by Lotte Hammer
“What is this? Can you answer me, you disgusting pervert?”
The unfortunate man answered as best he could but was not particularly convincing. In part because he had the handicap of the merciless grip on his neck.
“It’s not my video. I borrowed it from one of my friends who’s a cop. And I’ve never seen it before. Fuck, you know me.”
His last remark was regrettable. Neither of the two men wished to be reminded of their acquaintance.
“A cop. Since when did the police start lending out child pornography?”
The distrust was massive and impossible to overcome.
“You like little kids? Then we have something in common. I do too, just not in your way.”
A shockingly hard and brutal blow struck the man in the region of his kidneys and he screamed in pain. A kick that was aimed at his groin missed its mark and hit his thigh. The next one was more precise. The neighbor who lived one floor below called the police.
Chapter 36
The meeting in Lokale Viggo at the Dagbladet was postponed three times. The editor in chief was a busy man and Anni Staal had no choice other than to accept the delays with irritation and a hope that the new arrangement would hold. It got very late before it finally took place.
Along with Anni Staal in the meeting room were the editor in chief and the new senior legal counsel. An overhead projector displayed the contents of a computer on a large screen at one end of the table, and in the bottom right-hand corner it indicated a time of 10:41 P.M. A tray of sandwiches struggling not to dry out was placed before the three participants, but no one felt tempted. The editor in chief pried the cap off his beer with a little plop. He used his lighter. Anni nodded approvingly and he opened one more, then slid it over to her. Then the door opened and a man in his early sixties rushed in. He—the publisher and executive editor—tossed his coat onto a chair and sat down. He greeted each of them as he grabbed a beer. In contrast to his colleagues, he took a plastic cup and inspected it against the light before he ponderously poured himself a glass. Only when the glass was filled did he begin.
“Sorry for the delay but it wasn’t easy for me to get here. And, Anni, this had better be damn important. I can’t remember when I last attended a meeting without knowing the agenda and definitely not at this time of day.”
Anni Staal wasted no time.
“You can judge for yourself. This afternoon I received an anonymous e-mail from a sender by the name of Chelsea. I have no idea if this refers to the girl’s name, the city, or the soccer club. There was a video file attached to the e-mail. The whole video lasts about ten minutes and consists of smaller segments spliced together. You don’t have to be an expert to see that. On Monday I received another e-mail from the aforementioned Chelsea, also with an attached video file that I unfortunately at the time did not realize the significance of. We’ll see the video from Monday first, it won’t take long.”
No one else said anything and Anni started the video.
A face with a measuring gaze and a too-red mouth filled the screen. Anni Staal said, “This is taken inside a vehicle, probably a van, and I don’t think he knows he is being filmed.”
A monotone voice floated out of the speakers: “Well, what’s it going to be? Isn’t there something that tickles the gentleman’s fancy?”
The man’s expression remained unaffected for a few seconds, then turned serene. He licked his lips and answered eagerly, “I think I’ll take this one, this tasty little morsel, number three.”
The video stopped but the words hung in the air and only dissipated slowly.
The publisher’s plastic cup shattered. He had squeezed it beyond its breaking point. The beer spilled out over his arm and down one pant leg. He broke the tension for all of them by bursting out, “Jesus Christ—what the fuck?”
The lawyer sprang up with a bunch of napkins but was waved away. The outburst was not regarding the spilled beer and the executive editor didn’t bother trying to dry his clothes. He simply moved to another chair. No one had heard him swear before.
The managing editor asked Anni softly, “Do you know what he’s looking at?”
“No, but it isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“A menu of children,” the publisher snarled. He waved at the screen, where the man’s face was still frozen. “Get rid of him, Anni. I simply can’t stand it.”
“Then it’s time to see what happened to him.”
The projector displayed the man’s face again. This time the camera was handheld and the quality poor, out of focus from time to time. Occasionally a diffuse white object covered the screen. When the camera pointed down, which it did once, one saw that the man was naked and apparently had his hands tied behind his back. There were bloodstains on his cheek and down across one shoulder, and around his neck was a sturdy blue rope. He spoke haltingly but clearly and with great intensity.
“No child shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his or her privacy, family, or correspondence, nor to …”
Anni paused the video on his face and distributed three packets of papers. On the first page was the same picture as that on the projected screen.
“His name is Thor Gran and he lived in Århus. The picture that I gave you is from the police. I got it this afternoon and then my informant gave me his name. The photograph was taken after his death, and after some specialists repaired his facial features. Thor Gran is one of the five murdered men from the Langebæk School in Bagsværd, and the film that we see is a record of the execution. It also shows three additional executions. I have two more positive matches that you can verify in a moment.”
The managing editor’s reaction was inarticulate and almost sputtering. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or excited. “Are you completely out of your mind? For the love of God, this is… this is—”
The publisher interrupted sharply, “Be quiet and listen to what she has to say.”
Anni Staal went on. “What we have here is an exclusive. None of our colleagues from other media—I have made inquiries—have received anything like it. Not even the police.”
