The Hanging: A Thriller (48 page)

As usual he received no answer, but Simonsen noticed that the man tightened his right fist, looked down and away.

“You know, I do believe you know where it is. They all suffered the martyr’s death in the middle of Cologne, and even if the facts remain a bit hazy they built an entire basilica in memory of the bloodbath. The Basilica of Saint Ursula, Ursulaplatz 24—to be precise. You must know it, I mean, you’ve lived only two streets away on Weidengasse 8. Actually, formally you still live there. A rented room on the third floor right under the roof, so of course you know the church. I think you may also have noticed that I’ve shifted the dates around a little to get my story to fit. I’m like that. Can’t always be trusted. The day of the virgins is on the twenty-first and not the eighteenth of October, but you knew that well because Ursula’s Day is well known in Cologne.”

The Climber’s ears had grown redder. He did not care about the conclusion. He maintained his silence but there was no great poker player in the man.

When they reached Sorø, Simonsen left the interstate and continued along the highway toward Holbæk. He could see that the Climber was confused. The most sensible thing would have been to continue in over Ringsted and Køge, and hit Copenhagen from the south. But it was not completely misguided. At some point they would hit the Holbæk motorway, from which they could reach the capital over Roskilde and Glostrup. It was already one o’clock and he turned the radio on again. The timing was impeccable. The triumphant voice of the reporter filled the car:

“It has become worse to be a child abuser in Denmark. The Pedophile Packet has been negotiated here in a broad coalition between the government and the opposition. Initial treatment of the proposals will take place as soon as later this afternoon. Sentences for the sexual abuse of children will more than double and the parental protective clause will be removed. Rape in general becomes a more severe crime. In addition, close to eighty million kroner will be set aside in the budget each year for a series of actions to counter child abuse, including victim assistance, expanded police services, Internet surveillance, and psychological research. In the plaza in front of the parliamentary building here at Christiansborg, a huge celebration is under way. We now go to the ministry of justice, where the minister is preparing to make a comment.”

Simonsen turned it off. The Climber had a tight little smile on his face.

“I guess you won. Now all that’s left is settling the bill, and you especially have run up quite a debt to be repaid. Even though I might wish that it was Per Clausen and not you sitting beside me. I’m just a bit worried that after I get you to talk it’ll turn out that you aren’t more than a pathetically engineered copy of the real thing. Annoyingly enough.”

The words did not fall on deaf ears; the smile disappeared. Simonsen added aggressively, “There’s a personal dimension as well that we two have to work through. You sent me some pictures of my daughter and that’s something you shouldn’t have done. You’re going to cry over that one, but I guess I already told you that.”

They drove on in silence again. Simonsen’s lower back had started to ache and he wanted to stop and take a rest. He tried to help the situation by shifting his weight from one side to the other. Halfway to Holbæk, in the village of Ugerløse, he left the main road and turned left, toward Mørkøv and Svinninge. They were now driving west, in the opposite direction of Copenhagen, and it didn’t take long for the Climber to get nervous. He looked around with obvious bewilderment and became more and more restless.

Simonsen debated with himself. Reason told him that he should give up his plan and turn around. What he was doing was wrong, even though he was in control of himself and the situation. He decided to abandon it. But only after a final little theatrical gesture.

He opened the container between the seats, grabbed a couple of bags of Piratos candy, and tossed them onto the dashboard. Then he growled, “You’re the one who hooked me on this shit.”

Up to this point he had been calm and calculating. It felt good to let loose. He shouted, “Soon I’m going to shove this entire bag down your throat.”

His prisoner gave him a frightened look, which Simonsen enjoyed. Then he rolled down the window and threw the candy away. He didn’t want to use it anymore. Nor did he have any use for the original reason. That could go to hell, too, it could.

Once they had passed Mørkøv, the Climber could no longer hold back his questions.

“Where are we going?”

It was the first time that Simonsen had heard him speak. He had a nice, slightly husky voice that was marred by an undertone of panic.

“Haven’t you guessed yet? You’re not particularly quick on the uptake. If you were a little smarter you would already have started to beg for mercy.”

