The Hanging: A Thriller (2 page)

He defended himself halfheartedly: “I almost never smoke at work and only moderately in the evenings so surely I can relax occasionally.”

“Well, except for the fact that you’re lying, that sounds very reasonable.”

He didn’t know what to say. He glanced in the direction of the newspaper, which was now very far away. Her already serious voice grew even thornier.

“You know you owe me fifteen more years, don’t you, Dad?”

The number stung his psyche, and awakened the familiar knowledge of having been a terrible parent. It had been lying dormant for three years, since a happy May evening when she suddenly appeared on his doorstep and explained that she had one week in Copenhagen, and that it seemed most practical and economical for her to stay with him. Said it as if nothing could be more natural. Then she invaded his apartment and his life—an unknown sixteen-year-old girl, pretty, vivacious, full of life … his daughter.

There was nothing to do but lie down on his shield and hope for mercy, but the words didn’t really want to come. To apologize seemed silly, and to promise reform and a new, healthy lifestyle was easier said than done. To top it off, he was not the type who found it easy to share his emotions. He launched into a couple of vague promises, until she suddenly shook off her seriousness and changed the subject.

“Let’s get back to that another time, Dad. Tell me, have you gotten used to the digs? This is quite a sophisticated little cottage Nathalie has.”

This topic was also explosive, even though it was slightly less personal, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected that she’d brought it up deliberately now that he was on the defensive. But she wasn’t like that. It was only he who thought of conversations as a form of strategic play with winners and losers—a bad habit that he dismissed somewhat too conveniently as a professional disease and the result of many interrogations. He tried not to let himself be provoked.

“Yes, this is magnificent.”

“Why did you get so sulky the day before yesterday when we arrived?”

“Because the Countess is my subordinate, and the whole thing was somewhat overwhelming.”

“But you knew it was hers.”

“Yes, my lovely girl, I did, but the Lord only knows I was not clear on the standard. This luxury villa would get the euro signs spinning in the eyes of the most exclusive vacation renter, and the fact that we’re getting it for small change is unethical and probably also illegal.”

“She’s rich. So what? Anyway, enough with the ‘girl.’”

“And then the refrigerator is stuffed with enough food to see us through an atomic winter.”

“But we won’t be here for an atomic winter, we’re only going to be here for two weeks. You can just cut back on eating, of course. It certainly wouldn’t hurt you to draw on your reserves for a while.”

“No food, no drink, no smoking; what’s next?”

She heard him and continued her lecture.

“Did you know that the flagstones on the terrace are hand-painted Italian stone and that the marble in the entrance hall is called
Ølandsbrud
?”

“How do you know that?”

“From Nathalie, of course.”

No one else referred to the Countess as Nathalie, and it sounded strange to his ears. Nathalie von Rosen was admittedly her given name, but everyone, including herself, referred to her as the Countess.

“Have you been here before?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“This gets worse and worse.”

“Then you’ll think this is even worse, because I have brought a gift along for you.”

“A gift? Who is it from?”

“From Nathalie, but I was going to wait a few days before giving it to you.”

There was nothing feigned about his look of bewilderment.

“You know, Dad, sometimes you are simply incredibly dense. This isn’t that hard to understand, and—if you ask me—she’s got a thing for you, and if you just took the slightest care of yourself and dropped fifteen or twenty kilos, you could make a great couple.”

The room filled with the small, sharp sounds of bare feet on the whitewashed Pomeranian pine, and she was gone, before he had a chance to comment on her absurd idea.

The gift from the Countess was brilliant. Like a parrot on its perch, Anna Mia settled onto the armrest of his chair (when she returned) and watched closely as he unwrapped it. Aron Nimzowitsch,
Mein System,
the first edition from 1925, with a dedication from the master himself—a treasure that transported him into a state akin to ecstasy. Meanwhile, Anna Mia managed to read over his shoulder.

“What does she mean, ‘Thank you for your help’?”

He turned the card over, too late.

“Don’t you have any manners? You don’t read other people’s letters, do you?”

“I do. What did you help her with?”

“That doesn’t concern you!”

They sat for a while in silence, she on the armrest and he in the chair.

“Tell me, how well do you two know each other?” he asked.

“Who? Me and Nathalie?”

Her feigned nonchalance was laughable.

“Yes, of course.”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

They were back to square one.

Shortly thereafter, she became more communicative.

“I don’t know Nathalie particularly well, and we haven’t gone behind your back. Not very much at any rate, and the fact that I have been here before is pure coincidence. We ran into each other in Skagen last summer, and she asked me to lunch. But I already know how you have helped her. It was during her divorce, wasn’t it?”

He hesitated.

“We talked a little.”

She stroked him over the crown of the head.

“I believe you’ve earned your book, Dad. So do me a favor and for once don’t let’s talk about price. Nathalie would never expect to get anything in return for her gifts, that’s how she is and you know it.”

“Yes, I do. But it is a matter of principle.”

“Maybe you have the wrong principles.”

She got up and walked over to one of the windows as he gingerly, almost devoutly turned the pages of his book.

“I’m taking a bath. In the meantime you can figure out what we should do today.”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine.”

She had to call him twice before he stirred, and he did not notice that the mood had changed again. He was too far gone in his game of chess.

“Is your cell phone turned on?”

“No. The agreement was that the outside world should be excluded, I think you will recall. Why do you ask?”

He got up with a last long look at a game in the book, then stared out the windows and let his gaze wander along the horizon. The undulating-dune landscape unfolded before him like irregular windswept hills, a shining white where the sun hit them, inky gray and dark on the other side, some invaded by rugosa rose, others anchored by wild rye. In the distance he could see the North Sea with its glittering white-crested waves and above that a flock of wild geese flying south along the coastline. Suddenly he became aware of Anna Mia’s arm around him, and her head heavy against his back. A feeling of shyness and awe overcame him, as if her youthfulness was something sacred. But he remained as he was and after a few seconds of eternity she said softly, “They’re coming to pick you up, Dad.”

