by Lotte Hammer
“Do you know this guy?”
The boy glanced at the picture. “That’s one of the guys who got murdered, isn’t it? I saw it in the paper. Is it true what they say?”
“Yes, it’s true. Do you know him?”
“A couple of years ago. I’m too old now. He preferred the younger ones. Try talking to Jørgen or Kasper. Maybe Snot-Sophie.”
“Perverse? Violent?”
“No, not at all. Straightforward. In and out, done.”
The officers nodded to each other. That was enough. The older one looked sadly at the boy. His son was the same age. He played video games, was a goalie in soccer, and blushed if you asked him about girls.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”
“No, you lot have seen to that.”
“What if I drive you home to your mother? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. If only for a few days.”
The boy considered this proposal, unused to kindness offered without a hook. “No, thanks, but it was nice of you to ask.” He did not explain himself.
The two officers got up to leave, and on their way out one of them bought two cheeseburgers and a glass of juice.
Ten minutes later, Simonsen placed a red checkmark against Peder Jacobsen.
Palle Huldgård—Mr. Northeast—also liked boys. A female officer was responsible for that particular breakthrough. The man that she consulted was a psychologist in private practice. But he was free on Sundays, like most people. Looking him up was her idea and it had seemed like a good one—if a little unconventional—at the time. Now she was no longer sure. The psychologist was suspicious and curt, as if he had already guessed what she was after.
She laid her cards on the table: “I’m part of the team investigating Palle Huldgård. He was killed ten days ago at the Langebæk School in Bagsværd and we know that both of his daughters consulted you. Their names are Pia and Eva Huldgård.”
She looked him in the eyes without seeing much reaction, only a slowly kindling anger. She laid aside her friendly tone and grew sharp. “There are twenty of us turning Palle Huldgård’s life upside down. We are supposed to find out if he was a child molester and we have several witnesses who have told us that he molested his daughters when they were little. Severe incest over a period of many years. They also told us about you.”
“Severe incest—you could call it that. I’ve never heard of the other kind. Go on.”
“There isn’t anything else to say. You’ve already guessed what I want. Either you confirm the molestation to the extent that you are able or else we go after the daughters.”
She did not mention that they both seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth, which was the real reason for her visit. She was making a virtue out of necessity.
“Clearly that’s something both they and I would rather avoid, at least as far as I can tell. I can imagine how unpleasant such a conversation would be.”
“I doubt that. There are only a few people who can, thank God.”
She tried to entice him: “It will stay between you and me. Your name will not appear anywhere.”
He thought for a long time as she waited. “If I don’t break my ethical rules,” he said, “it will be at Pia and Eva’s expense. Is that how it is?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Then you have your confirmation. Please leave.”
And she did. But she was happy to come away with a result.
In Copenhagen, Palle Huldgård got his checkmark.
At the end of the afternoon, a clear picture was emerging. Troulsen summed it up to Simonsen: “I have had several double confirmations, sometimes triple confirmations, that is to say, independent sources. It’s bubbling up like gas in a slurry tank. Want to hear more?”
“Definitely not. What about Thor Gran?”
Thor Gran was Mr. Northwest and he was the last one without a checkmark.
“Apart from the infamous clip in the minivan, he appears to fall outside of the regular pattern. In his home he had a good number of photographs, where a suspicious number depict naked children, but in an artistic way without sexual situations, which makes the material aesthetic rather than pornography from a legal as well as an ethical standpoint.”
“Yes, of course. We can’t use that for anything. Isn’t there anything else?”
“Five or six times a year he took a short vacation. The trips lasted about a week and took him to the kind of places where children could very well have been the main attraction. So perhaps he kept his preferences in check at home and let loose when he was abroad. But that is just a thought. The fact is that his life has been gone over with a fine-toothed comb but we have found nothing.”
Pauline Berg and the Countess were having a bite to eat in Middelford when the call from Simonsen came in. The Countess left the restaurant during the conversation. Berg stayed behind with her meal but she didn’t like it and preferred to risk getting a little hungry later rather than force it down. The Countess quickly returned. She placed a ticket in front of her colleague before she sat down again.
“You are going to a handball game, sweetheart, and unfortunately I am going to Århus. There are problems with one of the victims. That is, establishing if he was a child molester or not. I don’t know if I can make a difference but Simon is obsessed with getting this cleared up today.”
“You mean I’m going to have to take over your contact? Can’t you put it off?”
“Why should we? You can handle him, I have no doubt about that. And when I have time I’ll tell you how this meeting came about. It was a little bit special.”
“All right, I’ll do it, but can’t we finish our conversation about the videos?”
The Countess stared into the air for a few seconds and said slowly, “The answer to your question is that it is definitely relevant for you to see one of the videos. It’s been a couple of years since I saw anything like that—and I’m glad I did. It puts things into perspective. We can drive by the house and take a video and a portable player to the hotel, but I’m warning you, it’s not particularly nice. In fact, it’s worse than one would think.”
Berg nodded gravely. Then she jumped to another subject: “What about handball? Do I really have to see the game? Can’t I just use the ticket to go upstairs to the café? I’m not that interested in sports.”
