The Hanging: A Thriller (26 page)

“You are getting better and better, but I haven’t brought my notes with me and my memory is not what it once was.”

“And you get worse and worse. You can save that nonsense for the kids. Just start talking. I’m not expecting you to solve this crime on your own.”

The old man screwed his eyes shut and smiled slyly. Then he began making strange sounds. Some time went by before Simonsen realized that he was humming. It was not an enjoyable experience.

“Stop it, that’s horrible. What’s wrong?”

“‘Lady in Red,’ by Chris de Burgh. I thought you knew something about music?”

“I also have ears and they obey their maker. Can’t you express yourself like a normal human being? Tell me about the woman in red if she is relevant but at least use words, please.”

Planck started to talk in a monotone.

“The kiosk is on the Bagsværd main street, and the owner is called Farshad Bakhtîshû. I just call him Farshad. He is at least sixty years old and born in Shiraz, in Iran. He has a doctorate in astrophysics and taught at Teheran University until he fled Ayatollah Khomeini’s regime in 1984. Denmark apparently had no use for his education, which he realized after a couple of years. In 1988 he married woman who was also a refugee from Iran. Farshad is a friendly and intelligent man who for the past twenty years has mainly used his intellectual gifts to find ways of cutting corners with the tax authorities so that the citizens of Gladsaxe can keep buying their discounted soda water and so his family gets by. He has three sons and a daughter, and he is also the closest thing to a friend of Per Clausen that we have been able to find.”

He paused for a moment to reflect. Simonsen waited without saying anything.

“They became friends, the janitor and the kiosk owner. Among other things they share an interest in mathematics. Per Clausen visits the shop once or twice a week, where he ends up sitting in the back room talking with his friend. Especially in the evenings, when there are almost no customers around but the shop stays open until midnight. Clausen is usually drunk, but mostly sober as of the past year, and Farshad doesn’t drink. Their friendship stretches back some seven years. Many of their conversations are of no interest to us, but not all. For example, the two men discuss revenge a couple of times, revenge for the daughter’s suicide and the man who abused her. This is mainly Per Clausen’s preoccupation, but Farshad has also been hit hard. Two sisters and a brother have fallen into the claws of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard—terrible fates—I’ll skip over the depressing details. The two friends weep together, light candles on the birthdays of their dearly departed, the anniversaries of their death, sometimes locking up the shop.”

Simonsen was about to interrupt. The narrative had become more than a little disjointed, but suddenly Planck changed direction of his own accord.

“But last spring the conversations about Helene Clausen and Farshad’s family come to an end. Per Clausen avoids talking about them and changes the topic if they come up. Farshad doesn’t understand why but he is a sensitive person—a very fine person all around—and respects these new signals from his friend. At the same time there is a striking physical transformation in Per Clausen. He cuts back significantly on his drinking. For a while he is almost always sober, then he starts drinking again, but much less severely than before. The transformation is quite abrupt and according to Farshad it stems from an event in February or March of last year.”

“The woman in red?”

“Good guess, Simon. She had to come in somewhere. And she does. Literally. Into the shop around ten o’clock one evening, where Per Clausen is lying indisposed in the back room. Farshad remembers him as unusually intoxicated. Incoherent, even. When this happens, he is allowed to sleep on a cot until Farshad can coax him out at closing time. The woman is in her thirties, wealthy and good-looking according to Farshad, and also polite, focused, and friendly. She wakes up Per Clausen and takes him with her in her car without a single protest. The car is a silver-gray Porsche and she is dressed in an eye-catching crimson suit. She gives him a note with her name, address, and phone number and tells him that he can call her if the janitor is ever in a similar condition. Unfortunately the note has been lost. Per Clausen never mentions her but he is picked up by her one more time, also in the Porsche. This time he is not drunk and it seems as if he has made previous arrangements. In addition, Farroukh Bakhtîshû, one of Farshad’s sons, has seen Per Clausen driving with her on another occasion but the time unfortunately was not determined.”

Planck drew out his final sentence, as if wondering if he had covered everything. Apparently he had.

“That’s all of it, in broad strokes anyhow. I wish I could assure you that it is important but I can’t. Farshad is a cooperative type of person who is happy to help the police but only with facts. He is not interested in jumping into speculation about his late friend’s suspected involvement in the murders.”

Simonsen reflected on this. Then he said, “She sounds interesting. We want to talk to her. Keep going with Farshad if you think there is more to be had there. Get someone to find out how many silver-colored Porsches there are in the city and if it’s possible to trace her that way. Put a couple of men on the neighbors and the school people and ask about the car and the woman.”

“I’ve already done that last part, without results. But I wouldn’t say no to another round with Farshad even though I don’t expect to turn up anything more. We can drive in to the HS together so I’ll get an overview first of how far we have come. Then I’ll head to Bagsværd.”

“That’s exactly what we can do,” Simonsen said and got to his feet, feeling energetic and rested.

CHAPTER 43

The Countess had borrowed an office at the police station in Odense Midtby.

Someone banged on the door and was told to enter. An unusually large man in his early thirties was led into the room and placed in front of her. One of his eyelids drooped, which gave him an unsettling, almost pleading look, a comic touch. The officer left the room and she let the man sweat in silence for a while before she began the interrogation.

“My name is Nathalie von Rosen and I’ve been sent here by the Crime Division in Copenhagen. And you are in some deep shit. That goes for your brother too.”

