The Hanging: A Thriller (30 page)

“A couple of gymnasium students thought of it. That is, first five pedophiles have been killed, then six—and later on seven, ten, and twenty. But it’s too extreme and pushes too many segments away. They’re also writing the slogan as graffiti and people don’t like that. Unfortunately we haven’t quite managed to stop it. There’s someone printing T-shirts with … well, take a guess…”

“Per Clausen.”

“Exactly. Have you seen them?”

“Yes, after you published the article about my arrest on the Net, people make pilgrimages here. They bring all kinds of flammable material that they throw into the minivan pit, almost like a ritual. Often gasoline but other things too. Last night it was magnesium and it lit up like shooting stars. I went over there for a look this morning and there were a dozen people and one of them was wearing one of those Per Clausen tops. Without his windbreaker on, so you could really see it. The police have all kinds of problems with this fire. At first they just put up police tape around it but that was quickly torn down, so they put up one of those mobile fences and it took them all afternoon, but last night someone removed that too, so they may have to stand guard if they want to prevent sabotage.”

They had reached the end of the field where a stone wall and a thicket of stunted nut trees and sloan bushes stood between them and a meadow leading down to the water. Both bored their way through this obstacle. Below this the autumn forest spread out in all its colorful splendor in front of a lake, that lay still and rain gray.

Mørk stopped on top of the wall and took in the scene. “It must be quite a pleasure to live here.” He jumped down, enchanted, and took steps into the sank meadow.

The country man managed to stop him. It was impassable bogland. “Better than prison, of course. But you shouldn’t go that way unless you want to risk me getting the tractor to pull you out of the mud.”

Stig Åge Thorsen led them along an animal path that ran next to the stone wall. Mørk asked, “Well, how did your interrogation go? It’s your turn to tell.”

“I was under arrest for almost one day but not much happened the first few hours. From time to time they questioned me, always by someone different, but they did not manage to take me down.”

“And how would they? Starting a bonfire on your own property?”

“No, that must be the conclusion they came to as well. On the other hand … there was no doubt that they would have liked to keep me there. And I was there for almost the full twenty-four hours they were allowed before they had to involve a judge. At the very end there was a policeman by the name of Arne Pedersen from Copenhagen. He was very nice while at the same somehow more dangerous than the others. His biggest interest was in what I had done with the money. The money I claimed that I was given by the stranger.”

“What did you say to that?”

“That I had donated them to Sanlaap, and that part is actually true in a way. He didn’t drill deeper into the issue but as you know I’ve been called in for another round of talks in Copenhagen tomorrow.”

“Yes, and I will make sure there are reporters. It won’t be difficult but you should maintain your silence, although you should feel free to mention your interview with me on Thursday.”

“Go to WeHateThem.dk on Thursday evening if you want to know more.” Stig Åge Thorsen grinned. Mørk did not. The advertisement was deadly serious.

“Yes, something like that. We’ll also spread the word of course. High and low. Anything else?”

“No, not really. Well, actually—I’ve received a letter from Helle, a real letter. She wrote that she isn’t doing very well. You know how she has trouble with thoughts of her uncle at night. So last night I drove to Hillerød and called her from a telephone booth. What should I say? She sounded almost intoxicated and extremely unhappy, but she wanted me to send you her greetings. And to the Climber of course, if I see him, though I hope I don’t.”

Mørk answered briskly, “And you won’t. He will very soon be on his way to Germany. Most likely in a couple of days and at most by next weekend.”

“Why hasn’t he left already? I’m not the least bit comfortable with him, not after this business with the hot-dog stand. It was part of our agreement that he was supposed to leave as soon as it was over.”

“And he will. Unfortunately, he thinks he is invincible because so many people are backing us, but I haven’t been pressing the issue either, I should add. He’s not a bad thing to have up one’s sleeve. In a way he is my ultimate trump card with the media, even more than you, if you can see what I mean.”

They walked for a while without speaking. The wind swept through the tops of the trees above their heads and drops showered down from the branches. Mørk slapped his arms across his chest to get warm, and Stig Åge Thorsen asked, “What now?”

