by Lotte Hammer
“Since you are the ones who called for this discussion, I think it would be appropriate if you could tell us what we can assist you with.”
Helmer responded with unexpected vehemence, “You can skip the pleasantries. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?”
Forgetting that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut, Troulsen fell in behind him: “This is a clear-cut case of withholding evidence, and you—”
Helmer Hammer stopped him with a hand movement, which he immediately obeyed, much to his own surprise. His sentence was left hanging in the air. But their host picked it up. He glanced invitingly at his accompanying employee.
“Perhaps we should discuss this matter of evidence first. Would you?”
His legal council wanted nothing more. For the next ten minutes she used lengthy legal phrases that no one listened to. She wrapped it up triumphantly: “And anyway we sent the video sequences with an accompanying letter to the Store Kongensgade police station on Saturday night. The material was delivered around two o’clock. In the letter it is made clear that the videos may have some bearing on the police investigation of the pedophile murders, which, for your information, we are not obligated to inform you of.”
“Do you have a copy of this letter?”
Faster than anyone could say “pro forma,” she found two copies in her file and handed them to her guests. Poul Troulsen and Helmer Hammer thanked her. The publisher smugly poured himself a cup of coffee and gallantly offered the coffeepot to his lawyer, who declined with a shake of her head. The guests read the letter. It was long, ornate, and unnecessarily complicated. What it should have explained in eight lines was stretched out over three and a half pages and only on the middle of page 2 did the reader have a reasonable chance of gaining an impression of what the letter was really all about.
Helmer Hammer finished first, and said, “Yes, with this you could have been sure it got put at the bottom of the pile. You haven’t even printed it on your own letterhead.”
The lawyer was halfheartedly apologetic: “That was an oversight. It was late. But as I see it, we have followed the law to the letter.”
“Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t.” Helmer Hammer answered her, but he was looking at the publisher. “To this point six people have been killed and we have no guarantee that this won’t continue. If it turns out later that this… shall we call it a delay?—can reasonably be claimed to have cost a person his life, then I promise you that your actions will be tried in a court of law and that it will be a very long and drawn-out affair.”
The publisher did not look like the kind of man who wanted a very long and drawn-out affair on his hands. He flinched uncomfortably. In direct contrast to his lawyer, who aired her chemically whitened teeth in a wide, expectant smile.
The next step belonged to Helmer Hammer. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Poul Troulsen saw that it was a handwritten note and not particularly long but could not read the contents.
The publisher read it, grew pale, and was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What do you want?”
Helmer Hammer took his paper back and said quietly but directly, “A recorded transcript of the conversations Anni Staal has with the readers at twelve o’clock as well as access to the contact information for those people who have relevant information about the victims. In addition I would like Anni Staal’s full and active cooperation with Poul Troulsen over the next few hours.”
The publisher’s face took on an unhealthy hue and his voice went up an octave as he replied, “That’s completely out of the question. We do not give out the names of our …” He stopped when Helmer Hammer took out his cell phone and started dialing. He turned helplessly to his legal counsel and said, “Thank you very much. You’ve been a lot of help.”
It took a moment before the woman realized that she was being asked to leave. When the penny finally dropped, she quickly stood, gathered her papers, and left the room with a sullen air and without saying goodbye. The men waited until she was gone.
As soon as the door banged shut, Helmer Hammer also got to his feet.
“I think I’ll be going as well and I’ll let you take care of implementing these arrangements. I’m certain that you will find a reasonable solution. Poul, can you call me in half an hour when you’ve come to an agreement?”
His sharp arrogance had effect. The publisher was absolutely not accustomed to being treated like one who implemented arrangements. In the absence of viable alternatives, however, he had no choice but to submit.
Chapter 42
Konrad Simonsen’s contribution to the events of Sunday morning were exactly zero. He slept. Given the pace of his work the preceding week, no one could have held this against him, especially when one took his age into account. Which is exactly what his daughter, Anna Mia, did when she stole into his bedroom and turned off his alarm clock, which was set to six. The moon was shining outside the window and its reflected light fell on his face. She sat for a long time on the edge of his bed and looked at him. His breathing was alarming, heavy and panting. Occasionally he gasped for air. The sounds pained her and she promised herself she would take his diabetes treatment in hand. And his smoking. After a while he fell into a more peaceful sleep. She stroked him gently on the cheek and smoothed his pillow before she left.
It was past ten o’clock when the groggy and confused chief inspector walked into his living room, where his daughter and former boss were patiently waiting with breakfast.
The old man and the young woman had divvied up the roles between them beforehand and Anna Mia began, before her father had really even opened his eyes.
“A lot has happened this morning but we have banded against you and let you sleep. That is to say, Kasper and that Hammer.”
She handed him a cup of coffee and lit his cigarette. The latter had never happened before. Simonsen inhaled greedily while Kasper Planck carried on.
“The victims are now all identified with a one-hundred-percent degree of confidence. There has even been a press conference, but first read here.”