Only then did he see it. A disturbingly foreign body slowly snaking its way up along the twisty dune road: a police car.

CHAPTER 3

Some four hours later, Simonsen found himself at Langbæk School in Bagsværd, staring out at the rain that was falling, bleak and silent. A canine unit was working in the bushes behind the playground. The police officer directed the dog with hand signals and shouted commands, occasionally bringing it back to be petted and praised. A young woman with a plastic bag wrapped around her head as a makeshift scarf walked up to the officer and for a while she watched the officer’s gestures before a gust of wind splattered the window with water and greatly reduced the visibility. He turned his gaze back to the corridor. The colors on the wall were bare and dirty, alternating between various shades of yellow. The linoleum floor was pockmarked and looked like an obstacle course. Somewhat-successful artistic creations hung scattered about. The nearest one employed a preponderance of wire and very dusty soda cans.

He made a gesture of futility. “Dammit, Countess.”

The words were intended for the woman behind him, who was talking on a cell phone, and they were said without anger, simply to point out the absurdity of having been transported across the country like an express delivery, only to end up standing around staring out into the dreary October weather. Without knowing much about the investigation, he was expected to take charge, and yet he hadn’t the faintest idea where he should go next.

The woman reacted to his outburst, placing one hand over the phone.

“Hello, Simon, sorry about your vacation, but at least you got a couple of days. I hope Anna Mia wasn’t too upset. Arne will be here in one second, he’ll brief you.” She smiled and returned to her call before he was able to answer. He returned her smile without really wanting to, and thought to himself that she had fine teeth. He let his stomach relax and looked out the window again, where the view was still depressing. The Countess’s conversation went on and on, which he took as a discomfiting sign that the homicide unit would be in excellent shape to continue without its current chief when the day came.

And yet, perhaps not. Simonsen had been half following the conversation—which he pressumed was with one of the forensic specialists—and suddenly he was struck with the thought that something wasn’t right. A slightly elevated tone of voice and questions in which there was a certain discrepancy between the level of detail and the time gave her away. When she launched into a question almost identical to one she had already asked, he grabbed her by the arm in which she held the phone and pulled gently. She hung up without saying goodbye.

“When did you last have something to eat?”

“I don’t know; a while ago. What time is it?”

He was very familiar with this condition and also knew that it was temporary. From time to time, all investigators encountered things that were difficult to deal with and that got under their skin. Unpleasant images that became fixed in the back of the head and could not be erased. This was clearly one of those times for her. He himself found it hardest when the victims were children, but that was something he had in common with most police officers, and he had not yet been inside the gymnasium. He halted his train of thought and came back to the present.

“Drive into town and get yourself something to eat. Be back here in an hour.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s an order, Countess. And turn off your phone.”

She nodded, as if she understood. But he saw in her eyes that she did not. Normally she was the personification of stability. She was the one who pulled back when everyone else was driving off the cliff. She turned around and the dim daylight fell onto her face. And he saw that her face had the same ashen tint as her hair.

“It’s horrible, Simon. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“No, I don’t suppose either of us has.”

“Arne and I peeked in from the door and … ugh, it was awful.”

“I’m sure it was. Now off you go. I have other things to do than worry myself about you.”

He accompanied his comment with a smile to take the edge off his words. She appeared not to notice it. She remained where she was and he wondered if he should embrace her or simply place a hand on her shoulder. But he did neither; he wasn’t good at that sort of thing.

Finally she said, “I’ll be fine in a bit.”

“I know you will. See you.”

And then she left.

*   *   *

The special-education clinic had been temporarily transformed into an investigation hub. There were two bookcases whose contents had been emptied onto the windowsill, and on the table in the middle of the room was a stack of paper as well as a box of pencils. A whiteboard stood in front of the dark green chalkboard, so that explanations could be given in marker rather than chalk, and a map of the school had been hung on one wall of the room. It had clearly been posted in haste, and the result was sadly haphazard.

Simonsen studied the plan with a tilted head, while Arne Pedersen used the time to wipe off his chair. His pants were already stained in two places and he did not wish to make matters worse.

“How was your trip?”

“Unpleasant.”

“What about the vacation house? Can you get a refund?”

“Unlikely.”

The chairs, which had seen better days, creaked alarmingly when the two men sat down.

Simonsen rested his elbows on the table and asked curtly, “How are you doing?”

Pedersen was not unsettled by the question, which was a good sign.

“Better, but it wasn’t easy in the beginning. I broke down twice, and I haven’t done that in years. On the whole, that is. Not once—or twice—for that matter.”

“But you’re okay now?”

“Usually it’s just children—well, you know.”

“Arne, answer my question. Are you okay now?”

Pedersen gazed back at him steadily.

“Yes, I’m fine now.”

“Good. Then give me an update on chronology, resources, and status.”

This came out sounding more abrupt and imperious than he had intended but his irritation at the wait was still with him and he wanted to get straight to the facts. His words were promptly obeyed. Pedersen went through the events exactingly, starting with the Turkish mother who had dropped her kids off at 6:15
A.M.
by the bicycle shed to the right of the school entrance.

He went on. “It was the first day after fall break and the school was already unlocked. The children went to their respective classrooms and hung up their coats, after which they met by the gymnasium in building B in order to play soccer. Inside, they discovered five bodies. The big sister searched in vain for an adult but did not find one. She called 911 from the teachers’ lounge and was transferred to the Gladsaxe police station. The call was clocked at six forty-one. The officer on duty … excuse me…”