The Hanging: A Thriller (45 page)

The woman did not conceal the fact that she considered this option. His pulse was throbbing in his temples as he waited. Not because of her—he was indifferent to her personally—but she could be the first pebble in what could become an avalanche. After what seemed like half an eternity she had made up her mind.

“If this is published, I’ll leave. There have also been some other things as of late that I don’t care for. People who have been beaten up and such. But this…” she pointed at the pages, “I can’t live with.”

Many others indicated that they shared this opinion.

Mørk did not have a lot of options, but with as much confidence as he could muster, he said, “It won’t be published.”

That promise would not be easy to keep, Mørk realized a couple of hours later. He was at the bar at the restaurant Andrikken in the center of town and Anni Staal’s mistrust was almost tangible.

“I’m not impressed that you know about
Chelsea.
You could have found this out from any number of places and there’s nothing that proves that you were the one who mailed me the videos, and not even your supposed outtakes change my mind.”

She held up the flash drive that he had given her.

“And it’s for the same reason. Because you could have been sent these by your supporters, but naturally I want to peek at this material. To be honest, I also have to say I couldn’t care less about your talk of a police conspiracy. The bottom line, Erik: I don’t believe you. You may have been misled yourself, who knows. I can’t be sure of your role in all of this. The only thing I know is that you haven’t said a single thing that would make me pull my article.”

Anni Staal was enjoying the situation. It was eminently clear that she held all the aces and it was equally clear that the man did not know about Konrad Simonsen’s clause. Maybe this could be used to her advantage, in case he actually had something to contribute.

“But I’m a busy woman. We have a deadline soon and it won’t help either of us to sit here and waste any more time. If we do, the decisions will be made for us. You can start by telling me who gave you a copy of my interview. That much I want to know.”

Mørk resembled the hard-pressed man that he was. The only reason he did not give Anita Dahlgren away was that he had forgotten what her name was. He did, however, remember the name of the secretary from the
Dagbladet
who had contacted him about the matter. Without having a copy of the interview itself. Anni Staal listened to the name.

“What do you know. Well, the next and last question on the agenda—what can you give me? You tell me that I’ve been tricked, but you have no way to prove it. For my part I’ve confirmed this information from a number of different sources. Try to see the situation from my side. Do you or do you not have anything? To put it bluntly, Erik, shit or get off the pot.”

Somewhere inside him he had known that what followed would be the eventual outcome.

“If I arrange an interview with the man who did these things, then will you wait to hear what he has to say before printing your conversation with the chief inspector? He knows what happened to the money and he’ll be able to prove it.”

“An interview with the killer himself. Not bad.”

He didn’t reply, or consider that she might be frightened.

“One day. I’ll wait one day. I want a confirmation later this evening and the interview has to be tomorrow. And one more thing. It would be best if he contacts me himself and I’m going to test him to make sure it’s him. Agreed?”

Mørk agreed. The bartender brought them a couple of drinks that they hadn’t ordered. It was a gift from a customer who had recognized Staal. She took a sip and then raised her glass to a bald older man a little farther down the bar. He smiled back at her, half drunk. Mørk toasted him as well, foolishly, then he said, “He’ll only talk to you. No cops.”

“Well what do you know. Killers are often like that. Let’s say that I’ll hear from him around eleven on my cell phone.”

She finished her drink and put her cigarettes away in her purse, then slid elegantly down from the stool and started to leave the restaurant. On her way out she gave the bald man a kiss on the forehead. Her lipstick left a mark. Mørk found it grotesque but the man smiled happily and looked very much like a pig.

CHAPTER 70

On his way back from Odsherred, Simonsen called his inner circle to a nighttime meeting in his apartment. The exception was Poul Troulsen, who according to his own account was lying on his deathbed, hoping that death would come quickly and spare him from further pain. His wife, on the other hand, had downplayed the illness and described him as being just a little under the weather, so Simonsen pressumed that the truth lay somewhere between these two extremes, but in any case he had to proceed without him. The others promised to be there at ten o’clock. Only Pauline Berg objected and Simonsen had to use capital letters on the phone with her.

