him for years. She had had this feeling from the first time she laid eyes on him. That had happened at the McDonald’s at Strøget in Copenhagen.

She had already been seated when Arne Pedersen and Malte Borup turned up. As soon as she saw them she stood up and greeted them. Pedersen received a hug, much to his astonishment, then she turned to her new partner. He was cute.

She curtseyed coquettishly as she held her hand out. “I’m Anita Dahlgren, a newspaper intern. You must be the computer-spy genius.”

Malte Borup returned her greeting and appeared to accept this title: “Yes, that’s me. My name is Malte.”

They sat down and shared the three colas that the men had brought with them.

Pedersen prefaced his remarks with a warning: “You should both be clear about the fact that what you are doing is both illegal and done of your own initiative. That’s another way of saying that if you are caught then all hell will break lose and you should know that we will simply deny any involvement. It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is.”

The two young people nodded and Malte underscored this with a short “yes.” Anita sat with her hands under her chin and stared deeply into his eyes.

“How long will it take to do the installation?” she asked.

“One minute on the remote computer, ten minutes on your computer, and about one to five minutes for you to learn the program.”

“Probably more like thirty seconds. I’m quick.”

Pedersen had to poke her on the shoulder to regain eye contact. He asked, “How will you get in?”

“The plan is to use the door. That’s why we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Can’t you remember what Kasper Planck said?”

Malte looked uncertainly at Pedersen. “Uh, boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Anita asked sharply, “Didn’t you tell him about it?”

“No, not really, I thought it would be better if you explained that part yourself. It would seem more real, but I can tell that you’re going to manage well on your own so I may as well push off right now. I was really only here to introduce the two of you to each other. You can split my cola—I haven’t touched it.”

He got up quickly and hurried away while Anita’s gaze bored through his jacket and burned him alive.

Malte tried again: “Uh, boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“Yes, you know—the kind that walk hand in hand and are all cutesy to each other. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“A girlfriend? No, I don’t.”

“That’s good. I don’t have one either. Now we’re a couple.”

“Uh, well. Yes. I mean, thanks…”

She smiled at him.

*   *   *

The doorman greeted them.

“Hello, Anita. It’s late, did you forget something?”

“Yes, I need to print a couple of files. You don’t happen to have an old guest card so that my boyfriend can come with me? I’m pretty fond of him and if he has to stay down here and freeze I might lose him.”

“You don’t need it, no worries. You can go right in.”

They strolled over to the elevators without hurrying. On the way up, Malte asked, “You don’t like your boss?”

“Not a bit. She’s just so … ugh, so bad, so obnoxious.”

“Ugh, so bad, so obnoxious?”

“Exactly.”

A short while later she added, “I’m hard core when it comes to language reform. You have to be if you’re going to be a journalist.”

He nodded seriously and she hit him in the side.

“That was a joke, stupid. Didn’t you get it?”

“No, I’m pretty slow on the uptake, apart from with technology.”

The next few minutes confirmed Malte’s claim and in only a few minutes his programs were installed on Anni Staal’s and Anita’s computers.

“It’s ready now, you’ll see. If you go into your browser and write ‘Garfield’ in the URL field—no WWW or HTTP or anything—just ‘Garfield,’ then the browser will show you the other computer’s screen and you’ll be able to see what she’s doing. If anyone comes by and you want to get out quickly, just hit the space bar. Are you following this?”

“Yes, absolutely. Garfield and space bar.”

“Exactly. If you write ‘Garfield dash code’ you’ll be able to see her ID and password but only after she’s logged in the next time. Remember that it is a dash and not a backslash. After that you’ll be able to log in as her. On your own machine and even when she’s on hers if you want to. Then you’ll be able to read her e-mail. Or send e-mails in her name.”

“Garfield dash-and-not-backslash code and I steal her ID and password.”

“Yes, that’s right. If you want to connect as her, you’ll shut down your own machine and restart while you have this CD in your drive. You won’t notice any difference but it will make sure that afterwards no one can tell which computer you used.”

“Boot up on the spy CD if I want to connect as her.”

“Yes, and then the last thing. If you hit Control Alt Escape, then my applications are erased and no one knows what you’ve been doing but of course that also means you can’t use the programs any longer. And you can’t undo it.”

“Control Alt Escape and I’ll be as pure as the driven snow.”

“Uh, that’s it.”

“That was quick.”

Anita jumped down from the desk and gave him a kiss that was not particularly quick.

“Why did you do that? There’s no one here.”

“Best to be on the safe side.”

She smiled sweetly at him and he returned it bashfully.

The clock at city hall rang out the bells for midnight over the city roofs and a new day began.

CHAPTER 66

Simonsen was vacuum cleaning. The meeting with Anni Staal was coming at as unlucky a time as possible as far as the appearance of his home. He had a housecleaner who came every other Sunday, which left him here and now with almost two weeks’ worth of clutter and dust, so if he wanted to appear decent to the many thousands of
Dagbladet
readers, the vacuum cleaner was the only option. The activity was abruptly interrupted when a sock invaded the mouthpiece and blocked the air intake, which he took as a clear sign from the higher authorities that all good things could be taken to excess. He stopped. There was no reason to go to the other extreme and end up being portrayed as pathologically clean.

Shortly after this the doorbell rang and the man from the hospital was outside.

“Good morning, Mr. Simonsen. Yes, things went more quickly than I thought. Your young co-worker is talented and with the right experience he will be very good in future but at this time you should let him finish his education.”

Simonsen stepped aside. The man walked in but stopped in the hall without making any gestures toward removing his outer clothing. He held out an envelope.

“We have found forty-one men who all more than once have contacted the National Hospital switchboard in the period from 2002 to 2005 and have lived in Trundholm County from 1965 to 1980. If we assume it is the same man, around the age of twenty-five to forty and that he has not been admitted to the National Hospital, the list can be reduced to four, of which one emigrated out of the country in the fall of 2005, so you may be able to eliminate him. But we included him because he has lived in the same village as your two murdered brothers. He is the first on the list.”

Simonsen took the envelope and expressed his thanks.

The man continued, “And then there’s this one, which reminds me that your guest from the
Dagbladet
is running late. She’s got problems with her photographer. He overslept so she hasn’t left home yet.” He held out the phone.