Anni Staal was sitting at her desk at the Dagbladet and waiting patiently for her cub reporter to be ready. Anita Dahlgren leafed through her papers without rushing, well aware that this glacial pace irritated her boss.
The relationship between the two had gone from bad to worse in the past couple of days and it was now clear to both of them that they could not stand each other. Reluctantly, however, each had to grant the other a fairly high level of professional competence. Anni Staal had been in the limelight ever since Monday, when the murders in Bagsværd were discovered. Her subject matter took up a large part of the paper and there were many indications that this pattern would continue for a while. Despite the considerable stress, she was thoroughly enjoying the situation. Like a rat in a sewer, Dahlgren thought, who also grudgingly admitted to herself that she could learn a great deal from her appointed mentor. If she discounted the woman’s total cynicism and a disturbing lack of objectives other than advancing herself, her boss was a spectacular journalist.
For her part, Staal was not blind to the talents of her student. The girl was quick-witted, hardworking, intuitive, and above all she had some exceptionally creative approaches, all of which made her highly usable. That on a personal plane she appeared too soft to navigate the real world was less important. Staal had many co-workers with the opposite characteristics and she could live with the fact that the girl was churlish and unbearably didactic. Her shoulders were broad and she had encountered far worse.
The fact was that their work together was going very well.
Anita Dahlgren’s timing was perfect and Anni Staal’s words about getting her ass in gear stuck in her throat.
“You asked me for a report on the reaction from secondary schools around the country. Generally speaking, throughout the day there have been a multitude of examples of adult-education or secondary-school classes boycotting their regular instruction in favor of various studies that in one way or another relate to the sexual abuse of children. It’s hard give you a firm estimate, but my tentative conclusion is that about one-third or half of the secondary schools in the country have been affected. There are, however, large regional differences. The phenomenon is strongest in Copenhagen and the larger cities. These activities will most likely continue on Monday, and intensify. Probably creeping into the upper classes of the middle schools. That has already happened in individual instances.”
“What do they want to achieve? And who is behind all this?” Anita asked.
“Your last question is easy to answer. No one is behind it. It is spontaneous and spreads from one institution to the next, but there is no doubt that the abuse ad from yesterday set this whole thing off.”
Anita nodded.
“As well as the rumors about the mass murder. But what the students are doing varies. In some places they are investigating the number of children that are abused on a daily basis, like the ad urged them to. In some places, children are telling others of their own abuse and in other places pedophilia is simply the agenda of the day. Their distribution channels vary: blogs, posters, or the community board at the local supermarket—you name it—flyers, happenings, letters to the editors, to name a few. There’s a lot of creativity.”
“They must have a goal, dammit.”
“If so, it remains rather vague. One could say that the intention is to put a spotlight on child abuse—that is, to press society into taking stronger measures against abuse, something along those lines. But those are my words. I get varying explanations depending on whom I ask.”
“All of us are against child abuse, there’s nothing new there, so if there is a message it’s one that’s preaching to the choir.”
Anita leafed through some more papers. This time without unnecessary slowness. She had written a couple of sentences that could later go into an article if she was asked to write one. She read aloud, “‘Many young high-school students say that they have now found a common cause. In a world where they are indoctrinated on a daily basis about the unyielding demands of globalization in order to develop a competitive and competent intellect, and where the devil mercilessly harvests the mediocre, it is easy to understand that a comprehensible antimolestation message is a gift from the gods. Even higher is the Ministry of Education. The opposition to the adult world that for years has condoned the practice of child abuse is obvious and sparks a feeling of standing united with the same noble purpose, even as the real reason recedes into the distance.’”
Anni nodded thoughtfully. Then she said, “ ‘Young high-school students’ is redundant. Replace ‘sparks’ with ‘gives rise to’ and strike ‘noble,’ as well as the final clause. And then use a few more periods, for God’s sake. I’m assuming you also have a few stories from a personal point of view.”
“Of course. Among others, one about two sisters at Virum High School. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
As Anita read the account aloud, Anni took the opportunity to sift through her mail. Normally, Anita would not have accepted such denigrating treatment, but she knew from experience that her boss belonged to that rare class of people who are capable of doing several things at once, not simply in word but in actuality. Unfortunately, she did not yet possess this capacity herself. She therefore went on as if nothing had happened and kept reading from her papers. It was only when she had the opportunity to focus on her listener that she discovered she wasn’t listening. Anni sat with an expression of incredulity, staring at her computer screen.