“This is not under discussion, Pauline. You will get Anita Dahlgren at eleven o’clock at the
Dagbladet
and drive her to Søllerød pub. On the way you’ll collect Malte Borup and all three of you will sit tight at HS until you hear from me. You are there to keep an eye on them, and that is an order.”

Unbelievably, Berg remained obstinate and Simonsen had to tighten the screws.

“You will also be allowed to join us, at least in the beginning, and I shall keep you informed, but this is how it is going to be. Make sure you understand that.”

Kasper Planck, who was sitting in the passenger seat, grabbed the cell phone from him and said quietly, “Hi, Pauline. You really should do what Simon is asking. It’s important.”

Then he hung up. Simonsen commented, “How in the world did you do that? She was all worked up.”

“You should speak slowly and give clear directives. They accept that. That goes for all women.”

Simonsen reflected on this most of the way in to Copenhagen.

At home, he got out the chessboard but the old man was clearly tired and this time it was unfeigned. Simonsen meaningfully cleared his throat a couple of times when his opponent suddenly thought for an unreasonably long time over a relatively banal move. But it didn’t help. One could clear one’s throat as much as one wanted—he had fallen asleep. Simonsen maneuvered him into bed and took his shoes off, slightly irritated over the situation since in his view he had been winning. But perhaps the interruption wasn’t so bad because shortly thereafter the Countess arrived. Half an hour too early and clearly worked up.

She had hardly hung up her coat before she started laying into him.

“I feel left out, Simon, left out and underrated. And I get particularly upset when I think about Monday evening. I had a wonderful time, but if I see it in the light of your faltering will to share your knowledge, I don’t hesitate to call it false, not to say an outright betrayal. And you can say however many times you like that we should keep our work and personal lives separate but you, if anyone, do the opposite and keep me out of the loop on top of it all…”

She continued in the same vein for a while. A couple of times he tried to follow Planck’s advice but it didn’t help and actually seemed to make things worse. Finally he couldn’t think of anything but to tell her she was right and hope that she would eventually run out of ammunition. Which did in fact occur, but in a highly unpleasant way.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about whether or not I even want to be part of this. Risk my job and my career for an idea that is as illegal as it is personal, and
personal
being the operative word. The question now is why I would help you, Simon, when you don’t even help yourself.”

He didn’t follow, but quickly caught up. She dismissed his objections.

“I’ve been on the phone with Anna Mia many times. She hardly knows what to think and is very worried, which I understand very well. She loves you and maybe I do too, I think. So now the conditions. I am together with you and Arne in this, wherever this leads. You have to give your word to obey the following starting Monday: one—take your diabetes medication regularly; two—go to a dietician and follow the directives you are given; three—stop smoking. The choice is up to you, Simon, but don’t bother telling me that your personal life doesn’t concern me. You opened the bag and you’re eating the sweets.”

It was a lot at one time, even for a mature man in his best years. Perhaps love was blind, but definitely not mute, at least in her case, and the romantic element was not immediately apparent in her carefully numbered conditions. Simonsen looked away and chose escape. At least an attempt.

“Kasper Planck and I established the Climber’s identity today. His name is Andreas Linke. But we don’t know his present whereabouts so we have to see if we can’t coax him out. Exactly like before we knew his name.”

The Countess’s surprise was marked. “You’ve found him? Why haven’t you said so? Where was he?”

The retired homicide chief ’s voice cut dryly through from the bedroom and was impossible to ignore: “He’s throwing out jewels in order to escape, just like Rolf Krake of ancient lore.”

Simonsen peered bewildered toward the sound of the voice. He had thought that the old man was sleeping. Then he drew his finger in a circle at his temple to indicate to the Countess that his predecessor was mentally unstable. It didn’t help matters much because Planck’s next sentence was not lost in the mists of fairy tales.

“He’s sleeping. Hold him steady, you batty woman.”

Simonsen threw his arms in the air with irritation. He shouted back, “Express yourself like a normal person. We don’t talk to each other like that.”

He glanced apologetically at the Countess, but his third attempt to circumvent the issue didn’t work.

“I asked you a question, Simon. Please be so kind as to answer it.”

