The Hanging: A Thriller (42 page)

Simonsen said, “Seems like your technical tricks are working.”

“Of course they are. It is easier than you would think, as long as you have the right knowledge and access. And it is easy to use. It rings every time her cell phone makes a connection with another phone, regardless of who is contacting whom, and then you pick it up and listen in on the conversation. She or the one she is talking to can’t hear you and when the call is over or if you don’t want to hear any more you just hang up. But you can’t use it as a real phone. It simply won’t work.”

“Is there any risk of you being found out?”

“Not on my end. In that case I would find myself. In terms of risk, you are the weak link so when you’re done I’ll get this contraption.”

Simonsen grinned. “Of course, it would make my work much easier to have a thing like that around.”

The man answered dryly, “Come on, you’ve got to think big. It would be much smarter to insert a citizen’s chip into all of us so the state could keep an eye on us.”

Despite the exaggeration, his words emphasized the path they were embarking on and neither one of them made any further comment.

At that moment, Anni Staal’s copy phone rang and the man held it out to Simonsen, who carried off his debut with aplomb. He listened and an unfamiliar concern for decency made him turn his back to his guest. It was a short call. The photographer had been replaced by a healthier one and the reporter was now on her way.

Simonsen’s initial interactions with the
Dagbladet
crime reporter, Anni Staal, were marked by palpable tension. The photographer quickly went about his task, then took his leave. The two antagonists were left behind, feeling somewhat self-conscious. But it soon turned out that they found many of the same topics of interest—albeit from their own points of view—and the first quarter of an hour was spent in chitchat. The strained atmosphere gave way to a kind of guarded amiability and from time to time they even found themselves smiling.

Then they got to work. Anni Staal suggested a dialogue divided into two parts.

“We’ll start with gathering material for your profile. I ask, you answer, and later I write up the whole thing. Afterward we’ll do a classic interview about your current homicide case and I’ll quote you directly and without editing.”

Simonsen agreed and the following hour they spoke freely about him and his work. Her questions were informed by a substantial insight into his work, and even though her focus was banal and gossipy, her professionalism demanded respect, just as her knowledge of individual cases was impressive. Simonsen never relaxed, however: in part he had his own secret agenda to pursue and in part he sensed that behind her friendly facade he was continually being put to the test.

There were only two times that her questions made him uncomfortable.

“You sometimes employ parapsychological consultants. Do you believe in ghosts and poltergeists?”

The subject was a mine field but he managed to get through it more or less unscathed. He discussed the use of clairvoyants in a sober and balanced way, providing a couple of general examples of where their assistance had been helpful.

The second topic that made him sit up was when they touched on his relationship to the media.

“In media circles you are known as being arrogant and uncooperative. Always dismissive and often coarse. Why is that?”

Instead of launching into a long explanation of his view of crime, entertainment, newspaper sales, and audience numbers, he frankly confessed, “That is one of my weaknesses. I’m a better investigator than communications officer.”

And then there was no more meat on that bone.

Suddenly there was an incident that could have been fatal. Anni Staal’s cell phone rang; she apologized and picked up. Shortly thereafter, the copy phone on the windowsill rang, echoing its master. He hurriedly turned it off. Anni Staal had not noticed anything, and when she was ready he had been out to the kitchen and regrouped. He finished the sentence he had been in the middle of before the interruption.

“But, as I said, a couple of times a sloppy investigation will lead to prosecution and conviction while a skillfully conducted one won’t. You learn to accept it or quickly forget that the work is unfair. And in a while you’ll get fresh coffee.”

Anni Staal nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds good. I for one need to cut back, of course. I have about twenty cups a day. Well, this went wonderfully. I think I have enough now. Is there anything you’d like to add? Or is there anything you think is missing?”

“I don’t want you to give the name of my daughter and ideally I’d like you to leave her out altogether.”

Anni Staal nodded, stuck out her hand, and stopped her tape recording.