She resumed the video and the man on the screen continued his speech.
“… Nor to unlawful attacks on his or her honor and reputation …” The camera angle changed abruptly. It was clearly a cut. “The child has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.”
The publisher asked Anni Staal, “What is he talking about?”
She paused the video again and explained, “He is reading excerpts from the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. I believe that the photographer is holding a piece of paper that he is reading from. From time to time it crosses in front of the camera but not here. By the way, this information has cost me twelve thousand kroner.”
The publisher did not hesitate for a second. “Granted, go on,” he said.
“A child has the right to be protected from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury or abuse, neglect or negligent treatment, maltreatment …” The man’s chin quivered as if he was cold, and tears streamed from his eyes. There was another cut. “… Or exploitation, including sexual abuse, while in the care of parents, legal guardians or any other person who has the care of the child.”
An audible click followed, then the face disappeared from the frame and was replaced by the blue rope. The camera panned down. Thor Gran looked surprised as he swung back and forth, the image coming into focus only every other second. Anni Staal paused the video once more and set the counter to zero.
“There are three more that you are going to see.”
Chapter 37
The pub was three-quarters full, the air dense and thick. People were drinking beer but no one was boisterously drunk. Cigarette smoke swirled like playful blue snakes under the low ceiling, where it was caught in the spotlight that illuminated the woman on the stage. She was singing and playing guitar. Her voice was deep and raw with a rousing quality all its
own, which easily reached the back of the room and the audience. Most of the patrons were listening and even the bartender behind his shiny bar was showing some interest. She was singing “The Crying Game,” from the film of the same name—a tragic number that suited her voice—and she interpreted the song with great feeling and a fitting amount of anguish.
Pauline Berg rubbed her eyes, which were irritated by the smoke. She sipped her beer and looked at the Countess, who sat beside her, absorbed in the song. This was the first time that they were working together on a major task and the Countess had revealed aspects of herself during the day that Pauline had not seen before. Her colleague could be a very dominating person when the situation called for it. As happened that afternoon when they arrived at the brothers’ residence on the outskirts of Middelford.
The house was a stately two-story affair with a full basement and an attic as well as a gazebo and a shed. Allan Ditlevsen had lived on the upper floor, his brother Frank below. Seven police officers were ransacking the place. On the Countess’s orders, she and Pauline started with a quick tour to get an initial impression, first upstairs and then downstairs. They ended in Frank Ditlevsen’s kitchen, where the leader of the operation was waiting for them. He was a taciturn man in his early fifties.
The Countess began, mainly addressing Pauline Berg, “Two well-kept homes and a high standard of quality with a pocketbook generous enough to accommodate all reasonable requests. Perhaps a bit more decorative than comfortable, but that is my taste.”
“Agree. Everything here is nice and expensive, nothing is old. That is, no heirlooms. You know, mahogany sideboards, china cabinets, Amager shelves, that type of thing.”
The Countess nodded appreciatively.
Pauline Berg enjoyed the nonverbal praise and tried to follow up her success with a preliminary question to the leader of the operation: “Frank Ditlevsen was a consultant and had a good income, but what about Allan Ditlevsen? How much does one make as a hot-dog vendor in Middelford?”
“Allerslev, not Middelford, six kilometers from Odense, and he also had a paper-delivery route there. Allan Ditlevsen made two hundred fifty thousand and Frank Ditlevsen half a million as reported on their income tax returns this past year. An expert in information management with courses and companies bringing in the money. The guys in Fredericia are preparing a report that you will be able to read when ready.”
The two women exchanged glances. The operations leader was clearly no master of the spoken language and the content of his message was also rather unremarkable. Nonetheless, he looked pleased.
The Countess took over.
“You have seven men under your command. That is not enough. Are there more on the way?”
“Eight. One is away picking up a child but he’ll be back once his wife gets home. But my people would really like to get home, for the weekend and such. Some of them are also saying that the case is… well, it’s just that they want to get home. You understand.”
“Frank Ditlevsen owned this house and his younger brother lived with him. They did not have shared finances, we’ve looked at the bills. His mail is in a packet on the kitchen table, probably gathered by the other. Copenhagen said that we should look for travel brochures or receipts or money transfers from the bank, and there’s nothing like any of that. And Frank Ditlevsen’s passport is gone. For now.”
He took a deep breath, then picked up and went on just as haphazardly.
“Allan Ditlevsen has been apprehended twice, once for the grave sexual abuse of a minor. We are looking into whether his older brother is also a pervert, that’s important. Illegal pictures and that sort of thing. Both brothers had lots and lots of videos, tapes and diskettes, so that’s been divvied up between my team members—the ones who had the time. But my list shows who got what and so I can cross it off and keep track of it. There are war films and action films according to the covers but no one knows what’s on the inside. That’s what we’re going to have a look at.”
The Countess stuck her cell phone in her inner pocket, and now the narrative became slightly more coherent.
