by Lotte Hammer
After the game she steered her course to the café. Adjusting to the world of work felt strange and she had to concentrate in order to chase the feelings of rapture from her body. She managed it completely only when she laid her eyes on the man who was sitting alone at the back of the room, easy to pick out. A nice-looking gentleman in his late forties, well groomed, elegantly dressed, and neatly trimmed. Berg did not shake his hand—that would have been unprofessional—but she gave him a quick nod in greeting before she sat down.
She began with a test, to see if he was lying: “Thanks for coming. Did Allan Ditelvsen sell illegal videos from his hot-dog stand?”
She had to wait for an answer. He stared at her throat and she struggled with a feeling of aversion.
“Don’t bother with your games. I’m only here because of your gestapo methods and I see that on top of everything else you’re a Christian. By this sign thou shalt conquer.” He pointed to her necklace, which had fallen out of her shirt during her victorious rapture and was now visible. A prettily melded X and P in gold that she had been given a couple of years ago by a Greek boyfriend. It was their initials. “And you can’t even acknowledge other people’s views on love.”
She quickly tucked her necklace inside her shirt. “Drop that bullshit; it makes me sick.”
“The cultured veneer is thin, I see.”
“Since you obviously want to know, then yes. You rape and violate children one day and call upon cultural values and the protection of the law the next. Sometimes I wish that society didn’t give a damn about protecting the freedom of expression and human rights.”
“That’s a good start to this conversation, then.”
The meeting had become completely derailed. Berg pulled herself together.
“Just answer my question and we’ll both get this over and done with.”
The man appeared to see reason. “Yes, Allan sold videos,” he said.
Nothing else followed, even when Berg continued to wait.
“Better get your mouth going. I’m not going to drag every word out of you. Either you talk or we’re done here.”
The man elaborated sourly, “Allan sold videos from his stand and he had a lot of clients, especially from Jylland. He was very cautious and only did business with those he knew and always in cash. He was expensive but the quality was very high. Customers were supposed to buy three times a year or they were excluded but a lot of them came once a month. He had been in business for a long time, trading in cassette tapes before this. Those weren’t so good. I think he changed suppliers about a year or two ago. The material came from Germany, I believe, and the brothers edited it into final form.”
“Frank Ditlevsen was in on this?”
“Yes, Allan never did anything without Frank, and he was scared shitless by him. Frank was the brain. Allan was too stupid to manage that kind of enterprise on his own.”
Berg took out a copy of the Dagbladet and placed it in front of him. She smiled briefly when she saw how he shrank back.
“How many of them did you know?”
“All of them.”
“They had the same inclination toward children as you?”
“Yes.”
“They were going on a trip?”
“Three weeks in Thailand. Frank arranged it. It was incredibly cheap, under ten thousand including luxury hotel accommodations, meals, and excursions.”
“How did they find takers?”
“I don’t know. Probably from the hot-dog counter, but the whole thing was hush-hush. That goes for everything that the brothers were involved in.”
“You weren’t invited?”
“I couldn’t get the time off.”
“What about Allan Ditlevsen? Couldn’t he get the time off either?”
“He came down sick, with gallstones, so Frank must have found a replacement. I don’t know who it was, but it must have been difficult.”
“Did Frank Ditlevsen arrange the whole trip on his own?”
“I don’t think so, but that’s just a guess.”
“So guess.”
“Well, Frank had one of his old boys bring him the films from Germany and I got the impression that he was also involved in the trip but I have never seen him. Frank kept him close and Allan was not allowed to say anything. I am one of the few people who even knew he existed.”
“Old boy, what do you mean?”
“One of the ones from where they used to live. In Sjælland, I don’t remember where.”
Berg was filled with happiness and pride. This information was giving her the most significant leads in the case so far. She kept questioning him but he did not have anything else to tell her.
“We’ll stop here. Just one more thing and then you can go. I’m just curious how it can be that none of you have stepped forward voluntarily to help us now that you know that six of… your own have been murdered. We’re trying to find the perpetrator, you know.”
The man smiled a joyless smile.
“To find our killer? You are deeply naïve.”
He stood up and hurried away.
Once she was back at the hotel, Berg took a long, hot bubble bath. The evening had been incredible, both the game and the interrogation, and she could hardly stand to wait until the Countess got back. Old boy, two small words that could mean a significant breakthrough in the case.
After the bath she sat on the bed naked and took her time with her lotion. Then she glanced at her laptop and decided that it was actually a good time to engage in ten minutes of unpleasant background information. She started the video completely unprepared and paid the price. It was extreme, and she stared in terror.