He reduced his speed, uncertain if the man would think to grab the steering wheel, and they slowly made their way through the autumn landscape. It had gradually become more overcast the farther east they had gone, but now the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the rolling terrain. Simonsen looked around, smiling slightly, as if he were sightseeing. There was nothing particularly noteworthy to see. A farm here, an approaching car there, mostly harvested fields with hay bales strewn hither and thither as if a giant had thrown a handful of dice.

Without looking at his passenger he said, “It’s funny how the mind works. You can go back and forth for months at a time for your old tormentors Frank and Allan while you nurse your own private agenda that will tempt them to their deaths. You have reached adulthood and no longer need to fear them. But the place where they abused you, you still avoid. The shed and the woods. You spend almost no time there and all your strength doesn’t help. At least you yourself couldn’t manage to fell the trees and set fire to the place. You needed help for that. On the other hand, it was clearly a long time ago and things change. We’ll see, we’ll see. What do you prefer to be called, anyway, Climber or Andreas?”

The question came without warning.

“Tell me where we’re going, dammit.” The voice was almost shrill.

“I asked you a question.”

“Here in Denmark everyone calls me Climber, so that’s what I prefer. Where are you taking me?”

“Good. Then I’ll call you Andreas, because I can’t stand you, Andreas. In fact, I hate you, if truth be told. You should have let my daughter be, you scum.”

The man twisted his hands and jerked his body restlessly from side to side. Simonsen kept driving. They passed Svinninge and then Hørve. The Climber started to sweat. Tiny beads appeared at his hairline and along his nose, and from time to time he rubbed his sleeve across his forehead.

“You have no right to take me there.”

The tone of aggression was gone, and was closer to pleading. Simonsen answered cheerfully, “Right, that’s an interesting word. If we were all to go out and hit each other in the head with what we have and don’t have a right to do, then we wouldn’t get anywhere, would we?”

“Can’t you just let it go? I can’t … I don’t think I can bear it.”

“No, I assure you, I won’t. It suits me perfectly to take a detour to the place where it all began. To the shed, where Frank raped you, and the trees, where it was Allan’s turn. Were they all cut down or just the ones that were most commonly used—if I can put it that way?”

The man had put his hands over his ears in order not to hear, and he banged his head against the back of the seat. The color of his face drained away—apart from the scar, which was a deep red. As soon as he removed his hands, Simonsen was on him, mean and merciless.

“The old people in the village tell me that you could hardly walk when the brothers had had a go at you. You waddled around as if you had shit your pants.”

The Climber turned his head as if he could shield himself from the words.

“Okay, you piece of shit, if you tell me where you live in Germany and where you live in Denmark, I’ll turn the car around.”

It wasn’t quite that easy. At first, the Climber chose to put up with his discomfort, but the closer they got to their destination, the harder it got. Finally, he gave in.

“In Germany, I live where you said. Weidengasse 8, in Cologne. Here in Denmark I have a garden-level apartment in Fredericia, Ivertsgade 42, and it’s under the table. The owner doesn’t care who I am as long as I pay the rent. Take me back to Copenhagen. I want a lawyer.”

The rage in his voice had returned as he spoke. His gaze filled with aversion and the restlessness disappeared.

“You want, and you want. You can get a kick to the head for all I care. Tell me about the pictures I received.”

The answer came after a short pause.

“That was Per Clausen. He sent me the envelope with the message to wait a week before mailing it. I didn’t even know what was in it until now.”

“How did he know my daughter?”

“I don’t know. He was prepared for you, I think. Turn around. I want to get back to Copenhagen like you promised. We have nothing against your family.”

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged them into this, because it has really made me mad, more than you can imagine. And now for the fun. I lied to you before but it’s your own fault that you believed me. I told you once that I’m not to be trusted. You should listen more carefully another time.”

The Climber stared at him without comprehension. Then his panic returned and this time it was worse than before. Now he trembled uncontrollably as if he was cold. He whimpered from time to time and after a couple of kilometers he started to beg. It sounded pathetic and he got no reply. Simonsen turned right by Fåreveijle, and soon they had a view over Sejerø bay on the left, so there wasn’t far to go. The Climber alternated between crying and pleading. In between, he rambled incoherently about everything between heaven and earth, big and small, and it was not uninteresting but worthless as evidence from a judicial standpoint.