“Tell me, are you the least bit interested in what I am saying?”
Anni turned her attention back to her young charge for a moment. She sounded slightly absentminded when she answered. But at least she was honest.
“No, not really. Do you have any earphones?”
“Do you mean headphones?”
Anita smiled with exaggerated sweetness. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Will you please lend me some?”
That her response had not provoked so much as a snarl meant that the computer contained something very special, a fact that was underscored by Anni’s next sentence: “Kiss my ass.”
The words were sent straight out into the air without a final address. Anita leaned backward to take a look. But she couldn’t. Anni might have been absorbed in her own affairs but she was not completely oblivious to the outside world. She quickly turned the screen, and this time she snarled.
The next few hours were hectic but also productive. Anni called her new police source, well aware of the fact that he would be exasperated. Only two days ago she had solemnly sworn that the contact would always go from him to her and never the reverse. This was a rule that was clearly important to him. Now she was breaking it at the very first opportunity. That would cost her, and she would pay eight thousand—a sum that was among the highest she had ever paid to an informant. Officially the Dagbladet did not pay for its news but almost all journalists made exceptions from time to time. Often in the form of a discreet hundred-kroner note or two, and preferably to the lowest members of society. A bit of grease that was later covered up in the books. But this time she had crossed over the limits of acceptability and was forced to charge the amount to her own account. A temporary measure, she hoped, unless the story was a hoax. It was a gamble and, in contrast to her source, she was not one to place bets.
Anni Staal and Arne Pedersen met in the arcade by the Rådhuspladsen. His envelope was brown, hers white, and they exchanged them. But she was the only one who said thank you. Pedersen let the money disappear into the inner pocket of his coat and said, “There are three pictures. Two of them will be made public this evening. You’re paying for something that you will get for free in a couple of hours anyway.”
He had said the same thing on the phone after she had talked him down in price. Anni Staal thought that in that way he showed integrity. He did not want to cheat her.
“Yes, I understand perfectly. Remember to call if you get more names. That’s included in the price.”
“I’ll call, but you won’t. Never again.”
He turned his back to her and left before she could reply.
When she arrived back at the newsroom, the IT department had retrieved her deleted e-mail from Tuesday, just as she had demanded. All that remained was to go back and review, and the excitement shot her pulse up into the danger range. It quickly subsided again, however. There was no doubt that three of the men from her most recent e-mail matched the pictures in the envelope and one was also identical to the face from the first e-mail.
She had watched the Tuesday video with sound, which caused a spontaneous outburst: “Well, I have no pity for you. You got what you deserved—not that one can say that kind of thing aloud.”
The culture-and-arts editor who sat nearby looked up from his paper and asked kindly, “Why are you doing that, Anni?”
Anni locked her computer and went straight to the editor in chief, hoping that she would be lucky enough to find him available. He was not. She was effectively stopped by a secretary who watched diligently over access to her lord and master.
She nodded toward the locked door at the very back of the room and asked, “When is he free?”
“It may take a long time. It’s financial.”
“Listen here, my love, why don’t you go in there for a second and tell him that he has a meeting with me in Lokale Viggo at six o’clock, and then find the director and her new legal scam artist—”
“Senior legal counsel.”
“Whatever. Make sure that they come along as well. At the same time, arrange for a computer with speakers and an Internet connection. Oh, and some sandwiches, beer and water, of course.”
“Do you understand what you’re asking of me? What should I say this meeting is about?”
“Nothing. Now make sure that they’re there regardless of what other plans they have. I know you can do this if you want.”
“And why would I want to?”
“Look, I’m well aware that anything other than a damn good reason would have me strung up by my ears.”
The secretary peered at her seriously over her gold-rimmed glasses. She was most comfortable when things proceeded in an orderly and predictable manner, which they never did. Nonetheless, she struggled day after day to establish a bare minimum of order in her boss’s day. Anni Staal’s highly irregular suggestion fit poorly in this context.
“Not just your ears, he’ll have your whole hide, Anni.”
“I know. Just make sure they come.”
The secretary nodded halfheartedly. Then she added in an unfriendly tone, “You can get your food yourself. I’m not in the catering business. The technology is already in place. Tell me, don’t you read your Internal mail?”
Anni Staal drew back, smiling broadly. She had not for a moment thought that the secretary would take on any of the practical arrangements, but in her experience difficult requests went down better if the other party had something to refuse.