The Hanging: A Thriller (5 page)

“Yes, I know. That was nice of Arne. Go on about the janitor.”

“He said that about the rain poncho to needle me, but apart from that he was quite meek. We delivered him to the Countess. He was afraid of the dog so it was told to stay behind. Out in rain.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“My first impression was that he seemed pathetic. He reeks of beer and needs a bath. On the other hand … he is also … it’s hard to explain.”

“Take your time. I’m a patient man.”

She paused for reflection, and Simonsen studied the ceiling.

“He isn’t quite as much of a wreck as he seems, I’m sure of it. And he is somehow … present.”

“Highly conscious and aware?”

“Yes. No. Not in that sense. It’s just that it seems like he knows what’s going on the whole time, even when his answers are completely loopy.”

“You were present when he was being questioned?”

“Only in the beginning. It was Troulsen and the Countess who interrogated him and it was sort of an unspoken agreement that I would just listen, but I read the rest. The recording was sent to HS and after an hour we had a transcription. I can tell that we have reinforcements—I’ve never experienced anything quite like this.”

Simonsen noted that she had started referring to headquarters as “HS,” which was new for her. “HS” for “Head Square,” as they said in the Homicide Division. He replied, “I haven’t either. But you were only there at the beginning?”

“Yes, then they sent me away to find a TV and watched your press conference.”

“To keep an eye on me and see if I made a spectacle of myself?”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

She paused, then proceeded carefully. “They said that it wasn’t one of your areas of expertise. Press conferences, I mean.”

“I see. They said that? And what do you think? Did I make a fool of myself?”

Although he was difficult to read, she tried to be somewhat honest.

“No, I don’t think so. You didn’t really say much. It was mostly the others, but you clearly don’t care much for the platinum blonde from
Dagbladet
.”

“Her name is Anni Staal and she represents a regrettable turn in human evolution, but personally I have nothing against her except that she should be deported. Was it so obvious?”

“No, I don’t think so. Only to someone who knows you.”

“And you do?”

The exam-taking pupil was back in one stroke. But only for a fleeting visit. Simonsen took the edge off his words by patting her kindly on the knee.

“Enough of that. Tell me how you felt when Per Clausen teased you about your age.”

Berg was bewildered. “How I felt?”

“Yes, how you felt.”

“Is it important?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Try to answer.”

She closed her eyes to recall the episode and therefore didn’t see her boss nod appreciatively.

“It wasn’t mean-spirited. He was looking at me almost as if we were friends. He wasn’t being snotty about it, if you get me.”

“I understand. What else?”

“It was the only time he really noticed me. He teased me, but in a nice way, as if he cared about me.”

“And you like him?”

She opened her eyes.

“Yes, I do. Can you please tell me what this is all about?”

“Later, later. How old are you again?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Thank you. And now for my ceiling. How is your geometry?”

“Neither good nor bad, but I’m no mathematical genius.”

“That’s not necessary. If you look at the screw holes for the hooks that were holding the ropes, you’ll see that they have been placed with precision. Both in relation to the center of the room and in relation to each other. I’ve been pondering those holes for a while now and have arrived at the fact that the placement can be determined from the length and breadth of the ceiling panels. It’s not immediately obvious, but not so difficult either, once you’ve caught on to the idea. You don’t need measuring tape. You can manage it with some string, a pencil, and a thumb in the right place. It would be simpler, easier, and much more accurate.”

“I follow what you’re saying. Broadly speaking.”

“The details are not of much consequence. But do you know how the lines in the intersection between two circles looks like?”

“Yes, they are curved.”

“Exactly, and from the placement and dimensions of the arcs you can estimate where the centers of the two circles must be.”

Suddenly a light went on in Berg’s head and she saw it.

“A thumb. Do you mean prints?”

“Unfortunately not. The technicians have checked and there are none. I just want to know if the one who put in the hooks did so in the way that I would have done. You are said to be strong and flexible, is that right?”

She reacted by getting to her feet, adjusting her pants, and effortlessly stretching a leg over her head.

