by Lotte Hammer
Simonsen began, “Aka Frank Ditlevsen’s secret friend? Aka the killer and tree feller from Allerslev? Aka Stig Åge Thorsen’s stranger? Aka the driver of the minivan and the executioner from Bagsværd?”
It was a question. The Countess remained firm in her belief and was quick to answer, “Yes.”
Pedersen again played devil’s advocate: “Maybe, but very much a maybe. This is much too uncertain to put this out there. We risk derailing the whole investigation. Guesses and speculations—that’s simply too thin.” Simonsen nodded thoughtfully while Pedersen continued. “Particularly with respect to Stig Åge Thorsen’s stranger, who we aren’t sure even exists. It could be one man, it could be five or ten women for that matter. That country bumpkin is not the most reliable witness, to put it mildly, and his motives are unclear in every way. He’ll probably turn out to be another media stunt. We don’t even know if the remains of the minivan are at the bottom of his pit.”
The Countess countered, “The technicians have established a match between the last film clip and the view seen from his land.”
Pedersen replied, “A preliminary match, and even if it were true it would not necessarily mean that the minivan ended up there.”
Simonsen jumped in: “Let us take this from the beginning—that is, Frank Ditlevsen’s secret friend. Pauline, give us a summary.”
Berg would have preferred that he had turned to the Countess. Her secret knowledge that Frank Ditlevsen’s secret friend was one of his so-called old boys stuck in her throat and today she would have a given a great deal for a do-over of yesterday. She sat straighter in her chair. The producer stared lustfully at her breasts and the production assistant tapped away at her keyboard.
“The only thing we have are the accounts of two neighbors, of which only one has any substance. The next-door neighbors have seen a man in his thirties visit the brothers on a few occasions over the past year. They say he has his own key. But the description is incomplete: light-haired, above average height, slender and well proportioned, always arriving on foot or by car with Frank Ditlevsen.”
Simonsen suddenly interrupted: “Give me a summary of the murder of Allan Ditlevsen and focus on the tree felling.”
His voice sounded unusually sharp and Berg looked at him in bewilderment. Neither of the two others said anything but she could tell from their expressions that they were as much at a loss as she was. She followed his order. Anything else would have been inconceivable when her boss was acting like this, but his shifts in mood were strange, almost bizarre. Luckily she knew the facts of the tree felling almost by heart.
“The perpetrator felled the tree in eight blows at around four to four fifty during the night between Wednesday and Thursday of last week, and the tree finally came down at five thirty-eight A.M.. Shortly before this, Allan Ditlevsen was killed by blunt trauma caused with a beech stick. The hot-dog stand was shattered by the tree. The perpetrator gathered up his things and disappeared into the front door of the building at Ved Torvet 18. Here he goes down into the basement and out through the back entrance to Garvergade. Traces of sawdust have been found all along this path but after this point we don’t know where he went. Our best find is a series of four footprints from the stairwell in number 18. As it happens, the building has no residents. It is ready to be demolished.”
The Countess finally got it. She stood up and left, while Berg continued her recap. She even managed an account of the forensic report without a manuscript. The Countess quickly returned with a disoriented Malte Borup in her wake.
Simonsen stopped Berg as abruptly as he had ordered her to start. Then he turned to the producer and said, “Your assistant is very hardworking. Tell me, what is she writing?”
The producer’s surprised, somewhat puffy face removed any suspicion of conspiracy for the moment.
“I’ve been wondering that too. Why are you writing this all down, Marie?”
The movement on the keyboard stopped and Marie instantly reached for the mouse. The Countess gripped her wrist a couple of centimeters away from it; Borup took over her keyboard.
Pedersen was the first to comment on the situation.
“Dammit.”
The meeting was adjourned and set for the following morning, at which time the producer promised to return with a new assistant. He was endowed with a truly professional spirit, and unless he was an excellent actor he had not prompted his assistant into these subversive activities. He had no idea whom she had been reporting to online. The feeling among the investigative team was depressed. It was not so much that the assistant had caused any real damage. It was of course unpleasant that their conversations were now circulating on the Internet but they could deal with that. What was so shattering was the firsthand demonstration that a part of the general public was simply working against the police. In case any of them had been harboring any doubts in this regard, they were finally set straight.
Simonsen tried to breathe some fire into his team: “The damage is negligible. The situation is constantly changing and if the media get a little more background information it isn’t the whole world. In any case we have to keep working and forget this.”
Unexpectedly, it was Malte Borup who spoke up.
“I don’t think it’s for the media, more likely to one of the many anticop pages that are constantly popping up on the Web. Some of the sites are pretty big.”
The others stared at him in astonishment. Pauline Berg asked for them all, “Anticop pages? What do you mean?”
