The Hanging

Chapter 64

The Countess sat deep in thought and studied the whiteboard. It hung right next to her desk and she had pushed her chair to the side, the better to see the four names that she had written in her neat, somewhat impersonal, schoolgirl handwriting: Per Clausen, Stig Åge Thorsen, Helle Smidt Jørgensen, Erik Mørk.

“Are you sure, Countess?”

She turned around, flabbergasted. Konrad Simonsen had come in without her hearing him. He looked incredibly exhausted. She didn’t give a thought to the fact that one could easily have said the same of her.

“Yes, I’m sure. For several reasons but first and foremost due to Helle Smidt Jørgensen’s diaries that she has kept for twenty years. The Mayland calendar, the same one year after year, with only a variation in the color. Poul has gone through them in great detail.”

“It was a bit of a blow that she was dead. Are we sure it was from natural causes?”

“Yes, completely sure. It was a heart attack, probably brought on by stress, alcohol, and pills. We arrived two days too late. But there’s no question that she played a part in the murders, and Poul agrees.”

“I heard he went home.”

“Crawled would be a better word for it. He looked like a corpse; he should have stayed in bed yesterday. But what about you? You look tired. Are you going to make sure you get something proper to eat?”

Simonsen shrugged. He had been to dinner at Planck’s yesterday but the last time he’d eaten at home there had been frozen pizza on the menu, which he had forgotten about after it went in the oven with the result that it tasted like cardboard.

He pointed to the names and said, “Can you settle for giving me the conclusions? I have a meeting in the city in less than twenty minutes but I’ll be back again tonight so I can read your report.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Simon, but I have trouble imagining what could be more important than this. And while we’re on the topic, what’s happened to our investigation meetings? At the moment you’re the only person who has an overview of the situation. All the rest of us can only see a piece of it. Is that your new leadership style? Because if it is, I don’t much care for it.”

Her words were sharper than her voice, which was closer to sounding a little sad. When he didn’t answer right away and instead pulled up a chair and sat down, she regretted that she had talked to him in that way.

“It’s really only partially true, this fragmentation,” he said. “But you are right. There is something I haven’t told you yet and it’s because I know you would be totally against it. You’ll find out about it shortly, but since you’re asking, this might as well be the moment. Can you come in again this evening? Late, say around twelve. You can bring Pauline, if she wants to come.”

The Countess decided to back off. Whatever it was, it could wait. It was more important that he get some sleep. He wasn’t getting too much of that these days.

“I could, but tomorrow would be just as good, so you’re free to take back your offer.”

Simonsen frowned, somewhat bewildered by the sweet-and-sour exchange in which he didn’t know if he was being criticized or defended.

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m coming back here anyway.”

“The anonymous computer expert who has taken over for Malte? And who has special permission from you to run around more or less alone?”

It was a pointed question.

“Not really. He and Malte keep to themselves, but I’m going to read reports.”

“I think I’ll resume the investigation a little later.”

He dropped the subject and pointed to the whiteboard.

“Give me the main points before I leave. You’ve included Erik Mørk in the vigilante group, I see.”

The Countess smiled at his choice of words. It was reasonably inclusive. Then she grabbed one of Helle Smidt Jørgensen’s pocket calendars and looked at a couple of the pages that Poul Troulsen had flagged with yellow Post-its.

“May sixth 2005, at Per’s, eight P.M. October eleventh, 2005, at Per’s, 7 thirty P.M. November second, 2005, at Erik’s eight P.M., and so on and so on. There are sixty-three such notations, about one a week apart from the vacation periods. The first is from February third, 2005, and the last is September twenty-sixth of this year, and since the summer the meetings increased in frequency. She only ever records the first name and it changes. At Per’s, at Erik’s, and at Stig’s. If the meeting takes place at her home she only writes in a star, which happened nine times. There are of course many other evenings with arrangements and first names but nothing else of this regularity. Then there is the matter of Jeremy Floyd. His name is recorded twenty-two times, just eighteen months before the meeting notations begin-that is, from the spring of 2003 until the first part of 2004. She always writes him in as ‘PF.’ It fits perfectly. I’ve made a list.”

“Last names, addresses, telephone numbers, e-mails?”

“Nothing, unfortunately. Poul has been through all the calendars four times and I’ve been through them twice. Here and there a page has been torn out. It could be covering her tracks.”

“What about the one we’re calling Climber? No meetings at his place? Or references?”

