On Sunday, all hell broke loose.
The five doomed men stared at the reader from the front page of the Dagbladet. Each of them was pictured in his last few seconds except for one who was already dead. The thick blue nylon rope was clearly visible on all. Fear emanated from their eyes and sold more copies of the paper than the most notorious royal scandal ever had. No sympathy was to be found among the editorial staff. The headline clearly took a position against the victim and read succinctly, in thick black print, JUDGMENT DAY. The newspaper carried an insert of eight pages, a photo montage that displayed the film sequences Anni Staal had received almost frame by frame, so that none of the juicy details escaped the reading public.
Anni and the publisher were standing outside the main entrance of their workplace, waiting. It was nine o’clock and the street was deserted, misty, and gray in the cold morning.
Anni tried a third time: “Are you sure you don’t want me to participate?”
Her most senior boss gave a huge yawn. It had been a long night and he was tired. “Yes, Anni, I’m sure. You should show yourself and then leave. They shouldn’t think you’re hiding. I don’t want to risk them ordering a search for you or whatever it is they manage to think up. Tell me about the atmosphere.”
“The atmosphere?”
“In the newsroom, among the people, around. They say you can hear the grass grow.”
Anni Staal brushed the praise aside. It was laid on too thick. “They say so many things, but the links to our Web site are glowing red or whatever it is that links are. There have been one hundred thousand hits and that’s just the beginning. The whole IT department has been called in to manage the situation. They have already boosted our server capacity in order to hold down the video-download time.”
The director was uninterested in technology. “Smashing, smashing, but what are people thinking? I mean, when they have seen the videos. Is there support for our headline? Did we frame it correctly?”
“The film clip from the minivan with the one called Thor Gran hardens most hearts. You know, the one where he decides on his tasty little morsel—”
“Shush! I don’t want to hear that phrase again. Never again.”
“So you are typical. Almost everyone reacts like that.”
The director said sharply, “Let’s talk about something else.”
Anni ignored this order and went on: “Thor Gran has taken your language, dirtied what was clean. Now you can’t bear to use the words. You almost can’t bear to think them.”
“Now you’re a psychologist?”
“No, but I’ve been talking with someone who is.”
“Okay, you may be right. It still makes me sick.”
“But it’s also telling. People’s immediate reaction of sympathy goes quickly down the drain. The next time they see the images from the execution, it is with hardened eyes and a silent acceptance, or something closer to actual approval. I have been getting some e-mails.”
“Well, freedom of speech is there to be exercised, and there’s nothing in the law books about having to condemn murder.”
“And I can promise you that not many people will. Quite the opposite. But of course it’s the most outraged types who write. I tend to think that most people are not crying buckets over these victims. And I am sure that many people just like you have a sentence in the back of their heads that they don’t want to say and would very much like to forget when they form their opinions.”
The publisher smiled faintly. Then he glanced at his watch and thought longingly of his bed. He looked in vain down the street and saw nothing. They stood without speaking for a while, then he resumed the conversation.
“So keeping the news a secret worked?”
Anni hesitated before she answered, “Yes, I believe so. We took every precaution. Nighttime kiosk sales of the papers around Copenghaen were suspended and trusted people watched over the papers that were loaded on the night trains to the provinces. No employee was allowed to take any paper home with them, so the shock should have hit the country at about the same time. Were you afraid of a censure?”
“Not afraid exactly, but I feel you aren’t being completely clear, Anni. Did the news get out despite our best efforts?”
“I don’t really know. The police at least were taken by surprise and a number of officers on the periphery were openly puzzling over the fact that every time something significant happens in relation to the child-abuse murders, the state seems to be lagging far behind the events. Chief Inspector Simonsen doesn’t appear to have his foot on the gas. And the minister of justice was most certainly not forewarned. I heard the news on the radio at nine, where he ran the gauntlet at the Christiansborg parliamentary palace between several vociferous reporters. He was talking nonsense.”
“Poor man. First he is left behind, then slaughtered.”
“There’s an open season on politicians all year round and minister blood is one of the most dignified fluids one can press out of a story. It is something that results in personal prestige, and from time to time also a raise. Did you get any of that?”
“No, I’m tone-deaf when it comes to greedy scribblers. Tell me why you hesitated.”