“You mean you aren’t following this at all?” slipped out of him. He regretted it as soon as he’d said it, and apologized, slightly pink: “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you follow. With everything else that is …”
Simonsen came to his aid: “No, Malte, I’m afraid that we aren’t following at all but perhaps we should. Can’t you give us a quick synopsis?”
“All right. There are sites like Pillory.dk and SeksSyvSytten.com and then of course the one who put an ad in the paper about being… abused as a child. He is far and away the biggest. That one is WeHateThem.dk.”
He stopped. Oral reports were not his strong suit.
Berg helped him along: “What do they do, Malte? Can you tell me about that?”
“Well, you can join them as a supporter, and what they want is that it should be punishable to be… that is, to be… mean to children.”
He blushed and stopped. Berg had an urge to grab his hand. After a brief pause he started up again of his own accord.
“That is, really punishable, like in the USA, where you really can’t get away with it.”
Now it was the Countess’s turn.
“What else do they do, Malte?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know.”
Pedersen appeared in the doorway. He was holding a stack of papers and radiated urgency. “What they’re doing is making sure that defenseless people are assaulted or driven to their deaths. Twenty-three incidents, over the entire country. From Gedser to Skagen, and not as a figure of speech—completely literally.”
He threw the papers down on the table and the others bent over to read them. Afterward, no one said anything except Borup.
“I can bomb their pages off the Internet if I—”
Berg laid her hand over his mouth and he blushed more than ever. Simonsen’s cell phone rang.
He answered brusquely and listened. When he hung up, everyone was hoping it was not another piece of bad news. For once, their hopes were realized.
“Troulsen has found the woman in red and it sounds promising. They are both on their way here.”
Chapter 51
The owner of the temp agency turned out to be a friendly woman. Poul Troulsen knew her age already, she was in her late twenties. But he was wrong in the rest of his expectations of her. His image of a polished, self-confident career woman was shattered by someone both jovial and plump who did not spend unnecessary resources on her appearance or the interiors of her establishment. She led h
im into a conference room that looked more like a homeless shelter, and without asking him she handed him a plastic cup of lukewarm coffee. He took it and thanked her politely. It tasted terrible.
“As you know, this is about Helene Clausen’s high-school years. I have heard that you were one of the girls who was most engaged in what was going on in class.”
“You could say that. I was a terrible bitch actually. At the class reunion there are still some girls who hate me but I can understand why. I was not particularly pleasant but you’re right when you say that I was well informed.”
“And you were in the same class as Helene Clausen for a year?”
“Yes, until she drowned, but I can’t remember her very well and I have to think hard even to remember her—you know, conjure her up in my mind’s eye. I can remember that when I first saw her I was on my guard. She was both pretty and smart so I spotted a potential rival.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, that was how I was. Well, I didn’t need to have worried. Helene turned out not to be very social and after that I didn’t pay much attention to her. I remember her death clearly of course. We made a lot of noise but forgot her almost immediately.”
“I have a picture of her if that would help.”
“No, that’s okay. I’d rather not. But anyway, we weren’t particularly tightly knit. Helen wasn’t close to anyone in the class.”
Troulsen thought that the observation was largely corroborated by the reports that he had read.
“You aren’t the first to say that,” he told her.
“No, she kept mostly to herself. That’s why I almost called and canceled, because I didn’t think I had anything to tell.”
He pricked up his ears. “But you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t, because maybe I can help after all. At least a little. You see, in those days I kept a diary, and after you called, I looked in my old journals. It was no pleasure and there wasn’t much about Helene. Almost nothing. But it got my thoughts going and I suddenly remembered something. There was one time when Helene and I drove together. I can’t remember what we were doing or if anyone else from the class was with us, only that she insisted that we both put our seat belts on. I must have asked about it, but in any case she told me about a girlfriend who had been in a car accident. A really bad one. It was interesting that she used the word girlfriend. But unfortunately that is all that I can contribute.”
This did not trouble Troulsen.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “That may turn out to be an important piece of information.”
“This is about the murders at Langebæk School?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I want you to solve them.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the only one. You’re honest, at least.”
Troulsen stood up. She remained seated.
“I think it’s hard. On the one hand a crime has been committed, but on the other hand… it’s complicated.”
“I don’t share that opinion, but thank you for your time and thank you for your help.”
She followed him out.
Next, Troulsen drove to Helene Clausen’s old school, whistling happily. The reports did not mention a girlfriend from elementary school so he must have gotten something.
The Tranehøj School was an institution of the classical style. A four-story block of a building with two wings and a blacktop playground, bells on the walls, and dismantled water receptacles for thirsty children of the past. Signs to the school office were prominently placed, and in the front office he found a woman in her late forties. She had earphones on and was typing. Troulsen had to clear his throat a couple of times to get her attention.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you. Have you been here a long time? What can I help you with?”