“That was a convincing answer. Martial arts? Gymnastics?”

“Ballet. Would you like to see a pirouette?”

“Another time. I didn’t know you could dance.”

“My mother had big plans for me. I was going to be a soloist with the Royal Ballet Company, nothing less would do. Thank goodness I didn’t make it past the entrance auditions because my arches were too weak, so my mother turned her attention over to my little sister instead and let me dance for pleasure instead of duty.”

Word upon word tumbled out; dance was Berg’s great passion. In the daily routine she did not belong to the division’s epicenter, and the fact that she was a part of Simonsen’s inner circle depended exclusively on her age, not her abilities. She was there to provide the younger generation’s perspective. Now she was enjoying telling her boss about herself, until she noticed his distant expression and it occurred to her that it might not be the time and place for her autobiography. Nonetheless, the monologue had loosened her tongue.

“You stopped listening a long time ago. Isn’t that so?”

It was correct. Simonsen was in his own world, far from physical aesthetics and symphonic choreography. In his thoughts he was trying to imagine what could drive a person to mutilate five human beings with a chainsaw and hang them naked in a school, of all places. Hate, mental illness, callousness, idealism? None of these fit well, each at best only a partial explanation.

She had to repeat her question before he replied.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“More or less, but don’t make too much of it. When things are back to normal I would like to see you dance and hear your story. And then you will have my complete attention, I promise.”

He pointed at the ceiling.

“We’re going to go up and take a look at the two closest holes.”

It was clear that by “we” he meant “you.”

“You want to know if there are curved lines at each hole and which way the lines are pointing, correct?”

“Just as I described it to you, yes. But the school scaffolding has been removed for investigation, and although the technicians used a crane when they removed the bodies, they unfortunately took it with them.”

“So what are you thinking? I’m fit but my flying abilities are a bit rusty.”

Her cheeky remarks flew out without a second thought. Luckily for her, he smiled.

“Of course they are. But perhaps we could … do a little work with the ropes.”

They pulled the ropes out. Berg looked them up and down measuringly and agreed that he was right. As long as one was unconcerned with safety, it was not an impossible undertaking.

“But we can’t afford to fall down.”

“On the contrary, we can fall all we like, we just have to fall here.”

He pointed to a large blue foam mat that was propped up against a wall.

“Actually, that will be an order.”

She removed her socks and shoes while he maneuvered the foam mat into place, which she appreciated.

“I’m going to lose the pants as well, they’re too slippery for climbing.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Go into one of the locker rooms and find a pair of gym shorts.”

“What if they don’t match my top?”

“Come on, off you go. We don’t have all day, and you’ve already wasted half of it with your ballet talk.”

She ran. And was happy.

CHAPTER 7

Stig Åge Thorsen sat in the cab of his tractor and tried in vain to control his thoughts. Two days ago he had returned home from a vacation, a twelve-day cruise in the Greek archipelago. The trip had turned into a catastrophe, and it haunted him however much he tried to push thoughts of it away. Unwelcome flashbacks, which he had no mastery over, flashed through his head. He let his gaze sweep mournfully over the autumn wooded landscape that crept down the hillside to the lakeshore and stood green, brown, and red-gold in the haze. The day was gray and the skies hung heavy with rain over the lake. It was somewhat chilly, with no hint of a breeze. His thoughts slid back to the cruise and he gave up trying to fight them. In Greece the fall had been warm, and the first day was calm.…

*   *   *

He kept to himself, enjoyed the rhythmic thud of the engine, and spent hours at the railing as he watched the fishing villages along the coast slide by in clear pastel colors and a predictable dullness. The food was unfamiliar but good. They had bungled his name. Stig Åge Thorsen had become Thor Åge Stigsen, which gave him problems in the restaurant. He corrected the error but the next day they had forgotten about it and he had to explain himself again. Knossos was an experience, and there he met Maja, who was freckled and full of laughter. Her red hair blew in the wind as she walked on the deck, and she smiled when she tossed pieces of bread to the gulls that surrounded her in a screeching mass. She smiled at him and that was bad. Later he explained about phosphorescence and pointed out constellations. Maja was from Randers, she smiled again, and he moved a little farther away.

