The Hanging: A Thriller (36 page)

She explained that they shouldn’t worry and that everything was going to be all right. They understood. Of course they did, it was easy to understand. It was also easy to swim once you had learned how. She could swim without water wings, proudly, alongside her mother. She loved it when they were at the Østerbro pool just the two of them and of course a whole lot of other people that they didn’t know. She ventured away but lost her courage when a big boy of about ten came swimming toward her. It was hard to turn but she managed it. Then she heard the voice ring out across the hall: all the yellow bands out! That was them. They had yellow bands on, a yellow piece of elastic with a key to the locker around her ankle. She made an angry face at her mother, then they kissed and smiled because as they did this they had to struggle to stay afloat. Then they slowly swam to the edge.

CHAPTER 56

In the Homicide Division at police headquarters in Copenhagen, the mood was bleak.

The minister of justice was speaking on the radio. He was well known for his flamboyant expressions and airy turns of phrase but this Monday he set a new record. Among other things because his interviewer served mainly to offer helpful cues for his monologue. Malte Borup looked around in vain for a translation. When he didn’t get one, he found a pencil and paper and disappeared into his own world of cryptic characters and signs. The interview ended not long after that and the host announced the next program.

Pedersen turned off the radio while Troulsen most eloquently gave voice to the general attitude in the room: “Populist asshole.”

Konrad Simonsen’s cell phone rang; it was Helmer Hammer. Simonsen withdrew to the most remote corner of the room. At the same time, Pedersen felt compelled to make derogatory comments about the minister of justice.

“Sentence by sentence it’s nothing but hot air, but the underlying message is clear enough.
Govern by public taste. Tighten the laws to prevent the general public’s justifiable anger. Return to a familiar chain of command so that ordinary people can get their police back.
What a bastard, is all I have to say.”

Troulsen added, sneering, “
Children who are bought as if they were laundry detergent. We have all seen it and we are horrified.
He really knows how to talk, that swine. And not a word about the five murders that followed. Someone needs to get him to shut up.”

The Countess and Pedersen shook their heads helplessly and Berg stared down at the floor.

Simonsen returned and related the details of his conversation with the chief.

“The minister of justice is speaking for himself, and his suggestion that we should return to the usual chain of command is completely without any foundation. If it were to happen, it would have no impact anyway. I have reported to both the police director and the national chief of police as I want to. The idea behind a special group isn’t ours and will be viewed as a political stunt to signal to the public that extraordinary measures are being applied in this case. Mass murders are not an everyday event after all, and thank goodness for that.”

Pedersen asked skeptically, “Did Helmer Hammer really say that?”

“No, it’s my elaboration. He did, however, say that lawmakers have launched into debates regarding the current sentences for child abuse and that these may become more severe. The minister of justice and some of his cronies have put feelers out and this idea has been well received in the other parties. Most shy away from a quick-fix approach. At this time. But this doesn’t really concern us. We are going to continue our work and under no conditions comment on the political dimension. This applies mainly to myself. I was under a de facto muzzle, and now that is doubly the case.”

The Countess shook her head. “I don’t like working for such a fair-weather man.” These were strong words coming from her. She mostly only spoke well of people.

Simonsen stopped and stood in the middle of the group, broad-legged and powerful. “And you don’t. You work for me, and for democracy. If you are unhappy with the composition of our government, you can join a political party.”

He would have liked his words to be more carefully chosen. Touch on something that united them, but he didn’t know what that would be. And for that matter, how much did they even have the right to expect? He was neither a politician nor a minister. He stayed with what was down-to-earth, throwing his arms up in an awkward gesture and saying, “And we shouldn’t forget that it has been quite a productive day. We have definitely gotten new solid information to dive into. Especially with regard to our interrogation of Stig Åge Thorsen tomorrow. I don’t yet know who is going to do it, probably it will be the Countess and me, but I want all of you to be extremely well prepared. In return, Arne and I will finish the television work by ourselves. We spent too long on it last time. I’ll be a little late tomorrow morning by the way, as I have a meeting. I may be able to secure an alternative and more reliable supplier for telecommunications data, which might be a good thing considering how maddeningly slow our official sources are right now. And then finally one last thing…”

He made short pause before he went on.

“As something tells me that our favorable resource situation will not last forever, I would like to invite all present to a fine and thunderingly expensive dinner with the state as the host, while I still can. And it will be a pleasure for me to send a copy of the check to the iron lady at the
Dagbladet.
Is anyone interested?”

The Countess accepted. Troulsen said no; he had been ignoring a flu with the end result that he was deadly tired and just wanted to go home and rest. Pedersen also had to pass. The following evening, he and Simonsen were to have dinner with Kasper Planck, which could not be mentioned in current company, but to spend two evenings that were not a professional necessity away from his family was simply not possible. A single event was hard enough to defend. Then there was Pauline Berg and Malte Borup, but for once Berg turned out to be quick on the uptake.

“Not us either. Malte has promised to take a look at my home computer. It’s been acting up and I need to have it fixed.”

Borup glanced up briefly from his formulas when he heard his name. As usual he didn’t understand anything. Not even enough to make him blush.

CHAPTER 57

The girl was sitting on a chair in the middle of the studio and looked like an angel. She was dressed in a simple peasant blouse of light-colored linen. She wore no jewelry except for an amber necklace that gleamed like summer on her white throat. Golden curls floated around her picture-perfect face but her clear eyes shone with life and were entrancing at first gaze. Natural as a dream, clean and pure, perfect, if one remembered to disregard her fashionably worn, tight jeans and sexy black leather boots. As the camera did.

Erik Mørk couldn’t look away, she drew his gaze like a dew-kissed flower.

