The Hanging: A Thriller (46 page)

Below the castle lay Hindstrup, a smaller province town that had an excellent yacht marina, a number of small niche industries, and a central square and adjoining pedestrian zone where a handful of stores struggled for survival. To call it a bustling town would be an exaggeration but people managed to get by, and although most of them were employed in Middelford or Odense, the village was far from dead. Mainly because the house prices were reasonable and the stream of tourists in the summer was substantial.

In Hindstrup, Konrad Simonsen added “trespassing on private property” to the long row of sins he had compiled over the past few days. Luckily he was simply invading a woodshed and luckily the house it belonged to was currently for sale and unoccupied, but he really had no legitimate grounds for his presence there whatsoever. On the other hand, the spot was almost perfect.

He had arrived at night and begun by surveying the main street, a luminous white autumn moon making this possible. Diagonally across from the bakery Kongens Kringle was a library with an informational poster that promised access at eight o’clock the next day. He called the Countess and recounted this to her. She confirmed it groggily. Shortly afterward he found the shed behind a house on a side road off the main street. It was unlocked and filled with firewood, nylon packets with wooden blocks of irregular size piled from floor to ceiling, against one whole wall. Only the long sides of the shed were made of brick. The other two were made with horizontal lathing fitted with wide spaces so that the firewood could dry out in the wind. He made his way past the wood by laboriously moving bag after bag to the opposite wall and realized, once part of the wall had been freed, that this was the place he had been searching for.

To the right he had an excellent view out to the bakery and straight ahead up the hill he saw the outline of the castle. The woods at the end of the castle grounds lay a few degrees to the left, and even with the naked eye in the moonlight one could see most of the edge of the forest. It didn’t get better than this. He fetched blankets and his travel bag from the car. He made himself as comfortable as possible on top of the woodpile and set his alarm. Right before he shut his eyes he shot a last, long look up at the forest and said quietly, “Good night, Climber. I’m going to get you tomorrow.”

Then he fell asleep.

Five hours later, his alarm clock chimed and he started his day as he had finished it the day before, by peeking out between the slats up toward the forest and the castle. In the dark the grade had appeared steeper but the scene was not much different from what he had imagined back home when the Countess—with the aid of some scissors, tape, and a printout from the Internet—had created an excellent map of Hindstrup and its environs. They had placed it on the dining-room table and studied it as intensely as a general’s map before a battle. After a while, Arne Pedersen had suggested a systematized approach, slapping the flat of his hand over different areas of the map as he spoke.

“Okay. Village, castle, castle grounds that run up against the woods, the water, and tree nursery. The woods and the castle are high up, the village below. Let’s imagine that we’re the Climber. Where will he have the best overview of the situation? It’s almost a given.”

He let his finger run along the edge of the woods.

“Here he has an unobstructed view down to the main street. At least on the one side and I’ll bet five rum balls that that’s where Kongens Kringle is.”

The Countess agreed: “Apart from the fact that betting no longer has a place in your repertoire, that fits very well. The building over here is probably the nursing home and it has an odd number. The bakery is probably opposite but he may also live in the village or have access to the castle. The view from there is even better. What is it being used for?”

“A school for children with learning disabilities. I don’t think the possibility is very likely. His retreat would be hampered if—”

Simonsen had been looking at the map for a long time. Now he broke in. “It’s the woods. He feels safe among the trees. He sets up in there and lurks around until the coast is clear. I can feel it. He’s probably already there before it gets light. Remember that he waited half the night by the hot-dog stand in Allerslev.”

Planck shook his head. The Countess gave him an anxious glance and Pedersen said, “I suggest eight to ten plainclothes officers in the village, ideally from PET, and then thirty to forty men in the woods and the nursery. That will create an iron ring that he doesn’t have the chance to escape.”

He went on, turned directly toward Simonsen: “Call in the special forces if you can. Those boys are supertalented and we have enough time to organize it.”