“Not for any real reason. It just seems to me that this meeting has been a little too easy to arrange. You shouldn’t underestimate Helmer Hammer. He has powerful friends. Very powerful.”
“I don’t follow the connection.”
“Perhaps there isn’t one but we shouldn’t be blind to the fact that there are, shall we say, differing strands of opinion. We have seen this the past couple of days, and from time to time have stepped on some tender toes. For example, there have been discussions of making the travel industry financially responsible for any holidays where tourists end up getting too close to local children.”
The publisher was not impressed. “The travel industry. Give me a break.”
“Or banks, for transactions on the Internet with regard to child pornography. That’s also an idea that has been circulating and gaining in popularity. But look, your guests are here.”
Anni Staal pointed to the taxi that was just turning the corner. She had to poke at him to get him to look.
Helmer Hammer also had to poke his listener, and Poul Troulsen got himself an admonishing shove for his words about a welcome committee of dubious quality. On top of it all, Hammer leaned forward and saw through the window of the taxi that his fellow passenger had been right. If two people could be called a committee. He rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn. Sunday had barely started and he had already been up for more than five hours.
The telephone had rung at four o’clock and a voice that was familiar but that belonged to someone who on no account was supposed to contact him at home made him wide awake at once. The woman who had awakened him had several names. One of these she used in her highly skilled work in finance, and the other was used for more social activities. He was one of the very few people who knew both. He also knew that if one was in possession of a small fortune and had the right connections, she could be rented on a daily basis and that she was worth every penny. He listened and silently prayed to higher authorities that there was a natural explanation for her call, which went against all business ethics. His prayer was heard. She had a copy of the Dagbladet for him. Her penthouse apartment was nearby and they met halfway between. He got his newspaper and a kiss on the cheek. That he thereby owed her a large favor, she was far too smart to mention.
The order of the day for the following three hours was damage control, and it was not much of a consolation that he was able to ruin the sleep of a large number of other people. With call after call he gradually started to get something of a grasp on the situation.
By the time he collected Poul Troulsen in the taxi Hammer was therefore in a reasonable mood and was able to handle the invective that the detective directed at him.
“I may as well say this straight off—if you’re planning to slaughter Simon you can go to hell, I don’t care how much power you have. But don’t count on me for one second.”
Mildly put, the man seemed to have no faith in the authorities.
Helmer Hammer answered calmly, “That’s not what this is about. Quite the opposite, as I explained on the phone.”
“I hate myself for going behind his back. What’s with all this secrecy?”
“Your boss is brilliant at leading investigations and lousy at dealing with the press. The last thing I need right now is having him let loose on the Dagbladet. And the police business can be dealt with on a lower level, by which I mean you.”
Poul Troulsen sensed that Hammer was telling the truth and relaxed a little.
“What is Simon doing right now? Where is he?”
“He’s in bed, sleeping, which he deserves and has a great need for.”
Poul Troulsen nodded. It was difficult not to like the man.
“How did you manage it?”
“I got lucky.”
They drove for a while in silence. Then Troulsen asked, “Why me? I can’t stand those filthy bastards either.”
“Because you may feel that way but you don’t bite. Because you know your place and you hold your tongue in a meeting. And because the one you call the Countess is in Odense.”
Troulsen gave a strained smile. They drove another couple of streets. This time it was Helmer Hammer who broke the silence.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That honesty can be abused. Are you always this direct?”
The executive did not have to answer. The news came on the radio and they both listened. The high point was an interview with the minister of justice in which even his most exquisite and fluid formulations were not sufficient to mask the fact that he knew absolutely nothing.
“What a fool,” Troulsen commented.
Hammer was less judgmental. The minister had been his only blunder, but that was what came from cutting himself off from the world.
“He is a survivor. Perhaps the most tenacious of them all.”
The taxi arrived at the destination. Troulsen said provocatively, “Well, I’ll be damned—a welcoming committee of the tabloid-press scavengers.”
Hammer gave him a shove. Without any effect.
“I’ll wring the teats off that stupid bitch.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll keep your mouth shut. Diplomacy is not for the likes of you.”
The taxi stopped. Hammer added, “And just so you know, bigger men than you have had to eat their words.”
Then he put on his most charming face and got out.
