The Hanging

Chapter 44

The police station in Copenhagen was a powerful and monumental building. From the outside it appeared hard and forbidding, with its gray, dirty walls of rough plaster and mortar and its lack of adornment, if one didn’t count the entrance, where two solid iron cages flanked the colonnades. Striking and heavy-handed symbols that were covered with oversize golden morning stars in case there was any doubt about the symbolism. The rest of the building ran in straight lines along the streets with window after window that all opened inward in order not to break the strength of the facade.

Kasper Planck set the pace across the courtyard and Simonsen slowed his steps, which gave him time to enjoy the architecture. He had always liked the HS’s sober style, which in his eyes was harmonious and appealingly restrained. The interior, however, struck him as confused and nonfunctional-a Spanish monastery with mock bourgeois ornamentation and art deco lighting in the bathrooms; the famous round interior courtyard with its many faux-antique double columns and its redundant third-floor balustrade, which he found outright ugly. The circular yard had the unfortunate side effect of creating curved hallways of differing lengths that made orientation for newcomers a near impossibility.

Simonsen moved through his place of work with familiar ease. On the way, he lost Planck, who bumped into an old colleague. Soon he was at the Division of Criminal Investigations, where he banged on the door to Arne Pedersen’s office and walked in without waiting for an answer.

Pedersen stood at the back of the room. He was talking on the phone but interrupted himself when his boss entered. Simonsen tossed his jacket onto the coat rack in the corner.

“Give me an update, Arne.”

“We have now secured the identities of the five victims, and more information is streaming in.”

Pedersen gestured to the notice boards behind him and added with a boyish grin, “What about you? I hear you are well rested.”

Simonsen ignored the comment and turned around. There was a big piece of paper on the middle board, fastened with pins in each corner, which hung slightly askew. Simonsen took his time to point this out, then he took a step back and concentrated on the content.

Thor Gran

(Mr. Northwest)

Unmarried

Architect

54 years

Århus

Palle Huldgård

(Mr. Northeast)

Widower

Office manager

63 years

Århus

Frank Ditlevsen

(Mr. Middle)

Divorced

Consultant

52 years

Middelford

Jens Allan Karlsen

(Mr. Southwest)

Married

Retired

69 years

Århus

Peder Jacobsen

(Mr. Southeast)

Divorced

Shoemaker

44 years

Vejle

Over each name was a photograph of the deceased. In two cases it was possible to discern the panic-stricken expressions of the faces from the videos, while the three others were normal, smiling portraits.

Pedersen commented, “Elvang and his team of experts slaved away for days to re-create their faces and then we get the whole thing given to us in a matter of hours.”

Simonsen shrugged. “That’s how it goes. And don’t forget that we found three of the names ourselves.”

“And we were only sure of one.”

“Yes, yes, but that’s beside the point now. Anything else?”

“Yes, lots. New information is streaming in constantly. There are about ten officers for each victim, with the exception of Frank Ditlevsen, of course. All teams have a sponsor here at HS and the local police chief is the coordinator, but you should feel free to reorganize as you like.”

“No, that sounds fine. Any prior record of pedophilia or other kinds of sexual abuse directed at children? I want that confirmed today. Or unconfirmed, if possible. For all of them.”

“Peder Jacobsen was charged but then the case was dropped and that’s twelve years ago. For the others we still don’t have anything but we’ll get it by the end of the day. All the teams are focused on that issue.”

Simonsen grabbed a marker and put a thick red mark by Frank Ditlevsen’s name.

“Remember Jens Allan Karlsen? His wife told us all about his hobby, that is, sleeping with children.”

Simonsen began to make another mark, then decided to hold off. “It’s not enough. I want something from his wife. The same goes for Peder Jacobsen. Dropped charges are not enough.”

“Okay, I’m sure it’s coming. What about me? Should I go to Århus?”

“No; in fact I’d like the Countess back from Middelford by tomorrow at the latest. Pauline can stay where she is, if she likes. That is, if the Countess agrees. You’ll take care of that. Have we found out if the victims were planning to go on vacation? And if so, have we confirmed where they were headed?”

