The Hanging

Chapter 59

Pauline Berg argued enthusiastically for her case and Simonsen let her speak her mind. Only when she started to repeat herself did he stop her and summarize her points without indicating if he agreed or not.

“You claim that Stig Åge Thorsen is afraid of women, or more precisely of intimate contact with women of his own age group, and you are suggesting that we should take advantage of this presumed aversion during his interrogation, which can only mean that you yourself should be the interrogator even though objectively speaking you are the least qualified of us all. And your suggestion comes less than two hours before we are planning to start, based on a ten-minute conversation with someone who got to know the man during a cruise to Greece. Is this correct?”

The youngest member of the Homicide Division stuck to her guns: “Yes, it is.”

“The woman from the cruise called of her own accord, so we have no basis from which to judge the truthfulness of her information. Is that also correct?”

“Yes, we don’t know anything for certain.”

“Go on.”

“Me and the Countess should handle the interrogation and we should also move the furniture around in the room so that it is more intimate. All of us should sit closer together.”

Arne Pedersen stared up at the ceiling. Simonsen, however, nodded approvingly. Not in favor of the suggestion-he had not yet formed his final opinion on that-but over her determination. He said, “Am I also shut out?”

Berg became vague and answered indirectly: “The woman from his vacation told me about the same signs that I have often noticed in men who have been nervous-or even afraid-of me. These reactions are particularly typical of men who had an insecure childhood, or so I’ve read. Which fits nicely with the fact that Stig Åge Thorsen sought help from Dr. Jeremy Floyd.”

Pedersen looked at her with some astonishment. This was truly a new side of Berg that he did not know. She did not return his gaze but kept her focus on Simonsen, while he watched the irregular path of the raindrops down the outside of the office windows. Her self-confidence was at its peak.

Last night she had turned up-unannounced and sobbing-at Kasper Planck’s home. Her bad conscience about having lied to the Countess about her conversation at the Gudme Sport Complex café tore at her insides. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and went to see the former head of the Homicide Division, who she thought was the only person who could understand her.

The old man gave her a handkerchief and listened calmly. Afterward he laid a wrinkled hand on her head and said softly, “I think you will be forgiven. Why would you go unaffected when so many have been drawn into this madness? There are many people who don’t even want us to find the killers, if one is to believe the media.”

“But what about Frank Ditlevsen’s friend? One of his old boys. That is an important piece of information. I should have shared that a long time ago.”

“Let Simon figure it out for himself. He should have done so already anyway.”

“How could he do that? He can’t know about it.”

“Of course he can. The murder of the brothers was personal. Frank Ditlevsen was hanged in the middle of the event and Allan Ditlevsen was Mr. Extra-an excellent and meaningful choice of words. And the personal always comes from somewhere.”

Berg gaped. “How long have you known this?”

“Known-bah. It’s still a kind of thought-play but I have a meeting later this week that should cast some light on the situation. So we shall see. Time will tell. But come over here. There’s something I want to give you.”

The old man drew a box out of the deep interior of a mahogany bureau. He held up a necklace, a fish of gold, very pretty, the chain simple and light.

“It belonged to my wife. Now it is yours.”

“But…”

He held a finger up to his mouth, and she stopped. Then she put it on. It fell elegantly over her throat and was hardly noticeable. As if she had always worn it.

“This is wonderful, but…”

The finger across the mouth again. Her spirit felt relieved and lightened and her tears this time were of joy. She borrowed the handkerchief a second time and when she composed herself she asked, “You give and give-isn’t there anything I can do for you?”

Planck’s face lit up. “You can water my flowers, they need it so badly.”

Berg smiled at the thought of her round with the watering can under the direction of the old man, and that clinched the matter. Simonsen decided that when it came to the matter of men’s nervousness, he was sitting across from an expert.

“The Countess is the primary driver in this and your role is to assist. I will only make the final decision when the Countess has also talked to this vacation flirtation and agreed with your suggestion. And then one more thing, Pauline.”

He looked directly into her eyes.

“If you make one wrong move, or if the Countess needs more help, you will immediately be replaced and I don’t want to hear any griping about it afterwards. Understood?”

“Completely, and I appreciate this vote of confidence. I think it is a reasonable decision.”

“It’s not a decision yet. You only have two hours with the Countess, use the time wisely.”

She did. She was out before Pedersen had time to stand up.

Stig Åge Thorsen and his lawyer arrived on time and that Berg had interpreted the situation correctly was revealed early on. The witness apparently did not appreciate being in close proximity to two women, and especially the close contact with the younger woman appeared to embarrass him. He basically whipped his hand back when Berg warmly and kindly laid her hand on his as she greeted him. Simonsen and Pedersen were sitting behind the mirror. Simonsen said, “She’s right. Did you see that? It’s obvious if you’re looking for it. See how he pulls back. He may not even be aware of it himself. His lawyer is not, at any rate.”

In the interrogation room, the Countess was gesturing and explaining something to the lawyer.

“Please have a seat. As you can see, we have had to rearrange the furniture in here temporarily but I think we can manage.”

They had in all haste managed to get hold of a relatively small square table with a chair placed on each of the four sides so that Berg would be able to sit close to Stig Åge Thorsen regardless of which chair the lawyer chose.

Simonsen commented with enthusiasm, “It’s brilliant.”

Arne Pedersen asked half sulkily, “What happened with the television program anyway? Weren’t they going to come today?”

“It’s been postponed for the moment, whatever consequences that may have. There was apparently some other programming that was more important but hold your peace for a moment and we’ll follow this.”

The next half hour was tough for Stig Åge Thorsen. His well-rehearsed defensive postures were of only marginal help and the Countess drove him around the ring with strikes from all angles.