*   *   *

A couple of hours later, Kasper Planck, Arne Pedersen, Pauline Berg, and the Countess were sitting around Simonsen’s sofa table as their host was out on the balcony, smoking. Arne Pedersen was holding a telephone line open to Anita Dahlgren, who was at the
Dagbladet
office.

He recounted to the rest, “She is wearing a headset and can speak more or less freely. Her computer is hooked up to reflect Anni Staal’s screen but right now that is just blank because Anni Staal hasn’t arrived yet. It’s worrying her that the place is starting to empty out. Most people have gone home.”

Simonsen tossed the cigarette aside and closed the door. Then he said, “Anni Staal is on her way there. Erik Mørk has just called her and he said that she would be contacted in the space of half an hour. Now you can begin to hope.”

No one talked for a while and everyone waited tensely until the Countess broke the silence: “I have some good news. Simon will stop smoking as of Monday.”

The others nodded approvingly and praised him, apart from Planck, who chuckled.

At the same moment, something started to happen. Arne Pedersen related in a running commentary, “Anni Staal has arrived.”

Some time went by until his next sentence. The others sat on pins and needles.

“She’s turning on her computer and inserting the flash drive … one moment, it takes a second … she is maybe starting a movie. Anita is not completely sure, but yes, now she’s sure and it’s from the hangings. Anita has no sound but the man in the film is crying, she says it’s Thor Gran. Yes, it is
Gran.
It’s horrible, absolutely horrible, Anita says. Anni Staal has stopped the film. She’s making a call on her landline phone.”

He held up for a moment. “She doesn’t seem to be making a connection.” Suddenly he called out, “Dammit, Anita, hang up! I’ll call you back.”

Then he ended the call and took the next one. It had been indicated in the background of his mobile phone’s call-waiting plan. The others were impressed by his complete transformation: he sounded like thunder.

“What the hell is this, Anni? Can’t you get it into your pea brain that you can never call me? Last time you promised me that it would never happen again, so what is your pathetic excuse this time?”

He listened, then he sneered, “Now I don’t
believe
anymore, I’m just sure, but if you have doubts you should get yourself a better source.”

Again he listened and then answered, “No, that was right. The sequence in the films was different. The first one who was killed was Jens Allan Karlsen, he was at the very front and to the left, and the last one was Frank Ditlevsen, who was in the middle. Tell me, why in the world would you want to know that?”

Again a pause. Then he wrapped things up: “Yes, do that, and you can add a thousand to my fee and don’t contact me again. Do you understand?”

He hung up and then called Anita Dahlgren back. The connection was reestablished.

The next twenty minutes were uneventful, aside from the fact that Pauline Berg left, which she did without fuss. At the
Dagbladet,
Anni Staal was writing an e-mail about how her interview with Konrad Simonsen had found its way to an unauthorized individual. She suspected a certain secretary.

Then suddenly there was action again. Arne Pedersen narrated, “Her cell phone is ringing.”

At the same time, the copy phone rang. Simonsen picked it up and listened. At one point he wrote something down and when he stopped, everyone was starting intensely at him.

“He passed her test with the order of the hangings, and they are going to meet tomorrow.”

Cheering followed this news. Even Kasper Planck made a fist.

“Kongens Kringle at Hindstrup Hovedgade, eight kilometers east of Middelford at exactly twelve o’clock.”

The Countess gently squeezed his arm. Then she asked, “Did he give her a name?”

Simonsen purred like a hungry cat.

“He did, in fact. He said that she could call him the Climber.”

CHAPTER 71

Stenholm Castle dated back to the middle of the 1500s, when the county’s baroness Lydike Rantzau had the Renaissance water fort built. At that time, Skipper Clement and his peasant mob’s abuses of the Jutlandish gentry under Count Fejde was still fresh in people’s minds and so the new home of the baroness was fortified to withstand a rebellious horde—strong and formidable, with thick double walls, countless embrasures, machicolations, and a moat and a drawbridge. The most attractive feature of the castle was without a doubt the old rhododendron garden in the month of May and the castle park, which was maintained in a natural English style with winding paths and superfluous little bridges arched over artificial ponds. The property stretched all the way down to Gamborg Fjord and continued into the Hind fir-tree nursery.