The church looked striking in the low autumn sun. The whitewashed stone dazzled and the quartz in the foundation glittered like thousands of drops of water.
Erik Mørk put one hand up to shield himself from the sun while he gazed at the building. The transept and nave were distinctly Romanesque, with rounded windows, ornamental stonework, and finely detailed cornices. The tower, porch, and vestry were constructed of granite and brick, late Gothic outbuildings added some couple of hundred years later. The church wall could be dated back to the Middle Ages, and the tower clock was a construction from the eighteenth century, made of black-painted wrought iron.
Mørk was hardly an architecture maven. But he had arrived early enough to have plenty of time to gather his impressions of the neighborhood and possible police activity. It was easily done, and then he had spent some time at the reading room of the local library, which turned out to be located next to the church. There he read what he could about the parish, the congregation, and the history of the church, which seemed a fitting way for him to pass the time.
Now he was sitting in the shelter at a bus stop, a comfortable distance from the authorities and with a fine vantage point. It was as close as he dared to get. The Climber sat beside him, sulking because he was not taking part inside the church. Mørk had pulled him into a shed when he happened to discover him, which he found somewhat frightening. But strictly speaking, neither one was in a position to chide the other. They had both disobeyed Per Clausen’s orders about not attending his funeral.
The Climber was still having trouble making peace with their location.
“It’s a strange way to say goodbye, just looking at the outside of the church. Are you sure there are police photographers?”
“Yes, and a lot of other photographers from the papers, and that’s almost as bad. We shouldn’t even be here. Neither one of us, and definitely not both of us. This is as good as it gets. We’re not getting any closer. That would be insane.”
The Climber unwillingly accepted this. “I don’t have to like it.” He added, chuckling, “Per would go nuts if he saw us. We would never have dared to do this if he were still alive.” He sounded like a naughty schoolboy, savoring his own audacity.
Mørk felt a sting of irritation. He secretly wanted the Climber as far away as possible, out of the country, even. He had done what was needed—magnificent—but now he was superfluous and a walking security risk.
“You’re right. His influence around here has gone way down since he died.”
The sarcasm was wasted.
“Why do you say that? That’s obvious.”
Mørk regretted his words and halfheartedly offered an explanation. He felt uncomfortable with the Climber and would much rather have been alone. The situation had brought them together but they were hardly on the same wave length—anything but. It was imperative not to start a disagreement.
Nonetheless, there was something that Mørk wanted to know, now that he had this unexpected opportunity. After some harmless small talk, he gathered himself.
“I read in the paper that you didn’t just cut their hands and faces, you made short work of their privates. Is that true?”
“Yes,” the Climber said.
“That wasn’t part of the deal. Why did you do that?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Mørk had trouble holding back a sneer. “Perhaps you can clarify.”
“It was only a few slices.”
“A few slices? With a chainsaw!”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“The truth is probably that the chainsaw took over. Once I started it was hard to stop and then I wanted to show Frank what was going to happen with him after he died. If you understand.”
It was not completely true. He had performed the last mutilation long after he had disassembled the scaffolding and carried it out to the van, before he had cleaned the floor.
Mørk accepted the explanation without digging deeper. It was what he had imagined, and in any case, done was done. From a marketing standpoint it was of course incredibly unfortunate—that kind of thing was hard to sell—but there was nothing to do about it now. He therefore simply nodded, and the Climber elaborated.
“I had the most intense desire to flay his crotch before he died.”
“But you didn’t do it?”
“No, strangely enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
They didn’t have anything else to talk about. The Climber did not ask about the campaign, and Erik Mørk preferred to remain ignorant of the other details of the murders.
People arrived to the church in a steady stream, either by themselves or in small clusters. Many were young. Some of them dropped off bouquets of flowers, then left again. Some of them placed their bouquets on the church steps and a few lit candles they had brought with them from home. There was still some time to go before the actual ceremony.
“Four hundred years ago they burned witches in this country,” he said.
The Climber did not reply. Instead, he stared at the tree by the church entrance. He squinted because of the sun. It was a horse chestnut, and a few brown spiky capsules still clung to the upper branches, waiting to fall to earth.
Mørk went on: “They took the farmer’s children in the night and flew them to the witches’ sabbath. After the rack, their confessions corroborated each other’s so there was no question of their guilt. But the minister appealed on their behalf and called for the gallows as opposed to the stake. That almost cost him his frock and his life because the masses went ballistic. And they got the stake. In front of this very church, in the year 1613. I find it uplifting to think about.”
The Climber turned his head and became alert. “You are a strange man, Erik. What about those poor women?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but I’m not thinking of the women. I’m thinking of how everyone came together in a unified front against evil. What common fear and rage can lead to.”
The conversation ran out because the Climber didn’t respond. Soon the church bells started to ring and the guests went into the church. There were many of them.
Mørk commented on it: “I don’t think that any of our five will get as fine a funeral.”
“Six.”
“Six? What do you mean?”
“There are six now. There’s been an addition to the group.”
It took a second for Mørk to understand, but when he finally grasped the meaning he jumped up. He screamed. Without thinking about discretion. A couple of latecomers who were trotting hastily up to the church cast concerned glances in his direction.
“Tell me, have you gone completely mad? You’re completely sick in the head.”
The Climber remained calm. “Take it easy. There’s a perfectly reasonably explanation and I would have tried to find you to tell you personally if we hadn’t met up here. It’s the reason I’m here at all. I came to this funeral on a whim, since I was out in these parts anyway.”
Mørk wasn’t listening. “You can’t just go around killing people,” he said.
The Climber smiled and said softly, “Allan Ditlevsen, you know, the hotdog guy, came down with gallstones the night before our event. Frank—Allan’s older brother—found a replacement. But when the younger brother found out that his sibling was going to hell and not to heaven, the police wanted to… Well, you can figure it out for yourself.”
Mørk regained control over himself and nodded curtly, and the Climber told him about the hot-dog vendor from Allerslev who no longer was. Then he asked, “And Allan Ditlevsen never had any suspicions?”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s well known that he was not the sharpest tool in the shed and he also wasn’t one to stay out of the way of the cops. I called him at the hospital and asked about his health. Talked about summer, cheap drinks, kids, and sent greetings from his brother, who unfortunately couldn’t come to the phone, and that last part was true.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was afraid that Per would call the whole thing off.”
“Hmmm. At least you’re honest. And what was that business with the tree all about?”
“Believe me, it was the most fitting funeral bouquet he could have had.”
“Can’t you give me a real answer?”
“Yes. It was just my way of battling the forces of evil.”