The Hanging: A Thriller (47 page)

“Oh, I don’t care for this. Are you armed, Simon?”

“No.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Support for Simonsen came from an unexpected source—an unfamiliar voice interjected itself. It came through clearly and needed no further explanation.

“Please, this is a reading room, not a fish seller’s market.”

The Countess stopped speaking and Simon patiently continued his vigil. After a while he recognized each silhouette and all the trees in his line of vision and knew what would come into his binoculars before it appeared. The relentless repetition, where he scrutinized the same hundred meters of tree line again and again, destroyed his sense of time, and Pedersen’s sporadic reports about his position struck Simon as unreal. Only the hunt carried meaning—the narrow cone of his field of vision, which panned systematically across the terrain, back and forth, again and again, without deviation. A battle of stamina and concentration in which he never doubted his superiority or allowed the least bit of uncertainty to shake his confidence that the Climber was hiding somewhere in the faded damp foliage.

Suddenly a flock of blackbirds took flight over a collection of treetops, the outline of which resembled a fist. They circled over the forest for a while before they landed again. They looked like rooks. He could not see what had startled them but it had to have been something so he kept his gaze trained on that place for a long time, without discovering anything. Finally he gave up and again resumed his scanning in the old familiar pattern.

And then disaster struck.

The Countess was the first to comment and this time in a full voice, without giving any consideration to the library rules.

“Oh no, this isn’t true!”

Simonsen turned his binoculars to the main street and his exclamation was of a different order. In front of the bakery was a patrol car and three uniformed officers were on their way inside. Shortly thereafter, a cacophony of voices streamed through the cell phone like a ridiculous radio play.

“You can blame the neighbor, the bank, the merchant, it’s all the same because debtor’s prison has been abolished, but don’t blame the government and if you do, at least communicate with them. You can’t ignore their requests however wrong it’s gone and you should know that, Bolette.”

“I want all of you out,” the Countess shouted. “Now!”

No one took any notice of her. A woman’s voice came through: “So listen to this. I don’t have a television. The same day that Anders died it blew out and that was four years ago. Four years and they keep asking me to pay the license however many times I write or call. It’s simply impossible to register as having no television. They don’t believe me, those crazy Copenhagen apes. Just imagine if I demanded money for bread that my clients did not recieve.”

“You are interfering with an incredibly important mission and you have to leave. Your pickup will have to wait until tomorrow.”

The bakery woman continued: “And then you turn up here, three officers strong. Don’t the police have anything better to do?”

A couple of customers supported her but a young voice countered, “She could have been brought to the hearing on Monday when I was here alone.”

The Countess tried again with the full strength of her lungs: “Out with you. I am from the Homicide Division.”

“The Homicide Division? Because she’s been lax about paying her license? That’s just too much.”

“I haven’t been lax. I don’t own a television, I don’t have a television. I don’t want a television. Don’t you get it?”

“Can I buy four focaccia buns before you take her in?”

And then suddenly Pedersen broke in with a message that did not leave much room for interpretation: “Anni Staal has received an SMS. It says
dumb pigs.
”

Simonsen turned off his cell phone and turned one last time to the forest edge. For more than three hours he had been staring at the place with no results before he packed up and left. But his optimism had suffered a blow, he no longer thought about luck, and then he got some just the same—the first time he panned the area with his binoculars a rope dropped down into his line of vision from one of the trees that the birds had circled a while ago. Immediately thereafter, a boot followed.

Simonsen had a reputation for handling himself rationally in situations that required quick decisions, and what he now did was in large part without error. First he thought for about ten seconds without moving from the spot, then he took a map out of his bag and again studied the area behind the castle and out toward the water and the nursery. It was clear that it would have been senseless to sprint up to the castle gardens, partly because it would have taken him too long and partly because his chances of catching the man when he finally made it were minimal. The Climber was faster than he was and was on his home turf. The odds would be more in Simonsen’s favor if he drove up behind the park and tried to find him on one of the nursery roads. He tossed his things into his bag and half ran to his car.