“We’ll build you up the next couple of days and then we’ll do your online interview on Thursday. I’ll introduce it this afternoon and then we’ll call for a demonstration on Friday.”

“What if they sentence and jail me?”

“They won’t. They simply don’t have enough evidence to hold you.”

“And what about after that? What about our demands?”

“They will be made public immediately following the interview.”

“They aren’t up on the home page already?”

“No, until now there isn’t anything up there except vague formulations about combating child abuse. No one can disagree with that. In the final analysis all this comes down to politics and here we will have some heavy hitters, but apart from the fact that the people’s sentiment supports our populist-minded minister of justice, none of the others have shifted. They are leaning back, winning time, and hoping that things get back to normal in a couple of weeks. And of course that we will be found. Those are the ones we need to shake up, but believe me—they aren’t losing any sleep over a couple of days of a school strike. That isn’t enough to get them to act.”

“Then they’ll be indifferent to a demonstration and also to my interview.”

“Of course they are. But the situation is in our favor. We’re only missing the last little bit. Unfortunately, this bit will negatively influence public opinion. That can’t be helped. So we’ll have to create the illusion that public opinion hasn’t changed and I think that is possible to a degree. At least for a couple of days and that is sufficient. It’s mainly a question of angles and timing.”

Stig Åge Thorsen stopped and put a hand on the shoulder of his comrade.

“I know that you and Per Clausen discussed these things in great detail but you sometimes forgot to inform the rest of us. You’re talking as if I know what the next step is but I don’t. To be perfectly honest, I don’t always understand what you are talking about.”

Mørk made a disarming gesture and said, “I’m sorry, I should have said as much, but the next step was taken this morning. The pedophile database has been distributed to our category-three members.”

Stig Åge Thorsen’s face showed that he was still not following. Mørk had to spell it out: “Violence.”

CHAPTER 48

The entries in Erik Mørk’s database fell hard over the country and created much unhappiness. Jylland was heavily overrepresented since the client base of the Ditlevsen brothers was a significant source.

Thus, a handful of people were gathered outside a property in Kvaglund in Esbjerg. They all stood with their heads tilted back and were looking antagonistically at a man on the fifth floor who was half sitting, half standing in a window far above them. In one hand he was holding on to the transom that separated the lower panes from the upper, and he was crying. From time to time he looked down in terror. A middle-aged woman whose blue-fox-fur coat indicated that she did not live in the neighborhood shouted, “Jump, you beast. Come on, get on with it, we don’t have all day.”

A younger man chimed in. He sat on a moped, slightly apart from the others. “Yes, come on, dammit. Get it over with, you sissy.”

A kitchen window in the building opened and an agitated woman with dyed red hair and a checkered apron leaned out and looked up. The fur lady explained without prompting, “He’s a child molester. He molested two small children in Nakskov eighteen years ago. It’s outrageous that our children have been living with someone like him in their midst.”

“
Our
children, you mean. I don’t believe you have any children here.”

The fur lady didn’t reply but a comrade answered in her stead. His Danish was halting. “I have four children outside his door.”

The woman gave the group the finger and slammed her window shut. The shouting continued. Shortly thereafter a patrol car pulled up and two officers got out, a man and a woman. After making their way through the crowd that had now swelled in number, they disappeared into the entrance. On the fifth floor, the door to the apartment was covered with slurs such as “animal dung,” “child fucker,” and “perverse shit.” Above these was some Arabic writing that most likely did not contain the friendliest sentiments. The male officer enabled their entry with a well-directed kick that broke the door handle and forced the door open. The woman walked in. She stopped a couple of steps from the would-be suicide and after a little while her colleague turned up behind her.

The man in the window was clearly desperate. “If you get any closer, I’ll let go.”

The female officer grabbed a nearby chair and calmly sat down. Cries from the street flowed together into a rhythmic, roaring choir.
Jump, jump, jump.
The cry was picked up all along the block and the echo came rolling with a slight delay, like a distorted bass.