The boy was young, far too young, no one could be so evil. She screamed aloud in the room, wanted to stop, couldn’t, and stared straight into hell. She cried. First, a silent weeping that turned to wailing. She folded the screen down with her foot and held her hands over her face but the images kept playing in her head and she rocked back and forth like a mental case. Her necklace became tangled in her wet hair and she struggled to get it loose, in order to focus on something else. Neither attempt was successful. Then suddenly her thoughts returned to the man in the café and an insane rage took over. High-quality. That was what the swine had called this assault. High-quality. She dried her eyes, first with her bare arm, then with a tissue from her bag, where she also had the apple from the game. She ate it, complete with seeds and all, while her rage slowly transformed into a controlled, glowing hatred.
The telephone rang and the display showed it was the Countess. She stood up. The necklace was still tangled in her curls and she tore it loose and flung it on the floor. Tufts of hair followed.
The fruit forced sucrose to her brain and she started to think clearly again, very clearly. She confronted her problem directly. Last Friday the Countess had threatened her into agreement and she had obeyed, had allowed herself to be dominated. Perhaps because she envied her colleague her talents and, if the whole truth be told, her summer villa. Which was actually a tax haven, a way in which to get even richer, but that was another story. These thoughts crowded her mind and she stole a little time.
“Wait a second, my battery is about to run out. I’ll get a charger.”
Working relationships were like marriages—if the disagreements became too large, one had to separate and find another bed partner. The fact was that she accepted the murders, and the Countess did not. Victims of incest hated their parents; society persecuted pedophiles. That was natural, the way it should be. Here she had slaved away all Sunday and a mean God in heaven had rewarded her with the rape of a child. Her belief in the compassion of others was gone, extinguished by the lost eyes of a five-year-old child, and another, more primitive truth was banging on the door. The right of the common man, the will of the people, good old-fashioned revenge.
She was ready. First, she listened: the Countess would be back in an hour, things had dragged on—then came her answer, which was delivered without hesitation.
They hung up. She smiled grimly and felt suddenly bashful in her nakedness.
Chapter 47
The two men strolled into the field, which was heavy with autumn and unfit for walking. Mud clung to Stig Åge Thorsen’s rubber boots and Erik Mørk’s shoes were destroyed. He was also wet far up along his trouser legs. Mørk had only himself to blame. In spite of the light rain and dull sky, he had insisted on going out into nature. Thorsen, the country boy, had followed him and allowed him to determine the route without objection.
“How did it go in Greece? Did you have a good trip?”
Stig Åge Thorsen paused before saying, “I mostly want to forget it. There was a woman, but… well, it just didn’t work. Tell me how the campaign is going. I’d rather talk about that.”
Mørk nodded, happy not to hear any more about the woman.
“We are very busy. Support is streaming in from all corners of the country. By telephone, e-mail, fax, text messages, or even in person sometimes. So much has happened… but the best thing is that we have created a pedophile database. It has been built with the help of sentences and the population register as well as the client list the Climber picked up in Middelford. Per Clausen must have started this work a long time ago with a professional archivist behind the construction. ‘Recidivism-prone and Compulsive Sexual Deviants’ is the name of his report. It’s not exactly a bestseller but the result is excellent. In addition we’ve grown a superb network in record time. There isn’t much that happens in the world of media or at Christiansborg without me hearing about it five minutes later.
“And this evening I have a meeting with a television producer. He is a legend among documentary filmmakers but I have promised not to mention his name. Per Clausen has put him in touch with a girl and she would be absolutely fantastic. She is one of our own and they are training her for an interview.”
“That’s great, but what are the regular people thinking? That’s what I would like to know.”
“Well, the videos in the Dagbladet this morning have been a tactical hit and the most effective is without a doubt Thor Gran’s sexual self-disclosure.”
“… You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t remind me of it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. It certainly is a piece of pure gold and I tell you that I shouted aloud the first time I saw it. The expression with the little troll number three—it has etched itself into people’s heads, and peaceful sorts who don’t normally support violence are suddenly… what should I say?… more nuanced. One the one hand a murder is wrong of course, but… you know. It’s like with terrorists and torture.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’m not sure I give a damn. How many have registered on the site?”
“Almost eight thousand at this point and we are guaranteed to reach twelve thousand today. People’s generosity is surprisingly great. Many are prepared to do things that could cost them their jobs. Others want to give money. Among other things, I’ve had a meeting with a couple of nice gentlemen who represent three large American church organizations. Politically they are a good deal more to the right, but have great means. They want to support us financially, preferably anonymously, so we’ll have them pay for a string of fullpage ads in the papers later.”
“What about the ones who just register?”
“We’ll divide them into three categories. Most of them will be organized into local chapters and will join the activities there. Category two we will ask to help us. For example, we now have two lawyers who are preparing a comparison of sentences for pedophilia in Denmark and other countries. Their work will appear on the home page tomorrow and the report will be sent to all of our members. The problem is that soon we won’t be able to take on more people. And then we have the third and final category: the ones who have a… how should I put it?… a fiery temperament, and there are quite a few of them, but we will handle them discreetly. And internally. Not all of my co-workers know that I am registering them. Understand?”