Suddenly Simonsen stopped the car. He took a map out of the glove compartment, then got out of the car and lit a cigarette. He let the door stay open so that they could talk, although the Climber’s ability to speak was greatly reduced.

“You still don’t understand, Andreas, that this is not about your confession. That will come later. This is about revenge. Revenge for the people whose lives you took. They probably pleaded for theirs but you killed them without mercy. You are up against a life sentence and deserve it as much as anyone. But first your worst nightmare will be realized. Do you dream of the place? Despite all the psychiatric treatment and your glorious crusade. I think you do, and in a bit you’ll experience it again, regardless of whether you peep, sing, or scream.”

Scream was basically what he did do, but not loudly, more high and squeaky like a kitten being squeezed. Then he started to pull on the chains, but with no result other than to cause a red mark on his right wrist. Simonsen continued to smoke, unconcerned, until the man suddenly threw himself in between the seats and caught sight of the pistol that Simonsen had carelessly tossed into the backseat. He yanked it desperately toward himself and grabbed the gun out of the holster, at first only to drop it in his lap. He quickly picked it up again, unsecured the weapon, and pointed it at his captor’s face with an uncertain, shaking hand.

Simonsen calmly flicked away his cigarette. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and irritatedly pushed both the gun and the man away with the flat of his hand, as if they were an annoying insect, and the Climber pulled back as far away as he could.

“I don’t believe it, Andreas. And I don’t think you would hit me, the way you’re shaking, and anyway it wouldn’t help you one bit. You and I are still going to Ullerløse.”

He turned the key and started the engine. The Climber stared at him for a long time in confoundment, then he pointed the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. It clicked. He tried again, with the same result. Then he slid down, as powerless as a tuft of cloud, into his seat, his gaze empty. Simonsen could tell by the smell that he had peed his pants. He turned off the engine and stepped out. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, rested his hands in them, and stayed like that for a long time. Then he straightened up and shouted at the top of his lungs, “It should have been you, Per, you devil, not this pathetic wreck.”

He stared measuringly down the road, then back where they had come from, and said straight out into the air, “But I’m not like you, Per. You would have liked it, if I had been. A nice little bonus on top of the victory. But you won’t get it, not on any terms.”

Then he walked around the car, freed the Climber from his chains, pulled him up, and helped him mop of the worst of the urine with the help of some paper towels. Then it was time to head home.

*   *   *

They were greeted at the HS in Copenhagen by an agitated Pauline Berg. He had interrupted her at the inn and commandeered her back to work, where she had to make sure that an interrogation room was made available. In addition, she would be the one conducting the interrogation. She had done what he had asked her, but she had also spoken several times with the Countess and Arne Pedersen.

“They want you to call them at once. Both of them are … worried about these developments, and they don’t understand why you have turned up alone with…” She searched in vain for the right words and pointed to the Climber, who was self-consciously huddled behind Simonsen, as weak and pliable as child in Sunday school.

“Andreas Linke, his name is Andreas Linke, and there’s nothing strange about the fact that I took off with him alone. He is completely harmless. As it happens he is also nice and cooperative.”

The Climber nodded softly as if he wanted to confirm the statement. Berg stared at him, frowning, while Simonsen went on.

“Now let’s go in and have a chat with Andreas, so it will have to wait. We can sort it out later. Are you ready?”

That she was not. Clear over the fact that she could not do anything other than obey, she excused herself and went to the bathroom, where—like a schoolgirl in trouble—she called the Countess. When she entered the interrogation chamber a little while later, her boss had already dispatched the initial steps and she heard him tell the tape recorder that she had arrived. Andreas Linke sat on his chair with the legs pulled up under him and his arms wound around his body. As submissive as a beaten dog, he followed each movement and each word that came from Simonsen. His face was unnaturally pale, and when he gave an answer he sounded like a son who wanted to say whatever it took to placate a strict father. Simonsen’s communications were simple and direct.