The meeting in Lokale Viggo at the Dagbladet was postponed three times. The editor in chief was a busy man and Anni Staal had no choice other than to accept the delays with irritation and a hope that the new arrangement would hold. It got very late before it finally took place.
Along with Anni Staal in the meeting room were the editor in chief and the new senior legal counsel. An overhead projector displayed the contents of a computer on a large screen at one end of the table, and in the bottom right-hand corner it indicated a time of 10:41 P.M. A tray of sandwiches struggling not to dry out was placed before the three participants, but no one felt tempted. The editor in chief pried the cap off his beer with a little plop. He used his lighter. Anni nodded approvingly and he opened one more, then slid it over to her. Then the door opened and a man in his early sixties rushed in. He—the publisher and executive editor—tossed his coat onto a chair and sat down. He greeted each of them as he grabbed a beer. In contrast to his colleagues, he took a plastic cup and inspected it against the light before he ponderously poured himself a glass. Only when the glass was filled did he begin.
“Sorry for the delay but it wasn’t easy for me to get here. And, Anni, this had better be damn important. I can’t remember when I last attended a meeting without knowing the agenda and definitely not at this time of day.”
Anni Staal wasted no time.
“You can judge for yourself. This afternoon I received an anonymous e-mail from a sender by the name of Chelsea. I have no idea if this refers to the girl’s name, the city, or the soccer club. There was a video file attached to the e-mail. The whole video lasts about ten minutes and consists of smaller segments spliced together. You don’t have to be an expert to see that. On Monday I received another e-mail from the aforementioned Chelsea, also with an attached video file that I unfortunately at the time did not realize the significance of. We’ll see the video from Monday first, it won’t take long.”
No one else said anything and Anni started the video.
A face with a measuring gaze and a too-red mouth filled the screen. Anni Staal said, “This is taken inside a vehicle, probably a van, and I don’t think he knows he is being filmed.”
A monotone voice floated out of the speakers: “Well, what’s it going to be? Isn’t there something that tickles the gentleman’s fancy?”
The man’s expression remained unaffected for a few seconds, then turned serene. He licked his lips and answered eagerly, “I think I’ll take this one, this tasty little morsel, number three.”
The video stopped but the words hung in the air and only dissipated slowly.
The publisher’s plastic cup shattered. He had squeezed it beyond its breaking point. The beer spilled out over his arm and down one pant leg. He broke the tension for all of them by bursting out, “Jesus Christ—what the fuck?”
The lawyer sprang up with a bunch of napkins but was waved away. The outburst was not regarding the spilled beer and the executive editor didn’t bother trying to dry his clothes. He simply moved to another chair. No one had heard him swear before.
The managing editor asked Anni softly, “Do you know what he’s looking at?”
“No, but it isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“A menu of children,” the publisher snarled. He waved at the screen, where the man’s face was still frozen. “Get rid of him, Anni. I simply can’t stand it.”
“Then it’s time to see what happened to him.”
The projector displayed the man’s face again. This time the camera was handheld and the quality poor, out of focus from time to time. Occasionally a diffuse white object covered the screen. When the camera pointed down, which it did once, one saw that the man was naked and apparently had his hands tied behind his back. There were bloodstains on his cheek and down across one shoulder, and around his neck was a sturdy blue rope. He spoke haltingly but clearly and with great intensity.
“No child shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his or her privacy, family, or correspondence, nor to …”
Anni paused the video on his face and distributed three packets of papers. On the first page was the same picture as that on the projected screen.
“His name is Thor Gran and he lived in Århus. The picture that I gave you is from the police. I got it this afternoon and then my informant gave me his name. The photograph was taken after his death, and after some specialists repaired his facial features. Thor Gran is one of the five murdered men from the Langebæk School in Bagsværd, and the film that we see is a record of the execution. It also shows three additional executions. I have two more positive matches that you can verify in a moment.”
The managing editor’s reaction was inarticulate and almost sputtering. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or excited. “Are you completely out of your mind? For the love of God, this is… this is—”
The publisher interrupted sharply, “Be quiet and listen to what she has to say.”
Anni Staal went on. “What we have here is an exclusive. None of our colleagues from other media—I have made inquiries—have received anything like it. Not even the police.”
She resumed the video and the man on the screen continued his speech.
“… Nor to unlawful attacks on his or her honor and reputation …” The camera angle changed abruptly. It was clearly a cut. “The child has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.”
The publisher asked Anni Staal, “What is he talking about?”
She paused the video again and explained, “He is reading excerpts from the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. I believe that the photographer is holding a piece of paper that he is reading from. From time to time it crosses in front of the camera but not here. By the way, this information has cost me twelve thousand kroner.”
The publisher did not hesitate for a second. “Granted, go on,” he said.
“A child has the right to be protected from all forms of physical or mental violence, injury or abuse, neglect or negligent treatment, maltreatment …” The man’s chin quivered as if he was cold, and tears streamed from his eyes. There was another cut. “… Or exploitation, including sexual abuse, while in the care of parents, legal guardians or any other person who has the care of the child.”
An audible click followed, then the face disappeared from the frame and was replaced by the blue rope. The camera panned down. Thor Gran looked surprised as he swung back and forth, the image coming into focus only every other second. Anni Staal paused the video once more and set the counter to zero.
“There are three more that you are going to see.”