The Hanging: A Thriller (39 page)

“I’m coming up with nothing. I want to say his childhood but in part I don’t really know if that’s true and if it is, it hasn’t shown itself as a weakness so far, that is, in relation to what he has done. Then I was thinking that we believe that he knew the Ditlevsen brothers back when they lived in Sjælland, but that also isn’t a weakness, or is that the connection that you had in mind?”

His contribution was kindly overlooked. Everyone was looking at Simonsen, who was smiling and taking his own sweet time. He wasn’t experiencing his usual sweat attack after dinner and he had already answered Planck’s question, so what more could an overweight, slightly arrogant former homicide chief ask for? He said, cheerfully, “You mean his statement to the media, don’t you?”

“Bingo, Simon, that’s exactly what I mean. And what happens if we threaten him with a couple of solid blows to his public image? Don’t worry about what exactly, just assume that we can. What would happen then?”

Pedersen improved his own image somewhat by reacting quickly: “He would answer back as well as he could; respond to us even, to the extent that is possible.”

Simonsen nodded in agreement. “Someone has at least made some strenuous attempts to hammer unpleasant impressions and images into people’s minds. And very successfully, no less.”

Anita joined in: “So in the interview with the hardliner from the Folketingets Retsudvalg who oh, was busy with the posters of Thor Gran as a background?” She glanced around to get the others’ reactions. They shook their heads, and she explained, “The posters are simply close-ups of Thor Gran from the minivan, you know, where he talks about selecting the numbered delicacies, and underneath it just says, ‘No, you won’t!’ so the message is clear. But if I was going to pick one simple thing in the propaganda circulating in the media, one simple thing that really has grabbed the attention of Danes, then it’s Thor Gran when he’s … selecting the children. The posters were shown for a minute, maybe one and a half, and the interview was probably just an excuse to show it. It’s like the subliminal messaging with the image of the Coke bottle that was edited into movies in the 1950s to increase sales of Coca-Cola in the intermissions; someone manipulates our subconscious and no one wants to step in.”

Simonsen shot down her last story: “It’s called subliminal perception and it is basically a myth. The concept has never been proven and no one has ever manipulated a film in that way. But it’s a good story.”

“As opposed to the Thor Gran poster,” Pedersen added sarcastically. “That’s what you gain from hearing that story.”

Simonsen immediately stiffened. For a second or two he closed his eyes, then he took a bag of licorice from his inside pocket, helped himself, and offered it to the others. No one wanted any.

Pedersen said, “You usually hate this stuff. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He still didn’t like licorice, but Piratos licorice was an excellent antidote to a sour mouth. What could he say? That the photos of Anna Mia that he had been sent occasionally invaded his mouth? Who would understand it when he didn’t even himself? And what business was it of the others? It had no meaning, he had it under control. That was exactly what he had—control. As soon as he got his fingers on those assholes who had threatened his daughter he would show them that he had it under control. Psychopathic bastards.

Planck managed to get the conversation back on track. “Now listen up and stop wasting time on that nonsense. I have an idea for how to tell an alternative truth but I’ll need help from all three of you. It will also demand a small sacrifice from each. Do you want to hear it?”

It was a theatrical tactic and Anita was the one who told him what they were all thinking: “Sometimes you are so smug. Of course we want to hear it.”

Planck did not address the criticism. Instead he turned to his guests, starting with the first: “Anita, you have to forget everything about your journalist ethics, not to speak of your loyalty to your employer. I’m going to force a boyfriend on you, if only temporarily. Arne, you’ll have to be prepared to lead astray that voluptuous girlfriend of yours from the
Dagbladet.
And while I’m at it, I’m going to give you some good advice from an old man. You should get some professional help with your gambling before it gets out of control and you would also do well to get your private life in order.”

Pedersen’s face went beet red; he said nothing, but wiped his forehead with his tie. They had never seen that before.

Planck turned to Simonsen. “Simon, you get the hard part. First, you can’t take the rules too seriously the next couple of days. Many of the methods that I will suggest are illegal. Second, you’re going to give an interview with Anni Staal, and third, you’re going to have to keep Helmer Hammer and everyone at HS in the dark about our plans.”