“We know that they were going on vacation. We know that they were headed overseas and we know that the trip was going to last three weeks and that it was most likely they were traveling to Thailand, but no travel brochure or anything like that has been found in their homes. We’re assuming that their holiday started in the minivan early Wednesday from a place in Århus and we’re guessing that they were headed to Kastrup International Airport. But there are no booked plane tickets that went unused, at least as far as we can tell.”

“Assumptions and guesses-we’ve been doing that for almost a week. What about the Great Belt Bridge? I’m assuming you’ve put a team on investigating what they have from last Wednesday morning.”

“Yes, naturally. Two experienced guys from Korsør, but… well, there’s some…” He was searching for his words, which was unusual for him in a workrelated context. “Maybe I should start at the other end. Did you see the opinion poll on the home page of the Dagbladet?”

Simonsen tried his best to conceal his irritation. He had been in sore need of sleep, he now realized. That he was not yet fully brought up-to-date on every last detail was an unavoidable consequence. He said sourly, “I have been sleeping, you know. And sleep gets in the way of my reading.”

Pedersen caught the sarcasm and said, “It asks people if they would want to help the police in their investigation of the pedophile murders-they’re calling them that. That is, assuming they had valuable information. Sixty-four percent said that they would not.” He raised his voice a notch. “Fucking sixty-four percent, Simon. It’s outrageous. And then there’s a link to a lecturer at the law school who gives pointers for how to withhold information from us, the simplest and most effective of which is not to remember anything, however brain damaged, feebleminded, and untrustworthy one might appear.”

“And what does this apparent desire to return to the laws of the jungle have to do with the Great Belt Bridge?”

“I’m afraid that it isn’t just the Dagbladet readers who are turning a blind eye. And that videotaped scene with… you know the one where he chooses the boy… I mean, that hasn’t exactly made things better. Haven’t you seen it?”

“Yes, I have. And the Great Belt Bridge?”

“Yes, right. All of the recordings that track traffic across the bridge in the time frame that we’re interested in have mysteriously been misplaced or possibly erased by mistake. Then there’s the issue that all of the employees at the bridge have had a collective memory lapse. Most of them, at any rate. No one can apparently remember a single thing.”

Simonsen reflected darkly on this and then pushed his thoughts away. The scope of this phenomenon was unclear and therefore meaningless to speculate about further.

“We’ll take it as it comes. Troulsen says that Anni Staal received two short videos from the minivan that were not uploaded to the Web. What about them?”

“That’s correct. I wouldn’t exactly call them videos, more like picture sequences. Each image lasts no longer than a second and is taken from the inside of the vehicle through a window. Technicians have established these as authentic, without any image manipulation or the like. The first one shows the back side of the gymnasium but we don’t know where the other one was shot. You can see a bare field and a sliver of forest in the background.”

“God knows what that’s all about. Some kind of message?”

“I’ve wondered about that, but don’t have a good take on it. Not that I’ve had a free minute to think about it. There’s just been no time. Reports have been welling in. The volume of paperwork related to the case is increasing precipitously and no one has time to even skim the information. My overview is sporadic at best.”

“Better than no information.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“You take the minivan, Arne. The departure from Århus, the exact time and place, the vehicle type and registration, the location of the other video, et cetera. I will take over responsibility for the units in Jylland.”

“Then this may be something for Arne.”

They both turned.

Planck had snuck in. He was holding a cell phone.

“You must be the most difficult man in Denmark to reach at the moment, Simon. They’ve created a special access for you where one has to dial three different numbers before you even come on the line.”

“It’s to separate the fools from the idiots. Otherwise I wouldn’t do anything except talk on the phone. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“Well, this man is neither a fool nor an idiot and he was turned away nine times.”

Simonsen waved his arms in a theatrical gesture. “I wish you would respect the systems. He gets one minute. Tell him that.”

Planck introduced him: “The chief inspector is ready for you now. Take your time.” Then he held out the phone.

Simonsen took the phone, grunted his name, and listened. One minute grew to five. From time to time he asked a short question. Pedersen tried unsuccessfully to decode the conversation since it was obviously important. He did not, however, get further than a guess. Simonsen placed the cell phone on a desk without turning it off.

“I believe that the final destination of our minivan has been found.” He pointed to the phone. “Take him along with you, Arne. You’re going to Frederiksværk. And you’ve got your hands full.”