Simonsen shook his head. “How many people want him to get away? Half of the population? Twenty percent? Ten percent? Give me a guess.”

The Countess answered reluctantly, understanding where he was headed, “It is hard to say. Public sentiment is about to swing again, I think, but for the moment we have what is almost a media war. The press coverage is unpredictable and much of the so-called news reporting is manipulative or strongly biased.”

“A speech, Countess. You may want to write it down. Is it ten percent?”

“No, that is too optimistic. Much too optimistic, unfortunately.”

Simonsen turned to Pedersen. “Arne, you’re good at estimating. To assume a low estimate, let us say five percent. What are the chances of selecting seventy people where no one—not a single one—divulges the plans before they are under way?”

It was an irrefutable point and neither Pedersen nor the Countess made any objections when their boss concluded, “Our task force tomorrow consists of the three of us. I’ll take off soon and you, Countess, will turn up at eight
A.M.
At that time I will have scouted out a place for us both. Arne, you follow Anni Staal, but in a car other than your own.”

No one had any reasonable alternatives to offer Not even Kasper Planck. Pedersen asked, “What if he calls back and changes the location? That’s something I would do.”

“You’ll take the copy phone and we’ll have to improvise, but I know that he will be hiding in that forest until they meet. That’s how he is. The woods are his best friend and his worst enemy.”

This time even Pedersen grew worried.

But Simonsen, in the woodshed, was not worried. Without any sense of urgency, he ate his liverwurst sandwiches and washed them down with a big gulp of water from his water bottle. Coffee and a morning smoke would have to wait, which turned out to be easier than he had feared. A pleasant tingle of anticipation went through his body and made him at once relaxed and restless. He took out his weapon from his service bag. It was years since he had been armed, and he had to spend a little time adjusting the straps of the shoulder holster to accommodate his current size. Immediately thereafter, his cell phone rang.

It was half past eight and Pedersen had arranged a phone meeting. His voice came through clearly: “I’ve pulled over at a rest stop outside Korsør. There’s nothing of interest from Anni Staal’s telephone, apart from the fact that she hasn’t left yet. I hope they haven’t changed the meeting place to Valby, for example, because in that case we’ll be screwed. I’ve rented an Audi, by the way, a sweet car. I’m going to switch now and am anxious to see if you can hear me.”

The Countess answered. She was whispering, but also came through clearly: “Bookworm here, and I can hear you loud and clear, Audi. I’m reading the paper and have an excellent view of the café but not much else. My only problem is the head librarian, so I’m going to limit my communication to what is absolutely necessary—as long as she is in the reading room.”

It was Simonsen’s turn. He had wedged his cell phone between two of the sacks of firewood close to his head so that he had his hands free. His message was brief: “I hear you, but let’s concentrate.”

Arne Pedersen answered, “Audi here. I have nothing to concentrate on except a half-empty freeway. What are you doing, Simon? Shouldn’t you have a code name as well?” He grinned.

It was the Countess who answered, still whispering, “I think we should call him Nimrod.”

She was not smiling. Nor was Simonsen.

“I’m working, so stop with the nonsense.”

They were silent.

Simonsen hunted. Slowly, methodically, and with the utmost concentration he searched for his prey by scouring the edge of the forest. The fall colors made it easy to differentiate among the trees. The sun was behind him and its pale light filled his sight with clear red, yellow, orange, and green shades. Here and there were trees that had lost all their leaves and broke the palette with their black branches and naked twigs. Like witches’ fingers. From time to time a cloud obscured the sun and the woods changed character to an inscrutable mass, uniform and compact. But hardly a minute would go by before the sun came out again. He used these pauses to train the binoculars down on the main street or on the freestanding trees of the castle grounds. He did not bother to look at the castle itself.

Not much happened. At one point, a gardener came to a halt on one of the many small white bridges in the garden. He stared out in front of him for almost ten minutes, unmoving, as if he were sucking up groundwater. The man was over fifty and presumably of no interest. Nonetheless, Simonsen drew a sigh of relief when he finally decided to continue with his life and slowly shuffled off down to the village, where he disappeared. Two men appeared, occupied with surveying, but they also disappeared after a while. No other human activity was discernible.