As soon as he was out on the highway and the coast was clear, he increased his speed as much as possible and in only a few minutes he was racing down the long, straight forest road that cut through the Hind tree nursery and divided the area into easterly and westerly parts. About halfway through he turned down a side road, parked his car about ten meters down, and continued on foot. Without hurrying, he walked as quietly as he could toward the next intersection. Soon he would come out to the right at the back of the castle, and a quick calculation in his head told him that if the Climber had not run—which he had no reason to do—there was a good possibility that he was still in the area.

The vegetation along both sides of the road consisted of tall spruce trees and a person wishing to hide himself would have only to take a few steps behind the tree trunks and stand still. The most important thing was therefore to be neither seen nor heard. From time to time he stopped and listened without perceiving anything other than birdsong. At one point he surprised a couple of pheasants, who flew away noisily, flapping. He crouched down next to a tree and waited a little while until peace had returned. Then he went on noiselessly. He reached the intersection after twenty meters. He kept well to the left along the trees and when he turned he therefore spotted the man walking toward him a couple of seconds before the other. At that time he had long since managed to get out his pistol. The distance was exemplary: the other man was too far away to go to attack and too close to avoid a bullet. Their eyes met and each knew who the other was.

“Get down on your stomach.”

The man did not react and his eyes flitted between the gun and the woods. Simonsen released the safety. The little metallic click sounded ominous and full of foreboding.

“Don’t get any ideas. If you run, I’ll shoot you in the legs and I’ll do it now if you don’t lie down. You’ll get your shin shattered for no reason, especially if I choose to shoot you in the mouth a few times so I get the joy of seeing you die and the result will be the same, namely that you’ll lie down. Please go ahead and make your choice before I do it for you.”

The man put his bag aside and lay down. He showed no signs of any emotion, neither anger nor resignation. Simonsen walked behind him, bent down, and clasped his handcuffs around the man’s wrists in an experienced way. Without hurrying, he put the safety back on the gun and put it back in its holster, then lit a cigarette. He inhaled greedily and gazed at his catch. The man was lean and well proportioned, clearly used to physical work, his hair blond and wild and his face weathered. The clear blue eyes were watchful and hostile and over his right eyebrow he had an irregular red scar. Simonsen pulled the man up onto his legs, searched him for weapons, and—as expected—found nothing. In the side pocket of his sturdy shell was a cell phone with a missing SIM card. The bag contained professional climbing gear as well as ropes, harness, and a pair of specially constructed boots with iron spikes at the front. There was also a thermos flask made of aluminum. Simonsen placed the bag under a fir tree and covered it with branches. Then he checked his watch.

“Andreas Linke, the time is eleven thirty-seven and you are under arrest. I also want to inform you that I hate you with all my heart and that you are going to cry blood over the pictures that you sent me of my daughter. I bid you a very hearty hello.”

As expected, he received no answer.

They walked side by side to the car. Simonsen took a chain out of the trunk. He carefully nudged the man into the passenger seat and secured the chain around the handcuff on the right side and the other end to the safety belt security catch that was mounted in floor of the car, where beforehand he had attached a small padlock. Then he locked the door, walked around to the driver’s seat, put his coat on the roof, and unfastened his shoulder gun holster. He tossed it into the backseat before putting his coat back on and getting into the car. Before he drove off, he freed his passenger a little more by unlocking his left hand. This gave the man a reasonable amount of mobility, but constrained by a radius of action where it was possible to hit him with a forceful strike of his fist.

“If you touch me or the steering wheel, I’m going to hit you in the face. Hard. Understand?”

The Climber did not respond. Simonsen jabbed him with his fingers and repeated his question: “Understand?”

A curt, angry nod indicated that the man had understood, and Simonsen smiled, pleased. This was contact.