Simonsen nodded cautiously.

Planck addressed them all: “Perhaps you should take a couple of minutes to think it over before I proceed. If you want to hear my proposition.”

Anita did not need to think it over.

“Fuck my workplace, and as far as my reporter ethics go, they’re pretty much nonexistent. I think it sounds exciting. Is my boyfriend cute?”

The two men also agreed but with a little less enthusiasm.

CHAPTER 62

Planck’s dinner party ended abruptly and unpleasantly for Simonsen. As soon as the arrangements for a media campaign had been discussed and everyone was able to relax and enjoy himself, he received a call from Herlev Hospital, where a nurse in the orthopedic-surgery division had found his card. He excused himself and left at once.

A good half hour later he arrived there. The patient, who was not a friend of his, was sleeping fitfully. Simonsen studied him and shook his head as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light in the room. The light-blue duvet was pulled up over the sleeping man’s body and the upper part of the bed was raised so that the upper body was slightly elevated. A set of tubes had been inserted into the man’s nose and were connected to an electrical outlet in the wall, from which a faint sighing sound bore witness to a connection. He had a turban of white gauze around his forehead and a thick bandage across his broken nose, giving him a macabre appearance.

“Do you want to hear what happened?”

Simonsen turned in astonishment. A man was sitting on a chair pushed away from the bed. Without waiting for an answer, the man launched into the story.

“There were seven or eight of them, waiting for him in the stairwell. Some of them had clubs, all of them with boots. They held me back and went after him. He didn’t have a chance. They kicked and hit without stopping and in under a minute he had collapsed bleeding and unconscious on the floor.”

Simonsen answered in a low voice, “That’s terrible, and he isn’t the only one. The same thing has happened in several places all over the country.”

“You haven’t heard the worst of it. One of them cut his forehead with a penknife.
For your abominable desires, for the childhood you ruined, for the pain you caused,
he said. Like a perverted ritual. The others even seemed like they thought it was too much but did nothing to stop it.”

“What are those phrases? I don’t understand.”

“It’s from a grandiloquent hate poem on one of those antipedophilia sites. I can’t remember which one but I remember the stanzas. They were recited six times, corresponding to five numbers and an ellipsis: five, six … seven, ten, twenty! His whole forehead is carved up.” The man’s voice broke. “I can’t bear to think about it. Let me sit for a moment.”

Simonsen turned his back to the voice. Some time went by, then the man said out of the dark, “I’m okay again.”

“Would you remember the one who did the cutting?”

“It was a woman. Well, she wasn’t more than a girl. I’ve never seen anything so terrible, not even in a movie, and the men just stood there. They seemed to think she was going overboard and it was almost as if they were afraid of her.”

The man stared helplessly into the dark room. The faint light from the night-light fell over his face, which was set in a kind of bleak melancholy. Then he added in wonderment, “There have been women all day. When he was sacked, the knife, and now here.”

“Oh no, has he also been fired?”

“He was let go this afternoon. That was why I took him home. I didn’t want him to be alone. They called it a restructuring, but everyone knew that was a lie. A young bitch from human resources had the pleasure and I promise you she enjoyed it. Good God, she was awful. Like hatched from the business school in their brand-new fall collection of polished arrogance and powdery morals. She even brought flowers with her, and do you know what she talked about?”

Simonsen shook his head.

“Envy.”

“Envy?”

“In a long, self-indulgent monologue. She was envious of the new freedom he was getting, envious of all the possibilities he had for choosing a new life, envious of the fact that he would now be able to sleep in in the mornings, envious of his severance pay, envious of all kinds of other things, all the time as her victim abased himself. He talked about his Androcur treatment, about how he sends most of his salary to his sons each month without ever hearing from them, about his remorse, yes he pleaded and cried but that didn’t help in the least. The witch was oh so sympathetic and also envious of his courage to show emotions. People enjoyed and smiled at her scornful remarks. He had known some of them for fifteen years. I don’t know what to say other than that those people…”

He came to a halt, at a loss for words. Simonsen also said nothing, and only the soft hum of the electricity could be heard. After a while he tried again.

