The Hanging

Chapter 21

Konrad Simonsen and Kasper Planck were playing chess. From time to time they discussed the case and at other times one or other’s comments simply hovered unanswered in the air. One of the advantages of a chess game was that there was no need to observe social niceties in conversation. As opponents the two men were well matched, perhaps because their strengths were so different. Planck’s strength lay in tactics and combinations, while Simonsen was best at theory and strategy, and although he was exhausted after an all-too-long day he had-as usual-gotten off to the better start. This evening he would have preferred to skip the chess game, but whenever he was with his former boss it was the latter who called the shots. His vague hints about only discussing the case were summarily ignored and the old man went to get the chess set and the cognac. Tradition was going to be observed, mass murder be damned.

Simonsen focused on his opponent. Planck was a stately old man with a slim, sinewy body and gray-white hair that fanned out in great swirls around his tanned face. His clear green gaze swept the board.

As a boss he had been hard, a leader of the old school. At the same time, he was respected and-in his last years-almost loved. But what had made him into a legend in his own time was neither his leadership abilities nor his success rate at solving cases, for that matter. His status as a living legend stemmed primarily from the fact that he was able to handle the press, which reciprocated by making him into an icon. His revolutionary approach consisted of treating journalists as if they were people. An art that he had not necessarily been able to pass on to his successor.

Planck moved a pawn in the center without further reflection.

“What’s the real reason you have gotten me involved in your mass murder, Simon?”

“You’ve assisted in other cases before since you retired. This is nothing new.”

“Bullshit. You have never asked for my help before at the outset like this. And definitely never officially.”

“Elvang thought it would be a good idea.”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

A more truthful answer would have been that Planck was in possession of exactly those attributes for which Simonsen had the most pressing need in this case that was so different from anything else he had experienced. Time after time his predecessor had demonstrated an almost terrifying intuition in the course of an investigation. He was able to pick up and interpret very simple pieces of information differently and often more precisely than others, and if there was such a thing as a sixth sense, he was without doubt in possession of one. But at the heart of it, this ability was probably due mostly to the fact that the old man’s mind always let one or more parallel possibilities remain open, in contrast to the systematic approach that characterized traditional police work.

They played a couple of moves, then Simonsen said, “When they carried the bodies out of the gymnasium, it was like back in the first couple of months after your retirement, and…”

He paused and the pause grew too long.

Planck commented sarcastically, “Take your time, the night is young.”

“I would like to have had a strong conviction, something edifying, if you understand. For example, the confidence that I will be able to track the perpetrators down no matter what. But I imagine that mostly I just felt alone and it has not gotten better today, to put it mildly.”

“Well.”

Simonsen thought that it had been too long since they had last worked together. Now he remembered again-his former boss had never been particularly warm. Nor was he himself, for that matter. Nonetheless, he had been hoping for some support. He asked with some trepidation, “Did that sound stupid?”

“Yes, extremely so.”

“But for God’s sake, man, who in the world builds a podium in order to execute five people? And at a school of all places.”

Planck nodded slowly. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Planck’s use of the plural warmed Simonsen’s heart. That was what he had been angling for. He took a sip of his cognac. That warmed, too. Then he refocused on the game.

In the middle of the match, when their positions were as good as even, Planck casually injected, “Turns out, I made a new female acquaintance today.”

“I see, and who would that be?”

“I think you’ll be more interested in what she is.”

“And what is she?”

“A reporter at the Dagbladet; she was here for three hours this afternoon. You and I might make the front page tomorrow if we’re lucky.”

Simonsen dropped the piece he had just won and had to leave his chair in order to pick it up. The interruption muted his immediate reaction and he reined in his irritation.

“I wish you would communicate with me before you talked to the press.”

“I would never dream of it.”

“I know, but you should. So who is she and why is she interesting?”

“Anita Dahlgren, a student reporter under-well, take a guess.”

“Oh no, you don’t mean what I think you do.”

“It may comfort you to know that she cares as little for Anni Staal as you do. Perhaps even less.”

“That’s not possible. But why did she come here in the first place?”

“Her boss knows that you’ve dusted me off. She wants to do a story about it.”

Simonsen sighed. It wasn’t hard to guess the angle the article would take, but he would get over it. What was worse was that his department was apparently as open as a sieve. He said, sourly, “She certainly has her sources, that Staal woman.”

“Yes, and she is always working on acquiring more.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Anita said that she was preparing a proposition for that young guy, Pedersen, about some tax-free bonus money in exchange for a first page smacker now and then.”

“Are you talking about Arne Pedersen?”

“Yes, Arne Pedersen. Rumor has it that he could do with a little extra income.”

Simonsen shook his head. “She’ll get nothing out of him.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“You’re wrong. Arne isn’t like that. But what else did you talk about, you and the girl?”

“Everything between heaven and earth. She liked being here.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“It was obvious.”

Simonsen did not look convinced.

Planck took a long, dramatic pause before he went on: “And because she told me so. In fact, she’s going to come back and see me again in a couple of days.”

He smiled from ear to ear; his opponent grunted.

“Keep telling yourself that, you vain old rascal.”

The game neared its end. Simonsen was down by a page but improved his position step by step, minimized his disadvantage, then recovered the lead and waved away his opponent’s suggestion of a rematch.

For a while Planck let the game be.

“I have been reading, have looked at pictures, talked with Arthur Elvang, and there is one thing that I’m starting to feel sure of and that is that the people behind these executions are media hounds, as we called them in my day. Today it’s called a compulsion of self-exhibition, but the essence is that they want to tell a story. It’s warm and cold at the same time; logic and passion.”

“So your little cub reporter is well planted, Meister Jakel?”

“She came to me, not the other way around. So in the best-case scenario I’m just taking advantage of a bit of good luck and you should too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Perhaps Pedersen could be convinced to be a little less principled.”

Simonsen answered hesitatingly, “Up front it sounds like a terrible idea.”

“I see it differently.”

It was not a bad argument.

“Let me think it over. You were going to say something else.”

“They want to tell a story, I said. And you’re overlooking the obvious, Simon.”

Planck fell silent and Simonsen reflected on this. He disliked Planck’s affinity for riddles.

“Can I help you with what this story may consist of?”

He hid his irritation behind silence.

“Of words.”

“And words are important. Isn’t there a word that you’ve stumbled over? Because there should be. It was used in today’s press conference without anyone reacting to it. Twice, even, and the media is using it relentlessly. I think it is exactly what our horrible men wish, so this word is a key. Forget the identities, the transportation, the platform; you’ll find out all of this sooner or later, but think about this word. I have used it many times this evening without hearing any objection from you. And recently.”

Planck’s eyes were shining. Simonsen was at a loss; he didn’t speak and could not come up with anything. His opponent struck like a snake: one move and his pawn structure was shattered. The game was lost. He resigned to his fate and gave up.

“Devil. Tell me, what’s the word?”

“Figure it out for yourself. You youngsters always think you get things for free in this world. Do you want to play again?”

“No, thanks all the same. One word, you say-do you mean ‘execution’?”

“Good work, Simon. A little slow but good. Even though it cost you a game of chess.”