Anna Mia laid the Dagbladet in front of him. She had been sitting on it. Simonsen stared, openmouthed. They gave him some time to read, knowing what his first question would be, knowing he was not yet fully awake.
“Why didn’t I know anything about this?”
Kasper Planck explained without mincing his words, “You have been in temporary quarantine. Considered likely to make a fool of yourself; in short—you’ve been passed over, put in the corner.”
“That’s starting to become clear to me. What else?”
“Helmer Hammer called me this morning, or rather, it was still nighttime, and we agreed that it would be best for all parties concerned if you could concentrate on rest. You are going to have a long day. Then I called Anna Mia and was lucky enough to find her here. You went to the movies last night, I understand. I hope it was a good one.”
Anna Mia was the one who answered.
“Yes, it was. I cried, and Dad slept.”
Simonsen grunted and stood up.
“I want to see these videos.”
“Shouldn’t you eat something first, Dad? We’ve bought some poppy-seed buns for you.”
But he refused.
When he returned to the table he did not comment on what he had seen, but the gravity of the contents was plain to read on his face. They ate, while Kasper Planck reiterated the events of the morning in greater detail. Simonsen listened without interrupting, and both his guests noted with relief that he smiled when he learned that Anna Mia had interfered with his alarm clock. They had not expected this reaction. When they heard him whistling in his bath a little while later they declared success and drank a toast with coffee. Anna Mia cleared the table. Kasper Planck sat down at the computer and played the videos one more time. He wasn’t much use at cleaning up.
Anna Mia said goodbye when Simonsen returned fully clothed. Both men got a kiss and Kasper Planck insisted on giving her a coupon f
or a taxi from a booklet he had picked up at the accounting department at police headquarters because in his opinion the usual patrol cars did not live up to the standards of old.
When the two men were alone, they sat back down at the table.
“You’ve taken this very well, Simon.”
Simonsen did not reply at once. He looked out the window, upward, as far as the eye could see. A dark gray mass from the west was gobbling up the blue sky on top of him. It would rain soon. He thought that for the first time in a long while he was looking forward to the workday. Sleep was a good thing. Then he focused on his uninvited guest.
“I like Helmer Hammer,” he said, “but you two have not exactly given me many chances. As far as I can figure out, you also have several hours’ head start on me.”
“Yes, I guess so. But enough of that. What do you think of the videos?”
“I have many thoughts but the first is that they should never have been published. They are in every way shape and form disgusting.”
“That’s an adjective I’ve encountered a couple of times now. As well as related terms such as detestable, perverse, abominable, nauseating, repulsive, to name just a few.”
“Encountered where?”
“In comments from readers. There are hundreds already.”
“Most people don’t care for murder. That shouldn’t surprise you. What’s your point?”
“That the outrage is not directed at the murders but almost exclusively at Thor Gran for his… selection of the third child. Even your daughter had that reaction.”
Simonsen nodded doubtfully and felt helpless. As the leader of the investigation he could hardly be responsible for the reaction of the public, and what could he put up against a collective distortion of perspective other than hope that it would correct itself? Or else just get to work. He said simply, “Well, that’s horrible to hear.”
Kasper Planck dropped the subject and said optimistically, “Well, now we finally have something concrete to work with, so let’s get go down to the HS. My honest opinion is that you’ve run a superb investigation so far, even if the coming days are the ones where you will have to show what you really go for.”
“I’m not planning to show anything of the kind, and now that I’ve been kept in the dark all morning, another half an hour will hardly make a difference. You can spend this next bit of time by telling me what you get out of drinking beer at the immigrant kiosk on Bagsværd’s main street. One can hardly claim that you have been particularly communicative, and the few times I’ve had time to call you’ve sounded halfway drunk. But you probably didn’t want to spend so many hours out there unless there was something to be had, I assume. I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time and now is probably as good a time as any.”
Planck nodded respectfully.
“You are getting better and better, but I haven’t brought my notes with me and my memory is not what it once was.”
“And you get worse and worse. You can save that nonsense for the kids. Just start talking. I’m not expecting you to solve this crime on your own.”
The old man screwed his eyes shut and smiled slyly. Then he began making strange sounds. Some time went by before Simonsen realized that he was humming. It was not an enjoyable experience.
“Stop it, that’s horrible. What’s wrong?”
“ ‘Lady in Red,’ by Chris de Burgh. I thought you knew something about music?”
“I also have ears and they obey their maker. Can’t you express yourself like a normal human being? Tell me about the woman in red if she is relevant but at least use words, please.”
Planck started to talk in a monotone.
“The kiosk is on the Bagsværd main street, and the owner is called Farshad Bakhtîshû. I just call him Farshad. He is at least sixty years old and born in Shiraz, in Iran. He has a doctorate in astrophysics and taught at Teheran University until he fled Ayatollah Khomeini’s regime in 1984. Denmark apparently had no use for his education, which he realized after a couple of years. In 1988 he married woman who was also a refugee from Iran. Farshad is a friendly and intelligent man who for the past twenty years has mainly used his intellectual gifts to find ways of cutting corners with the tax authorities so that the citizens of Gladsaxe can keep buying their discounted soda water and so his family gets by. He has three sons and a daughter, and he is also the closest thing to a friend of Per Clausen that we have been able to find.”