The director was giving orders. Without looking directly at the girl, he focused on an oversize TV monitor on the back wall, where her upper half appeared. He gave instructions to the cameraman and interviewer: “We’ll run through that part about the abuse again.”

The girl grumbled, “It’s at least the tenth time.”

“It’s only the sixth and you are good, really good, but you can be even better. It only needs to be the beginning. The rest of it is fantastic. Are you ready?”

“Okay, okay, but that will be it.”

Her face changed in an instant from raw to sweet. The director said, “Start from: ‘You were yourself abused as a child.’”

The interviewer echoed this, but with the appropriately emotional tone: “You were yourself abused as a child?”

She looked down and did not answer. Two tears ran down her cheeks but she still did not say anything and her silence screamed into the camera. Then she straightened her head and wiped her face. Her first sentence was hesitant. Searching and unsure.

“Yes, I was abused when I was a child.”

Thereafter her voice grew clearer and steadier and took on a slightly questioning tone.

“Abused—abused is what you call it. It sounds like I was forced to deliver newspapers without getting paid. That is what adults call it.”

She now sounded loud and clear. Accusatory but not hysterical or aggressive.

“I was raped. From when I was nine until I was fourteen I was raped. A lot—it was a good week if I was raped less than three times and it went on month after month, year after year. That is why I have agreed to do this today and it is because the fate of the victims interests me far more than the perpetrators.”

“And you think this will help?”

She overheard the question. It was the third time Mørk had heard the passage but it was as effective and strong as the first. Despair and helplessness passed over her pretty face.

“You should see my brother. He couldn’t manage it, he’s very sick today and they don’t have space for him at the clinic.”

The desire to hold her came over him. Just to hold her close for a moment, to comfort and protect her. He rejected the thought as absurd but unconsciously advanced a couple of steps.

The interviewer let her take a moment without injecting a new question. When she spoke again she was more collected and her voice was lower.

“Where were the grown-ups when I needed them most? Where was my mother? My family? My teachers? The counselors? All of the people who were supposed to be watching out for me…”

She jerked her head around and spoke directly into the camera.

The director jumped in: “Okay, cut. We’re going to have to practice that turn a couple of times before it looks spontaneous. It’s too quick.”

The girl said sourly, “It was too slow before.”

“Yes, and now, as I said, it is too fast. And I’d like it if you would be a tad less accusatory, perhaps with a note of uncertainty. Give yourself more time, so you don’t sound as if you’re reciting. Can you manage all that at once?”

Mørk had trouble imagining what he meant. Until he watched the girl and then he saw it. She came through that part with bravado and was allowed to keep going.

“Where were you then? And where are you now? Why do you allow pedophilic associations? Why is there a more severe punishment for adult rape than for the rape of a minor? Why—”

“Thanks, thanks, that was great,” the director interrupted her.

The girl straightened and her expression changed to nothing. “What do I do if I’m interrupted?”

“You won’t be, but there’s a little detail…”

“Damn, you go on and on.”

“I’d like you to seem a little bit more upset when you talk about your brother.”

“I can blubber when I talk about him.”

There was a pause. The interviewer left the studio. The girl, the cameraman, and the director walked over to Mørk.

The director said, “She’s the most phenomenal talent I’ve ever worked with. She can blush like virtue itself, she can cry and touch the heart of a debt collector, her smile can coax the sun out of a winter night, her phrasing, her tone, her appearance—she has the whole package, and then on top of that she’s a quick study.” He spoke as if the girl weren’t there.

Mørk agreed: her media potential was world class. In spite of this he felt a twinge of concern.

“But what she’s saying, is that also, is that … what happened to her?”

“Happened? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did it happen in reality?”

The director walked away. Mørk stared after him in bewilderment and then he asked the cameraman, “Why did he leave? Is he upset about something?”

“Don’t worry about him, he’s a little eccentric. There are words he can’t tolerate, but we’re lucky to have someone of his caliber. He’s fabulous.”

Mørk nodded, as if he understood.

The man went on: “You should read his book sometime.
In the global village, the camera is god,
or,
Everyone steps on beetles, not ladybugs.
Those are two of his most famous sayings.”

“Well, there might be something in that.”

“Something in that—you don’t get it, do you?”

“No, probably not.”

The man held out a packet of cigarettes. He offered them to the girl, who shook her head without answering, then he took out a single cigarette and tucked it behind his ear while he searched his pockets for a lighter.

“Did you see that mother yesterday? In the ruins of the housing block? It was on CNN.”

Mørk nodded, he had seen some of that segment.

“She was completely fucked up. Her getup alone was a disaster. Black coveralls, neglected skin, and eyebrows like a pony’s mane, and maybe you remember how much she howled? She complained so much the subtitles had trouble keeping up, rocking back and forth, waving her arms and legs and rolling her eyes like a wounded chimney sweep. The truth is she messed up her only chance. People have embarrassed themselves by the million, and where do you think her dead children are now? Zapped all the way into oblivion.”

He lit his cigarette and went on: “You asked about what had happened, but what’s happened is about the future, not about the past. That’s why we practice.”

Mørk could see the logic of this. Of course the cameraman was right.

“I understand. It just felt … I don’t know … a bit underhanded.”

“Aren’t you in advertising?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then what’s the problem? She was already fantastic and we make her brilliant. She’ll be styled so it doesn’t look like she’s wearing any makeup but that’ll happen the day after tomorrow, when it’s for real. You’ll get a couple of exclusive shots for your Web site. Black-and-white, I think, she likes that most. And then just wait until you see the final product. You’re going to love it.”

The girl stood at their side and looked bored stiff. Suddenly she said, “Tell me, did you leave your brain at home? Per Clausen told me you were smart. Of course I have to practice. Didn’t you practice the part about your dead sister?”

“How do you know about that?”

“What do you think? Because I was there when you talked about her. Well, did you practice or not?”