Stig Åge Thorsen nodded, although it seemed complicated to him. He said searchingly, “So we are directing the war, if one can put it that way. Is that how it is?”
“We absolutely have an enormous base but to claim that we alone determine the image in the media would be a real exaggeration. There have also been backlashes. Not everything is rose-colored. Take a look at this.”
Erik Mørk took a badge out of his pocket. It was oblong with black lettering on a yellow background. It read, “5, 6… 7, 10, 20!”
“A couple of gymnasium students thought of it. That is, first five pedophiles have been killed, then six—and later on seven, ten, and twenty. But it’s too extreme and pushes too many segments away. They’re also writing the slogan as graffiti and people don’t like that. Unfortunately we haven’t quite managed to stop it. There’s someone printing T-shirts with… well, take a guess …”
“Per Clausen.”
“Exactly. Have you seen them?”
“Yes, after you published the article about my arrest on the Net, people make pilgrimages here. They bring all kinds of flammable material that they throw into the minivan pit, almost like a ritual. Often gasoline but other things too. Last night it was magnesium and it lit up like shooting stars. I went over there for a look this morning and there were a dozen people and one of them was wearing one of those Per Clausen tops. Without his windbreaker on, so you could really see it. The police have all kinds of problems with this fire. At first they just put up police tape around it but that was quickly torn down, so they put up one of those mobile fences and it took them all afternoon, but last night someone removed that too, so they may have to stand guard if they want to prevent sabotage.”
They had reached the end of the field where a stone wall and a thicket of stunted nut trees and sloan bushes stood between them and a meadow leading down to the water. Both bored their way through this obstacle. Below this the autumn forest spread out in all its colorful splendor in front of a lake, that lay still and rain gray.
Mørk stopped on top of the wall and took in the scene. “It must be quite a pleasure to live here.” He jumped down, enchanted, and took steps into the sank meadow.
The country man managed to stop him. It was impassable bogland. “Better than prison, of course. But you shouldn’t go that way unless you want to risk me getting the tractor to pull you out of the mud.”
Stig Åge Thorsen led them along an animal path that ran next to the stone wall. Mørk asked, “Well, how did your interrogation go? It’s your turn to tell.”
“I was under arrest for almost one day but not much happened the first few hours. From time to time they questioned me, always by someone different, but they did not manage to take me down.”
“And how would they? Starting a bonfire on your own property?”
“No, that must be the conclusion they came to as well. On the other hand… there was no doubt that they would have liked to keep me there. And I was there for almost the full twenty-four hours they were allowed before they had to involve a judge. At the very end there was a policeman by the name of Arne Pedersen from Copenhagen. He was very nice while at the same somehow more dangerous than the others. His biggest interest was in what I had done with the money. The money I claimed that I was given by the stranger.”
“What did you say to that?”
“That I had donated them to Sanlaap, and that part is actually true in a way. He didn’t drill deeper into the issue but as you know I’ve been called in for another round of talks in Copenhagen tomorrow.”
“Yes, and I will make sure there are reporters. It won’t be difficult but you should maintain your silence, although you should feel free to mention your interview with me on Thursday.”
“Go to WeHateThem.dk on Thursday evening if you want to know more.” Stig Åge Thorsen grinn
ed. Mørk did not. The advertisement was deadly serious.
“Yes, something like that. We’ll also spread the word of course. High and low. Anything else?”
“No, not really. Well, actually—I’ve received a letter from Helle, a real letter. She wrote that she isn’t doing very well. You know how she has trouble with thoughts of her uncle at night. So last night I drove to Hillerød and called her from a telephone booth. What should I say? She sounded almost intoxicated and extremely unhappy, but she wanted me to send you her greetings. And to the Climber of course, if I see him, though I hope I don’t.”
Mørk answered briskly, “And you won’t. He will very soon be on his way to Germany. Most likely in a couple of days and at most by next weekend.”
“Why hasn’t he left already? I’m not the least bit comfortable with him, not after this business with the hot-dog stand. It was part of our agreement that he was supposed to leave as soon as it was over.”
“And he will. Unfortunately, he thinks he is invincible because so many people are backing us, but I haven’t been pressing the issue either, I should add. He’s not a bad thing to have up one’s sleeve. In a way he is my ultimate trump card with the media, even more than you, if you can see what I mean.”
They walked for a while without speaking. The wind swept through the tops of the trees above their heads and drops showered down from the branches. Mørk slapped his arms across his chest to get warm, and Stig Åge Thorsen asked, “What now?”
“We’ll build you up the next couple of days and then we’ll do your online interview on Thursday. I’ll introduce it this afternoon and then we’ll call for a demonstration on Friday.”