The ship called into Samos, where the guide told them about the Greek mathematicians Pythagoras, Euclid, and Archimedes, who could lift the Earth with the help of a lever. She drew diagrams in the gravel with a stick while the group formed a circle around her. He himself had no confidence in the principle, for when the rod slipped out of one’s small hands, Father’s chest was crushed under the car, but he did not say this. Instead he asked if Archimedes knew that the Earth was round. The guide rubbed out her sketch and then he was frozen out. Even Maja was irritated at him.

They went swimming at the beach at Saloniki, and after that they lay in the sand and let themselves be dried in the sun. They were alone and for the first time he touched her and gently stroked her head. His fingers slid in among her wet curls and came together in a long caress of his hand through her hair. Then that happened that was bound to happen. Maja gave a satisfied sigh, and he heard his mother moan. Suddenly he noticed his mother’s hair, his mother’s white arms, tasted her salt cheeks, felt her skin. Smelled her sex.

He said words, ugly words, without wanting to.

Maja got up and put on her clothes while he tried to explain without success. About Little Bear land, where Little Bear’s mother cried because Little Bear’s father was bad and gone; about Little Bear’s mother’s tears that were Little Bear’s fault; about Little Bear who had to kiss away Little Bear’s mother’s tears and Little Bear who had to cheer her up, and about the nights that were so dreadfully long.

Maja left.

He left also. Dressed only in swimming trunks, he left the beach as quickly as possible. He wandered aimlessly on lonely roads that glittered in the sun and made his way through the landscape until he couldn’t go any farther. His feet were red and swollen. He plucked a thorn from a bush and punctured his blisters. It alleviated the pain but only the outer one. Inside he always had a thousand eyes that looked back at their own night, and he wanted to puncture them all one by one, but for this the thorns were useless. Nothing helped. There he sat, looking at a random road in a strange land, humiliated for his arrogance—for his fleeting belief that he could control his own life—while the cicadas sang and the mountains in the distance smiled at him.

*   *   *

The guttural cry of a raven rolled in over the fields from the forest, and brought him back into the now. Stig Åge shifted uncomfortably. Who knew what bad luck the bird foretold? Then he focused on his work. It was his job to keep the fire going that Climber had lit on his property while he had been sent on vacation. The bonfire contained a minivan that he had never seen before. In a practiced way, he backed the tractor up parallel to the pit so that he could unload the sacks of coal and wood directly into the flames.

The compressor had stalled. He poured in more gas and started it again. They had dug out air ducts under the pit, so now the fire blossomed up again and the flames flared. He pitched the contents of the flatbed over the edge. The heat became more intense and he sweated. Per Clausen’s calculations placed the temperature at close to twenty-two hundred degrees Celsius. Iron melts at fifteen hundred, steel at eighteen hundred, so when the police arrived there would not be much left to find. But a calculation was one thing, and reality was another altogether. That lesson had been firmly hammered into him while he was abroad.

CHAPTER 8

Konrad Simonsen felt exhausted. These workdays with no end in sight were an affliction, and as he got older it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his focus whenever the hours grew longer than was reasonable. He, if anyone, was expected to retain an overview of the situation, to keep his eye on the big picture, but instead he sometimes felt the situation was a complete blur—a fact that he had trouble admitting even to himself. So instead he used a preposterous amount of mental energy to sound as if he did, to sound as if everything were painstakingly planned, to sound as if he knew exactly what it was that would take place in the next hour. Yes, even sound as if he could recall what he himself had said an hour ago. This acting made him irritable and short-fused. The truth was that he longed for his soft armchair, a good book, and a couple of tomato sandwiches before bed. Then he thought of the fact that he hadn’t bought any groceries and would hardly have any time to. He suppressed a yawn and focused on the man in front of him.