The man’s upper lip trembled and his reply came haltingly: “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m pretty sure I want a lawyer.”

“Well, I can understand that, and you’ll certainly have use for one. I’ve come straight from the hospital, where I listened to your victim talk, or whatever it is one should call what he did in order to make himself understood. You know, it’s hard to talk properly with a broken jaw.”

“That was an accident.”

“Yes, you could say that. And a serious one at that. A broken wrist, two broken ribs, a broken nose, the broken jaw I already mentioned, blows and kicks all over his body, and I’m sure I’m not remembering half of it. Then there is the other accident that transformed his apartment into a dump.”

The giant was fighting back tears, the lawyer forgotten.

“We didn’t know that it wasn’t his video.”

“And if it had been, it would have been perfectly all right to beat him to a pulp?”

“We can’t stand people like that.”

“No, that appears to be a trend these days, but in the eyes of the law there is no difference who the owner of the offending video was. What may make a difference is the fact that your abused friend does not wish to press charges. He claims that he understands you, and I have to say that he must be an unusually tolerant person.”

A small spark of hope was lit in the man’s eye.

“He doesn’t want to press charges?”

“He doesn’t, no. He is hoping that you can come to an agreement about a reasonable restitution for the damages his home has suffered, but don’t get too excited. Your prayers won’t help you because if he isn’t willing to press charges, I will. That is to say, formally it will be the public prosecutor but practically speaking he will act on my orders. And I may as well add this—you will be regarded as lost cause. We are talking about an extreme act of violence that was premeditated and took place in the victim’s own home, which will count as strongly incriminating. My educated guess is that you stand to get at least six years in prison but that will be up to the judge. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and get away with five.”

The prediction was wildly exaggerated. She pressumed the man to be fairly ignorant of the law and she was right. Her talk about six years hit him like a ton of bricks. Pleading and confused, he managed to get out, “But when the charges have been dropped, why do you want to put us in prison? You know it was an accident. You know we aren’t thugs.”

She got up and walked behind him, satisfied with the way things were going.

“Why do I want to press charges? What I should give you right now is a speech about justice and vigilantism and that kind of thing. But truth be told, it’s because I’m in a bad mood.”

“Because you’re in a bad mood?”

“You heard me. When my mood is bad, I get very unpleasant. If
I’m
not feeling good, I don’t want others to. That may strike you as small-minded but such is life and it is awfully unfair that I should have to be in a bad mood, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course, but … but…”

“You haven’t even asked me
why
I’m in such a bad mood.”

“Oh no, sorry. Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“It’s thoughtful of you to ask and I will tell you why I feel this way. Yesterday I interrogated a woman who as a child was sexually abused by her own father. It was a stinky job but someone had to do it, and it fell to me. In addition, I’m in a foul mood because of the newspapers. I can’t stand what they write. And last but not least, I’m in a terrible mood about the fact that I can’t go home and relax because I’m tied to a big case that I wrestle with day and night. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

“Yes, of course. I feel bad for you.”

The big man looked more like someone who felt sorry for himself.

The Countess sat down in her chair and continued. “This morning I thought I had a good idea that would make me happy again. Namely, I’ve got a lead on a … gentleman, shall we say. He is from Fredericia and in contrast to your poor friend his sexual preferences are clearly directed at the younger age bracket. Much younger, when he can manage it. If he wishes, there is no doubt that he could help me and tell me things that would otherwise take me a very long time to find out. So I’ve requested some reports on him: name, pictures, and such.”

She allowed her hand to fall on a dossier that lay on the table between them.

“Actually I had been planning to go out to the Gudme Sports Complex to see if I couldn’t get somewhere with him. There’s a youth-wrestling tournament and he’s planning to be in the audience, but I’ve given it up. The problem is that whatever I ask him, and even though it is in his best interest to cooperate with me, I know that he will not help me one bit. He will clam up like an oyster and just wait for me to give up and leave. What I want is for him to get a stroke of inspiration. That he would suddenly realize that he ought to do his duty as a citizen and give me information from his … environment. That would make me happy.”

Her listener was somewhat slow on the uptake. “That would make you happy?”

“Yes, you can bet it would. Simply the thought that there is someone who might be able to convince him to meet with me puts me in a decidedly better mood.”

“So you want us to—”

She interrupted him sharply: “I have nothing to do with the specifics of who talks to whom. But, as I said, it would make me happy if he—unharmed and unmolested—were to be enticed to have a little chat. Please make a special note of that phrase: ‘
unharmed and unmolested.
’”

“
Unharmed and unmolested.
Sure, I get it, as gentle as a lamb. We won’t hit him. Never again, never ever again.”

“That sounds very sensible, but oh my goodness—look at the time. I really don’t have time to sit here chatting with you. Wait until you see the
Dagbladet
and then you’ll understand what I am up against. And tonight the GOG women are playing against Randers with a home-court advantage. That’s a game I simply have to see now that I’m in Odense. First handball and then a cup of coffee in the cafeteria after the game. From a quarter past ten.”

The Countess stood up.

“I’m going to go and ask if the guardsman is ready to release you. During this conversation I have come to realize that I would like to think a little more about this matter before I decide to press charges. Now, remember not to look in this file while I’m gone.”

She locked the door behind her and mumbled, “Lucky bastard.”

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.