“Those people and the ones who started this … it’s just wrong. Evil and horrible, I can’t find any other words for it.”

The patient moaned, as if he wanted to indicate his agreement. The man didn’t reply.

Simonsen felt exhaustion creep over him. If he sat there much longer he would fall asleep. He said, “What did you mean by ‘now here’? Are there more?”

“You’ll experience her soon enough. She’s almost the worst.”

Simonsen did not have to wait long. Suddenly, hair-raising laughter filled the room and a woman’s voice screeched through the loudspeakers, like high-pitched screams from another world. The patient woke up and began to sob briefly but soon fell asleep again, as full of medicine as he was. Simonsen had jerked up like a spring and calm returned only slowly. He felt a nauseating disgust.

“What in the world was that?”

“A devil who doesn’t think that he deserves to sleep, I think.”

“What is she shouting?”

“I don’t know exactly. Something about being the daughter of the night, the one who never rests, and that she has an eternal rage. I don’t understand the rest.”

“That’s madness. Why don’t the hospital staff put an end to it?”

“I’ve been to see the nurse on duty and told her off four times but no one knows where the voice is coming from or else they don’t care. Maybe they’re even in on it, I don’t know, but it’s hard to take.”

Simonsen noticed an unfamiliar—even foreign—desire to hit not something but someone. To go after the nurse with a couple of jabs first to one and then the other side of the head and to see her flee down the corridor in her ugly dust-yellow clogs. This only for starters. At once he realized that he was afraid. Afraid of the hidden society he was unable to uncover. The conspiracy without a face, the public mood, which followed its own unwritten laws—frightening in its hatred and worse in its indifference. In the absence of anything better, he kicked the wall in frustration and banged a heating pipe so that it rang out through the room. The man on the bed shivered nervously.

“Dammit.”

He didn’t even know himself if he was lamenting the situation or the noise that he had caused. Then he tried with all his mental efforts to turn to something more constructive.

“Are you the one who can help me with the telecommunications information?”

“Yes, that’s me, and I got your message. This morning I was a bit lukewarm, but definitely not anymore, so you’ll get the help you’re looking for.”

“What about the other companies, that is, your competitors. Can you help me there as well?”

“There’s no database in the telecommunications sector that I don’t have access to. Us security people work together and we cooperate, but I’ll need a contact person on your end to get into the citizen registry and the like. We can make further arrangements tomorrow.”

“I’m glad, but I thought of another thing that I’m not even sure can be done.”

“Tell me what it is.”

Simonsen told him. The man didn’t seem surprised.

“What telephone number did you have in mind?”

Simonsen told him and the man took a cell phone out of his pocket. The blue light of the display lit up his face. Simonsen was able to get a good look at him for the first time and thought that he didn’t even know his name yet. The man’s thumbs were working with a teenager’s speed, and when he was done, he nodded a couple of times.

“The police starting to spy on our free press—such times, such times.”

His voice had taken on a somewhat inappropriately humorous tone, and Simonsen understood it well. It was a way to keep the beastliness at bay. Overcome despair and smile the three women back to the kind of hell where they belonged. In the half darkness he gestured theatrically, with relief.

“Yes, we’ve reached a new low.”

CHAPTER 63

Anni Staal was waiting for Konrad Simonsen.

Only a few minutes earlier, Anita had called and said that her earlier efforts had yielded results.

“The kilometer stone at City Hall Plaza at two o’clock, and Simonsen only has five minutes.”

Anita had hung up before Anni managed to get a word out, so she couldn’t do much other than go to the meeting, and privately she wondered whether she had misunderstood the message before she noticed the chief inspector heading her way. He looked exhausted and wasted no time with unnecessary pleasantries.

“I’m sorry about the location but I have an errand nearby and this is what I was able to think of in a hurry, but let’s skip all that. I hear you want an interview and a long one at that.”