“No, I’ve just turned up. Are you the school secretary?”
“The one and only.”
He took out his badge. “Poul Troulsen, from the Crime Division.”
She put the earpiece on the desk, where it kept burbling. “Well now, that sounds serious.”
“Not really. I’m here to get some information about a former pupil.”
“By the name of?”
“Well, you see, that’s the problem. How long have you worked here?”
“Longer than I care to think. I’ll be celebrating my twenty-fifth anniversary next year.”
“That sounds perfect. Ninth grade in 1992–93 and it is a girl.”
“We’ve had more than a couple of those. I hope you have a little more information.”
She had a heartwarming smile. Troulsen smiled back in return.
“Yes, I do. She was in a car accident, apparently serious.”
He was prepared to go on, to talk about the friendship with Helene Clausen, but the woman shut her eyes and held a finger up in the air. He waited.
Shortly thereafter, her face relaxed.
“Emilie. Her name was Emilie. Yes, it was a terrible accident. Both of the girls were hurt. It happened up by Helsingør, and it was Emilie’s own fault. She was speeding and had been drinking. But in the end they both recovered.”
Troulsen frowned. It didn’t add up. Students in the ninth grade did not have their licenses, but the secretary explained the discrepancy before he spoke.
“That was the older sister. She was a fair bit older than the younger one, maybe four, five years or so, and she was the one I remember. She was here at a school-anniversary celebration and we chatted a little bit. I can’t remember anything about the little sister, only that she was in the accident, and it was just after she had left the school.”
“Last name?”
The secretary shook her head. “No, but she became a doctor, in case that helps. It’s strange. I can see her so clearly but the little sister is completely gone. We should take a trip to the basement.”
“The basement?”
“Yes. If you come along I’m sure we’ll find her last name and whatever else we have on her. I keep the old yearbooks down there. I know it isn’t exactly the National Archives but it’s not uncommon that I can help track down former pupils. You know, for reunions and the like.”
A deep, powerful voice interrupted them.
“Tell me, what’s this all about?”
The principal was standing in the doorway to his office, broad-chested and imposing. Troulsen looked at him. His considerable belly stretched his red suspenders nearly to the breaking point. His face was fleshy and grim, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses were pushed up on his bald head.
“I’m from the police and I’m trying to get some information about a—”
“I heard you,” the principal broke in. “What are you going to use the information for?”
“What I’m going to use it for? I’m going to use it to solve a crime.”
“What kind of crime?”
Poul Troulsen answered with some irritation, “That’s not relevant.”
“I think I know what kind of a crime it is. I’ve seen you on the Internet.”
“And?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“A warrant? Why on earth would I need a warrant?”
“There’s no public access to our archives.”
With a heavy hand he shoved the secretary, who had just stood up, back in her chair.
“I know that we disagree on this point but you will come to accept that I make the decisions around here. We don’t give out personal information about our pupils without a legitimate reason.”
The secretary’s eyes flashed and she waved his hand away while she appealed to Troulsen. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do.
“Am I to understand that you’re refusing to assist me in my work?”
“You work is of no concern to me. I am refusing to give you access to our personal files unless you have a search warrant or written permission from one of my superiors in the administration. Other than this I have nothing to discuss with you.”
“Your personal files… that
’s preposterous. I only need one name.”
“As I said, I have nothing more to discuss with you.”
“Then I think I’ll have to swing by the town hall and have a conversation with your boss.”
If Troulsen had been hoping that the man could be intimidated, he was wrong.
“That’s an excellent idea. The superintendent, the director of child and cultural affairs, the county director, or the mayor. Take your pick.”
He sounded unsettlingly sure of the outcome, regardless of which person would review the matter.
“Thank you very much. I hope that we’ll have a chance to speak again soon.”
“I don’t, but who knows?”
Troulsen fished out a card and held it out to the secretary without saying anything. It wasn’t necessary. She took it in front of the principal and they both saw how his fingers twitched in readiness to prevent the exchange.
“Try anything and I’ll arrest you on the spot. For obstruction of justice or for obesity, whichever suits me best.”
The threat worked. The principal kept himself in check. Frustratingly enough.
“The superintendent, the director of child and cultural affairs, the county director, or the mayor,” Troulsen said, reciting the hierarchical phrase that the school principal had given him.
The receptionist at the Gentofte city hall did not seem overwhelmed by the choices he gave her. She typed for a while, then looked at a screen. “Looks like it may have to be the director of child and cultural affairs. What should I say this is in regard to?” She emphasized the word may.
He showed her his police identification, which she examined suspiciously for an overly long period of time before she decided it was genuine. Then she gave him a little card with an office number and pointed him in the right direction with a long purple fingernail. He left without thanking her.