The Countess smiled. “If you can watch child pornography to develop your professional capacities you can also stand to go to a handball game.”
And so it was.
Three hours later, the Countess wished fervently that their roles were reversed. While Pauline Berg was watching a game of handball that by all rights was hers, she was sitting in Århus with a colleague from the local police force, groaning inwardly in irritation over a political fossil of a witness who had to be well into her nineties and who, according to her home nurse, could tell some mean stories about Thor Gran in his younger days. And perhaps she could, too—the old bat’s mind was certainly sharp enough—she just didn’t.
The woman was a communist and had been so for more than seventy-five years. “Stalin-Sally” or “Russian-Sally,” as she was called back in the day, were nicknames she wore proudly. She was even more proud of the fact that she had once heard Beria speak. Her voice was thin but clear: “Lavrentiy Beria himself. It was in Tbilisi in 1937 at a special party conference. I sat in the second row and listened to this famous man speak, how he revealed a whole serpent’s nest of traitorous activities spread over the entire Transcaucasus and even in the Central Committee for Armenia. He could definitely get people to listen, that handsome Migrel. Everyone was cheering in the streets and demanding justice against the fascist criminals and Trotsky dissenters, so they made short work of it—if you understand.”
She drew a wrinkled hand across her throat.
The Countess shook her head a little and asked for at least the fifth time, “But what about Thor Gran? You promised to tell us about Thor Gran. That is why we’re here.”
; “I’m getting to him but these things hang together. Rest assured, I have a couple of juicy things to say about him, a few things I believe you can make use of.”
Then she continued in the same irrelevant vein. A little later, when she was done praising Beria, she went on to Kollontai. The remarkable Alexandra Kollontai herself, whom she had met in Stockholm during the war. Later yet, it was Richard Jensen. The boiler man himself who had denounced the party president as a renegade, long before he displayed any signs of it.
After an hour of idle chatter and a review of the highlights of communism, the male detective tossed in the towel. He left with a muttered comment that he had been at the health insurance office with Vivi Bak, the famous Vivi Bak herself. Also he had once defecated in the same restroom as Prince Joachim, the very same restroom. He showed himself out.
The Countess stayed. She intended to trick the old woman, who was plainly a snob in her own red way. As it happened, the Countess had some ammunition up her sleeve. Especially if she—in good communist tradition—altered the truth a little. She interrupted loudly, “My grandfather knew Dimitrov.”
The woman stopped her monologue and squinted suspiciously at her. “Dimitrov himself? The leader of the Comintern?”
“The one and the same. The Georgi Mikhaylov Dimitrov.”
The Countess had heard the name ad nauseum. The apartment below hers was inhabited by refugees from Bulgaria, an older married couple who gave little girls sweets and lemonade and told stories from the other side of the world in a funny, broken kind of Danish. They had cursed Georgi Mikhaylov Dimitrov so often that his name stayed with her even forty years later. The old woman’s interest was kindled.
“Well, then, out with it,” she said.
“Not so fast. Something for something. You have to talk first. About Thor Gran, and only about Thor Gran, if you actually ever knew him. When you’re done, I’ll tell you all about the committee chairman.”
The woman seemed to be turning this over in her mind, with evident mistrust.
“The Comintern’s chairman. He was chairman of the Comintern.”
“Yes, of course he was. Everyone knows that.”
Finally, the woman started to tell her story.
“Well, I was a skilled needlewoman and in the early sixties I worked for Thor Gran’s father, the shoe manufacturer and financial speculator. There I was a head seamstress and there must have been over a hundred employees, so that was something. His home was next to the factory and we watched his son grow up. A bad and arrogant child who had trouble keeping his fingers to himself when the time came. But that was neither here nor there. We knew how to deal with a puppy like him. It was worse for the gardener’s little girls. That’s the kind of thing you want to hear about, isn’t it?”
The Countess confirmed this. She wasn’t sure if the woman was making this up or wanted to assure herself that her story was living up to the expectations.
“It went on for a period of time until one day he was literally caught with his pants down, and then all hell broke loose. The gardener, who was very attached to his children, threatened to go to the police but the old man talked him out of it and they came to a financial arrangement. What was done was done and the girls were better off with a little sum of money, even if the perverted young man should have been put behind bars. I handled negotiations on behalf of the gardener. Do you follow?”
“Completely. Please go on.”
“Well, the factory owner was an ugly capitalist of course, but he was also an honest enough person and he dug deep in his pockets. Eighty thousand kroner to each child and another twenty thousand for a new family home in Bornholm. It was a lot of money in those days but neither of the girls ever fully recovered from the events so I really don’t know how much it helped. After a solid dose of fatherly caning the son was sent to boarding school in England. This punishment was part of the agreement but it was also the easiest path to take.”
The Countess was far from impressed. In part because the incident lay over forty years in the past, in part because the trustworthiness of the old woman lay in a village in Russia, or rather the Soviet Union, and it would not be easy to have the story confirmed from other sources. At the same time, she perceived that the old woman was holding something back. She took a chance.