He paused for a moment to reflect. Simonsen waited without saying anything.
“They became friends, the janitor and the kiosk owner. Among other things they share an interest in mathematics. Per Clausen visits the shop once or twice a week, where he ends up sitting in the back room talking with his friend. Especially in the evenings, when there are almost no customers around but the shop stays open until midnight. Clausen is usually drunk, but mostly sober as of the past year, and Farshad doesn’t drink. Their friendship stretches back some seven years. Many of their conversations are of no interest to us, but not all. For example, the two men discuss revenge a couple of times, revenge for the daughter’s suicide and the man who abused her. This is mainly Per Clausen’s preoccupation, but Farshad has also been hit hard. Two sisters and a brother have fallen into the claws of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard—terrible fates—I’ll skip over the depressing details. The two friends weep together, light candles on the birthdays of their dearly departed, the anniversaries of their death, sometimes locking up the shop.”
Simonsen was about to interrupt. The narrative had become more than a little disjointed, but suddenly Planck changed direction of his own accord.
“But last spring the conversations about Helene Clausen and Farshad’s family come to an end. Per Clausen avoids talking about them and changes the topic if they come up. Farshad doesn’t understand why but he is a sensitive person—a very fine person all around—and respects these new signals from his friend. At the same time there is a striking physical transformation in Per Clausen. He cuts back significantly on his drinking. For a while he is almost always sober, then he starts drinking again, but much less severely than before. The transformation is quite abrupt and according to Farshad it stems from an event in February or March of last year.”
“The woman in red?”
“Good guess, Simon. She had to come in somewhere. And she does. Literally. Into the shop around ten o’clock one evening, where Per Clausen is lying indisposed in the back room. Farshad remembers him as unusually intoxicated. Incoherent, even. When this happens, he is allowed to sleep on a cot until Farshad can coax him out at closing time. The woman is in her thirties, wealthy and good-looking according to Farshad, and also polite, focused, and friendly. She wakes up Per Clausen and takes him with her in her car without a single protest. The car is a silver-gray Porsche and she is dressed in an eye-catching crimson suit. She gives him a note with her name, address, and phone number and tells him that he can call her if the janitor is ever in a similar condition. Unfortunately the note has been lost. Per Clausen never mentions her but he is picked up by her one more time, also in the Porsche. This time he is not drunk and it seems as if he has made previous arrangements. In addition, Farroukh Bakhtîshû, one of Farshad’s sons, has seen Per Clausen driving with her on another occasion but the time unfortunately was not determined.”
Planck drew out his final sentence, as if wondering if he had covered everything. Apparently he had.
“That’s all of it, in broad strokes anyhow. I wish I could assure you that it is important but I can’t. Farshad is a cooperative type of person who is happy to help the police but only with facts. He is not interested in jumping into speculation about his late friend’s suspected involvement in the murders.”
Simonsen reflected on this. Then he said, “She sounds interesting. We want to talk to her. Keep going with Farshad if you think there is more to be had there. Get someone to find out how many silver-colored Porsches there are in the city and if it’s possible to trace her that way. Put a
couple of men on the neighbors and the school people and ask about the car and the woman.”
“I’ve already done that last part, without results. But I wouldn’t say no to another round with Farshad even though I don’t expect to turn up anything more. We can drive in to the HS together so I’ll get an overview first of how far we have come. Then I’ll head to Bagsværd.”
“That’s exactly what we can do,” Simonsen said and got to his feet, feeling energetic and rested.
Chapter 43
The Countess had borrowed an office at the police station in Odense Midtby.
Someone banged on the door and was told to enter. An unusually large man in his early thirties was led into the room and placed in front of her. One of his eyelids drooped, which gave him an unsettling, almost pleading look, a comic touch. The officer left the room and she let the man sweat in silence for a while before she began the interrogation.
“My name is Nathalie von Rosen and I’ve been sent here by the Crime Division in Copenhagen. And you are in some deep shit. That goes for your brother too.”
The man’s upper lip trembled and his reply came haltingly: “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m pretty sure I want a lawyer.”
“Well, I can understand that, and you’ll certainly have use for one. I’ve come straight from the hospital, where I listened to your victim talk, or whatever it is one should call what he did in order to make himself understood. You know, it’s hard to talk properly with a broken jaw.”
“That was an accident.”
“Yes, you could say that. And a serious one at that. A broken wrist, two broken ribs, a broken nose, the broken jaw I already mentioned, blows and kicks all over his body, and I’m sure I’m not remembering half of it. Then there is the other accident that transformed his apartment into a dump.”
The giant was fighting back tears, the lawyer forgotten.
“We didn’t know that it wasn’t his video.”
“And if it had been, it would have been perfectly all right to beat him to a pulp?”