“No, nothing, which could either mean that he didn’t have a place of his own or that he lived too far away. Stig Åge Thorsen in Kregme has only hosted three times, possibly because of the distance. But there are two notations of particular interest. The weekend of September eighth through tenth of this year: digging at Stig’s, cooking, and December tenth, 2005, Christmas dinner (Erik paying) reserve table for five seven P.M. at Hjørnekroen, Nørrebrogade 23. I thought that the fifth participant might have been the doctor so I called and spoke with Emilie Mosberg Floyd. It was a little embarrassing. He would apparently never have participated in a private event with his clients, which was something I was hoping and assuming she would say, but he had also been dead for several months at that point.”

Simonsen waved his right hand as if he had singed his fingers. Then he checked his watch and the Countess speeded up.

“Erik Mørk is the one who took out the ad about being sexually abused as a child and his company runs WeHateThem.dk, which they do with supreme professionalism. Almost a quarter of a million visitors to this point and the portal is constantly being updated, though the tone is very aggressive. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, they should be embarrassed. You shouldn’t hide, they should hide. You shouldn’t be afraid, they should be afraid, and so on and so on. Among other things they have uncovered the advertisement for the victims’ sex vacation to Chiang Mai in Thailand that we found in Thor Gran’s secret bag and it is probably worth checking carefully into where they got it. My guess is that Erik Mørk had it beforehand and has made it himself.”

“Exciting. Anything else?”

“Mørk has restructured his whole company into a hate group with a mission to incite the public against pedophiles.”

“We’ve known that for a while.”

“Yes, it’s nothing new. What is new is that Poul and I can link him to the crime, and one of the most important ways is this, take a look. This is a list of customers of child pornography that we found on Frank Ditlevsen’s hard drive. The three other ones are lists that Mørk’s company has allegedly sent to particularly active members who support his mission. Supporters who appear to know exactly what to do with pedophiles in their area when they receive names and addresses. This is the main reason for the violence. But take note of the spelling errors.”

Simonsen scrutinized the list while the Countess explained, “Bjarne Anton Adersen instead of Andersen. Hans Orne Nielsen instead of Hans Arne Nielsen. Pale Henriksen instead of Palle Henriksen. These are the same lists, Simon, and what’s even better is that it is hard to explain away in a court of law.”

“You’re right. It seems convincing.”

“You should also know that WeHateThem.dk is doing all it can to publicize Stig Åge Thorsen’s online appearance tomorrow evening. It wouldn’t surprise me if it became a national event.”

“It may be an opportunity. He may have joined the… movement.”

“Yes, but there’s more. We have a printout of the telephone numbers from which calls have been made to the Langebæk School in the past week-that is to say, when people were still willing to help us, so it’s valid. Mørk called Per Clausen’s work phone twice and Stig Åge Thorsen once. They are also an advertising executive and a farmer respectively so they both fit perfectly with the list of occupations that Emilie Mosberg Floyd got from Per Clausen.”

“Okay, I believe you. This is well done both by you and Poul. Make sure that you inform Arne and maybe have him assist you in writing up the report.”

“I’ve already talked to Arne but I can’t find Planck, so I’ve left an update on his answering machine. Where is he anyway?”

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. He’s sick. Or rather, tired. He doesn’t have the energy to come in anymore and there’s not much I can say about that.”

“No, of course not. But what do you think-should we bring in Erik Mørk?”

Simonsen did not answer immediately. He wanted to stay awhile and chat with her about this and that, if for no other reason than to break up his tight schedule, which was his own fault. Perhaps a function of pride, a manager’s classic overinflation of his own importance. He glanced at his watch again and let go of the illusion. And how could he know that she would be up for it? She had her own affairs to manage.

“Sorry, I dropped the thread,” he said.

“I’m wondering if we should have Mørk brought in?”

The thought of physically getting his hands on one of the people who had photographed his daughter left its trace. Simonsen’s mouth longed for licorice. He took out his Piratos. The bag was almost empty. He took the last three and concealed his enraged gaze from her by looking down. Then he answered, “No, I don’t want anyone else brought in unless I have a charge that holds. Next time they won’t be able to go home for a long, long time. But I do want you to send Pauline to Hjørnekroen pub on Nørrebrogade and say a little prayer that our advertising executive paid with a credit card.”

“Hm, all right. that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The Countess stared after him for a long time. Maybe he was overwhelmed, maybe he was getting involved more deeply than was good for him, but his head was certainly screwed on right.