“Your car was in an accident on the eighteenth of November 2003, when someone drove into it parked on Lille Strandvej in Gentofte. What were you doing there?”

He had never been in Gentofte. He pushed back a copy of the accident report. It must be a misunderstanding.

“Who paid for your cruise to Greece? Was it the same stranger?’

He wavered, could not recall, refused to answer, and finally claimed that he had been saving up for the trip for many years.

“In April you turned to Frederiksværk Stålvalseværk and bought a pile of coal that the factory had lying around in the old commercial port. What were you going to do with it?”

It was nice to have on hand. He had ended up using it to burn the minivan, but that had not been planned.

“How was your childhood? Your old teacher from the Kregme School said that you had a difficult childhood. Is that true?”

He had had a normal childhood, a perfectly one-hundred-percent-normal childhood, and the teacher was crazy, a demented old fool.

“You attacked a woman on the beach in Saloniki. What happened there?”

The lawyer jumped in at this point but the accusation had effect. Stig Åge Thorsen looked like a whipped dog.

The Countess went on and on, jumping from subject to subject, poking here, then there, bringing up things that had him on the ropes only to return to them ten minutes later with double the intensity, and soon the farmer started to show small signs of mental fatigue. Tripping over a sentence, a finger rubbing an eye, a twitch at his temple, anger, irritation, and then carelessness. After the dress rehearsal she drove it home.

“Do you know Jeremy Floyd?”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“I can get him in and pick you out of a lineup. Is that what you want?”

Berg stepped in. She had said nothing to this point. Now she carefully opposed the Countess: “But, but he is…”

The Countess waved her away. “I know that he is a psychiatrist, but his professional vows of silence don’t mean anything in a homicide case such as this one. So, Mr. Thorsen, should I arrange a face-to-face meeting?”

Berg insisted, “But, but…”

“Not now,” the Countess snapped. The lawyer was perplexed, and Stig Åge Thorsen took the bite.

“He’s dead, so you can’t arrange anything.”

“Hm, well, I guess that changes things a bit. It surprises me that…”

Simonsen’s smile was wide and self-congratulatory. “He didn’t even realize he was contradicting himself.”

Pedersen answered, “Nor his lawyer. He’s just sitting there like a sphinx. He’s not much help.”

“Don’t be fooled by his posture. He’s good. I know him. But you are right, it seems as if he doesn’t want to do more than he absolutely has to.”

A quarter of an hour later, the Countess decided that the time was right. She leaned forward and placed her arms on the table.

“The twenty thousand kroner that you were given by your stranger-you in turn donated them via the Internet to an Indian help organization called Sanlaap. Why that particular organization?”

Stig Åge Thorsen had apparently been expecting this question.

“I think I had seen it advertised on TV but I am not sure. Maybe it was a coincidence, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms. The subject was finished as far as he was concerned.

But not as far as Berg was concerned. She leaned toward him.

“Sanlaap operates out of Bombay or, to be more specific, the world’s largest bordello neighborhood, Kamthipura. There are two hundred thousand women and children for sale there. Down to seven years of age. The children are kept as sex slaves in dilapidated whorehouses and typically they have to serve fifteen to twenty customers a day. A large number of them come from Kathmandu, in Nepal, where they were kidnapped by various means by slave traders and brought across the border to India, where they are sold for use in bordellos. The first couple of weeks the children are beaten to shreds or outright tortured until they break down and cooperate in their new profession. When they are not being raped, they are hidden away by madams in small, dark places like crawl spaces or lofts so that the police won’t find them. Or else the police will demand to get their share of the profits. Most of the girls are HIV positive. They receive no treatment and develop AIDS. Many also get pregnant and raise their babies under unspeakably horrible conditions.”

She spoke slowly and clearly, directly to Stig Åge Thorsen. He had pushed himself as far away from her as the chair allowed but could not escape her gaze. When she finished, he answered her without taking into account that she had not asked him anything.

“Yes, it is terrible, and the world couldn’t care less.”

The Countess cut him off. Her tone was accusatory and as sharp as a razor.

“You give money to Sanlaap in order to relieve your conscience, don’t you? You were treated by Jeremy Floyd because you can’t keep your fingers away from little children. Isn’t that right?”

The lawyer reacted angrily: “What is this?”

But Stig Åge Thorsen’s reaction was even more violent. His outburst was loud, almost screaming: “No, no, it’s the opposite. I was the one. They hurt me.”

Berg also raised her voice, also infuriated with the Countess. “You completely misunderstand. He doesn’t do children any harm. Haven’t you understood a single thing?” She laid a protective hand on the man’s arm.

The Countess did not attempt to hide her disagreement with her colleague.

“For heaven’s sake, he was in the behavioral-treatment group with the janitor Per Clausen and with the nurse, Helle… Helle… oh, what was her name again?”

She snapped her fingers a couple of times, happening also to turn briefly to Stig Åge Thorsen in her search for the name, and then the miracle occurred.

“Jørgensen, Helle Smidt Jørgensen, but we were the ones who had been…” But he did not get any further. The lawyer had finally realized what was going on and he effectively stopped the session by placing a hand over his client’s mouth.

“This has gone far enough, ladies, more than far enough. I don’t even have words to describe what this is.”

He was furious. He said into the room in a loud, formal voice, “Let it be known that I am holding my hand over my client’s mouth and also strongly advising him to discontinue this interrogation.”

Then he stood and more or less heaved up Stig Åge Thorsen with him while shielding him from the two women. He turned to the mirror and said, “This is psychological terror, Simon. Get in here.”

Simonsen got up heavily to his feet. “I guess I’ll have to go in and pour oil on the water. Did you catch that name, Arne?”

“Nurse Helle Smidt Jørgensen.”

“Find her. It can’t be done quickly enough.”