“We’re also taking a look at the computer. Allan Ditlevsen doesn’t have one. We are very careful as one should be and a specialist will soon be arriving. But there’s nothing illegal on that computer as far as we can tell. Just letters and that kind of thing. No pictures. And I’ve interrogated Frank Ditlevsen’s ex-wife about his pedophilia but there’s nothing much to be had there because she doesn’t want to cooperate in any way and the daughter is gone.”
Then he was finished and the Countess thanked him coldly, whereafter she left and let Berg remain with the him in uncomfortable silence.
Twenty minutes later, eight men were either sitting or standing in Frank Ditlevsen’s living room, staring at the Countess’s backside. The atmosphere was tense and the two women from the capital would not have won many votes had it been a popularity contest. But that was not their job. Nonetheless, they reacted in very different ways to the negative vibrations. Berg smiled apologetically at every opportunity and wished herself far, far away. The Countess simply worked.
She was on her knees on the floor with a screwdriver, and at her side was Frank Ditlevsen’s dismantled computer. A mess of wires hung from the bookshelf. The computer had been connected to a video machine, and an external CD burner and a forty-two-inch wide-screen LCD television commanded attention from the middle of the room. With a couple of strong sidelong blows she loosened the computer chassis, wedged it open, then lit a miniature flashlight and methodically inspected the electronic bowels. Her cell phone rang and she handed it over her shoulder to the operations leader without a word. He took the call and left the room.
When he returned, she stood up and delivered her orders in a clear voice.
“A detective inspector from Århus will be here in an hour and he will take over command. No one should do anything else before he arrives. Twenty-five additional officers are also on their way from various locations in Glostrup and Århus. They will join us as soon as they’re able.”
A younger officer was lounging on a sofa with a mug of coffee and clearly had an attitude problem. He protested, “So, lady, we’re supposed to lie around staring at nothing for an hour?”
The Countess turned ferociously in his direction, but the soon-to-be-deposed leader was faster. Perhaps he would never be a great lecturer and perhaps his investigation methods were not world class, but he knew how to protect his people. He whispered something inaudible and the officer stood up and apologized, even as if he meant it. The Countess generously let the matter drop. She waved a couple of electronic gadgets in the air.
“The big one is a hard drive, the little one is called a reborn card. Is there anyone who found anything like these when they were searching?”
The men looked and shook their heads.
“Then you know what you’re looking for. Somewhere in this house there will be a hard drive. Find it when you get back to work.”
“Excuse me, but how can you know that?” It was the young man again, who this time was on his feet.
“Dust—or rather, the lack thereof. Frank Ditlevsen habitually changed out his hard drive. That is also the best and simplest way to maintain privacy on one’s computer.”
She looked around for additional questions but there were none.
“I’m leaving now but will be back this evening, so we’ll all see each other again. And I mean all of you.”
She swept out of the room. The men started to mumble to one another, clearly antagonized by her authoritarian manner. Berg smiled meekly and shuffled off in the Countess’s wake.
The two women used the next two hours to track down Frank Ditlevsen’s daughter, which eventually led them to the inn where they now sat. At this point it became clear to the Countess and Berg that truculent colleagues were the least of their problems. Officers who put in only superficial effort were one thing, an uncooperative community was something else entirely.
Many
people clapped when the singer finished. During the applause a man walked up onto the stage and handed her a note. She read it and excused herself into the mike, then jumped down with some agility while soft, nondescript music seeped out of concealed loudspeakers.
The Countess and Berg praised the singer when she sat down at their table. She thanked them in a reserved manner. The bartender brought her a glass of juice and she took a sip while the Countess began her line of questioning.
“You are Frank Ditlevsen’s daughter?”
“Yes, I am.” The voice that had seemed sensual in song now sounded raw. Harsh and spent.
“My name is Nathalie and this is Pauline. We’re from the police. Would you like to see our badges?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“And you know what’s happened?”
“My father and uncle are dead? Yes, I know that. The whole country does.”
“They were killed.”
“Yes, that’s what you say.” The woman tried to appear indifferent but her voice quavered.
Pauline jumped in: “Your mother said that you were on vacation. Why did she do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“She lied?”
“I’m not responsible for my mother. You’ll have to talk to her about that.”
Berg thought to herself that she had to agree. The problem was that it was difficult to extract a single word out of her mother and the few that came out were patently untrue. Like her claim that her daughter was in London, or Birmingham, or was it Liverpool? The mother hadn’t even bothered to hide her fabrication.
The Countess changed the subject. “Aren’t you sorry that your father is dead?” It was a question.
“I didn’t see him much.”
“Why not?”
“That’s just how it was.”
“How old were you when your parents split up?”
“Nine.”
“Nine years old. That must have been a shock.”
Tiny beads of sweat appeared on the woman’s upper lip and forehead. Onstage she was attractive, up close like this almost ugly, and her self-control was close to cracking. Even if the questions were not unreasonable, just hard.