“I can understand that, all things considered. All right, I’ll drop her.”

He took a Piratos from a bowl and let it swirl around in his mouth. Then he snarled, “You can never know what kind of perverted animals are on the loose out there.”

“Excuse me, what was that?”

The words had leaped out of his mouth. He cleared his throat and started over: “It was nothing. Thank you for leaving out my daughter.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s not much to thank me for. You’re the one who’s done all the work.”

He smiled, with more confidence than he really felt. “I guess.”

“Let’s go on to the current case—that is, your high-profile murder case. As I said, I imagine that it will be handled as a normal interview, that is to say with your answers to my questions. Direct quotes.”

“And as I said, that’s fine with me.”

“Smashing, then we’re in agreement on this point. I’ll switch tapes.”

She found a new tape in her bag and removed the plastic film. Normally she used her digital recorder for her interviews but a tape recorder afforded more natural pauses, and that was what she needed. She wrote a couple of lines on the cardboard container before she inserted the tape. Then she explained, “I’m using a good old-fashioned tape recorder today. My digital wonder is scratched up to the point that none of the IT folks can repair it.”

“I know that well. Most of my people prefer the old tape recorders to the unreliable digital versions.”

Simonsen’s tone was conversational, as was hers, but inside he felt his tension increase and he leaned back in the sofa with an assumed calm. In his thoughts he had spent considerable time rehearsing how he would approach various things. Especially in relation to the financial motives for the pedophile murders that had been planted with her. And what he should do if she didn’t even bring it up. Finally he had tried to push the thoughts away, which was easier said than done since they went around in circles without generating anything fruitful.

But perhaps it was because he had twisted and turned every hypothesis countless times that he managed her initial, seemingly innocent questions with ease. It started casually, before she had even turned on the tape recorder, but when he later thought back on it he was in no doubt that the questions had been carefully formulated and that his answers were far from inconsequential

“Tell me, was it your idea to agree to an interview with me?”

She had landed on the greatest illogical crack in Kasper Planck’s scheme. If he knew that the motive to the crime was money and that everyone else—specifically the tabloid press, which he hated—was chasing in the wrong direction, he had no reason to improve his relationship to the public and particularly not with her. In fact it would have been smarter to let the
Dagbladet
lie in its bed until his prosecutor could raise a couple of solid charges of burglary-murder.

He was able to clench his teeth as if repressing some bitterness. “No, not completely.”

“Helmer Hammer?”

He shrugged. What could he do except parry her words? Then he added, “If you ask me on tape then I will tell you it was all me. Your little handshake, however, was one hundred percent my idea but my boss approved it later without problems.”

Anni Staal smiled understandingly. She also had bosses who had to be obeyed. He stood up, fetched the coffee, filled up both of their cups, and sat back down again. His guest thanked him and started the tape.

“Let’s just jump straight into things. If there is a question you don’t understand then we’ll talk about it before you answer.”

He nodded. “That’s great.”

“Let me begin by getting right to the heart of the matter. Is it true that the motive for the pedophilia killings is money and that we are simply talking about murder on purely financial grounds?”

Simonsen spilled half his coffee down his pant leg. It was convincing, but hurt like hell.

CHAPTER 67

Arne Pedersen was in trouble. The two women he was explaining himself to were not listening very carefully. With sarcastic attitudes and skeptical little remarks, they more than hinted that his words were not having the intended effect.
Bastard
and
shithead
were not expressions that had a positive influence on the conversation. He went on as well as he was able and no one faulted him for not trying to defend the precarious position his boss had assigned him. He concluded his explanation with additional detail, giving the reasons why it had been necessary to keep the women in the dark for over a day and, in certain contexts, even longer.

The Countess’s eyes glowed with rage and he focused on Pauline Berg, until she poked her tongue out at him. Then he trained his eyes on the ceiling. When he finally fell silent, neither of his listeners said anything immediately, and for a brief moment he hoped that the conversation was over and that he would perhaps be able to slip unscathed back into his own office. But this optimism was not grounded in reality.

