The Hanging: A Thriller (27 page)

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

Frank Ditlevsen

(Mr. Middle)

Divorced

Consultant

52 years

Middelford

Jens Allan Karlsen

(Mr. Southwest)

Married

Retired

69 years

Århus

Palle Huldgård

(Mr. Northeast)

Widower

Office manager

63 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 work-related 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.”

CHAPTER 45

Simonsen’s orders that any criminal records of the victims, specifically charges of child molestation, should be uncovered as quickly as possible spread like rings in the water across the nation, and despite the loud objections of many officers regarding the weekend work, the police machinery worked smoothly and yielded results. Troulsen gathered the threads together. Just back from the
Dagbladet,
he had a good knowledge of the victims. When he felt there was enough evidence to establish a sexual orientation toward children, he went to his boss. Simonsen waited in his office, where the poster of the victims now hung, stolen from Pedersen. The next red checkmark went to Jens Allan Karlsen from Århus, alias Mr. Southwest.

Troulsen explained, “Bags of videos in the crawlspace under the house, several diskettes with fingerprints belonging to Allan Ditlevsen—that is, the hot-dog vendor from Middelford. He was also active on KidsOnTheLine.dk. At least four meetings with young virtual friends and unfortunately very real meetings. Also, he was thrown out of the Danish Boy Scouts. Would you like that story?”

Simonsen shook his head and hung up.

Peder Jacobsen—Mr. Southeast—was much more difficult to pin down as a child molester. The matter was inherently sensitive and none of the man’s friends could or would put this label on him. In his personal effects there was also nothing that pointed to a sexual attraction to children. The police worked hard and long without results and finally the matter was resolved in a hamburger joint in Brabrand.

A fourteen-year-old boy and a man in his forties were sitting at a table by the window. Two plainclothes policemen walked over to them and one of them stuck his police badge under the nose of the man.

“Scram.”

The other grabbed the man’s coat and pushed it into his lap. He added, “Now!”

The man left without protest and the two officers sat down.

“When did you last get something to eat, Tommy?” The snarl in the officer’s voice was gone.

“Think it was yesterday.”

“What would you like?”

“A cheeseburger would be good.”

“We’ll buy you two, once we leave.”

The officer who was sitting next to the boy took out a photograph from his jacket. It was rolled up into a cylinder and he had to smooth it out against the edge of the table a couple of times before it lay flat.

“Do you know this guy?”

The boy glanced at the picture. “That’s one of the guys who got murdered, isn’t it? I saw it in the paper. Is it true what they say?”

“Yes, it’s true. Do you know him?”

“A couple of years ago. I’m too old now. He preferred the younger ones. Try talking to Jørgen or Kasper. Maybe Snot-Sophie.”

“Perverse? Violent?”

“No, not at all. Straightforward. In and out, done.”

The officers nodded to each other. That was enough. The older one looked sadly at the boy. His son was the same age. He played video games, was a goalie in soccer, and blushed if you asked him about girls.

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”

“No, you lot have seen to that.”

“What if I drive you home to your mother? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. If only for a few days.”

The boy considered this proposal, unused to kindness offered without a hook. “No, thanks, but it was nice of you to ask.” He did not explain himself.

The two officers got up to leave, and on their way out one of them bought two cheeseburgers and a glass of juice.

Ten minutes later, Simonsen placed a red checkmark against Peder Jacobsen.

Palle Huldgård—Mr. Northeast—also liked boys. A female officer was responsible for that particular breakthrough. The man that she consulted was a psychologist in private practice. But he was free on Sundays, like most people. Looking him up was her idea and it had seemed like a good one—if a little unconventional—at the time. Now she was no longer sure. The psychologist was suspicious and curt, as if he had already guessed what she was after.

She laid her cards on the table: “I’m part of the team investigating Palle Huldgård. He was killed ten days ago at the Langebæk School in Bagsværd and we know that both of his daughters consulted you. Their names are Pia and Eva Huldgård.”

She looked him in the eyes without seeing much reaction, only a slowly kindling anger. She laid aside her friendly tone and grew sharp. “There are twenty of us turning Palle Huldgård’s life upside down. We are supposed to find out if he was a child molester and we have several witnesses who have told us that he molested his daughters when they were little. Severe incest over a period of many years. They also told us about you.”

“Severe incest—you could call it that. I’ve never heard of the other kind. Go on.”

“There isn’t anything else to say. You’ve already guessed what I want. Either you confirm the molestation to the extent that you are able or else we go after the daughters.”

She did not mention that they both seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth, which was the real reason for her visit. She was making a virtue out of necessity.

“Clearly that’s something both they and I would rather avoid, at least as far as I can tell. I can imagine how unpleasant such a conversation would be.”