“We’ll stay where we are, we just want to talk with you.”

The man did not react.

“It’s not worth it. Things can change and get better again.”

The officer spoke slowly and persuasively but her words were drowned out by the chanting from the street, so she ordered her colleague to go down and put a stop to the shouting. The man in the window glanced pleadingly at her, as if she could eliminate the evil of the world, but in this he was severely mistaken. As soon as they were alone she abruptly changed her attitude. As a child she had been her father’s little doll, until he drank himself to death. Little one, little doll—the last days had opened the door to a room inside her. She stood up and walked toward him.

“Jump or climb back in. It makes absolutely no difference to me.”

He stared at her in disbelief for one long second before he relaxed his grip. Cries of jubilation from the crowd accompanied his fall.

*   *   *

The shop owner in Arnborg, south of Herning, was not jubilant, in fact he was concerned. Three of his regulars had come into his shop but none of them greeted him. Now each one was standing there silent and very serious, without a shopping basket. One of them was standing by the marmalades and jams, the other by the wine, and the last one by the counter. The silence was broken by the sound of shattering glass as a jar of jam broke against the stone floor of the shop.

“Oops, that was clumsy of me.”

The shop owner reassured him, “That’s all right, Karsten, these things happen.”

“It’s just—oops—it just happened again. And again, and again and look at this.”

A crash punctuated each observation.

“Tell me, what the hell are you doing? Can you please leave my shop?”

The man by the wine section had carefully selected two bottles.

“These two look good, I think I’d like to have them tonight. Oh no, now I’m being clumsy too, what a mess.”

The taciturn customer by the counter leaned forward and laid a hand on the shop owner’s shoulder. The shop owner was large and strong, but the man by the counter was bigger.

“That tall guy from Sørvad works here, doesn’t he?”

“No, not anymore. Is that why you’re breaking my wares? I fired him this morning. I had no idea that he was … well, you know.”

This piece of information brought a smile to all three gentlemen and one of them took out his wallet.

“Now that paints an entirely different picture. We heard that you intended to keep him on in spite of his behavior. I think we had five jars of marmalade, two bottles of red wine, and I’m going to have twenty King’s. Plus we should have a round of cold ones in the next room.

The shop owner allowed himself to be placated when he saw the money and heard about the beer.

“Yes, why not.”

He called out to the back room, “Magda, can you make yourself useful with a floor mop and a bucket of water?”

Then he turned to the men.

“Dammit, you could have asked me first, you know me.”

They nodded somewhat sheepishly as what he said was right—they did know him.

CHAPTER 49

“The lady in red is definitely an interesting factor in Per Clausen’s life. The difference in age and social status alone shows that there was something special about their relationship. The problem is, of course, that we don’t have any reasonable idea about where to look for her. The make of car, her red clothes, and two meetings in a certain location—and all this from over two years ago—is simply two thin a basis to work on.”

Simonsen grunted impatiently but this did not affect Poul Troulsen. A good presentation took time.

“According to Kasper Planck, the kiosk owner, Farshad Bakhtîshû, and his sons now recall that that the woman in red had a slight limp.”

“So what if she did?”

“It could be nothing, but there’s something else, and this time it has to do with the piece of paper with the woman’s name and address. One of the sons thought of a detail that struck him as unusual. The address that the woman wrote down was a street, so it ended in
vej.
That’s of course too common to be helpful in itself but the unusual thing is the dot over the
j,
which was shaped like a heart.”

“Which means?”

“Well, I grew up in Jægersborg and I know that in Gentofte County there is a distinctive detail in the street signs. If the street sign ends in
vej
then the dot over the
j
is printed as a little red heart. Other
j
s or
i
s for that matter are printed with a regular dot. This information is public but in practice it is only people from Gentofte who recognize the heart. Some find it so cute and appealing that they reproduce it in writing their addresses. My mother, for example, always wrote hearts over her
j
when sending a postcard. To this you can add the fact that the woman in red is most likely wealthy, which fits very well with the profile of that county.”