“I hope you’re inside somewhere, Simon.”

It was the Countess and her voice was normal. The head librarian must have left.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“The weather, of course. We’re going to get a real shower in a little while, or what do you think? You are the one who has the better view, unless there’s something I’ve misunderstood.”

There was nothing she had misunderstood but Simonsen had a view only of half the sky. He put the binoculars down, crawled down from his seat, and made his way to the door of the shed.

Out over the water, the sky was covered with leaden thunderclouds and lightning flashed at the horizon. He watched the storm with fascination. Turbulent air flow and currents on the underside of the weather system tore off gray wisps of clouds and hurled them toward the water. Darkness won out and approached. Suddenly there was a waterspout, then another and, a little farther, a third. Curved, thicker at the top and slender at the bottom, the three giant fangs drifted toward the coast in an uncertain dance. But the phenomenon lasted only a short while. Immediately upon reaching land, the three columns were consumed by the earth, while a rumble rolled in over the village like a casual burp. Then the rain started to fall.

A quarter of an hour later the front had passed and the light returned. Simonsen resumed his post. Everything was as before, the same irregular shapes and outlines, the same nuances of decaying green, the same concentrated lack of activity. And yet not. The rain shower had drenched the area and now the sun was reflected in a myriad of drops so that each leaf glittered and each branch gleamed while little creatures carefully ventured forth from the many hiding places of the forest in order to reconquer their wet, reborn world. Even Simonsen was aware of the change and he whispered to himself, “You are there, Climber, and I’m going to nab you. At some point you’re going to make a mistake, a simple little mistake, and then I will get you. I’m at the top of the food chain and I am very, very hungry.”

At that moment Pedersen called in to report some developments: “She just drove past. I’m about one hundred meters behind her.”

A little while later he added, “Nothing new about Steel-Anni. I’ve just gone over the bridge and I’m on her tail. We’re going to reach you in about an hour but I’ve heard some news on the radio. Do you want to know what’s going on?”

The Countess was quickest. “Of course we do.”

Pedersen continued: “The lead story was a long piece from outside the Christiansborg parliamentary building where people have started to gather for a protest, and apparently there is a strange kind of muteness over the whole thing. There are no speeches, songs, or chants. Apart from a banner that urges tightening the law and stopping the violence. The reporter found the expression
dignified
and couldn’t get past it, whatever that means. And the report came from the same place where there is hectic activity right now. An antipedophile gang is on its way and the politicians are grappling with the three main demands that were listed in today’s newspapers but there are other things in play. Great increases in the severity of punishments and abolishing the limitations protecting parents in relation to sexual abuse of children. Support for the victims in the form of state-subsidized psychological or psychiatric help as long and as much as is necessary. Abolishment of pedophile associations and strengthened abilities for us to trace child pornography on the Internet. In this capacity an upgrade of our resources as well as the possibility of, certain cases, punishing the monetary bodies that allow for the payment of the material. Also travel agents whose customers who go after foreign children.”

Simonsen interrupted, “Keep to the point. I have a highly developed sense of smell.”

Pedersen was bewildered. “The point, sure. I didn’t get that last part.”

“I understood it very well,” the Countess commented. “You frighten me, Simon.”

There was a pause. No one knew who should speak next, so everyone was silent. After a while, Pedersen wrapped it up: “Some say it is the nation’s constitution that’s the problem. The freedom of association applies to everyone, as we know, and the responsibilities of banks and travel agents are under discussion. Those are business interests and, well … thus somewhat tricky.”

The Countess took over. “I can’t say I don’t agree, but I would definitely have wished that the organizers had found a more orthodox way of breaking into the public stream of information.”

Neither of the men answered. It was clear that she was speaking mainly because Simonsen had asked for silence. Shortly thereafter she was more direct.