The Countess’s voice took on an exaggerated tone, as if she were talking to a child: “Is Simon the one who has sent you out with this drivel? Isn’t he man enough to tell us himself? Why hasn’t he turned up? That interview can’t take all day.”

“He won’t come in, he’s going to be at home for the rest of the day.… Dammit, Pauline, stop that.”

Berg had poured a handful of paperclips out of their container and was tossing them one by one at his head. Since the distance was relatively short she could hardly fail to miss her mark, and the last one had struck him in the forehead.

The Countess ignored his exclamation and said, “At home? Is he sick?”

“No, he isn’t sick, he’s just staying home. Maybe he wants to think things over. And drop the injured tone. Simon knows what he’s doing.”

“That’s not the problem. The problem is that
we
don’t know what he’s doing. And what about you? Do you know what he’s up to?”

Pedersen had to admit the truth. He had been wondering the same thing. “No, I don’t.”

Berg took over. “Tell me again why you haven’t informed us of this before now, but spare me all your superfluous concerns. If you don’t trust us, just say so. Why weren’t we at the meeting on Tuesday?”

“You know, that wasn’t a real meeting. It was a dinner. And there are no guarantees that our plan is going to succeed—oh stop it for God’s sake, Pauline—a lot of things have to line up first. But of course we trust you. Until now you’ve been doing really brilliant work.”

“Idiot.”

The Countess chimed in, “Knucklehead.”

“I need to take a break.”

“Get in line.”

Pedersen turned to the Countess. Despite the fact that their relationship was often somewhat lukewarm, he felt unsettled by the situation. Pauline he could more easily tackle once they were alone.

“Listen, I’m not the one who wanted to keep you out of this.”

“Now you’re being pathetic, Arne, but we’ll let it go. Tell me who got the idea. Was it Simon himself? And who found the intern reporter?”

“It was Kasper Planck. Both of them, Kasper Planck.”

“Hm, I should have guessed. Then there is another thing. I don’t understand why Anni Staal trusts you.”

“Well, that’s not so easy … but … I have a relationship with her.”

Berg exploded, “You have a relationship with that sack of blubber?”

“No, dammit, not that kind of relationship. That is … well, I guess I should tell you how it is.”

He told them how he had been selected by Anni Staal as a potential source because of his gambling, and, compelled by his guilt, he laid it on thick in order to improve the mood. It worked. Berg poured the rest of the clips back into the container. The Countess nodded and returned to the subject at hand.

“So let me see if I understand this correctly. You have planted the traces for the robbery-murder—or whatever we should call it—ahead of time with Anni Staal, and Simon will be forced to corroborate it today in the interview. She will go back to her office and finish her article, but before she gets it printed on the front page she has to have his written permission. Ergo, she sends a copy of the article to Simonsen and the intern reporter will supply a copy of this to Mørk, after which we hope to shake the Climber out of the trees. How that will happen is as yet unclear. And in order to follow our progress we have installed listening devices in the editorial offices of the country’s largest newspaper. In addition, we are unlawfully tapping a journalist’s telephone because a friendly, completely unknown man has fiddled with her connection. Does this cover the situation more or less?”

Pedersen did not like her sober take on the situation but he could not say it was wrong.

“Yes, I guess it does. That part about the phone has only come in later. And Simon also said that you might be against it.”

She heard his comment and stared for a moment out the window, after which she shocked them both: “Damage control, yes, that isn’t completely misguided, and other than an interview with the killer himself, the vigilante group most likely has nothing that could trump this kind of news, but even with source protection they are taking a huge chance.”

“Hardly bigger than the murderer, who assumed that the Langebæk School lay empty during the vacation. Much could have gone wrong there. And the burglary-murder motive will strike them hard, yes, will devastate them. They will lose support everywhere so they’ll have to try something. Simon gives the chance of success for this plan as fifty percent but I think it’s more than that.”