The two men were escorted to the conference room where Anni Staal had presented her videos Friday night. A woman in her thirties sat at the handsomely laden table and waited. The chief legal counsel of the Dagbladet stood up and shook their hands as she introduced herself, then she sat back down expectantly. Troulsen immediately felt a kind of kinship with her. It was clear that she, too, had been assigned a secondary role. The two leads chatted as they helped themselves to refreshments. Each of the women poured herself a glass of juice; Troulsen had a cup of black coffee. After three rolls and a croissant, the publisher finally began the meeting.
“Since you are the ones who called for this discussion, I think it would be appropriate if you could tell us what we can assist you with.”
Helmer responded with unexpected vehemence, “You can skip the pleasantries. Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?”
Forgetting that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut, Troulsen fell in behind him: “This is a clear-cut case of withholding evidence, and you—”
Helmer Hammer stopped him with a hand movement, which he immediately obeyed, much to his own surprise. His sentence was left hanging in the air. But their host picked it up. He glanced invitingly at his accompanying employee.
“Perhaps we should discuss this matter of evidence first. Would you?”
His legal council wanted nothing more. For the next ten minutes she used lengthy legal phrases that no one listened to. She wrapped it up triumphantly: “And anyway we sent the video sequences with an accompanying letter to the Store Kongensgade police station on Saturday night. The material was delivered around two o’clock. In the letter it is made clear that the videos may have some bearing on the police investigation of the pedophile murders, which, for your information, we are not obligated to inform you of.”
“Do you have a copy of this letter?”
Faster than anyone could say “pro forma,” she found two copies in her file and handed them to her guests. Poul Troulsen and Helmer Hammer thanked her. The publisher smugly poured himself a cup of coffee and gallantly offered the coffeepot to his lawyer, who declined with a shake of her head. The guests read the letter. It was long, ornate, and unnecessarily complicated. What it should have explained in eight lines was stretched out over three and a half pages and only on the middle of page 2 did the reader have a reasonable chance of gaining an impression of what the letter was really all about.
Helmer Hammer finished first, and said, “Yes, with this you could have been sure it got put at the bottom of the pile. You haven’t even printed it on your own letterhead.”
The lawyer was halfheartedly apologetic: “That was an oversight. It was late. But as I see it, we have followed the law to the letter.”
“Perhaps you have and perhaps you haven’t.” Helmer Hammer answered her, but he was looking at the publisher. “To this point six people have been killed and we have no guarantee that this won’t continue. If it turns out later that this… shall we call it a delay?—can reasonably be claimed to have cost a person his life, then I promise you that your actions will be tried in a court of law and that it will be a very long and drawn-out affair.”
The publisher did not look like the kind of man who wanted a very long and drawn-out affair on his hands. He flinched uncomfortably. In direct contrast to his lawyer, who aired her chemically whitened teeth in a wide, expectant smile.
The next step belonged to Helmer Hammer. He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Poul Troulsen saw that it was a handwritten note and not particularly long but could not read the contents.
The publisher read it, grew pale, and was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What do you want?”
Helmer Hammer took his paper back and said quietly but directly, “A recorded transcript of the conversations Anni Staal has with the readers at twelve o’clock as well as access to the contact information for those people who have relevant information about the victims. In addition I would like Anni Staal’s full and active cooperation with Poul Troulsen over the next few hours.”
The publisher’s face took on an unhealthy hue and his voice went up an octave as he replied, “That’s completely out of the question. We do not give out the names of our …” He stopped when Helmer Hammer took out his cell phone and started dialing. He turned helplessly to his legal counsel and said, “Thank you very much. You’ve been a lot of help.”
It took a moment before the woman realized that she was being asked to leave. When the penny finally dropped, she quickly stood, gathered her papers, and left the room with a sullen air and without saying goodbye. The men waited until she was gone.
As soon as the door banged shut, Helmer Hammer also got to his feet.
“I think I’ll be going as well and I’ll let you take care of implementing these arrangements. I’m certain that you will find a reasonable solution. Poul, can you call me in half an hour when you’ve come to an agreement?”
His sharp arrogance had effect. The publisher was absolutely not accustomed to being treated like one who implemented arrangements. In the absence of viable alternatives, however, he had no choice but to submit.