“But you spread this story in the Party. And when Thor Gran came back from England …” She let the sentence hang in the air.
The woman answered willingly, “Yes, he did some favors for us occasionally. That’s true.”
“And when the Party dissolved he continued to do favors for you?”
The old woman sputtered, “The Party lives. The Party will always live. And anyway, he had enough money, he owned an entire studio.”
“How much?”
A little time went by before she answered, “It varied. Sometimes a few hundred or so when he was here.”
The Countess concealed her astonishment.
“He came and visited you?”
The woman pointed to a vase that stood on a teak bookcase behind them. “Take that down.”
The Countess fetched the vase. It was cheap, with a Grecian motif of three dancing women. She shook it and heard a metallic clanging noise.
“And what are your three graces guarding?”
The old woman snorted. “Graces! Do you think I care about graces? Turn it upside down.”
The Countess obeyed this command and something fell out. “What now?” she asked.
“Under the bed. The large wooden chest with the latches. I can’t get it out myself.”
The Countess followed these instructions and eagerly opened the box. At the very top was an amateurly constructed brochure advertising a three-week vacation to Chiang Mai, Thailand. Two of the pages featured pictures of Asian children.
They had numbers.
The Countess’s gaze lingered on the boy in the upper row on the right. He was hard to resist, although there was nothing really special about him compared to the others. A normal, smiling boy with white teeth and all-too-childish features.
The old lady turned her back to it and said, “I’m not the one who is responsible if he kept up his disgusting habits. Tell me about Dimitrov. How did your grandfather know him?”
“I can start by telling you about the treatment of prisoners in a Bulgarian prison in 1946. I’ve heard something about that, and later we’ll talk more about this, but first I have to call someone.”
Her hostess snarled, the Countess made her call, and Simonsen got his final checkmark.
Chapter 46
Pauline Berg was watching her first handball game ever. She had arrived in good time and had watched with some curiosity as the room gradually filled with excited hometown fans. Sports talk filled the air around her but even the videos of the day were discussed and snippets of disgust and anger swirled in the mix: “That kind has no pity; they got what they deserved; finally a solution for them; great to see the animals strung up; they should crush their balls next.”
She felt out of place. She didn’t belong in this aggressive audience. It was very different from the world of ballet and dance. The clothing alone was frightening. In the row immediately behind her were three women who had war paint on their faces and in their garish team shirts and scarves they looked more like goddesses of revenge than sports fans. The man to her left had a good-size belly and whitewashed overalls. From time to time he slapped his rolled-up program against his thigh in an ominous way, alternating from one to the other, apparently only for the sake of the sound. The seat on her right was empty for a long time but someone arrived at the last minute—a thin reed of a man who wound in and out among people and made his way down the row in a long, elegant slide that ended at her side. He greeted her with an insipid smile and a slight lisp. She nodded curtly and gave a cursory smile in return.
The umpire started the game and she tried to follow along. It was hard because the events transpired quickly and with a practiced ease. Then the audience ex
ploded as one and gave a synchronized roar. Alarmed, she shrank down in her seat while the man to her left took the commotion as an opportunity to place a hand on her shoulder, and the commentator’s voice came booming through the loudspeaker with a recitation of names. Her gaunt neighbor did not take part and she thought that perhaps he was preoccupied.
But bit by bit she became caught up in the atmosphere, picked up the basics of the game, not least from the insightful utterances of the supporters who interpreted the events on the court with expert ease, and soon she was enjoying the passionate outbursts and eye-catchingly synchronized movements of the crowd. Like the leaves on a tree, which elegantly fall in line with the wind. She carefully clapped along and rose out of her seat at a goal, howling at appropriate moments.
People restored themselves in the breaks, rested their voices and built up their resources. Popcorn, chocolate, apples, and bananas were sold, while outdated music filled the air. She smiled at her neighbor to the left and he slapped his rolled up program in friendly reply.
She was ready when the whistle blew for the second half. The whole hall was seething and bubbling, and she was as loud as anyone. A preliminary climax arrived when the home team finally drew even and the crowd exploded in roars of triumph and popcorn. She cheered and jumped. An apple came sailing toward her in a gentle arc, lost, not thrown. Her neighbor on the right caught it with an impressively quick reaction. He licked his lips and took possession of his catch. But his selfish action and his total lack of engagement provoked her, so she prodded him roughly and shouted, “Today we’re going to win!”
A sigh rippling through the crowd must have drowned out her words because he misunderstood her comment and helpfully extended the piece of fruit. She grabbed his gift and tossed it indifferently into her bag to rid herself of his kindness.
The teams were neck and neck, creating excruciating tension as the clock ticked, and for a while it looked as if they were headed for a tie, but then came the decisive play. Five players in a counteroffensive before the ball finally landed in the opponent’s net. The goal caused a spring to go off in her body and she flew up into the air, screaming in delight. Then she threw herself deliriously into the arms of her other neighbor, patted his round cheeks, and received his joyful drool on her neck. Then she jumped up onto the chair and leaned back with her arms outstretched in victory, confident that someone would catch her.