A couple of kilometers after he had left the tree nursery, he neared the highway to Odense. He turned to the right and some ten or so kilometers farther up he came to the E20 freeway toward Copenhagen. He slipped into the fast lane and kept a steady speed of a little over a hundred. Traffic was moderate but did not demand attention. At twelve o’clock he turned on the car radio to hear the news. Without commenting on it, he noticed that his passenger followed the announcements carefully. Many people were apparently gathering outside Christiansborg Palace. At least, if one was to believe the speaker—and he was not one hundred percent convinced that one could. At any rate, the reporter sounded far from objective as she melodramatically described the people that quietly but deliberately waited for their legislators. There was nothing new from Parliament itself. He turned off the radio and drove a dozen kilometers as he rehearsed in his head for his coming telephone conversation. Then he called Pedersen.

“Hi, Arne, my battery is about to run out so listen without interrupting. I’ve got him and I’m on my way to HS. You and the Countess should ask for a couple of canine units.”

He told him quickly about the tree, the bag, and the SIM card, then added, “There won’t be a problem with evidence. He talks like a frightened child and admits to everything.”

Then he hung up.

The Climber appeared strangely unaffected by the situation. Apart from a brief, slightly astonished look when he heard himself described as a frightened child, he stared blankly out the window. But Simonsen perceived—with satisfaction—a certain tension in him. He had trouble finding a comfortable position and kept shifting in his seat. Not much, but enough to reveal his restlessness. They drove south of Odense and Simonsen broke the silence.

“Did you know that you killed your victims on the day of the Eleven Thousand virgins? That is what the eighteenth of October was called in the Middle Ages, or the Day of Ursula. Take your pick. Both names come from the same legend.”

He glanced at the man. The Climber did not answer, but he turned his head slightly and shot him a look of irritation. Simonsen continued in a cheerful and casual voice.

“Yes, it was a terrible story. Very sad and unfortunately very bloody. Ursula was a Breton princess back in the fourth century. Extraordinarily beautiful, as they are, the princesses of legend. She was also extremely pious. The English king, however, was not. He was a heathen. Still, he proposed to Ursula, who accepted but on the condition that she first had to undertake a pilgrimage to Rome in order to satisfy her deep desire for a spiritual union with Christ.”

He stopped abruptly. There was an accident ahead of him and traffic was starting to build up. He drove by slowly without staring at the ambulance or the damaged car at the side of the road. The Climber did not look either. When they had resumed their cruising speed he continued his story—sure that it embarrassed and confused his passenger.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes—Ursula took off for Rome but not alone. She took eleven thousand maidens with her, and you have to admit that is an overwhelming, colossal, and extremely large number of maidens. Don’t you think?”

The Climber did not appear to think anything. He had turned his face away.

“Okay, we’ll wait to hear your opinion, but anyway, I think it was a lot. In any case, the whole horde came to Rome, and the Pope—his name was Cyriacus, by the way—was besotted, to say the least, which is actually a bit strange because one would think he would become extremely irritated. I mean, it’s an imposition of the worst order. Imagine eleven thousand uninvited guests. The cost of food would have been enormous so he was clearly a very hospitable man, that pope. Anyway, they left eventually. Ursula had to go home and get married. But the journey home did not go as well as the way there. Not by a long shot. They bumped into Attila the Hun and presumably a number of Huns, and they were killed—all of them. No one quite knows why. Maybe Attila was having a bad day or perhaps they had taunted him, who knows? The point is, little Andreas, that in this context your deed doesn’t really hold muster. You only killed six, and five of those on the same day that the maidens died only some seventeen hundred years earlier.”

He could see the Storebælts bridge ahead of him and decided to wait with the conclusion. His audience said nothing anyway so he would most likely get no complaints. When they were nearing Slagelse, he went on.

“My story from the past … oh, that’s right. I didn’t quite finish. Almost, but not quite. That is, all those maidens. Do you know where they were killed?”